Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

Then, there was the New Hampshire north of Concord. Where the remaining one-third of the state’s population sprawled helter-skelter over the remaining two-thirds of the state’s terrain. Where entire towns were too small to justify their own police force, and even the towns that did generally deployed one officer at a time, patrolling vast expanses of rural roads, woodland forests and lake borders all alone. Backup could be an easy thirty to sixty minutes away. And heaven help you if you had a complex investigation involving real forensic tools; chances were you would have to borrow them from another department, maybe even two or three other departments, in order to get the job done.

New Hampshire south of Concord had city cops. Whereas New Hampshire north of Concord had basically the Wild, Wild West. City cops traveled in packs and could go an entire career without ever drawing their weapons on the job. Wild West cops handled entire shoot-outs alone, and drew down at least a couple of times a year. Hell, Wyatt had been on the job for all of four hours when he’d pulled his sidearm for the first time. Called to a scene of a domestic disturbance. Getting out of his patrol car just in time to be charged by a knife-wielding drugged-out lunatic. Wyatt had kicked the guy in the stomach first, so shocked by the sudden attack he actually forgot for a second that he was a cop and had a whole duty belt complete with Taser and pepper spray, and, oh yeah, a Sig Sauer P229 .357 semiauto.

Sky-High Guy popped back up, which was the problem with drugged-out lunatics—they just didn’t feel the pain. This time Wyatt had his act together enough to produce his weapon. At which point, Sky-High Guy, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, sobered up record quick and dropped his steak knives.

By the time backup finally arrived—a mere thirty minutes later—Wyatt had the first druggie secured in the backseat of his car, plus a second who’d tried to bolt from the rear of the property. He’d also taken a witness statement from the owner of the residence, the druggies’ mother, who now swore she never wanted to see either of her sons again as they were good-for-nothing pieces of shit that owed her at least twenty bucks, or a dime bag, whichever they could get their hands on first.

Definitely, never a dull moment in the wilds of New Hampshire.

BEING A SHERIFF’S DEPUTY involved more than practicing the art of the quick draw, of course. County officers were empowered to write their own search warrants and even arrest warrants, a logistical necessity as the nearest courthouse could be fifty hard miles away, meaning by the time a detective spent two hours driving there and back, the suspect had either split town or covered his tracks. New deputies were generally enthralled by this unparalleled example of police power. Then, inevitably, the full implications would come crashing down—by virtue of writing up legal documents, they each needed to become mini lawyers. Because, sure, they could write up any old damn thing they wanted, and search the property, or arrest the suspect, at which time a judge would review the warrant and if it wasn’t absolutely, positively to the letter of the law, throw the whole thing out, leaving the county detective with no one to blame but him- or herself.

Wyatt read law magazines in between woodworking publications.

The final distinction of the sheriff’s departments was that they had jurisdiction over the entire state. Even the New Hampshire state police had to ask for permission to patrol various town and county roads. Not the sheriffs, though. Wyatt could drive anywhere in the state, policing his heart out while displaying his superior knowledge of legalese. Of course, most of his part of the state was populated by bears and moose who could care less, but a man liked to feel good about these things. His powers were considerable, his grasp of law enviable and his domain vast.

It helped him fall asleep late at night. Assuming his pager didn’t go off.

Now Wyatt headed for the county sheriff’s department. Normally, he’d work out of his cruiser, especially in a matter that warranted some urgency. But his cruiser’s GPS could only take him as far as the nearest road. Given the working theory of an abduction scenario, odds were their target would involve more rugged terrain, possibly the deep woods. Hence, he wanted the handheld GPS tracker, two of his fellow detectives and at least a couple of uniformed officers.

Inside, the three guys and one gal were already suited up and ready to go.

He briefed them on the situation, a Boston family, missing since 10:00 P.M. last night, signs of foul play discovered in the home, biggest lead currently being the GPS locator in the husband’s jacket, which had approximately thirteen hours of battery life remaining.

Wyatt entered the GPS coordinates first on his main computer, and they all gathered round the monitor to see. Good detectives appreciated the stalking power of the Internet as much as any serial killer, and with a few clicks of the mouse, Wyatt was able to bring up satellite images of their target coordinates. He zoomed in on snapshots of a rural road, then a large dirt parking lot surrounding a much smaller, dilapidated building, bordered heavily by deep woods. The exact coordinates appeared to be a spot just beyond the cleared parking lot in the woods.

“I’m thinking that’s the old Stanley’s diner,” Wyatt said.

Gina, one of their new deputies, nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Drove by it just a couple of days ago. Boarded up tight.”

“Not a bad place to hide hostages,” Jeff commented. The forty-five-year-old father of two was one of the county’s best detectives, with a knack for financial crimes. “Near a road for easy access, but also isolated. Sure as hell aren’t that many other people or residences around.”

“Shouldn’t the GPS signal be emitting from the building, then?” Gina countered. Wyatt liked the fact she argued. Tough part for any new officer, but particularly a new female officer, was speaking up. Clearly, Gina could hold her own.

“Range is give or take a hundred feet,” Jeff said. “So it could be from the building.”

Gina nodded, hooking her thumbs in her duty belt as she accepted his answer.

“So here’s the deal,” Wyatt spoke up. “We have three possibilities. We’re going to find a jacket. We’re going to find a jacket and some or all three members of the missing family, possibly alive or dead. Or, we’re going to find a jacket, a missing family and their kidnappers. Possibly up to four definitely living kidnappers. Which, if you include three family members, totals seven people at one site, with five of us to approach, control, contain. Let’s talk strategy.”

He looked at Kevin, the second detective, who had yet to speak. Kevin had taken some courses on workplace violence and hostage negotiations. They called him the Brain, not just because he was thin and bookish looking, but because he really did like to study. New legal rulings, new forensic techniques, new criminology reports, just ask Kevin. He also knew all the hockey stats for any given player on any given team in any given year. And, no, he could not get a date most Friday nights.

“Code one,” he suggested now. “Approach quiet, get the lay of the land. If the kidnappers are around, we don’t want to spook them.”

“So five patrol cars convening in one parking lot isn’t gonna work?” Wyatt asked with a droll smile.

“We can take two vehicles,” Jeff said. “Double up occupants.”

“Only gonna buy us so much,” Gina pointed out. “Even two cars, turning at the same time into a deserted parking lot…”

“One car could pull in, the other should drive past, heading south,” Kevin amended. “Once out of sight, that car can pull over and the officers hike back up. That gives us one car appearing to stop randomly—maybe a driver needing to check a map, stretch his legs, that sort of thing. Better yet, Gina should be in the car that pulls over. So it looks more like a couple pulling over than cops descending on a scene. Just till we know more.”