by Robert Greer
Two feet from the car, Damion stopped and aimed the gun barrel point-blank at Epps's temple.
“No!” Epps blubbered as his blood pressure plummeted and tears streamed down his face.
“Did you kill Shandell?” Damion asked, fighting back his own tears.
When Epps didn't answer, Damion reached into the car, grabbed Epps by the shirt collar, and yelled, “I asked you! Did you kill my best friend?”
This time Epps couldn't answer. He'd passed out.
Eyeing the pathetic lost soul who sat slumped on the steering wheel and thinking seriously about shooting him right then and there, Damion suddenly remembered something he'd once heard CJ tell his mother, Julie, about killing an enemy soldier during the Vietnam War. Sometimes just before I drift off to sleep at night, I swear I see that Viet-cong soldier's face, Julie. And when I do, I wanta take that shot back. I wanta jam that bullet back in the chamber and buy myself some peace. But I can't. The genie popped out of the jar that day at Quan Tre, and I knew right then and there that I'd never be able to get him back inside.
Damion looked around, half expecting to see someone who would take the pressure off him. Someone who would tell him what to do. CJ or Flora Jean or Coach Horse or even his mother, Julie. But all he saw was what had become a jungle of grass, a forest of menacing cottonwoods, and a creek bed stained the color of blood. Realizing he'd become briefly lost in another world as he'd contemplated taking a life, he looked up to see the Suburban moving toward him and took a long, deep breath. Only then did he realize where he was.
Lowering his gun and reaching into the car, he ran two fingers down Wordell Epps's neck and felt for a pulse. Epps's pulse was weak and thready. As he looked at the other man's surprisingly placid face, he found himself wondering whether, if he had indeed pulled the trigger, he would, like CJ, have forever seen Epps's face in his dreams. Feeling exhausted, he patted his belt in search of his cell phone.
Locating the phone in his shirt pocket, he flipped it open. It wasn't until the Suburban was almost on top of him that he realized that Alicia Phillips was tied to the rear bumper by her wrists—with a four-foot length of bungee cord, no less. She was shaking with fear or anger, he couldn't tell which, and her jeans were wet nearly up to the waist from having had to ford the creek behind the truck. His mouth agape, Damion dialed 911.
“Once a marine, always a marine,” Flora Jean said from behind the wheel as she winked at Damion. “Got me a couple prisoners of war, and the one here in the front seat with me is shakin’ like a leaf. I'm thinkin’ this is gonna take some real sortin’ out, Blood.”
Damion bent to get out of the glare of the sun that partially blocked his view of the front seat until he locked eyes with a catatonic-looking Connie Eastland.
“You okay?” Flora Jean asked, staring at the Honda's windshield.
“Yeah. But Wordell Epps is in bad shape,” Damion said as the operator asked, “911, what's your emergency?”
“I'm at the Lazy 2 Lazy U Ranch just off Weld County Road 126. We need paramedics and the sheriff out here in a hurry. There's been a shooting.”
Chapter 28
Parked on a rise three-quarters of a mile away from Alicia Phillips's ranch house and peering through binoculars, Craigy Theisman scanned the assembly of police cars and flashing lights in the distance. Moments earlier he'd pulled off the road that led to the Lazy 2 Lazy U Ranch and into a willow thicket to make a cell-phone call to Garrett Asalon. “Got trouble out at the Phillips place, boss. Cop cars everywhere,” he'd said to an out-of-breath Asalon, who'd just finished a strenuous workout. “There's even a fuckin’ police helicopter parked on the front lawn, and the county road's barricaded about two hundred yards up from where I'm sittin’.”
“Any sign of Connie or Phillips? You said earlier that Phillips told you they were headed for the ranch after you left that hot-dog stand you're so fond of, right?”
Theisman adjusted the focus on his binoculars. “Yeah. But from the looks of things, I'm thinkin’ she likely told somebody else ahead of me. With a perimeter already set up and that chopper being here, no question the cops have been here a while.”
“Good thing you weren't there in the middle of whatever went down,” Asalon said, sounding relieved.
“Yeah.” Thinking that maybe one additional Snappin’ Dog had saved his ass, Theisman smiled. “So whatta you want me to do?”
“Get the hell out of there. I don't want anybody knowing I have any connection to Phillips. And I sure don't want the cops nosing around and figuring out that I had Phillips and Connie putting the squeeze on Shandell Bird for me.”
“What about Connie?”
“What about her?”
“She knows a hell of a lot.”
“That she does, but since I didn't kill anybody, I sort of like my position. With a chopper on site and as many cops as you say you've got up there, I'm guessing there's been either a shooting or a murder. Either way, whatever went down puts the paltry little sports fixing I was doing into perspective, wouldn't you say, Craigy?”
“Sure does.”
“Now, get on out of there before you get swept up into the mix.”
“I'm leaving now.” Theisman cranked the engine on his SUV.
“It's a shame, though, when you come right down to it,” said Asalon as an afterthought.
“What is?”
“That in the future I'll probably have to miss out on getting that sweet little piece of Eastland ass I've gotten so used to. But that's the way things go in this world, Craigy. You've got to take the bad with the good.”
Weld County Sheriff Lester Sabbott tried to remember the last time he'd been involved even peripherally in investigating the murder of a celebrity. The answer was clearly never. Sabbott had arrived at the Lazy 2 Lazy U Ranch two hours earlier to find a semiconscious gunshot victim with a life-threatening wound in his shoulder, a woman tied to the back of a Suburban with a bungee cord, a second woman who was nearly as hysterical, a nervous-looking former basketball star whose entire college career it turned out Sabbott had followed, and a stoic, clearly undaunted former marine intelligence sergeant calling herself Flora Jean Benson.
The barely stable shooting victim had been rushed to Poudre Valley Hospital in an ambulance that had already been on the scene, and as the ambulance had sped away, sirens wailing, all he'd known for certain was that the victim's name was Wordell Epps and that he'd been shot by the former All-American basketball star Damion Madrid.
When Sabbott realized that he'd plopped right down in the middle of an investigation involving a triad of murders that had been on the front pages of regional newspapers for days, he'd called the homicide officer in charge of the highest-profile killing, the Shan-dell Bird murder, and asked for help. An hour later a Glendale, Colorado, police helicopter had deposited an only-too-eager-to-assist Will Townsend on Alicia Phillips's front lawn. Sabbott made sure his deputies cordoned off access to the ranch while for the next thirty minutes he and Townsend interrogated people and tried to piece things together.
Now, as Townsend questioned Connie Eastland in the ranch house living room, following up the intense fifteen-minute sessions he'd had with Flora Jean, Alicia, and Damion, Flora Jean and Damion remained in an adjacent heavily guarded bedroom with their feet and hands handcuffed, trying their best to hear what was going on in the living room, while Alicia Phillips sat similarly restrained in the master suite.
“Sure you don't want any water, Ms. Eastland?” asked Townsend, hoping to ingratiate himself with the exceedingly nervous Connie Eastland.
Looking defeated, Connie said, “No.”
“Okay, but be sure and let me know if you want any. It might help.” Townsend glanced down at notes he'd jotted on a sheet of CSU Department of Psychology letterhead. “Now, let me get this straight. You're claiming that a book Dr. Phillips and Paul Grimes were writing is the reason Shandell Bird was killed?”
“That's right.”
“Mind telling me how that'
s so?”
Connie let out a long, heavy sigh. “Alicia and Grimes were writing what the two of them liked to call a psychological blockbuster. A book about college athletes that featured information Alicia had been gathering on them for years. Accounts of the athletes’ unknown darker sides that highlighted their money problems, their sexual preferences, their drinking and gambling habits, their dalliances and infidelities, their insecurities, and their flat-out failures. They were planning to make money off what had started out as a clinical research project by turning Alicia's research into one of those popular tell-all kinds of books.”
“How do you know so much about the book?”
Hesitating before she answered and looking guilty, Connie said, “They paid me to give them dirt on Shandell.”
“So what went wrong?” asked the mesmerized Sabbott.
“A third person got involved. Too many cooks … you know the saying.”
“And that third person I take it was Wordell Epps?” asked Townsend.
“Yes. I'm not sure how Epps found out about the book. Could be he peeked at the pages like I did while I was a research assistant for Dr. Phillips. Or maybe Grimes told him. Who knows? What I do know is that Epps wanted in on the action and that he threatened to blow the whistle on what Alicia and Grimes were up to if they didn't comply. Alicia told me so when we were shredding a bunch of her case-history documents one day.”
“Sounds like she trusted you.”
“She did. I think I made her feel young.”
Nodding and failing to mention that both Flora Jean and Damion had told him Epps had admitted actually typing portions of the manuscript, Townsend said, “Could be Epps wanted what all authors want: recognition and money.”
“I guess so. What I know for certain is that after Leon Bird was killed, Alicia seemed to get cold feet. She put the brakes on the book, and we started destroying all her records.”
“So what did you and Dr. Phillips have on Shandell?”
“I knew Shandell was gay.”
“Heavy duty,” said Sabbott, sounding astonished.
“And what about Epps and Grimes?” asked Townsend, looking and sounding like someone who'd heard it all before.
“They knew, of course. But I'm not sure how big a deal it was to them. There were thirty or more dark-side profiles in the book. Shan-dell's was just one of them.”
“Even so, it sounds like a lot of people were into blackmailing Shandell Bird,” said Sabbott.
“But Epps is the one who killed him,” Connie whispered. “And if you ask me, I think Alicia had an inkling Epps was the killer. That's what probably gave her cold feet.”
“Well, if she did, she's keeping it to herself. The only thing we've been able to get out of the good Dr. Phillips is ‘You'll have to talk to my attorney.’ And that, Ms. Eastland, brings us to another question. Why so cooperative?” asked Townsend.
“Because I didn't kill anybody. I'm not about to be a scapegoat, and it looks as though Alicia may have set Epps up to kill me.”
“Good instincts, Ms. Eastland. Nonetheless, my instincts tell me you were probably blackmailing Shandell as well. And the law says that's a no-no.”
“Did Damion tell you that? Because if he did, here's a scoop for you, Sergeant. There aren't any laws against someone's boyfriend giving her money or buying her gifts.”
Townsend smiled. “You're right, Ms. Eastland, but there are plenty against extortion. Now, just suppose that instead of getting someone to shower you with gifts, you got them to instead shave a few points in very important basketball games?”
“You'd have to prove that, Sergeant.”
“I'll work on it,” Townsend said with a grin. “Who knows? A prosecutor or two I know may even decide to ask for a little assistance from you in that regard. Might help your case. But that's another story,” said Townsend, deciding the time wasn't quite ripe to let Connie Eastland know what he'd found out about Garrett Asalon's operation. “Why don't we finish up the current story? Your take is that Wordell Epps killed Shandell Bird and that he also killed Paul Grimes, and perhaps even Leon Bird, because he wanted to hoard the profits from some unpublished manuscript?”
“According to Alicia, yes.” Looking up at Sheriff Sabbott as if to say, I hope you don't want another twenty minutes of my time too, she asked, “Are we about done here?”
“Close. One last question. Do you know if Alicia Phillips owns a .30-06? It's the kind of rifle you'd need out here on a ranch like this all by yourself.”
“No, why?”
“Just wondering.” Townsend stroked his chin thoughtfully and stared Connie directly in the eye. “That's about it. Thanks.” Ending the interrogation with a smile, he turned, walked to the bedroom where Damion and Flora Jean were being held, nodded for the deputy outside to open the door, and waved to Sheriff Sabbott to follow him into the room. “We're back,” he said, greeting Damion and Flora Jean with a broad, toothy grin.
“So does everybody's story fit, Sergeant?” asked Flora Jean, aware that the separate interrogations had been orchestrated so Townsend and Sabbott could see if everyone's story about the Epps shooting meshed.
“Afraid you'll have to ask your lawyer that,” said Townsend. “You two do have one, I trust?”
“Sure do.” Flora Jean eyed her watch. “And I'm guessin’ she's arriving at DIA just about now.”
“Then I'd suggest you use that phone call you're entitled to to give her a call. Wouldn't you agree, Sheriff?”
“Absolutely,” said Sabbott. “Because for the time being I'm going to have to hold you both.”
“On what charge?” Flora Jean demanded. “Damion shot Epps in self-defense, and I sure as hell didn't shoot nobody.”
“But you're an accessory,” said Sabbott. “And until my people check out the ballistics on that slug they found in the tree stump Madrid claims he ducked behind when Epps tried to kill him, and we check out the rifle found at the scene, you and Madrid are suspects in an attempted murder. Like it or not, the two of you are going to get to spend some very special time with me.”
Fearful that his medical career might be in jeopardy, Damion said, “In jail?”
“Afraid so, son.” Sabbott turned to Flora Jean. “I'm thinking that in addition to a lawyer, the two of you just might need another bail bondsman like yourself, Ms. Benson.”
“Oh, we've got one,” Flora Jean said smugly, watching a look of surprise spread across the sheriff's face.
“And where's he? At DIA as well?” asked Sabbott.
“You got it, Cisco,” Flora Jean said with a grin. “I'm thinkin’ that just about now he's givin’ our lawyer a hug and a great big kiss.”
Damion had never spent time in jail, but he had no choice but to, as Flora Jean aptly put it as they were being hauled off in handcuffs from the ranch to the Weld County jail, go with the flow. Julie's later frantic phone calls aimed at preventing Flora Jean and Damion from spending the night in jail didn't do a thing to stop Sheriff Sabbott from placing them both on twenty-four-hour hold pending the issuance of a formal charge. And much to Julie's consternation, she, Damion, and Flora Jean had barely had ten minutes to talk before Damion and Flora Jean were led off to separate holding facilities. A fitful night of sleep had Julie thinking early the next morning that somehow she needed to even the score with Sabbott and Townsend.
When she and CJ returned to the Weld County North Jail Complex that morning, Wordell Epps was listed in stable condition at Poudre Valley Hospital. By noon a sheriff's deputy had found a second .30-06 slug in the cottonwood stump Damion had sought refuge behind, and Sergeant Townsend, warrant in hand, had searched Wordell Epps's apartment and found two pristine copies of a manuscript titled Campus Gladiators: The Dark and Lonely Side of NCAA Sports.
Sergeant Townsend had spent most of his early morning on the phone pushing people in both the Glendale and Weld County ballistics departments to match the bullets that had killed Shandell, Leon Bird, and Paul Grimes to the .30-06 that had
been found next to Epps's Honda. He'd then driven the sixty miles north from Glen-dale to Sheriff Sabbott's office to take a look at the second tree-stump bullet and the rifle for himself. Done with his business, he stood talking to Sabbott outside Sabbott's office when Flora Jean and Damion, released on a judge's order after a morning of legal maneuvering by Julie, walked down the hallway with CJ and Julie at their sides.
Excusing himself, Townsend called out, “Madrid, Ms. Benson, wait up.” Strolling up to a beleaguered-looking Damion and a surly Flora Jean, Townsend eyed CJ, then Julie, and asked, “So who's the lawyer and who's the bail bondsman?” as if hoping that his attempt at levity might somehow erase the fact that Damion and Flora Jean had just spent the night in jail.
Flora Jean flashed Townsend a steely-eyed stare and said to Julie, “The stand-up comic is Sergeant Will Townsend.”
“Sorry about the jail time,” said Townsend. “Sabbott's call all the way. We're way out of my jurisdiction.”
Nodding politely, Julie said, “I doubt that, Sergeant. But be that as it may, I'm Damion and Flora Jean's attorney, Julie Madrid. I'm also Damion's mother.” She made no attempt to shake Townsend's extended hand. “The gentleman in the Stetson is CJ Floyd.”
“Floyd. Yeah, I've heard of you.” Staring up at the deeply tanned, much taller man, Townsend found himself surprised that Damion's attorney was also his mother.
“Hope it's all been good.” CJ slipped a cheroot out of his vest pocket and toyed with it.
“Looks like your clients are going to come out of this okay, counselor,” said Townsend. “Turns out we've pretty much got Epps dead to rights in the Shandell Bird killing. Got a smoking gun, or a smoking rifle at least, and motives galore. Blackmail, financial gain, a chance at the resurgence of a career and newfound fame.”
“And you're telling us this because?” Julie asked, perfectly aware of the reason for Townsend's sudden forthrightness.
