Chapter 17
His reputation had already made headlines far beyond High Peaks.
Detective McKenzie met him at the entrance, coffee in hand, with the kind of focused alertness that came from running on adrenaline.
"So, about the witness," he said without preamble.
"He came down to the station to give his statement after calling in.
Says he saw something that night that might be relevant. "
In cases like this, witnesses often emerged after the initial shock wore off and people started connecting their random observations to larger patterns of criminal activity.
They walked through the bullpen toward Interview Room Two, past desks covered with case files and evidence bags that represented the complex web of investigations that had grown from Pierce Landry's disappearance.
"Witness is Dale Hutchins," McKenzie continued, consulting his notes.
"Retired logger, lives about half a mile from the cabin site.
Property backs up to the same forest road that leads to where Pierce's van was found.
He's been cooperative, but I get a sense he's also the kind of guy who doesn't trust authority figures on principle. "
Noah understood the type. Adirondack old-timers who'd seen too many outside investigations come and go without solving local problems. Building rapport with such witnesses required patience and respect for their independence.
Interview Room Two contained the standard institutional furniture that made every interrogation space feel slightly hostile: a metal table, uncomfortable chairs, fluorescent lighting that made everyone look pale and exhausted.
Dale Hutchins sat with the relaxed posture of someone who'd done physical labor his entire life, weathered hands folded on the table and intelligent blue eyes.
"Mr. Hutchins," Noah said, extending his hand. "Thank you for coming in. I understand you saw something the other night that might help our investigation."
Dale's handshake was firm but brief. "Didn't think much of it at the time," he said, his accent carrying the distinctive North Country cadence that marked lifelong residents. "But after witnessing the fire, I figured I should mention it."
“You don’t want a lawyer present?”
“Do I need one?”
“No, but we have to make sure you know one is available.”
Dale chuckled. “Let’s do this.”
Noah activated the recording equipment and settled into his chair, studying Dale's body language for signs of nervousness or deception. What he saw was the steady confidence of someone telling the truth about what he'd observed.
“Go ahead. What did you see?"
"I was letting my dogs out for their final business somewhere around nine. My property's been in my family for forty years, and I know every sound those woods make at night. I also know my neighbors. You don’t get many coming down that road unless they live here. It’s a dead end.
Anyway, I heard a vehicle coming down the forest service road faster than anybody with legitimate business would be driving.
I mean it was traveling at a high rate of speed. "
Dale paused to accept the coffee McKenzie offered, wrapping his hands around the mug.
"Vehicle had its headlights on, but it was moving with purpose, you know? Not like someone lost or looking for something. More like someone who knew exactly where they were going and wanted to get there quick."
"Heading in the direction of Ralph Eriks’ cabin?”
“That’s right.”
“Could you identify the type of vehicle?"
"A van. White, from what I could tell in the darkness. Definitely not owned by any of my neighbors, I know most of the vehicles around here, and this wasn't familiar."
Noah felt his pulse quicken. Pierce's van had been white, and the timeline matched what they knew about his final hours. "Did you see the driver or any passengers?"
"Glimpsed something through the windshield when it passed under the security light by my mailbox. Two figures in the front seat, but I couldn't make out details. Just the impression of people, you understand?"
“You said two?” Noah asked.
He nodded.
“You sure about that?”
“Unless one of them was a mannequin. Yeah. Two. Anyway, I figured I would swing by there. Since Ralph moved out a few weeks earlier, I wanted to make sure there were no squatters planning on moving in.”
“And?”
“I drove up there. Stopped near the driveway, out of sight. Between the trees, I saw the van parked outside the cabin, two people entered the home.”
“Are you sure they entered?”
“I might be old but I’m not blind.”
McKenzie leaned forward, consulting his notes. "Can you describe the build or size of these figures?"
Dale considered the question with the careful attention of someone who understood the importance of accurate witness testimony.
"Driver seemed average height, maybe slightly built. The passenger I didn’t really get a good look at.
Look, I’m talking about shadows and impressions here, not anything I'd swear to in court. "
Noah took out his phone and showed photos of the Cold Trail team. "Would you mind looking at these photographs and telling us if any of these people resemble who you saw?"
Dale studied the images with the same attention he'd probably brought to reading tree lines and weather during his logging career. His finger paused over Pierce’s photograph, tapping it gently.
"That was the driver for sure. Um, the passenger.” He tapped Marcus. “That could be the person. But I can’t be certain. Like I said, it was dark and they were moving fast. Look, I wouldn't want to send anyone to prison based on what I saw, I just figured you would want to know."
The identification wasn't definitive, but it added another piece to the circumstantial case building against Marcus. Combined with his argument with Pierce, his convenient alibi problems, and his obvious nervousness during questioning.
"Anything else you noticed? Sounds, other vehicles, activity in the area?"
"If there was, I wasn’t there when they came and went.
It was a quiet night, typical for October.
I headed home after.” He paused. “Look, after my house, that road doesn't go anywhere except to the cabin.
Anybody using it after dark is either up to no good or they're lost and looking to turn around. "
“So you never stuck around?”
“I didn’t linger.”
“Why not?” McKenzie asked. “I mean, you took the time to follow it.”
“Like I said, I knew the property was empty. I figured maybe it was Ralph with a buddy, or he’d forgotten a few items and had sent someone to collect them.”
Noah thanked Dale for his cooperation and arranged for McKenzie to take a formal statement. As the witness left, Noah reviewed his notes and considered how the new information fit into their developing theory of Pierce's disappearance.
The circumstantial evidence against Marcus was mounting, but Noah's instincts warned him against rushing to judgment. In his experience, the most obvious suspect was sometimes exactly that, obvious by design, a convenient target meant to distract from more complex conspiracies.
The drive to Michael Torres' real estate office took Noah and McKenzie through High Peaks' commercial district, past businesses that catered to both year-round residents and the seasonal tourists who kept the local economy functioning.
October brought leaf-peepers and hikers seeking autumn colors, people who came for recreational beauty rather than the darker realities that lurked beneath small-town surfaces.
"You think Torres knows anything?" McKenzie asked as they navigated downtown traffic that moved with the unhurried pace of rural communities.
"We’ll see," Noah replied, thinking about what he knew of Rebecca Hale's former boyfriend. "Torres is ex-law enforcement, so he'll understand our procedures and probably try to control the conversation. He's also got a personal stake in keeping certain aspects of his past private."
"Yeah, but with his past experience as a cop, do you really think he's connected to Pierce's disappearance?"
"Pierce was asking questions about the original Hale investigation, and Torres was intimate with one of the victims. He was the number one suspect at the time.
People today still believe he killed Rebecca and Jacob and covered it up.
Now we have him selling a house that Pierce shows up at, and then goes missing?
That makes him someone worth talking to, even if he's not directly involved in current events. "
Mountain View Realty occupied a converted Victorian house on Main Street, with large windows displaying photographs of properties that ranged from modest local homes to luxury vacation estates that sold to downstate buyers seeking Adirondack retreats.
The business represented the economic forces that were slowly transforming communities like High Peaks—local families selling inherited properties to fund retirements while wealthy outsiders bought mountain access and seasonal tranquility.
The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with carefully styled hair and the kind of professional pleasantness that came from dealing with demanding clients, looked up as Noah and McKenzie entered.
"State Police. We're here to speak with Michael Torres," Noah said, displaying his badge.
"He's with a client right now, but I’ll let him know you're here."
She headed down the hallway and out of sight.
Michael Torres emerged from a back room minutes later, having obviously used the time to compose himself and prepare for what he knew would be a difficult conversation.
He was in his early forties with the kind of solid build that suggested regular gym attendance, dark hair showing traces of gray at the temples, and eyes that carried the wariness Noah associated with law enforcement veterans.
"Officers," Torres said, extending his hand with the controlled confidence of someone accustomed to managing challenging situations. "Follow me."