Fuck, indeed.
Three missing women. Two dead bodies. One man presumed dead. Zero leads.
* * *
During the murders this past fall, I’d marveled at how the town stayed calm. People trusted Dalton to resolve it. Only when we confirmed Abbygail’s murder did that change as the town mourned one of its most popular residents.
This is different.
We have a woman who was kept captive for fifteen months. We went looking for a missing man and returned with two bodies. People have connected the dots. They know what we have out there. And they are not angry. They are afraid.
We go to the Lion for dinner. It doesn’t occur to the guys that this might be problematic. I keep my mouth shut, wanting hot food made by someone else and hoping this will be the same as before. Sure, we’ll get those brave souls sidling up and saying, So, about what’s going on … but one look from Dalton will send them scurrying.
That’s all we get until we’re midway through our meal, and it’s as if they waited until we were comfortable and unlikely to flee. Then they descend.
Is it true you found two more victims?
Who are they?
What’s going on?
Is it someone out there?
Is it someone in here?
What’s going on?
Where’s Shawn?
Are you still looking for him?
What’s going on?
And what are you going to do about it?
Dalton’s glowers and snarls send them scattering, but he’s like a dog in a rat pit, beset on all sides, snapping at one assailant only to have another leap in from the unguarded side.
I promise a public update at daybreak. Right now, we’re exhausted, just exhausted.
But they are afraid. They don’t say that. I hear it in their voices, see it in their eyes.
Is it one of us?
Are we safe?
How are you going to keep us safe?
Dalton won’t rush through dinner to escape. Like that dog in the pit, he holds his ground. Finally, it’s over, and we get about ten paces down the road before someone grabs my arm. Dalton spins, all the anger and frustration bubbling up as he knocks the hand off, sending the person—Trent, one of our local handymen—stumbling back.
“I just wanted to ask—” Trent begins.
“And you think you’re the only one? The only fucking person who wants an update?” Dalton’s voice rings down the dark road.
“I just—”
“What’s our job?”
“I just want to know—”
“I asked you, what’s our job? Are we the goddamn local news? Or are we the ones trying to catch a killer?”
“I just wanted to ask Casey—”
“You’re not going to stop, are you? Your personal concerns are more important than our detective returning to work on this case.”
Dalton jerks his chin, telling me to keep moving. I take a step. Trent’s hand lands on my arm again.
“Just tell me—” That’s as far as he gets before Dalton’s right hook hits. Trent goes down. Then he’s up again, hauled to his feet by Dalton, who drags him, stumbling, to the station.
Even with that brief altercation, we’ve attracted a crowd, those lurking about, not daring to approach, but hoping someone like Trent would and they’d overhear the details and reassurances they want. As Dalton drags Trent through town, people pop out from houses to watch.
The first time I saw Dalton do this, I was horrified. It seemed textbook police brutality. But this isn’t beating the shit out of a suspect behind closed doors and then claiming he fell down the stairs. Everyone who watches knows what has happened. Everyone knows this is what will happen if they interfere with our case. Everyone agrees, in silent accord, that this is fair, and as they watch, they roll their eyes and shake their heads at the dumb-ass who crossed Dalton.
Trent gets tossed in the cell, where he’ll spend the night. Once Trent’s situated, Dalton is up on the station front porch, as Anders and I wait at the bottom. Dalton’s gaze travels over the growing crowd. Then he motions to me. I climb to stand in front of him.
“You want answers,” I say to the crowd. “We get that. You know we do. But you also know we can’t respond to each of you individually. Everyone has the same questions. Everyone will get the same answers. Tomorrow. Nine A.M. Right here. Until then, Eric, Will, and I are still on the clock. Still figuring things out. Still getting you answers.”
“As Detective Butler has been doing since she found Nicole,” Dalton says. “Since she and Deputy Anders went after Shawn Sutherland, got trapped in a fucking snowstorm, found Nicole, and brought her back through another fucking snowstorm. And they went back out there today, to that cave, finding two more victims, which they have spent the fucking day studying to get you your fucking answers. Understood?”
“Fuck, yeah,” says one of the militia guys, and that gets a laugh, and people relax, easing back, nodding, voices rippling through with murmurs of thanks and offers of help and apologies for the “assholes” who bothered us, because, you know, it sure wasn’t them.
“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” I say. “We have a puppy to pick up. If anyone has concerns unrelated to recent events, Deputy Anders has five minutes to answer before he joins us to continue working the case.”
“You bringing him tomorrow?” someone asks.
I look at Anders. “Depends on if we can drag his ass out of bed that early.”
“The puppy. Are you bringing the puppy?”