Chapter Twenty-Four CJ Taggart
Chapter Twenty-Four
CJ Taggart
Taggart and Paxton had spent most of their Sunday walking the woods ringing the festival field.
They found discarded clothes, shoes, beer cans, a backpack complete with wallet and identification, condoms, and cigarettes.
The woods had been their own party site.
Close enough to hear the music but private enough to avoid prying eyes.
They’d found a muddy backpack. It was black, battered, and covered with music festival concert patches. Taggart unzipped the pack and found a worn brown wallet inside. The owner’s name was Jim Richards.
He wasn’t familiar with the name, and neither was Paxton. But having the guy’s name and home address made life easier.
Two hours after finding the backpack, Taggart rolled up on a small house located in Keswick, fifty miles east of Dawson. The one-story brick rancher was painted white, and the garden beds were neat and mulched. Parked in the driveway was a Ford Escort and beside it a red pickup truck.
Out of his car, he settled his hat on his head and walked up to the front door. He stood to the left of the door and then knocked. He settled his hand on the grip of his weapon.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and the door opened without hesitation. The woman standing on the other side of a screened door appeared to be in her eighties. She was slender with stooped shoulders and a sharp gaze.
“I’m looking for Jim Richards.”
“That’s my grandson. Is he in trouble?”
“Not at all. His backpack and wallet were found, and I’m returning it.”
“I’ll take it.”
“I need to give it to him.”
“But I’m his grandmother.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I need to hand it to Jim.”
She drew in a breath. “He’s in the backyard. He’s fixing the lawn mower.”
He could walk around the back, but if Jim didn’t want to speak to him and Grandma alerted him, he’d be gone out the front door and in that truck before Taggart could catch up. “Call him to the front door.”
Grandma didn’t look happy, but she vanished into the house. Minutes later a tall, lean man appeared. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeve work shirt. Jim Richards’s DMV record stated he was thirty-one, weighed 160 pounds, and was an organ donor.
“Jim Richards?” Taggart asked.
“Yeah. You have my backpack?”
“I do.”
Jim rubbed his palms down his jeans. “Can I have it?”
“It’s in my car. Come with me, and I’ll give it to you.”
Grandma lurked close, but she didn’t speak.
“Yeah, sure.”
Taggart motioned for Richards to go first, and he followed, his hand still on his weapon. At his car, Taggart fumbled with his keys. “Do you know where I found it?”
“The music festival. I was wasted.”
“We found your backpack in the woods behind the latrines. It must have been a hundred feet into the woods.”
“I was trying to get away from the rain. Figured the thick tree cover would keep me dry.”
“It must have been pretty crowded back there.”
“It was. We were bumping into each other. It was hard to find a tree to lean on. We were all soaking wet.”
Taggart found a grin. “Sounds like it was a hell of a party.”
Jim relaxed. “It was. We all had a damn good time.”
“When did you move into the woods?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Humor me.”
Jim shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What band was playing?”
“Hard rock. Moody Manic, I think.”
Taggart had the band lineup and was using their performance schedules as his base timeline. “About midnight.”
“I guess. It was raining. I was soaked.”
That fit with the timeline. “So, you’re in the woods. How many people would you say were there?”
“Two hundred. Three hundred. I’m not sure. What’s with the obsession with the woods?”
Taggart ignored the question. “Did you see any disturbances in the woods?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me.”
“A few of the guys got a little rowdy.”
“What does that mean?”
“There was one guy who saw a chick he liked. She kept saying no, but he wasn’t listening.”
“Happen to know any names?” he asked.
“No names. But the chick was carrying a blue guitar. She was in the woods to keep it dry.”
Laurie was the Blue Guitar Girl. She’d exited the stage minutes after 11:00 p.m. “Do you know the guy’s name?”
“No. It was filled with folks from other places. I didn’t see anyone I knew.”
“And what happened to the girl with the blue guitar?”
“I don’t know.”
“You remembered the blue guitar.”
“It was different. Hard to miss.”
“What did the woman with the blue guitar look like?”
“Pretty. Had a nice smile. Hot.”
“Any more of a description?”
“Nice tits.”
“And you didn’t notice where this hot woman went?”
“She was hanging with another chick. She was cute, too. Spun around like she was a dancer. The two drifted off into the shadows. Thinking about what they were doing made me hard.”
“What did the second woman look like?”
“She seemed young.”
“How young?” He’d been at this long enough to realize Jim had seen more than he wanted to let on.
“If she said she was eighteen, I’d want to see her ID.”
“Blond, brunette, redhead?”
“Dark hair. Kind of wild and curly.”
“Did the two women appear to know each other?”
“I don’t think they did. I think the younger one offered Blue Guitar Girl a blunt. They went deeper into the woods.”
“Did anyone follow them?”
“I don’t know.”
Jim’s testimony wouldn’t stand up in a court of law. Any good defense attorney would tear him apart. “Because you were inebriated?”
“That’s right.”
“Who did you go to the festival with?”
“I have a buddy. His name is Bill. He was there. He can tell you I didn’t do anything but smoke weed.”
“Bill got a last name?”
“Parsons.” He rattled off Bill’s number.
Taggart scribbled it in a small notebook he always carried.
“Who else did you notice in the woods?”
A sigh leaked through pursed lips. “It was pretty busy.”
“But you had to have noticed a few people.”
“The concert promoter was there.”
“How do you know this person was the festival promoter?”
“He told everyone. He was a real friendly guy. Smoked some weed. I heard him say that this was his party. He was chatting up Blue Guitar Girl.”
“Was his name Rafe Colton?”
“I didn’t catch his last name. Light-brown hair. He looks like that singer, Kurt Cobain, if he wasn’t dead now.”
The description fit Colton. “Did he say why he was in the woods and not near the stage?”
“We all thought he was going to bust us for poaching on the festival. None of us had paid for a ticket. But he didn’t care about us.”
“You snuck in via the fire road, he doesn’t get ticket money, and he doesn’t care?” When Jim hesitated, Taggart shook his head. “I don’t care about a bunch of guys sneaking into a concert. Or smoking weed.”
“He didn’t care. He said he needed a break. The rain was beating us all down. He did a couple of lines of coke.”
“Did Colton follow Blue Guitar Girl?”
“He watched Guitar Girl and the chick with her real close. He liked the look of them both.”
“Did he follow the women?”
Jim sniffed. “I don’t know. I was smoking and Bill asked for a toke. I turned to give it to him. We shot the shit for a while, and when I turned back, that Colton guy was gone. So was Blue Guitar Girl and her girlfriend.”
Taggart removed Patty’s picture from his pocket. “Was she in the woods?”
Jim studied the picture. “Hamburger Girl.”
“You know her?”
He handed back the image. “I bought a burger from her. She’s a hottie.”
“But she wasn’t in the woods?”
“Not that I saw. But it was crowded. Why all the questions about these gals? Is there a problem?”
“Might not be a problem at all.” He’d been searching for Patty and Laurie. Jim must have spotted Blue Guitar Girl, a.k.a. Laurie, around midnight.
Taggart opened his trunk and removed the mud-splattered black backpack. “If I have more questions, I’ll call you.”
Jim unzipped his backpack and dug out his wallet. “Yeah, sure, man.”
Taggart slid behind the wheel of his vehicle. He’d learned a long time ago that if his gut was tight and he felt edgy, something was off with a case.
Right now, he was working on an ulcer.