Chapter Eight
At the same time, Sheridan backed through the double doors of the Twelve Sleep County Sheriff’s Department carrying two paper cups of coffee. Clamped under her right arm was a small box of cinnamon rolls. As she turned around in the lobby, the doors wheezed shut behind her.
“Is Sheriff Sondergard in?” she asked Kristy Austin, the receptionist behind the counter.
Austin, who was skeletal and severe and wore silver metal-framed glasses, had outlasted the previous three sheriffs.
It was well known that she ran the place like her private fiefdom and she knew where the bodies were buried, so no one questioned her.
Her weakness, Sheridan knew, was sweet rolls.
“Do you have an appointment?” Austin asked rhetorically as she scanned the master calendar in front of her.
“No,” Sheridan said. “But I have coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls from the Burg-O-Pardner.”
That got Kristy’s attention, Sheridan noted.
Before Austin could reply, Deputy Frank Carroll shot up into view from his desk behind a cubicle wall divider. His sudden emergence struck Sheridan as akin to a prairie dog popping out of its den.
“I can take you back,” Carroll offered. “Follow me.”
Sheridan left the box of rolls on Kristy’s desk and she fell in beside Carroll.
“I’m sure sorry about what happened to your dad,” Carroll said. “I was one of the first people on the scene yesterday. Can I ask you how he’s doing?”
“He’s alive. Thanks for asking.”
“Well, thank God for that,” Carroll said. “Joe’s a good man. I hope we don’t lose him. How’s your mom doing?”
“She’s in Billings,” Sheridan said. “She texted us this morning to say that the night went well and that she’s waiting to hear more from the surgeon in charge. He’s in critical condition in an induced coma.”
Carroll whistled. He began, “If you would have seen him yesterday, you wouldn’t think…,” then he caught himself before he said more. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I talk too much.”
“Sometimes you do,” Sheridan said.
They were now outside the sheriff’s office, down the hall from the lobby. “Tell me,” she said to Carroll, “do you guys have a name on the man who called it in? We’d like to thank him.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Carroll said. “Steve might know more.”
“Don’t you find it odd that the guy reported the shooting, but didn’t stick around for the first responders?” Sheridan asked.
“I find everything about this case pretty odd,” Carroll said with a shrug.
“Thanks for escorting me through the office,” Sheridan said, as a means to move Carroll back to his cubicle. It took a moment before he got it and shuffled away.
The door to the sheriff’s office was ajar and she could hear movement inside. Before pushing it all the way open, Sheridan reached down and slid the nameplate for the previous sheriff out of its metal holder.
Sheriff Sondergard was in the process of moving cardboard boxes from the top of the desk to a conference table. When he looked up and saw Sheridan, he smiled and said, “Good morning. Let me clear a place for you to sit.”
Sondergard was a striking man, she thought.
He was tall and trim, with wavy light brown hair, blue eyes, and an easy smile.
The only feature she didn’t like about him was his brushy cop mustache, but she figured that came with the territory.
He was in his early thirties, so older than Sheridan, and he was divorced, but had no children.
According to his campaign materials, he’d served as a U.S.
Marine before being hired as undersheriff in the Park County, Wyoming, sheriff’s office.
He’d run unopposed in Twelve Sleep County and had won the office less than a week before.
Sheridan had met Sondergard at the Stockman’s Bar while he was campaigning. He’d asked her politely if he could buy her a drink, and she’d accepted.
She thought he had an easy manner about him, and he wasn’t full of himself like so many cops she’d met over the years.
He’d asked her about her bird abatement business, and he showed genuine interest in falcons and falconry.
He’d also asked her what it had been like growing up in the county as the game warden’s oldest daughter, and if her dad’s job had made other students at school give her a wide berth.
She found herself liking him more than she’d intended to, and had been surprised by it.
He’d asked her if she’d be interested in having dinner with him once the election was over, and she’d given him her number.
He hadn’t called yet, but it had only been a few days since the polls closed.
She showed him the nameplate, which read Sheriff Jackson Bishop, and said, “Do you mind if I throw this in the garbage?”
Sondergard’s reaction was puzzled surprise for a moment, which turned into a knowing grin. “That’s right,” he said. “You didn’t get along very well with my predecessor.”
“Nope,” Sheridan said. “In fact, I held him at gunpoint in my chicken coop for a while last year before he hit the road for parts unknown. I don’t miss him at all. Here, I brought you coffee.”
“Thank you kindly.” He took the cup from her and set it on his desktop, then he removed a box from a chair across from it and motioned for her to sit.
“I’m just moving in, as you can see,” he said.
She noted that the room was bare, not even a photo or plaque remained on the walls. Only nails where items had been hung. There was a dead plant on the credenza behind his desk.
Before she sat down, Sheridan dropped Jackson Bishop’s nameplate into a garbage can.
“I’ll have to ask Kristy to get me a new one, I guess,” Sondergard said. “From what I understand, she’s done it several times before.”
“We do have a problem keeping sheriffs around here,” Sheridan said. “And a real hard time keeping good ones.”
“I hope I’m able to stay out of your chicken coop.”
“I do, too,” she said.
“So, what brings you here? I assume it’s not just to bring me coffee.”
“Correct. I was hoping you could brief me on the investigation involving my dad’s shooting yesterday.”
Sondergard sighed and ran his hand through his hair before speaking.
“We really don’t know much at this point,” he said finally. “We’ve got no suspects, no motive, and no evidence. I’ve got a crime scene tech out there on Antelope Creek Road right now, and I’m hoping he can give us some more information.”
“Antler Creek Road,” Sheridan said, correcting him gently.
“Antler Creek Road,” Sondergard repeated. “It’s going to take me a while to get my bearings, so I apologize for that.”
“No apology needed,” Sheridan said. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Ask away,” Sondergard said. “My aim is to be fully transparent with you, or with any citizen in the county. I’ve worked for bosses who kept everything close to the vest and didn’t communicate well with their constituents, and I don’t want to be one of them.”
“Great, thank you. First of all, do you know how many shooters were out there?”
“Not for certain, but if I’d guess I’d say it was more than one. The bullets seemed to come from different angles, based on the damage done to your dad’s pickup. That’s an educated guess, though. I hope the tech can confirm it.”
Sheridan processed that for a moment, then asked, “Did you determine the location from where the shots were fired? Or the distance?”
“Not yet. We’re looking for shell casings and tire tracks.
Honestly, it was kind of a clusterfuck yesterday when everyone arrived out there.
The priority was getting your dad flown out.
The snow is melting and turning the ground into mud, so we can’t find tracks.
I’m hoping we can figure out more today with people dedicated to do just that. ”
“Will you let me know what you find?” she asked. “My family would like to be informed.”
“I promise you I’ll do that,” he said.
“Have you interviewed the three ranch families out there in the area to see if they know anything?”
Sondergard nodded his head and said, “I’ve asked Frank and my new deputy, William Bowkley, to interview them today. If something the ranchers say doesn’t jibe, I’ve asked my deputies to bring them in so I can talk with them as well.”
“I don’t think I’ve met Deputy Bowkley.”
“He’s brand-new here, just like me,” Sondergard said. “I just hired him off the street.”
“Seriously?”
He chuckled and flushed a little. “I shouldn’t have put it that way.
Bowkley showed up a few days ago with an impressive résumé.
He obviously knew we were short-staffed—everybody does.
I called his references in Campbell County, where he used to work, and he checked out completely.
So I hired him on the spot. He started here officially this morning. ”
“Good,” Sheridan said. “I know the department has been pretty…thin.”
She leaned forward. “I’d be very interested to hear what your deputies find out. It makes sense to my sisters and me that one of the ranch families might have been involved in this, since the shooting came from private property, and my dad was obviously headed out there to one of the ranches.”
“You might be out a little ahead of your skis on that one,” Sondergard said with a note of caution. “But I get what you’re saying.”
“Is his truck still out there?” Sheridan asked. “I’d like to know exactly how it was positioned, if possible.”
“We had it towed last night.”
“To where?”
Sondergard jabbed his desktop with his index finger and said, “Here. It’s in the county garage next door.”
“Can I see it?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Sheridan, I’m not sure you really want to do that.”
“Because of the blood?”
“Yes. You know how head wounds can be. Plus, we need our tech to really go over it inside and out. We don’t think the shooters accessed the pickup, but we aren’t sure.
If they did, we might be able to pick up a print or fabric, and maybe even DNA.
We wouldn’t want any unauthorized people inside of it until we can do a complete forensics analysis. ”