Killer View (7 page)

Crabtree lit a cigarette. He played the scene deadpan.

Kids saw too many movies, Walt thought.

“Thing of it is, Taylor, I could probably convince a judge to cut that two hundred eighty-two hours in half, if you were to give me something that led me to these guys. If we got a conviction, he might make that time go away completely.”

Crabtree stared at the scuffed toes of his winter boots. He flicked the long ash off the cigarette and finally inhaled.

“Maybe you didn’t hit a tree. Maybe you can identify one or two of these guys from photos.”

“I hit a tree.” Eyes still fixed on the ground.

“They threaten you? I can help with that.”

He huffed out a laugh and some smoke with it.

“Why don’t you ask someone else?”

“Because most kids are afraid of them.” Walt gave that a few seconds to sink in. “You don’t strike me as a kid who’s afraid of much, Crab.”

Crabtree glanced up briefly from the toes of his boots.

“I’d like to know how many there are. What they drive. Where they’re staying. Who they know. Anything along those lines. You think you could do that?”

He shrugged.

“Community service can’t be too wonderful this time of year. What do they have you doing, shoveling sidewalks at Rowan House? Cleaning the dog shit off the ski trails? I can make that go away.”

“You’re the one put it there in the first place.”

“Was I the one who broke into that laundry to steal chemicals? Don’t put that on me.”

Elbie banged on the inside glass of the door to the garage and held up a three-ring binder.

Crabtree snuffed out his cigarette and shuffled back inside, Walt trailing behind. Walt took the manufacturer’s product description—the sheet included a print of the tread pattern—and thanked Elbie. There was no mistaking its similarity to the tire tread in Fiona’s photo.

As he climbed back into the Cherokee, Walt caught a glimpse of Crabtree’s bruised face through the filthy gray glass of the garage doors.

MYRA, WALT’S SISTER-IN-LAW, SAT ON THE ONLY FREE chair in Walt’s crowded office. Pushed back into a corner against a bookshelf, she faced his desk, her skinny legs crossed, a solemn expression dominating her shrunken face. Her awkwardly cropped brown hair was held out of her eyes with a pink plastic clip. Brown eyeliner was smudged over her right eye.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, giving her a peck on the cheek as he crossed to his desk. She returned the kiss, and then grabbed his arm and worked the thumb of her left hand against his cheek to remove the lipstick left behind.

“You look tired.”

“I am,” Walt answered. “And I’m busy, Myra. A lot on my plate.” He’d received an update from Search and Rescue: forty percent of the mountain below the Drop had been searched, with no sign of the missing skier.

He didn’t want to say how she looked. And he didn’t want to get her talking. Once started, she was like an avalanche.

There had been a time, three years ago, back before the death of Walt’s brother, when she’d had some weight to her breasts and hips. Had even turned a few heads. But grief had freeze-dried her, and there was no reconstituting that original Myra. Robert’s death had cost Walt too—his marriage, among other things.

Myra kicked the office door closed. Walt rarely shut his office door; he could almost hear the gossip begin on the other side of it.

“You asked Kevin about something going on at school.”

“I’m talking to a bunch of the kids,” he said. “Just spoke to Taylor Crabtree a few minutes ago.”

“You could have told me.”

“It’s kind of quiet right now. I asked Kevin to keep it between us.”

“If you’re turning your nephew—my son—into an informer, I’d like to know about it.”

“And if it gets that far you will.” Walt shuffled some papers. “You and Kevin have dinner plans?”

“Now we do. Eight o’clock?”

Walt smiled. “Good.”

“Girls okay?”

“Nikki needs a new coat. Emily’s growing out of her boots.” He looked up exasperated. “I suck as a father.”

“Not true.”

“Work is taking over again.”

“It goes in cycles. You know that. You’re tired. Give me the girls for a couple days. Catch a movie or something.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You can’t be everything for everyone. There’s no one complaining but you. The girls are happier. You’re better off than you were with Gail around. At least things are consistent. That’s a major improvement.” She picked some lint off her sweater. “Have you cleaned out her stuff?”

Walt hit her with an icy stare.

“I can’t, Myra. Not yet.”

“That’s where it starts, Walt. I offered before: I can do this for you. You come home from work, it’s done.”

He shook his head, pursed his lips. “No thanks.”

“Open-ended offer.”

“Let’s change the subject.”

She stirred; he hoped she might get up and leave, but it wasn’t to be.

“And what about the primary? What if you lose?” Myra asked.

Walt closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He dreaded the election cycle. Every four years, like a plague.

“Have you thought about what happens if you lose this election?”

“Myra, I’m a little busy for this.”

“It’s not as if there are other sheriff jobs in this valley. If you and Gail sell the house, and you end up unemployed, you’re going to be forced out of the valley like every other worker. Who can afford these prices anymore? Then what? Will the court let you take the girls out of state? Courts love the mother.”

“The mother doesn’t want them.”

“Not now, she doesn’t. But just wait until she sees you with another woman. Sees you happy. She’ll do anything to stop that.”

“That’s not going to happen anytime soon,” he said.

“Then it’ll be when you challenge her for custody. But the day is coming when she’s going to regret all this. Mark my word.”

He swallowed that one away, hoisted a pile of pink messages. “I’ll figure it out. I’ve got a ton of work here, Myra.”

“You need this election.”

“I’ll give it more thought. We’ll talk about it at dinner.”

She stood. No one could take that chair for too long. “You give me the word, I’ll have every trace of her out of that house in twenty minutes.” And she meant it.

WALT WAS EN ROUTE TO RANDY A KER’S CABIN WHEN THE call came in. Kira Tulivich, the missing bridesmaid, was in Emergency at St. Jude’s. He reached Fiona and asked her to meet him there.

“She wandered in through the front door about four-thirty this morning,” the attending desk nurse told Walt. “She didn’t know who she was or where she was,” the nurse continued, “and there was some confusion on our end in contacting you, as I understand it, because we thought we might be dealing with a minor. We’ve cleaned her up and examined her. Brought in a SANE nurse.” Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner. This told Walt all that he wanted to know. “She gave us her name about an hour ago. She’s nineteen. Doesn’t want her family notified, and we have to honor that.”

“You do, but I don’t,” he said. “We’ll let them know.”

The nurse seemed relieved. He placed a call to Nancy and asked her to inform the family. As Fiona came through the doors, he guessed they had fifteen to twenty minutes before the onslaught.

They waited quietly in seats alongside a set of automatic doors that errantly reacted to the slightest motion. Walt felt paralyzed, reeling over Mark’s disappearance.

A tall artificial tree stood in the corner of the waiting room, its dust-colored silk leaves looking pathetic. One of the seat cushions bore the artistic efforts of a child with a purple marker. The walls were covered in a sand brown corduroy fabric.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said.

“I called the Hailey mortuary on the way up here. Mark’s never called.”

They sat in silence. Walt checked his watch, then the wall clock, then his watch again.

“I don’t love the idea of photographing this woman. Can’t the doctors do that?”

“The nurses. Yes. You’ll only be shooting her face and hands and belongings. Believe me, the quality of their pictures leaves a lot to be desired, and you’re the best we’ve got.”

“I’m the only one you’ve got.”

“I have a hidden agenda: I’m required to have a woman deputy in the room with me, and you were the closest.”

“Last time I checked, Walt, I was also a civilian.”

“Consider yourself deputized. Seriously. It’s done.”

“I want a badge,” she said. “And a car with a siren.”

“So noted.”

They were shown into a brightly lit examination room that held an array of colorful machines hung from stainless steel stands, yards of clear plastic tubing, and three boxes of different-colored examination gloves.

Fiona saw the young woman’s face and gasped.

Her reaction turned Walt toward her. “Listen, if you can’t handle this—”

“It’s not that!” she countered in a whisper. “I
know
her, Walt. From the wedding. Last night’s wedding. On the dance floor. She was there, for heaven’s sake.”

“Can you do this?” he asked.

“Of course.”

The girl’s knees were raised beneath a white cotton sheet adorned with pale blue bees, her head elevated by several pillows. Beneath the blotchy complexion and runny nose, she was a pretty girl of nineteen, but with a tormented sadness in her dull eyes that cut to the quick. Her red hair was a tangled mess. Her makeup was smeared down her face. There were bundles of oversized paper bags on a rolling table to the left of the bed. Her clothes and belongings. One of those bags would contain a bedsheet she would have stood on while undressing—Walt wanted a look at any debris that had fallen off her.

The nurse was an attractive woman in her late forties wearing the name tag HOPE on the chest of her scrubs. She spoke in a dry, husky voice.

“Her behavior when we admitted her was consistent with date rape. Catatonic. Possibly a result of shock, but more likely the drugs. I wouldn’t be surprised to find either Rohypnol or ketamine. Bloods are cooking in the lab. Injuries are consistent with oral, anal, and vaginal penetration. We’ll run a rape kit on her next, but that can take hours. I was told to wait for you guys first.”

“I’d like to talk to her, if possible,” Walt explained. “And I’ve asked Deputy Kenshaw to take a few pictures—face and hands.”

“I’ve got no problem with that.” She leaned over the victim. “Kira? The police are here.”

The girl squinted open bloodshot blue eyes. She didn’t focus well. Her pupils were completely dilated, making him think of Roman death masks with coins placed over the eyes.

Walt kept his voice low. He made introductions. “Can I ask you a few questions, Kira?”

“I don’t remember anything,” she said, sounding doped. She took a sip of water from a straw offered by the nurse. Tears followed tracks down her cheeks.

“Sometimes we know more than we think. What’s the last thing you recall?”

“We were at Whiskey’s . . . dancing. Then I woke up in this car.” She pinched her eyes shut tightly. “He dropped me out front, I think.”

“He?”
Walt asked the girl. “Do you know whoever drove you?”

She opened her eyes and looked at Walt as if she’d never seen him. “Who are you?”

Walt reintroduced himself and Fiona. “Did you get a good look at the man that dropped you off? Do you know him, Kira?”

She stared right through him.

“A friend? Family? Someone from the wedding?” he asked.

He thought he’d lost her. Her eyes rolled up and her lids closed. Her chest rose and fell heavily. “KB’s,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

KB’s was a burrito shop in town. Two restaurants: one in Hailey, one in Ketchum.

“Someone you know from KB’s?” Walt asked, a jolt of energy pulsing through him.

Her head rocked faintly side to side. Or maybe she had just nodded off.

“A person who works there?”

“KB’s.” Her lips moved silently.

“KB’s,” Walt repeated back to her.

Her head moved infinitesimally.

“She just nodded, yes?” he asked Fiona, who shrugged. “Kira?”

A minute or two passed. It seemed much longer.

“My two cents?” the nurse said.

Walt nodded.

“The bruising indicates violent assault. This wasn’t a frat house rape, or, if it was, it was multiple partners. It was a violent assault. If that helps you any.”

“I need her last twelve hours,” Walt said, his voice cracking. “It’s important.”

“I doubt you’ll get it. Not if the bloods come back positive for Rohypnol.”

“May I?” Walt said, indicating the girl’s hands.

He donned a pair of gloves and a pair of glasses, then picked up her limp right hand, leaning close.

He asked Fiona for some photographs and she went to work.

“She was bound,” he said, addressing the nurse. “Wire or plastic tie. You’ll scrape the fingernails, as part of the kit?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’d like her fingernails clipped and bagged, please, if that’s possible.”

“Of course.”

He indicated the paper bags on the stand.

“Her dress, a piece of panty hose. Shoes. I’ve held off on the rape kit, as I said.” She sounded a little defensive. “She’s wearing a strapless bra. It was not in place, and I’ve left it where it was. There’s bruising visible on both breasts. No underwear. Probably torn off during the attack.”

The possibility of evidence left behind at the scene sparked a moment of optimism in him.

“Alcohol was also involved,” the nurse said, interrupting. “She tested point-one-four upon arrival.” She answered Walt’s inquisitive expression. “We ran a Breathalyzer as part of admittance.”

“Point-one-four?” Walt said. “That’s juiced. Well over the limit.”