Secrets in Four Corners. Debra Webb
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Fury thundered inside him. As much as he loved the Four Corners area—it was his home—he hated the scum that had recently flocked here. Worse, he despised the lowlifes who were born and bred here. It seemed the harder he worked to clean up the county where he’d been raised, the harder evil worked to worm its way into his territory.
He couldn’t stop the spread of drugs and crime; he was, after all, only one man. But he could damned sure do all within his power to slow it down.
Officers Brewer and Cyrus were busy securing the scene, which should have been done immediately upon discovery. Patrick could only assume that the officers had been too overwhelmed by the discovery that the victim was a federal agent to act judiciously. He moved cautiously around the perimeter of the zone now officially designated by yellow tape as the crime scene. No tire tracks other than those of the vehicles parked nearby. No shoe imprints besides the ones belonging to those currently on the scene. The folks from the crime lab would sweep the area for evidence but so far he saw nothing but an abandoned soda can and a cigarette pack wrapper. Both of which would be analyzed just in case.
A cloud of dust announced the arrival of more official vehicles. The crime lab folks, he hoped. The sooner the scene was searched for clues the greater the likelihood that any evidence left behind would be found.
Patrick met the SUV as it skidded to a stop. All four doors opened. Callie MacBride, head forensic scientist at the Kenner County Crime Unit, climbed out of the front passenger-side door. Her face was pale, strained with disbelief and regret.
“Callie, this is a damned shame.” Patrick exhaled a heavy breath. There wasn’t a hell of a lot more to say. Not at this point. He had no idea what case Grainger had been working any more than he knew any personal contacts that might have brought her to this place.
Callie dipped her head in acknowledgment of his inadequate words. “Patrick, I believe you know most of my team.” She indicated her associates who had emerged from the vehicle. “Miguel Acevedo, Bart Fleming and Bobby O’Shea.”
Patrick shook the hand of each man in turn and offered his sincere condolences. He’d worked with about every member of the crime unit the past couple of years. The Four Corners area had needed a crime lab for a good long while before the powers that be finally had the sense to make it a reality. Times like this were the reason. Every single member of the team had made Kenner County home; they knew the land and its people. In the past, law enforcement had had to rely on state facilities from as far away as Denver.
These folks would get the job done quickly and thoroughly with the kind of knowledge only gained through life experience with the people and the land. That the victim was one of their own made their work this morning more than a job.
This was personal.
Faces grim, the team gathered their gear and donned protective wear. There would be little Patrick could do until their work was finished. The crime lab unit was made up of a number of other highly trained personnel. Though Patrick had worked with each of them at one time or another, he dealt primary with Callie on the vast majority of cases.
As personal as this case was, Patrick didn’t worry about those personal feelings getting in the way. The Kenner County Crime Unit was small in size and funds were limited for equipment, but the scientists and technicians were top-notch. The best of the best. Particularly Callie.
Patrick stayed out of the way and let them do their job. The extended moment of silence as the group acknowledged their fallen colleague was painful to watch. Callie MacBride in particular appeared shaken to the very core. Patrick wondered if she’d known the victim personally as well as professionally. That possibility was very likely, considering the whole staff operated as much as a family as a team of colleagues.
While Callie’s people did their work, Patrick turned his attention to the Ute guide who had discovered the body. He doubted the man had seen anything but there were questions that needed to be asked. Like why he’d called the Towaoc police and then put in an anonymous call to 9-1-1, evidently some minutes later.
With that in mind, Patrick started in his direction. Bree was interviewing the guide and would no doubt ask those same questions, but it was Patrick’s job to ensure every base was covered. Officers Cyrus and Brewer were maintaining the perimeter. If word got out that a federal agent had been murdered the media would flock to the park like vultures ready to pick the kill.
Damn. The reality of what they were doing here hit Patrick all over again.
A federal agent was dead.
Murder was murder and any loss was one too many, but this loss took the act to a higher level. That Grainger, like all in law enforcement, served this community made the business of murder even uglier.
Bree turned to face Patrick as he neared. Judging by her expression there was trouble with the guide’s story. “Mr. Hayes only made one call,” she said. “That call was to the Towaoc Police Department. Your 9-1-1 caller was not Mr. Hayes.”
Patrick’s senses moved to a higher state of alert. That meant two things right out of the gate. The recorded 9-1-1 call could very well turn out to be their only tangible evidence. And the caller might just be the killer.
“Mr. Hayes,” Patrick addressed the older man, working to keep his composure free of the frustration and impatience despite the anticipation zinging through him. “I’m certain Detective Hunter has already asked, but I need you to think long and hard about the questions I’m going to ask before you answer.”
The man nodded, glanced briefly at Bree.
Patrick understood that Hayes was anxious as well. This wasn’t a situation anyone wanted to be caught in. Finding a dead Caucasian female on reservation territory was about the last thing a Ute man would want on his plate. The political climate wasn’t that different from a few decades ago when Patrick had been in school and distinct cultural lines had been drawn. The undercurrent of racial differences remained a nagging social challenge that played itself out within the criminal element of the area.
“What time did you arrive at the park this morning?”
Hayes looked from Patrick to Bree. He’d already answered this question. Patrick understood that, but he needed the man to think…to be absolutely certain of his answers and to give them again. And maybe again after that. Before this case was solved, Hayes would likely be questioned several times. Patrick and Bree could compare his responses later and analyze any possible discrepancies or suggestions of deception.
Hayes scratched his head. “Before seven o’clock. I stop at Rudy’s each morning. Six a.m. From there I come here.”
“Rudy’s is the service station back at the turnoff to the park entrance,” Bree explained.
Patrick knew the place. “Was there a reason you came to this particular place first?” The park was a big place. Patrick needed to know if Hayes had a routine for checking the area.
“I check the dwellings first. This one.” He indicated the two-story dwelling. “Then the next. Lately there’s been trouble with teenagers using them as hangouts. So I check them first.”
“Did you meet anyone as you entered the park this morning? Anything you might have seen could be important,” Patrick emphasized. He watched the man’s eyes and facial expressions closely. “No matter how unimportant it may seem, there may be something we can learn from the slightest detail. A vehicle parked nearby on the main highway. Anything.”
Hayes contemplated the question half a minute before shaking his head. “No one was here except her.” He gestured to where the lab folks were methodically working the scene. “It was quiet. Nobody around. Just the dead woman.”
“Mr. Hayes,” Bree interjected, “believes he returned to Rudy’s shortly after seven and made the call to TPD, then he came straight back here and waited for the police to arrive.”
That meant the other caller had been here and gone before that since Hayes hadn’t encountered anyone and yet the unknown caller hadn’t reached out to 9-1-1