Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WINSLOW
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or water?” I asked Briggs.
“No. But thanks.” He shook his head, glancing around my office. His large frame consumed the chair across from my desk. It had looked just as tiny the day Griffin had sat there too.
“I appreciate you coming down here with me today.” The smile I sent him was infused with as much warmth as I could muster.
Briggs motioned to the purse and wallet on my desk. “So you want to talk about these?”
“Yes.”
Both articles were sealed in evidence bags.
When I’d arrived at Briggs’s cabin an hour ago, I’d simply asked if I could have them for an investigation.
He’d agreed, saving me the trouble of requesting a warrant.
Then I’d asked if he’d come to the station with me to discuss how he’d come upon them. Again, he’d agreed.
He was focused and sharp today. Like yesterday. When I’d knocked on his door this morning, he’d joked about having more police visits in the past week than he’d had his entire life.
It was easy to see why Griffin loved his uncle so much.
Even riding in my unmarked Explorer—in the front passenger seat, because while I had concerns, I wasn’t going to stuff him in the back—he’d talked to me the entire drive to town, asking me questions about how I was liking Quincy and telling me stories about his life spent on the ranch.
He seemed like a gentle man. A person who lived alone because he was content with his own company. A brother and a proud uncle—most of the stories he’d told had included one or more of his nieces or nephews.
It felt wrong to have him here, to be discussing ugly things. Or maybe it felt that way because of Griffin’s reaction.
“Would you mind if I recorded this conversation?” I asked, reaching for the handheld recorder beside my phone.
“Not at all.”
“Thank you.” I put the recorder between us, then hit the red button. After a quick introduction, stating our names and the date, I described the purse and wallet for the record. “You said that you found both of these articles while hiking, correct?”
Briggs nodded. “I did.”
“Where were you hiking?”
“Indigo Ridge. I’ve hiked around that area my whole life. It’s a favorite spot. The views from the top are magnificent.”
“I bet they are. Maybe one day I’ll make it to the top myself.”
“I’ll take you.” A genuine offer.
“I’d like that.” A genuine reply.
If Briggs took me hiking, I doubted he’d push me off the cliff.
Wouldn’t there be a twist in my belly if I feared this man was a murderer?
Wouldn’t there be a nervous zing through my veins?
There was nothing. My instincts said that something about Lily Green’s death wasn’t right.
Yet as I sat across from a man who shouldn’t have had her wallet, a man who lived the closest to the place where she’d died, not a single cell in my body warned that he was dangerous.
Yet I wasn’t paid to rely solely on instincts. I was here because we followed the evidence. The trail had led me here. I’d keep going until I reached a road block.
“Briggs, I’m sure you know this, but there have been three women found at the base of Indigo Ridge.”
“Yes. It’s awful. These kids . . . they’re just kids.” Heartfelt sympathy filled his voice.
“It is awful.”
A crease formed between his graying eyebrows. “You don’t think I had something to do with it, do you? I never even knew those girls.”
“Tell me more about how you found the purse.”
He cocked his head, staring at the object in question. “I thought you wanted the purse because it was stolen or something. Same with the wallet. Figured you’d tell me when we got here. I get it now. You think I had something to do with those girls, don’t you?”
Instead of answering, I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the edge of the desk. “When did you find the purse?”
“I’m no killer.” He gritted his teeth, not answering my question.
“I’m losing my mind. I’m losing myself. That’s a humbling realization for a man.
To know that there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.
I’m facing my own mortality, Ms. Covington.
Not murdering innocent girls.” The color in his cheeks turned pink. His shoulders stiffened.
“Let’s just talk about the purse.”
“Whose was it?”
“Harmony Hardt.”
He dropped his gaze. “Was that the woman Harrison found? Or Griffin?”
“Griffin,” I answered. “When did you find this purse?”
“What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
“Sunday.”
That was the day of the fire. “You’re sure? This past Sunday?”
“Yes. I went for a hike early that morning. Came home. Put them on my bookshelf to sort out later. Went outside to do some yard work, and well . . . you were there.”
Then he’d had an episode.
“Was the wallet inside when you found it?”
“No.”
“Where did you find the wallet?”
“Same place on Sunday. Both were together.”
Harmony Hardt had died years before Lily Green. Those pieces shouldn’t have been together.
Unless Lily Green had kept a purse like Harmony Hardt’s. I’d assumed at first that the H monogram had been for Harmony but maybe it was the designer’s logo. When I’d gone to identify the purse, I’d started with Harmony’s mother. When she’d recognized it, I hadn’t cross-checked it with Melina Green.
I’d be making a stop after taking Briggs home. And doing more research on the origin of this purse.
“Did you find the purse or wallet first?” I asked.
“The wallet. It was right in the middle of my usual trail. Nearly stepped on it.”
“Where was the purse?”
“In a bush about thirty feet away.”
“On the trail?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
My mind was racing, possibilities and scenarios flashing like a strobe light. There was no reason that he should have found both articles so close together.
Briggs could be lying, though his admission only made it more suspicious. A more believable lie would be that he’d found the purse years ago and the wallet more recently, both on completely different trails.
Assuming it was the truth, why had they been together?
Could this be part of the suicide pattern? Maybe one of the kids had started it as a symbol, to leave something behind. But that didn’t make sense at all. The purse was in too good condition if it truly was Harmony’s.
And after Lily, we’d all gone around the area, looking for evidence. I’d spent hours up there searching for her shoes. The reason I hadn’t found them was likely because Briggs had beaten me to it. But I hadn’t found the purse or wallet either.
Who else had been up on that ridge?
“Is your trail well known?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Did you find the boots in the same area?”
“No. They were closer to my cabin in a field. I probably would have missed them except they were by a cluster of wildflowers and I stopped to pick a bundle.”
I’d have to scout both locations. Maybe there was something else left behind. Maybe there was more. “The trail where you found these.” I gestured to the purse and wallet. “Is it the trail that leads to the cliff? The one from the road?”
“No, they’re separate. You can get to the cliff from my trail, but it’s the long way around. There’s a cut across to the one you’re talking about that’s about two hundred yards from the cliff. I rarely take it because I head up higher.”
Paths swirled like spaghetti noodles in my head as I tried to visualize what he was talking about. “Is there a map that shows any of this?”
“No, but I could sketch one out.”
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a notepad and a pencil, then slid them over to Briggs.
While he went about drawing the map, I studied his face.
Was he guilty? Did he do this?
I’d asked those questions before, in different interrogation settings.
Once, I’d questioned a man who’d been accused of raping a woman in an alley behind a downtown bar in Bozeman.
He’d been so cooperative. Seemingly so innocent.
So distraught over what had happened because the victim had been an acquaintance from college.
Yet he’d done it. He’d looked me in the face and sworn to me that he’d had nothing to do with it.
It was my nature to believe there was good in most people, but I hadn’t believed that son of a bitch for a moment. DNA had confirmed my instincts.
Did he do this?
In that bastard’s case, yes.
With Briggs? No. Maybe. I don’t know.
If there wasn’t a doubt about his mental capacity, it would be a lot easier to decide. But what if he’d done something terrible and couldn’t even remember doing it? What if he’d gone out hiking and run into a girl on the wrong path? What if he’d gotten violent with her?
What if he’d gotten violent with his wife and Frank had been right, that he’d driven her away? Or what if Griffin was right about Frank and this was all just gossip spewed in a small town by enemies?
The truth was probably somewhere in the middle, hidden for me to find.
Briggs finished his sketch and handed me the notepad.
The map was simple and concise. He’d circled the area where he’d found the purse and wallet.
He’d marked where he’d found the boots. From how he’d drawn the map, there really was no reason that the girls would have gone on his trail.
If they’d parked on the road and taken the same trail that I’d taken to look over the area, they shouldn’t have even gotten close to where Briggs had found the purse and wallet.
Unless he was lying.
He’d had that wallet for days, allegedly. He’d heard about Lily Green’s death. Why hadn’t he immediately brought it in?
“Did you look through the wallet?” I asked.
“No, I, um . . . I was going to. Then I sort of forgot about it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “After the fire.”
“The purse is in good condition.” I pointed to the handbag. “It doesn’t look like it’s been outside long.”
“Probably hasn’t. Leather like that would be ruined in a spring rainstorm.”