Stephen White - Cold Case

Sam was in a good mood. That helped.

The first beer helped, too. But not as much as the second.

I'd already decided that I wouldn't tell Sam about Dorothys disappearance in Steamboat until we were done talking about the murder at the Silky Road Ranch.

I didn't want to distract him.

It turned out that Sam had been so troubled by two aspects of the news coverage of Gloria Welle's death that he'd made some calls himself to learn what he could about the details of the crime. It turned out that the two parts that had bothered him were things to which I hadn't given a second thought.

I told him that.

"That's why I'm the cop," he explained.

"So the first problem, the problem with the shooting, what's that? I don't understand." "Like I said, the first thing I don't like is that the offender shot her right through the closet door. I've never heard of such a thing. This guy-this Brian Sample-he supposedly went there wanting vengeance, right?"

He waited for me to reply. I said, "Yeah, that's the assumption."

"So he's furious, right? You're the psychologist-people wanting vengeance tend be your angry people, right? "

"Yeah."

"You could say murderous, even?"

"Yes. Apparently so in Brian's case."

"So what does he do with all his murderous vengeance? He kidnaps his shrink's wife, has tea with her, locks her in a closet, gives her a chair, and then shoots at her through a locked door? Huh? Why?" His tone had grown way too sarcastic for my comfort.

"I don't know, Sam. I guess he didn't want to watch her while he, you know, killed her."

"He didn't want to watch? Are you kidding me? Think about it. This guy is eager to inflict pain. He wants to torment her. I mean, if I know him right, he'd pay extra to watch her head explode. He's bought his ticket and he wants to watch her die. If you put it on tape for him he'll play it back a hundred times in slow motion and freeze-frame. He's rageful enough to kidnap her, and he's rageful enough to kill her, but you're telling me that when push comes to shove his sensibilities are offended and he doesn't actually want to watch her die?

Sorry, buddy, but it does not compute."

I was tempted to order another beer, but I'm a cheap drunk and I thought it might take me over the threshold of inebriation and didn't want to have to take a cab home. I passed.

"What you're saying makes sense, Sam. I have to think about it some more, but it makes some intuitive sense. Now go back to the second problem you found again. I don't get that either."

"This ranch house of theirs? It's a big house, all on one level. From the news footage, I counted at least twelve doors to the outside. That includes the garage doors, patio doors, all the doors. Okay?"

"Okay"

"What are the odds that these two cops with their scopes and high-powered rifles are going to be set up in exactly the right place to shoot this guy when he makes his break from the bedroom deck? How the heck do these geniuses know that he's coming out that door?"

I was playing with the cocktail napkins on the table, making patterns of diamonds and squares.

"Sam, why do I get the sense that you already know the answer to your own question?"

He laughed. "

"Cause I do. I tracked one of 'em down. One of the two shooters. I got his name, found out where he lives, and gave him a call at home. He's a welder in Lamar now. You know where Lamar is? He says that it was all deduction.

That they guessed that the guy had ditched his car in the woods near those bedroom doors by that deck. So they figured that's where he would run out to make his escape. He and the other deputy had already taken up position. Had their weapons ready. The guy I talked to, he called it a duck shoot."

Sam's voice was still singing a melody of suspicion. I said, "But? You're not satisfied. I can tell you're not satisfied."

"But? But do you know who did the deducing? Raymond Welle and Phil Barrett, that's who."

I shrugged. My own conclusion was that this second argument Sam was making wasn't anywhere near as compelling as the first had been. I said, "Somebody had to do the deducing. And it sounds like they did it well" He sat back on his chair.

"No, you're not getting it. With a hostage inside a house, cops don't put all their eggs in one basket like that. The reason is that kidnappers don't usually make a run for it in hostage situations the way Sample did.

"Strategically, if you only have a few deputies you certainly don't set up snipers waiting for a kidnapper to scoot. The kidnapper is in there for a reason. Before you commit resources you have to know what that reason is. The kidnappers barricade themselves in and hunker down or they make demands or they take pot shots at the cops. Sometimes they set fires. They ask for a helicopter and a zillion dollars. They want to talk to reporters or they want to talk to their mother. But they're there for something. I've never seen anybody in Sample's circumstances just run for it when he knows that there's a couple of cops with rifles aimed right at his intended escape route."

"Sample knew they were there? He could see them from the bedroom where he was?"

"Clear line of sight, according to the videotape you gave me. The cops' vehicles were out in the open. One of the bedroom windows faces the front of the ranch.

He could've seen them. Have to assume he did see them."

I considered the circumstances Sam was describing. Tried to conjure up Brian Sample's state of mind and tried to imagine his tortured decision-making process. It wasn't easy. I said, "Brian Sample underestimated them, I guess."

"I… guess." He raised an eyebrow.

"Fatal damn error" I decided to try another argument.

"Maybe he just didn't care. He was a very depressed man."

Sam scowled and flagged down our waitress to order another beer. Before it arrived, I decided it was time to start to tell him about the visit I'd received from Brian Sample's son Kevin the previous weekend.

When I finished the story Sam's beer was gone and he had an evil little smile on his lips. He said, "See? What'd I tell ya. The kid is making a variation of the same argument that I'm making. The story doesn't make sense.

What his father did when he was in that house-hey, the whole thing is too goofy for words."

"What's the alternative explanation?"

"Don't have one. Its not my job. But it was that sheriff's job. What was his name? Barrett? Yeah, Barrett. He took the easy way out. He had an obvious crime with an obvious perp. He closed his case even though his solution doesn't make a whole lot of sense."

"Even though Barrett couldn't really explain what really happened inside, or why. That's your point?"

"That's my point." "Interesting," I said, still unconvinced by Sam's argument. I excused myself to the bathroom, and stopped at a nearby pay phone to make sure Lauren was home safely. I got the answering machine. My watch told me it was only 8:30. I decided to forgo panic until at least 9:30.

Back at the table, without preamble, I said, "That reporter from the Washington Post? The one I told you about who wanted to talk with me about Raymond Welle's fundraising?"

"Yeah?" I could tell he was disinterested in the new topic. I also knew that his disinterest would evaporate as I leaked out more details.

"I was up in Steamboat earlier today on that Locard thing. I was actually up there with two other Locard people. A forensic specialist and a pathologist.

While we were there, Dorothy Levin-the reporter-disappeared from her hotel room. The room showed evidence of a major struggle. I saw it; there was a lot of blood."

"Was she murdered? I didn't hear there was a homicide up there."

"They haven't found a body."

"Witnesses?"

"Not really"

"Suspect?"