Killer Weekend

“Bird droppings, Walt.” She stared at him, once again somewhat condescendingly. “The cougar that was darted was transferred to the Humane Society until Fish and Game figures out what to do with her. She was at the pound, Walt.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. That’s about the size of it.”

Seventeen

W alt entered the shed extension of the Humane Society a few minutes behind his deputy, Randy Anderson, and a few minutes ahead of Fiona, who’d headed home to pick up equipment. The garish green steel building sat atop a sagebrush knoll three miles out Croy Canyon, west of Hailey, where coyotes cried in the wee hours of the morning and area snowplows struggled to reach in the dead of winter. The volunteer worker, a middle-aged woman Walt recognized from the softball bleachers, threatened him with a cup of coffee. Walt politely declined. He and Anderson do

“You got everything?” Walt asked him, not sure he wanted the answer.

“Yeah. All set.” Anderson hoisted a black duffel bag. “Take me about five minutes to mix the chemicals.”

Walt approached the interior door that led to the ke

All down the center aisle he noticed ghostly white stains that had been vigorously scrubbed off the concrete. He looked up and saw the scars where hundreds of the swallows’ mud nests had been plucked off the ridgepole. Dozens more had yet to be removed. A few bold swallows peeked their heads from the remaining nests. Made of dried mud and grass, they looked like tiny caves.

“It’s a never-ending battle,” the volunteer said from behind him. “And a health issue. Most of the smell is the bird poo, I’m afraid. We’re still working on a more permanent solution.”

“Can we move the cat?” Walt asked.

“Oh, no, sir. Not us. Have to call Fish and Game to do that.”

He shouted, “ Anderson, will the luminol hurt the cat?”

“Shouldn’t. No, sir. It’s basically nothing more than hydrogen peroxide.”

“Then hurry it up.”

Twenty minutes later, Anderson had sprayed the concrete flooring inside most of the cage. The cougar wisely chose to stay as far away as possible during this, pacing the opposite wall from Anderson.

Fiona arrived. She had do

“Was she alive when he did it?” Fiona asked.

“We don’t know anything yet. Let’s take it step by step.”

Anderson returned from mixing another batch. He backed them away from the cage and sprayed the outside perimeter as well.

“I’m all set,” Fiona a

“Okay, then.” Anderson plugged in a two-foot tube light-a black light like the kind McClure had used in the morgue. “Okay,” he said, somewhat nervously. “Anything blue-green is evidence of blood.”

Walt asked the volunteer to leave the room. He shut the door, and as he did the dogs barked viciously in a chorus that ran chills down his spine. He switched the long wire of overhead lights off. The room went dark. Mixed in with the dogs was the sound of Fiona gasping.

Then Anderson croaked out in raspy voice, “Mother of God.”

Eighteen

T he cage floor was stained in ungainly neon green smears and streaks and splatters. It looked like a monochromatic Jackson Pollock painting. Walt maintained his poise as he imagined a semiconscious, paralyzed Ailia Holms being mauled, bitten, clawed, and dragged around the cage.

As Fiona clicked off time exposures, Walt thought he heard her crying. Anderson pointed out the long green tail that tapered from the edge of the cage toward the room’s central drain.

“Someone tried to clean it up,” Anderson explained. “Hosed it down. Maybe mopped. Spent some time on it. I’ll luminol the brooms and mops.”

“We’ll want to check the drain for tissue, the brooms for prints.” Walt indicated an area in front of the cage. “Get pictures of this as well, please.”

Anderson illuminated the area in question. “Interesting,” he said, his teeth glowing white and standing out from his blue face.

The green smear indicating spilled blood was interrupted by two columns-representing clean concrete.

“These are blood shadows,” Anderson explained.

“I don’t want to ask.” Fiona sounded frightened.

“Blood splatter traveled out of the cage and was blocked.” Anderson hesitated. “Someone stood here and watched her die.”

Nineteen

B randon had rounded up Patrick Cutter’s seven-person staff, and two security perso

Doug Aanestad read through the hastily scrawled search warrant. “Must be nice to work in a place where judges can be bent to favor at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Small-town living,” Walt said. “This may take a while.”

“Gi

“Pass. Everyone stays where they are.”

“It’s a fishing expedition, Walt, and you know it. She got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad luck is all.”

“Don’t I wish.”

“You have evidence to the contrary?”

“Don’t you wish,” Walt said. “I don’t share intel with the enemy.”

“Five minutes, and you can put her back on the patio. I’m telling you: flown in from Colombia. You’ve never tasted anything like this.”

Walt answered with a glare. Aanestad slumped into a living room chair that swallowed him. He continued reading the warrant. Again he mumbled something about Walt’s good fortune.

By 3:30 P.M. Walt was following Anderson around the house, as Anderson chased electrical outlets to power his black light. When Anderson moved toward the master bedroom, Aanestad steered him clear, pointing out that the warrant contained Walt to a search for evidence linked to Da

Anderson was going through the guest suite when deputies Tilly and Kaiser showed up, beckoning Walt to the six-car garage. Aanestad followed, the vigilante watchdog.

Several of the garage bays stood empty. Four cars remained: a Hummer, a BMW sports coupe, a gleaming black pickup truck, and a Toyota Land Cruiser. All had their doors open, mats out on the poured concrete; some seats had been removed.

Walt informed Aanestad, “Just FYI, we have two teams searching both Patrick’s and Da

“I saw that. I still think it’s a stretch to include all the vehicles when my client claims to have driven only the Lexus. But there you have it.”

“If you aren’t careful, Doug, someone’s going to accuse you of being Patrick’s lawyer.”

“I am Patrick’s lawyer-locally,” he clarified, even though he thought Walt knew that. “I represent the family.”

“We found it over here,” Tilly said, eager to show his prize.