Skin Dancer (9 page)

Scott had interviewed a dozen men associated with Hank Welford and who might bear him a grudge. Nothing. The case was at a standstill. Even the forensic evidence was nil so far. Her first big case and she was stalled.

Trussell's expensive belongings had been found at a camp site some five miles from the murder scene but had led nowhere.

Night had fallen early with the help of the storm. She was alone, except for the dispatcher, Gladys, who was reading a novel. Judging from the expression on Gladys's face, she wouldn't have paid attention if a bomb exploded in their building.

Rachel rubbed her eyes, aware that she was tired and hungry. VICAP had yielded no match for similar cases, but she'd done a comprehensive ten–year newspaper search for murders where the victims were mutilated. There were plenty of cases, but none that resembled what was happening in Criss County.

A shadow fell over her desk, and she looked up to see Jake reading the report over her shoulder.

“You got something on that doctor?” Jake motioned to the papers in her hand. “What's the story?”           

“He was being sued by one of his patients.”

Jake's eyes showed immediate interest. “What kind of suit?”

“The kind that can get a man killed.” She handed the papers to him.

Jake studied the report for a moment before he lowered it. “He molested a sixteen–year–old girl?”

“Allegedly molested. And not just any girl, but a patient who claims she was raped while sedated. The girl's family was asking for half a million to settle.”

Jake put the pages on her desk. “So why torture Hank instead of the doctor?”

Rachel rubbed the furrow between her eyebrows. “That troubles me. Could be Trussel ran and the killer shot him in the head.” She shook her head. “Could be Hank did something stupid and pissed the killer off.”

“Could be you need something to eat,” Jake said, rubbing the back of her neck. “You look done in. Want to grab a burger at Lulu's?” 

“Sure.” She slipped the report into her desk drawer and locked it.

“A little paranoid, aren't you?”

She didn't look at him as she got her purse. “Force of habit. That way nothing goes missing and there's no time lost hunting for things that someone picked up and forgot to return.”

The rain had begun to slack off when they opened the door of the courthouse. Rachel hunched into her coat. Though it was summer, the storm had brought with it cooler temperatures. “Jake, do you think it's possible someone from Boston followed this guy here and decided to take justice into his own hands?”

Jake didn't immediately answer, and she didn't press as they walked to his Land Rover. He opened the door and she slid in.

“It's possible.” He started the vehicle and pulled out onto Main Street. “But why kill someone who might pay you half a million?”

“Maybe to spare your daughter having to testify in a courtroom. They can still sue the estate.”

Jake glanced at her. “Some fathers would do that.”

“Yeah, some would.” She fixed her gaze out the passenger window. “And some wouldn't. Like mine.” She wanted to take the last two words back as soon as she spoke them. This was one of the reasons she found it difficult to be around Jake. He knew too much of her history. And sometimes, when she was tired and her guard was down, she slipped too close to being the teenager who'd viewed her own life as worthless.

“You know it wasn't you that your father abandoned, Rachel. Your mom made it impossible for anyone to stay around.”

“Except for me.” Jesus, why not just send out invitations to the pity party? “Look, I don't want to talk about this.” She sat up taller, determined to shed the memories as she lost the slumping posture she'd assumed as soon as she thought about the past.

“I've never told you about the day your dad left, have I?”

Rachel felt the skin on her face tighten. “You saw him leave?” It was one of Jake's habits, to reveal things by layer and degree. Sometimes she wondered if he made things up based on the situation.

“Wasn't much to see. I'd ridden my bike to the Little League game and stopped to say hi to your mom. Your dad threw a pillowcase full of clothes into the front seat of his truck and reversed out of the driveway. I figured he and your mom had had another fight and that he'd be back in a day or so. They fought pretty regular toward the end, and it was nothing to see him pack his things and light out for a bit.”

There was nothing Rachel could add. They were talking about a ghost, a man she'd never met. Her only image of him came from an old photograph she'd found in her mother's things.

The windshield wipers swished back and forth as they drove slowly down Main Street. On the edge of town they passed Prima Donna's, a modern glass and steel structure that looked out of place among buildings that bore the distinctive stamp of the old West. The studio/dojang was closed. The little tappers and ballerinas were cute, but Rachel liked to work out in the wee hours of the morning when sleep wouldn't come.

“I've grown to love this town,” Jake said, his thoughts paralleling hers.

“I know. It's a special place. Do you think Paradise will change it a lot?”

He sighed. “Change is inevitable.”

She grasped what he meant instantly. Bisonville and Criss County would change greatly. She took in the empty streets that had seen a bloody history and now a deep peace.

Neon lit Bud's Bar and Lulu's, as well as the local pharmacy. Almost everything else was closed. Bisonville rolled up every day about five o'clock when the work day was over. Growing up in Rapid City, she would've been appalled at the idea that she'd ever find this solitude and isolation comforting. “What would my life be like now if your parents hadn't taken me in and moved here, away from all the drugs and bad influences?”

“I figured your dad never knew about you,” Jake said as he parked the Land Rover right in front of the café. Red neon advertised barbecue, and green promised short orders.

She opened the car door and started to get out, but his hand gently stopped her. “If he'd known about you, he would have come back. Nobody had a clue until months later when Junie started showing. By then there was no denying it, and though Dad tried to find your father, he never could get a trace on him.”

“You ever think I might not belong to Edward Redmond?” It was a question that she'd asked herself a million times, but she'd never asked her mother. “I mean, Mama wasn't all that particular who shared her bed.”

Jake's thumb rubbed the top of her hand. “She wasn't like that always, Rachel. You know that. I think she got desperate. She loved you. For all of her flaws, she did love you. I think she felt trapped by her life.”

“She was the most imprisoned person I've ever known.” Rachel was impatient to get out of the vehicle and the conversation. Jake wasn't usually so sentimental, and she was wary of falling too far down the black hole of the past.

He nodded. “She constructed a perfect hell for herself, but I remember her when you were first born. I was just a kid myself, but she'd sit on the steps of the trailer and bounce you on her knees. You laughed a lot as a baby. And drooled.”

“Thanks for the image and the walk down memory lane.” She slipped free of him and stepped into the cold air. “I want to get a workout in later tonight, so let's grab that burger. I'm starving.”

 

The burger was delicious. Lulu's husband, Jimmy, charcoal–grilled the meat out back, creating a juicy,

tender sandwich replete with organic tomatoes and lettuce. In their sixties, Lulu and Jimmy still wore jeans with peace symbol appliqués, beads and headbands to contain their long gray hair. Had Rachel been one to think in certain directions, she might have thought that between the rows of carefully tended vegetables a weed or two of marijuana might have strayed. But Rachel didn't think that way, and neither did the sheriff. Lulu and Jimmy were valued local residents.

She bit into the burger again, relishing the taste.

Jake put his sandwich down. “Jesus, Rachel, you act like you haven't eaten in a week.”

Rachel grinned around a mouthful of meat and bun and wiped her mouth. “I'd forgotten anything could taste this good.”

“Cheap date. How about another glass of tea?”

She shook her head. “Coffee and some chocolate pie.”

Jake signaled Lulu, who personally came over to take the order. “One chocolate pie and two coffees.” He winked at Lulu. “Rachel's trying to empty my wallet.”

“Get him his own pie because I'm not sharing.” Rachel nodded at Lulu. “Bring him a piece or he'll eat most of mine.”

“I'll be sure I make those generous pieces,” Lulu said as she patted Rachel's shoulder. “You look good in that uniform. Although you turned a few heads when you wore one of my paisley aprons.”

“I like the way you lie.” Rachel smiled up at the older woman. She'd moved with the Ortiz family to Bisonville, and Lulu had given her a job. Waiting tables had taught Rachel a work ethic and a lot about human nature. She'd learned to smile when a customer was being unreasonable and to take a twenty–five cent tip with grace.

Lulu went to get the pie and Rachel found Jake was staring at her. She sopped up the last bit of catsup with her bun and gave him her attention. “What are you thinking?”

“I take it from your interest in Ashton Trussell that you don't believe WAR had anything to do with the murders.”

Rachel gave a sound of disgust. “I think they destroyed that heavy equipment, but I never put any credence into them killing Welford and Trussell. The profiles of these groups indicate younger members inclined toward sabotage of road and logging equipment but not murder.”

“It's just that Hank and Trussell were skinned
and
their heads taken. Exactly like a hunter does an animal.” Jake tapped the table with his forefinger. “WAR is against the use of animals for sport. It fits.”

“I agree. What a boost for WAR to take none of the risk and all of the credit, but what I don't get is why the real killer didn't strip the skin that contained Hank's tattoo. It made identification too easy. As if the killer wanted Hank identified. And that silver thing stabbed into his chest. I hope the lab comes up with something.”

Jake nodded, conceding her point. “Have you talked to the editor at the newspaper?”

She shook her head. “Gordon talked to the publisher. He's cooperating with us. I talked to the reporter who got the note. It was slipped under the door of the office during the night, not mailed. We dusted it for fingerprints. None. The writing is block print on copy paper with a black ballpoint ink pen. Every store in the nation sells the stuff.”

“The editor should have called before he printed that story.”

“If you're serious about running for sheriff, Jake, you need to develop a relationship with the local paper.”

“I won't kiss—”

“Take it easy. I'm not suggesting that you pander to them. But you see how Gordon works with them. They cover stories that he wants covered, and he shares information with them when he can.”

Jake had a burn on for journalists, and Rachel didn't understand it. As far as she knew, Jake's dad had been a media darling. The local newspapers and TV stations had made him a celebrity when he stayed out in a snow storm and rescued two lost children.

“They printed a letter claiming two murders without telling us first. Even if it is bogus, that's irresponsible.”

“Give it up, Jake.”

“That's what Frankie tells me, too.”

“The editor did us a favor by printing the confession. If the killer is local, maybe he'll think we aren't hunting him anymore.” She wondered if Jake had taken Frankie fully into his confidence. “Is Frankie Jackson advising you now?”

“Dad and Gordon think a lot of her. She grew up around here.” He sipped his tea. “You two have a lot in common, Rachel. Ask her about it.” He looked around the café to be sure no one was interested in their conversation. “That plastic surgeon troubles me. If someone flew out here just to kill him in a gruesome way and took Welford down because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, we may never catch the murderer.”

“That's a possibility, but I think Hank was the target. That silver pinned to his chest must have a special meaning.”

“Everything at the scene means something. We just don't know what.”

She picked up a fry and dragged it through a puddle of catsup on Jake's plate. “I saw John Henry James.” She gave Jake a brief summary of her meeting with the ex–con.

“You should have taken back–up, Rachel. The man's a convicted killer. A woman killer.”

She picked up another fry. “He admitted to being on the scene. As a passing witness to the moose killing. Jake, he didn't know Hank was dead.”

“Rachel—”

“Don't, Jake. Don't make me doubt myself. Not now. If I can't trust my own judgment, I don't have anything to offer as a deputy.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Any news on the vandalism?”

“We got some prints off the heavy equipment. No match was found in the FBI's AFIS system, which isn't surprising if my theory is correct that WAR is behind it. Most of those kids come from good families. They won't have criminal records.”

“Any luck getting a membership roster of the group?” Jake pushed his plate aside to make room on the table for the slab of pie Lulu put in front of him.

“I don't think they pay dues. I found an Internet site for them but so far haven't been able to trace it to a webmaster. It's mostly an information page–no call to action. The sheriff is working on that angle.” She looked up at Lulu as her pie slid in front of her. “Tell Marge that the meringue is a work of art.”