The Summerland Page 3
Pulling the shades, he ignored the fact that each and every person in the squad room was looking directly at him. Then he locked the door again and removed the duffel bag from its safe haven.
He unzipped the top and let out a slow hiss as the contents of the bag stared up at him. His first impression had been correct. The bag was packed to the gills with cash in twenty-dollar denominations. At first glance most of the bills appeared to be well used, which was not comforting since it made them that much harder to trace. He tore his reverent gaze from the money to the door as Gail knocked discreetly.
“Sheriff, sorry to interrupt you, but Frank Drebin from the FBI is here to see you.”
Gail could hear the barely veiled laughter in his voice as he asked, “Did you say Frank Drebin?”
“Yes Sheriff, she did. Now please open the door.” The voice on the other side of the smoked glass door was most definitely not Gail’s. He zipped the bag back up and turned to unlock and open the door. The man standing on the other side of the stoop was clearly not Leslie Nielsen. He was a huge black man in a neatly pressed G-man suit, with a totally inappropriate turquoise tie peeking out of the somber blue Brooks Brothers ensemble. He held up an enormous hand. “Before we get started, I’ve heard every Naked Gun joke ever told. If you and I are going to get along, get them out of your system right here and now, then we can get to work on whoever is killing young ladies in your county.”
Bill stood aside and motioned the man into the inner reaches of the Sheriff’s Department. He looked at Gail and said, “Hold my calls, all of them.” At her nod he closed the door and locked it. He pushed away from the door and nodded at the seat opposite the disaster area that was his desk. “Please, have a seat. We may be yokels up here, but we do have manners. I wondered when you’d show up. So, when will you be taking over the investigation?”
Drebin, to give him his due, showed no expression. “They sent me up to assist you in solving these crimes.” He glanced around the room, taking in the meticulously organized bedlam, then looked at the Sheriff, measuring him against the reports that had been read to him over his car phone and the idle talk he’d heard since arriving in town late this morning. He certainly did look the good old boy, but something about the sharpness of his eyes and the strength of his mouth told Drebin that Bill Ashton could go the distance, and then some.
It was his eyes that drew you first, Drebin decided, their color was unusual, kind of rumpled denim blue that looked as if they could go from warm, fuzzy laziness to iceberg pure in a heartbeat. To a man with Drebin’s training and inherent gift at reading people, those eyes spoke volumes about Ashton’s character and the hellish circumstances he’d found himself in.
He wondered why a man who’d graduated magna cum laude from San Jose State with a Bachelor’s Degree in Behavioral Science and a Masters in Criminal Justice Administration would want to be a cop, of all things. Just passing that damn course made him the best of the best. He could have been working side-by-side with Drebin at the FBI with that kind of education. He knew Ashton had pulled a few years with LAPD and even served some time in Homicide. Why in the world he would want to come back to this little pisser of a town was beyond him.
“Assist, huh?” The lanky Sheriff asked, cocking a brow as he slouched toward the battered desk, casually plucking the sports bag from it’s centerpiece position amongst piles of paperwork and settling it next to his chair. “I heard about the last time you guys were up here. Even though I was LAPD at the time, I saw how you all ‘assisted’. Regardless, you’re here. Mind if I see some ID before we get started?”
Drebin dipped his head to hide a smirk. “Listen Sheriff, I’m not here to get in a pissing match. I’ve been assigned to you to assist, just as I said. Here’s my badge and business card.” He leaned back in the chair and watched the sheriff as he verified Drebin’s credentials. His gaze stole over the sports bag sitting so invitingly on the floor next to the big cowboy’s chair. He watched the way the Sheriff watched him watching the bag. There was most definitely something going on here.
While Ashton certainly fit the stereotype of the homeboy county sheriff, he was becoming more intrigued as their meeting progressed. He dealt with Drebin’s office in Virginia in a professional, crisp manner totally belied by his sleepy looks and simple attire of jeans, boots and western shirt. The department outside the Sheriff’s door was well run and seemed to be respected by the townsfolk, which was certainly a change over past administrations.
From what Drebin had read, the Sheriff’s Department had been hopelessly corrupt until the local boy, Ashton, had turned his back on the existing system of drug trade and kickbacks and decided that justice was the cause to follow. The town had prospered under the new reign, and had been doing so for five years now. The result seemed to be a drowsy little tourist town rocked by the unprecedented discovery of five dead bodies.
Ashton returned his card and badge as he hung up the telephone. “Thank you sir. Now, what can I do for you?”
Drebin smiled, his white teeth a magnificent contrast to his ebony skin. “Well now, let’s just get acquainted first. I’m Special Agent Frank Drebin of the FBI. I belong to the Behavioral Sciences Unit at Quantico and I’m here, not happily I might add, at the request of your governor. As you know, he has considerable pull with my department, since he spent a good portion of his life as an agent. I was in The City reviewing case files on something else when the call came in. I get all the way up here and discover five dead bodies and a Sheriff who likes to project the Opie image, but seems to have everything under control so far. Care to tell me why the hell I’m here?”
The eyes that measured Drebin across the cheap metal desk were cool and composed, yet looked like they had been through hell. Drebin decided it was an interesting dichotomy and filed it away for future reference.
“I’d imagine you’re here because we have five female vics, shot execution-style and left in what appears to be a ceremonial manner along the side of a road that no one travels on. Jane Doe Five looks to be dead only a week, and unless I miss my guess the ME will tell me, to his closest approximation, that a body has been left each and every year for the past five years.
Ashton shifted in his chair, the oil-hungry springs squealing in protest. “Before you ask, I don’t know why I think that, I just do. To top it off, we have about a dozen different networks here wanting to know what’s up with the “Yosemite” murders, even though there’s no evidence this took place in the Park. And now I have you, who no doubt wants to come in and take over this investigation for the betterment of mankind and to save the local populace from the bumbling attempts of the Sheriff’s Department. Sound good so far?”
Drebin grinned. “OK, now that we’re up to speed, let’s move forward. May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the duffel bag on the floor.
Ashton hesitated, then snorted, “What the hell. It’s gotta be related. Nobody who carries that much cash can be clean.” He hefted the duffel bag onto the desk. Drebin slowly unzipped the bag and whistled, long and low, over it’s contents. The Sheriff bit back an ironic smile, remembering his same reaction to seeing that amount of green.
“Okay, I’ll bite. How is this related to your dead girls?” Drebin casually reached into a pile on the desk, removing a latex glove and snapped it on. Idly running a hand over a bound stack of twenty-dollar bills. He looked up sharply as Ashton paused, a little testy at the man’s deliberative response.
“Well,” he began slowly, “It started out with an abandoned car in a rest area with that bag in the front seat and a cell phone in the pocket. Our local tow truck driver takes it home to supplement his income, then gets a nasty call from the ‘victim’ of the theft. He freaked out and brought the thing to me.” Bill shook his shaggy brown head. “I dunno what the hell to think. I took a look at the car, nothing out of the ordinary, except it’s registered to an Air Force officer stationed in L.A. who reported it stolen yesterday. She’s on her way here ‘cause the cell phone is her
sister’s. This lady sounded pissed and scared, so I’m not sure where that’s going.
“I don’t like the fact that a woman has disappeared and left a whole shitload of money in the front seat of a convertible, for God’s sake.” As his speech progressed, Ashton’s voice became less careful, rougher, more emotional. “I especially don’t like the fact that this is all happening the day after I find five dead girls on the side of a fucking mountain. It’s too much of a coincidence. This is my home, Agent Drebin, and I didn’t think it could happen here. We all had blinders on.”
Drebin shook his head emphatically, denying Ashton’s guilt. “I’m here to tell you it can happen anywhere, anytime. I’m not sure how this bag ties in, or even if it does, but let’s keep an open mind, okay? As for the rest,” he paused and looked the Sheriff straight in the eye. “Are we agreed that this is your case for the time being, and I’m just here to assist?” At Ashton’s nod he continued.
“I’ll need to see pictures and the actual crime scene to get a feel for the mind behind this. I’ll also need background on each of the victims, if you have it.” He took one look at Ashton’s face and shrugged. “No IDs huh? Well, we’ll just work with what we’ve got. You said that they were shot execution style?” The Sheriff nodded, but there was something about the way he did it that caught Drebin’s eye. “What? Don’t waffle on me. Give me all you’ve got.”
“OK, but this is the part that we keep close to the vest, okay? We found green silk fibers around and on Jane Doe Five, and it looks like each of the bodies were placed in a pattern of some kind. Some of them were so scattered it was hard to tell, but once the crime lab guys knew what they were looking for they found it easily enough. Combine the fact that the scenes were so neat, other than the effects of time, with the single gunshot to the head and it seems much more like an A-type personality. He’s too neat. At first glance I’d say he’s a serial killer, not so much the sexual predator. What do you think?”
Drebin’s lips pursed in the ghost of a smile. “Your mamma didn’t raise any stupid ones, did she? And the fact that you even put the words sexual and predator together tells me you didn’t sleep through your classes at San Jose State. All right, I need more information to make a detailed profile, but my initial guess would be a 30-45 year old single white male. I’m assuming that since your only identifiable victim is white. You know as well as I do that serials rarely cross race boundaries. I guess the next question is who’s running your crime lab, and how much do you trust them?”
Ashton grimaced and replied, “I pulled the Modesto boys into this last night. They reported this morning and have been handling the crime scene ever since.” He looked at Drebin beseechingly. “I called in the best crime scene folks I knew to contain and analyze the crime scene. What should I do with them?”
Drebin looked thoughtful, then answered, ”I can get a couple of our guys and a van up here discreetly if you want. Then I can fold your crime-scene investigation in with the FBI’s. That should keep it confidential, at least at the beginning.” At Ashton’s nod he picked up the office phone and dialed Modesto.
Chapter Five
Things moved quickly after that. The FBI lab technicians arrived with little fanfare and set up operations in conjunction with the locals in one of the high school science labs. The high school was an ideal command post because of its proximity to the Sheriff’s Office, the absence of students due to summer vacation, and its distance from the main drag. The Sheriff’s Department set up another command center at the town park, removing the media from the immediate area and giving them access to more space and much-needed amenities.
Ashton and his team had soon commandeered most of one of the back buildings, which was conveniently hidden from the view of the press and any locals with more curiosity than sense. Having a supervisor on the school board hadn’t hurt matters at all.
The duffel bag had yielded one-half million dollars in well-used bills. Speculation among the officers was that it was drug or mob money, in which case it might never be traced.
Drebin had been walking a very thin line all evening, between keeping this a local investigation or involving the full strength and force of the federal government. He was becoming more and more inclined to swing toward direct involvement, but since it was unclear where the murders had occurred, the Bureau was standing one very short step back.
Joe Whelan had finished the first set of autopsies by four and confirmed his preliminary report. Both Jane Doe Five and Jane Doe Four were females, ages ranging between sixteen and twenty-five. Both had been shot at point-blank range in the center of their foreheads. Jane Doe Five’s body was still largely intact, and he had determined that she had not died of the gunshot wound to the forehead as originally anticipated, but from manual strangulation. Additionally, he had discovered what looked like green silk fibers all over her body, confirming the initial crime scene report. She’d almost certainly been dead four to seven days, but it was hard to tell without the entomology report. He left the worst news for last. He had known her, recognizing the butterfly tattoo she had proudly displayed just before she left town.
Her name had been Kim Ross and she was a local. The revelation appalled Bill. He had known Kimmie Ross, just as he knew every teenager in this county. He had watched her in annual drama productions at the high school auditorium and seen her swing a bat on the softball diamond. He’d also busted her occasionally at the local teen beer bashes and sent her on her way, home to the welcoming arms of her parents. Katherine and Jim Ross would not see her again.
“Jesus Joe, are you sure? If so, I’d rather have you make the ID. Shit. God damn it man, it seems like just yesterday she was serving me a burger.” He took a deep breath, settled his forehead in one hand, then continued. “What else have you got?”
There had been sexual activity prior to death, but Kimmie seemed to have been treated well before her demise. She had been well fed, and showed no obvious signs of bruising, with the exception of the strangulation marks around her neck. The lab had recovered skin and hair samples from beneath her fingernails, indicating some kind of struggle, but she showed none of the usual signs of rape such as tearing or bruising of the vagina. Some seminal fluid had been recovered, but until the lab broke it down it was impossible to tell if it would be of any use. He asked Bill if he would have any problem if the feds helped to analyze and give a second, third, and fourth set of eyes to each case. Bill, of course, agreed, then asked for the rest.
Jane Doe Four had been left to the elements for much longer, so he was unable to tell if strangulation had been the cause of her death. Similarly, she had been exposed to the elements long enough to degrade any fibers he might have found. His best early estimate was that she’d been out there at least one year and less than five. Until further lab analysis of the crime scene and a detailed report of what each body was lying upon, he wouldn’t speculate any further.
The final blow to the Sheriff’s already overburdened brain was Whelan’s casual mention of a new piece of evidence. Candle wax in varying colors had been discovered around each body. Even as Ashton wondered how in the hell the crime lab had missed it in the first place, he glanced at the waning afternoon light and decided to wait until morning to do another complete sweep of all of the crime scenes. With a weary voice he asked Whelan to keep at it with the other three bodies.
Turning to his FBI counterpart, he requested the full power of the Bureau in compiling a missing person’s listing for the area over the last ten years. All of them.
* * * *
His drive to the Ross farm was anything but pleasant. Even though Mariposa County was sparsely populated, it seemed that each resident was out on his or her lawn this evening, just waiting for the Sheriff’s shiny white Ford Explorer to drive by. He could feel their eyes burning into the interior of the truck as they asked him, “Why here, and why again?”
At least the last psychopath they’d played host to hadn’t been a damned serial killer, he thought. He had
killed as a crime of passion. This guy seemed to be stone cold and know exactly what he was doing.
He pulled into the long driveway of the ranch house and sat in the truck a moment, preparing himself to perform a duty he despaired of, and one that only he could do. He knew that long before he left theories would be flying as to why he’d visited the Ross ranch, and that none of them would be good.
* * * *
As he pulled away from the Ross’ the sun was setting on the longest day of his life.
* * * *
The lights of his own ranch beckoned, promising blessed coolness and a brief respite from the insanity of the day. They’d bedded down the case for the night, opting to have the FBI lab experts begin at sunrise tomorrow rather than battle the unnatural light and shadow of klieg lamps.
He was greeted with the boundless enthusiasm of his Australian shepherd, Boomer, and the plaintive meows of the three ‘barn’ cats demanding to be let into the house for the night. If he’d ever had a soft spot, it was for animals, and the menagerie he’d collected over the years made his ranch an animal shelter in all but name.
The ranch had been passed down to him by his grandfather, Pappy, upon his death at the ripe old age of ninety-three. Bill had never really known his parents; they had both perished in an automobile accident when he was just three. All he could remember were the comfort of his mother’s hands and the bass baritone of his father’s voice. Pappy and Nana, grieving over the loss of their only child, had raised him not as their grandson, but as another beloved son. The loving, totally functional household he’d grown up in had prepared him for his position as the last branch in the Ashton family tree. He took responsibility for living up to the family name and running the spread seriously.