Trace Evidence, page 13
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Chapter Eighteen
Red Maple Lake, California
Six Years Ago
When they finally reached the front door of the Wilcox lodge, Josh and the others lifted Skip carefully out of the life raft, carried him inside, and placed him on a large dining room table. Josh tried to reassure him, but he was moaning and writhing in pain. He mumbled words, but they made no sense.
Kevin immediately began working on Skip. He sent Mark to find the first aid kit and his medical bag, which he carried everywhere.
“Dan, sit there and elevate that foot until I can get a look at it.” Kevin pointed to a straight chair. Dan, at least, was capable of following directions. “Ruben, can you get some water? These guys are severely dehydrated.”
“Don’t worry. Kevin has patched up our injuries out here before,” Ruben said as he left the room. He returned with two large water bottles, one for Josh and one for Dan.
“Thanks.” Josh downed the water like a man who had spent a decade in the desert. Dan did the same.
Mark brought Kevin’s medical bag and stood on the other side of the table as Kevin dealt with Skip.
“We need to contact the hospital,” Josh said. “Is there a phone or radio or something we can use to call out?”
Ruben stuffed his hands in his back pockets and shook his head. “This place is pretty remote. That’s the reason we like it. We need a break now and then so we come here precisely because no one can reach us.”
Josh wondered briefly why these three would want to be out of contact with all civilization. It seemed dangerous, if nothing else. What if someone were to come down with appendicitis or something? “Do you have transportation we can use to get Skip to the hospital?”
“We have a helicopter. Mark is our pilot. He can fly your buddy up to Tahoe,” Ruben said.
“But we can’t do it tonight,” Mark said. “Weather’s already bad out there and worse coming in. Can’t risk it.”
Ruben looked over at Kevin. “Can you get him stabilized until this weather passes?”
Kevin shrugged and frowned, preoccupied with whatever he was doing to Skip on the table. “I’ve given him some morphine to help with the pain. Let’s move him into the back, get him into bed. I’ll see what I can do about his leg.”
“He needs surgery, doesn’t he?” Josh asked.
“I can’t do surgery here, even if I was qualified to handle something like this, which I’m not,” Kevin replied. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Lucky you put that tourniquet in place, but I can’t take it off.” He paused, glanced at the ground, and cleared his throat. “He should pull through this, but he may very well lose that leg.”
Kevin’s words hit Josh like a hard punch to his gut. It was his fault. All of it. Skip had wanted to book a commercial flight to Costa Rica. They should’ve done that. Dan had been open for anything when they were doing the planning, but Josh was the one who had pushed for Red Maple Resort after Dan brought it up.
Beyond that, Josh was the one who crashed the plane. Totally his fault. Simple as that. He’d never forgive himself if Skip lost that leg. And Skip’s wife would never forgive Josh, either. He knew it the way he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Debbie didn’t like Josh anyway. This would give her a perfect excuse to cut Josh from Skip’s world. Permanently. Skip would go along with her. He always did. And Josh couldn’t really blame either of them.
“Josh? We need a hand here,” Mark said. Ruben and Mark were at Skip’s head. Kevin placed both hands under Skip’s mutilated right leg, holding the leg together. The blood-saturated pant leg flopped down from his waist where Kevin had cut the fabric away to treat his injured leg.
Josh put his arms under Skip’s left side and the four men moved slowly, in concert, toward a bedroom in the back of the house. They passed several closed doors along the way, which Josh assumed were more bedrooms.
The morphine must’ve kicked in because Skip had finally stopped the constant moaning.
The setup was a normal guest room. A dresser, a private bath, a couple of chairs. Two twin beds, but both were higher off the floor than normal, as if they were made for an exceptionally tall person. Not quite hospital-bed height, but serviceable enough.
They settled Skip on one of the beds and moved out of Kevin’s way. Josh stood by helplessly while Kevin worked. He put an IV in Skip’s arm and attached the bag to the bedpost to allow gravity to do its work.
Kevin spent a few minutes working on Skip’s leg wound, but the open femur fracture would require surgery. No question. Josh wasn’t a doctor and he’d known that much when he’d first seen the break. Kevin shook his head sorrowfully from time to time, as if he already knew Skip would lose the leg. Josh felt the truth twist in his stomach.
“We need to stay with him around the clock,” Kevin said when he had done everything he could do for the time being. “Mark, can you take the first shift here? I’ll deal with Dan’s foot and ankle. And then I’ll be back to check on Skip. Call me if anything changes.”
Mark replied, “Will do.” He pulled a straight chair closer to the bed and leaned forward, forearms on thighs, watching for something. Josh had no idea what he was looking for, but he was glad to have him there with Skip, acting as if he knew what to do.
Kevin nodded and left the room. Ruben clapped Josh on the shoulder.
Josh hadn’t really looked at Ruben before. His features were unremarkable, but his vibe was controlling and strong somehow. As if he was used to giving orders and expected them to be followed. Briefly, Josh wondered what line of work the guy was in, but he didn’t ask. Josh had other things on his mind.
“Go with Kevin. Let him clean you up, too,” Ruben said. “The last thing you need right now is even a minor infection, right?”
Josh looked at his hands as if for the first time. He saw cuts and scrapes he hadn’t noticed before. He glanced in the mirror above the dresser and barely recognized his face. Grime and dried blood marred his features. At least one deep cut on his jaw had dripped blood onto his shirt. He didn’t remember receiving any of his wounds at all.
He nodded toward Ruben and followed Kevin to the main living area of the house, where Dan was still sitting with his foot elevated.
“He’s had some kind of concussion or something, too,” Josh said, while they were out of Dan’s hearing range. “He was kind of dazed right after we crashed, and he hasn’t been acting right since then.”
“Got it.” Kevin knelt down to deal with Dan’s sprained ankle. He managed to get Dan’s boot off the swollen foot and removed his wet, filthy sock. He cut the pant leg up from the ankle to the knee and used both hands to feel Dan’s injury, probably looking for fractures or something. Then he moved on to the rest of his exam.
When he’d finished, Kevin said, “Dan, you’ve probably sustained a mild concussion. You should be okay. But concussions are unpredictable. We’ll need to watch for symptoms.”
Josh nodded, feeling worse by the minute. He’d really screwed up here and his friends were the ones paying for it. “What kind of symptoms?”
“Headache, dizziness, fatigue. Some patients display irritability, concentration, and memory problems. Insomnia.” Kevin listed the symptoms automatically, like a pediatrician who had treated his share of schoolyard injuries. “The bigger problem at the moment is this sprained ankle because he shouldn’t be walking around on it. It could be fractured, too. I can’t rule it out. He needs an x-ray.”
Dan said, “We’ll be able to do that tomorrow, right? The x-ray?”
“Yeah. Over in Tahoe, they’ve had a lot of experience with sports injuries because of all the resorts and tourism they get.” Kevin nodded. “In the meantime, both of you need a shower and some dry clothes and something to eat, followed by sleep. You’ve got another long day tomorrow.”
“How far are we from Red Maple Lake Resort?” Josh asked. “Maybe they have a doctor there who could do more for Skip tonight.”
Before Kevin responded, a fourth man Josh had not seen before entered from somewhere in the back of the house and overheard the question. He was tall and well groomed. His clothes were expensive and fit him like they’d been made specifically for his body, which they probably had. He was older than the others, maybe about fifty. The family resemblance to Mark was unmistakable.
“I’m afraid you landed quite a distance from the resort. You are maybe ten miles west, and the terrain between here and there is pretty rough. If the weather improves, you might be able to drive the off-road vehicle over there. But it would take at least a couple of hours, even in good weather. It’s slow going. And it’s a bumpy ride. Your friend’s leg wouldn’t be the better for the trip.”
Josh stood and extended his hand. “I’m Josh Hallman.”
“Boyd Wilcox. Mark’s brother. I’m sorry for your troubles.” He shook hands with Josh. “Kevin here will do what he can for now. Mark will fly you out to Tahoe in the morning, weather permitting. In the meantime, we’ll get you set up with bunks for the night.”
“Thank you.” Josh’s stomach growled and Boyd Wilcox smiled.
“Maybe we should feed you, too. Wash up and meet us back here for dinner. Kevin will show you to your room.” When Josh nodded, Boyd Wilcox turned and left.
Josh cocked his head. “He looks familiar to me. Should I know him?”
“Depends.” Kevin helped Dan up and put an arm around his body to keep the weight off his sprained ankle. The hallway was wide, but not wide enough for three men to walk abreast. Josh followed behind them. “Boyd is not a celebrity. CEO of StellarSoft. The tech company. You’ve probably seen his photo in the financial press.”
Josh whistled. Of course he knew StellarSoft. Everyone did. One of the most successful privately held companies in the tech world. Hell, in any world. StellarSoft operating system powered half the gadgets on the planet. Including those used by governments and industry.
Boyd Wilcox. The tech genius who named his company after his great passion, stargazing. The guy was at least as passionate about astronomy as he was about tech. Maybe more so.
Boyd Wilcox. Out here in the middle of nowhere. How crazy was that? Josh shook his head.
Kevin had stopped walking. “Can you open that door? We’ll put you both in here.”
Josh reached around and turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Kevin walked and Dan hopped into the room and Josh followed. This bedroom was a copy of the one where they’d put Skip. Kevin helped Dan to sit on one of the twin beds.
Kevin pointed to the bathroom. “You can get a shower in there. I’ll find you both some clothes and bring them back here. You look to be about my size, Josh. Dan, maybe something I have will fit you, too. And we’ll have dinner in about an hour. Meet back in the dining room when you’re ready.”
When he turned to leave, Josh said, “Kevin?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. I don’t know what we’d have done out there if you guys hadn’t come along.” Josh felt tears in his eyes and he blinked hard.
“No problem. Doctors are supposed to help people. It’s what we do, right?” Kevin left the room, closing the door behind him, without another word.
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Chapter Nineteen
Red Maple Lake, California
Tuesday
Flint read the file through very quickly. Marilyn Baker died on June 18. Which meant she’d died not too long after she’d left him with Bette Maxwell. He’d have been about two years old.
Baker was a second-grade teacher. She taught indigent students at a Catholic elementary school on the south side of Mount Warren. According to the newspaper accounts, Baker’s friends described her as extremely shy. She took her faith very seriously. She’d attended mass and communion every day, her friends said.
“Were you always so devout? Or did you develop that habit after you gave up your child?” He said aloud, barely hearing the water running in the shower now as he scanned the rest of the file.
Baker lived with her parents, who were described as loving but protective.
“Meaning they were smothering,” he mumbled.
On the day she died, Baker told her parents she was going to confession at St. Michael’s Church, where she was also a Sunday school teacher.
“Is that why you named your son Michael? Because of the church?” He continued to ask questions aimed at the pretty young woman’s photo, but she didn’t answer.
She had been the homecoming queen at Mount Warren High School. Another friend interviewed for the newspaper article said that Baker was strikingly pretty.
Baker’s photos suggested her friend had a gift for understatement. Baker wasn’t simply pretty. Her beauty was overwhelming.
She looked angelic. Even the old grainy photo showed off her spectacular appeal.
When Baker’s parents did not hear from her that long-ago evening they thought she had stayed at church for midnight mass, which she often did.
But she never came home that night.
The next morning, they reported her missing to the local police department.
Later that day, kids riding bicycles outside of town found an odd trail of evidence stretching several hundred yards down the road. They found her purse, one of her shoes, and one of her gloves.
Police and volunteers searched for her, and two days later, her body was found face down in a canal several miles away.
According to the autopsy report, Baker died of suffocation. She had not been raped or beaten. Any physical evidence that might have identified her attacker, such as blood or semen or hair samples, was presumed washed away during the time the body was in the canal.
Flint shook his head. These days, forensics might have found trace evidence on the body. But years ago, evidence collection and evaluation techniques were not what they were now.
Law enforcement questioned known sex offenders, family members, coworkers, friends, and ex-boyfriends, the newspaper said. No one was able to supply helpful evidence.
The next line popped out as if it had a life of its own.
His eyes widened as he read the sentence aloud.
“Felix Crane and Sebastian Shaw, and several other local businessmen who knew Marilyn Baker, offered a $10,000 reward for information about Baker’s death.”
Flint swiped his palm down his face and groaned.
Crane.
He was on the right track.
Shaw.
He shook his head.
He’d come back to Shaw.
He continued to skim the materials.
Another article in the local paper three days later reported that the priest who heard Baker’s last confession, Father James Preston, was under suspicion in the Marilyn Baker case.
Flint’s gut tensed.
The priest had been serving at the church since completing seminary training. Church members said Father Preston’s confession line moved slowly that night, and he was away from the sanctuary for long periods of time.
Fellow priests had noticed scratch marks on his hands the next day, and they’d said it was irregular for him to have taken Baker to the rectory to hear her confession. The police administered a polygraph test, which was inconclusive.
Father Preston was not charged in the case, which remained unsolved.
Flint nodded. This was the logical end to the Baker report.
But his source had included more. He flipped to the next screen.
Four years later, another young woman was similarly kidnapped and murdered in another Catholic church in another town where Father Preston was serving as a visiting priest. The second young woman, unlike Marilyn Baker, had been raped.
Eventually, Father Preston was arrested, tried, and convicted for the crime. The jury unanimously sentenced him to death and the long appellate process began.
Flint’s source said she could find nothing else about the Marilyn Baker murder. The case was stone cold. It seemed the world had forgotten Marilyn Baker entirely.
But his source had included what she’d learned about James Preston.
Last year, Father Preston was once again in the news. He had exhausted his appeals and his execution had been scheduled. When he received the news, he had requested his priest for confession.
After the priest left Preston, a television reporter asked him whether Preston had admitted to the murder of Marilyn Baker.
The video of that interview was attached.
Flint watched it quickly.
The priest refused to violate the sanctity of the confessional, but his hands were shaking as he fingered the beads of his rosary. He didn’t deny that Preston had confessed to killing Marilyn Baker.
Which wasn’t the same as an admission or confession of guilt.
Flint squeezed his scratchy eyes together. His neck was tight. He felt the tension in his shoulders. He’d been staring at the screen too long. He closed the laptop.
He stripped and stepped into the steaming shower. The water didn’t wash the details of Marilyn Baker’s murder from his mind.
He had seen many witnesses confronted with horrible truths. While a priest might be expected to react differently from a lay witness, priests were human, too. This one seemed like a good man, and whatever Preston had told him had been upsetting, to say the very least.
Had Preston confessed what he’d done to Marilyn Baker? Possibly. But the priest had neither confirmed nor denied Preston’s guilt.
Flint finished his shower and toweled off. He slid into jeans and a sweater and slipped comfortable loafers onto his feet.
Drake knocked on the door. “You ready?”
Flint had opened the laptop again to scan the time-sensitive file, marked “Urgent.” It still contained only one sentence.
James Preston. Scheduled to die by lethal injection at Huntsville, Texas. Thursday. The day after tomorrow.
