Blood Ties Page 4

  6:01 a.m.

  “Behavioral science. Flannigan.” Not even a full ring had passed before the curt answer.

  “Mr. Flannigan,” Clay said into the telephone, “I am Special Agent Clay Garner, calling from Kalispell, Montana. The first thing I should tell you is that I have not cleared this call with my special agent in charge.”

  Clay sat at the small desk beside his motel bed. He had a notebook open in front of him, the left page covered with writing, the right page blank. There was a large brown envelope beside the notebook. Clay had the telephone in his left hand, a pen in his right hand. Straight ahead he had a view of concrete blocks painted dull brown. By shifting his head to the right, he could admire less than ten feet of orange shag carpet and a window curtained with red fake velvet. If the FBI wanted to encourage agents to roam the field instead of camping in a hotel room, cheap accommodations were certainly incentive.

  “Who’s your SAC?” Flannigan asked.

  “Warner, sir. Edward Warner.”

  “Great Falls, right?”

  “Yes sir.” Clay remembered Flannigan as a white-haired chain-smoker. The raspy voice on the other end reflected years of cigarette smoking.

  “So why doesn’t he know about this call?”

  “Well, sir –”

  “Cut the sir business. Try Dennis. You’ll get further. Why haven’t you cleared this call?”

  Garner paused to gather his composure. It wasn’t that he allowed any man to intimidate him; it was the pettiness and unpredictability of the FBI that bothered him. In the ninth and final week of training, Garner’s instructors had told him and the rest of the class that they were about to face their most important exam, a test by J. Edgar himself. If they passed his personal inspection, they were in. If not, they were gone. On the day of the exam, all thirty-five of them waited in single file. Dark suits, dark ties, white shirts, black socks, black shoes. As the director, a man more powerful than the president, passed by, each candidate was supposed to say nothing more and nothing less

  than: “Hello, Mr. Hoover, my name is __________________ .” One agent, nervous

  to the point of fainting, managed to stutter out, “Hello, Mr. Jones, my name is Edgar Hoover.” The agent was fired immediately. Two others, deemed pinheads by Hoover, were fired later simply because their hat sizes were too small for someone who should represent Hoover as a Bureau man. It had filled Garner with gratitude for his own granite skull and a 7 3/4 hat size.

  Thinking of Dennis Flannigan at the other end of the country and the other end of the line, Clay reminded himself that a frightened man spoke quickly. Clay made a conscious effort to drawl his words. “I haven’t cleared it because I’m in the field and hope to speak informally.”

  “In other words, you don’t want to get tied up in proper channels. Is that it?”

  Garner couldn’t tell if the question was meant as a reprimand. All he could do was plunge ahead. He barely remembered to bite off the word sir. “That is exactly it.”

  “Well, you do have me curious. By my watch, I’m guessing it’s 0600 your time. Plenty early for a field op. And not every special agent thinks behavioral sciences is worth risking a reprimand. Why the call?”

  Garner relaxed. “A murder here. I sat in on a lecture of yours. I –”

  “Hoover’s said behavioral sciences reflects its initials. l wouldn’t have lectured a rookie class. Where’d you hear me?”

  “D.C.,” Garner said. “Convention for municipal police.”

  Dennis Flannigan’s voice warmed. “A little above and beyond the call, wouldn't you say?"

  “Just seemed prudent. I was in the area anyway.”

  Flannigan let that pass. Nobody merely crashed a police lecture. “You’re calling me on a murder, huh? What makes you think the FBI should be involved?”

  “It’s what you were saying about serial killers.”

  “How many dead before?” Flannigan rapidly fired off questions. “Over what period of time? What do they have in common? Why haven’t the locals called me?”

  “Only one dead,” Clay answered. “Yesterday morning. Locals want to believe it was one drunk Indian stabbing another. I don’t.”

  “Hang on,” Flannigan said. “If you sat in on a lecture, you know what we’re about.”

  “Criminal psychology. Sex crimes. Hostage negotiation." Clay paused. “And serial killers.”

  No pause from Flannigan. Instead, an amused snort. “One dead body does not make for a serial killer.”

  “I believe it’s a serial killer in the making. At least, if I remember right from your lecture.”

  Through the receiver, Clay heard the sound of a door closing. Then he heard a loud voice, although he couldn’t make out the words. There was a long pause as Flannigan listened to the same voice. When he came back on the phone, he was curt again and businesslike.

  “Look,” Flannigan said, “nothing personal, but a few things are busting loose here. I don’t have the time to sit and talk that I thought I did. Pitch me. If I buy into it, I’ll call you when I can. If not, we both drop it. Either way, this call stays between you and me.”

  “Three things," Clay said without hesitation. He was reading from the left-hand page of his notebook. “Stab wounds with no bruises. Coin-sized marks on the carpet. And a feather.”

  “Keep going. You’ve got less than a minute.”

  “Murder weapon was a corkscrew,” Clay said. “Yet the autopsy shows no signs of bruising around any of the puncture marks.”

  Clay swallowed. Yesterday’s memories of the motel room and the Flathead woman’s gory body were too vivid. “There were twenty-two punctures,” Clay explained. “Each exactly two inches deep.”

  There was a ten-second pause. Then Flannigan spoke. “No bruises. In other words, no thrusting stabs with the corkscrew. Your guy leaned into her and slowly twisted the corkscrew in. Sounds like he was enjoying himself.”

  “My guess, too.” Clay said. In the autopsy photos, the wounds had been swabbed clean. They looked innocent, tiny breaks in dusky skin. But they had allowed Doris Samson’s heart to pump itself dry.

  “Two inches deep,” Flannigan continued to muse. “Perp didn’t penetrate any vital organs. She bled to death slowly. He wasn’t in a hurry, was he?”

  “It doesn’t seem so.” Clay swallowed again, then said, “There was blood everywhere, except for three nickel-sized marks near the bed. Perfect circles, no blood, as if dimes had been placed there, gotten splashed, and then taken away after the blood began to dry.”

  “How far apart?” Flannigan asked.

  Clay had the crime scene photos, too, but he didn’t need to refer to them. “Twenty inches. In a perfect triangle.”

  Through the receiver, Clay heard several more sharp knocks on the door to Flannigan’s office.

  “I don’t have time to guess,” Flannigan said. “In fact, I’m standing right now and reaching for my jacket. What’s your read on the circular marks?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Clay said. “I was hoping you could help.”

  Flannigan paused, then spoke again. “Not right now. But I will. It’s an easy guess that you’ve got someone killing for the fun of it, especially if he took his time. Because of that, you’re right, it probably won’t be the last. Give me your number and a time to call back.”

  Clay grinned at the depressing brown wall in front of him. He gave his number and told Flannigan that after dinner would be fine.

  “Hey,” Flannigan said, “I really gotta go. But what was that about a feather?”

  “Crime techs found a feather in the dead woman’s mouth.”

  “A feather? From a pillow, right? He gagged her with the pillow, and she swallowed a feather.”

  “No,” Clay said, “more like a pinion feather. He had to make an effort to fold it up to get it into her mouth. The crime techs are guessing it’s an eagle feather.”

  “Eagle feather?”

  “Eagle feather,” Clay said. “Like maybe he�
�s leaving a message. But what’s he trying to say? And who’s supposed to get the message?"

  10:05 a.m.

  “Daddy,” Kelsie said, “isn’t it about time we took a break?”

  They were standing at the side of the first grain shed in a row of four, all needing new paint. Flies buzzed and settled on the rough walls and buzzed again. Halfway up a stepladder, Kelsie pushed back a strand of hair and streaked red paint across her forehead as she looked down and waited for James McNeill to answer.

  Standing several feet down from her, and in charge of the lower half of the shed, he set his brush across the top of the paint can. He had been working her hard, his solution to keeping her away from mooning over cowboys. His plan was to paint this grain shed with her, and if she wanted to talk about anything that was fine, but he wasn’t going to press her. When this shed was done – and when he’d shown he was willing to work hard, too, instead of just handing her a project – he’d let her move on by herself to the other three sheds behind the main barn, and pay her well for her time.

  “A break?” James said. “Why not? I’m due for a coffee and a smoke.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.” She climbed down from the ladder.

  “Coffee won’t kill a man,” he said, grinning as he reached for his tobacco pouch.

  “But cigarettes will. And you knew exactly what I meant.” Kelsie tried to act angry, but when her father grinned his watermelon-stealing grin, the best she could do was a halfhearted stamping of her foot. It was no wonder her mama had fallen for him, she thought. Her daddy was tall, rugged, and confident. Hat, boots, and all, he was like the cowboy from those cigarette ads. His hair had gone to gray, and his wrinkles had deepened, but Kelsie still thought he was the handsomest man in the world – and the most exasperating.

  “Go on,” he said. “See if the mail’s here. I’ll meet you up at the house.”

  Kelsie nodded and began a half-jog toward the corner of the barn. From there, her father knew, she’d go past the corral and, if it was there, to the old Ford pickup where the keys always rested in the ignition. She’d be gone at least five minutes, down to the end of the driveway to the mailbox and back, plenty of time to finish a cigarette before he joined her in the kitchen.

  James McNeill absently rolled a cigarette as he watched his daughter leave. She’d been unusually silent this morning. He fervently hoped it had nothing to do with any of the cowboys.

  Kelsie hopped into the truck. She’d been driving it since she was eleven, although her daddy made it a strict rule she couldn’t take it onto county roads – not until she officially had her driver’s license in a few days.

  As usual, straw and chunks of dried mud were scattered on the floor of the cab. Pieces of twine covered the seat, and the ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. The dash was covered with dust. This was not her father’s traveling vehicle – he wouldn’t tolerate the mess – but an old truck he made available for odd jobs around the ranch. All the hired hands knew it was there for short-haul trips, and it was used often. It didn’t make sense to try to keep it clean.

  Kelsie grunted as she moved the stick shift into gear, double-clutched as she backed the truck onto the driveway, and wrestled the steering wheel into a turn to follow the driveway. She could see flashes of the Flathead Valley between the tall spruces on the down-hill side of the road. The cobalt of the lake below was a teasing reminder of how hot she was beneath her coveralls.

  From the last turn of the driveway, Kelsie saw that the flag was down at the mailbox. It didn't fill her with anticipation, for she didn’t expect mail for herself. The only person she wrote to was a pen pal in Australia through the 4-H club, and Kelsie had sent her a letter only the week before, so she knew it would be at least two weeks before she heard anything in return.

  The sheaf of letters she pulled from the mailbox looked like the usual assortment of bills, bank notices, and business correspondence she picked up on other days. As she flipped through them, one envelope caught her attention. It had no stamp, no return address, not even the address of the McNeill ranch. All the envelope had on it was her name, spelled wrong – KELSY MACNEILL – in thick block letters. The lack of postage on the envelope told her that someone had slipped the letter among the other mail.

  Her first impulse was to look around. The experience of the evening before was fresh in her mind.

  Should she open it now? Later? Throw it away?

  Kelsie climbed back into the old pickup and locked the doors for perhaps the first time since James McNeill had purchased it at an auction five years earlier. She sat behind the steering wheel, staring at the letter. At last curiosity mixed with dread overcame her, and she slowly removed the letter from the envelope.

  The letter was also written in pencil, in thick, block letters.

  Kelsy, I have been watching you with the love that our souls have been destined to have sinse before time began. Why do you hurt me by looking at others? I am the only one for your affektions. Our spirits are like eagles sircling the sun. If I have to pull your soul out of your body to keep you, I will make myself dy too and we will have life together beyond the flesh. Forever. That is what our love means. Don’t hurt me by thinking of others, or they will see the feather. The feather is your warning, And that is their punishment. If you don’t believe me, remember that Doris died to punish him for taking your attention. This is my first letter to let you know of our love. Keep it secrit. Don’t let our secrit go beyond. If you tell anyone of our sacrid bond, I will visit them and they will be harmed too, just like Doris. Remember, the eagle leaves a feather when it takes its prey. I am your Watcher. Forever.

  Kelsie was shaking so hard that she was barely able to grind the stick shift into gear. She stalled the truck twice. This must have been the person who placed an eagle feather in her diary, she thought. Who was Doris? She couldn’t really be dead, could she? And who was being punished with the supposed death?

  All the way up the driveway, she fought with a decision. Should she tell her father about the letter? She’d been warned to keep it secret or others would be punished. But how could this awful person get close to her father to punish him?

  Her decision was taken away from her.

  She parked the pickup then walked into the kitchen to see her father already at the table, two coffee mugs and a plate of cookies in front of him, hat hooked behind him on the corner of his chair.

  He was twirling a large feather in his hands.

  “Strangest thing,” he said. “I think it’s an eagle feather. I found this by the coffeepot when I walked in. Any idea how it got there?”

  11:50 a.m.

  Russ Fowler locked himself in the one-car garage in the back of his yard. He’d told his wife he needed to tinker on the carburetor he’d pulled from his ’60 Corvette parked in the driveway. She cared so little about his passion for rebuilding old cars, if she did open the hood to check his story, she’d have difficulty pointing out a spark-plug wire, let alone a carb.

  Before beginning his task, Fowler switched on a bright overhead light and pulled down the blinds. He didn’t even want a passing glance from a neighbor. In this town, word got around quickly, and the sight of the sheriff facing a workbench lined with a couple dozen beer cans might be misinterpreted. Or worse, interpreted correctly.

  Satisfied that he had both privacy and time, Fowler plugged a Johnny Cash eight-track into the stereo player and adjusted the volume to a background level. He hummed along as he began his task. Fingerprinting.

  The night before, after the campfire discussions had ended, Fowler followed all the trucks back down the forestry road to the main highways. Once the vehicles scattered, he had turned around and retraced the route into the hills, all the way back to the campfire. It had meant an extra forty minutes each way, but he felt it worthwhile, for it gave him the chance to collect all the evening’s empty beer cans, which were now in front of him. He’d picked each one up by inserting a pen into the open tab and lifting it upside down
; dregs of beer ran down the pen and onto his hand each time, but it ensured he did not contaminate the cans with his own prints.

  In the garage, Fowler used a pair of alligator pliers to hold the first can by the rim. With his other hand, he used a small brush of soft fibers to apply finely ground carbon powder to the aluminum. He was confident he would find latent prints, caused by a transfer of the skin’s oil onto a clean surface.

  The first set of prints emerged, and he was careful to brush as much as possible in the direction of the ridge details of the prints. Brushing crossways might destroy the print, and although it had been awhile since he’d been called upon to fingerprint a crime scene, to Fowler a lesson learned was not forgotten.

  Once a set of prints emerged – carbon dust clinging to the finger-print oil left on the can – Fowler peeled a small strip of transparent acetate tape from its roll. The tape, similar to Scotch tape, was two inches wide and capable of covering one single print. He pressed the tape on the first clear print and lifted it away. His final step was to transfer it onto a three-by-five card. He did this for each print on the can. The entire process took him close to fifteen minutes.

  Fowler took a deep breath, mentally crossing his fingers. With all the other beer cans remaining to be tested, it would be nice if these prints matched those on another file card beside him.

  He held both cards up to the light, comparing each set of prints. It had been awhile, too, since he’d done this kind of exercise, and after a few minutes of squinting, he decided they did not match. The. first set of prints consisted mainly of whirls; the second, taken from the beer can, revealed a loop pattern of ridges.

  He grunted. He hadn’t expected to get lucky on the first try. He had little expectation to get lucky at all at the end of dusting all the beer cans, but it had to be done.

  The first set of prints – Fowler’s comparison set, a partial of a thumb and forefinger – came from the corkscrew that had been found in Doris Samson’s body.