by Adira August
“But you checked it out and…?”
“I couldn’t find anything,” Cam said.
“Bullshit. You always find something.”
“Not this time. The only way I’d find this is if I already knew it was there.” He adjusted the image to only cover the void. “You know what wouldn’t show up anywhere if it was for sale? The A-frame.”
“Your A-frame in Hanging Valley?” Hunter asked.
“Right. Nicky Hart keeps that place a big secret. It’s all word of mouth. Rich guy to rich guy.” Cam blew out a breath, a sign he was about to take a risk. “Send me there.”
Hunter stopped the no way that rose to his lips from leaving his mouth. The last thing he wanted was to be without Cam today. Cam was sanity and surety and brilliant at his job.
But the first thing Hunt wanted, the thing on every case he always wanted, was to make the best possible decisions with the data at hand. That was his real job.
“Tell me why you’d be more useful there, than here.”
“I looked at the previous cases. The camera was the new thing, right? The different thing. So I asked DiMato to tell me about the camera. Exactly how it worked. … We need to stop looking for the kid and look for the antenna.”
Hunter got up and opened the door. “Sergeant? Can you step in here?”
Natani came along, taking her seat behind the desk. DiMato took the chair Hunt had vacated.
“Tell me about the camera and antenna,” Hunter told DiMato from his position against the wall.
“The camera is basically a lens and a microphone that transmits image and sound to a storage device,” DiMato said. “You can put storage into a lot of cameras, it’s just a memory card. But that won’t work for this killer’s purpose.”
“Because if he used a memory card, he’d have to go back for it. The risk of being found at the scene with the body is too great,” Hunt said. “So what was his answer?”
“He needed three things: the camera, an antenna and a receiver. The camera he used transmits. Something had to pick it up. It wasn’t a cheap antenna if he wanted to be as far away from the scene as possible.”
Cam brought up sales pages for various makes of cameras and antennas. “According to Sergeant DiMato, if he has a clear line of sight, a high-gain antenna can pick up the signal a couple miles away.”
“Even in the storm?”
DiMato shrugged. “If it’s in a good location and the camera well mounted.” He looked down for a moment. “But it won’t have to transmit in a blizzard for long, will it? Everything will be buried.”
Everything.
“Snow thinks we should be looking for the antenna,” Hunt said. “Do you agree?”
“Yeah. But we also want what the antenna’s wired to. I think you’re looking for a laptop. That receiver can’t be too far from the antenna.”
Hunt came off the wall. “Okay, thanks, Sergeant.” DiMato left, and Hunter shut the door.
Natani had been making notes. “So your idea,” she said to Cam, “is that Brian’s on a slope someplace tied to a tree or a boulder. The killer wouldn’t have put the victim where someone might stumble across him. He’s put the victim someplace he knows, but few others do.”
“Or there aren’t many people around,” Cam said. “The foothills development where I live is isolated intentionally. And, it’s half-empty in winter. People move into town or have other houses in Florida or somewhere.”
Hunt showed her the string of properties with the void near Conifer. “Cam wants to go look for the receiver in that void area.”
“He’s a civilian,” she said. “Nothing in his job description covers this. He’ll be out of jurisdiction, too. The city would be liable. Send DiMato.”
“Plenty of civilians are searching. I know a Jeffco deputy Cam can act as technical consultant to. … It’ll be uploading to the cloud, right?” he asked Cam. “The killer will abandon the laptop like the camera?”
“It's what I’d do.”
Hunt and Cam exchanged a look that encompassed the life of a child balanced against Cam’s, who Hunter knew wouldn’t hesitate to charge into the mouth of the storm. In the struggle between love and duty, Hunter Dane could not prioritize the first over the second. And if he did, Cam would resign and go, anyway.
Cam gave him a smile and nod so subtle, even Natani couldn’t register it, though she was looking from one to the other.
“DiMato’s a city boy,” Hunter said to Natani. “We don’t have anyone better suited to snow and mountains and dealing with the equipment if he finds it, than Camden Snow.”
She got up and went to the door. “I was in the bathroom when you decided this.” She left.
Cam gathered up the laptop. “I need to stop and grab a few things from my place, but it’s on the way. I’ll take your Bronco.”
“I’ll get a meet location from Jeffco.” Hunter fished out his car key. When Cam reached for it, Hunter held on. “Just... Don’t get any snow or anything on it. It’s a classic.”
Cam smiled. “It absolutely is.” They both held the key a bit longer. When Hunter let go, Cam went to the door. “You always say don’t make assumptions. We’re making a big one.”
“That Ferriter’s the guy?” Hunter’s smile was grim. “I was in a room with him. We aren’t assuming anything.”
“Okay. I’ll go find the kid.”
And Cam was gone.
HAROLD FERRITER SQUINTED up into the overbright glare of an old waffle-patterned fluorescent light fixture.
Outside his door—still Ruth. He leaned sideways but had no view of the squadroom. He could hear voices and phones. And Wendy the weather girl, indistinct under the ambient noise.
He examined his reflection in the dark, one-way glass. Noticed a power cord dangling uselessly under the desk beneath the computer monitor. Near the floor, an exposed electrical box. Wires snaking out.
Wriggling to get more comfortable, he kicked the waste basket. It clanged against the metal legs of the interrogator's chair across from him.
Ruth jumped. Looked into the room. Ferriter held up his hands to show he was still bound.
“Wastebasket. Sorry.”
She noted the basket on its side. Went back to her keyboard.
Ferriter remained still until Ruth thoroughly re-engaged with her monitor.
Moving slowly to avoid attracting her attention, he examined the cuffs and the eyebolt. When he tilted his head near the desktop, a sign behind him was reflected in the dead monitor.
“ALL INTERACTIONS ARE RECORDED AND MAY BE USED IN LEGAL PROCEEDINGS.”
Ferriter's eyes moved to the dark, glass window. He ducked his head with a sly smirk, and clasped his hands over the bolt head as if praying. Eyes closed, he bent over until his forehead touched the desk. His suit coat fell open, blocking any view of his hands.
He pressed against either side of the eyebolt head with his thumbs. It definitely moved. Just a tiny bit.
CAROL TWEE DOUBLE-checked the log numbers on the evidence bags against the descriptions in the log sheet. Her phone, charging in a stand, buzzed and Hunter’s face appeared.
She put it on speaker.
“Hey, Boss. I’m about to take this stuff down to evidence and log it in.”
“Not yet. I want everything locked in McCauley’s office for now, with all the paperwork.”
She hesitated; it wasn’t procedure. “You can come up and I’ll transfer it to you, Lieutenant. That’s the best I can do.”
Long silence.
“Do you have anything?”
“Probably not. His prints and DNA on his pen and ledger, on his wallet and keys mean nothing. From the fibers caught and stretched in the zipper of the backpack, it looks like the scarf was inside, maybe hanging out and just got caught when the backpack was picked up. … I think he slung it.”
“Slung it?”
“I have the crime scene photos. It ended up near, but not next to Brian’s bicycle, on its top. On its side would be normal for w
here you’d grab a strap.”
“I’m coming up.”
Hunter appeared in minutes. “Show me the pictures.”
Twee put them on a monitor.
He bent over the lab table for a close look. “You’re right. It’s upside down. Like it rotated in the air and the books slid to what should be the top.”
“And it’s at least two feet from the bike.” She pointed to the metal rods of the rack. “There’s about four-and-a-half inches between the uprights. It’s like having a scale in the picture.”
“Which should have been there,” he said.
“I should have been there.”
“Yeah.” He straightened. “So your theory is, the perp put it up on the back of the car. He gets the kid inside, then he’s in a hurry to get going. He’s looking around to see if anyone’s watching.”
Hunter’s hand reached out, grabbed some invisible thing at car trunk height while he scanned the room around himself.
“He probably left the driver’s door open, for speed of departure,” Twee said. “He tossed the backpack toward the bike rack, in a hurry, never looked back at the trunk. Just got in and drove away. If that's close to what happened, we might have DNA. Maybe.”
“Where?”
A large, clear evidence bag with the backpack inside sat on her lab table. “See this contrast piping that covers the edges of the straps? It’s stitched on, some kind of plastic material. The edges are fine and stiff. The thing is, he might have been wearing gloves.”
“He used duct tape on his victims. Gloves would be clumsy with the tape. There’s a good probability he wasn’t wearing any,” Hunter said, examining the straps through the plastic. “You think the edges of the plastic would have scraped a layer of epithelials off and they’d be caught under the edge.”
“Possibly. But it takes a full day—even with a high-priority, accelerated process—to get a presumptive match.”
“And the victim will be dead by the time we could use it in interrogation,” Hunter said. “Still, do it.”
“Already done. I took swabs of both edges on both straps. Requested the fast-tracking. I figure in this case nobody’s going to complain about the cost. This can put the killer away. I have to put this backpack into an evidence locker.”
Hunter thought about it. “How about this? Everything of Brian’s goes into lock-up. Sign over everything of Ferriter’s to me, and I’ll log it in later.”
Her cupid’s bow lips pursed. “Okay. I don’t like it, but I can live with it. Only I photograph the contents first. ”
“Good. After you do that, we’ll go downstairs and do a run-through of the backpack slinging using the actual car. You can brief me on your meeting with Ben Trowbridge.”
THREE GREATER SWISS Mountain Dogs ranged back and forth on a forested slope, air scenting for a person lost or hidden.
Behind a stand of aspen, Keller, 10, texted and waited to be found.
Avron Coulter’s championship stud dog, Big Hans, a Saint Bernard-sized Swissie, stood alert beside him at the bottom of the slope, staring fixedly at the tree Keller hid behind. Avron guided the younger dogs with a series of whistles and very limited success.
A Jeffco Sheriffs SUV pulled in and parked next to a barn with “Switchback Kennel'' painted on the wall over a silhouette of Big Hans. Lonny Vargas got out, but hung back, waiting for Avron to finish working.
The young dogs froze. Scented the air. But they didn’t find Keller. Yowling joyously, they dashed at speed down the slope toward Vargas.
The first dog to reach him stood up and put two huge paws on Vargas' shoulders, almost knocking him over.
“Whoa, whoa there!”
The dog panted happily in his face. The other two wriggled pet me against his legs on either side. Vargas struggled to stay on his feet.
On the slope, Keller stepped out from behind the stand of trees.
“Thanks, that’s all for today. See you after the snow melts,” Avron called up to her.
The girl waved and dragged her mountain bike out from behind the trees. Pumping hard, she lateraled the slope and disappeared.
Vargas wrestled with the overgrown pup he was face-to-muzzle with. “Geez, Cody, you're almost as big as Hans, now.”
Avron gave a sharp whistle. The three dogs dropped in front of him, but wagged their tails furiously, looking back at the deputy.
“You're disastrous for discipline, Lonny.” Avron gave Hans a hand signal, and the big dog found a shady spot to lie down.
“So my wife tells me.” Vargas fished a paper out of his coat. “Take a look at this.”
“Go to Hans,” Avron ordered the dogs. Still mostly puppies in spite of their size, they bounded up and scrambled over to Hans. They dropped to the ground behind him, as if he were their human master.
Avron took the paper from Vargas. “Eight years old.” He frowned over the flyer. “Didn’t get an Amber Alert. He just wander off?”
Vargas solemnly shook his head no. “I got a call from a buddy of mine on Denver Homicide. They're pretty sure that boy's outside in the foothills.”
“Homicide? They think he's dead?”
“Not yet. Abandoned someplace he won't find his way out of.” Lonny looked to the four dogs dozing in the shade.
“Oh no! You saw. These younguns aren't trained-up yet. Not for search and rescue.”
“I know.”
“Look, Lonny. You expect me to get in my truck with just Hans and a blizzard coming, you gotta tell me what the deal is. I ain't psychic.”
“They want to keep it quiet, for now. Until they're sure.”
“They’ll be sure when they find the body. We gotta at least know where to start, where he disappeared from. Doesn’t make any sense, not so far.”
Lonny walked over and leaned against the door of his vehicle as if afraid the dogs might overhear. “There were some other boys. Last year. Three. They all died from being left in the elements.”
The two men were quiet for a minute. Hans came over and leaned on Avron's leg. He patted the dog absently.
“Take the boys inside.”
Hans herded his three offspring into the barn and closed the door by a rope handle he took in his teeth.
“You're talking about the serial killer from last year. They think he’s back?”
“Yeah.”
Avron swept an arm in an arc that took in the whole of the rolling landscape visible through the trees. “And they think he’s out there?”
“A car they believe the boy was in was last seen going west on Sixth Avenue Freeway. Man who owns it doesn’t live out here.”
Avron stared at Vargas like he was crazy. “He don’t live out here? That’s what you got?”
“Pretty much.”
“He could be anyplace along the foothills by now!” Avron sighed. “You got a feeling, that it?”
“DPD has logic, and I agree. The I-70 corridor's got traffic cams all along it. All the canyons are built-up. More cameras. This's where I'd take him,” Vargas said, off the forest vista outside.
“You got a feelin’,” Avron repeated.
Vargas’ face knotted up. He dropped his head, hands on hips. “Yeah.”
The older man touched Vargas’ shoulder. “Well, c'mon. I got maps in the barn. But we're going to need a lot more information.”
A sudden wind gust kicked up a dust devil as a battered black Bronco pulled into the yard and stopped next to them. The passenger window lowered, and the driver leaned over. “You’re Deputy Vargas?”
Vargas’ answer died in his throat at the sight of the driver. He bent over for a better look into the relatively dim vehicle interior. “You're Cam Snow.”
“True.” Cam jumped out and trotted around the front to shake hands. “Hunter Dane sent me.”
The Unexpected
* * *
The squad’s days off and overtime calculations for the month finished, Ruth sent them to payroll and sat back, stretching her neck. Her tea was cold. She looked ar
ound for someone to tell she was going to be away from the desk for a few minutes, but the detectives were gathered at the whiteboard at the far end of the room.
They were too far away for her to hear, and tea wasn’t really critical. A glance at Interrogation One showed her Ferriter hunched over the desk return. He might have been praying or merely resting.
Hunter paused at her desk, carrying an evidence envelope. “He’s no trouble?” he asked, referring to Ferriter.
She shook her head.
“You get everything off to payroll?”
“Just now.”
FERRITER SNUCK A peek at Ruth and the cop. If he stayed still and concentrated, he could hear them, faintly but clearly. The cop was telling her he’d have someone relieve her in a while so she could take a break.
The old biddy ducked her head and pulled at her ratty sweater. He thought she said “Thank you.”
Fury raced through his body—a physical thing that heated his skin and hardened his muscles. He should be home. He should be watching. They had no right to bring him here. Leave him here. Ignore him.
The joints of his thumbs were painful from working the bolt. It did move more, just a little more, but he’d begun to despair of getting free. He had no plan in mind if he did manage to get free except to not be like a fucking dog chained in a yard.
To calm himself, Ferriter sat up and back and relaxed his shoulders. Four deep breaths. There was an almost imperceptible drift of fine sawdust around the bolt. He leaned over and coughed. His breath carried it away.
The cop was gone. Ruth found something else to do on the computer. A phone rang from time to time. A low murmur of men’s voices. Once a sudden laugh. Behind it all, the TV he urgently needed to see.
But all he had was “Ruthie” who ignored him, and the blank, dark window that watched him.
“TED’S NOT EASILY spooked,” Melanie Driver told Mike Merisi. “So when he was, so was I.” She was a sturdy woman in her thirties who would be described as “matronly” by Merisi’s grandmother. But she had a comforting surety that bespoke self-esteem and common sense. “He’s in the garage getting the snowblower ready. But you need to tell me just what you want to say to him.”
