by Gregg Olsen
A kitten crying.
She didn’t know there had been any kittens that season. She’d always prided herself on being a responsible animal owner. Barn cats, however, were almost feral and beyond her ability to round up and take to the vet for spaying or neutering.
The kitten’s cries were muffled by the wind, and, Violet thought, the walls of the old barn.
“Mom! What in the hell are you doing out here?”
Sherman’s voice nearly caused her to drop the bag of mushrooms. She held steady on the cane.
“Sherman,” she said, looking at her son, “don’t use swearwords at me! And what does it look like? I’m getting chanterelles.”
He grabbed her by the arm, a little too roughly. She recoiled.
“You’re hurting me!” she said.
“You scared me, Mom. I came home, couldn’t find you . . . and now you’re out here without your walker! You could have been hurt.”
Worry flashed in his eyes. Sweat dripped from his temples.
“Oh honey,” she said, “you’re more scared than I am.”
“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just that I didn’t know where you were. Let’s go back inside.”
Violet leaned on her son’s muscular arm and they stared back toward the house.
“I thought we got rid of the female cats,” she said.
“Females? We don’t have any, Mom. Just two toms.”
“Yes,” she said. “We do. I heard a kitten crying. I was about to go find it. In the barn. Sounds hurt.”
Sherman took the bag of mushrooms from her hand. They walked toward the kitchen door. He glanced back.
“No kittens,” he said. “But I’ll check it out.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A Clallam County Sheriff’s deputy named Todd Flanagan pulled behind the VW along the highway and ran the plates before getting out of his cruiser. It was pitch black outside. He’d noticed the little car sitting in the middle of the turnout twice that night as he patrolled the length of highway that he told his friends was the “most boring stretch of asphalt on the planet.” He wondered where Robert Taylor, the car’s owner, had gone.
Todd got out, his dash cam capturing his discovery through the spears of light coming from his headlights.
“Holy crap!” he said, spinning around before dropping to his knees.
Robert Taylor, bloody and lifeless, stared up at him from beside his car.
Todd felt for a pulse.
“Oh God!” he said in a voice that could have been heard fifty yards away . . . if there had been anyone to hear it. This kid’s dead. This kid’s been shot in the head! Who in the world would do something like that? Just leaving him here like he was bag of garbage or an old mattress abandoned by someone too lazy to ferry it to the dump.
At twenty-five, Flanagan had been a deputy for two years. He’d never come across anything like Robert Taylor.
* * *
Six deputies, the Clallam County coroner, and a K-9 officer named Trog scoured the wide spot next to the highway before the blush of the rising sun sent an ochre and pink cast over the scene. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area and fluttered in the breeze, drawing the attention of the earliest of morning commuters. Flashing lights provided drivers with a reason to slow to a crawl, take a look, and then call someone with a description of the unpleasantness that they’d just viewed.
“I wanted to warn you . . .”
When really they simply wanted to tell someone. A few even craned their necks and shot pictures from their slow-moving cars to post on Facebook and Insta-gram. Hashtags varied: #hatemycommute #crimescene #someonesgonnabelate #deadzone.
Renny Carlton, a reporter from the radio station KONP in Port Angeles, cornered the deputy who’d made the discovery.
Todd Flanagan’s eyes were weary and his mouth cotton dry.
“Can I get something for air?” Renny asked, holding out her iPhone to record whatever details he’d be able to provide.
The deputy stepped back and pondered her request. She was young, like he was. She had a job to do. She was pretty. Not answering her wasn’t going to give him an opportunity to ask her out later. The dating pool in Port Angeles was about as shallow as a parking lot mud puddle after a misty rain.
“We’re still processing the scene,” he said. “Sorry.”
“We’re told the victim is a young male,” said Renny.
“No comment,” Deputy Flanagan said.
Renny was not about to be denied something for the news that morning. She pushed harder. Her phone was in the deputy’s face—five inches from his mouth.
“Can you confirm, you know, if someone was shot?” she asked.
He pulled away, reminding himself of the most important lesson he’d learned in media training for the sheriff’s office.
No details until next of kin have been notified. Unless, of course, there is no hope due to decomp or other challenges to identification of race, age and gender.
“Sorry,” he said, “no comment.”
Renny made a face.
“Not cool,” she said. “I covered your department’s car wash.”
Todd Flanagan kept his lips zipped and looked around the scene to extricate himself from Renny.
“Found something,” one of the deputies called out.
“Excuse me,” he said, glad to get away from the reporter.
A second later, he was next to the VW, looking down at the tip of another deputy’s perfectly polished boot. Next to it a shiny object lay in the gravel, just under the frame of the car.
A cell phone.
* * *
From her office phone, Kendall Stark called the Port Angeles Police to see if they could get some boots on the ground over at the high school.
“Four of our high school girls and their driver are missing,” she said. “They were participating in a special cheerleading event sponsored by your high school. We don’t think there was actually an event, but I need someone to verify that at the school.”
The police chief said he’d have a deputy check it out.
“We’ve had quite a day so far,” he said. “We had a shooting just out of town. Drive-by. Not sure. Clallam County responded. Vic shot in the head, left for dead. Still processing the scene.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kendall said.
“Yeah, we don’t have that kind of thing happen here like you do in the city all the time.”
She wondered on what atlas Port Orchard was more of a city than Port Angeles.
“Right,” she said. “Let me know what you find out, okay? One of the girls texted from the high school so we know they made it that far.”
“Will do,” he said.
About twenty minutes later the police chief called back.
“Not much to add,” he said. “No event was scheduled. Deputy talked to the principal, who talked to the gal who runs the athletic department. No cheer special event. If your team got to the school, no one saw them.”
Kendall hung up the phone. The police chief had confirmed something important. The invitation had been a ruse. The individual behind the faux invitation had gone to a lot of trouble. The person who invited the girls had been specific. It was not a random request.
* * *
Birdy appeared in Kendall’s office. She looked upset and didn’t bother to hide it.
“Are you all right?” Kendall asked. “Is it your mom? How is she?”
Birdy shrugged. “Weaker, I guess. Still mean though.”
“I’m sorry about all that you’re going through, Birdy.”
“I know. I thought I’d stop by to check in.”
“You have a lot going on,” Kendall said.
Birdy couldn’t argue with that. It had been a season of change for her. The move to the new facility entailed a new routine. She felt isolated from her friends at the courthouse and sheriff’s office. Most of all, her mother and sister preyed on her mind. She was also worried about Elan.
“My mom is old and sick and I know she’s going to die,” she said. “I know that we’re all going to end up in the same place. So I’m good with that—as good as I can be, anyway. I’m more worried about Elan now. His relationship with his mother is at an all-time low, and now Amber is missing. It’s a lot for a kid to process.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Kendall asked.
It was a question that didn’t need to be asked. Not really. Birdy and Kendall had the kind of friendship that didn’t need the reassurance of promises made in times of stress. They were there for each other on the job and in the world outside of the office, though lately the two had become enmeshed.
“We’re going to head up to the rez and see Mom one last time. Not sure if we’ll go tomorrow or the next day. Not to be cold about it, but the less time up there with my sister and my mom and all the drama that blankets them, the better.”
Kendall’s own mother had died not long ago. Their relationship had been very different from Birdy’s and Natalie’s. She missed her mom every day. There were times when Cody would do something, sometimes something simple, and she’d think to pick up the phone to call her mom to tell her. So strong had been their bond that death hadn’t severed it completely.
“I’ll let you know when we leave,” Birdy said. “Cell reception is better up there now. Casino money continues to work its cruel magic.”
Kendall and Birdy had talked about how the casinos had brought low-paying jobs to the reservation and how the schools and the hospitals that had been part of the tribal leader’s pitch had yet to materialize. Instead, a new smoke shop and a year-round fireworks stand the size of a Safeway store had been built.
“Do you have any update on Amber and the others?” Birdy asked.
“Nothing. Not yet.” She indicated the invitation that Blake’s mother had brought in.
Birdy picked it up.
“Thermography,” Birdy said running her fingertip over the raised letters.
“It’s engraved,” Kendall said.
“Not the same. Thermography involves using a power and heat source to get the raised effect.”
Kendall took the invitation and looked at it more closely.
“I see,” she said, tilting under the light of her banker’s lamp. “Kind of baked on and bubbly. Is there anything you don’t know?”
Birdy laughed. “I used to work in a print shop in college, Kendall. Thermography was all the rage back then. Not so much now.”
“I honestly didn’t know that you were an expert.”
Birdy sat down. Despite the fact that she was fastidious, Kendall could smell the formaldehyde that still clung to her. It was an occupational hazard unique to the pathologist’s life.
“Not an expert. Just a college kid looking for some money to supplement my grants and loans.”
Kendall set the paper down and looked at her friend and colleague. Birdy was surprising. In big and small ways.
“Where do you get that kind of thing done?” the detective asked.
Birdy thought a second.
“Sir Speedy on Mile Hill used to do it, but they’ve closed down. Everyone thinks laser printing or photocopying something is just as good as offset. Come to think of it, Justin’s Quick Print on Bay Street still does thermography.”
Kendall got up from her chair. “Well?” she asked, fetching her coat.
“Well what?”
“Am I driving? Or are you?”
* * *
Elan Waterman revisited the last text message he’d received from Amber.
AMBER: This sux.
ELAN: W?
AMBER: No event here. No one around. Blake is so pissed off which is kind of funny.
ELAN: Drama queen all the time.
AMBER: Yup. That’s her.
ELAN: Did you get the date wrong?
AMBER: No. I got it right. They must have canceled or something.
ELAN: That’s completely wack.
AMBER: Y. We’re going to hang out here a little while longer then head back home. Maybe get something to eat. Patty’s hungry. Like always.
ELAN: OK. I’m gonna watch something on Netflix and avoid homework.
AMBER: Your aunty won’t like that.
ELAN: No. She’s cool. She thinks I can do no wrong.
AMBER: Lucky. My mom’s a total bitch.
ELAN: Sorry. My mom’s probably a hundred times worse.
AMBER: Not a contest. And besides you can’t always be the winner in everything.
ELAN: Right. Winning not good.
AMBER: Chloe’s whining about something. Blake is stomping around like she’s missed her chance to collect a lotto prize and this inconvenience is ruining her life. Can’t stand her. Kelly’s telling her to sit down and shut up, which is kind of funny because Blake always gets to boss everyone around.
ELAN: Sounds like a trip to hell.
AMBER: IDK. Kind of fun to see these bitches get into it over stupid crap. I’m clearly the outsider here.
ELAN: Y. But you’re the best of the bunch.
AMBER: At least you think so. Blake can’t believe that I got invited to this. She actually said to me on the way up here “no offense, but you’re not top tier material.” Like she was the whipped cream and cherry on the sundae and the rest of us are the ice cream. Dumb analogy.
ELAN: She’s stupid.
AMBER: Gotta go. I need to pretend I care about all of this. They’re arguing over where we should eat and Patty is just sitting there like a bump on a log.
ELAN: Later.
He’d typed, “babe” after “later” but erased it before sending. He felt that way about Amber. Definitely. He just wasn’t ready to say so. Not in a text anyway.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Satellite trucks from every major news organization and one or two cable newcomers that no one had heard about (“what channel is News2U on?”) clogged parking spaces around the courthouse and the side streets down the hill to Bay Street. Never in the history of Port Orchard had there been such media attention on the town.
Up to that point, the city’s brush with fame came when it made the national news for the cancellation of an annual seagull-calling contest because an animal-rights group complained that birds might be confused by the contestants and that would be cruel. And the time a local man had found a lost Rembrandt painting in his grandparents’ attic (sadly, it later turned out to be a very good fake).
Those brushes with fame were small-townish and only passably interesting, but this one . . . this one put Port Orchard on the map in a very dark, sinister way. It was completely at odds with the Chamber of Commerce’s newest campaign that highlighted the natural beauty of the area.
Port Orchard:
Water you doing for the rest of your life?
Everyone with a press pass or keyboard for blogging was in town looking for ratings and click-throughs. A few even wanted answers. The victims checked off all the boxes—white, pretty, and, the icing on the cake, they were cheerleaders. Patty Sparks had been moved to the “And” category of the story as in “four young girls and their chaperone.” In time, all the girls would be household names, but not Patty. She’d always be stuck in the news purgatory of being the addendum to the story.
Kitsap County’s amiable Sheriff Wynton Burke started off the press conference in Judge Sally Cotton’s courtroom with a statement that “very little” was known right then, but “we promise to keep you informed every step of the way.” He introduced FBI special agent Jonas Casey and the county’s own lead investigator, Kendall Stark.
SA Casey spoke first. It was an active investigation, and the bureau would not be commenting on it at all.
“Why are you even here? Is this tied to the Brenda Nevins/Janie Thomas case?” asked a reporter from a Seattle TV station.
“We’re still working that. No comment on the Thomas kidnapping case.”
A blogger with assertiveness training pounced. “Was that even a kidnapping? The video posted online sh
ows she went willingly with Brenda Nevins.”
“We’re still determining whether that’s the case,” SA Casey said.
Kendall Stark spoke next. She’d been told ahead of time that her sole purpose at the news conference was the official release of the missing girls’ names and photos—something that had been all over social media anyway.
“We have posted information, including recent photos of the girls and the school-van driver, on our website,” she said. On a screen behind her, the names, descriptions, and photographs of the five were displayed. The room fell silent as Kendall reiterated what the press was viewing.
Her eyes landed on Chloe’s parents, who stood in the back by the door.
“I know each of you has a job to do. I know it is competitive and challenging. I respect that. I think we all do. I’m asking you to be mindful of what the families involved here are going through. Give them space. Respect their privacy. Put yourself in their shoes. No time in their lives has been more stressful than what they are experiencing right now.”
She was stepping away when a reporter called out a question.
“Do you think this has anything to do with the other murders in Kitsap? Why is the FBI involved? Is it because you can’t find Brenda Nevins on your own?”
Kendall looked at the reporter and started to speak, but SA Casey cut her off.
“Look,” he said, “Detective Stark and the Kitsap County Sheriff’s office are experienced and capable law enforcement professionals. We’re partners here. We have the same goal. We want to find the missing girls and their chaperone and we want to bring Brenda Nevins to justice. Those two things may or may not be linked.”
With that, the news conference was over.
“I could have answered,” Kendall said as she and the FBI agent exited.
He straightened his tie. “I know. I don’t get to say nice things about local law enforcement very often. It’s something the bureau wants us to do. Good public relations, you know.”
