Dark Mountain (The David Wolf Series Book 10) Page 8

  Jerry Blackman, the owner of the Beer Goggles Bar and Grill, looked between Wolf and Patterson with a mixed expression of suspicion and marijuana-induced paranoia. “I swear this place is like a vortex of evil or something. I think I need to sell it.”

  “Jerry,” Patterson said.

  “Yeah. Uh, let’s see. I have a stack of receipts right here.” Jerry picked up the pile from behind the bar. “John Grayson … Matt Repplinger … Matt Whitsom …”

  “Matt Whitsom?” Wolf asked, rubbing a tender spot on his temple where the man had accidentally head-butted him earlier that morning.

  Jerry nodded. “Yeah. He’s in here quite a bit.”

  “Go on.”

  “Let’s see … Tom Rachette … Tyler Eggleston …”

  A man at the end of the bar raised his hand. “That’s me.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  Tyler Eggleston was a middle-aged man with a straight brown beard who trimmed trees in town and did handiwork for many of Margaret Hitchens’s rental properties.

  “Hi, Tyler.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Patterson edged a few barstools closer toward him. “Hi, Tyler.”

  “Hi, Heather. Long time no see. How’s Scott?”

  She nodded. “We’re just trying to get a sense of who was here last night, you know? Who drank with whom?”

  Tyler Eggleston swallowed and flicked a glance at Wolf. “Why? What happened?”

  Wolf held his hand out to Jerry. “Could I see that stack of receipts?”

  Jerry hesitated, like he was considering mentioning warrants or rights violations, or maybe contemplating the vastness of the galaxy, then handed them over and wiped the bar top.

  Wolf flipped through them one by one, looking for Ethan Womack’s name. “Do you guys remember a man named Ethan in here?”

  Jerry and Tyler furrowed their brows.

  “No,” Jerry said.

  “Nope.”

  “Anyone you didn’t recognize?” Wolf asked them.

  Tyler shrugged. “Thursday nights are pretty busy. I sat here, watching the game.” He pointed to a television above the back of the bar. “Don’t really pay attention to who comes and goes, except for the locals I guess.”

  “Can you tell us who Tom was with?” Patterson asked.

  “Rachette?” Tyler chomped on a French fry. “Let’s see. I hung out with him, if you count sitting here listening to him spout off pointless movie trivia and jokes I’ve heard twenty times as hanging out.”

  “Is there another way to hang out with him?” Patterson asked, drawing a laugh from Tyler and Jerry.

  “So I was here, Tom, Yates, Repplinger … and—”

  “Deputy Yates was here?” Wolf asked.

  “Yeah.” Tyler paused, looking between them. “That’s how Tom got here, and why he got a ride home later from X. Because Yates left earlier.”

  “X, as in Xander?” Patterson asked.

  “Yep. That’s his go-to guy for a ride home. Won’t let any one of us use him.”

  Wolf thought about Pat Xander’s head and focused his attention back on the stack of receipts in his hand. Rachette’s came next. “Says you closed out Tom at 11:06 p.m. Did he leave right after that?”

  “Yeah,” Jerry said.

  “And there’re no doubts about that?” Wolf asked, looking at Tyler.

  Tyler shrugged. “Yeah. Left right after he paid.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you guys for years now …” Jerry leaned across the bar and winked at Wolf. “You guys want some suds?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You know, back in your dad’s day, those deputies down at the old station used to stop in here looking for a cold one. Burton’d come in, and without saying anything he’d give me a nod. I’d push a glass to the bar and he’d down it in a single gulp. Sometimes I’d push another glass. And another. Things aren’t like they used to be, eh?” Jerry slapped his neck and studied his hand. “Damn it. Mosquitos are thick already.”

  Wolf nodded at Patterson. “Ready?”

  Jerry wiped his neck with the bleached rag.

  Patterson nodded. “Yeah.”

  They said their goodbyes and walked out into the parking lot.

  “What do you think?” Patterson asked, stepping over a puddle.

  Wolf and Patterson reached Wolf’s SUV and got inside. They’d left Patterson’s Acura back at her office.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally.

  “Why the hesitation?”

  “I’m just wondering about the difficulty of one man handling Rachette, shooting and killing Pat Xander, picking up his one hundred and ninety pounds of dead weight and stuffing him in the trunk, and dumping the car over the edge of the road. Then … he’d have to get Rachette into his own car. Hogtie him … I don’t know.”

  Patterson nodded in thought. “Seems difficult, especially with Rachette’s tenacity, but I don’t know who this Ethan Womack guy is. Rachette looked pretty beat up. Could have clobbered him with a baseball bat.”

  Wolf shook his head. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Ethan Womack’s a brazen son of a bitch,” she said. “He leaves his fingerprints on Pat’s car, the shells next to the blood, prints on Rachette’s phone. Either that or he’s stupid. We need to get a trace on his phone as soon as possible.”

  Wolf pushed the ignition button and shifted into reverse.”

  “Or he’s not very worried about what happens after whatever he has planned,” Patterson said.

  Wolf shifted back into park. “I forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  Wolf held up a finger and dialed a number on his phone.

  “Hello?” Tammy Granger answered.

  “Tammy, it’s Wolf.”

  “I know. What’s up?”

  “I need you to read me a phone number, please.”

  Patterson took an unspoken cue and dug out her cell to enter the number as Wolf read it.

  Tammy read it off and Wolf repeated it to Patterson, who tapped her screen with her finger. When they were done, they looked at one another.

  “Thanks, Tammy.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Patterson’s forehead crinkled. “What was that all about?”

  “I forgot to tell you that we found Pat Xander’s car this morning via an anonymous tip. That’s the number that called us.”

  “It’s the same cell that sent the message.”

  Wolf backed out of the parking spot and they bounced down the potholed dirt lot, then over the bridge spanning the Chautauqua River.

  “So, he called it in?” she asked. “Why? To lead us to the car, the body, the shells, the fingerprints everywhere?”

  He turned onto Highway 734 with the roof lights flashing and pressed the gas.

  “That’s not brazen,” she said. “That’s strange.”

  “Yeah.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Wolf and Patterson made it to the station in three minutes. Another minute of running later and they were up the stairs, down the hallway, and into the lecture hall-like situation room.

  Deputy Yates, Dr. Lorber, Undersheriff Wilson, and Sheriff MacLean were standing down on the front floor, their attention locked on the roll-down screen.

  MacLean turned at their arrival. “There you are.”

  Patterson couldn’t help but notice that the comment had been directed squarely at Wolf. Wilson and Yates only gave her a passing glance and nod, and Lorber pointedly ignored her. What did she expect? This was not a reunion party.

  “We have a live link to the Taos Sheriff’s Department,” Lorber said, gesturing to the projected video.

  “What’s that?” A tinny voice came scratching out of a set of speakers next to a laptop perched on the table.

  The onscreen video flipped in a swirl of images and then a man dressed in a khaki Sheriff’s Department uniform and cowboy hat filled the view.

  “Uh, nothing!” MacLean was just short of shouting. “Our chief detective just
joined us. And … his assistant.”

  Lorber leaned closer to Wolf and nodded toward the technical setup. “We can see what they see as they walk around inside Ethan Womack’s place.”

  Patterson put a hand on Lorber’s arm. “You guys have live-linking capabilities with their department? What are you using?”

  Lorber ignored her for a second, then said, “Facebook. Ever heard of it?”

  “Facebook?”

  The ME rolled his eyes and leaned down to her with a lowered voice. “Facebook Live, a laptop and a smart phone, and we’re in the building with them. I came up with the idea.”

  “Shut up, you two,” MacLean said. “Deputy Miller, can you please go back out to the body so my detective can see it?”

  “Yeah, okay,” the voice said. The picture on the screen jostled and swirled.

  Patterson thought Deputy Miller of the Taos SD had little talent as a cameraman. The images bounced and jiggled with each step, and he kept covering and uncovering the microphone hole on his phone, which rattled the speakers.

  Springs creaked as he opened a door, then the display went white as he stepped outside. Footsteps crunched through the speakers and finally the jostling stopped.

  “Here he is.”

  “Shit.” Patterson breathed as the overexposed image darkened to the clear picture of a dead man lying face down on the ground. Her eyes were drawn to the hole in his head, exposing brain tissue and bone illuminated by the sun.

  She immediately recognized the clothing and hair as the man in Wolf’s video. Paul Womack.

  She glanced at Wolf. He was frozen, staring at the screen, just like the rest of them.

  Deputy Miller’s camera skills improved, and he gave them various close-ups and angles of Womack’s corpse.

  “Blood’s dry underneath him. Very dry, and the insects have already done a number,” Lorber said with a raised voice. “Their initial estimation of time of death is seventy-two hours, and I concur based on what I’m seeing in the video here. Looks like a self-inflicted wound. You can see the gun in his right hand still. Powder burns on one temple, the other temple … clean gone.”

  The pictures onscreen followed Lorber’s voice prompts as if Miller was now Lorber’s symbiotic extension.

  “Gunshot residue on his right hand,” Lorber said.

  The camera zoomed into Womack’s dead hand resting on a Beretta pistol lying in the dirt.

  “His name is Paul Womack.” MacLean said, now looking at Wolf. “Ethan Womack’s older brother. Guy served fifteen of an eighteen-year sentence in Leavenworth for murdering a woman and child in Afghanistan.”

  Wolf kept his gaze on the screen.

  “We’re working on getting a full history on him,” MacLean continued. “This house was owned by Paul and Ethan Womack’s mother, who died two years ago of ovarian cancer and left it to the two men. Can I get a shot of the area, please?”

  The image went white again, then darkened to show a rolling landscape covered in small shrubs. Miller swung in a slow circle that showed the house, a weathered off-white one-story building with a boarded-up window. Rotating further, a small detached garage or shed opposite the house came into view.

  “They found some stuff in the exterior garage of the house,” MacLean said. “Deputy Miller was just going to show us. Deputy Miller, you can proceed to the garage now? Thank you for showing us the body again.”

  “You got it,” the voice said.

  Miller’s phone swiveled to a sturdily built wooden shed that had been bleached by the sun. Two doors were open, revealing two white-clothed crime-scene techs inside.

  They turned with annoyed looks at the man pointing a cellphone camera in their direction.

  “We have a link to Sluice–Byron County SD in Colorado here,” Miller said as he approached the two men.

  “What?” one of them asked.

  “Hello there!” MacLean waved.

  “They can’t see you, sir,” Lorber said, placing a hand on MacLean’s shoulder.

  The sheriff slapped the ME’s hand away.

  “Uh … hi.” The CSI squinted at the phone.

  “Sheriff Will MacLean, here. Thanks for your assistance on this. We have a case involving Ethan Womack up here in Colorado. We’re pressed on time and need to see what you guys have.”

  The man seemed to relax a little and nodded. “Oh, okay.” The man next to him had a DSLR camera and snapped photos of something on a workbench.

  “One second, please, sir,” Miller said, his face filling the screen.

  The video went dark for a second while Miller spoke in a low voice to the men inside the shack. There were mentions of “sheriff’s orders” and “cooperation,” and then the video appeared again.

  The CSI said, “Okay, sir. I’ve just been fully briefed. We’ll go ahead and show you what we have.”

  MacLean downturned his mouth and nodded. “Thank you, uh …”

  “Sergeant Gains, sir.”

  “Sergeant Gains,” MacLean said, “this is of the utmost importance. We have lives on the line up here. Please proceed.”

  “Of course, sir.” The man was now centered in the video feed on the screen. He bent over and picked up a black vest. “We’re finding a lot of scary stuff in here. This here is level-three-A body armor, standard for Taos SD’s SWAT team.” The man raised a bulletproof vest and poked his finger through a hole. “See that?”

  “Armor-piercing rounds,” MacLean said.

  “Yes, sir. There are two of these vests, all shot to shit.” The man pointed to the side and Miller followed, turning the camera view outside.

  The video brightened, then dimmed to show hilly, desolate country covered in sage brush. “You can see there are two shooting berms set up out there. Looks like they see more action than our department range.”

  Two bumps rose from the otherwise board-flat land.

  “Did you see the trophies inside?” the CSI asked.

  MacLean frowned. “No. What are you talking about?”

  “Fifty Caliber Shooters Association trophies,” the CSI said. “Turns out Ethan Womack is a seriously gifted shooter. Works at a local gun shop called T ’n’ T Guns. We have two units on their way to speak to them. But from the looks of this shack, he could set up shop right here.”

  The camera swung back to the interior of the shed, and Gains’s latex-covered hand twirled a long rifle round in front of the cellphone lens. A two-toned bullet jutted from the cartridge case. “Fifty-caliber armor piercing.” He pointed and the camera focused for the first time on the wall inside the darkened shed.

  “Wow.” Lorber whistled.

  Guns hung from every square inch.

  “Two M16A2s,” Gains said, “a couple of M4s, Glock 17, Glock 21, two Beretta M9s, just like the one our friend inside used to shoot himself, among an assortment of other gems our military uses. So you guys were the ones who tipped us off to Ethan Womack, huh? I heard he killed somebody up there and stuffed him in a trunk.”

  MacLean cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, that’s what it looks like at the moment.”

  “You said you have lives on the line up there,” Gains said.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

  “Yeah, all right. But let me tell you what.” Gains made a show of pointing at the wall of guns. “I’m seeing some spots that look like there used to be guns hanging there, if you catch my drift.” He held up the cartridge again. “And I’m not seeing the fifty-caliber rifle that fires this. Which is probably the same one that landed him second place in the local FCSA tournament last year.”

  MacLean exhaled and wiped his forehead. “We understand. Thank you, Sergeant Gains.”

  “I’m also seeing an empty hook in his line of handguns.”

  MacLean folded his arms and turned toward his deputies. “Thank you, Sergeant Gains.”

  They watched in silence for a minute, and Patterson saw Wolf eyeing his watch. She pulled out her cellphone and checked the time. 3:13 p.m.

 
; “Hold on,” Miller said. “One second, please.” He spoke to a man next to him and then his face filled the screen again. “I’m told we sent over Ethan Womack’s cellphone information. Did you receive it?”

  Wilson held up a packet of paper. “We did, thank you!”

  “Okay, good. I’m also told that we’ve sent over a personnel file on Ethan Womack and his deceased brother.”

  “Yes,” MacLean said. “Thank you. We received everything. Listen, we’re going to shut down for a bit now. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch, all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At MacLean’s order, Lorber ended the live-link session and closed the laptop.

  “What is this?” MacLean asked. “Wrong place, wrong time for Rachette? Who is this guy?”

  Wilson fumbled with the stack of papers in his hand. “Ethan Womack: thirty-nine years old. Born in Taos, New Mexico. Aggravated assault two years ago … looks like he was in a fist fight with a fellow employee. Put him in the hospital with a ruptured spleen.”

  “Now he works at a gun shop,” MacLean said.

  “Says here his victim was a fellow employee of T ’n’ T Guns in Taos. Same shop he works at now.”

  “Looks like he was found to be, quote, mentally deficient by the court.”

  “What?”

  Wilson kept reading. “He had severe head trauma when he was a child. The man was sentenced to a mental hospital, where he spent four months and was released. This gives a doctor’s name.”

  “Let me see that.” Lorber took the page and read it. “He was put in the loony bin and was released. Sees a doctor now on a weekly basis. No more details than that here.”

  MacLean raised his eyebrows. “Thank you for that professional analysis.”

  Lorber handed the sheet back to Wilson.

  “What about this deceased brother of his?” MacLean began pacing again. “Give us the rundown on him.”

  “Okay … Paul Womack. Forty-three years old. Born in Taos. No priors. Was in the 75th Ranger Regiment, US Army.” Wilson looked at Wolf. “Says he was stationed at Fort Lewis. You were stationed in Tacoma.”

  Patterson, along with everyone else, watched Wolf closely.

  A perplexed look crossed Wolf’s face, and then he shook his head. “Never heard of him.”