Chapter 23
“One of them is close,” says Greene. “Here in the Flathead.”
“One of them who?” I say.
“One of the more active participants in the social media chatter,” says Alderson. “Our tech guys spotted it.”
“Where?”
“The public library,” Greene says. Her moss-colored eyes return to a duller hazel in the kitchen light.
“We don’t know who he is yet or if he’s the same person who’s posted the sketches online, but his behavior is suspicious.
The comments? They have a ring of righteousness to them, and they’re all defending the killings. ”
My gaze drops to the grooves in the wooden table. Dread feels like the worst case of nausea.
“And it’s closer than we expected. As we mentioned, the sites where the killer’s dropped the actual sketches have been at least a good day’s drive or a flight away from where they ended up committing the crimes.
So, this could be a good thing; if they’re staying in the pattern, it could mean it’s not our person.
But if he or she is breaking the pattern, well, not so good.
But obviously, any activity in northwest Montana worries us. ”
“Any keyboard warrior could jump on the righteousness bandwagon, especially these days.” We’ve settled at my kitchen table, which looks small against Alderson’s hefty frame. “What makes this guy so suspicious?”
“The number of times the user shows up,” she says. “It’s excessive. Obsessive, even. Same generic username with numbers, but different IP addresses. Doesn’t post from the same place. In fact, we’re having a hard time locating the user.”
“But have you pinpointed where the sketch was dropped from in the first place?”
“No. And that’s why we have orders to get you somewhere safe.”
“And where would that be?”
“A safe house.”
“A Motel 6? What?”
Greene stares at me flatly, but Alderson half smiles. “Something like that.”
I pick at the Band-Aid on my thumb covering my mangled skin. Heat rises in my face as I think of leaving my home and hiding out. How helpless would that feel? Pacing and killing time in some depressing motel room?
No! I want to yell.
“For how long?”
“Until we feel the threat has passed.”
“How will you know when that happens?”
They don’t answer because there is no answer.
“It may never pass if they’re set on getting me, or I don’t give them the confession they want. So it doesn’t make any sense. I’m not going to hide somewhere. I have work.”
I think of Paxton Rhoads, Clarissa’s brother.
And my new lucky number—the latest workers’ comp claim I need to keep checking, which involves observing Aaron Lasserio, Ridgeway’s old ranch hand who’s moved to the Flathead.
I need to watch him putz around his house and follow him around on his daily routine.
Even if I discover nothing more from Lasserio about Clarissa’s case, at least when I deliver that report, I’ll get paid just enough to make my mortgage and utility payments this month and the next.
I can’t duck out and do nothing. “The FBI covering my mortgage while I hide out?”
Greene purses her lips like a librarian irritated with loud talkers. A white streak of sunbeam shines in from the kitchen window, lighting up her freckles and exposing wrinkles around her mouth and the pale, tissue-thin hoods of her eyes.
The thought of the killer in the area, stalking me, turns my blood cold, makes my limbs go heavy and numb, but leave my home? Sit back and trust them? I can’t stand the thought of twiddling my thumbs in a safe house. And my finances can’t take the hit, either.
“No,” I say. “Deputy Zane out there, and whichever deputy replaces him when he gets off. That’s all I need.”
“With all due respect to Deputy Zane and the others,” says Greene, “a local deputy might be nothing more than a speed bump for the perpetrator. And when did you last have some training in the field?”
It stings, but she has a point. I don’t answer. A raven caws jarringly from outside, as if to protest or even mock me. I don’t tell them that it’s been a couple of years.
“We’ll have more of a chance of catching this guy if I’m out and about,” I say.
“We’d prefer not to chance that,” Alderson says.
But they give up. There’s no point. They can see it in my face.
“All right,” says Greene. “Let’s look at this list.”
I’ve included everyone I could think of who might be pissed at me for the work I’ve done in law enforcement both with the KPD and on my own.
People who became particularly enraged when I arrested them for DUIs or for public disturbances like fighting in the streets.
I’ve included the names of several husbands and boyfriends whose houses I was called to on domestic violence calls where the woman went ahead and pressed charges or, at the very least, applied for a restraining order.
One guy named Tanner Florenza followed me one evening after work from the station to the Super One grocery store and threatened me out in the parking lot after he received notification of the order.
He screamed at me that I’d ruined his life.
I left off Mark Coleman because that would involve revealing what happened to Jess. And Railes. And me.
And I already filled them in on Ridgeway, even though the last thing I need is the FBI snooping around right now, making it harder to get decent information from such hermetically sealed communities.
But I can’t deny the staticky voice of fear in the back of my head whispering, What the hell are you doing? If this is really you, you only have a few days left.
They study my list and listen to my synopses and ask all their questions and take notes on each person.
Greene asks it so casually, out of the blue: “Why did you quit the local force, and what happened with your roommate, Sophie Scott, when you were in college? Sophie was your boyfriend’s sister?”
After all this time, it still stings to hear Sophie’s name uttered in the past tense. And Wallace’s in the same sentence.
“Former boyfriend,” I correct them, but it doesn’t feel good to say it.
“Yeah, well, it seems there was a bit of press about it back then, and obviously, we’re looking for anything that this killer might glom on to.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the harassment I underwent in the department?”
“We have.”
“Well, I quit the force because I was tired of the boys’ code, sick of the role I was jammed into, some messed-up combination of victim and pariah.” I don’t want to go into how intense the backlash was.
I don’t need to sound whiny before two federal agents about how taking a stand for what you think is right can end up making you even more of a victim. “As far as my roommate in college goes,” I say, “you’re right—there’s more than enough online.”
“But we’d like to hear it from you, if you don’t mind,” Greene says.
A flash of Sophie and me ducking behind a thick, gnarled log floods my senses: the astringent smell of damp pine, the delicate feel of papery lichen. The cold, wet mud soaking through my jeans.
Alderson and Greene eye me curiously. “You okay?” Alderson says.
When I don’t respond, he adds, “We want to figure out if the killings might have something to do with revenge for abuse of power differentials, some type of harassment or sexual assault. Randal Askens in Snohomish was a coach, and Vonda Loman worked in education, as a counselor. Each was someone with power over kids, someone with influence.”
I could’ve told them that from my own superficial digging. And probably 90 percent of the people at CrimeCon, too.
“Askens was involved in a recruiting scandal with the head coach,” Alderson adds.
“I read that,” I say.
“The third guy, though,” Alderson continues, “that’s where things fall apart, or at least we lose traction. For all we know, he could be in his house, his cat nibbling on his ears.
“We did find one guy related to the third go-round,” he continues.
“He contacted us, like you—reported to his local police in Spokane. In our opinion, he resembled the drawing the most out of any of the folks who came forward. But nothing happened to him, so we can’t say for sure if it was him.
He had a scare, out in the woods. He thought he saw a gun and someone behind a tree stalking him.
But it’s hard to say for sure it was the killer that frightened him.
But he’s also from the Northwest. Doesn’t work in education, though.
Works for Carssen as a drug rep. His sales territory includes parts of western Montana and Idaho. ”
Now we’re getting somewhere. Here’s something no CrimeCon attendee knows. “This guy,” I say. “If it was him, he’s still in a position of influence. Able to convince doctors to use his products, who then can convince their patients to use his company’s products. What was his confession?”
“Exactly that. At first, he admitted to being a glorified drug peddler after the sketch first came online. But after, he had that scare and felt like he was being stalked right at the end of the six days. Basically, he got more desperate, so he put a more thorough confession out there, spilling all the details of what he felt he did wrong and also giving his reasons, or rationale, for why he went astray. Said he was sorry and that since those days, he’s resigned and gotten a job selling appliances. ”
“And the stalking stopped?”
“Yes. So, if it was him, the more complete confession did the trick.”