Turner. She and Stoddard hitched a ride back with Burnham and me to police headquarters. The ride was filled with small talk that seemed awkward and stilted, and mercifully, finally gave way to complete silence.
***
After unloading my passengers, the ride home gave me time to think. I should have been feeling a sense of relief. We were poised to make an important bust in a high-visibility crime that had put all of us in a pressure cooker. But something didn’t feel right to me, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. It all seemed to fit. We’d developed a solid suspect who possessed a long and serious criminal history. He had motive. He had opportunity. And we had evidence. Oh, how we had evidence. Most of it was circumstantial, but there was plenty of it. Individually, the pieces of evidence were damaging enough. When looked at collectively, it would be a tough case to defend and an easy one to prosecute.
So why was I still having this nagging doubt? It was a neat case wrapped in a pretty box with a silver bow on it. But was it too neat? Maybe.
***
As the first hint of orange sky touched the eastern horizon, the late model Ford Taurus turned slowly on to Lariat Circle. The driver shut off the headlights and rolled the vehicle to a stop a short distance from Sam Kincaid’s home.
The passenger reached into her purse and removed a pack of Marlboros and a well-traveled Bic pen. She cracked the window and lit a cigarette. The driver sipped lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Despite the early morning chill, he lowered the driver’s side window.
“You gotta smoke that shit in here?” he asked irritably.
“Bite me.”
At six-twenty, the porch light came on, and an elderly woman wearing a pink terrycloth bathrobe stepped out and retrieved a newspaper.
“I thought you said Kincaid lived by himself with a young kid.”
“That’s the scuttlebutt. Supposedly, both his parents were killed in an accident a couple of years ago, and then he got divorced,” she replied.
“Yeah, then who the fuck is the old lady?”
“How the hell should I know—maybe a visiting relative or a live-in nanny? What the fuck difference does it make?”
“It might make a difference if we have to come back to this house at some point and take care of business.”
“I don’t see what you’re worried about. We can take care of three just as easily as two.”
At six-forty, the garage door opened and a silver, late model Jeep Cherokee backed into the street and left.
“There goes Kincaid,” he said. “The boy likes to get an early start. What’s the old saying—early bird catches the worm?”
“Not this time,” she replied.
At seven-twenty, an old Buick Century backed out of the garage and drove a short distance to Jane Adams Elementary School. The Taurus followed. They watched as the old lady dropped the kid at school and returned home.
Having accomplished what they intended, they left.
Chapter Eighteen
As he left home for the office, Wendover, Utah Police Chief Walt Corey heard the call dispatching one of his patrol officers to the old abandoned military base. Children playing in the area had reported seeing a man slumped over the wheel of a parked car, probably a customer from one of the nearby casinos, who’d had a few too many drinks the night before and was sleeping it off. That wasn’t unusual for this community.
Corey was surprised when he heard the nearly hysterical voice of his newest patrol officer, who came on the radio announcing to anyone with a police scanner that the drunk sleeping in the car was really a dead guy with a bullet hole behind his left ear. When the tirade ended, Corey calmly got on the radio.
“Bobby, this is Corey. I’d like you to take a deep breath and calm down. I want you to do two things: First, secure the perimeter around the car. Then make sure nobody contaminates the scene. Got it.”
“Okay, Chief.”
“And Bobby, don’t worry about contacting the complainant or looking
***
After unloading my passengers, the ride home gave me time to think. I should have been feeling a sense of relief. We were poised to make an important bust in a high-visibility crime that had put all of us in a pressure cooker. But something didn’t feel right to me, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. It all seemed to fit. We’d developed a solid suspect who possessed a long and serious criminal history. He had motive. He had opportunity. And we had evidence. Oh, how we had evidence. Most of it was circumstantial, but there was plenty of it. Individually, the pieces of evidence were damaging enough. When looked at collectively, it would be a tough case to defend and an easy one to prosecute.
So why was I still having this nagging doubt? It was a neat case wrapped in a pretty box with a silver bow on it. But was it too neat? Maybe.
***
As the first hint of orange sky touched the eastern horizon, the late model Ford Taurus turned slowly on to Lariat Circle. The driver shut off the headlights and rolled the vehicle to a stop a short distance from Sam Kincaid’s home.
The passenger reached into her purse and removed a pack of Marlboros and a well-traveled Bic pen. She cracked the window and lit a cigarette. The driver sipped lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Despite the early morning chill, he lowered the driver’s side window.
“You gotta smoke that shit in here?” he asked irritably.
“Bite me.”
At six-twenty, the porch light came on, and an elderly woman wearing a pink terrycloth bathrobe stepped out and retrieved a newspaper.
“I thought you said Kincaid lived by himself with a young kid.”
“That’s the scuttlebutt. Supposedly, both his parents were killed in an accident a couple of years ago, and then he got divorced,” she replied.
“Yeah, then who the fuck is the old lady?”
“How the hell should I know—maybe a visiting relative or a live-in nanny? What the fuck difference does it make?”
“It might make a difference if we have to come back to this house at some point and take care of business.”
“I don’t see what you’re worried about. We can take care of three just as easily as two.”
At six-forty, the garage door opened and a silver, late model Jeep Cherokee backed into the street and left.
“There goes Kincaid,” he said. “The boy likes to get an early start. What’s the old saying—early bird catches the worm?”
“Not this time,” she replied.
At seven-twenty, an old Buick Century backed out of the garage and drove a short distance to Jane Adams Elementary School. The Taurus followed. They watched as the old lady dropped the kid at school and returned home.
Having accomplished what they intended, they left.
Chapter Eighteen
As he left home for the office, Wendover, Utah Police Chief Walt Corey heard the call dispatching one of his patrol officers to the old abandoned military base. Children playing in the area had reported seeing a man slumped over the wheel of a parked car, probably a customer from one of the nearby casinos, who’d had a few too many drinks the night before and was sleeping it off. That wasn’t unusual for this community.
Corey was surprised when he heard the nearly hysterical voice of his newest patrol officer, who came on the radio announcing to anyone with a police scanner that the drunk sleeping in the car was really a dead guy with a bullet hole behind his left ear. When the tirade ended, Corey calmly got on the radio.
“Bobby, this is Corey. I’d like you to take a deep breath and calm down. I want you to do two things: First, secure the perimeter around the car. Then make sure nobody contaminates the scene. Got it.”
“Okay, Chief.”
“And Bobby, don’t worry about contacting the complainant or looking
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