Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets.

by John Turney

  “We appreciate you leaving the crime scene intact,” Rye said. “The three of us will take it from here. Go back and take care of your livestock.”

  “Good.” Batts rubbed his stubbled chin. “’Cause I ain’t waitin’ out here bakin’ in this heat like no fool.”

  “If you could, I’d like you to stick around your cabin for a little while.” Rye took off his hat and swiped his forehead. “I have to ask you some questions about last night.”

  “Am I under suspicion or somethin’?”

  “Do you have a reason to be?” Rye watched the man’s reaction, but Batts seemed more put out about his sheep than being a murder suspect. “Look, in any investigation we find the guilty by ruling out the innocent. I’m more interested in establishing your innocence than trying to nail you.”

  “I’ll be at my cabin or in the barn.” Batts nodded up the cleft. “I gotta get my sheep some water.” With that, he headed back up the cut in the rock.

  “That went well,” Rye said. “Nothing like pissing off a neighbor. Noah, you examine the tire tracks.”

  “Sure thing, Chief,” Whitewolf answered and strolled down the wash, sticking to the shade whenever possible.

  Rye checked his watch. “Yuma’s ME should arrive in a half hour or so. Iona, let’s do a grid search on the way to the body. We can’t process the body, but we can cover the area.”

  They started up the slope, side by side. In the canyon, the temperature skyrocketed. Anything at a distance shimmered in the heat. The glare ricocheted off the rocks and hurt his eyes despite his sunglasses.

  Not more than a dozen feet up the wash, they discovered the car tracks had stopped.

  “What’re you thinking?” Iona asked.

  “When the vehicle came to a halt, someone was in a lot of trouble. More ‘n likely,” he nodded uphill towards the body, “our victim.”

  “I can’t be sure of the exact make of the car,” Iona said. She pointed at the tire tracks. “Safe to say it wasn’t an RC Cooper.”

  Rye started walking toward the body, but stopped. “We have three sets of prints. If I had to make a guess, I’d say the middle one was coerced. See the drag marks.”

  “Think we’re looking at a drug deal gone bad?”

  Rye tilted back his Stetson and rubbed his sweaty forehead. “That or gang violence. Let’s check it out.”

  They headed up the canyon, eyes searching the ground for evidence. Though he mostly maintained his investigation, Rye stole several side glances at Iona. She looked good in tight jeans.

  Using her forefinger like a speed-reader, Iona scanned the ground in search of clues. She stopped. “Are you staring at me, Rye Dawlsen?”

  “No, I’m just … ummm … looking your way.”

  She nodded once with a half smile. “Sure you were.”

  Pain stabbed his heart; Dee used to smile at him just like that when they were being silly—before he started drinking heavily and lying to her about it.

  And how did he respond to Dee? How many times had he watched disappointment spread across her face? Ignored her tears? Ridiculed her anger? Returned her outbursts? Mocked her religion?

  And missed her after she left.

  But Iona was a good woman, as well. She dropped hints like breadcrumbs to get his attention. She’s got a tough spirit but a soft heart. She knows I struggle with the bottle. Perhaps, she offers redemption. Among other things.

  “What’s wrong, Rye?” Iona’s voice cut through his reflection. “You having one of those vision things?”

  “No. I’m just thinking about the scene.” About you. About us. “You know, this is a curious place to dump a body.”

  She gave him a one-eyed look of skepticism.

  “What?”

  “No. I agree,” she said. “They should have taken it to The Whiskey Burial Grounds. Much nicer option than dumping it on someone’s property.”

  “That’s the writer in you. You know, with these footprints, I ought to have Whitewolf cast them before they deteriorate anymore.”

  Iona peered upward at the pale blue sky, a hand shading her eyes. “Still no carrion birds.”

  “Yeah, maybe human flesh is out of season.” He held up a finger then got his cell phone. When Whitewolf answered, Rye said, “Listen, we have three sets of footprints here. Cowboy boots. Hiking shoes. And dress shoes. Can you cast them?”

  “Sure thing. Once I’ve finished with the one I’m making of one of the vehicles.”

  Rye disconnected and met Iona’s gaze. “Whitewolf’ll take care of preserving the footprints.”

  “Then, let’s check out the vic.”

  They inched their way to the victim’s body, on the lookout for other clues waiting in the desert ground to be found. Rye noted the area around the body had been disturbed by a number of people as testified by all the prints covering one another. A lot of blood had been spilt at the site. The victim’s clothing appeared to have been ripped to shreds by some kind of razor device.

  “Iona, I don’t think this is a dump site.” Rye made a note to compare the vic’s shoes to the prints.

  “I agree. This is looking like the scene of the crime.” She rubbed a hand across her mouth and squinted. “And it looks to be a bad one.”

  Rye agreed. He set down the crime kit and got out the camera. Holding it out, he asked, “Could you take some photos?”

  She shrugged and took the camera. “Sure.”

  He took his notebook out of his shirt pocket and began sketching the position of the body, scribbling notes. He had always considered a murder scene to be some sort of sacred ground. A place where a soul departed this life in a violent way. With things left unfulfilled. A place of tragedy, of suffering.

  What if this had been Dee? Or his son, Manny? He stole a glance at Iona. His heart felt conflicted over the two women. He still loved Dee, but—looking at Iona’s profile—he realized the stirrings of feelings for her as well.

  Rye forced his gaze to the ground. Focus, he nodded once, sharply. “Johnny won’t be able to take his sheep through here. Not today. We’re gonna need backup on this one.” He reached for his cell phone in its belt holster. “Gabby. Get Yuma’s CSI and the Sheriff’s Department over here at Batts’ ranch.” He finished and disconnected the call. He peered at Iona.

  “Ready to tackle the body?” he asked her.

  She nodded, lips pressed together.

  “Let me write a few notes here.” Rye continued his scribbling. “Vic is male, probably of Latino descent. Can’t tell from this angle, but his neck has the skin tone. No apparent wounds in the back. Body is in a fetal position as if trying to protect against being kicked. He’s dressed in blue jeans, black t-shirt and jean jacket. The jacket has been lowered as if to aid in restraining the victim. His shoes are scuffed.” He closed his notebook. “Let’s circle around and take a look at our victim’s face.”

  They walked around the body.

  “What the …” stammered Rye.

  Death by a thousand cuts. The eyes stared sightless, the lids having been severed with some sort of sharp cutting instrument. Dozens of bloody cuts had rendered the vic’s face unrecognizable. Rye closed his eyes and shook his head. Without an ID, dental records, or AFIS match, they might never get a name. The front of the body had been shredded as well; the skin, a map of crisscrossing slashes. The victim’s clothing lay in strips, stiffened by coagulated blood. From knees to forehead, the male vic had been sliced hundreds of times. The bloody skullcap indicated the victim to be alive when the killer inflicted a scalping. A wicked slash across the vic’s throat had nearly decapitated the man. Probably what finished his suffering.

  “The killer has to be some kind of evil,” Rye said.

  Iona slipped away from Rye’s side with a hand covering her mouth. She ran several steps before she stumbled to her knees, retching.

  “Sorry,” she said between gagging sounds.

  “I understand. You gonna be okay?” Rye called, not wanting to invade her privacy. He�
�d embarrassed himself more than once at crime scenes by puking. Rye sketched the body into his notebook. This poor guy suffered one horrendous death.

  “I’m okay,” she said with a weak voice. “Better’n our vic.”

  “I hear that. There’s some gum in my crime bag. It’ll take the nasty taste out of your mouth.”

  She waved her hand.

  A profile of the killer began to form in his mind. A psychopath. A person without a conscience or a sense of guilt. A male with violent tendencies. Probably cartel. And he had assistance. So a leader or someone in a position of power who likes to get their hands dirty.

  Pale, but upright, Iona stood by the bag.

  Best to keep her busy. Rye tossed her his notebook. “Stay over there. Write down anything I say.” He started taking photos. “A large patch of skin has been cut away from the shoulder.”

  He zoomed in on the face. It seemed vaguely familiar. The multitude of cuts and the swelling made recognition difficult. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling he knew this person. His mind raced through possibilities while he snapped photo after photo. If he had to, he’d max out the memory card.

  “From his haircut, I’d say he’s probably ex-military.”

  While photographing close-ups of the wounds, Rye noticed the absence of insect activity. That’s odd. If the killing took place last night, the mouth, nose and ears should have been filled with blowfly eggs. A major maggot neonatal care unit.

  Rye spotted the corner of an Android phone peeking out from under the body.

  “I found me a phone,” he called to Iona. After photographing it, he reached down to brush sand away from the device. Holding a surgical glove, he eased the cell out from under the corpse. The phone’s screen had been smashed, and blood stained the keypad. He pushed the start button, not expecting anything. It flickered and died.

  Rye shrugged, figuring the CSI guys could work their magic on it. He dropped it into a bag and turned his attention back to the victim. The vic’s hands were untouched. Something was on the fingers. Using the camera’s zoom, he found letters. Some between each finger. Not very legible. Put together, they read, “gs—ds—DHL—DA.”

  Glad it isn’t cryptic or nothing.

  The phone nagged him. It wasn’t some cheap disposable cell. The kind used by your local neighborhood street corner dope dealer. He opened the evidence bag and stared at the phone for a moment … then he recognized it. And the writing on the fingers from a Sharpie marker. He fingered the marker he always carried in his own pocket. But that couldn’t be. He looked down at the body; then back at the cell. It couldn’t be … but it had to be. He had etched the three x’s into the lower back of the phone before handing it to …

  Chills raced along his spill. All energy left him, and he collapsed to the ground. His eyes never left the phone.

  “Rye?” Iona’s voice filled with a sudden concern. “Are you okay?”

  He stared at the victim’s face. Despite the damage suffered—the cuts, the swelling, the bruising—and the pooling of blood and skin discoloration, Rye identified the body.

  “Juan.” His voice stammered over that single syllable.

  “What?” Iona hurried over. “No. It can’t be.” Sinking to her knees next to Rye, she rested her head against his shoulder. “This is horrible. I am so sorry. He was a good man.”

  “And a great cop.”

  “I haven’t seen him around Whiskey for a couple of months …” her voice drifted off, leaving their conversation hanging in quiet.

  “He went undercover.” Rye paused, unsure of what to say. “He went into the newest cartel on the block. We knew its power was growing. There was some tie to Whiskey, but we couldn’t find it. So … Juan volunteered. The Federal alphabet soup of agencies gave their blessing due to their own budgeting issues and corruption investigations by Congress. Last message I received from him claimed he located a definite connection between an Arizona citizen and the cartel.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Juan ended the call before he would say.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “Don’t know,” he said, turning his head to look into Iona’s eyes. Those beautiful eyes that shone with her intelligence, wit, and creativity. “But I have my suspicions.”

  “Pray tell.”

  Rye shook his head. “Not until I have more facts to back up my suspicions.” Though Juan’s death tore at his gut, Rye determined to finish this investigation. If nothing else, for Juan’s sake. That’s what he would have wanted. He sealed shut the evidence bag. “Maybe we’ll find something on its SD card.”

  Iona took the bag from Rye and placed it into the kit. She looked out over the canyon then flinched. “Hello? What’s this?”

  She used Rye’s shoulder for support as she stood. She walked over to a nearby brittlebush and bent over. “Don’t you be looking at my butt, now, you hear?”

  Rye smiled despite the heaviness of his heart. “What do you got?”

  “It’s a picture. Some pervert’s looking at the backside of a woman swimming naked in some swanky pool.”

  “What’s it doing out here?”

  “Wait. That’s Juan in the photo.”

  “Let me see that.” Rye pushed off the ground.

  Iona handed Rye the photo. “From the looks of it, I’d say this was taken at some wealthy hacienda.”

  He bagged the photo and set it next to the cell phone. He twisted his lips looking at the bags. Not much to go on.

  “Oh my …” Iona said. “Rye, you’ve got to see this.”

  Her voice caused him to look over at her. Trembling hands covered her mouth. Something on the ground captured her attention. Rye hurried over to her.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She pointed to the ground, past the brittlebush, and leaned into him.

  Rye put an arm around her shoulder. “What?” he asked again, this time with a softer tone.

  “Look at the tracks.”

  Footprints and tire tracks covered the area.

  I don’t see …” And then he did. One set of footprints headed away from the crime scene only to end abruptly. Like the owner of the tracks simply vanished. Or flew away. No other tracks—human, vehicular, or animal—were anywhere near.

  “That’s … strange,” said Rye.

  “It’s worse than strange.” Iona paused as if afraid to say the next words. “It appears a Skinwalker legend visited your crime scene.”

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  With arms folded, Rye waited outside Batts’ cabin. Its weathered boards, plastic windows, and rusting tin roof appeared to be on their last leg.

  The area reeked of sheep, much preferable to the stench of decaying flesh they left behind in the canyon. He never developed an insensitivity to putrefying flesh. The stench and taste lingered in the nose and throat, sometimes for days. It lingered in the mind much longer. The desire for a beer washed over him, just to remove the taste of death from his mouth.

  Iona sat on the edge of the porch, head hung down, looking wilted. He told her about the water cooler in the back of the Tahoe. She shook her head as if that very act drained her of the last of her energy.

  “Hey, Johnny!” Rye yelled. Nothing. A fly buzzed past his head. So if they were here, why not at Juan’s body? It made no sense. “Johnny Batts! WPD! This is Dawlsen!”

  Silence.

  Rye looked to his right and left. Where did he go?

  Then a stream of curses burst from the house followed by Batts coming out the door, buckling his belt and tucking in his shirt.

  “Don’t be getting yerself knotted into an uproar. I was detained. Eggs don’t agree with me this morning,” Batts explained. “Hope that’s ‘nuff detail.”

  “Yeaaah.” Rye swatted at the fly. “No, I don’t need any more information regarding that particular event. Hey, Iona,” Rye called to her: “You want in on this discussion?”

  She pushed off the porch to join them.

  Batts said, “Got
ta do some work over at the barn. Care to interrogate me there? I got some camo duct tape and a chair you can restrain me with.” A grin broke out on the man’s whiskered face. Batts leaned to the side and spat a stream of brown juice. “And I like to chew.”

  They started across the open yard, and Rye said, “This interview is informal right now. Have no real reason to suspect you. If and when I do, it’ll be time to pull out the water-boarding. And the camo duct tape.” Rye’s turn to smile.

  Batts glowered at him for a moment but then broke into a laugh. “You got me good there.”

  Rye continued. “But I do have to ask you this: did you kill our John Doe?”

  They reached the barn, and Rye muttered a word of gratitude for the shade. Batts slid open the barn door and turned to regard the Chief. “Naw. Got me no need to kill no John Doe.” He stepped into the barn and headed for the stack of feed.

  Rye followed him in. Despite its outward shabby appearance, the inside revealed the meticulous hand of a master carpenter and a careful organizer. Tools and tacking hung in their proper places. Feed stacked in precise rows on wooden pallets.

  Batts concluded by saying, “Time’s I get trespassers, but mostly they’re kids looking fer some secluded spot to drink beer or get some from their girlfriends.”

  “You are a little secluded out here,” Iona said, emphasizing “are.”

  “Jest the way I like it.” Batts grabbed a 100-pound bag of feed and slung it onto his shoulder in one easy move. “Foller me.”

  “Sorry, I have to ask you this, too,” Rye said. “But what were you doing last night?”

  “Well, ‘cept for my sheep and a wild animal every now and then, I’m pretty much on my own out here. So, no matter, whatever I tell you, I ain’t got no witness to back me up. After sundown, I read fer a while and went to bed. Got up before dawn. Took my sheep to pasture and … well … you know the rest of the story. It’s the truth, I just can’t prove it by no witness.”

  “Johnny, you read?” said Iona.