CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
C HAPTER T HIRTY -T WO
In the SUV, Matt scrolled through the Wildlife Whisperer’s profile, looking for any personal information or anything that might indicate his location.
Bree turned to Matt. “You didn’t punch him for calling Cady a bitch.”
“Trust me. I wanted to.” He exhaled hard. “But he didn’t know her name and we gave him mine. If he knows she’s my sister, he could find her.” His sister’s privacy and safety was more important than giving a jerk who insulted her a black eye. Cady would have laughed off the insult anyway. He could hear her in his head: Who cares if he’s mad? I got the pup. And she would be right. She was good at her job and had very few issues because she didn’t let her ego get in the way of her common sense. She de-escalated confrontations. Her only goal was to successfully remove animals from bad situations.
“Good thinking.” Bree started the engine, then rested her hands on the wheel. “His dogs looked healthy, right?”
“They looked fine.” Matt glanced back at the fence. O’Boyle and his dogs had disappeared from the yard. Matt channeled his sister’s attitude. “Except for the insulting comment about Cady and the fact that he bought a wolf pup, O’Boyle didn’t seem like a terrible person. If he takes good care of his pets, I can overlook one incidence of dumbassery.”
Bree snorted. “Same. You can tell a lot about a person’s character by how they treat animals and kids.”
“You know it.”
She put the vehicle into gear. “Let’s get the account information from Facebook.”
“Already on it.” Matt scrolled on his phone. Rory specialized in digital media. Matt swiped at his screen and sent a message. “Rory will need a subpoena, and then Facebook will need time to gather the info, so we won’t have instant data on the profile.”
“I don’t expect he’ll find any information that’s real or useful.” Bree turned toward the station. “Most criminals know all the loopholes, and exotic animals are big business these days.”
“It’s Friday. We going to the empty lot tonight?”
Bree nodded. “Hopefully, that’s when and where he conducts his business.”
Matt continued to scroll through posts and pictures on the Wildlife Whisperer’s profile. “I see the wolf pups. Before them, he posted about capybara pups, a chimp, two bear cubs.” He paused, his stomach simmering with anger. “And a cougar.”
“So, there’s a good chance that the Wildlife Whisperer is our killer.”
Matt continued to skim through posts, scrutinizing the backgrounds for clues to the animals’ location. The cougar had a sizable cage. Behind it were rough wooden walls. The wolf pups were in a large dog crate. “Some of these animals are bedded in what looks like wood shavings. They could be in a shed or barn.”
“Pine shavings were found at the crime scene.”
“But how is the Wildlife Whisperer connected to the Masons? Their only pet was a house cat.”
“Exotic pets are an illegal scheme. Maybe Josh and Shelly were somehow involved.” Bree’s phone vibrated with a text. “Dr. Jones wants us to stop by her office.”
“So, she wants to tell us something she doesn’t want to put in an email or report.”
“Well”—Bree turned the vehicle toward the medical examiner’s office—“she did agree to look over the autopsy as a favor.”
The ME’s office was in the municipal complex. They checked in at the counter and were escorted back to Dr. Jones’s office. There were no bodies in sight in the office wing, but Matt could still smell death in the hallway.
Dr. Jones sat behind her desk. She wore clean purple scrubs. She woke her computer. “I’ve reviewed Dallas Sawyer’s autopsy, as you asked.”
“Thank you,” Bree said.
Dr. Jones nodded. “You’re welcome, but you won’t love my findings.”
“Was he murdered?” Bree asked.
“It’s plausible,” said Dr. Jones. “But my official opinion would be inconclusive.”
“What makes it inconclusive as opposed to accidental?”
Dr. Jones took a thoughtful breath. “I don’t want to second-guess a colleague. He had no reason to believe this was anything but a vehicle accident, with the fatality being somewhat of a fluke. We all see some strange things in this line of work, and this does initially present as an accidental death.” She paused to shuffle the photos. “But I have a few questions.” She slid a photo of the still-dressed body forward. “What do you see on the victim’s clothes?”
Bree studied the photo. “Blood. A lot of blood.”
“Glass,” Matt added.
Dr. Jones slid a second photo next to the first, a close-up of the label from the broken bottle of juice. “And in the vehicle?”
“Same,” Bree said. “Blood and glass.”
“What do you not see?” she asked.
Matt spotted it, or rather the lack of it. “Green juice. Todd drinks that brand. It’s hard-core green with bits of green.”
Dr. Jones flattened a palm over the file. “Although it’s possible that he was on the last sip. We don’t know exactly what time he left his house. His wife wasn’t home at the time. But the vehicle was found about three miles from his address. Did he drink a sixteen-ounce bottle that fast?”
“I mean, I can drink coffee that fast.” Sometimes Bree drank her coffee like a frat boy with a beer bong. “But that stuff? I’d have to choke that down while holding my nose. It’s thick .”
“The bottle could have been empty,” Matt suggested. “But an empty bottle would probably be in the cup holder, which is not between the airbag and the occupant’s face.”
Dr. Jones nodded. “Like I said, it’s just a question. Alone, it isn’t as meaningful.”
“So there’s more?” Bree asked.
Dr. Jones slid a close-up of the fatal wound out of the pile. “The wound itself is larger than the piece of glass, and the outer edges of the wound are very clean, no jagged edges, more like a knife slice than a cut made by a broken piece of glass. The cut also has a distinct beginning and end. The start of an incised wound is deeper and becomes shallower toward the tail. This cut was made in this direction.” She moved the tip of her finger from under the rear of the jaw to beneath the chin. “So, not only should the wound not have a direction if the glass was pushed straight forward”—she flipped to another picture of the glass protruding from the victim’s neck—“but it’s backward.”
Bree froze. “If the glass shard originated in front of his face, the direction of the cut should move from the front of the neck to the back, not from the rear to the front.”
“Yes.” The ME straightened and folded her hands. “I’m not saying the original ME was definitely wrong. But I did have these questions.”
“The side window of the vehicle was shattered in the accident. If you’re right, then someone approached the vehicle, reached in through the broken window, and cut his neck, and then shoved a piece of glass bottle into the wound, hoping the cut would be attributed to the accident. How would you plan that?”
“Do we know if the bottle was definitely his?” Dr. Jones asked. “Or did someone bring it to the accident site?”
Bree lifted a hand. “His wife wasn’t sure, but he was an athlete and particular about his diet.”
Matt frowned. “There must have been some improvising at the scene, but if someone ran him off the road, they’d be on hand to finish the job.”
“And they’d be on hand to take Claire from the vehicle,” Bree said.
“Do we know why Mr. Sawyer was out that night?” Matt asked.
Bree nodded. “An issue with a false alarm at the tech company’s building.”
“Where was Mrs. Sawyer?” Dr. Jones asked.
Bree said, “At a school event with their son. Her presence there was confirmed by multiple witnesses.”
“That’s a wild theory,” Dr. Jones said. “I don’t know how you’d prove it. The ME who performed the autopsy didn’t doubt the glass shard killed him, and that doctor has since passed away. We can’t ask him any questions.”
Bree could guess what had happened. The ME had missed it because the cause of death seemed obvious. He’d made assumptions and issued a report that confirmed those preconceived ideas. Detectives sometimes made the same mistake. They let their own interpretations lead the investigation instead of following the evidence.
“No one is perfect. He missed it. Doctors misdiagnose illnesses. People make mistakes.” Matt waved a hand over the photos. “We’re looking for a possible murder, so we’re looking deeper.”
But Matt knew Dr. Jones wouldn’t have missed the inconsistency with the wound. He looked over the photos again. Something nagged at him.
“Something wrong?” Bree glanced sideways.
“I don’t know. I feel like I’m missing something.” But he couldn’t place it. “I’ll remember when I stop trying to.”
Dr. Jones collected the photos. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a more definite answer.”
“You’ve been very helpful.” Bree stood. “I know you’re busy. I appreciate you taking the time.”
“You’re welcome.”
Matt held the door as they left the ME’s office. “Do we have time to stop at the station?”
Bree lifted her phone and checked the screen. “If you’re quick. I want to get into position in the vacant grocery store parking lot well before seven.”
They returned to the SUV and drove to the station. Bree stopped in the squad room. Matt headed directly to the conference room, where Todd was typing on a laptop.
“May I?” Matt gestured toward the computer.
“Sure.” Todd turned it to face Matt.
He accessed the crime scene photos from the Masons’ murders and began scrolling through them.
“What are you looking for?” Todd asked.
“I don’t know.” But Matt would know it when he saw it.
Bree entered. “Juarez checked the Masons’ credit card statements. No charges at any zoos for the past month. He also checked the trace evidence list. No weird animal fur was found on any of the Masons’ shoes. The only traces were found on the carpet in front of the Masons’ bed and on the stairs.”
“So, it’s likely the killer brought it with him,” Todd said.
Matt froze, his gaze locked on a photo of the Masons’ refrigerator. “I remember what was nagging at me.” He pointed to the computer screen. In the Masons’ fridge were three bottles of cold-pressed green juice.
Bree pursed her lips. “Josh Mason was a runner. Dallas Sawyer was a cyclist. Both watched their diets. It could be a coincidence.”
“Plenty of people drink green juice,” Todd said. “I do.”
“But it’s one more coincidence,” Bree said. “At the bottom of a coincidence dogpile.”
Her phone rang. She looked at the screen. “Shillings.” She answered the call. “Taggert here. You’re on speaker.”
“I spoke with the FBI agent,” Shillings said. “Guess who was an employee of Dallas Sawyer’s company, Wall Digital Technology?” She paused for a beat. “Josh Mason. Winner winner chicken dinner?”
Bree snorted. “That’s about right. It’s seeming more and more likely that Josh Mason killed Dallas Sawyer for some reason we haven’t yet discovered.”