Roadside Crosses: A Kathryn Dance Novel (29 page)

“Well, we do hear good things about you. That case earlier in the month, that crazy man on the Peninsula here? That was a tough one. You nailed the fellow, though.”

“We caught some lucky breaks.”

“No, no,” Overby interrupted quickly, “no breaks, no lucky. She outthought him.”

And Dance realized by saying “luck,” she’d suggested a criticism of herself, the CBI’s Monterey office and Overby.

“And what do you do exactly, Hamilton?” She wasn’t going for a status-defining “Mr.,” not in a situation like this.

“Oh, jack of all trades. A troubleshooter. If there are problems involving state agencies, the governor’s office, the assembly, even the courts, I look into it, write a report.” A smile. “A lot of reports. I hope they get read. You never know.”

This didn’t seem to answer her question. She looked at her watch, a gesture that Royce noticed but that Overby did not. As she’d intended.

“Hamilton is here about the Chilton case,” Overby said, then looked at the man from Sacramento to make sure that was all right. Back to Dance: “Brief us,” he said like a ship captain.

“Sure, Charles,” Dance replied wryly, noting both his tone and the fact Overby had said “the Chilton case.”
She’d
been thinking of the attacks as the Roadside Cross Case. Or the Travis Brigham Case. Now she had an inkling as to why Royce was here.

She explained about the murder of Lyndon Strickland—the mechanics of the killing and how he figured in the Chilton blog.

Royce frowned. “So he’s expanding his possible targets?”

“We think so, yes.”

“Evidence?”

“Sure, there’s some. But nothing specific that leads to where Travis is hiding out. We’ve got a joint CHP and sheriff’s office task force running a manhunt.” She shook her head. “They’re not making much progress. He doesn’t drive—he’s on a bike—and he’s staying underground.” She looked at Royce. “Our consultant thinks he’s using evasion techniques he learned in online games to stay out of sight.”

“Who?”

“Jon Boling, a professor from UC–Santa Cruz. He’s very helpful.”

“
And
he’s volunteering his time, no charge to us,” Overby slipped in smoothly, as if the words were oiled.

“About this blog,” Royce said slowly. “How does that figure in, exactly?”

Dance explained, “Some postings have set the boy off. He was cyberbullied.”

“So, he snapped.”

“We’re doing everything we can to find him,” Overby said. “He can’t be far. It’s a small peninsula.”

Royce hadn’t given much away. But Dance could see from his focused eyes he was not only sizing up the Travis Brigham situation but was neatly folding it into his purpose here.

Which he finally got down to.

“Kathryn, there’s a concern in Sacramento about this case, I have to tell you. Everybody’s nervous. It’s got teenagers, computers, social networking. Now, a weapon’s involved. You can’t help but think Virginia Tech and Columbine. Apparently those boys from Colorado were his idols.”

“Rumor. I don’t know if that’s true or not. It was
posted on the blog by someone who might or might not have known him.”

And from the flutter of eyebrow and twitch of lip, she realized she might have just played into his hand. With people like Hamilton Royce, you never could be sure if all was straightforward, or if you were fencing.

“This blog . . . I was talking to the AG about it. We’re worried that as long as people are posting, it’s like gasoline on the flames. You know what I mean? Like an avalanche. Well, mixing my metaphors, but you get the idea. What we were thinking: Wouldn’t it be better for the blog to shut down?”

“I’ve actually asked Chilton to do that.”

“Oh, you have?” Overby asked the question.

“And what did he say?”

“Emphatically no. Freedom of the press.”

Royce scoffed. “It’s just a blog. It’s not the
Chronicle
or
Wall Street Journal.
”

“He doesn’t feel that way.” Dance then asked, “Has anybody from the AG’s office contacted him?”

“No. If the request came from Sacramento, we’re worried that he’d post something about
us
bringing the subject up. And that’d spread to the newspapers and TV. Repression. Censorship. And those labels might rub off on the governor and some congressmen. No, we can’t do that.”

“Well, he refused,” Dance repeated.

“I was just wondering,” Royce began slowly, his gaze keenly strafing Dance, “if there was anything you’ve found about him, something to help persuade him?”

“Stick or carrot?” she asked quickly.

Royce couldn’t help but laugh. Savvy people
apparently impressed him.

“He doesn’t seem like the carrot sort, from what you’ve told me.”

Meaning a bribe wouldn’t work. Which Dance knew was true, having tried one. But neither did Chilton seem susceptible to threats. In fact, he seemed like the sort who’d relish them. And post something in his blog about any that were made.

Besides, though she didn’t like Chilton and thought he was arrogant and self-righteous, using something she’d learned in an investigation to intimidate the man into silence didn’t sit well. In any case, Dance could honestly answer, “I haven’t found a thing. James Chilton himself is a small part of the case. He didn’t even post anything about the boy—and he deleted Travis’s name. The point of the ‘Roadside Crosses’ thread was to criticize the police and highway department. It was the readers who started to attack the boy.”

“So there’s nothing incriminating, nothing we can use.”

Use.
Odd choice of verb.

“No.”

“Ah, too bad.” Royce
did
seem disappointed. Overby noticed too and looked disappointed himself.

Overby said, “Keep on it, Kathryn.”

Her voice was a crawl. “We’re working full-out to find the perp, Charles.”

“Of course. Sure. But in the whole scope of the case . . .” His sentence dwindled.

“What?” she asked sharply. The anger about Robert Harper was resurfacing.

Watch it, she warned herself.

Overby smiled in a way that bore only a loose resemblance to a smile. “In the whole scope of the
case it would be helpful to
everybody
if Chilton could be persuaded to stop the blog. Helpful to us and to Sacramento. Not to mention saving the lives of people who’ve posted comments.”

“Exactly,” Royce said. “We’re worried about more victims.”

Of course the AG and Royce would worry about that. But they’d also worry about the bad press against the state for not doing everything to stop the killer.

To end the meeting and get back to work, Dance simply agreed. “If I see anything you can use, Charles, I’ll let you know.”

Royce’s eyes flickered. Overby missed the irony completely and smiled. “Good.”

It was then that her phone vibrated with a text message. She read the screen, and gave a faint gasp and looked up at Overby.

Royce asked, “What is it?”

Dance said, “James Chilton was just attacked. I have to go.”

DANCE HURRIED INTO
Emergency Admitting at Monterey Bay Hospital.

She found TJ looking troubled in the middle of the lobby. “Boss,” he said, exhaling hard, relieved to see her.

“How is he?”

“He’ll be okay.”

“Did you get Travis?”

“It wasn’t the boy who did it,” TJ said.

At that moment the double doors to the emergency room swung open and James Chilton, a bandage on his cheek, strode out. “He attacked me!” Chilton was pointing at a ruddy-faced, solidly built man in a suit. He sat beside the window. A large county deputy stood over him. Without a greeting, Chilton pointed to him and snapped to Dance, “Arrest him.”

Meanwhile the man leapt to his feet. “Him. I want him in jail!”

The deputy muttered, “Mr. Brubaker, please sit down.” He spoke forcefully enough so that the man hesitated, delivered a glare to Chilton then dropped back into the fiberglass seat.

The officer then joined Dance and told her what
had happened. A half hour before, Arnold Brubaker had been on the grounds of his proposed desalination plant with a survey crew. He’d found Chilton taking pictures of animal habitats there. He tried to grab the blogger’s camera and shoved Chilton to the ground. The surveyors called the police.

The injury, Dance assessed, didn’t seem serious.

Still, Chilton seemed possessed. “That man is raping the Peninsula. He’s destroying our natural resources. Our flora and fauna. Not to mention destroying an Ohlone burial ground.”

The Ohlone Indians were the first inhabitants of this part of California.

“We aren’t building anywhere near the tribal land!” Brubaker yelled. “That was a rumor. And completely untrue!”

“But the traffic in and out of the area is going to—”

“And we’re spending millions to relocate animal populations and—”

“Both of you,” Dance snapped. “Quiet.”

Chilton, however, had his momentum going. “He broke my camera too. Just like the Nazis.”

Brubaker replied with a cold smile, “James, I believe you broke the law first by trespassing on private property. Didn’t the Nazis do that too?”

“I have a right to report on the destruction of our resources.”

“And I—”

“Okay,” Dance snapped. “No more!”

They fell silent as she got the details of the various offenses from the deputy. Finally she approached Chilton. “You trespassed on private property. That’s a crime.”

“I—”

“Shhh. And you, Mr. Brubaker, assaulted Mr. Chilton, which is illegal unless you’re in imminent danger of physical harm from a trespasser. Your remedy was to call the police.”

Brubaker fumed, but he nodded. He seemed upset that all he’d done was bang Chilton’s cheek. The bandage was quite small.

“The situation is that you’re guilty of minor offenses. And if you want to complain I’ll make arrests. But it’ll be both of you. One for criminal trespass and one for assault and battery. Well?”

Red-faced, Brubaker began to whine, “But he—”

“Your answers?” Dance asked with an ominous calm that made him shut up immediately.

Chilton nodded, with a grimace. “All right.”

Finally, with frustration evident in his face, Brubaker muttered to Dance, “Okay. Fine. But it’s not fair! Seven days a week for the past year, working to help eliminate drought. That’s been my life. And
he
sits in that office of his and tears me down, without even looking at the facts. People see what he says in that blog and think it’s true. And how can I compete with that? Write a blog of my own? Who has time?” Brubaker delivered a dramatic sigh and headed out the main door.

After he’d gone, Chilton said to Dance, “He’s not building the plant out of the goodness of his heart. There’s money to be made and that’s his only concern. And I
have
researched the story.”

His voice fell silent as she turned to him and he noticed her somber expression. “James, you might not have heard the news. Lyndon Strickland was just murdered by Travis Brigham.”

Chilton remained still for a moment. “Lyndon Strickland, the lawyer? Are you sure?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The blogger’s eyes were sweeping the floor of the emergency room, green-and-white tile, mopped clean but scuffed by years of anxious heels and soles. “But Lyndon posted in the desalination thread, not ‘Roadside Crosses.’ No, Travis wouldn’t have any complaint with him. It’s somebody else. Lyndon’d made a lot of people upset. He was a plaintiff’s lawyer and was always taking on controversial causes.”

“The evidence doesn’t leave any doubt. It was Travis.”

“But why?”

“We think because his post supported you. Doesn’t matter that it was a different blog thread. We think Travis is expanding his pool of targets.”

Chilton greeted this with grim silence, then asked, “Just because he posted something agreeing with me?”

She nodded. “And that leads me to something else I’ve been worried about. That Travis might be after you.”

“But what argument does he have with me? I haven’t said a word about him.”

She continued, “He’s targeted somebody who’s supporting you. And the extension of that is that he’s angry with you too.”

“You really think so?”

“I think we can’t afford to dismiss it.”

“But my family’s—”

“I’ve ordered a car stationed outside your house. A deputy from the sheriff’s office.”

“Thank you . . . thank you. I’ll tell Pat and the boys to be on the lookout for anything odd.”

“You’re all right?” She nodded at the bandage.

“It’s nothing.”

“You need a ride home?”

“Pat’s coming to pick me up.”

Dance started outside. “Oh, and for God’s sake, leave Brubaker alone.”

Chilton’s eyes narrowed. “But do you know the effects that plant is going to have . . .” He fell silent and held up two hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay off his property.”

“Thank you.”

Dance walked outside and turned her phone back on. It rang thirty seconds later. Michael O’Neil. She was comforted to see his number pop up.

“Hey.”

“I just heard a report. Chilton. He was attacked?”

“He’s fine.” She explained what had happened.

“Trespassing. Serves him right. I called the office. They’re getting the crime scene report back from the Strickland shooting. I pushed ’em to get it done fast. But nothing really helpful jumps out.”

“Thanks.” Dance then lowered her voice—amusing herself because she did so—and told O’Neil about the curious encounter with Hamilton Royce.

“Great. Too many cooks screwing up the broth.”

“I’d like to
put them
in the broth,” Dance muttered. “And turn up the heat.”

“And this Royce wants to shut down the blog?”

“Yep. Worried about the public relations is my take.”

O’Neil offered, “I almost feel sorry for Chilton.”‘

“Spend ten minutes with him; you’ll feel different.”

The deputy chuckled.

“I was going to call you anyway, Michael. I’ve asked Mom and Dad over tonight for dinner. She needs the support. Love it if you could come.” She added, “You and Anne and the kids.”