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“But are you here because of the murders? Two people, yes? Males. Have they been identified? Is that why you’re here?”
Talli heard the commotion and held up a hand to the cameraman, cutting off her planned report.
“Detective Pescoli!” she shouted, “could we talk?”
“Not right now,” Pescoli threw over her shoulder, hoping both the TV reporter and journalist would take a hint.
“Afterward?” Talli pushed.
Manny, not to be outdone said, “Is there a serial killer on the loose again? The people of Grizzly Falls and the surrounding county deserve to know.”
He was right of course, and considering the fact that this part of Montana seemed to draw nutcases, psychotics, and killers like a huge magnet, there was always concern.
Pescoli stopped for a moment, felt the soft touch of falling snowflakes melting on her face. She saw Talli’s microphone thrust forward and Manny holding his phone out to record anything she would say. She, who was no longer on active duty, she who might not have a job with the department by the end of the month. She stared right into the camera’s lens. “I’m sure the public information officer will give a statement as soon as possible. I can’t.”
As she turned to duck under the tape, the reporters didn’t give up. Questions were thrown at her rapid-fire, one after the other.
Manny: “Can you confirm that there are two victims?”
Talli: “The first report was that they’re both males. Is this a possible murder-suicide?”
Manny: “Could these murders be linked to any others? Is the killer still at large? What do you want to say to the public?”
And on and on.
Pescoli ignored them and walked up to the deputy in charge of holding the line, keeping the press and lookie-loos at bay. She knew the guy, who didn’t hassle her and let her pass, probably due to Alvarez’s orders.
She followed a trail of many footsteps to round a bend.
The snow-covered forest should have been quiet and serene, the silence only disturbed by the sound of a gurgling creek that hadn’t quite frozen over. Instead a small clearing was a hub of activity with EMTs, cops, and firemen all working the scene, some off to the side, one woman deputy smoking a cigarette down to its butt, just out of the perimeter of the roped-off grid where techs were sifting through the snow. Another deputy was on his cell phone, pacing between two pines and casting glances at the pickup truck that was at the center of it all.
“Pescoli!” Alvarez broke away from a cluster of cops. She was bundled in department-issue winter wear and the same kind of booties over her shoes that Pescoli had donned.
“Hey.”
“Let me show you what we’ve got.” She led the way down a trail broken in the snow to the side of the pickup where two bodies, stiff and covered in frozen blood, lay.
“Troy Boxer and Ronny Stillwell,” Pescoli said as she studied the faces. She’d met Boxer and seen pictures of Stillwell. “What the hell are they doing here?”
“Exactly what I was wondering.” Alvarez used her thumb to point at the truck. “Stolen.”
“Figures.”
“But not in San Francisco. This one was taken here and we’re doing some checking but we think a similar one was left in the parking lot from where this one was taken. It could be that Boxer and Stillwell traded out one for the other, through different states, switching plates, to cover their tracks. I’ve got Ramsby on that theory.”
“You find anything on them?” She was thinking of the guns and jewelry and cash taken from the Latham house, some piece of evidence linking them directly to her sister’s death.
“Nothing. Not even ID, but we recognized Boxer from information Tanaka left, so ID-ing Stillwell was a no-brainer. We assume they had weapons. Those are gone, but we’ve found some casings so we’ll double-check, and they should have had some kind of baggage, but again, not found. No cell phones, not even burners, no laptops, not a damned thing. Looks like the truck was cleaned out by whoever took the time to put the bodies in it. And the murders didn’t happen while our two dead boys were sitting in it.”
“Why did they go to all the trouble?”
“Unknown, but maybe intended to come back and drive it somewhere to hide it. You know, put it in an old barn or shed, drive it off a cliff or into the Grizzly River, but then again, that’s just conjecture.”
“What about the killer? Any idea?”
“Not yet, but the murders happened on this property. . . over there. We found pools of blood, mashed grass under the snow.” Alvarez pointed to a spot in the clearing where Mikail Slatkin, one of
the investigators, was painstakingly going over the ground. “Not in the cab of the truck where we found the vics. No shattered glass suggesting they were shot through the window, no blood spatter inside, so even if a window was rolled down or a door opened, they weren’t shot there. The nature of the wounds, where the bullets hit the body, suggests they were killed in the clearing. There were also drag marks where whoever killed them took the time to put them in the truck.” She frowned, eyebrows knitting as she stared at Pescoli. “Boxer and Stillwell were placed in the truck for a reason, but I don’t think it was so that they would be found. This is too remote.”
