David Wolf series Box Set 2

by Jeff Carson

  “Please, take a seat if you like.” She gestured to a brown loveseat that sagged in the middle.

  “No thanks,” Wolf said.

  “I saw the news. Did you find him up there?” She stood looking up at Wolf with desperately wide eyes.

  Wolf nodded. “I’m afraid so. We’ve confirmed dental records with Dr. Unruh in town.”

  “Can I see him?”

  Wolf looked down at his hands. “Ma’am, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We really don’t need identification from you. It’s been a long—”

  “Because his head was … I saw the news. I saw. I …” Wendy’s eyes dripped. Then she opened her mouth in a silent scream and buried her clenched fists in her eyes.

  The first sound was a long moan. Body-wrenching sobs followed.

  Wolf wanted to kill the person who had leaked the story, voiding any attempt to tactfully contact surviving family and friends. Instead, Mrs. Pollard’s twenty-two-year nightmare had emerged from hibernation and struck without warning on a television screen. Was one of the mutilated bodies her baby, Nick? Had she been so near him all these years? Unanswered questions and unresolved emotions undoubtedly choked her.

  Wolf placed a hand on her shoulder as he made silent promises of retribution to God, the universe, and himself.

  A car roared into the yard, and the driver braked hard. A car door slammed. Hurried footfalls approached and the front door flew open. An overweight man in his forties with long hair and a beard, Wolf recognized the man barging inside as Ken Pollard.

  “Mom,” he said.

  “Ken Pollard?” Rachette asked.

  Ken Pollard ignored Wolf and Rachette and walked to his mother, wrapping his arms around her.

  Rachette looked up at Wolf and Wolf nodded to him. They both stepped back to a respectable distance and waited.

  Wolf watched Ken cry just as hard as his mother, and he felt a wash of emotion pass through him. These people had been waiting for this moment for twenty-two years, and now it was here.

  Ken finished his embrace with his mother and glared at Wolf, and then at Rachette.

  “What the hell kind of operation you guys running, Dave? When were you going to tell us? It’s all over the news. I haven’t checked the mail. Maybe you sent us a postcard. Shit.”

  Rachette sniffed. “Mr. Pollard, we were going to—”

  Wolf put a hand on Rachette’s shoulder. “I apologize to you, Ken, and to you, too, Wendy. We wanted to confirm facts first and notify you second. The medical examiner made the positive ID late last night. It was my call to wait until this morning to notify you.”

  Ken shook his head and gave his mother a quick embrace, then stomped to the door and flung it open. “Get out. Please.”

  “Ken, in order to find out who did this I need to speak to you guys. Ask you a few questions.”

  “Your dad already did that a long time ago! Why don’t you go read his interview notes or whatever?” He shook his head. “My mom was horrified to hear about this on the news. So was I. Do you know how long last night was for us?”

  Wolf wrung his ball cap in his hands and looked over at Rachette. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 13

  “Sheriff, it’s been twenty-five minutes.” Rachette looked at his watch and then shoved his hand back in his jacket pocket and shivered. “Should we maybe, possibly, go review your father’s report in the warmth of the station?”

  Wolf stared at the front door of the Pollard’s trailer, the drizzle beading and dripping off the front of his ball cap, and ignored Rachette for the fifth time.

  Rachette hunkered under his coat collar. “Okay. Okay.”

  The aluminum knob rattled and the door squeaked open. Ken Pollard stood with a resigned look, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He opened an umbrella and gave it to his mother, who materialized in the doorway next to him with her own cigarette.

  Silently they stepped down to the front lawn.

  “I thought he left us at first.” Ken Pollard flicked open a well-used Zippo lighter and lit his mother’s cigarette, then his own. He snapped the Zippo shut and took a deep drag. “Like, ran away. When they couldn’t find his truck, it was like he’d just ditched out on us.” Ken looked into the distance. “At least I was hopin’ that’s what happened. I was hopin’ this whole time he was sittin’ pretty in California somewhere. I was hopin’ that blood on the payphone was a red herring, or whatever you call it.”

  Wendy Pollard exhaled her own drag and chewed her thumbnail in silence.

  The light drizzle swept past them.

  “Can you describe exactly what happened that last night you saw Nick, Mrs. Pollard?” Wolf asked.

  “It’s just like I told your father—it was Parker Grey, that girl’s father. He did it. The crazy asshole.” She took a drag with a shaking hand.

  “What did Nick say he was going to do that night?” Wolf asked.

  “He said he was going up to Cold Lake to meet Kimber. He’d been talking about her all week—Kimber this, Kimber that. I told him to bring her over, said I wanted to meet her. He said he was going to and to get off his back.” She fought off another wave of emotion with a drag of her cigarette. “Then he got all dolled up, put on some cologne, took his truck and left. That was the last I saw of him.”

  “You said he was going to meet her?” Rachette asked. “So, he was meeting her in town? And then they were going up to the lake?”

  She frowned. “No … I don’t know. I don’t remember. I think he was just going up to her place. Her house. To watch the fireworks they have up at the marina every year. He said they had a boat they were going on.”

  “What about his friends?” Wolf asked. “Did he say he was going to be with them?”

  Ken grunted. “His friends. Remember those pieces of work? I went and talked to them when they couldn’t find him. They said they weren’t with Nick, and they all heard the same thing from him—that he was going up to Cold Lake to see Kimber Grey.”

  “Who were his friends you talked to?” Wolf asked.

  “Luke Hannigan. Brad Skelty. Called him Skelter back then. Real pieces of shit. Druggies. I checked in on their stories. Made sure they didn’t just sell off my bro’s truck and buy drugs with the money or something.”

  Wolf jotted the names on his notepad. He vaguely remembered the two kids as boys, but knew them well enough now that they were men. They hadn’t cleaned up at all since. Brad Skelty had two DUIs, and when the pot laws of Colorado had taken effect, Hannigan was one of the first to get a grow license in town. His sudden, instant, and large, supply of product was a point of contention with the Sheriff’s Department, but they had no usable evidence to move on him yet.

  “And you believed they were telling you the truth?” Wolf asked Ken.

  Ken clenched his fists. “Yeah. They were telling the truth.”

  “You roughed ’em up pretty good, huh?” Rachette said.

  Ken stared at Rachette, his nostrils flared. “Yeah. That’s right, I did. It was my bro.”

  “And why do you think it was Kimber’s father, Mrs. Pollard?” Wolf asked.

  “Because it was,” she scoffed. “Your father figured out the guy was crazy. Schizo. Took meds and everything. Parker Grey did it. He was up at the marina that night with his family, and then he left, went and killed my boy, and then went back. Left his family right there at the marina and took off. To go kill my son. And then he disappears the day after your dad goes to talk to him? Up and walks away from his family? Then the mother disappears on top of that?” She took a drag, locking eyes with Wolf. “Oh, it was him. And now the way you found Nick? And where? That’s just off shore from the Greys’ cabin, for Chrissakes.”

  Wolf asked, “Ken, did you talk to the Greys?”

  Ken peeled his eyes from Rachette and looked at Wolf. “Yeah. I talked to them. Your dad had his dick in his hand, so I had to.”

  “Hey, why don’t you watch your mouth and have a little respect there, Ken?” Rachette puf
fed his chest and took a step forward.

  “Both of you calm down. Ken,” Wolf softened his voice, “we’re trying to figure all this out once and for all.”

  Ken relaxed and sucked his cigarette. “They said he never showed up that night. Kimber said she never even had a date with him lined up. They were all lying. Every one of ’em.”

  “You gonna find my baby’s killer?” Mrs. Pollard asked.

  Wolf took a breath filled with second-hand smoke and looked up at the clouds gliding past, so pregnant and low they looked like he could reach up and touch them.

  Rachette cleared his throat. “Of course we’ll find him, ma’am.”

  Wolf blinked and looked at Rachette, then back to Mrs. Pollard. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. If you can think of anything else, please give us a call.”

  She bit her thumbnail and turned away.

  Chapter 14

  Wolf pulled the dusty CD-ROM case out of the cardboard box. It read:

  Katherine Grey Interview (Wolf, Burton)

  Kimber Grey Interview (Wolf, Burton)

  With a small jolt, he paused and stared at his father’s handwriting. He stopped himself short of touching the ink and handed the case to Patterson.

  She inserted the CD into her computer tower and they waited while it clicked and whirred.

  “Coffee.” Rachette got up and walked to the back hallway. “Anyone else?” He emerged with the pot, filling his chipped blue-and-orange Denver Broncos mug.

  “Yep.” Patterson said.

  “Sure.” Wolf said.

  Rachette filled Wolf’s mug. “Black.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rachette leaned over and poured coffee into Patterson’s mug. “And a double non-fat skinny mocha frap, with two pumps of vanilla and heated to one hundred twenty-seven degrees.”

  “Good one.” Patterson grabbed the mouse. “Saying frap implies it’s frozen … and yet you heated it to one hundred and twenty-seven degrees.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She brought up a media-player window showing Katherine Grey sitting at a wooden table.

  As Patterson maximized the video and pressed play, Wolf recognized the gouge in the side of the table on screen, and knew the interview had taken place in interrogation room B. The realization hit him—he was using all the same desks, tables, chairs, walking on the same carpet that his father had all those many years ago. For an instant, he felt like he was with his father, but the warm feeling vanished as quickly as it had come.

  Rachette returned and sat down.

  The video was a less-than-HD recording. Katherine Grey, the mother of Kimber Grey and wife of supposed crazy-man Parker Grey, shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her image blurring and then sharpening as she moved.

  Katherine was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, her brown eyes wide and attentive, slightly upturned at the edges. Her skin was pale, or perhaps it was the harsh light of the overhead lamp, and she had a small mole on her cheek, like a beauty mark, a genetic anomaly that her daughter, Kimber, shared with her.

  She wore a tank-top blouse and had thin, wiry arms, the muscles rippling beneath her skin with the slightest of movements. Her jawline was razor-sharp. With zero fat on her body, she possessed the common physique of someone who lived ruggedly in the mountains.

  “Can you please state your name?”

  An electric shock zipped through Wolf’s body as he heard his father’s voice.

  “Oh, he sounds just like you,” Patterson whispered in awe.

  Wolf heard the smack of Rachette back-handing her shoulder.

  “… Grey,” Katherine Grey said.

  “And can you tell me where you live?”

  “I live up on the western shore of Cold Lake, in Cold Lake, Colorado.”

  “And your address?”

  Wolf could see that Katherine Grey’s hands were motionless in her lap as she spoke.

  “… tell me what you were doing on the night of the Fourth of July?” Wolf’s father asked.

  “My husband, daughter, and I went over to the marina for the Fourth of July party and the fireworks display.”

  “And”—a pause, a shuffling of paper—“what time was that at?”

  “They had a barbecue cook out … let’s see, we left at seven by boat, got there like seven-fifteen.”

  “Can you tell me when the fireworks were?”

  “They were supposed to start at 9:30 pm. Whether or not they started on time, I couldn’t say. I didn’t keep track of time.”

  “And your husband, Parker Grey, he was with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he ever leave that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you please explain?”

  “He got a phone call. Maureen McKenzie came out and told us, told him, that he had a phone call. He left, and then came back.”

  “He left to go where?”

  “Oh, sorry. He went to the bar, the Tackle Box, right there on the marina.”

  “So, someone called the bar for your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. “Who called?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another pause. “Was this during the fireworks display?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you estimate how long after the beginning of the fireworks show Maureen came out and told him he had a call?”

  “Uh … I don’t know, ten minutes?”

  “Okay. Please continue.”

  “So he left for the phone call, and then he came back, probably just a couple minutes later. He was upset, clearly upset about something. I asked him what was wrong, and he kind of just avoided.”

  “Avoided the question?”

  “Well, yeah. He just said, Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. But I could see something was wrong, and then he said he was leaving, and he’d be back. I was confused, because I figured we’d be leaving with him, since we’d all come together and it was so late. But he just said he’d be back, and if he wasn’t back by midnight to get a ride back over with someone else. Then he got in the boat and drove away.”

  “Did you ask who called him?”

  “Yes. He wouldn’t say.”

  There was the sound of a door opening and closing, and then a cough. “Would you like a cup of coffee, ma’am?”

  It was Burton, with a lot less gravel in his voice than he had now.

  She nodded, and a remarkably thin arm of Burton’s reached in and placed a cup of coffee in front of her.

  After a brief pause, Wolf’s father cleared his throat. “And then what happened?”

  “Well,” she took a sip of coffee with steady hands, “we watched the fireworks, and then hung out for another couple of hours. By that time it was past midnight, and people were already pretty much streamed out of the place. I went into the bar and called our house. My daughter and I were just about to try and hitch a ride when my husband came back.”

  “In the boat?”

  “Yes. In the boat.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. “It was just so weird when he finally showed up. He was wearing a different outfit. Different shirt, different jeans. I asked him about it, and he just ignored me. He was upset, so I dropped the line of questioning. He was so serious the whole ride back. Never looked at Kimber or me.”

  “And then what happened? When you got home?”

  Katherine’s lip quivered. “We got home, and he went crazy. He was yelling at Kimber, and I was scared for her. I was so scared.” She closed her eyes and a tear slid down her cheek. When she opened them, her face was a mask of horror. “I went outside to have a cigarette. To get out of the house. I couldn’t take listening to it. And that’s when I saw a plastic bag on the ground next to the house. It was strange because we never put trash alongside the house. You know you can’t do that with the wildlife up here. So I approached it and … then I saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  �
��The blood. The bloody clothes.”

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and steeled herself.

  “What bloody clothes?” Burton asked a little too forcefully.

  She opened her eyes. “The clothes he’d been wearing before, earlier in the night, were in the bag. I opened it and looked inside. They were soaked in blood. It was so much. I freaked out and ran back inside. I thought he might be killing my daughter.”

  A scraping noise on the video pulled Katherine Grey’s gaze upward.

  Burton’s crotch came into view as he leaned against the wall behind her. “You told us yesterday that your family, husband and all, stayed at the fireworks show all night. You never mentioned anyone leaving. You never mentioned that phone call your husband got.”

  “I know. I know. I saw the blood, and you have no clue how scared we were.”

  “We have no clue? Okay. So why don’t you clue us in, sweetheart?” Burton said.

  Katherine Grey turned toward him, and turned back with the remnants of a glower.

  “Damn,” Rachette chimed in, “look at Burton go.”

  “Shut up and listen,” Patterson said.

  “Mrs. Grey, may I call you Katherine?” Wolf’s father asked.

  Katherine nodded.

  “Katherine, what time did you guys get home from the boat ride back? From the fireworks show?”

  “It was twelve-thirty, no probably one a.m. by that time.”

  Burton bent down and got in her face. His mustache was the same minus the gray and his face was bone thin. “Which one was it? Twelve-thirty or one?”

  “I don’t know.” Katherine leaned away from him. “I didn’t have a watch on. I just remember, yes, it was twelve-thirty when he came back and picked us up.”

  “Because you were in the bar and you looked at the clock,” Burton sneered.

  She looked at him and nodded.

  “Words.” He walked out of view of the video shot. “We need words for the recording.”