Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

The situation room was laid out like a college class auditorium, albeit a small one, with a semi-circular row of seats rising from a stage area. Dr. Lorber and his assistant, Daphne, were hunched over their laptops at the front of the room. The projector screen pulled down behind them, showing the title Benjamin Cruz and Jack Whitcomb , along with the day’s date.

Wolf walked down the center aisle to the empty front row, passing District Attorney White, who was seated next to his two assistants. The DA was on his phone, lost in a conversation, but Wolf nodded to ADA Dan Warhola.

On the other side of the aisle, Waze typed a message to somebody on his phone. Next to him, Wilson also tapped his fingers on the screen of his cell, the undersheriff just as lost in technology as the rest of them.

When Wolf’s phone vibrated insistently in his own pocket, as if he were missing a phone call, he ignored it out of principle. He settled into the chair next to Rachette and Patterson .

“All going well on Instagram?”

“Huh?” Rachette looked up from his own phone. “What? No. I’m looking at TJ’s baseball schedule. He’s playing Patty’s kid’s team for the league championship tomorrow night. You ready for that, Patty?”

Patterson raised a thumb.

“She’s just disturbed at how bad TJ’s team’s gonna kick their ass.”

“We’ll see,” Patterson said.

“Yeah. We will. I’m excited. The team has worked real hard this year. Improved a lot.”

The screen at the front of the room changed from the placeholder text to a picture of the mangled dead body overhead.

Rachette turned to the front of the room as the murmur of conversation died down. Cell phones disappeared into pockets.

“Thanks for your attention,” Lorber said, lazily clicking a laser pointer in his long-fingered hand. “This is Benny Cruz. Our bear attack victim. As you can see, the animal did some serious damage to the bone and tissue.” He clicked through some photos. “The chest cavity was pried open to reveal the goods beneath. The arm was completely shredded and then ripped from its socket. Plenty of teeth marks everywhere.”

A photo of the face came next. It was untouched, eyes closed like in a peaceful sleep.

“But all this definitely wasn’t the cause of death. I found two gunshot wounds and retrieved two bullets. Both 9mm FMJs. Both shots to the chest lodged in his spinal column.”

Lorber clicked through more photos showing different angles of the man and various body parts. There were tattoos on every square inch of skin except hands and face: skulls, fire, guns, demons.

“On to Jack Whitcomb.”

The next body came on screen. This time, the face was frozen in the surprised expression of a D-list actor, both eyes open, one eyebrow raised. He lay straight now, no longer twisted as he had been against the tree.

“Three gunshot wounds. Chest, shoulder, and back. We found five corresponding casings at the rear corner of the cabin.”

Lorber clicked the pointer, and pictures of the brass shells appeared. “No usable prints after firing. Not even a partial.”

DA White raised his hand in the air, morning light glinting off the Rolex affixed to his wrist. “Time of death for these two?”

“I think Saturday fits.” Lorber moved to the other side of the floor, crossing his arms, the laser pointer dangling from his spindly fingers.

“Any prints inside the house?” Patterson asked.

“We found some layered prints on the doorknobs, but they were too convoluted to yield any match. We found one soda can and a half-eaten bag of McDonalds. The soda can was covered in condensation at some point, which we know is bad for prints. The fries container, the burger wrappers, all of it was a smudged mess.” Lorber shrugged his bony shoulders. “We tried. What can I say? If there’s any usable prints in that place, we couldn’t find them.”

“Any receipts inside those fast-food bags?” Waze asked.

“No,” Wolf said.

Waze’s eyes slid to him. “Did you speak to the sheriff up in Doyle? ”

“I did.” Wolf relayed the substance of the conversation between him and the sheriff of Anniston County and the shootout they had at the biker gang compound near Doyle.

“Sons of the Void,” Waze said. “They’re some of the worst.”

Pictures of the shattered and dismantled GPS unit came on screen, and Lorber continued talking. “This is a compact personal GPS tracking device from a company called Stonehouse Security. As you can see, it was disabled and destroyed in the process. No information is stored within, so there was none for us to find.”

“Can you tell what was in the duffle bag?” Waze asked.

“We think money. We found numerous red and blue security fibers and traces of linen and cotton, like what is found in US paper currency.”

“Ahh,” Waze said, looking around. “So, somebody is shooting up the Sons of the Void and stealing their money. They come down south, then find the GPS tracker and smash it. But it’s too late. They’ve been followed.”

“But whoever was in that cabin was better than these two,” Lorber said.

“It’s one gun that shot and killed these two?” Waze asked.

Lorber nodded. “Correct.”

“And what about the owner of the cabin?” Waze asked. “Have we gotten hold of him yet?”

“No, sir,” Rachette said.

“What’s his name?” Waze asked.

“Jim Everson,” Rachette said. “Seventy-three years old. Lives down near Ashland.”

“We don’t think he’s our man, do we?”

Undersheriff Wilson scoffed. “Not likely. ”

“We have his name, phone number, and address,” Rachette said. “We’ll go to him if need be.”

“It need be,” Waze said.

“Yes, sir.”

“So, all we have are the names of the dead guys,” White said.

All eyes landed on Wolf. He nodded.

“No witnesses. No weapons. No prints.” The DA upturned his hands. After a theatrical pause, he stood up and left the room, his two assistants in tow.

When the doors clapped shut, Waze got up, descended the steps, and stood next to Lorber, crossing his arms as he faced the room. Wilson remained seated.

“Alright,” Waze said. “So, we basically have nothing concrete.”

“We’ll talk to the cabin owner today, sir,” Rachette said.

“You’d better. Because I’m not going on camera today, telling people to be on the lookout for stray biker gang members. We have to get on top of this. Or, at least, make it look like we are.”

“We’ll get on it,” Wolf said.

Waze relaxed his position, unbuttoning his formal coat. “Just see what this guy says. I’m not expecting you guys to jump into a firefight between warring factions of psychos on motorcycles. I’m just…”

“You need something to tell the governor, who called you again this morning,” Patterson said.

“That’s right. How’d you know?” He feigned astonishment, wiped his forehead, and turned to leave. “Keep me posted.”

Waze left up the stairs with the undersheriff in tow .

Wolf, Patterson, and Rachette followed into the squad room, gathering around Rachette’s desk.

Next to them sat Yates’s desk, vacant and clean.

Rachette slapped his pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the screen and answered. “Detective Rachette…yes I did…yes, Mr. Everson,” he eyed them. “Thank you for calling me back.”

Wolf and Patterson watched patiently while Rachette coaxed the man into coming into the station.

“Thank you, sir. We look forward to seeing you then.” Rachette pocketed his phone. “He says he can be here by three o’clock this afternoon.”