Chapter Twenty
Murders are rare in the Shenandoah National Park, but they occur. Usually, it’s a hiker on the Appalachian Trail who is found dead under mysterious circumstances. Because it is federal property, the F.B.I. will be brought in to sort through the evidence and drive the investigation. The murder of Roger Etter was different. He was a Ranger, for one thing. He was a local pillar of the community for another. Etter was a man who was loved and admired by his entire town and his death sent his family, friends and neighbors into shock.
The Shenandoah Valley is place and a state of mind. It is the low area between the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Appalachians. It was the scene of horrendous suffering during the Civil War, with its towns changing hands dozens of times. Its fertile land fed the people of the East and its music fed the souls of mountain folks. To many who call it home it’s a magical place embraced by the mountains to the east and west. It is a Christian place where churches are taken seriously and faith is a gift that must be nurtured day by day. It is a conservative area that produced the Christian Right, a powerful political force that sets the agenda for millions of Americans who embrace what they believe to be basic American values based upon the slogan In God We Trust.
Roger Etter was a devoted follower of all of it and he displayed his faith with deeds and devotion. When his body was brought to a funeral home after the autopsy hundreds of his fellow citizens lined the road, weeping, and more than a few vowed vengeance. His autopsy had been expedited by the F.B.I. and had taken place in a laboratory in Washington, then it was brought home. It had all taken a day and a half. Television stations as far away as Washington covered the procession live.
Malone sat in his room and watched it, smiling. He knew the name and location of the killer. Roger Etter’s life was of no concern to Malone. If asked he would have expressed sorrow over a senseless death. In his private thoughts he had already placed Etter into the place where all of the other senseless deaths he had seen and been a part of, a place where the dead are forgotten.
Father Darius was watching the live coverage from a bar in Warrenton, a place that advertized all-you-can-eat pizza at a low price. He was wearing jeans and a cotton jacket in hopes of fitting in with the dads, moms and kids in the place. He felt out of place and to anyone who paid attention he was, but no one was paying attention to the man who sat at the bar and watched the TV screen.
“Hell of a thing, ain’t it,” said the bartender, shaking her head. “Probably some psycho hiking the trail. They need cops up there or something.”
“Yeah, hell of a thing. You hear if they have any leads?”
“Not that they’re saying. Hell, they’re still looking for whoever killed those hikers two or three years ago. Probably long gone to Georgia by now.” Georgia is the southern end of the Appalachian Trail.
He had ordered a draft beer as part of his effort to look like everyone else but his taste ran to higher fare and he could barely swallow what he classified as swill. He had only managed to down a quarter of the beer and he knew he would never get the rest down, so he left the glass on the bar as he gazed at the screen.
People were lining the streets of Front Royal, waving flags and tearfully reaching out to the hearse as it passed by. He thought it was silly and couldn’t understand why so many people cared about Roger Etter. To this man, Etter did not have the sense to leave him alone. Why mourn a man like that?
“That your little red car out front?” the bartender asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Kind of cold to be driving something like that ain’t it.”
“Not if you dress right.” He was in no mood to talk about the car.
“That thing have a heater?”
“Yes, it does and it works fine if the top is up and the side curtains are installed.”
“You have a normal car?”
The man bristled at the word normal. He had been told all his life that he was not normal and took offense. “Just what is a normal car?” he snapped.
“Well, you know, a car like everybody else drives.” The bartender was beginning to worry about the man and backed away. “I didn’t mean anything by it; just making conversation, you being alone and all.”
“No offense taken.” He glanced again at the screen and put some money on the bar. “Good day.”
He was upset and in turmoil and breathing hard. Normal! What was that supposed to mean? Normal car, normal thoughts, normal, normal. He was sick of it. What is normal, anyway? Does she think she is normal? What kind of life is that, serving drinks to people whose kids are stuffing themselves with all-you-can-eat pizza?
A Fauquier County Sheriff’s car drove by and deputy at the wheel stared at the MG and then at the man. He issued a small wave and drove off when the light turned green. Hicks, Father Darius thought, people too backward to accept that a classic roadster was not something to stare at.
Malone was having a better moment. He was elated. He didn’t believe in luck but when it appeared that luck had indeed come his way he accepted it. He settled in with a bottle of medium-grade bourbon purchased at a state liquor in Warrenton and allowed both the booze and the satisfaction to wash over him.
Captain O’Neil was facing a much more difficult moment. He had the autopsy results from Roger Etter and they were unsettling. The pathologist, who specialized in certain crimes, had said that the knife that was used in the killing of Etters was of the same type used in the murders of the priests. That did not mean it was the same weapon, but it was the same type. In O’Neil’s mind, and in the opinion of the F.B.I. agents who read the report, it was the same killer. That meant that the man was sniffing around the farm, waiting for a moment of his choosing to the make his move.
O’Neil’s dilemma was whether to tell Dave or to allow things to play out. After all, using Dave as bait was the plan. How was O’Neil to know it would play out so soon? If he didn’t tell Dave and word got back to him from other sources, which it well might, he would have a problem controlling Dave and who knows what that might bring? He’d sleep on it.
F.B.I. Special Agent Milford “Bud” Ossening saw an opportunity he could not resist. He read the report on the autopsy of Roger Etter and believed, along with everyone else who read it, that the person who killed the park ranger was the same person who had murdered at least two priests in Washington. The theory was that the killer was psychotic and was acting out a religious issue probably left over from his childhood. So how did Etter fit in? The folks at Quantico were working on it. Ossening was privy to more than the autopsy report. He was part of a task force that was tracking the Warriors of Mary and they had uncovered disturbing information about a secret law enforcement connection to the group, a so-called Posse Maria, whose members took it upon themselves to perform extra-legal activities on behalf of what they believed to be their calling from The Virgin.
The task force was tracking a half-dozen law officers, including O’Neil and Malone, and knew all about the farm and where Dave was hiding even before O’Neil’s delayed information had arrived at the Bureau. He doubted that O’Neil would tell Dave or his boss about the killer being nearby. He placed a call.
“Dave Haggard here.” The voice was thin and Ossening assumed that Dave was stressed and bored.
“Dave, Bud Ossening. Have I called at a bad time?” It was a line that always perked up the person on the other end. Such a question was assumed to be the introduction to something important.
“No, actually I have all the time in the world. What’s up?”
“Have you heard about the U.S. Park Ranger who was killed not far from you a couple of days ago? A guy named Etter.”
“Yeah, it’s all over the news. He seems to have been quite the guy.”
“That’s what I understand. That’s not why I’m calling. What I’m about to tell you must remain confidential. You cannot share it with anyone and you most certainly may not use my name as a source nor may you use the information as a news item. Are we clear on that?”
Ossening in no way believed that Dave would keep the information to himself but he wanted to go over the usual ground rules anyway just to say he had.
“Okay, sure. What’s up?”
“The special examiner performed the autopsy on Etter because he was a high profile guy and a federal employee, so the guy knows what he’s doing. The pathologist is not some country hick. This guy knows his way around a corpse, so we have a high degree of confidence in what he says.” Ossening paused as though he was thinking about his next words.
“What’d he say?” Dave was half listening, wondering what this had to do with him.
“He says the guy who stabbed Etter is the same guy who killed the priests.” Ossening let that sink in, knowing that what he had said was a stretch from the autopsy report, which had merely stated that death was from the same type of knife as the priest killings.
Dave was silent. His mind was running over a list of questions. How did they know? Did that mean the killer was from Virginia? Then it hit him. “He’s out here, isn’t he? He knows where I am.”
“I would think so, yes.” Ossening let the hook sink.
“Why haven’t I heard from O’Neil on this?”
“That’s not my area. As I said, this is not to be shared. You need to find another way to confront him on this if you plan to do that.”
“Do you think I’m safe here?”
“I assume O’Neil knows what he’s doing and I know you’re not alone. From what I hear, Frank’s a good man.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Keep your head down. I gotta go. Remember our deal.” The line went dead.
Butterfly Knife Page 20
