Serial

25

Hogart, 1991

The morning after the rape of Beth Brannigan, Sheriff Wayne Westerley carefully placed his meager findings from the crime scene in the trunk of his cruiser. They consisted of a series of Polaroid shots, a quick-set plastic cast of the motorcycle kickstand indentation in the earth, and a plastic bag containing the dried brown leaf with the blood splatter on it. Not much, unless they also had a suspect. Westerley knew the odds were long on that, and getting longer with each passing hour.

He took a last look around the crime scene, thinking it was odd how a residue of emotion seemed to linger where great violence had occurred. As if somehow the very air knew that the harm done extended far beyond the victim. He tried to imagine what had gone through Beth Brannigan’s mind last night, but decided he couldn’t. What he should be doing, anyway, was trying to figure out what had gone on in the assailant’s mind. That might provide some help in apprehending him before he did even more harm.

As soon as Westerley settled himself in behind the steering wheel of the cruiser and bent forward to twist the ignition key, he received a radio call. It wasn’t his clerk and dispatcher, Ella; it was his deputy Billy Noth.

“Ella picked up a highway patrol call, Sheriff,” Billy said. “Some young boys searching the woods for arrowheads came across a man stretched out on his back. They figured he was hurt, so they went and got their dad, who was waiting back by their car. He went with them to the scene and saw that the man was drunk or stoned unconscious. Also saw who his description fit. He went back to his car with the kids and drove to a phone, where he called the highway patrol. They’re on their way.”

“To exactly where?” Westerley asked, feeling his pulse quicken.

“State Road GG, just east of the Interstate 44 turnoff. The highway patrol dispatcher said the guy was behind a big deserted barn, about a hundred yards into the woods.”

“That’s less than five miles from where I am,” Westerley said.

He didn’t hear what Billy said. He’d already gotten the cruiser’s engine turned over, the transmission in drive, and the siren switched on.

After a couple of miles, he switched the siren off but kept the roof bar lights flashing. That was enough to cause traffic to part in front of him so he could hold his speed. Within a few minutes he was turning onto the narrow blacktop road that was State GG.

The barn came into sight almost immediately, a blight off to his left. It was huge and gray and weathered and leaned so it appeared it might collapse any second. Vertical bars of light showed between some of the boards.

Westerley pulled the cruiser off the road and parked about twenty feet from the barn, near its black and cavernous entrance where the doors used to be. He switched off the engine and got out of the car without slamming the door.

It was suddenly very quiet. Westerley stood still in the tall grass and could hear the buzz of insects, the occasional rush of a car passing on the Interstate well beyond the trees. A soft breeze came up, causing the grass to sway and the old timbers of the barn to creak. He understood why somebody wanting to rest or sleep would choose the woods instead of the barn; the damned thing didn’t provide much in the way of shelter and really might collapse any second. The breeze stiffened, and Westerley actually saw the structure sway.

It was possible that the suspect had moved and was now inside the barn, but Westerley didn’t think that was the case. He unholstered his . 45 Colt revolver and checked to make sure it was loaded, and then he worked the action once to move one of the rounds in the cylinder into the breech that he usually left empty for safety’s sake.

He turned his head to the side and listened closely. No sirens in the distance. Of course, that didn’t mean the highway patrol wasn’t close. And getting closer. Like Westerley, they’d probably run silent in their approach to where the suspect had been seen.

Keeping the revolver at his side, pressed flat against his right thigh, he moved around the barn and entered the woods.

There was a narrow dirt path, somewhat overgrown but easy to follow. Probably quite a few arrowhead expeditions, and maybe some lovers’ trysts, had occurred here. The woods were mostly in shadow, cooler than out by the barn in the blazing sun, and quieter.

He saw the motorcycle first, a midnight-blue Harley-Davidson resting on its kickstand in a small clearing that the sunlight barely touched. In the center of the clearing, with the single sun patch almost to his head, lay a husky man with a dark beard. He was wearing a black T-shirt, dirty jeans, and brown leather boots with run-down heels. A beer can lay on its side near his limp right hand. Two identical cans were on the ground near the motorcycle. Wild Colt beer. The brand Beth had bought at the Quick Pick before the rape.

Westerley could hear the man snoring and breathed easier himself. Deep sleep. Just what the situation called for.

Reaching for the handcuffs hanging on his belt, Westerley moved in. He watched the man’s face closely as he advanced, observing a wisp of the suspect’s long and ragged beard stir slightly with each snore.

When he was about five feet away, he saw a glint of something. Eye white. The man’s right eye was partly open.

Even as Westerley realized the sleep and snores were feigned, the man was up and on his feet. He shook his head and beard, sending grass and bits of leaves flying, and he saw that Westerley was wearing a uniform. He must not have noticed the gun, though, because he spun on his heel and ran.

Westerley was immediately after him. The man seemed to come all the way awake and lengthened his stride. He was picking up speed as they entered the woods, pulling away from Westerley, his long black hair whipping side to side like a metronome.

“Halt!” Westerley yelled. “Sheriff’s department! I’ll shoot! I’ll shoot your goddamned heart out!”

The suspect ran faster.

Shit!

Westerley stopped running and spread his feet wide. He leveled the gun then raised it slightly to fire a warning shot.

It was at that moment that the fleeing suspect glanced back to see where Westerley was and ran hard into a tree.

He was groggy and struggling to get back up when Westerley reached him, kicked his legs out from under him, and cuffed him.

“That made an ugly sound,” Westerley said, “when you hit that tree.”

“Didn’t feel too good, neither,” the man said, gasping. Both of them were fighting for breath.

“I was ready to put one into you,” Westerley said, hefting the revolver.

“What for? Sleepin’ under an elm?”

Westerley got a good handhold on the man’s shirt and belt and lifted him to his feet. He gave him a shove.

“What’re you doin’?” the man asked.

“Keep walking toward the barn,” Westerley said, shoving him onto the narrow path.

“Why’d you chase me?”

“Why’d you run?”

“Where we goin’?” Answering a question with a question. The way guilty people did.

“Walk.”

“I got rights!”

“I know,” Westerley said. “Soon as I catch my breath, I’m going to read them to you.”

By the time they’d reached the cruiser, Westerley had introduced the suspect to Mr. Miranda. He secured him in back, behind the cage, and got in behind the steering wheel.

Less than a minute after he’d turned the cruiser off GG and onto the Interstate, he saw the highway patrol. There were four cars with lights on but sirens off, across the median and heading at high speed in the opposite direction.

“What about my bike?” the suspect whined from the back of the cruiser.

“I don’t think you’ll need it anymore,” Westerley said.