by Marc Cameron
Cutter sat in the corner of the interview room, his chair tipped back against the wall. He appeared disinterested in the conversation going on between the trooper and Starnes, focusing instead on carving the piece of driftwood he’d picked up in Blind Bob’s camp. Both the trooper and the deputy had left their sidearms in the lockboxes outside, but if Benjamin had a problem with Cutter bringing a knife into the interview room he didn’t mention it.
Starnes beat his forehead slowly against the table in despair. “What was I supposed to do? I know I shoulda never run like that. Now nobody’s gonna believe I’m innocent.”
“Oh, you’re miles away from innocent,” Cutter observed, looking up just long enough to see Trooper Benjamin give him a pointed glare.
“So you knew Millie?” the trooper asked.
“Of course I do,” Starnes said. “Everybody on the production crew knows . . . knew Millie. She was a good kid.”
Sam Benjamin tapped his notebook with a pen. “You have to admit how this looks,” he said. “From our point of view, I mean. Millie Burkett disappears a few hours after you do. She’s about the same age as the girl you’re convicted of kidnapping and sexually assaulting in Oregon—”
Starnes looked up, his chest still flat on the table. “Hey, I did my time for that.”
The trooper ignored him. “Maybe Carmen and Greg knew something about it, so you had to take care of them too. You should have stayed hidden, but the body recovery was just too much for you. You just had to come back and take a look. I think you would probably arrest you.”
“That’s not how it is.” Starnes sniffed. “I heard Carmen and Greg were missing. But I didn’t have anything to do with that either.”
“How’d you hurt your hand?” Cutter asked.
“Table saw,” Starnes said, his voice quivering. “Look, my probation officer’s gonna revoke my supervised release just for coming up to Alaska and trying to get a good job. Do you know how many people will hire a sex offender? What am I supposed to do?”
Cutter wasn’t having any of the man’s sob story. “My granddad always said Tryactin helped.”
The trooper raised an eyebrow.
Starnes sniffed. “What the hell is Tryactin?”
Cutter stood, letting the chair fall forward with a loud bang against the floor. He pointed to the chunk of wood for effect. “You could try actin’ like a man for once in your miserable life.”
CHAPTER 32
SAM BENJAMIN WHEELED ON CUTTER AS SOON AS THEY MADE IT OUT of the interview room. “Are you okay?”
“What?”
The trooper shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know. First you about rip that reporter’s head off back at the dive site and now I’m thinking you would have used that knife to cut Hayden Starnes’s nuts off if I hadn’t been in there with you.”
Cutter waved him off. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just thought I’d play ‘bad cop’ for a while.”
“Well,” Benjamin scoffed. “You’re pretty damned good at it.” He calmed a notch. “Seriously though, I like that Tryactin thing.”
“So, what do you think?” Officer Simeon asked when they made it back to the office. “Is Starnes good for Millie Burkett’s murder?”
Cutter shook his head. “He’s a piece of trash, but I’m not sure he’s the specific piece of trash you’re looking for.”
Dr. Gelman was waiting in Benjamin’s office poring over a series of eight-by-ten photographs with Fontaine and Officer Simeon. He looked up when he saw the trooper.
“Whatcha got for me, Will?” Benjamin said. He had to raise his voice over the pounding rain on the roof.
“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid,” Dr. Gelman said. “But what little I do have is interesting enough. The victim’s gut appears to be full of water so I’m guessing the autopsy will reveal the lungs are as well.”
“So she drowned,” Cutter said.
“I believe so,” Gelman said, passing across the photographs. “It’s common for a drowning victim to swallow water while fighting the reflexive desire to breath. But, this young woman was struck on the back of the head before she died. There are deep lacerations on the left side of the back of her head.”
Cutter thought about that. “So if she was facing away, the killer likely used his left hand.”
“That’s my guess,” Gelman said. “I didn’t want to screw with the wound site, but I’d guess the killer fractured her skull before he tied her to that anchor and dropped her in. The drowning finished the job.”
Trooper Benjamin studied the top photograph for a moment, then passed it to Cutter. “Starnes uses his messed-up hand more than his left, so I’d guess him to be a rightie—but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t use his left hand to wield a weapon.”
“Somebody really went to town on her,” Cutter said. “I count six separate wounds.”
“I don’t think so.” Gelman shook his head. “That’s what I thought at first. But look here.” He held the edge of a piece of paper along the image in the photograph. “I believe she was only struck twice. It’s difficult to tell without removing her hair, but see how the wounds line up perfectly in two groups of three? There are three here—a quarter-inch wound, three-quarter-inch gap, one-inch wound, one-inch gap, quarter-inch wound—and another three here with identical spacing.”
Cutter and Benjamin both nodded. Fontaine and Simeon stood by, listening. They’d already heard the theory and were obviously onboard.
“The ME might say something different,” Gelman continued. “But I’m guessing she was struck two times by a long object that is relatively thin. Something with vacant spaces along its leading edge that would account for the spaces between the wounds.”
“Any ideas?” the trooper asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” Gelman said. “I was hoping one of you might be able to think of something.”
“Maybe we should ask Hayden Starnes,” Simeon said.
Fontaine leaned in to study the photos again. “An axe with bits of the blade chipped away?”
“Right idea, wrong tool,” Gelman said. “Whatever did this was thin, but not sharp enough to embed itself in the skull like an axe would. I’d say you’re looking for something about a quarter inch wide. Judging from the depth of the wounds, it will be relatively flat along the leading edge, and likely made of metal. The wounds damage the skull, but are relatively shallow. I’d guess the weapon was not incredibly heavy—at least not as heavy as an axe or a hammer. Think crescent-wrench—leverage, but not too much.”
“That’s good work, Will,” Benjamin said.
“This pattern looks familiar,” Cutter said. “I just can’t put my finger on it.” He flipped through the rest of the photos, stopping on one that showed the rope wound around Millie Burkett’s feet. The coils lay neatly alongside one another, ending with a simple timber hitch. Cutter thumbed through the remaining photographs, then shot a glance at Dr. Gelman. “Did you happen to get a shot of the trailing end of the rope?”
“Where it came loose from the anchor?” The dentist nodded. “I did. I must not have printed it if it’s not in the stack there.” He scrolled through the album on his phone, then passed it to Cutter, who zoomed in on the photo with his thumb and forefinger.
Officer Simeon crowded closer. “What do you see?”
“Maybe nothing,” Cutter said. He passed the phone back to Gelman, then sat down to carve while he thought. Something was beginning to take shape very nicely on the chunk of driftwood, though he couldn’t tell what it was. He nodded at Simeon. “Take a look at the photo of the end of the rope and tell me what you see.”
“It came untied rather than wearing loose,” the officer said. “I’m guessing that’s what you white guys call a clue.”
Cutter nodded. “Can you tell what kind of knot?”
The trooper held the phone closer, then shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “I’m not sure how anyone could tell from this.”
Cutter folded his knife and shoved the piece of driftwood
in his pocket. “Got a piece of rope?”
Benjamin looked around the office until he found a scrap of parachute cord about four feet long. Cutter threw a quick bowline in the end, and then stood on the loop. When he felt reasonably sure he’d put enough pressure on the knot, he untied it and then compared the crooked end to the photo. The bend patterns matched almost perfectly.
“A bowline then,” Dr. Gelman said.
“And a timber hitch around the girl’s legs,” Cutter added. “I could be mistaken, but Hayden Starnes is missing two digits. Maybe he could have bashed that poor girl’s head in with his left hand, but I think he’d be hard-pressed to tie either one of those knots if you held a gun to his head.”
“Which you are, no doubt, happy to do,” the trooper said.
“Hold a gun to his head?” Cutter said. “I am at that. But I mean it more literally. Given time, he’d be able to use his left hand and tie the knots fine. But you see how he acts under the stress of interrogation. Look how the wraps on this hitch lay perfectly alongside one another.”
“Dammit,” Benjamin said. “So he didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t say that,” Cutter said. “I just said he doesn’t seem likely.”
The trooper gave the photographs another long look before tossing them on his desk.
Gelman’s phone chimed. “Damn,” he said. “Looks like one of my paying customers broke a molar.”
“Thanks for your help, Will,” the trooper said. “We’ve gone about as far as we can go here.” He looked around the office. “Anybody besides Deputy Cutter want to ride with me when I take Starnes to the jail?”
Cutter raised an eyebrow, feigning concern. “What’s that supposed to mean? You could hurt a guy’s feelings.”
He took the driftwood out and started carving again. It helped him think.
“No offense intended,” Benjamin said. “I’m just sure the sight of you would make him pee down his leg, and I don’t want to stink up my Tahoe.”
“Listen,” Cutter said, gesturing to the sound of beating rain with his pocketknife. “Starnes is in custody, so our mission here is done, but there’s no way we’re getting off the island tonight. Is there anything we can do to help you look for the two missing film crew?”
“Good question,” Benjamin said. “According to one of the other camera operators, Greg Conner said he was going to the south end of the island to shoot footage of some cabin. Supposedly he and Carmen Delgado made several trips.”
“Do you know of any cabins on the south end of the island?”
Simeon shrugged. “Only about a couple of hundred,” he said.
Cutter glared up from his carving, pointing at the young officer with his pocketknife. “Giving me lip’s not apt to get you hired.”
The Craig officer grimaced. “Sorry.”
“He’s pulling your chain,” Fontaine said. “Have you heard me talk? I give him all kinds of lip.”
Benjamin rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t worry, Sim,” he said. “I think giving people lip is mandatory if you’re a deputy marshal.”
“Anywayyyy,” Cutter coaxed, rolling his knife in get-on-with-it circles. “They were shooting footage at some cabin. . . .”
“Right,” the trooper said. “None of the other FISHWIVES! crew had any idea where Carmen and Greg were heading, but they should all be interviewed again anyway.”
“That’s a lot of interviews,” Lola said. “We could help out with that.”
“We could,” Cutter said, tapping his knife against the driftwood.
“We need to talk to Jan Cross again as well,” Benjamin said. “She spent all last week on the south end following her pod of killer whales. There’s a chance she ran across them at some point.”
“Can we call and ask her?” Fontaine said.
“Nope.” Cutter folded his knife and returned the driftwood to his jacket pocket, trading it for his notebook. “But I know exactly where she’s anchored for the evening.”
“Kaguk Cove,” Benjamin said. He walked to a laminated topographic map fixed to the wall of his office and traced his finger along the route. “It’s up north, across the mountains on some logging roads, but not incredibly far. I should have asked her about it before she left, but I got sidetracked with this body recovery. And I have plenty to keep me busy here. That would be great if you guys want to go out and talk to her.”
“I can handle a few questions on my own.” Cutter glanced at the trooper. “Mind if I borrow your truck?”
“Boss?” Fontaine grinned. “Are you actually showing interest in a woman?”
Cutter let the comment slide. “You stay here and lend these guys a hand.”
“My shift is over in an hour,” Officer Simeon said, looking at Cutter. “I can tag along and keep you company if you want.”
“Now you’re just talking crazy,” Fontaine said. “He just turned me down. Does he look like a man who wants you for company?”
And Fontaine was exactly right. Cutter wanted to do this alone. Not because he had developed any sudden feelings for January Cross. He did, however, have a hunch. The television crew had spread too many rumors about her already. If he was wrong, he’d leave quietly with no one the wiser. If he was right, he’d arrest her and a few rumors would be the least of her problems.
CHAPTER 33
A TEAR FELL FROM GERALD BURKETT’S EYE AND LANDED ON THE dusty glass of his daughter’s school picture. He sniffed, shuddering with grief, then set the framed photo back on the kitchen table. He was unworthy to even hold it. There can be little else on earth as soul-crushing as losing a child to violent death, especially when it was so apparent that she had suffered. The Burketts attempted to cope with the loss of their daughter separately and in different ways—Lin through meditation, prayer, and alcohol—Gerald through alcohol alone. He didn’t know where the hell his wife was, most likely out in the trees behind their house, bathing in smoke and talking to the same God that let their little girl die. She’d walked off as soon as they’d gotten back home.
Gerald dragged himself past the kitchen and into Millie’s room, a new bottle of nine-dollar R & R whiskey in his hand. His eyes were nearly swollen shut from draining the rest of the bottle he’d started the day before, but he was a pro. Another bottle wouldn’t be a problem. He stood in the doorway for a long time, using the frame for support. She’d been a real neat freak, his daughter. An “I STAND WITH STANDING ROCK” poster was tacked to the wall above a neatly made bed. Her wafer-wood chest of drawers had fallen apart when the pipes burst last winter, but she kept all her clothes folded in two sets of laundry hampers along the wall by the baseboard heater. Gerald stepped into the room and fell back on the sagging bed, cursing himself for not giving his daughter a better life.
That trooper had seemed surprised that his little girl was so neat. Burkett scoffed thinking about it. Damned cop probably thought that with a father like him she’d be living in squalor. To be fair, this was the cleanest room in the house by a long shot.
Gerald took a long pull of R & R, wiped his lips with the back of his forearm, and straightened the pile of books on the rickety table beside the bed. Groaning, he leaned forward to grab one of his little girl’s shirts from the laundry hamper, then pressed it to his nose. It was clean, but it still smelled like her. Shirt in one hand, bottle in the other, he sat and sobbed for the better part of ten minutes.
His head began to hurt from all the tears, and the dull ache of despair grew into a white-hot anger. He wadded the shirt in his fist and flung it against the wall, screaming at nothing until his head hurt even worse. Sadness came back with a vengeance when he was all screamed out, and he reached for another of Millie’s shirts to console himself. When he did, he saw the corner of a red notebook in the bottom of the hamper. He quickly figured out it was Millie’s diary.
It took him fifteen minutes of staggering around the house and cursing to find his reading glasses. When he finally found them by the toilet, he took the journal and collapsed in hi
s beat-up recliner. His rheumy eyes followed the flow and curve of her pen across the pages, marveling that he could hear his little girl’s voice as he read the words.
Customarily quiet in life, Millie turned out to be a prolific writer. She noted her favorite teachers, boys she was sweet on, and her thoughts on the long talks she often had with her mother. She wrote of her first experience with alcohol—which oddly enough, considering who her parents were—hadn’t come until she was fifteen years old. She hated the stuff, vowing never to touch anything stronger than a Red Bull. Gerald sniffed back tears and ironically, toasted her decision with another slug of R & R.
He’d drunk past the bottom of the label on his bottle by the time Millie started writing about FISHWIVES! The producers had come to her school to talk about careers and had offered some of the kids internships. His little girl must have shown promise because some of the crew had even started to mentor her. He took another drink, and then turned the page.
He read the next part twice, gritting his teeth harder with every word. He forced himself to read it a third time, then slammed the book shut and flung it across the room. Pushing himself to his feet, he staggered down the hall to his bedroom. Still clutching the bottle of R & R, he grabbed his pistol and headed for the truck.
CHAPTER 34
IN THE RELATIVE SOLITUDE OF THE BORROWED TROOPER PICKUP, CUTTER admitted to himself that he would have written up any one of his deputies for doing what he was about to do.
He made the short drive into Craig from the trooper post to check into his room at the Blue Heron Inn, which, interestingly, would have almost overlooked January Cross’s boat had it still been moored in the South Harbor. Fontaine had the room above, yielding the larger room with the deck to him. It was a nice place, with a full kitchen and comfortable furniture, the kind of place where he wished he could spend more time. There was even a fireplace for crying out loud. The deck was covered, but with the rain blowing in sideways, that didn’t make much of a difference.
