CHAPTER EIGHT
There was no path. Snow covered the landscape, covering the ground in a blanket of unblemished white, no footsteps to guide their way; no path to follow. All they had was a GPS unit with the approximation of the cabin marked on the map.
Claire and Alison took the lead, with two officers following close behind. Three of them were armed; Alison had her gun in her bag, ready to pull it out if needed.
"There are no real paths out here," Claire said. "Not since the snow fell. This is supposed to be the shortest route out here, but Marcus obviously hasn’t used it. There are multiple other paths out, and he must have used one of those to cover his tracks, so to speak."
"Let’s find him first and then make our conclusions," Alison said.
The invisible trail wound its way between the larch and fir trees in an endless landscape of white and dark green.
The snow crunched under their boots as they walked, and the going was hard enough to break a sweat.
Alison had removed her hat twice to cool down, only to have to put it back on again when she became too cold.
The sky was blue overhead, and the sun was out, adding some warmth to the day, but it would be a long time before it made a real dent in the snow.
"Does he fit?" Claire asked as they walked. "He’s our guy, right?"
"He ticks a lot of the boxes," Alison admitted. "He has an obvious motive from what we’ve heard about him so far. He had run-ins with people, and even if we can't confirm yet that he had run-ins with the two deceased, we have to assume his path would have crossed with theirs at some point. He’s volatile and angry, giving him the motivation to kill in the way he did, and he’s spent a lot of his life around killers. "
"It’s always the ones who live out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?" Claire asked.
"It fits the profile in these circumstances, too.
Killers like this want to stay close. They like to admire their handiwork, and the closer they can get to it, the better.
But they need a way to hide. If things go wrong, they need to either escape before they can be caught or be able to hide without having to escape.
People like familiarity, and running away will be a last resort.
Having a cabin in the middle of nowhere is the best of both worlds.
Especially when his work is not done yet. "
Claire stopped, and everyone stopped with her.
She studied the map. "We’re getting closer.
If he is our guy, we have to expect that he will have rigged something to either keep people out or some sort of an early warning system.
We take our time and approach quietly. I’ll give they the signal when it’s time to spread out. "
With the plan in place, they moved off again, literally taking it one step at a time as they neared the area Alan White had indicated on the map.
The trees thinned a little, and the thinner they got, the slower they walked.
They saw the smoke first. It rose above the trees in a tight grey plume.
Claire lifted her fist, not saying anything.
She gestured one way and then the other.
The officers split, going in opposite directions to go around the house. Claire and Allison moved forward.
They soon found the cabin. Claire stopped again, and she and Alison studied the small, rustic, wooden building. The smoke was not coming from the cabin but from behind it.
Claire pointed. To the right, hanging in a tree, was a deer carcass. The skin had been removed, the head chopped off. The area below was white and clean—the blood had been drained elsewhere.
There were two windows in the front of the cabin. Both of them showed darkness and looked empty. They stood for a while, looking at the windows, looking for a sign of movement, but there wasn’t any. Claire looked to Alison and nodded. Alison nodded back. She wished she had brought her gun.
Claire removed her gun from her holster, leading the way with Alison slightly behind. She didn't often feel out of her depth, but hiking out into the wilderness to then approach a cabin felt like something she shouldn't be doing.
They moved to the windows, and they took one each to look inside.
Alison saw a small living room with a chair and a table.
A fireplace sat on the far wall, with balled-up paper and kindling in the hearth.
The interior was clean and well-maintained.
She looked back at Claire and shook her head.
Claire shook her head in response—she couldn't see anyone in the cabin either.
They went around to the side of the cabin—still no entrance—and then to the opposite side from where they started. They found the entrance to the cabin there, and also a small fire with a metal grate high above it, laden with meat that was being smoked. The two officers were also there.
There was silent communication as they all moved to the door, with Alison bringing up the rear.
Claire took the lead. She didn't knock. She pushed the door open slowly.
It didn't creak. Then, she disappeared into the house, followed by the two officers.
Alison quickly followed, finding herself in the same room she had seen from the window.
It looked like someone had decided to make a fire and then thought better of it. The door swung closed behind them.
There was only one way to move through the house, and they moved from the living room into the short hallway. Alison held back, waiting—it was not a large cabin, and she would only be in the way.
"Alison!" Claire called a few seconds later. "You’ll want to see this."
"He’s here!" Alison screamed as the door flew open to reveal Marcus Webb carrying a stack of logs.
He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him, but he didn't drop the wood.
Until an FBI agent and two officers ran through with guns pointed at him before Alison could draw hers.
That was when he put his hands up and dropped the wood.
His expression didn't change the entire time—he was stoic.
"Marcus Webb, you need to come down to the station with us," Claire said. She nodded to one of the officers, who put his gun away and took out his handcuffs. "Alison, the back room."
Alison watched Marcus for a second as the officer cuffed him. There was no fight, no resistance, nothing. Then she left the living room and went into the rear of the cabin. It wasn’t hard to figure out exactly what the special agent was talking about. The bedroom was half bedroom-half obsession.
The walls were covered with newspaper clippings about crimes committed in the city, printed case files from previous murders, surveillance photos from multiple people, including Rachel Kent and Kevin Hartley, and psychological assessments.
Some of them were drawn on with a red pen, notes on the files, some things crossed out, other things circled or underlined.
Alison moved into the room, taking it all in. A lot of the scribblings were angry and backed up exactly what Alan White had told them. It was an obsessive mess. Files on top of files, parts ripped off or cut out, incoherent words and phrases in places. It was unorganized chaos.
It showed a very unstable mind.
***
Alison felt warm again. She stood in the police station with a cup of hot chocolate in hand, and she wanted to drink it before going into the interview room.
She had the after Marcus had asked for a lawyer.
She didn't want to go into the interview room with the hot chocolate as it felt unprofessional.
She would have been fine with a tea or coffee, but didn't want to interview a possible serial killer with a mug of hot cocoa.
"He didn't put up a fight," Claire said.
She looked through the one-way glass as they both watched Marcus talking with his lawyer without being able to hear the confidential conversation.
"He knew he was caught. Calling in a lawyer tells me he’s guilty.
All we have to do now is get him to confess or to mess up. "
"He’s volatile and angry," Alison said. "I’ll admit that the walls in his bedroom don't look good, but what did you notice about that scene compared to the crime scenes?"
"They were disorganized while the crime scenes were not," Claire replied.
"Yeah, I get that, but that means nothing right now. I’ve seen people be disorganized in one area of their lives and completely organized in others.
He had a ton of information about both of the victims. He fits most of the profile, right? "
"Yeah, he fits most of it, but something’s still off. I don't know. I won't know more until we get in there and talk with him, but experience has told me that it’s never this easy. He didn't expect us to be out there. Our killer is smart and careful. Maybe he’s arrogant in himself, or maybe not."
The lawyer stood up from the table and went to the door.
"Come on," Claire said. "Let’s see what he has to say for himself."
Alison drained the last of her hot chocolate and placed the cup down on the desk in the room annexing the interview room. They left the room and found the lawyer exiting the room beside theirs.
"My client would like to speak with you," the lawyer said.
His name was Bertie Douglas, and he wore a plaid shirt and a pair of brown slacks as if he were only hired by outdoorsmen and dressed for the part.
"Good, because we want to speak to him," Claire said.
Derek often dresses down and is underestimated. I see the intelligence in you, Bertie. Are you doing the same?
They followed the lawyer back into the room, and the three of them went to the table and sat down. Before Claire could start to say anything, Marcus spoke.
"I have instructed my lawyer to press charges against the FBI and the Missoula Police Department," Marcus said. He spoke evenly and without emotion.
"Charges?" Claire asked. "You do understand why you are here, don't you?"