No Ordinary Killer

by Rita Karnopp

“Okay, you ask me a question and I’ll answer. In return, I get to ask you a question and you will have to answer.”

  “Quid pro quo, like Silence of the Lamb? Sure, but I promise I don’t have any stories that will choke one up like crying baby lambs. I’ll start by asking why you’ve never thought it important enough to tell me Paul Weaver is your cousin?”

  “You have my file. I’m sure you read about that connection a long time ago. His mother and mine are sisters.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “You’re kidding, right? How should I feel?” Cooper gripped the steering wheel and straightened his back.

  “I sense a bit of tension between the two of you.”

  “Not really. Well, sort of. Actually, when we were young kids, Candy, Paul and I were almost inseparable. We had a lot in common. Our moms were sisters and they loved being together. So we spent a lot of time playing … the three of us.”

  “There’s a but in this equation, isn’t there?”

  “His dad was … abusive.”

  “You know I need to know details.”

  “Is it true that your father is a Texas rancher who owns half of Dallas? He is worth a fortune and has pretty much disowned you.”

  “True.” Dallas swallowed hard. “I need to know the details.”

  “I was ten and we all went camping. We knew Paul was afraid of his dad, which wasn’t all that weird to Candy and me, since our dad was a cop and strict, and we were kinda scared of him, too. But we loved him and wanted to be around him when he was in a good mood. Paul did everything, even hide, to stay out of his dad’s way.”

  “There has to be more to this. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I’m getting to that. We all went camping. We were ten and the three of us were going to share our own tent. The first day things were great. That night … I woke … I thought it was because I had to pee. I got up and went to the bushes behind our tent. That’s when I saw … them.”

  Dallas waited for Cooper to continue.

  “Paul’s dad was … he was … he had Paul bent over a fallen tree and … was fucking him. I wasn’t sure what he was doing at the time, but I knew it was bad. Paul’s face was wet with tears and his grunts were of pain, not pleasure. I wanted to run away, but my feet were frozen to the ground. I stood there for what seemed like an hour, unable to move.”

  Cooper cleared his throat. “That’s when Uncle John saw me. I tried to run, but he caught me and dragged me back to the log. Paul couldn’t look me in the eyes. I wanted to say I was sorry. I just stood there looking at the ground, shaking. Uncle John told me if I said one word about what I saw, he would do the same to me and Candy. I understood why Paul was afraid of his dad.”

  “You’ve remained quiet all this time?”

  “No, that’s probably what I should have done.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “Things were never the same between Paul, Candy and me. I think he was so ashamed. We never talked about it. I didn’t tell Candy at first, but when she kept asking me why Paul didn’t want to play with us anymore, I had to tell her. Six months later, she told my dad.”

  “She did the right thing.”

  “Our world changed after that night. Candy was sleeping, but I heard loud voices in my dad’s office. I inched my way down the stairs and listened. Uncle John was in the hospital from a beating my dad gave him. Aunt Linda was crying and swearing she didn’t know Uncle John was hurting Paul. She pleaded with my dad not take Paul away from her. She promised she would leave Uncle John, but she didn’t want my dad to file child abuse charges against him. She didn’t want Paul to have to go through the humiliation of a trial. So they agreed my dad wouldn’t charge Uncle John with assault and my dad wouldn’t file child abuse charges against Uncle John.”

  “Good Lord, that must have been horrible. Did Linda divorce John?”

  “They got a divorce and Aunt Linda seemed so happy. At first Paul was quiet and distant. Candy worked hard to get him to understand we had his back and weren’t going to ever tell anyone. We were family. My dad became Paul’s father figure. Sometimes Candy and I were jealous that dad gave Paul more attention than us. We never said anything because we hated what Uncle John did.”

  “Why does Paul steer clear of Candy now?”

  “When we were twelve, Paul found out Candy was the one who told our dad about Uncle John. All that time he thought it was me. I don’t know why that bothered him so much, but it did. Things have never been the same between them since.”

  “What happened to his father?”

  “After the divorce he moved back to Minnesota. About two years later he was accused of raping an eleven-year-old boy. Once the charges were made, several other boys came forward. When it was all said and done, he faced charges of killing a nine-year-old boy. Uncle John admitted the kid fought him, and his death was an accident. He got a life sentence at Lino Lakes. Paul never talks about him. We’re as good as we’ve ever been. I think we’re good.”

  “Does Sparks know about this?”

  “Why? There’s no reason to tell him. Candy and I promised Paul we wouldn’t tell anyone, and we haven’t. Only reason I’m telling you is because you have access to finding this out anyway. You are bound by confidentiality not to tell anyone. There’s no problem here.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “You can’t believe Paul is our leak. Dallas, I’m telling you right now that Paul isn’t the one trying to destroy me. Now, quid pro quo.”

  “I was hoping you’d forget. Dad wants me to take over his dynasty. Trouble is I’m not the least bit interested in the cattle industry. I’ve always wanted to be in law enforcement. Dad disapproved. One thing I learned early on, daddy is always right. So my career choice cost me my father and inheritance. I don’t care about the money, but I do miss dad. I’m not allowed to step foot in his house. I used to follow him around like a lost puppy. I was daddy’s little girl. You’d never know it now. I always wish I’d had a sister or a brother. I keep hoping someday dad will forgive me and we can start building a relationship again. So far that hasn’t happened.”

  “Would he be angry enough to hire someone to scare you into running back home? I mean, face it, he can afford it.”

  “I’ve considered that scenario, but it just doesn’t sound like daddy. His approach is head-on. I think it’s my association with you—“

  “Well, would you look at that?”

  “White van three cars back … has been following us for about an hour now. Could be our guy, or just a coincidence.”

  “You were going to mention it when?”

  “If he’d made a move, I would have brought it to your attention.”

  “Hmm nice of you.”

  “Don’t go getting out of joint. He or she might not even know us. Okay, so I take that back. I make a driver with no passengers and he’s picking up speed.”

  “I caught a glimpse of metal, he has a gun. I thought he might wait for McDonald Pass to make his move. We go over the edge and we don’t have a chance unless we have wings.”

  * * *

  Megan tried … but sleep wouldn’t come. The violence of her lover left her anxious and fearful. What did she know about him? Nothing. Trying to see his face was a mistake. Maybe she should follow him the next time he left her bed. No, she’d never get away with it without being spotted. He wanted her to believe he was a journalist, but he was a cop. She’d lived with one and recognized the signs. She wasn’t without options and she knew just the man to do it.

  Feeling better, Megan rolled over and—the alarm blared. She jerked and muscles tensed as she reached to shut the damn thing off. A sharp pain shot between her temples. A headache would only complicate things. This was not going to be a good day.

  Standing in the shower, Megan allowed the hot water to work its therapy. She lathered up a therapeutic aromatherapy of Lemongrass Verbena. She slowly moved her head down and around, down and around.

  Who
had set her alarm for six? She had set it for eight and her visitor last night … maybe he had reset it before he slid between the sheets. But why? Fear seeped into her self-control … shaking her to the core. She quickly shut the water off, towel dried, and slipped into a pair of lounging sweats with a matching top. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and didn’t bother with makeup. Who was going to see her anyway? She had a novel to finish.

  Why? Why was she being forced to finish this book so quickly? It usually took a good two years to get a book on the market after it was bought. Was Jessica being blackmailed into pushing this book onto the market? After all, wasn’t she being coerced into writing it?

  The smell of coffee led Megan to the parlor of her room. A Capital slightly toasted bagel with plain cream cheese and a cup of coffee and hazelnut creamer awaited her. Megan hurried straight to the bedroom door, only to find it locked. Her benefactor must have placed the order. But, how did he know what she liked or didn’t like to eat?

  She sat on the couch and poured herself a much needed cup of coffee. The bagel was perfect, how did he know? What did she know about her lover? That question crowded her mind more than ever. What a fool she’d been.

  Coffee cup in hand, Megan headed for the library. A large white envelope placed across the keyboard screamed for attention. She didn’t have to wonder who put it there. What frightened her was when had he put it there?

  Shaking, she set her coffee cup down and pulled the contents free. Case pictures of a young woman dropped onto the table. At a glance it was obvious the woman had been repeatedly strangled by a rope. Numerous marks on the throat of the victim revealed they were caused by the fingernails of the assailant as he also choked her. The presence of petechial hemorrhages in her eyes screamed manual strangulation. Most shocking was the 3-7-77 carved into the forehead of the victim. The girl’s thick braid was bound across her mouth and around her head like a gag.

  Megan swallowed hard, then read the typed note attached to the last photo. Megan, Love. It was tricky to find a victim to match the beginning of Physical Evidence. You started with perfect excitement and as good as I am, I’ve found the perfect case for you. You’ll have to change your character Doris Shane to Ella Burquist, but that’s an easy fix. No, we can’t use her real name, Eunice Ballyard. This is after all a fiction book. This evidence should get your fingers flying over the keyboard. Get busy. You have a deadline to meet.

  Megan stared at the note and sat hard on the chair. This was a nightmare. One she wanted to wake from and never think about again. What family’s nightmare was she about to awaken? Maybe she should take the evidence and go straight to Cooper. Could his team help her set a trap for this killer? She’d be a heroine in the public eye.

  The startling phone ring snapped her from her thoughts. The caller ID displayed unknown. It was him. “What?”

  “My, my, aren’t we testy this morning. I’d suggest you be a bit more cordial, lovely Megan. After all, I’m making you a world class writer.”

  “Maybe my aspirations have changed. I no longer want world-wide status. I am not—“

  “Don’t you tell me what you’re not going to do. You’ll do what I command. You will follow my instructions and you will not go to the police, especially not Cooper. You cross me, Megan, and your mother’s house with go up in flames, with her and the twins inside. Don’t even bother wondering if I can make that happen, because you know the answer. Don’t piss me off.”

  “Why are you doing this? I need motive. I need direction. Why don’t you write the damn book and put my name on it. Will save us both a lot of grief.”

  “It must come from you. Every author has a voice. It’s the way they write, the phrasing, the pacing, the tone that makes their individual book theirs alone. You will write Physical Evidence and you will have the first murder finished by the end of this week.”

  “Well you have more confidence in me than I do. Did you kill this Eunice Billyard?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “The 3-7-77 carved in her forehead, what does it mean?”

  “During a four month period in 1863, Henry Plummer and his road agent gang killed more than 120 hard-working miners, stealing their gold, and chopping the bodies into buzzard bait. If the gang didn’t have time to dismember a body, they left the corpse to rot on the trailhead. All the gold was turned over to Plummer, and he buried it all over the hills. They made a mistake by killing a popular young man named Nicholas Thiebalt. One of the local ranchers found the body and brought it into town. The townsfolk organized the Montana Vigilantes with men from Bannack, Virginia City, and nearby Nevada City.”

  “And what exactly does that have to do with the numbers 3-7-77?”

  “Impatient, aren’t you, Megan? These masked vigilantes visited suspected outlaws in the middle of the night and issued warnings. They also tacked up warning posters that usually featured skull-and-crossbones or the numbers 3-7-77. The exact meaning of the numbers is still being debated, but the Montana State Highway patrolmen wear the emblem 3-7-77 on their shoulder patches today.”

  “So why would you … uh, this killer, carve that into this young woman’s forehead?”

  “Use your imagination. The murder took place in Bannack,right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, it’s now believed Henry Plummer was innocent. At the time the vigilantes quickly tracked down the outlaws and gave them a makeshift trial. They hung about twenty-two men. Several outlaws tried to save themselves by pointing fingers at others. When a road agent, Erastus ‘Red’ Yeager, was about to be hanged, he identified Henry Plummer as the leader of the gang and named other gang leaders. It was the first indication that Henry Plummer was a road agent.”

  “And that is significant because?”

  “You’re being a bitch, Megan. You can use this information in your book. Its history and will give you interesting fodder that your readers will love.”

  “You really think so?” Megan took a sip of coffee and made a face. It had turned bitter and cold, much like the conversation. “And why would this information be important in my book?”

  “Well the vigilantes went to Henry Plummer’s house. It was a cold Sunday evening in January of 1864, and Plummer had been feeling ill for several days and was undressing for bed. The posse, armed with revolvers, rifles, and shotguns, surrounded the ailing sheriff’s cabin.”

  “He was a sheriff?”

  “Yes, I thought you knew he was Bannack’s sheriff. The posse didn’t give Plummer a full-scale trial because they had Red Yeager’s confession and a list of outlaws. The vigilantes marched Plummer from his home to a scaffold he himself had built in his role of sheriff. Moments before the posse could hang him, Plummer made an unusual request: Give me two hours and a horse. I’ll bring back my weight in gold. Instead the vigilantes strung him up. They provided no drop, but instead, bound his hands, slipped a noose over his head, and gradually hoisted him. They waited long enough to be sure none of his friends could save him then returned to town, leaving his corpse to stiffen in the freezing wind.”

  “He admitted he had a lot of gold. I’d say he admitted he was a road agent. How come they now think he was innocent?”

  “There wasn’t one shred of evidence connecting Plummer with any crime committed in Bannack or Alder Gulch. Was there really a band of outlaws led by Henry Plummer? I don’t think so. Documents attest only to four crimes in Plummer’s jurisdiction during 1863, and none of them were related to each other. The two stages that were robbed were not carrying gold shipments. Also, the botched robbery attempt of the caravan transporting more than $75,000 in gold dust was carried out by only two men---neither experienced road agents. So this whole historical lie destroyed a man’s good name."

  “So you’re saying the Montana Vigilantes were the outlaws and not Plummer?”

  “You got it.”

  “And this whole long historical event affects my story how?”

  “Use your imagination.”


  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t get cute. I want you to use this information when writing about the murder.”

  “I’m totally lost.”

  “This murder took place in Bannack. She bares the mark of the Montana Vigilantes. The victim was repeatedly hung by the neck, then resuscitated. Who knows, maybe she was hung twenty-one times? Evidence proves she was raped between each hanging.”

  “Don’t you think this is a bit much? I mean—“

  “Over-kill!”

  His laugh caused her to pause. Did she know that laugh? It seemed strangely familiar. “You want me to make a correlation between this young woman’s murder and the history of Plummer? What angle? He was innocent and having Ella’s hanging take place where Plummer was hanged, proves the police had the wrong killer? The real killer is one of them—just like the Montana Vigilantes killed Plummer to cover-up their murders?”

  “Very good, Megan. You do have a mind for this.”

  “How old is this case?”

  “That’s something you don’t need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Use the case as the framework for the first murder in Physical Evidence. Use the information to establish the ineptitude of the police. Because—“

  “Wait one minute. I am not taking on the Great Falls Police Department. It will look like I’ve got a vendetta against Cooper and his team. I’ll look like a fool without proof and only insinuations.”

  “Who says you don’t have any proof? When you’re done with Physical Evidence, the entire country will be rocked. I’m telling you right now, Megan, you will be acclaimed.”

  “That better be the case.”

  “By the way, do you know for a fact the twins are Cooper’s?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “You’ve been fucking your lover for around four years now. Those twins are three. If I’m counting correctly, there is a good chance they might not be Cooper’s kids.”

  “They are.”

  “Would you mind if I had a paternity test run?”

  “What the hell for? What does this have anything to do with my writing this fucking book?”