Debra Webb - Secrets in Four Corners

A federal agent was dead.

Murder was murder and any loss was one too many, but this loss took the act to a higher level. That Grainger, like all in law enforcement, served this community made the business of murder even uglier.

Bree turned to face Patrick as he neared. Judging by her expression there was trouble with the guide’s story. “Mr. Hayes only made one call,” she said. “That call was to the Towaoc Police Department. Your 9-1-1 caller was not Mr. Hayes.”

Patrick’s senses moved to a higher state of alert. That meant two things right out of the gate. The recorded 9-1-1 call could very well turn out to be their only tangible evidence. And the caller might just be the killer.

“Mr. Hayes,” Patrick addressed the older man, working to keep his composure free of the frustration and impatience despite the anticipation zinging through him. “I’m certain Detective Hunter has already asked, but I need you to think long and hard about the questions I’m going to ask before you answer.”

The man nodded, glanced briefly at Bree.

Patrick understood that Hayes was anxious as well. This wasn’t a situation anyone wanted to be caught in. Finding a dead Caucasian female on reservation territory was about the last thing a Ute man would want on his plate. The political climate wasn’t that different from a few decades ago when Patrick had been in school and distinct cultural lines had been drawn. The undercurrent of racial differences remained a nagging social challenge that played itself out within the criminal element of the area.

“What time did you arrive at the park this morning?”

Hayes looked from Patrick to Bree. He’d already answered this question. Patrick understood that, but he needed the man to think…to be absolutely certain of his answers and to give them again. And maybe again after that. Before this case was solved, Hayes would likely be questioned several times. Patrick and Bree could compare his responses later and analyze any possible discrepancies or suggestions of deception.

Hayes scratched his head. “Before seven o’clock. I stop at Rudy’s each morning. Six a.m. From there I come here.”

“Rudy’s is the service station back at the turnoff to the park entrance,” Bree explained.

Patrick knew the place. “Was there a reason you came to this particular place first?” The park was a big place. Patrick needed to know if Hayes had a routine for checking the area.

“I check the dwellings first. This one.” He indicated the two-story dwelling. “Then the next. Lately there’s been trouble with teenagers using them as hangouts. So I check them first.”

“Did you meet anyone as you entered the park this morning? Anything you might have seen could be important,” Patrick emphasized. He watched the man’s eyes and facial expressions closely. “No matter how unimportant it may seem, there may be something we can learn from the slightest detail. A vehicle parked nearby on the main highway. Anything.”

Hayes contemplated the question half a minute before shaking his head. “No one was here except her.” He gestured to where the lab folks were methodically working the scene. “It was quiet. Nobody around. Just the dead woman.”

“Mr. Hayes,” Bree interjected, “believes he returned to Rudy’s shortly after seven and made the call to TPD, then he came straight back here and waited for the police to arrive.”

That meant the other caller had been here and gone before that since Hayes hadn’t encountered anyone and yet the unknown caller hadn’t reached out to 9-1-1 immediately. His call hadn’t come in until a quarter past eight.

Anytime someone discovered a body and didn’t call it in immediately, he was either puking, crying, or he was afraid. Dispatch had indicated the caller sounded male and had no particular accent. Hayes didn’t have an accent per se but his speech pattern was somewhat slow, his words not necessarily the first choice to use by those educated in public schools.

Drawing further suspicion, when asked to identify himself the 9-1-1 caller had ended the call—which almost certainly meant he had something to hide. Whether motivated by fear or guilt, the caller had to be found and questioned.

“You’re certain you came straight back here,” Patrick pressed. “You didn’t talk to anyone at the store about what you’d found? Not even the owner? Is there any possibility that perhaps someone overheard you?”

Hayes shook his head resolutely. “I didn’t talk to anyone. I don’t think anyone heard me. I came back here as fast as my old truck would carry me.”

Patrick visually assessed the old truck. Not that fast, he imagined. “What time did you get your call?” he asked Bree.

She checked her cell. “Seven-fifty.”

Hayes couldn’t have missed the 9-1-1 caller by more than a few minutes.

“Thank you, Mr. Hayes.” Patrick wanted to discuss this turn of events with Callie. “We will be in touch with additional questions. This is standard procedure.”

Hayes grunted and gave Bree a nod. She thanked the man as well and Officer Cyrus escorted him to his truck to finish his written statement and to obtain pertinent information in terms of how to reach him.

“I know how to question a witness.”

Patrick’s attention snapped back to Bree. A frown pulled at his brow. “I’m well aware of your abilities as an investigator, Bree.” Bree…he hadn’t said her name out loud in a long, long time. His gut knotted even now as it echoed through him. He’d loved her…

But that was a long time ago.

Fury etched itself across the delicate lines of her face. A face he’d been hard-pressed to erase from his dreams most every night for nearly eight years now.

“There was no need to reask every single question I’d already posed to Mr. Hayes. What you did undermined my authority and my ability. I don’t appreciate it one damned bit.”

Patrick didn’t have to remind her that he was the county sheriff and this was his jurisdiction the same as it was hers. Doing so would only anger her all the more. “You did your job and I did mine. Mr. Hayes will be asked those same questions and more by numerous others during the course of this investigation. I’m sure you understand how protocol works when jurisdiction crosses the usual boundaries.”

Judging by the deeper shade of red that climbed up her neck and across her face, his explanation hadn’t been what she’d wanted to hear. If she expected an apology, she could forget it.

“This conversation is pointless.” She tugged at the lapels of her jacket. “Callie MacBride needs to know about this. The audio recording of the 9-1-1 call will need to be analyzed in a different light. I, for one, would like to hear it for myself.”

He threw up his hands in surrender. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

Lips tight, eyes blazing, Bree executed an about-face and stalked off.

Patrick followed. All these years he’d told himself that if the situation arose he could work with Bree. At this point, there was no logical reason professionalism shouldn’t override their personal history.

So much for logic.

Agent Acevedo snapped digital photographs of the scene and the victim. Patrick swallowed hard. Each time he considered Agent Grainger the victim, his gut tightened. Agents O’Shea and Fleming searched the zone within the cordoned-off area and tagged possible evidence. From what Patrick had noted there wasn’t much but for now anything and everything had to be ruled out. A time-consuming process to say the least.

Bree approached Callie first. The two stepped aside and Patrick joined the huddle. Bree might not like the fact that he was on this case, but she would simply have to get over it.

Once the facts they had discovered regarding the two calls were passed along, Bree added, “I don’t know what we’ll learn from the audio recording, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Absolutely,” Callie agreed.

“How soon can you arrange to have the recording at your lab?” Patrick glanced at his watch. “It’s almost nine now. I can get the request started while you finish your work here.”

When ten or so seconds passed with Callie seemingly lost in thought, he added, “I know the Bureau will be lead on this investigation, but whatever my department can do we’re completely at your disposal.”

“The same goes for my department,” Bree assured her. “The task force is working a couple of other homicides, but I’m certain we can manage some additional personnel to support this investigation.”

Patrick recognized that Bree was only doing her job. Still, it felt like they were in competition. That was one issue he had to get under control. Clear the air somehow. Evidently, eight years apart hadn’t done the job.

“We’ll be here,” Callie finally said, her voice as well as her expression distracted, “for several hours.” She rubbed her forehead, the gesture uncharacteristic for the hard-nosed, professional lady he knew. “Let’s say three o’clock at the lab. I’ll put in a call to Olivia. She can cut through the red tape faster than your office and have the recording available sooner.” This she directed to Patrick.

“That’ll work.” Olivia Perez was a go-getter. Like the others on Callie’s team, Olivia wouldn’t rest until her task was accomplished.

“Meanwhile,” Bree offered, “I can begin checking with nearby businesses, like Rudy’s, and get a rundown of the customers who come through his station early each morning. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find someone who saw something. The locals stay pretty aware of what’s going on around them. Any strangers or unfamiliar faces will stick out in their minds. Most will talk to me.”

When they might not talk to Patrick or his deputies. She didn’t have to say that part. Patrick knew from experience. “I’ll go along with you,” he said to Bree. The way her eyes widened and her breath caught made him relatively certain she would rather swallow broken glass. “We’ll get more done together.”

She blinked. “Of course.” She turned to Callie then. “I’ll keep you posted if we learn anything before the meeting this afternoon.”

Callie nodded vaguely, then rejoined her team. Patrick watched her unnatural movements. Stiff. Uncertain. Totally opposite the confident woman he’d seen in action many, many times. Something was troubling her. Something more than the fact that a colleague, and perhaps friend, was dead.

Right now all they had were questions. What had brought Agent Grainger to this desolate place in the dead of winter…all alone? Had she been tailing a suspect? Or meeting with an informant?

There were some signs of a struggle, but not enough to warrant the belief that Grainger had in fact fiercely attempted to defend herself. Whoever her attacker was, he’d moved swiftly and with his victim unaware.

For a skilled agent like Grainger, that was no easy task.

He dragged his thoughts back to the here and now just in time to see Bree settle behind the wheel of her SUV and slam the door.

Damn. She wasn’t going to make any part of this easy. He strode to her vehicle, opened the passenger-side door without waiting for an invitation and said, “I guess this means I’m riding with you.”

She started the engine, didn’t spare him a glance. “Suit yourself. I’m always happy to cooperate fully with the sheriff’s department.”

Not the slightest bit easy.

Going door-to-door might not garner any information, but right now it was their only option. Until they were briefed—if they were briefed—on Agent Grainger’s activities just prior to her death, basic legwork was about the only hand they had to play. As the investigation moved into full swing, the Bureau would lay out the ground rules. Until then, they’d have to play this by the seat of their pants.