A Wicked Snow

Chapter Seventeen

As the third day of the investigation drew to a close, Spruce County resembled a law enforcement convention with more uniforms and mustaches swarming the place than had ever been seen there. Oregon State Police, Spruce County Sheriff’s deputies, reserve officers from neighboring Cascade County, and of course, the agents from the FBI vied for parking spaces, restaurant tables, and hotel rooms with members of the media. And though he was probably the youngest of the lot, Jeff Bauer had the kind of amiable (“Let me work with you”) presence that made him a natural focal point. His good looks didn’t hurt either. When the camera went to him, it captured the image of a young man who knew what he was talking about even when he wasn’t supposed to say something. Such a performance meant a lot to the higher-ups back in Portland and even more so to the big guys in Washington, D.C. In fact, not saying anything at all while appearing to answer a question was an enviable skill, one others seldom achieved. Some cops could talk; and some couldn’t without making room in their mouths for a foot. Sometimes two.

Bauer wasn’t the special agent in charge of the Rock Point case, though he felt he should have been. That honor and responsibility fell on the slightly stooped shoulders of a nearly retired agent named Sam Ross. Ross was named agent in charge of LOMURS as the bureau tagged it—for Logan Murders. It was an exciting case to most everyone but Ross, who was burned out and bored and more than ready to move on. He’d been in the bureau twenty-five years and didn’t give one whit about going out in a blaze of glory on January 18, his retirement day. He kept a pocket calculator and counted down the days and hours toward his gold Seiko watch, his retirement home on Loon Lake west of Spokane, and his none-too-great government pension. Ross met up with Bauer after the interview with the postmistress. They shook hands and Ross went to lunch. They met a second time at the motel, where the older man simply hung around and stayed on the phone with agents at the Portland field office. When it came time to talk with Marcus Wheaton, Ross pretended to be interested.

“Important interview,” he said of the Wheaton interrogation. “Key, I’d say. Why don’t you handle it?”

The offer caught Bauer off guard. “You want me to take the lead on it?”

“That’s what I said. Got a hearing problem?”

“No. I can do it.”

“Good. I’m not really sure if we have any jurisdiction here anyway. Seems this is shaking out like a county case. But we’re here. Might as well work through this.”

Inside, Bauer disregarded Ross’s comments. This was his case now. He notified Sheriff Howe.

“We want to talk to Wheaton.”

“He lawyered up a couple of hours ago. Brinker’s the name. A good guy, but court-appointed and you know what they say.”

“You get what you pay for?” Bauer said.

“You got that right.” Howe chuckled as though he’d heard the remark for the first time.

Forty-five minutes later, Bauer and Ross signed in to see Marcus Wheaton at the Spruce County jail. It was a nice jail, as those places go. Surprisingly modern, given it was more than twenty-five years old. It had been built during the then-governor’s push to make sure prisons and jails in Oregon were humane. There were six cells at Spruce County Corrections and Justice Center. Five were outfitted for men and ran the length of the building. A sixth was segregated from the others—a toilet with a beige tiled enclosure was its primary distinction. The men’s commodes—the other five—were stainless steel and planted in the open where anyone using them could be observed at all times. The women’s cell had been used infrequently. In fact, the last time it had an occupant was when a transvestite from Colorado got in a fistfight with a local fry cook outside the Crazy Eight, a downtown Rock Point bar. A straight bar. A guidebook to the gay Northwest apparently contained an embarrassing error.

In late December, a couple of drunks and a kid serving out the last days of a pot possession conviction occupied the first three cells. Ostensibly for security measures, though Sheriff Howe later conceded it was because they wanted to keep an eye on Wheaton at all times, the handyman with the gas can was kept in the woman’s cell, which was adjacent to the sheriff’s office.

The FBI agents followed Sheriff Howe into the interview room where Wheaton sat in a turquoise, plastic-molded chair and stared at the table as if the white-and-gold splattered surface held some keen interest. The room looked more like a kitchenette than any “justice center.” Wheaton was not handcuffed. When he looked up, it was with a single eye.

“As I’ve said, I didn’t kill nobody,” he said.

“Right. Tell that to Erik and Danny’s sister,” Ross said.

Ross wanted to show the greenhorn how it was done, but also to get the damn thing going as quickly as possible. The sooner they were done, the sooner they’d be able to leave and return to Portland. Even so, Bauer was impressed. He didn’t know Ross even knew the twin boys’ names. He didn’t think Ross had paid a bit of attention to any of it.

Ross must have sensed that Bauer was impressed, because in an instant, the older FBI man decided to do a little grandstanding to show the new kid how it was done.

“How’s it feel to kill a couple of little kids? A bunch of old men…and a woman?”

Wheaton shook his head. “You, mister, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We know enough,” Ross retorted. “Enough to have you swinging from the gallows in Cutter’s Landing by Easter.”

The big man stopped himself from bubbling over, though his anxiousness covered his bulbous face. “Where’s Brinker?” he asked.

“He’s coming. Be here any minute.” Sheriff Howe drained the last of his Pepsi. “You keep talking, Marcus.”

“You and Mrs. Logan had a little thing going? Usually it is the employee who gets fucked by the boss. Funny, you really turned the tables on her, didn’t you?”

Bauer wasn’t sure where it was going, but Wheaton made it crystal clear.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, looking at Sam Ross with his good eye. “I’ll talk to him.” He pointed to Bauer.

Ross shrugged. “Fine,” he said. He didn’t care at all and didn’t even bother pretending that he did. “You talk with Agent Bauer and I’ll get a head start on my beauty sleep.”

After Ross departed for the hotel, Wheaton cleared the phlegm in his throat and spoke softly. Bauer had to strain to hear each word. He noticed the gauze wrapping over his ear wept some fluid.

“I just want you to know. I would never hurt those boys. I’d never hurt Claire. Never in a billion years.”

“If you didn’t, then who?”

“I’m not saying anything about anyone else. I’m just telling you about me. And I’m telling you that I wouldn’t, couldn’t, hurt Erik and Danny.” The big man blinked back a tear from his good eye.

“Then who? If not you? I mean, did Claire kill her boys?” Bauer asked. It was a question that had never been asked out loud. But it had been brewing in Bauer’s mind since the conversation with Della Holm at the Rock Point post office.

Wheaton sat mute.

“Listen to me very carefully, Marcus. You might be a decent guy mixed up with a bad woman. You wouldn’t be the first. Prisons are full of men who did something stupid for the love of the wrong woman.”

“I don’t follow you,” the singed handyman said. His face was expressionless.

“Okay. I’ll be direct. You were screwed by Claire Logan,” Bauer said. “The corpse found beside Erik and Danny was not their mother’s. Are you following me now? If you didn’t put the body there to help Claire fake her death, then I’d say you were tricked just like everyone else.”

“What are you talking about? Claire is dead. She just has to be…”

“Don’t think so…”

Travis Brinker, decked out in a three-piece navy blue suit and a spanking new black leather briefcase, burst into the room. “This interview is over,” he said.

“Too bad,” Sheriff Howe deadpanned. “We’re just getting started.”

Bauer nodded. “Yeah, Marcus Wheaton wants to tell us something. We’re ready to listen, too.”

“This is over,” Brinker said as Wheaton looked on. “Right now.”