Long Range

by Box, C. J.

  Sheriff Kapelow didn’t flinch. He said simply, “The investigation is ongoing.”

  “I hope to hell so,” Hewitt said with sarcasm. “Have you determined what kind of rifle or bullet was used?”

  “Not yet,” Kapelow said. “The preliminary guess from the evidence tech was that it was a .30 caliber or similar.”

  “Which is just about every bullet and rifle within five hundred miles,” Hewitt said. “I hope you can nail it down a hell of a lot better than that.”

  “We will,” Kapelow said.

  The man had unerring confidence in his abilities, Joe observed.

  Chief Williamson leaned forward, eager to please. “We’ve got our MRAP gassed up and ready,” he told the judge. “Our plan is to move it out onto the golf course so the shooter will have a hell of a surprise in store for him if he decides to come back.”

  The MRAP was a twenty-ton Mine-Resistant Ambush-Protected behemoth of military hardware donated by the Pentagon to local police departments throughout the country following the Iraq War. Chief Williamson looked for any excuse to deploy it locally. Helmets, body armor, combat boots, and camouflage uniforms were also provided.

  “That’s one of the dumbest fucking ideas I’ve ever heard,” Judge Hewitt said to Williamson. “If you drive that thing out onto my golf course and tear up the grass, I’ll take a shot at it myself.”

  Williamson slumped back in his chair, completely deflated.

  “Instead of jumping in your tank,” Hewitt said to the chief, “make a list just like the others and then go out and talk to people. Let us know who you’ve brought before me that wants a piece of me. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Williamson said while looking at his boots.

  Trooper Tillis said, “Your Honor, I’m not sure I can help you here. I didn’t get assigned to the highways around here until a couple of months ago. I was over in Jackson before that. I’ve only testified in your court a couple of times and both of those offenders are still in jail. If you want a list of past offenders who have it out for you, you’ll need to talk to the guys who were stationed here before me.”

  Tillis gathered himself up in his chair as if preparing to leave, but a twin-laser stare from Hewitt froze him to his seat.

  Judge Hewitt said, “So your contribution to the homicidal targeting of a judge and the possible murder of his wife is to tell me to go talk to some troopers who were around here before? While Sue is clinging to the last thread of her life in a hospital?”

  “W-well—” Tillis stammered, but Hewitt cut him off.

  “You go talk to them,” Hewitt said. “Go through their arrest records for the past few years. Make a list of suspects and then go interview those suspects. Pretend you’re an officer of the law instead of a glorified traffic cop. Do you think you can do that, Tillis?”

  The trooper mumbled, “Yes, Your Honor,” his entire head flushing red.

  Hewitt nodded his satisfaction. Then he turned to Joe.

  “Pickett,” he said. “The list you are going to make is unique in my way of thinking. The violators you bring before me are mainly hunters and other types who are well versed in high-powered rifles. They also tend to be independent and sneaky—not the typical meth head or wannabe gangbanger Duane would defend or prosecute.”

  Joe nodded in agreement. He looked at the side of Kapelow’s head and asked, “Has it been determined that the bullet was fired from a rifle and not a handgun?”

  “Pretty much,” the sheriff responded softly.

  Hewitt said, “It was from a rifle. I’ll bet you any amount of money that it was from a high-powered rifle. A pistol shooter would have had to have been much closer to my house and I would have seen him out there. It was a rifle.”

  Joe said, “Some handguns have a lot of range and accuracy. My buddy Nate Romanowski has a single-action revolver he can shoot accurately at several hundred yards.”

  “Maybe it was him,” Williamson offered.

  “It wasn’t Nate,” Joe scoffed. “He doesn’t operate that way.”

  “And he wouldn’t have missed and hit my wife,” Hewitt said. “I would guess you’ll be able to follow up on my request in short order?”

  “Yup, Your Honor,” Joe said.

  Already, Joe had come up with several names of suspects. As he and Marybeth had discussed, the judge had a lot of enemies.

  First on the list was Dallas Cates, or one of Cates’s associates. Although Joe had helped put Cates into prison two years ago, Dallas had an almost legitimate beef with the judge. Hewitt, Joe, Dulcie Schalk, and Sheriff Reed—they’d all bent the rules to put Dallas Cates away. Cates had vowed retribution. But as far as Joe knew, Dallas Cates was in the midst of serving five to seven years in the Wyoming State Penitentiary. Despite that, the ex–rodeo star was charismatic and convincing enough that he might try to reach beyond jail to someone who would take a shot at the judge.

  Joe planned to start there.

  There were others. Ron Connelly, aka the Mad Archer from Baggs, had been thrown the book by Judge Hewitt, with maximum sentences for wanton destruction of wildlife, assault, and animal cruelty. He’d targeted Joe’s half-Corgi, half-Labrador dog, Tube, with an arrow. The Mad Archer had been overcharged and oversentenced, though. Judge Hewitt clearly hadn’t liked him and said as much during sentencing.

  Although his weapon of choice was his compound bow, Joe could conceive of the Mad Archer taking up a rifle and plotting his revenge.

  There was also Dennis Sun, the millionaire rancher and film producer who had purchased a large ranch on the eastern slope of the Bighorns. Sun was used to having his own way, and he’d long decided that Wyoming Game and Fish Department rules and regulations hampered his style. When he wanted a new set of antlers for one of his many guest cottages, he’d kill a mule deer buck or bull elk despite the hunting season dates or hunting licenses required. Joe had caught Sun poaching on his own ranch and had arrested him.

  Although Sun had hired celebrity lawyer Marcus Hand, it was assumed he would get a slap on the wrist and sent home. But it hadn’t worked out that way, for two reasons. The first was Judge Hewitt’s visceral hatred toward Hand in his courtroom. The second was because the record bull elk in velvet that Sun had poached was one Hewitt had scouted himself and had planned to harvest for his own game room, although legally.

  Dennis Sun had been sentenced to multiple hunting violations; his airplane, helicopter, ATVs, and rifles all seized, and his hunting and fishing privileges revoked for life. He’d also been sentenced to six months in the county jail, although Hand had appealed and won and Sun had gotten off with time served. Even so, Sun had vocally attacked Judge Hewitt as he was led from the courtroom in handcuffs. The story had been prominent in both Variety and The Hollywood Reporter and Sun had claimed that Joe and Hewitt had combined to adversely affect his livelihood.

  Sun, Joe guessed, had money and connections to hire someone to take a shot at the judge.

  And that was just the start of Joe’s list.

  *

  “OKAY, THEN,” HEWITT SAID, stepping out from behind the chair he’d used like a combination of podium and shield. “We have our assignments. As for me, I plan to spend my hours overseeing this investigation whenever I’m not at Sue’s side at the hospital. You have your jobs,” he said to the room. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Joe looked around and wished he had more confidence in what would happen next.

  He thought the lists, once compiled, would be a good place to start. But what Hewitt hadn’t mentioned was the possibility that the shooter wouldn’t be on any of them. Over his career, the judge had angered defense lawyers, witnesses, law enforcement officers, and some of his own staff. Hewitt didn’t seem to consider that someone other than a criminal he’d sentenced could have pulled the trigger. He also hadn’t seemed to entertain the possibility that it really was a stray shot that hadn’t been intended to hit him or his wife.

  Before exiting through his private door, Hewitt turn
ed back to the room and said over his shoulder, “Gentlemen, please don’t make this a clusterfuck. Can you do that?”

  Everyone mumbled their assurances.

  When Hewitt’s door closed, Patterson was the first to speak.

  “Lord help us,” he said to no one and to everyone.

  *

  “JOE, DO YOU have a minute?” Duane Patterson asked once all of the others were gone and only he and Joe remained.

  “Yup.”

  Joe noticed the perspiration beading on the prosecutor’s forehead and on his neck above his collar. He leaned into Joe and said, “Have you ever seen the judge like this before?”

  Joe shrugged. “I’ve seen him angry, but not like this.”

  “He’s manic,” Patterson said, his eyes wide.

  “I’d probably be, too, if someone took a shot at me and hit Marybeth,” Joe said. The image of what he’d just described sent a shiver down his spine.

  “He’s asking the impossible,” Patterson said. “He’s putting it all on us to find the shooter.”

  “Maybe we’ll do just that,” Joe said.

  “But that’s not what I do,” Patterson said. “I’m a prosecutor. I’m not a detective.” He seemed panicked.

  “Just do your best,” Joe encouraged him.

  “My best won’t be good enough for him,” Patterson said. “He’ll ride me until I break down. I know him. I know how relentless he can be.”

  Joe nodded.

  Patterson continued. “He’s powerful. He’s got his fingers into everything, and he can pull strings you don’t even know he has. How do you think he was able to assemble all of us in his office in a moment’s notice just now? He went straight to the governor and the governor danced.

  “I’ve got this job because Judge Hewitt recommended me and made his case to the county commissioners,” Patterson said. “He could just as easily take them aside and suggest they hire a new county prosecutor if he thinks I didn’t do enough to find the shooter. I could see that happening.”

  Joe agreed, but didn’t say so. He changed the subject. “How well do you get along with our new sheriff?”

  Patterson frowned. “Our relationship is nonexistent,” he said. “I can’t figure him out. He keeps his cards so close to the vest they’re like a skin graft. No one knows what he’s thinking, including his deputies. He makes it a point not to talk with me, even about important matters. Instead, he sends memos.”

  “I’ve heard about that,” Joe said.

  “I want to think he’s some kind of oddball investigative genius,” Patterson said. “Like he’s our own Columbo or something. But so far, I just can’t read him.”

  Joe acknowledged him but said nothing.

  “This will be his test,” Patterson said. “After this, maybe we’ll know if he’s good at his job. But in the meanwhile, we have to contend with the judge. It’s a nightmare. I can’t ever recall someone taking a shot at a sitting judge in Wyoming, can you?”

  “No.”

  “And Sue,” Patterson said. “Poor Sue. She didn’t deserve this. She’s the only person who makes Judge Hewitt halfway tolerable because she’s the only one who can keep him in check. If she goes . . .”

  “I know,” Joe said.

  “We’re all screwed,” Patterson said.

  “Then let’s find the shooter,” Joe said while fitting on his hat to go.

  *

  JOE PAUSED OUTSIDE Judge Hewitt’s office door before going to the lobby. He could hear the man sobbing inside.

  For a second, Joe considered opening the door and trying to console the man. He thought better of it, though. Maybe Judge Hewitt needed privacy to break down and cry.

  Joe’s heart went out to him.

  Then he remembered he didn’t have his truck outside. Again he called Marybeth, and asked her if he could get a ride to the highway department building on the outskirts of town.

  While he waited for his wife, Joe fished his notebook out of his pocket and opened it to a fresh page.

  Under the header Suspects, he wrote down:

  Dallas Cates (and associates)

  The Mad Archer

  Dennis Sun

  SIX

  THE EAGLE MOUNTAIN CLUB WAS SPRAWLED OUT ON A vast sagebrush-covered bench overlooking the Twelve Sleep River Valley. Within the perimeter fencing it was an oasis of grass, mature trees, ponds, and manicured fairways bordered by club facilities and private homes. With the short but intense summer season over, an air of exhaustion hung over it and it reminded Joe of a big-game animal that had been run to the point of extreme fatigue and had bedded down.

  He’d wrangled a beat-up two-wheel-drive GMC pickup from the Wyoming Department of Transportation fleet and had negotiated a deal where he could “rent” the vehicle for a day or two until he could reunite with his own truck. The WYDOT supervisor didn’t like the arrangement because of the paperwork that would be involved to get reimbursed by the Game and Fish Department, but in the end, he capitulated because the truck wasn’t being used by any of his people anyway.

  The supervisor did point out that Joe’s reputation for the loss of and damage to state property was well known and that he hoped and expected to see the pickup returned in one piece. Joe had promised nothing.

  The vehicle was dingy white in color with the WYDOT logo—ironically similar to the triangular slow-moving-vehicle symbol—on both doors. There was an amber rotating light on the roof, rusted shovels in the bed, and a fast-food wrapper covering the passenger-side floorboard. The windshield was cracked and the gas gauge never wavered from one-quarter full.

  Joe was grateful to have it, though, and he found as he drove through town toward the club that unlike his own distinctive green pickup, no one gave it a second look as he passed by. Everyone, it seemed, was interested to find out where the game warden was headed. No one cared about a highway department guy. The .308 rifle and shotgun he’d brought with him from Jackson and hadn’t yet had a chance to store away were muzzle-down on the floorboard next to him.

  *

  HE THOUGHT ABOUT the weapons when he saw that a sheriff’s department SUV was parked crosswise in front of the entrance gate to the Eagle Mountain Club. Not that he’d think to brandish them, but he hoped the deputy who manned the gate wouldn’t see them inside the cab and overreact.

  Fortunately, Joe recognized the deputy to be Justin Woods, one of the losing sheriff’s candidates. Woods climbed out of his vehicle and held his left hand out palm-up while gripping his sidearm with his right.

  Joe rolled to a stop and instinctively reached for the toggle switch to power down the window, but it wasn’t there. Instead, he had to crank it down by its handle the old-fashioned way.

  “I didn’t recognize you in this truck,” Woods said to Joe with a puzzled smile. “Are you sneaking around all undercover?”

  “My truck is in Jackson,” Joe said. Then: “Long story.”

  “What can I do for you?” Woods asked.

  “I’m here to look at the crime scene at Judge Hewitt’s place.”

  “No can do. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in. If I did, the sheriff would have my head.”

  “Seriously?” Joe asked.

  “Seriously. He said no one was to access this property except for department personnel.”

  “Even if Judge Hewitt personally ordered me to investigate the shooting?” Joe asked, even though he was pretty sure what the answer would be.

  “No one gets in through the gate,” Woods said, shaking his head. He drew his cell phone out of his jacket and showed the screen to Joe. It was a text message from Kapelow that read exactly those seven words: No one gets in through the gate.

  “Okay,” Joe said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “Thank you. You don’t know what it’s like in the department these days.”

  “I’m starting to get a better idea,” Joe said as he put the transmission into reverse and started to back away.

  “You gave up easy,” Wood
s said, puzzled. Then he grinned and nodded as he figured out Joe’s intentions. “Oh . . .”

  Joe winked at him and gave him the thumbs-up.

  *

  THE OLD RANCH bridge that crossed the river and accessed the Eagle Mountain Club from the other side was three miles from the gate. The bridge was used by service vehicles and employees of the club in the summer so they wouldn’t have to be observed by members who didn’t like to see traffic.

  Just like many of the members didn’t know of the existence of the bridge, Joe had guessed that the new sheriff didn’t, either. Woods’s text had said nothing about a bridge, after all. Technically, he wasn’t defying Deputy Woods’s orders.

  Joe slowed on the bridge and looked out his window. There was a fine deep pool underneath and the warm spurt in the afternoon had encouraged a hatch of insects. Good-sized brown and rainbow trout slid up from the depths and sipped Trico flies on the surface, then pistoned back from where they’d originated.

  Despite the circumstances of his visit to the club, and despite the fact that Joe’s fly rod and flies were in his pickup in the parking area of the trailhead at Turpin Meadow in Jackson, no matter where he was or how much he was in a hurry, he always paused to observe rising trout.

  It drove Marybeth crazy.

  *

  THE MAINTENANCE FACILITY for the club grounds was hidden beneath the bluffs that looked out over the river and the valley so members and residents couldn’t see it. It was a long-weathered metal building surrounded by huge river cottonwoods and flanked by utility vehicles, earth-moving equipment, the cage-cab ATV used to pick up driving-range golf balls, and a long line of drift boats covered for the winter and stowed away.

  Joe stopped and got out adjacent to the open garage door that led to the maintenance supervisor’s office inside. He entered the dark building and looked around. Unlike the immaculately decorated homes and club facilities up on the bench, the maintenance facility had the blue-collar ambience of an auto shop: grease-stained floors, benches cluttered with tools and parts, the hum of an ancient radio playing classic rock, the smell of spilled diesel fuel, and a ubiquitous Snap-on Tools calendar featuring a blond model in a hard hat and a yellow bikini.