Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thursday morning, CJ and I are team teaching a snowmobile safety class when I get a text from Zach asking me to call him. I cock my head toward the back door, and CJ nods, so I slip out of the rec center to the frozen grass area outside.
“Official autopsy results from Samantha Bowen,” Zach says over the hum of his cruiser in the background. “She was held under until she drowned, then they used a marine-grade rope around her wrists and ankles—”
“Can we skip this part?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Right. Sorry.” He huffs a tight sigh. “No DNA under her nails thanks to the lake, but it’s clear she fought her attacker. Enough to have left a mark. Maybe even scars.”
Interesting but two years is a long time for a wound to heal.
“The ME also found evidence of malnutrition,” Zach continues. “Coupled with the rate of decomp in the lake, he thinks she was held captive for a period of time before they killed her.”
“Jesus.” I force images of a scared and imprisoned Samantha Bowen from my mind. “Wait. They? As in plural?”
“ME found hair samples on her body. Two separate profiles.”
My skin goes cold. I have a pretty good idea what type of hair he’s talking about, and what it means. Samantha was harmed, possibly repeatedly, as well as starved, before they murdered her. “Any hits from the DNA database?”
“No, but…” He huffs again. “Remember that trailer we think Sons of Eden is using for trafficking?”
The crime scene shots from the ISP case file flash to life in my mind. “The one with a DNA match to that thermos I collected from Crooked Pine Basin?”
“Yes. There were other DNA profiles found in there, remember? I had the crime lab compare the ones from Samantha’s body.”
“You got another match.”
“Yep. Not the same profile as the one from the thermos you collected, though.”
I run a hand through my hair, letting this intel sink in.
Two men assaulted Samantha Bowen and are most likely responsible for her murder. One of them also left DNA in an abandoned trailer used for human trafficking.
One of the two men who fled from an illegal logging site in Crooked Pine Basin also left their DNA in that same trailer.
“It’s good policework,” I say with a heavy sigh, “but it’s still pretty far removed from a slam dunk, and certainly nothing that leads to an arrest.”
“True. But it puts at least one cult member in the same space as a murderer. We’re getting closer.”
“There has to be a way to close the loop. Did they ever find Samantha’s car?”
“Yes, but it was clean. She took the bus to work that day, so it threw detectives off at first. They now think she got abducted between the bus stop and her front door.”
Someone had to have seen something. Could they be too scared to talk? If we crack this case open, maybe they’d feel safe enough to come forward.
I kick at a tuft of frozen grass poking out of the snow.
“I’m planning a visit up there tomorrow now that I have proof the Polaris I saw is owned by a cult member named Tolbert Browning.
” It took some creative legwork, but I found the dealer who sold that fancy sled to him.
The salesman remembered Browning because he paid in cash.
For a sled that costs as much as a decent used truck, I can see why that would stand out.
“Maybe we’ll catch a break and he’ll be willing to talk to us.”
“That’s the goal, but I’m not holding my breath.”
I’m grooming Tupelo when my cell rings. I reach for it, hoping it’s Keo.
Since our fantastic lunch date, we’ve met up several times at her house, each with us ending up in bed.
We’ve certainly been making good on our agreement to have some fun, but that steady yearning for more is only getting stronger, even though I was the one who warned her that I couldn’t give her more.
I should spend some time with those thoughts, so I can figure out what to do about them, but my caseload keeps ramping up, and Keo’s been busy with a deadline for a commercial piece and spending time with Colton.
But it’s Scott Shay calling, and there’s only one reason he’d call me this late on a Thursday evening.
“Whittaker,” I answer.
“You need to take CJ with you on this raid tomorrow.”
I put Scott on speaker and set my phone on the stall’s half door. “It’s not a raid.”
“You’re visiting Sons of Eden for the sole purpose of confronting these two, are you not?”
I bite back my annoyance.
“Take the kid,” Scott presses. “He needs the experience.”
I trade the grooming brush for the pick and rubber tub and run my hand down Tupelo’s front leg until he lifts it for me. “He’s not ready.”
“And keeping him on the sidelines is your plan to get him ready?”
I finish with Tupe’s leg and set his hoof back on the floor, then move to the hind leg.
“He’s got paperwork to finish on the shed hunters case.
And I have him checking limits on the Clearwater.
” Something I’ve been unable to do as often as I should thanks to Sons of Eden’s escalating illegal activity these past few months.
Scott scoffs. “How’s your hip?”
He’s going there, huh? All COs and field staff must pass a yearly physical, and though I didn’t fail mine, my doctor felt the need to order an MRI for my hip, and the results are in my file. “It’s fine.”
“Have you scheduled the surgery yet?”
I carry the pick and bucket to Tupelo’s other side, my hand trailing over his rump.
As much to reassure him as myself. Because I’m sure a serious procedure like a hip replacement will have a long recovery, and I don’t have that kind of time or patience.
And what if the surgeon fucks it up? How am I supposed to do my job and chase after my grandkids and ski with Linnie if I’m stuck in a wheelchair?
“He’s a good candidate for this district. Don’t you want him to be successful when he takes over?”
With a heavy sigh, I stroke Tupelo’s neck. It’s not that I want to hold CJ back. The kid’s shown decent aptitude for the job so far, though he talks too much and his endless energy is irritating as fuck. Then we have my hunch that he’s crushing on my daughter.
I shake my head to clear that thought, because it’s only a distraction from what’s underneath all of this: the idea of anyone else in charge of this region makes me feel replaceable. And hell if that doesn’t sting.
I get to work on Tupe’s front hoof. “It’s dangerous.”
“You read his file, Whittaker. Highest academy score on the tactical range they’ve seen in a decade.”
“Jesus, Scott. It’s not a shootout.”
“Take him along.” His voice has gone icy thanks to my use of his first name, which I know pisses him off. “Teach him the skills he’s going to need to handle a touchy situation like this on his own. And that’s an order.”
I remind myself that Scott’s a cog in a giant wheel and I’m not about to be his grease. Plus, he knows his leverage is shit. He can’t fire me. Not with my seniority and my good marks.
“I’ll think about it,” I reply, which is borderline disobedience, but I have final say in this and he knows it. This is still my district, and I’m ultimately responsible for it and CJ’s safety.
Scott huffs. “What’s the latest from the task force?”
My relief that we’ve moved on makes me feel slightly less stingy about sharing a few updates, mostly about the team planting a couple of bugs in that diner.
They’re also working to place someone undercover, but a small community like Elk Flats is especially touchy to outsiders, so it’ll be slow going.
I give him the update from the ME about the DNA from Samantha Bowen’s body, but the more I talk, the more agitated I feel.
We need to crush Sons of Eden before they can grow their following, but our pace feels too slow, too cautious.
“Has that runaway teen given up any intel?” Scott interrupts.
I huff a frustrated sigh. Scott’s been watching way too much TV. “It doesn’t work like that.”
From his end comes a chime, like he’s getting an alert. Who sets calendar alerts this late on a weeknight? Telling him to get a life is on the tip of my tongue, but he barks out an order to keep him informed and ends the call.
By the time I finish barn chores, I know inviting CJ tomorrow is the right move. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.
I step into the feed room and use the better light to search up CJ’s number. It rings four times before he picks up.
“Officer Whittaker,” he says like he’s in a rush. “Hey.”
A staticky silence buzzes in my ears. I frown. He’s either nervous, or I’ve caught him in the middle of something. I get the distinct impression he’s not alone, either.
“Change of plans tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll pick you up at six sharp.”
“Yes, sir.”
I don’t give him a chance to pester me with questions. Not when we’ll have plenty of time for those in the truck tomorrow.
After hitching up an empty trailer before dawn, I drive north to the horse ranch CJ’s bunking at.
When I pull off the road, he’s waiting beneath the tall arch over the entrance, dressed in his uniform and matching parka, a day pack slung over one shoulder.
Maybe it’s unfair of me, but I half expected the kid to be late.
He hurries to the passenger side and climbs in, bringing a gust of cold morning air into the now-warm cab. He sets his pack between his shins on the floor.
“Morning.” He buckles his seatbelt.
I pull back onto the road and accelerate. Normally I can’t shut the kid up, so when he doesn’t launch into questions about our destination or spout some random animal fact, I give him a side-eye, but he’s staring out the window.
“How’s living at the bunkhouse?”
He tucks a wild curl behind his ear and flashes me a quick glance, like he’s trying to read me. “It’s not bad. I’m looking for a place of my own though.”
I frown. “In Finn River?”
Either he didn’t hear me, or he’s ignoring my question because he reaches for a silver thermos from his backpack that’s dented and pocked from use. “I brought coffee.”