Killer View (32 page)

“You okay?” Walt asked Crabtree as the stretcher was maneuvered through a second doorway. He’d have done anything to reverse the beating the boy had taken. He’d warned his jailers that Crabtree was at risk and was pissed at the obvious neglect that had occurred.

“I want out of here,” Crabtree said through a swollen cheek.

“We’ll figure something out. We’re going to get you to the hospital first. Maybe a dentist.” Walt was eager to question the boy further, to look for a possible link to Sean Lunn and a way to pressure Hillabrand, but the injuries came first. He had to hold himself back from in any way delaying Crabtree’s medical care.

“I’m not going back in there,” the boy said.

“It’s not how it works,” Walt said. “We’ll get you isolated somehow.”

“Please,” the boy said. It was more than a word; it was an apology, a confession, something he hadn’t spoken to anyone in years.

The plea revealed a contrite Taylor Crabtree. Walt had hoped remorse existed somewhere inside the boy. He understood the importance of the moment. If Walt delayed the medical care, and Crabtree later filed a grievance, Walt would face review. But he sensed an opportunity.

“When we get him out,” Walt instructed his deputies, “unstrap him. Let’s get him into the Sit room and put some ice on that lip. Have the ambulance stand by.”

“I don’t need an ambulance,” Crabtree complained.

“Procedures,” Walt explained. “You’re in the system now. There are ways we have to do this.”

“Fuck the system.”

“That’s how you got in here,” Walt said, “but it’s not how you get out.”

THE SITUATION ROOM smelled of sweat, coffee, and doughnuts. Just as an athlete recognized the particular smell of locker rooms, any cop could identify the combination.

Crabtree sat nursing his mouth with a baggie of ice.

“This is not supposed to happen in my jail,” Walt said.

“What if I change my mind and decide to talk to you?”

“I could tell you it would make a difference, depending on what you had to say, but, honestly, Taylor, I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t know what, if anything, will help your situation right now. You’ve built a long sheet. A judge is going to review all that. You’ll be seen as one of those kids that can’t turn the corner and get your act together.”

“But I can. Ask Elbie.”

“I believe you. And I’ll be happy to speak on your behalf, but the system is fairly unforgiving. If we could get you back into the Alternative School and if you
stayed
there. No more stupid stuff. Maybe a judge would be more lenient.”

“Can you ask Mr. Levy if I can try again?”

“If he takes you back at the school, what’s to say you’ll toe the line?”

“Ask Elbie. I’m reliable. I’m never late. I don’t cheat on lunchtime or anything.”

“I’ll speak to Barge.”

Crabtree nodded, holding the ice gingerly. “I lied about Kira.” He threw it out there.

“Before you dig yourself in any deeper,” Walt said, “let me tell you a couple things I know. First, you didn’t pick up Kira Tulivich on the side of the road. Second, I know she was in your car and that you dropped her at the hospital, as you’ve said. Third, that bruising on your face—it’s still faintly there—wasn’t Kira’s doing and it wasn’t a snow-boarding accident. There are no indications she resisted.”

Crabtree’s eyes widened with surprise. Or maybe it was concern that he had little to offer Walt now.

“We have no evidence connecting Kira to your trailer. We found no drugs in your trailer. It seems unlikely you’re the one who doped her. So what happened to her and where it happened remain a mystery to me, but I now know why it happened, and I think there’s a possibility I know at least one of the parties involved. So whatever you do, Taylor, don’t lie to me, because I’ll likely know you’re lying and that’s not going to help anything.” He paused, giving the boy a few seconds. “And if you don’t say anything, that’s okay too. Better to not say anything than to try to slip something past me. You get that?”

The boy nodded.

“So should I call the ambulance guys in?”

He shook his head.

“You’re afraid.” Walt could see it on the boy’s face. “Of what, retaliation? By who?”

Only Crabtree’s eyes moved. A quick, surgical strike, locking onto Walt.

“Who?”

Crabtree didn’t answer.

“It’s natural for a young man in your situation to gravitate toward a group. A gang? Are you in with the Mexicans?”

He coughed up a laugh. “Oh, sure.”

Walt said the next thing that came into his head. “The Samakinn.”

Crabtree’s face froze.

“I want you to think very carefully, Crab,” Walt said, feeling a rapport developing. “Association with the Samakinn is not, in itself, a crime. Participating in certain activities may be, but if you get in front—”

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?”

“I’m afraid not. Help me out, Crab. I want to get it.”

“Shit.”

“The bruises. The ones you already had when I saw you at Elbie’s. Did Kira give you that face?”

“I did
not
do anything to Kira.”

“And you did not get those bruises snowboarding.”

“I rescued her.” His eyes, unflinching and bloodshot, glared at him. “You’ve got it backwards, Sheriff. I’m the one that saved her.”

“Okay? From?”

“Them. Coats and the other guy.” He broke the eye contact. “He lives up there, you know? Triumph. Coats does. He and his dogs. Fucking dogs
never
stop barking. But is anybody going to complain about it? No way . . .”

“Roy Coats,” Walt said. Coats was one of the last true mountain men left in the area. A tracker. Some said
illegal
tracker. He’d been accused more than once of using collared dogs to track down mountain lions for anonymous clients. Walt rolled around the rumors surrounding Randy Aker and poaching. Coats? Fish and Game had tried to bring charges against Coats several years back. He hadn’t heard the name since then.

“I saw him take Kira out of a dog crate. Back of his pickup. This was really late at night. Snowing bad, and he’s got her in a dog crate.”

Walt looked around. He longed for a tape recorder and yet didn’t want to put Crabtree off his statement. Pulling a notepad from his shirt pocket, he said, “I’m going to write some of this down.”

Crabtree nodded. “He dragged her inside.”

“How close is his place to yours?”

Walt’s nephew, Kevin, had taught him well about when a teen shifted into avoidance mode. Crabtree’s eyes went to a cigarette burn on the edge of the table. His shoulders folded forward. Walt’s impatience and his lack of sleep almost got the better of him. He nearly marched around the conference table and took Crabtree by the shirt and shook some sense into him. But he’d learned self-control a long time ago, had learned to make these interrogations—confrontations—less personal. Crabtree
wanted
to improve both his current situation and his future. Walt could play the catalyst, if he could get his own frustration out of the way.

“Can you see his house from your mobile home?” Walt asked, his voice calm and collected.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Taylor...help yourself out here. You can do this. It’s the right thing to do. Forget about you for a minute. Think about Kira. You’re helping Kira. You want to help Kira, right?”

The look on his face showed anger and frustration. Walt knew all about both. “What?” Walt said.

“I can’t tell you.”

“You have to tell me.”

“But I can’t.”

“Okay, how about this? We start the clock right now. Anything you tell me for the next five minutes is off the record. It never happened. I never heard it.”

“That’s a cop game. You ever seen
Law and Order
? I know all about cop games.”

“Four minutes,” Walt said, looking at his watch. “No tricks. I give you my word.”

Crabtree looked Walt up and down. Something about Walt’s promise resonated.

“Coats isn’t there much. He hunts with the dogs, I think. Maybe has some other place. Not there much at all. But the dogs . . . a lot of them stick around. And there’s this girl . . . watches the place for him. Takes care of the dogs. Smoking-hot, this girl.” He dared a glance at Walt, who tried to convey no opinion in his expression. Crabtree was apparently going to leave it there.

“A good-looking girl,” Walt said.

“Asked me to take care of the dogs for her one time her mother got real sick and she couldn’t stick around. I said sure. And she gave me a key.”

Again he paused. Again, it seemed as if he wasn’t going to continue.

“A key to Coats’s place.”

“Correct,” Crabtree said.

“And you helped her out by feeding the dogs. Does this connect with Kira, Taylor? I’m a little short on time.”

“I put a pair of webcams in there.” His head was hung in shame.

Walt’s heart raced in his chest. He looked around for a glass of water. There wasn’t one.

“
Inside
the house.”

“His cabin, yeah.”

Walt’s jaw dropped. He sucked up his surprise, cleared his throat, and tried to sound as normal as possible. But, inside, he was both churning over the invasion of privacy and jumping at the thought that Taylor Crabtree might have witnessed the assault. Depending on if he ever found Mark Aker, depending on his condition, proving the abduction could be difficult. But a witness to a sexual assault, a rape, tried and convicted in Blaine County, could put Coats away for most of his adult life. It would be a poor trade-off but one that Walt would be happy to have in his back pocket.

“Taylor, I understand that your concern here is prosecution over the existence of the webcams. It’s a legitimate concern, given your being expelled from the Alternative School for the same offense.
If
we charged you, a judge wouldn’t like that at all. But I can guarantee you—
guarantee
, Taylor—that that will not be the case here. If you witnessed what I think you witnessed, those charges will never be filed. Not only that but others will be lessened or eliminated. But most of all, I need you to be honest. Do you get that? Absolutely honest. The slightest embellishment will hurt everything.”

The boy nodded. “I have hours of DVDs,” he said.

“Of?”

“The girl. In the shower. Dressing. Undressing. In bed. She had a boyfriend who . . . you know. He came over a lot when she was there. And they . . . you know.”

“You recorded it,” Walt said, his voice shaking slightly. He couldn’t hold himself back. “The assault, Taylor? Crab? Did you record the assault?”

“I didn’t burn it, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m not exactly what you’d call a techie.”

“It’s on my hard drive. I’ve got like fifteen hours on my hard drive.”

Fifteen hours
. “Including the assault.” Walt made it a statement.

Crabtree nodded, clearly ashamed. “How do you think I got in there to get her? You think I was going to take on those guys?” Walt noted the plural. “But they took a break. Jesus . . . the things they did to her. Poor Kira. But I got her out of there and into my car. And I was in such a fucking hurry, I planted my face into the car door as I opened it. I was carrying her. Bashed my face into the door.” He reached up and touched it. “It fucked me up bad. Was me who needed the emergency room. Drove like mad. Got her to the hospital. They never figured it out. That it was me helped her. Yesterday, when you came by, I wasn’t afraid of your cop car—”

“The pickup trucks.” Walt remembered them.

The kid nodded again. “I keep expecting a knock on the door and someone crushing my head in. Coats is fucking out of his mind. He’ll kill me, he figures out it was me. All I want is those cameras out of there. They’re still in there. Get it? He’s gonna find them at some point and then I’m, like, totally fucked.”

“I can probably help you there,” Walt said, his head spinning from the information. “The night of the assault, Coats had company?”

“Yeah.”

“A black Escalade? The guy’s in his late thirties. Pretty buffed out. Dresses well.”

The boy looked stunned. “How could you know that?”

“It’s my job, Taylor,” Walt said, and then mumbled to himself: “It’s my job.”

“WHY AM I BEING MADE TO WATCH THIS?” FIONA ASKED, standing alongside Walt in the sheriff’s office command center. The door was shut and locked, the television’s sound turned down low, so that Kira Tulivich’s agony remained contained within those walls.

“I’m sorry,” Walt said, “but you’re my photography expert.”

“They should be hung. No, castrated with a kitchen knife, then pulled, limb from limb, drawn and quartered. And even that would be too good for them.”

On the screen, Coats and an unidentified male took turns violating Kira Tulivich. The horror played out in the grainy black-and-white of Taylor Crabtree’s webcam, his computer having been confiscated from the RV he used as shelter.

“You may be able to spot a frame we could enlarge or something, to give us a better look at the second man.”

“It’s not that at all, is it?” she said accusingly. “What is it with you, Walt? Always having hidden agendas. Never admitting them. Why don’t you just come out and say you think it’s Sean Lunn?”

“Is that what you think?”

“Oh . . . give me a break.”

“Is it?”

“That’s what I think, yes. Does anything I see here confirm it, make me absolutely certain? No. But you won’t even speak his name.”

“I can’t,” Walt said, winning a surprised look from her.

“You need me as a witness?” she speculated.

“I need to identify the second man. Yes. That could prove extremely helpful.”

“So you don’t mention his name because, if you did, it could be construed later that you led the witness.”

“Something like that.”