Trace Evidence, page 15
He didn’t know what was going on here, but it looked like Mark had killed this woman with a sword and dismembered her body. He seemed to be burying the parts. But that was insane.
Was he hallucinating? Had Kevin given him some kind of pills in that brandy that were making him see crazy things? Sleeping pills could do that. He knew a guy in college who sleepwalked right out of a third-story window because he thought it was a doorway. Sleeping pills made him do it.
That had to be what was going on here. Kevin had given him something like a sleeping pill. He’d wake up and everything would be normal again. Because any other explanation was too bizarre to contemplate.
As soon as he had put enough distance between himself and Mark, Josh turned and ran back to the house.
-
Chapter Twenty-Two
Red Maple Lake, California
Wednesday
An hour after sunrise, Flint had settled the bill at the resort. Neville drove them down to the lake in the Polaris. They’d stowed the gear and climbed aboard. Drake fired up the Cessna and executed a perfect takeoff.
“Fly around the perimeter of the lake one last time,” Flint said. “I want to get some video and a better look at the area.”
From the air, even in bright daylight, the trees were too dense to see through. The shoreline ebbed and flowed around the water.
According to the maps Flint had found online back in Houston, everything about the alpine lake was smaller than Tahoe.
Maple Lake was four point four miles long and two point four miles wide, with fourteen miles of unimproved shoreline and a surface area of thirty-two point two square miles. Maximum depth was reported at 329 feet.
Plenty of space for Hallman’s trio to get into serious trouble.
The earliest recorded snowfall on the lake was September 13, which meant cold temperatures could invade the nine-thousand-to-eleven-thousand-foot peaks much earlier.
“Hallman probably followed the shoreline after the crash, heading toward the resort. Probably got in trouble in those woods,” Drake said when they reached the crash site. “Going the other direction would have been easier and faster, but counterintuitive.”
“Agreed. Can you see where that driveway up to the Wilcox place intersects with the path?”
“Not from this distance. But we know it’s there and we figure Hallman’s group was wandering around in the dark.” Drake cast a meaningful glance toward Flint. “They could have ended up anywhere.”
Flint nodded. “Let’s take another look at that highway that runs along the mountainside before we head back to Reno.”
Drake banked the Cessna and flew out of the basin, almost straight up from the lake until the ribbon of pavement came into view. The two-lane curved around the mountains and traveled into the valleys. Traffic was nonexistent.
But Flint saw two old farm trucks and one SUV along the eleven-mile stretch correlating with the distance between the Wilcox place and Red Maple Lake Resort.
One of the farm trucks turned off the road onto a long drive that led to an isolated ranch. He pointed the place out to Drake. “Can you land there?”
“Not in this boat.” Drake shook his head. “But we can come back with the Pilatus.”
“Next time.” Flint grimaced. “We don’t have time today.”
The Cessna’s flight path followed the road a while longer. Flint saw a small group of homes slightly north of the Wilcox place but no further signs of civilization for another twenty miles in any direction.
Drake turned the Cessna and headed north to the Reno airstrip where they’d left the Pilatus. He landed the Cessna and tied it to the dock.
Flint pulled out his laptop and tossed the rest of his gear into the back of the Pilatus. While Drake readied the jet, Flint walked to a quiet corner and fired up the satellite phone. He dialed the private number.
“It’s been a while,” his contact said, simply stating the fact without judgment. “How can I help you?”
“I need to get into Huntsville Unit. To meet with a death row inmate.” Flint cleared his throat. “It’s important.”
“When do you want to go inside?”
“He’s scheduled to be executed tomorrow.”
Flint knew the request was a problem. Visiting a death row inmate wasn’t a simple matter. There were protocols in place.
He’d have called the governor for intervention, but he detested the man and the feeling was mutual.
After a long pause, his contact said, “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’ll owe you one,” Flint replied.
The man laughed. “I’ll add it to your bill.”
Flint grinned and disconnected the call.
He carried the laptop inside the terminal building and found a place to sit. Using the encrypted hotspot, he connected to his secure server and sent an email in reply to the “time sensitive” one he’d received yesterday. “Acquire all available data on attached subject. One hour.”
Her response pinged back immediately. “Acquired. Check server.”
He nodded. She’d continued working overnight, assuming he’d request the data when he had the chance.
He found the secure file, downloaded it, and replied, “Received. Anything more?”
“Still checking.”
He closed the laptop and bought coffee before he returned to the jet. He climbed aboard, handed one cup to Drake, and settled into one of the more comfortable back seats to read the files. He was absorbed by the materials long before takeoff.
The flight plan projected almost seven hours of travel time from the private airstrip near Reno to another private airstrip near Huntsville. The files were thin. He’d fully absorb everything in less than half the travel time.
He started with the most recent material.
James Preston was set for execution by lethal injection for the murder of June Pentwater tomorrow in the Texas State Prison at Huntsville.
Preston had been set to die five times before and received last minute reprieves each time. Last week, his lawyers had filed requests for additional DNA testing using current, more accurate techniques and a stay of execution until the results were returned.
Another last-minute reprieve could keep Preston alive until Flint completed the Hallman hunt, but Flint wouldn’t risk what was likely to be his last chance to judge the man for himself.
Texas death row inmates are not allowed to have contact visits with anyone at any time, including prior to execution. Prisoners were sometimes allowed to use visiting cages outside death row and to talk to visitors via telephone from within the cage. It wasn’t an ideal interview scenario, but Flint would take whatever he could get.
Preston’s case had been argued by various anti-death-penalty groups over the years. Flint watched the video interviews his contact located before and after each loss.
Preston was always composed. He seemed to know that his case was hopeless, even if his lawyers refused to accept the obvious.
Photos of a young James Preston and Marilyn Baker were side by side in the file. That Flint might be looking at his mother and his mother’s killer was an eerie feeling.
He wasn’t sure what he thought of the situation or how he felt about it. There were too many unknowns. He’d examine his feelings later.
Over the years, Preston had repeatedly denied killing Marilyn Baker. Of course, he denied killing June Pentwater, too. Both denials could be true, but the Pentwater jury had found otherwise. He was only charged and convicted of killing Pentwater, not Baker.
Flint’s contact pinged his secure server. The message said he’d made three phone calls and got lucky on the last one. Flint would be allowed to talk to James Preston using the visiting cage and telephone receiver for not more than thirty minutes.
Flint glanced at the time posted on his computer screen. He’d arrive early, with an hour to spare.
He closed his eyes and visualized the scene as he’d experienced it before. Preston would be in a visitation cage, holding the phone handset. Flint would be seated at a table outside the cage. He’d be able to see Preston and hear his voice.
He didn’t know exactly what he expected to learn. Maybe he would get a feeling of some kind from this guy. Maybe he would simply know whether Preston killed Marilyn Baker. Sometimes, his gut check worked that way. More often, it did not.
What he needed was Marilyn’s DNA. The evidence collected during her murder should be somewhere. Using newer techniques, DNA could be analyzed now. Maybe.
A better plan would be direct DNA testing from a fresh sample that hadn’t been contaminated. Her body had been buried in a Mount Warren cemetery. He could get the body exhumed for fresh samples.
Yes, it could be done. But, as Scarlett had said, simply because he could make it so didn’t mean he should.
If Baker was his mother, she was dead. Her killer could be dead tomorrow night. There was nowhere else for his personal heir hunt to go, even if he wanted it to.
Which he wasn’t at all sure that he did.
He drained his coffee and lowered the lid to his laptop. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes for a nap.
Old habit he’d learned from his time with Uncle Sam. Sleep when you can.
-
Chapter Twenty-Three
Huntsville, Texas
Wednesday
He was alone when he pulled the rental into the Texas State Prison at Huntsville. He’d left Drake with the Pilatus to avoid answering a lot of questions.
He cleared the security gate, thanks to his contact’s credentials, and parked where he was told. He cleared several other security checkpoints in the same way before being led to the visiting cage where he would meet James Preston for the first time.
He didn’t know what he expected to find. He only knew he’d face his mother’s killer one-on-one before the man was executed.
Assuming Marilyn Baker had been his mother.
And assuming Preston had killed her. Both assumptions seemed justified based on currently known facts.
After Flint walked into the visitor’s room and took his place opposite the cage, a buzzer sounded and the door leading from the interior corridor to the cage opened automatically.
James Preston was already seated.
He was dressed in a white one-piece prison jumpsuit. The jumpsuit tied at the top of the V-neck. He wore a white T-shirt underneath.
The most recent photos Flint had seen were snapped at least five years before, but Preston looked the same. Paunchy. Round, bloated face. Pouch-size bags under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved in a while.
He was sixty-four years old now and looked ninety-four. Long gone was the appealing young priest who might have caught Marilyn Baker’s eye back then.
Preston settled heavily into the chair and picked up the telephone receiver. He waited for Flint to speak.
Flint had prepared no remarks or introductions. He picked up his receiver and held it to his ear. For a moment, they simply looked at each other across the chasm from free to caged.
Flint felt nothing.
No twinge of familiarity.
No spark of anger.
If Preston was connected to him in any way, no vibe of any kind jolted his awareness.
Flint cocked his head.
By the time Marilyn Baker was murdered, he was a toddler already entrusted to foster care by a woman who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, raise him.
She had attended the church where Father Preston was a visiting priest, and she’d offered him her heartfelt confession.
He had known her. He could have known she was pregnant. He could have met her child.
Shouldn’t Flint have felt some twinge of something?
“My name is Michael Flint. I’m a private investigator.”
Preston nodded but did not reply.
“I’m looking for information about Marilyn Baker. I’m told you knew her.”
“I knew Marilyn. She was a nice girl.” Preston nodded again. His eyes were dull. He didn’t smile or offer any encouragement. “I didn’t kill her.”
“That’s what you’ve said,” Flint replied. “Her family is interested in finding her killer. They’re hoping you might know something that you didn’t share with investigators before.”
“I thought Marilyn’s family were all deceased.” Preston shrugged.
When Flint offered no response, Preston said, “Like what?”
“This is a very cold case. At this point, I’m just looking for anything that might help.”
“Do you believe I didn’t kill her?” Preston narrowed his eyes and stared at Flint. “Because if you’re trying to prove I killed her, I’m not interested in talking to you. I’ve got enough trouble already, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’m not with law enforcement. It’s not my job to prove who killed her.” Flint paused and took a deep breath. “She had a son. Did you know that?”
Preston shook his head. “I knew she had been in trouble, which is what we used to say back then when unmarried Catholic girls turned up pregnant.”
Flint nodded. One good assumption confirmed. “How did you know that?”
“She told me. She was very distraught. Her parents were quite strict. She was twenty-one years old and barely out of college. She was teaching at the parish school. She was a devout Catholic.” He shook his head. “An abortion was out of the question.”
“Was she seeking advice about the pregnancy from you, her priest?”
“Mostly, she cried a lot. She was very conflicted about what to do.” He seemed to think about that for a moment. “As I said, her options were limited.”
“What about the child’s father? What did he want?”
“I asked her that. She said he couldn’t marry her.”
“Why not?”
“She wouldn’t say. My guess at the time? He was married.” Preston pushed his lips around under his bulbous nose. “I tried to console her as best I could, but as I say, it was mostly a lot of tears and incoherent babbling.”
“She wasn’t pregnant when she died. What happened with the child?”
“She went somewhere for the summer, while the school vacation took place. She was gone a few months. And when she came back, she wasn’t pregnant and she didn’t have a child with her. I never knew whether she delivered the child or aborted it.” Preston shook his head again. “She died a couple of years later.”
“Were you still around when she got back to town?”
“I was a visiting priest back in those days. I was moved around from one parish to another. I had been moved over to Paris for a year or so.” He shrugged. “When I came back to Mount Warren, she was working at the school and still living at home, single, no kids.”
“Did you continue as her confessor?”
Preston nodded. “She never mentioned a baby to me.”
“Didn’t you ask her?”
“Ask her? I was her priest, not her girlfriend.”
“Seems like a natural question, though. You knew she was pregnant and you’re gone when the baby comes and then you return.” Flint narrowed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t you ask about her child?”
Preston seemed to think about it for a while. Flint wasn’t sure if he was creating some kind of story in his head or simply couldn’t remember.
He didn’t look healthy. Maybe he was mentally incompetent or something. He’d been in solitary confinement for the past fifteen years after a fight with a prison guard.
Fifteen years alone in his cell with no one to talk to but the cockroaches. Men had gone insane in those situations before.
Finally, Preston cleared his throat. “Marilyn and I were not friends. She was a teacher at the school and I was a priest in the church. From time to time, our paths would cross. Usually, she would look away. If she was embarrassed or simply shy, I don’t know. But she never confessed anything else of consequence to me.”
“The church takes a dim view of abortion, even now.” Flint pressed on. “I’m surprised you wouldn’t want to know what she had done with her pregnancy.”
“It wasn’t my place. It wasn’t my problem.” Preston shrugged and lowered his eyes. “I prayed for her, sure. I hoped she had done the right thing by her child. Since you said she had a son, sounds like she did.”
Flint relaxed his tight grip on the receiver in his left hand. “Who was her boyfriend at the time?”
Preston shook his head and closed his eyes as if he was trying to think about it. “It was a long time ago. Marilyn was an attractive girl and there were a lot of men who were interested in her. I remember those two hellions, Crane and Shaw, were always hanging around. A few others.” He opened his eyes. “But whether she dated any of them in particular, I just don’t know. That was not my world. I was focused on the church. I’m sorry I can’t help you any further.”
“And you’re sure you were not the father of her child?”
“Certainly not.”
“Will you voluntarily give me a DNA sample to test against her son’s DNA?”
Preston shrugged. “Why not?”
Flint’s contact had made the arrangements in advance. The door behind Preston opened and a guard stood over him and he swabbed his cheek.
When the guard left, Preston said, “You can find my DNA results in the Marilyn Baker criminal file, you know. I gave them samples when they asked a couple of years ago. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill June Pentwater either, but nobody seems to care about that. I’ll be executed this time, my lawyers say, so I have no reason to lie to you. I liked Marilyn. She wouldn’t want her son to think his father killed her. No boy should carry that kind of weight around.”
