If I Should Die

TWENTY-SEVEN

Sean and Patrick entered the sheriff’s office just after nine a.m. Saturday morning. Sean was supposed to be at the prison for his visit with Paul Swain at one that afternoon. He hadn’t wanted to wait, but the cogs of the prison bureaucracy ran on their own time. Especially since Noah had moved heaven and earth to get Sean, who wasn’t a cop, a private Saturday visit with Swain.

Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard came out of his office to greet them. After introductions, he escorted them to his office and said, “I left a message for Deputy Weddle to come by, but I haven’t heard from him.”

“Probably skipped town,” Sean mumbled.

He and Patrick sat in the chairs across from Dillard’s tidy desk. On the wall behind the detective were several commendations from both the St. Lawrence County Sheriff and the Philadelphia Police Department. “You’re from Philly?” Sean asked.

“Born and bred. Came here to get away from big city crime. Found out that small town violence can be just as bad.” Dillard poured coffee into a mug from a thermos on his desk. “Did you get the copy of Weddle’s report I emailed last night?”

“He’s either a liar or an idiot,” Sean said. “And I noticed he didn’t report the sniper who shot at us yesterday.”

“Sniper?”

Sean nodded and leaned forward.

“There was a body in the mine. Lucy didn’t make it up; she wasn’t scared and seeing things. She’s identified the body as Special Agent Victoria Sheffield out of the Albany FBI office.”

Dillard leaned back in his chair, but his expression was both grim and suspicious. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I wanted to talk to you face-to-face. After dealing with Weddle for two days, I don’t trust him. And from what I’ve heard from people in Spruce Lake, he’s been on the take for years.”

“You’ll have to put some names to those accusations,” Dillard said.

Sean shook his head. “Not yet.” He assessed Dillard as a straightshooter. “Are you familiar with the Swain family?”

Dillard nodded. “I was part of the joint task force that took down Paul Swain. Nine people went to prison. If I thought Swain was still running things in Spruce Lake, I would have called in the Feds. One thing I can say about that place—they take care of their own. Someone like me—I wouldn’t get anywhere.”

“You don’t think Swain is managing his trade from the prison?” Patrick asked. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I’d never say never, but he’s closely watched. Two cops died during the operation—a meth lab exploded. Long story, screwups all around, but in the end we learned one of Swain’s people set it up. A booby trap.”

“How did you get the warrant in the first place?” Patrick asked.

“Someone turned state’s evidence.”

“Who?” Sean wondered if his theory about Bobbie Swain turning in her brother had merit.

“That information is above my pay grade. It’s not in any of the official reports.”

“An insider,” Sean said.

Dillard shrugged. “That would be my educated guess. Someone very close to Swain.”

“What if,” Sean said, “this C.I. who helped the task force take down Swain and his cronies turned around and set up his—or her—own criminal enterprise?”

“Anything’s possible,” Dillard said. “Or, someone saw the opportunity to fill a hole in the distribution chain. I’ll tap my contact with the DEA and see what he knows.”

“Discreetly,” Sean said.

Dillard frowned, and Patrick interjected, “My partner is concerned that there may be problems with some of the law enforcement. Especially after what’s happened with Deputy Weddle.”

“Weddle is a bad cop,” Sean said bluntly.

“Not all cops are like Weddle.” Dillard rubbed the back of his neck. “I pulled the GPS on Weddle’s assigned vehicle. Though he officially clocked out at four p.m. on Wednesday, the day you found the body, his vehicle was at the Kelley Mine from eight-fifteen until nine-forty-nine p.m.” He handed Sean a short stack of papers. “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you, but you might see something I’m missing. It goes back seventy-two hours. Weddle has been spending a lot of time at the mine this week.”

Sean scanned the GPS printout. It showed Weddle’s exact route by time and location. He’d spent a lot of time in Spruce Lake. He lived nearly thirty minutes away in Potsdam, where his car was now.

Dillard added, “This week has shown a definite change in pattern.”

Not only was Weddle at the mine Wednesday night—to remove Agent Sheffield’s body?—but he’d gone back Friday late in the afternoon. That was after Lucy had told him there was evidence in the mine.

Sean looked carefully at the stops Weddle made after Thursday morning, when he first met Sean and Lucy at the mine. He first went to the Lock & Barrel, then back to Potsdam. On Friday he was at the Hendricksons’ before noon—after Tim called about the sniper—then went to Reverend Browne’s church for more than an hour. At 3:30, the deputy was in Colton for nearly thirty minutes, then went back to the mine for over an hour before returning to his residence.

“Who lives at 1020 West Mountain Road?”

Dillard typed the address into his computer. “The house is owned by Butch and Katherine Swain.”

“He was there for nearly thirty minutes, then went back to the mine. That was after Lucy told him there was evidence down there. Which is probably gone now.”

Dillard looked as though he wanted to argue. After all, Sean was making a grave accusation about one of his cops, but he closed his mouth.

Patrick said, “When did Weddle arrive home on Friday?”

“Six-ten.”

“Where is he right now?” Patrick asked Dillard.

Dillard typed into his computer. “At his residence in Potsdam. At least his police unit is there. He has the day off. He could be using his personal vehicle.”

“Are you planning on paying him a visit?”

“I suppose I am.”

“How about a partner?” Sean said. Dillard hesitated. “Patrick here was a cop in San Diego for ten years. Does that help?”

Dillard gave him a half-smile. “A bit. You’re both welcome to join me. Let me take the lead.”

“We’ll follow you,” Sean said as they left the station.

There was no response to Dillard’s repeated knockings at the small, post–World War II house of Tyler Weddle.

Sean had a bad feeling. Weddle’s personal car was in the garage and his police unit in the driveway.

“I’m calling it in,” Dillard said. He informed dispatch that he was entering the locked house of Deputy Tyler Weddle on a well-being check. He went to his truck to retrieve a small, one-man metal battering ram.

“If you don’t mind,” Sean said and pulled out his lock pick set. He liked the ease and finesse of picking a lock, and didn’t understand why most cops went for the big guns, so to speak. In less than five seconds, he had the door unlocked.

“You two, go around back,” Dillard said, notably impressed. “At a count of ten I’ll announce myself and then enter. Do not enter until I give you the clear, though if he bolts—”

“Got it.” He and Patrick jogged around to the back, keeping low beneath the line of the windows. “If he bolts, you’ll have to chase him down.” Sean was usually faster than Patrick in a sprint, but with his bum leg he didn’t think he’d be any help.

At exactly ten seconds, they heard Dillard shout, “Weddle! It’s Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard! I’m coming in!”

Sean positioned himself just outside the door to watch the knob. Patrick was five feet behind him, against the house, gun drawn, ready to give chase if necessary.

“Boys!” Dillard called. “It’s me.”

Sean lowered his gun. As soon as Dillard opened the door, Sean smelled it. Vomit, alcohol, blood. Dillard’s face was grim.

The back door opened into a small mudroom, then the kitchen. Dried vomit coated the sickly yellow counter and dripping sink. A bottle of JD had spilled on the table, soaking into a stack of junk mail and bills.

“I didn’t do a complete search yet,” Dillard said, “but I don’t think anyone’s alive in here.”

The living room was clear. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom. The bedrooms were clear.

The carpet in the narrow hall outside the bathroom was soaked in water. A light trickle of water sounded from behind the closed door.

Dillard motioned for Sean and Patrick to stand back, then opened the door.

Sean wasn’t sure what he thought he’d see, but he wasn’t expecting a bloodbath.

“Dear God,” Dillard said and glanced away.

“Glad I missed breakfast,” Patrick mumbled.

Blood had spattered across the entire white-tiled room. Darker red arcs covered the ceiling in what looked like a classic cast-off pattern. Because the room was damp from the running shower, the blood hadn’t completely dried. Some had dripped to the floor, drying in trickles of pink down the slick walls.

Weddle’s butchered naked body was slumped in the shower, blocking the drain, as the water dripped steadily over it. Almost all blood had been washed from his flesh. His face was turned away from the door, but Sean could tell that Weddle’s throat had been slit. He couldn’t tell if it was deep enough to kill him quickly, or if the cause of death was the multiple slash marks covering his skin. They weren’t simple in-and-out stab wounds, either. Whoever had killed Weddle used slicing motions—each cut shallow and methodical.

“Out,” Dillard ordered. “This is now a crime scene.”