Wolf Pack, page 11
Sandburg said, “So you destroyed his fifteen-hundred-dollar drone in retaliation. Isn’t that enough?”
“No. It’s not enough. He really pissed me off.”
“Hardly a reason to bring charges against him.”
Pollock snorted a chuckle.
She leaned toward Sandburg. “You need to explain to me how letting a violator off the hook saves millions of lives. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
Sandburg raised his eyebrows. “I wish I could, but I’m prohibited by law from revealing that to you. Not only that, but my superiors would go batshit. You’ll just have to trust two special agents from the FBI who traveled thousands of miles on taxpayer money to have this conversation with you. If that doesn’t show you the gravity of our request—I’m not sure what could.”
Pollock added, “If you go after him, you’re trading a big-eared Bambi or two for the deaths of innocent human beings. We’re talking about American citizens here.”
He sat back and rolled his eyes and said, “That seems like a no-brainer decision to me.”
She asked, “Who are these millions of Americans whose lives I can supposedly save by not doing my job?”
Sandburg swept his hand through the room as if it were filled by a crowd. “They’re all around you,” he said. “Everywhere you look.”
She looked from one agent to the other. Her mouth had gone dry and she felt a steady pain in her stomach. “Why should I trust that you’re being straight with me?” she asked. “I understand the part about doing a back channel around the bureaucracy, but if this was really just about a few dead deer versus thousands of people, like you say, I’d think the bureau would make its case to people much higher than my pay grade.
“What’s so damned special about this drone pilot?” she asked.
“Again,” Sandburg said, “we can’t reveal that information to you.”
Pollock glared at her. “Just drop the fucking case, sister. Pretend it never happened. Just go about your day saving mooses and squirrels and fish, or whatever else the hell it is you do. You do not want to make the wrong choice here.”
“Are you threatening me?” she asked. She said it calmly, but it felt like a shout.
“We don’t threaten,” Pollock said. “We don’t need to.”
“We’re the FBI,” Sandburg said unnecessarily.
“And you have no authority over me,” she said. “I don’t work for you.”
The two agents looked quickly at each other as if agreeing to take the next step, whatever it was.
Sandburg asked, “Have you ever heard of a federal statute called 18 U.S.C. 1001, also known as ‘False Statements and Concealment’?”
She warily looked on.
The agent reached into his jacket and produced a document, which he unfolded. He slipped on a pair of reading glasses.
“‘Whoever, in any matter within the jurisdiction of any department or agency of the United States knowingly and willfully falsifies, conceals or covers up by any trick, scheme or device a material fact, or makes any false, fictitious or fraudulent statements or representations, or makes or uses any false writing or document knowing the same to contain any false, fictitious or fraudulent statement or entry shall be fined under this title, imprisoned not more than five years or, if the offense involves international or domestic terrorism (as defined in section 2331), imprisoned not more than eight years, or both. If the matter relates to an offense under chapter 109A, 109B, 110, or 117, or section 1591, then the term of imprisonment imposed under this section shall be not more than eight years.’”
He looked up from his paperwork to Katelyn. “Shall I interpret that for you in common language?”
She gulped and nodded.
He said, “If you lie to us about anything, we can put you in federal prison.”
Pollock grinned. He said, “Have you heard of Martha Stewart? Scooter Libby? Bernie Madoff? Michael Flynn? All of them went down for lying to FBI agents.”
“I haven’t lied to you,” she said. “This has nothing to do with me.”
Sandburg said, “Remember when I asked you about your wonderful family and happy marriage?”
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “Yes.”
He said, “You neglected to tell us that your husband, Ryle Hamm, is a substance abuser who spent so much money on illegal drugs that he lost his business.”
Pollock flipped open a notebook he’d slipped from his pocket and perused his notes. He said, “And you neglected to tell us that he moved into an apartment in town for two months before you reconciled and let him come back.”
“That couldn’t have been a very happy time for you,” Sandburg said.
She felt like she’d had the wind kicked out of her.
“I don’t think I said what you accuse me of,” she stammered. “That’s personal and it was between Ryle and me. It’s no business of yours. I was just making conversation when you asked.”
Ryle was a good father and a good man. Unlike too many men she knew of, men who were dissatisfied and thought only of themselves, he hadn’t voted with his feet and left. And after struggling with alcoholism and drug abuse for a period of years, he’d joined Alcoholics Anonymous and had cleaned himself up. He never missed a meeting. She was proud of him for that.
“There’s no such thing as ‘just making conversation’ when it comes to 18 U.S.C. 1001,” Pollock said. “The act of omission is treated the same as lying. Can you imagine using that as a defense? That you were ‘just making conversation’ when you lied to us?”
“You could have asked to have a lawyer present,” Sandburg continued. “You waived that right and then proceeded to make false statements.”
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “This is insane. Go ahead, play back your tape. We’ll listen to what I said.”
Sandburg said, “There is no tape. We don’t need a recording when we’ve got two agents who will testify that you told us a falsehood.”
“You didn’t even take notes . . .”
“We don’t have to,” Sandburg said. “We heard you. If need be, we’ll write up what’s known as an FD-302. What is that, you ask? An FD-302 is a form that summarizes our conversation here and what our impressions are of this exchange. We’ll write up the fact that you lied to us. The 302 will be the basis when we testify in court that you willfully withheld information from us that is easily verifiable.
“Think about your boys,” he added. “What would they do if you lost your job and were sent away? Would your addict husband take care of them?”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “He’s not an addict. He had a problem once and now he’s clean.”
Sandburg shrugged as if to say, Not my concern.
“This is just so ridiculous and unfair,” she said. “You two set out to trap me. It’s insane.”
Again the shrug from Sandburg. Pollock sat back in his chair and looked at his fingernails.
“This is just a bad dream,” she said to them. “How did you even find me? We haven’t even filed any charges against the drone pilot.”
“Good,” Pollock responded.
“There’s something else you need to see,” Sandburg said. He withdrew an iPad from a briefcase that was at his feet. As he scrolled through it, Katelyn stared dully ahead. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Twenty minutes earlier, she was making lunches for her boys.
Sandburg found what he was looking for and rotated the device so she could see the screen.
She gasped.
The photo was of Katelyn squatting near the cedar tree looking over her shoulder at the airborne camera with an angry expression. Her white buttocks were exposed and her pants were gathered around her ankles.
“How did you get that?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.
“That isn’t the question,” Sandburg said. “The question is how many people will see it when it’s online? Will your boys see it? Will your fellow game wardens see it? One can only imagine the comments.”
“He sent it to you,” Katelyn said. “The drone pilot.”
“It doesn’t matter where we got it,” Sandburg said. “I can promise you we won’t circulate it in any way. But I can’t speak for others.”
Pollock sighed and said to her, “All you need to do is drop the case and you’ll never have to worry about any of this. We’ll go away and you’ll never have to see us again. What could possibly be easier?”
* * *
—
KATELYN WALKED STUNNED through the dining room. If anyone greeted her she didn’t hear them. She walked out through the front door and placed both of her hands on the hood of her truck and lowered her head.
She could hardly breathe, and she was grateful that the tears that came from her eyes and pattered on the sheet metal of the vehicle hadn’t come earlier while she was talking to Sandburg and Pollock.
She thought, What would Joe Pickett do?
And were Special Agents Sandburg and Pollock going to visit him?
CHAPTER TEN
AS HE WALKED across the parking lot of the Twelve Sleep County Building, Joe idly swung by its chain one of the bobcat traps that he’d confiscated from the breaklands. He pushed through the front doors and waved at Stovepipe, who manned the metal detector that was the first stop en route to the courthouse and the sheriff’s department.
“I don’t think that thing will pass through,” Stovepipe said, pointing to the steel-jawed leg-hold device.
“Probably not. Is the machine actually working?” Joe asked about the metal detector. It was usually out of commission and was more ornamental than effective.
“It should be,” Stovepipe said. “We had some guys up from Denver to calibrate the settings. Judge Hewitt got pretty pissy when he found out it wasn’t working again.”
Judge Hewitt was known for packing a 9mm semiauto under his robes, and he’d never been shy about pulling it out if the situation warranted it within his courtroom. But he didn’t like the idea of others with concealed weapons who might shoot back.
Stovepipe wore a black Gus McCrae–style cowboy hat and a purple silk scarf around his neck. He always looked like he’d just dismounted from delivering a herd of longhorns to Belle Fourche. He’d been stationed at the metal detector for longer than Joe had been coming to the building.
Joe placed the trap, his gear belt and holster, and all of the metal he had in his pockets into a plastic tub and sent it through the machine on the moving belt.
“Where are you headed?” Stovepipe asked.
“I’m gonna talk to Mike and Dulcie,” Joe said, meaning Sheriff Mike Reed and County Attorney Dulcie Schalk.
“Damn,” Stovepipe said as Joe walked through without setting off the device. “Maybe it works.”
Joe gathered the trap and his phone and he realized he’d forgotten to remove his belt with its metal Wyoming Game Warden Foundation buckle.
“Nope,” he said to Stovepipe. “It’s still not right.”
“Don’t tell the judge when he gets back,” Stovepipe said.
Joe paused. “He’s not around?”
“Negative. He was invited to the Kansas Governor’s One Shot Turkey Hunt in El Dorado. Then he goes straight from there on a spring brown bear hunt in Alaska.”
“When will he be back?” Joe said.
“After he kills his turkeys and then his bear, I reckon.”
Joe snatched the trap out of the tub, but left the rest of his hardware for Stovepipe to keep an eye on. When Stovepipe started to object to the trap, Joe said, “Evidence,” and continued on.
* * *
—
SHERIFF MIKE REED rolled his wheelchair from his desk to his credenza, where his computer was located. “The names don’t ring a bell,” he said. “Bill Hill and, what was the second name?”
“Tom Kinnison.”
Reed’s movements weren’t as fluid as they’d once been, Joe noted. His friend’s physical deterioration had come rapidly. Reed had announced recently in the Saddlestring Roundup that he had no intention of running for reelection when his term ended the next year. Rumors were swirling about who might run to take his place. Joe had heard that two of Reed’s deputies—Justin Woods and Ryan Steck—were interested in the job and were already bad-mouthing each other.
Reed’s condition made Joe morose. His friend had been ambushed by gunmen a few years ago, but he’d had the determination and strength not only to continue his run for sheriff, but to administrate the department better than it had been run by previous occupants. Sheriff Reed’s wheelchair-accessible van delivered him quickly to crime scenes and situations, and the sheriff was rarely impaired from doing his job by his lack of mobility.
But a long bout of pneumonia had laid Reed up over the winter and sapped his strength more than Joe had previously realized.
“How are you feeling, Mike?” Joe asked as Reed brought up his monitor and tapped on the keyboard.
“A little better,” Reed said. “I thought I was a goner in January. It must be my good looks and clean living that got me through.”
“No doubt,” Joe said with a smile. He knew Mike still liked his bourbon every night.
Joe had been plagued throughout his career by corrupt, venal, and small-minded sheriffs. Previous to Reed, Joe had clashed with two of them in a row: Sheriff Vern Dunnegan and his henchman replacement Kyle McLanahan. Mike Reed was such a welcome exception that Joe hated to see him go. Sheriff Reed had restored faith in the department throughout the county.
“Too many people think they can’t be replaced,” the sheriff said, as if reading Joe’s mind. “Fact is, everyone can be replaced.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it,” Joe said. “After all, Governor Rulon got replaced.”
“Good point,” Reed said with a chuckle. Then: “It looks like your Bill Hill and Tom Kinnison are clean-living individuals as well. No arrests, no complaints, no callouts.”
“And you’ve never run across either one?” Joe asked.
“No. But I’ll be happy to ask my guys,” Reed said. Then: “It’s pretty difficult to live in this county and absolutely not make a mark. Especially if you’re living behind a great big security gate like you described.”
Joe agreed. “Marybeth has been doing some research on those two men as well and she’s not finding much. It’s kind of a strange situation.”
“More than strange,” Reed said. “Most folks have digital footprints a mile long. These two seem to have somehow avoided that. By the way, you might caution your wife that the new sheriff may not give her the same access to our law enforcement databases.”
Joe nodded. “I’ll let her know.”
From her desk at the Twelve Sleep County Library, Marybeth could get into several state, regional, and national criminal databases, courtesy of Sheriff Reed. Her ability to do research had aided Joe countless times.
“Let me know what you find out,” Reed said. “And don’t hesitate to give me a call if you need some help.”
Joe stood up with his hat in his hands. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad to see you’re doing so well after what happened,” Reed said as he pushed back from his computer. The look on his face was gentle and sincere. “You got your job back, plus a new house. Even a dandy new pickup. It’s about time you found yourself on the right side of fortune.”
“I agree.”
The sheriff smiled slyly. “But you know what that means, don’t you?”
“It could all come crashing down on my head just as quick.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t. You deserve a break after all these years of putting up with that crap and all those people.”
Joe flushed and shuffled out into the hallway.
* * *
—
DULCIE WAS AT her desk scrolling through emails on her computer when Joe leaned in and knocked on her open door.
“Got a minute?”
“For you, always,” she said with only a hint of sarcasm. Her eyes shifted to the leg-hold trap he had dangling by the chain. “I see that you brought me a lovely gift.”
“It’s an earring,” he said. “I’ll bring you one for your other ear the next time I stop by.”
She grinned and rolled her eyes. “I really am here on business,” he said.
“Then shut the door and sit down.”
* * *
—
SHE LISTENED CLOSELY while Joe outlined the parameters of the case he was building against Bill Hill and Tom Kinnison. As always, she took notes on a legal pad while he talked.
Dulcie was a careful and thorough prosecutor and her track record for convictions was impressive. If anything, Joe thought, she was too cautious at times.
When he was through, she asked, “When will you get the forensics results back on the drone?”
“Soon, I think,” Joe said. “Katelyn’s handling that. I’m kind of surprised I haven’t heard from her today. She’s eager to be there when we talk to Hill.”
“Which is premature at this point,” Dulcie said.
“What about the partial plate number?” Joe asked. “Isn’t that probable cause? Judge Hewitt’s granted search warrants in the past for less than that.”
“He isn’t here,” Dulcie said. “I’d have to make the case to Judge Hartsook-Carver. She’s filling in until Judge Hewitt gets back from shooting bears. In fact, I think she’s scheduled to be on the bench here tomorrow for a preliminary hearing.”
Joe winced. He recalled what Katelyn Hamm had said about her.
“Right now, I think we both know you could be accused of going on a fishing expedition,” Dulcie said. “I’m not sure Judge Hartsook-Carver will go for that, and I don’t really want to present it to her as is. I haven’t worked with her enough to know if she’d approve a search warrant based on what you’ve got, but I doubt it.
