One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2)

by James Chandler

  “This is Investigator Jerry Johnson with the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “You working a missing persons up there on a kid named Miles?”

  “I am,” Punch said, staring at the roast and wanting to eat. He looked at Rhonda questioningly. She shook her head.

  “I’ve got some information you’re gonna need,” Johnson said. “Can you be in your office by nine a.m.?”

  “I usually manage to drag my ass in by then, yeah,” Punch said.

  “No offense. Just wanted to make sure you’ll be there.”

  “I’ll be there. What’s going on?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’m up there tomorrow morning.”

  “Roger,” Punch said, and hung up.

  “What’s going on, honey?”

  “Kid missing from campus,” he said, taking a forkful of beef and savoring the smell before putting it in his mouth. “DCI has some information on him. They’re coming up to see me tomorrow.”

  “Well, then, eat your dinner,” she said, helping herself to an exceptionally small portion of everything. “We’ve got that band concert here in an hour.”

  “Ugh!”

  “Kenneth! He’s your child.”

  “I know. I can’t believe my son is playing a tuba.”

  “It’s not a tuba,” she corrected him. “It’s an oboe. Now, eat. You can help me with the dishes when we get back.”

  The next morning was a Tuesday, and Punch was in well before nine a.m., as usual. He thought DCI Agent Johnson seemed a little stiff, but okay otherwise. “Coffee?”

  “No thanks. Been pumping coffee since I left Cheyenne a little after four.”

  “That’s a couple hundred miles of dodging deer and antelope,” Punch said, closing his office door. “How were the roads?”

  “They sucked. All the way. Blowing snow.”

  “Fall in Wyoming,” Punch said. The two men sat quietly for a moment. “So, what do you have for me?”

  “That kid Miles. He’s been missing four or five days now, right?”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “He was working for us.”

  “How so?” Punch asked. He had a pretty good idea, but it never hurt to make someone feel like they were telling you something you didn’t know.

  “He came into the fold here about six months ago. He got busted for dealing weed on campus,” Johnson said. “Your folks got ahold of me, and once I explained the maximum possible penalty to him for dealing weed on a state property, he was all about agreeing to work as a confidential informant, and away we went.”

  “So you’ve been supervising him?”

  “As closely as we can,” Johnson said. “I’m watching a lot of ’em, and I don’t worry so much about weed dealers. It’s that damned meth that worries me. But a dealer is a dealer. Preying on other people.”

  “How did you get onto him?” Punch asked. He’d bought a half-dozen donuts earlier that morning and was offering Johnson one.

  “No thanks,” the agent said, patting his stomach. “It wasn’t difficult. He was apparently supplying half the campus. His name came up in a discussion with a couple of our other confidential informants. Someone else we’re watching is a guy named Trent Gustafson. Major dealer. He sold a pound to this Miles kid, who we followed here to your campus. We sent one of our small-timers out and Miles sold a quarter to that kid. Then we had a couple more buyers do the same thing. We got enough to hold him by the short-and-curlies.”

  “Did you charge him?”

  “No. I met with him and convinced him to start working with us in return for him not being charged.”

  “So how’s he done?”

  “I guess he’s been selling the hell out of the stuff. But he hasn’t had to testify against anyone yet,” Johnson said. “Word is, he was about to leave the reservation.”

  “Really,” Punch said. He was thinking about having another donut.

  “He didn’t want to play anymore, so my guys say. I told them to get ahold of your county attorney and have her staff draw up a warrant to have him arrested,” Johnson said. “So, have you spoken with his family yet?”

  “Just some initial communication—where he might’ve gone, things like that,” Punch said. “Does the family know?”

  “I don’t think so. Confidentiality was a part of the deal,” Johnson said.

  “Yeah, well, nineteen-year-olds are not known for keeping secrets,” Punch said. “From what I’m told, his mom seems to think he walks on water.”

  “Haven’t seen anything that would tell us he’s been running his mouth. FYI, we think his source—Gustafson—really is a badass. Not someone you’d want to cross.”

  “So, what do you want me to do?”

  “My working theory is that one of his buyers realized what was going on and that young Miles got scared, took his supply, and headed for the hills,” Johnson said. “Of course, if he was stiffing Gustafson, well . . . just wanted you to know.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “We all have to work together,” Johnson said. “I would appreciate it if this just stayed between us.”

  “You got it,” Punch said.

  Johnson was eyeing the box. “That donut offer still good?”

  Punch handed him the box, hoping Johnson wouldn’t take the chocolate one. “Knock yourself out.”

  After Johnson left, Punch returned to his paperwork. He was just about finished with an affidavit he was preparing in connection with a ring of car-hoppers when Jensen knocked on his door with a gloved hand.

  “Come in, Jensen.”

  “Hey, boss,” Jensen began, shaking the snow off his gloves and removing them. “We’ve got a kind of development in the Miles case.”

  Punch pushed himself away from the desk and turned to face Jensen directly. “I’m listening.”

  “The kid was gay.”

  Punch stared at Jensen, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t say anything, Punch got impatient. “So?”

  “Don’t you remember that case down in Laramie a few years back?” Jensen asked. When Punch’s expression didn’t change, he continued, “Matthew Shepard?”

  Punch realized where Jensen was going. “That was twenty years ago!” he said. “For Christ’s sake, the kids on campus here weren’t even alive when that went down. Besides, no one gives a rat’s ass anymore, do they?”

  “I dunno, Punch. I think you’re wrong,” Jensen said, shaking his head. “My guys tell me that right now, planning is underway on campus to hold some sort of a rally or protest in support of this kid and against homophobia.”

  “What? Why? We’ve got no evidence to indicate that the kid is dead, let alone missing or was killed because he was gay. In fact, all the evidence is to the contrary.”

  “What evidence is that?”

  “Jensen, close the door and sit down,” Punch said, and when Jensen had complied, he explained, “Miles was a CI. You’ve got to keep that under your hat.”

  “That does change things, boss,” Jensen said, and stomped a snow-covered boot on Punch’s carpet.

  “Really?” Punch looked pointedly at the snow on his carpet.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Punch shook his head and smiled despite himself. “But look, the most likely explanation is that he took off rather than continue to be a CI. Happens all the time.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know what is going on at that campus,” Jensen said.

  “I hear you,” Punch said. “And I appreciate it. Now, as far as your looking around—any update?”

  “Not yet. What are you gonna do?”

  “Watch some video,” Punch said. “Richter has it cued up. Then I’m going to have a talk with his roomie, that Norquist kid.”

  Richter had been a cop for a few years, but when the night shifts and frequent absences had begun to take their toll on the family, he had applied for and landed the job as head of campus se
curity for Custer College. He still maintained contact with local law enforcement, and he had the coffee on well before Punch showed up to review video with him.

  “Still take it black?” he asked after the men shook hands.

  “Black is good,” Punch replied, sitting at the table in the conference room. While Richter poured coffee, Punch looked around the room. “Jeb, you got a pretty good gig going here.”

  “Oh, yeah. No denying that. Biggest issue I have is all the paperwork.”

  “For what?”

  “These guys have meetings to get ready for meetings, and reports in preparation for reports. You think you gotta push a pen, you got another think coming.” Richter shook his head. “These academics . . . I don’t know. I do know I measure my email in the dozens of messages every day.”

  “No shit?”

  “Oh, yeah.” They swapped stories of their shared past for a few minutes, before Jeb turned serious. “What day are we looking at?”

  “Well, let’s start with the 6th of November. That’s the morning we think he disappeared, right?”

  “Right,” Richter said. “Just so you know, we started installing cameras this summer. We got a couple in the union, and one or two outside, but that’s it. Budgets, you know.”

  “Okay, well, let’s cue it up.”

  Richter started the video and passed the controller to Punch, who sped through it until he saw a figure wearing a pullover sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes and carrying a small black backpack leave the dorm around 1:20 a.m. “Is that him?” Punch asked.

  “It’s a dude,” Richter said. “But I never knew the kid.”

  “Looks like him,” Punch mused. He was looking at a photograph in his hand. “See if anyone follows him.”

  Less than five minutes later, Richter spoke up. “That’s Davonte Blair,” he observed. “The basketball player.”

  “Can’t be too many guys on campus who look like that,” Punch agreed, nodding. “We’ve got two guys leaving the dorm, heading south. You have another camera to the south we can take a look at?”

  “There’s one in the parking lot, and it looks north, but it is a helluva long way from the sidewalks.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Richter showed Punch how to switch the video to another camera, then set the camera to the approximate time they estimated they would see the two men. They watched the video for a few moments and saw nothing.

  “There!” Punch said, seeing a figure that resembled the smaller man. “Looks like him.”

  “I agree,” Richter said, watching closely. “And there you go,” he added as Davonte walked from left to right across the camera’s field of vision. “He’s about ten seconds behind him—gaining on him if he is, in fact, following him.”

  “Any other camera we can see them on?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s the one in the parking lot. There’s a couple in the field house, and the rest are in the hallways of the classroom buildings. Really, they are there for active shooter situations.”

  “Makes sense,” Punch said. “Let’s speed this up and see if they come back.” Together they watched the video in fast motion until Punch said, “There!” He stopped the video, backed it up, and watched it again.

  Davonte could be seen walking from right to left across the camera’s field of vision, his pace much quicker than it had been earlier. He was looking to his left and right and holding what appeared to be the small black backpack. “What time is that?” Punch asked.

  “About 1:45 a.m.”

  “Okay, you got video of Miles’s dorm?”

  “No. That’s West Hall. Those cameras are gonna be installed next spring.”

  “Of course,” Punch lamented. “You might as well make me copies of the footage from every camera on campus. I’ll get a subpoena to you.”

  “Agreed. Times?”

  “Let’s go with 1:20 a.m. to six a.m.”

  “What cameras?”

  “Anything outside,” Punch said. “And anything in the field house. They both had business there; maybe one or both went over there for some reason.”

  “Got it. I’ll have it on a thumb drive when they tell me to fork it over,” Richter said.

  “I appreciate it,” Punch said. “I owe you one.”

  Custer College had spent a lot of money on the new facility, Punch was thinking as he looked around the place. The high ceilings revealed clear plexiglass panels affording natural light as well as a view of today’s partly cloudy skies. The building apparently housed not only the coffee bar but also the bookstore, admissions office, advising, testing, financial aid, and the tutoring center. Accordingly, there were a lot of students walking about in addition to the ones lounging on the overstuffed furniture. He had gotten ahold of Ronald Norquist and asked the young man to meet with him. Punch was drinking coffee and ogling the young women when he approached.

  “Detective Polson?” Ronnie asked.

  “Yeah. How’d you know it was me?”

  “Well, you’re the only old guy in here. My name’s Ronnie.”

  “Have a seat, Ronnie,” Punch said sourly, and handed the young man a business card. He indicated the seat across the small table from himself. “So how’s it going?” Punch asked. He stared at Ronnie, who alternated between looking at his feet and at those who walked by. The one place he didn’t look was in Punch’s direction.

  “It's okay, I guess,” Ronnie said, focusing on the latte between his hands. “I’m worried, you know?” He looked around the student union and nodded at a couple of young women passing by. “Does my dad know you are here?”

  “No,” Punch said. “You’re eighteen. No reason to tell him.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you surprised he left?” Punch asked.

  Ronnie sipped his latte. Some of the foam remained on his upper lip. Punch didn’t think he’d started shaving yet, so between the baby face and the foam Ronnie looked something like a giant tween. “Is that what you think happened?” Ronnie asked.

  “That’s my working theory,” Punch said. “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know any reason why he would leave? Know anyone wishing him ill?”

  “No,” Ronnie said, still looking around the union. Anywhere but at Punch.

  “When did you see him last?”

  “We had a party after Thursday’s game in Davonte’s dorm room,” Ronnie said.

  “Were you drinking?”

  “Well, yeah, a little. But it was quiet, you know?”

  “Anything else going on?” Punch asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean was anybody smoking weed?” He watched Ronnie closely.

  Ronnie looked around the room and then back toward Punch. “Detective Polson, I can’t afford to get in trouble. My dad will kill me.”

  “I already told you,” Punch began, “there’s no reason for your dad to know anything that we’re talking about. I’m just trying to find out what happened with your roommate.”

  “So, yeah, Kaiden had some weed,” Ronnie admitted.

  “Kaiden always had weed—right?”

  “Well, yeah, he did,” Ronnie said, and almost smiled. “Look, we vaped some weed and played some video games. Then I left and went home because I was tired, and I had a final on Tuesday. Yesterday.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “Okay, I think.”

  “What’s your major?” Punch asked.

  “Well, I’m just getting my basic stuff out of the way here,” Ronnie said. “But I plan to major in theater when I get to the U. I do the school plays.”

  “Gonna be an actor, huh?” Punch asked. When Ronnie nodded, he continued. “You go straight home?”

  “I did,” Ronnie said, looking at the floor.

  “Who all was at this get-together?” Punch asked.

  “Do I have to answer?” Ronnie was tapping his foot on the floor.

  Punc
h let him fret for a minute. “Is there a reason why you wouldn’t want to?” he asked.

  “Well, I don’t wanna be a narc.”

  “I'm trying to figure out what might have happened to Kaiden,” Punch said. “Seems like if you cared about Kaiden, then you’d want me to know everything.” He watched as Ronnie struggled to decide what to do. “It might be important. And for your information, my investigations are confidential.”

  Having made his decision, Ronnie took a deep breath. “Well, there was Kaiden, and me, and this other guy. His name was Trent—”

  “Gustafson?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  Punch ignored the question. “Who else?”

  “And, uh, Davonte. I mean, some other guys had been there earlier, but they had all left. Except the four of us.”

  “No girls? No women?”

  “Uh, no,” Ronnie said.

  “Why not?” Punch asked. He had a pretty good idea.

  “Uhh, I’m not sure?”

  “So I’m assuming everyone there was vaping dope?”

  “Well,” Ronnie began, “I kind of wasn’t really paying attention. I mean, we were gaming. I didn’t exactly see them vaping, but that’s what they always did.”

  “But you saw Davonte there that night?”

  “Of course. It was his room.”

  “So, everybody is gaming and vaping dope and then what?” Punch asked. “Why did the party break up?”

  “Because Davonte and Kaiden were arguing.”

  Punch’s interest was piqued. “Yeah? What about?”

  “Do I have to say?” Ronnie asked. Punch didn’t answer, but merely stared at Ronnie. It worked. “About money,” Ronnie said at last.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And then Kaiden left. Then Davonte left. Then, well, then me and Trent left.”

  So far, Ronnie’s story was matching what Punch already knew to be true. “Together?” he asked. “Where’d you go?”

  “Well . . . yeah,” Ronnie said. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and he was looking around the union again. “To my room.”

  Punch sat back, looked at Ronnie, and then around the union. Students were bustling back and forth, trying to get a moment’s respite before heading through the driving snow to their classes. He finished his coffee. “Ronnie, fair to say you and Trent could corroborate each other’s whereabouts for the rest of the night?”