by C. J. Box
Marybeth told her mother that Joe was in Jackson, and had been gone for over a week.
"My third husband and I used to have a condo there," Missy said. "I lost use of it after the divorce."
"I remember," Marybeth said, not seeing the point, other than to instinctively top anything her daughter said.
"I bet you're getting lonely," Missy said. "I know what it's like to be abandoned. You always need to know, Marybeth, that you can bring the children and stay here with them if you want to. There's room for everybody and you're always welcome. Keep in mind that this is my ranch now too."
After she hung up, Marybeth saw she had missed a call. For a moment her heart leaped. But when she listened to the message, there was only breathing. Caller ID said it came from area code 720.
She felt vaguely unsettled as she cleaned up the kitchen after her daughters were in bed. Why hadn't Joe called? Anger at him was overshadowing her concern. This was getting to be a habit.
Then, as if there were a breach in her mental dam, several unpleasant thoughts began to trickle forth, followed by a steady stream of them, then a torrent. She was really angry with Joe. Sure, she'd encouraged him to take the opportunity, but while she was back home struggling with Sheridan's attitude and dealing with a dead deer in the front yard, he was at a resort community. She could imagine him eating out, seeing new things, meeting new and interesting people. His days were so rich and full that he couldn't make the time or arrangements to call her. And here she was, in their crappy little house outside their crappy little town. He had left her stuck in the life that was about him, not her, not them. He had left her to balance her business, the family, his responsibilities, and the checkbook. She had once been a promising pre-law student. Now, she was Joe Pickett's facilitator, his unpaid assistant. She was stuck in a particular time and place while the world, like a ship on the horizon, moved on without her. Soon, she thought, it would be too far away to ever meet up with again.
Talking with her mother hadn't helped. Not a bit.
Maybe she should just follow the example of her mother, she thought, who discarded men and traded up. Look where her mother was now. There's room for everybody, she had said. Keep in mind that this is my ranch now too. And what did Marybeth have? Besides her daughters, of course? She looked around. Even her own house was owned by the state of Wyoming.
Marybeth found herself staring at her reflection in the microwave oven door. Her expression was angry, and desperate. And guilty.
Joe was doing his best. He always did his best. But she couldn't help wondering when Nate would come back and have dinner again.
TWENTY-THREE
Dr. Shane Graves's place was huge and rambling, built into the side of a sagebrush-covered hill three miles from the highway. In the night, it looked like a ship at sea with all lights blazing. Joe could see no other lights in any direction. He drove up a crushed stone driveway and stopped adjacent to the front door.
Graves, tall and thin with a shock of white hair and hollowed, pockmarked cheeks, opened the door before Joe knocked. Graves wore a long velour robe, socks, and beaded moccasins. He introduced himself and offered his hand. Joe suppressed a flinch at the touch of Graves's cool, long, smooth fingers. "My office is down this hallway," Graves said, leading Joe inside. "The Jensen file is on the desk as well as a box of evidence. Please don't remove any of the items from the Ziploc bags without asking my permission."
Joe followed the ME down the dark hallway, but not before stealing a glance into a well-appointed great room where soft music swelled and low-wattage lamps created a warm, subdued glow. A man about Graves's age sat on a couch in the great room. He looked to be a working cowboy- worn Wranglers, scuffed boots, long-sleeved canvas shirt, long-brimmed hat grasped in his hands-but he didn't acknowledge Joe. The cowboy sat with a forward-leaning posture with his eyes fixed on something high on the wall that suggested to Joe that the man thought that if he remained still he couldn't be seen. The cowboy, Joe guessed, was Graves's companion for the evening.
Once in his office, Graves snapped on a bank of harsh lights and gestured toward the desk. "Maybe if you told me specifically what you're looking for I could save you some time." The office was in stark contrast to the dimly lit great room in its clinical whiteness.
"I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for yet," Joe said, hedging, his eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the room. "I'd like to read over the reports first and then see if I have any questions. Is that all right?"
"You told me on the phone it was urgent," Graves said impatiently.
Caught, Joe felt himself flush. "Sorry. It's something Sheriff Tassell told me the other night. He said that when Will shot himself, the kick of the gun drove the front sight into the top of his mouth."
Graves nodded. "Yes, it knocked out the victim's front two teeth as well. A handgun of that caliber has an enormous kick to it when it's fired."
"Is the weapon Will used in there?" Joe asked, pointing to the box.
Graves crossed in front of Joe and pulled out a large plastic bag and handed it to Joe. The.44 Magnum was huge and heavy, with a ten-inch barrel. Graves fingered the sharp front sight through the plastic with his long, white fingers. "You can see how it could happen," he said. Joe noticed that the blade of the front sight was rust-colored with dried blood.
"Yes," Joe said, hesitating. "Do you mind if I look through the files?"
"I'm not sure what your intention is here, and I hope you're not just fishing," Graves sighed. "Please don't take all night, Mr. Pickett. As you can see, I have a guest."
Joe nodded.
"There are some photos in the file that might be disturbing to you," Graves said. "I want to warn you-they're very graphic."
"I understand."
"Everybody always says that," Graves said, his smile revealing crooked beige teeth, "until they actually look at them."
Joe heard Graves pad back down the hallway, and heard the music increase in volume. Graves didn't want conversation from the great room to be overheard, Joe guessed. He opened the file and read the report. It was as Tassell had described. The only item that Joe wondered about were the notes saying that no toxicology report or autopsy was recommended.
Even though he thought he was prepared, the photos shocked Joe, just as Graves had warned. Will was slumped back in the hardback chair, his long legs splayed out underneath the table. His neck was white and exposed, his bloodied chin tilted up. Both arms hung straight down. The.44 Magnum was on the floor near his right hand. In the background, the entire kitchen wall and what could be seen of the ceiling were spattered with blood, brains, bits of white bone, and hair. Joe felt an urge to get sick, and looked around the office for water to drink. He found a paper cup near the sink and filled it, noticing that his hand was trembling.
Taking a deep breath he returned to the desk and forced himself to look at the other photos. Will's body had been photographed from all angles. A particularly disturbing photograph was taken from behind Will, where the back of his skull was shot away. In another, a close-up of Will's mouth clearly showed the wound in the palate caused by the front sight, the two front teeth hanging from the upper gum by thin strings.
"God help me get through this," Joe whispered to himself.
He waited until he was sure he wouldn't get sick before he went to find the medical examiner. He purposely clumped his boots on the tile louder than necessary as he walked down the dark hallway to the great room, making sure he could be heard.
Graves was turned toward the cowboy on the couch, large crystal goblets of red wine on the table in front of them. Again, the cowboy wouldn't look at Joe.
"Dr. Graves, may I ask you a few questions?"
Graves looked annoyed. Then he sighed, stood, and followed Joe back into the office.
"Why wasn't there a toxicology report or an autopsy?" Joe asked.
Graves cinched his robe tight before answering. "There simply wasn't any reason for it," he said. "It was obvious that th
e cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. We don't do autopsies as a matter of course unless we have a reason. We know he didn't die of a heart attack, Mr. Pickett. We're like any other medical examiner's office in the country in that respect."
"So we don't know if Will was drunk, or sick?"
Graves shook his head. "No."
"Is there any way to find that out now?"
The ME looked at Joe quizzically. "I'm sure there isn't, since the body was cremated. What are you driving at?"
"I want to know why he did it," Joe said.
Graves sighed. "Look, I'm sympathetic. But my job isn't to try to determine why a victim takes his life. My job is to determine how it happened, and give my professional opinion as to cause of death. You seem to be looking for something I just can't help you with."
Joe rubbed his jaw and thought about it. He had watched Graves carefully as he spoke, looking for a false note, but hadn't seen or heard one.
"Now, if you've looked at everything you wanted to look at…" Graves said, not needing to finish his sentence.
"Right," Joe said, getting his jacket.
Graves was standing at the office door waiting to show Joe out into the hallway when Joe suddenly stopped and picked up the gun in the bag.
"You can't take that," Graves said.
"I don't want it," Joe said, smiling. "I couldn't hit anything with it, anyway. But a question just occurred to me."
Graves arched his eyebrows.
Joe sat back down in the chair and grasped the handgrip through the plastic. He extended his arm, pointed the revolver at the wall, then bent his elbow and wrist and turned the gun back toward himself so the muzzle of the revolver was a few inches from his face.
"Mr. Pickett, what are you doing?" Graves cautioned, stepping back into the hallway and peering around the doorjamb. "That gun is still loaded."
Joe said, "Look how long the barrel is on this gun. I can barely reach my mouth with it like this, the barrel is so long. This is also a heavy weapon, and it's real uncomfortable to hold it this way. When you go to fire a gun of this caliber, you really need to brace yourself and lock your arms when you fire, or it'll kick right out of your hand. From this position, if I pulled the trigger the bullet would go through the base of my skull straight into the wall behind me and the gun would probably flip out of my hand across the room."
"Yes … but the bullet was lodged in the ceiling."
"Right," Joe said. "That's what puzzles me."
Graves said nothing.
"But if I turn it like this"-Joe brought his arm down against his chest and turned the gun upside down and aimed upward-"it would be much easier." He bent his head forward as if to sip from a straw, and the muzzle touched his lips through the thin sheet of plastic. "See what I mean?"
"Yes, I see your point," Graves said. "But I'd be more comfortable if you put the gun down on the desk."
Joe ignored the ME's request. "If I pulled the trigger with the gun in this position, the bullet would go straight up through my brain into the ceiling. It's braced well enough against me that my body would absorb the kick, and the gun would probably drop away to the floor."
"Yes."
"But as you can see, the front sight is pointed down in this position, toward my lower lip, not my upper palate."
Graves nodded.
Joe looked up. "So how is it that Will killed himself with this gun using such an awkward, uncomfortable position like I showed you a minute ago? Or that the bullet was lodged in the ceiling, not the wall? And why is it that the gun fired with such force that it cut his mouth and knocked his teeth out, but then fell to the floor beside him and wasn't thrown clear across the table?"
He put the gun down and Dr. Graves stepped back into the room.
"I don't think I can answer those questions," the ME said.
"Neither can I," Joe admitted.
"So what are you driving at?"
"Was the gun dusted for prints?"
"Yes. You can see there is still some powder residue on it. Will's fingerprints, and only his fingerprints, were all over the barrel and the cylinder."
Joe examined the gun and saw the powder gathered in folds of the plastic. "What about the handgrip and the trigger?"
Graves cleared his throat. "We found no fingerprints on either."
"At all?"
The ME nodded.
"So the gun had been wiped clean?"
"I didn't say that," Graves said. "The surface of the trigger itself is grooved, so it wouldn't hold a print. The handgrip is checkered wood, which isn't a good surface for lifting latents."
"But it could have been wiped clean?"
"It's possible," Graves said. "But there's no way to prove it. I wouldn't testify that the gun had been wiped clean."
Joe sat back. "Are these questions enough to reclassify this case as a possible homicide?"
The doctor set his jaw. "No, no. I think I need more than that. But let me give it some thought."
TWENTY-FOUR
Joe was at his desk early Wednesday morning after breakfast at the Sportsman's Cafe, and again there was something wrong with his head. He had not slept through the night because when he closed his eyes the ceiling spun and random images hurtled down at him: the crime-scene photos, the bear's eyes as they locked on him and he froze, Stella Ennis with parted lips and a flash of teeth. Now, he couldn't seem to concentrate on the paperwork in front of him. Lines on the topo map blurred into one another, and the list of outfitter names, camps, and locations bled together into a blob. Not even four cups of coffee could cut through the fog.
It was an hour before the office opened. He had arrived well before, when it was still dark out, because he couldn't sleep. After looking at his face in the mirror in the office bathroom-he swore there was something wrong with his eyes-he watched the sun paint the Tetons electric pink. It was otherworldly, and matched his mood.
Joe had torn the office apart looking everywhere for the missing notebook. There was nothing behind the file cabinets, and nothing had slipped between the hanging files. He had removed the desk drawers and looked inside the desk, finding only a gum wrapper. It was clean beneath the desk blotter, and there was nothing taped up behind the map or bulletin board.
When he had arrived that morning there was an envelope on his desk with his name on it in elegant script. Since there was no stamp or postmark, it had apparently been hand-delivered. He pulled out a large card and reread it. It was an invitation to a reception on Saturday night for the vice president of the United States, at the home of Don and Stella Ennis in Beargrass Village. Jeez, Joe thought, the vice president!
On the bottom of the invitation, beneath the RSVR was written: If you wear your red uniform shirt I'll know you want to talk. If you don't, I'll leave you alone. But you ARE coming. It was signed "S."
Stella.
Joe imagined Marybeth's reaction when he told her about the party. It would be hard to convince her he wasn't having the time of his life without her.
Later, he checked his wristwatch, trying to anticipate when Marybeth might wake up at home. He hadn't called the night before because when he returned from Dr. Graves's it was after midnight. Dead tired, his dinner was a can of spaghetti and a bourbon and water. He wanted to tell her what he had learned about the crime scene and find out her impressions. She often thought of angles he hadn't considered.
Then he wanted to talk to Mary, maybe get her to tell him something about Will Jensen before taking the horses north to the trailhead to begin a four- or five-day pack trip into the wilderness to check the outfitter camps. He had not forgotten about Smoke Van Horn, who seemed to have a professional interest in when Joe would hit the backcountry.
Joe had not announced his intentions to anyone, and would tell only Mary and Marybeth, and go.
If there was anything that might clear his head, it was several days alone in the mountains. He intended to use the days not only to do his duty at the camps, but to think through what
he had learned about Will Jensen's death since arriving in Jackson.
Because I sure can't focus on anything here, he thought. He considered seeing a doctor, but didn't know one in Jackson and wasn't sure how much his insurance would cover. If he continued to have nights like the one he had just had, he vowed, he would get a checkup when he got back.
As Joe reached for the phone to call his wife, it rang. Sheriff Tassell sounded angry and told Joe that he was calling from his car and hadn't even made it into the office yet. Joe was annoyed as well, having another call to Marybeth aborted before it had begun.
"Graves said you think somebody might have killed Will Jensen," Tassell said.
"I was speculating-"
"Damnit, this is exactly what I was warned about you," Tassell said. "You agreed to keep me informed."
"I didn't get in last night until after midnight," Joe said. "Did you want me to call you then?"
"Why not?" Tassell asked. "Graves sure as hell did."
"What did he tell you?"
"He said we ought to consider hiring a big-name forensics expert to look at the photos."
"So he thinks there's something there?" Joe asked, a little surprised. He had assumed, incorrectly, that Graves was as anxious to put the death behind him as Tassell seemed to be.
"He's not sure," Tassell said. "But he made that suggestion. Dumped it in my lap, actually. Of course, the cost for that kind of expert wouldn't come out of his budget."
Joe grinned sourly. "So that's what this is about, huh? Maybe the state DCI would-"
"I don't want the state involved, coming in here after the fact," Tassell said impatiently. "Not based on a couple of photos and the fact that you thought the gun was uncomfortable to hold in a certain position. Jesus, why would a guy so strung out that he wanted to commit suicide even care if he was uncomfortable at the last second of his life?"
