Rita Herron - Justice for a Ranger

“Dad…” Sloan paused, then continued, “Jim agreed to see a psychiatrist to try to jog his memory of the events of that night, but Stella got upset and told him no. Then she broke down. The stress has been unbearable for her.”

“She was always fragile,” Zane said in a low voice.

Joey frowned and steepled her hands. They seemed completely focused on making her parents out to be the villains. And Zane and Sloan were keeping secrets. Something about Stella and their father.

Her cell phone rang, and she checked the number. Governor Grange.

“Excuse me, guys. I have to take this.” She stepped away from them and answered the call.

“Joey, how’s it going in Justice?”

“The Rangers are conferencing now,” Joey said. “No definitive leads yet. They’ve brought in Sergeant Cole McKinney to track evidence in the woods near the inn.”

A long sigh filled with tension followed. “I hope they tie this up soon and put the guy responsible for these murders away. How is Dennison?”

“I can handle him,” Joey said.

“Good. Keep me posted.”

Joey agreed and pocketed her phone, contemplating Zane’s and Sloan’s summary of the investigation.

What were the McKinney brothers hiding?

If her parents were guilty…well, she’d have to find a way to accept it. But if they were innocent, she didn’t want them railroaded to jail for a crime they hadn’t committed. After all, they had suffered terribly over Justin’s death.

Perhaps Stella had suffered a breakdown out of guilt. Maybe she had killed Lou Anne and had hidden behind a weak woman’s facade all these years to deflect suspicion from herself.

COLE TRIED TO IGNORE the quick flash of worry in Joey’s eyes. He’d just met the woman. He could not let himself care about her or how the outcome of this investigation might affect her personally.

“So, what exactly am I looking for?” Cole asked.

“We need an expert to search the woods by the inn,” Sloan said. “The night Sarah Wallace was murdered, Sheriff Matheson saw a figure in dark clothing. She chased the culprit into the woods, but he shot her in the ribs. Actually cracked one. We’d like to recover any bullet casing or other evidence that you might find.”

Cole stood. “I assume you have a horse available, along with the standard crime scene kit and supplies.”

Zane stood, as well. “At your disposal.”

“Meanwhile, I’m going to get that search warrant for Donna’s records,” Sloan said.

Cole nodded, anxious to get outside. He loved the fresh air, the scents of nature, the sunshine beating on his face. Fieldwork was his specialty, not digging through files, although he did plenty of that, too.

Twenty minutes later, he saddled a beautiful quarter horse named Apache, strapped on the supplies he’d need in the saddlebags and rode into the woods. Sloan and Zane had searched the edge, so he needed to go deeper. Find out how the killer had escaped. Locate that bullet.

Although it had rained recently, and some evidence might have washed away, he slowed Apache to a walk and studied each section of the forest, each patch of weeds and each tree for signs that someone had recently been through. A broken branch. Trampled bramble. An indentation in the bark not made by an animal. Each detail provided a clue and indicated he was on the right track.

He noticed a footpath along with muddy prints, although dead leaves and debris created problems in lifting a print. Still, he tied Apache to a tree and combed the area on foot, kneeling to inspect the markings and the ground. He photographed each patchy section and collected dirt for trace in hopes that they might be able to match it to a suspect’s shoes and make an arrest.

Working diligently, he took a partial molding of the footprint, as well. It would give them a general clue as to the size of their suspect. A fiber from a piece of clothing was caught in a branch, and he removed an evidence bag and tweezers, snagged the fiber and bagged it to send to forensics. The next few hours he combed each mile of the woods, then finally traced his way back toward the inn and his horse. He found two other fibers, along with more footprints—muddied and misshapen, different from the first ones—so he took the best print he could lift.

Not for the first time, he considered the fact that they might be dealing with more than one perp here. What if the killer had an accomplice? Donna and Leland could have worked together. Or one of them could have hired help to do their dirty work.

About seventy-five feet to the right of where he’d tied Apache, he noticed a shattered piece of bark on a live oak. He removed the magnifying glass from his bag and examined it, then decided a bullet had scraped past. He collected the sample, bagged it, then turned and assessed the area. The bullet had grazed Carley, then bounced off the tree, which had slowed its descent. Noting the location where Sloan said the sheriff had been running, and had been shot, he estimated the trajectory of the bullet and where the shooter might have been standing when he’d fired. Zeroing in on the angle, he calculated the speed and scrutinized the other foliage until he located the shell. With gloved fingers, he picked it up and studied it. A .38.

Hell, half the town probably owned guns, and half of those were probably .38s. But modern science could do wonders. If they had a suspect and his gun, they would be able to match it.

He searched for other bullets and evidence, but found nothing. A few feet away, though, something shiny glinted through a patch of bramble. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his neck as he recognized the item.

The silver star of Texas—a Ranger’s badge.

The badges were handmade from Mexican silver coins, making each one unique, and easily identifiable to its recipient. Some badges still had coin lines on the outer rim of the circle, and you could see the peso on the back of the badge. The coin on the back wasn’t always at a perfect upright angle, either, and had distortions caused from being handmade.

He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat as he lifted it to the sun. When Jim McKinney’s badge had been reported missing years ago, right after Lou Anne Wallace’s murder, a description had been posted. The badge had three coin marks on the lower right star point.

He flipped the badge over and grimaced as he scrutinized the point.

If he was right, this star had belonged to Jim McKinney, his bastard father. According to police reports, Jim had claimed he’d lost it the night Lou Anne Wallace was murdered.

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