Chapter Nineteen

With the EastCoast out to lunch, I decided to head to the McCrackens' unannounced to see if I found Sam this time.

Apparently, my SUV had other plans, turning west — toward the center of Sherman — when I pulled out of the KWMT parking lot.

Might as well see where it — and my subconscious? — led.

Turned out to be behind the Cottonwood County Courthouse. In other words, the sheriff's department.

My subconscious might have been tuned into something because Sergeant Shelton and Deputy Richard Alvaro came out the back door of the building and headed toward a marked truck as I parked between it and them.

I loved it when my subconscious set it up so I could return the favor to Shelton of skulking in a parking lot.

I stepped in front of them.

Shelton considered going around me, then decided not to after a look at my face.

"Any progress on the Keefer Dobey murder?" I asked.

"No comment," Shelton said without heat.

"Close to making an arrest? Should we hold a spot in tonight's newscasts for breaking news?"

"No comment."

"Did you know he'd had a DNA test?"

Richard's eyes flickered, Shelton's did not. He truly was a tough nut.

But I had my answer.

And that was worth more than keeping the information to myself would have been.

First, because it told me the sheriff's department hadn't known Keefe had a recent DNA test. Which meant the DNA results had not been in Keefe's cabin.

The sheriff's department almost certainly hadn't questioned Brenda and Wendy in a way that got them talking enough to mention that Keefe was excited about the DNA test results and his hope — expectation — that they would show he was descended from Oscar Virtanen.

But they would not have missed the test results during their search. And if it had arrived since Keefe's death, they'd know about it that way.

Second, knowing about the test's existence would set Shelton in pursuit. And he had law enforcement tools to pry the information out of the lawyers' chronically constricted fingers.

After a long enough pause to make it clear Shelton hadn't employed his previous answer, making it clear this was different, I said, "Don't strain your voice — I know, no comment."

Still nothing. But they also didn't move past me.

"Not a paternity test," I said, shaking the ball in front of their eyes to be sure I had their full attention.

Richard blinked, presumably at the concept of Keefe being the subject of a paternity test, indicating their victimology assessments were similar to ours.

Shelton didn't.

"It was to look into his relations." I used that word rather than ancestry, because Shelton would be much less interested in dead people he couldn't get his hands on than live ones subject to a satisfying arrest.

Neither blinked. I liked to think that was because they were awed at our knowing this information.

"Robin Kenyon bought the test for him as a thank you. Well, officially, I suppose it was her father's money and he certainly knew about it." Tossing the ball, I added, "It was done by the HelixKin company. Keefe told several people he thought he'd have the results by now."

Go, fetch.

Problem was, Shelton was about as good a retriever as Shadow. Did just fine on chasing what I threw, but lousy at bringing it back to me.

On the other hand, once they chased it down using the clout of the judicial system, we'd gather some of its results by their next moves.

****

Serena and Snowballanswered the door together again.

Instead of inviting me in, she left the dog inside — to his chagrin — snagged a jacket and pulled it on as she gestured me to go back down the stairs.

"Sam's out in his office — what used to be the workshop. I'll take you out there."

Sam McCracken's workshop/office was a steep-roofed shed beside the barn.

Serena opened the door then gestured for me to enter, but did not follow. "Sam, Elizabeth Margaret Danniher of KWMT-TV is here to see you."

She closed the door behind me.

I barely noticed.

I don't think Sam noticed at all.

My inattention stemmed from the sight before me.

I now understood Serena's gesture when she'd touched on Sam's book-ordering. The fruits of his clicking finger stretched from floor to ceiling and wall to wall around three-quarters of the shed. The fourth wall held a desk with five computer screens along its length, with Sam McCracken on a wheeled chair that moved from screen to screen a lot based on marks on the floor.

Clerestory windows brought natural light in without interrupting the book cases.

Sam's inattention to his wife's departure stemmed from the sight of me.

"What do you want?"

Not the most welcoming of greetings, but better than get the h— out of here.

"When I was here before you'd just gotten four horses for you and your family."

He answered the implicit question with, "Riding the horses is nice, but not something you can do all day, every day." His gaze went in the direction of the house though a wall of books — and what they represented — blocked his view. "At least I can't. Tried running some cattle, but decided that wasn't for me, either."

"Looks like you have another—" I rejected the terms hobby, rabbit hole, craze, obsession. "—pastime now."

He lifted one shoulder as his focus slid to the bulletin board behind the closest computer monitors. They held printouts, photos, replica wanted posters, maps — lots of maps. "This is interesting. Fascinating."

Interesting, even fascinating, maybe. But his expression did not say fun.

When we'd met, I'd thought he wouldn't be mistaken for a rancher despite being comfortable in the attire, because his skin didn't reflect years outside in every weather. Now his face looked downright pale.

Of course, ranchers aren't as tanned in March as in August, either, but this was more than winter limiting exposure to the sun. This was pallor born of choosing inside over outside, day after day after day.

He hadn't invited me to sit, but I did anyway — on a stool that put me half a foot lower than his commander-of-the-kingdom desk chair.

It was my only choice. This was not a place set up for McCracken to entertain visitors.

"You've heard that Keefer Dobey was murdered?"

I was sure Serena would have relayed that even if he cocooned himself from other sources of news.

"Yeah."

"He lived such a quiet life. Seemed the only thing that took him out into the wider world was his pursuit of Oscar Virtanen."

He took a different approach to the topic.

Still staring at the bulletin board, he said, "Treasure hunting, for wont of a better name for it, has become trendy. You know anything about it?"

"I know about all the people who went after the treasure chest Forrest Fenn buried in the Rocky Mountains then wrote the poem with riddles to solve for finding it," I said carefully.

What journalist didn't after the stories about extremists among the seekers — five died while searching, others threatened Fenn and his family, untold vacation hours and budgets were devoted to it.

And some haven't stopped — even though the bronze chest was found in 2020. The location hadn't been revealed and people who'd spent years looking for the location are willing to spend more years searching for where it was.

Especially since Fenn didn't reveal where it was found before he died and the finder says he never will.

And then some believe it still hasn't been found, so they're still looking.

"Those people," he said with disgust. "That whole thing was a Disney event."

Tell that to the families of the five who died.

"The real pursuit isn't Disney. It takes intellect. It takes research. It takes imagination. It takes all of them together and more or you get nowhere.

"If you simply do basic research, you are treading over the same ground others have trampled before you. That's what I discovered with the Butch Cassidy treasures. People crossing and re-crossing the same territory. Utah, Wyoming, Montana, Colorado, Nevada — that's a lot of territory but they've still trampled all over it."

"What makes you think Butch Cassidy buried treasure in the first place?"

"What do you mean?"

"If he had money from a previous robbery buried somewhere and he needed money, why not go there and dig it up, instead of leaving the money from a previous robbery buried and robbing another train or bank or whatever and increasing his chances of getting caught?"

For a second he stared at me like I had two heads and the best he could do was try not to look at either one. Then he blinked, sat up, and he was another man. Much more the one I'd met previously. "That's it exactly! It's far more likely they spent what they stole — high living, all the horses they needed for getaways — and they couldn't steal all of them, keeping their remote hideaways operating, probably bribing ranchers if not lawmen. And then they had to steal again. Or they had something else that made it worthwhile robbing again. That's why I'm searching for Oscar's treasure."

I wasn't going to call the man a liar to his face, but it sure seemed like he'd only just recognized that angle. I suspect his transfer from Butch Cassidy to Oscar Virtanen stemmed from a realization of all those other people before and beside him on the search.

"Had you worked with other searchers?"

"No."