Icy Betrayal: A Jack Keller Thriller Read online

  Mia walked to the driver’s side of the car, climbed in the cruiser and started in.

  “I’m very sorry you had to experience this, ma’am. Can I get your full name?”

  “Lisa Ann Sullivan,” the woman replied, looking away.

  “May I call you Lisa?”

  The woman nodded as a fresh stream of tears ran down her cheeks.

  “I know this is a horrible experience for you, but I do need to ask you some questions as to what happened out here this morning. I hope you understand.”

  “It’s okay, I just feel so bad for that poor man. I just never saw him till it was too late.”

  “Okay, let’s start from the beginning.”

  Sullivan told Mia she had left her home in Rosebud at about five that morning, setting out for her sister’s apartment in the town of Big Pine some forty miles away. Her sister had been going through a nasty divorce and had called in the middle of the night, very upset. Sullivan decided she’d go to Big Pine to be with her sister.

  “It was so dark,” she sobbed. “I was coming around that corner and there he was. I wasn’t speeding, honest. It was slick, and I was worried about ice.”

  “How fast do you think you were going?” Mia asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe twenty-five, thirty miles an hour. I tried to stop. That’s when it happened.”

  Sullivan described the impact with more detail than the investigator expected. She said she hit him full on, and the victim was thrown onto the hood of her car. After contact, she slammed on her brakes and the man went skidding off the hood and landed on the shoulder of the road. She stopped and quickly checked on him, trying to find a pulse but couldn’t detect one. She told Mia she worked as an LVN at the hospital near Rosebud, and that from her training she knew he was dead. She then “freaked out,” as she put it, and after gathering her wits about her, used her cell phone to call 911.

  “I’m so sorry, Lisa. We will need to get a more detailed statement from you at headquarters in Castle Springs. Deputy Brooks will take you there, and we’ll see that your car is towed. We’ll need to process your vehicle as part of the investigation—this is just routine protocol in these kinds of incidents. Would you like me to call your sister?”

  Lisa Sullivan shook her head. “I’ll call her.”

  “Okay, wait here and I’ll have someone come and take you to headquarters.”

  Sullivan agreed and Mia climbed out of the car. She shielded her eyes from the morning sun, now breaking over the horizon to the east, and walked towards Larry Voss to check in with him on the progress being made. Her crew would likely be on scene for the better part of the day completing the preliminary investigation. With traffic fatalities it was important to get everything needed from the scene the first time around, especially when weather was a factor. The forecast that day called for snow.

  “Investigator, you might want to check this out,” called out a deputy coming out of the trees and onto the road thirty feet beyond the body. Mia walked over for a look. There, off the edge of the shoulder, was a rifle, its barrel obscured by fallen pine branches. Mia reached into her pocket for some latex gloves, put them on and carefully removed the rifle from the branches. She examined it closely, noticing the initials GML carved in the handle of the weapon. The rifle, as well as the orange vest George Myron Lombard was wearing, led Mia to believe their victim had been out hunting when he was struck and killed by the driver of the Fiesta.

  It all fit and made sense, so why was she so uneasy?

  FOUR

  The sheriff’s department building was just one of several that made up the Rocklin County Justice Center complex. The two main floors of the RCSO building were above ground and served largely as office space for investigators, support staff, and administration. The underground area, known commonly as the dungeon, housed the RCSO shooting range, two squad rooms, and the intake center where arrestees were processed. Adjacent to the dungeon were the holding cells, jail lockup facility, and the “tag and bag” evidence room.

  Mia nodded to the deputies as she made her way through the dungeon, carrying the .22 rifle and the ammunition she had found on the body of the deceased. Normally, the crime scene guys would bring it in, but she wanted to have someone take a quick look at it, so she had taken the initiative.

  She walked through the large double doors leading into the RCSO shooting range, giving Matt Nolan a quick nod. The range was Nolan’s world, and he ruled it in black SWAT fatigues, clear wraparound protective eye wear, and big black earmuffs draped around his very large neck. Though just 5’6”, Nolan was still an imposing figure. He was a walking encyclopedia when it came to weapons, and while not a sworn officer, he had earned a tremendous level of respect within the department.

  “Whatcha got for me, Mia?”

  "I got called out this morning on a TC. It looks like our victim was hunting with this rifle. What can you tell me about it?"

  “Your victim picked a hell of a day to go huntin’ squirrels,” he said, looking over the weapon. “Too damn cold out there if you ask me.”

  Mia nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll bet you this was his first real rifle. It’s just like the one my dad gave me when I was a kid,” he said, lost in memories of hunting trips in the mountains with his father years earlier. “But you got a bit of a problem here, Mia.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  Mia qualified each month on her department issued Glock but beyond that didn’t have much interest in firearms. Too many bad memories.

  Nolan continued, “Was this the only rifle he had out there this morning? And is this the only ammo your boy had with him?”

  “Yes and yes,” she responded.

  “It’s deer season, so he’s got the right ammo. It’s .243 boat tail soft point, hundred grain. But this ammo doesn’t fit in that rifle.”

  Mia felt a little silly at her ignorance about weapons. “And the rifle?” she asked.

  “Mia, unless you sneak up on that whitetail buck and put this thing right up to his temple, it ain’t killin’ no deer.”

  Mia stood there processing what Nolan had just told her.

  “Okay, thanks, Matt. Just book it into evidence for me.”

  Captain Mick McCallister’s day wasn’t off to a great start having spent the last forty-five minutes reviewing overtime logs with staff. As he stepped inside the elevator to return to his second floor office, he heard a female voice calling out to hold the elevator. He extended his arm to hold the doors open and was surprised to see his lead traffic investigator as she stepped inside.

  “Hey, Mia, I thought you were out on a pedestrian TC.”

  “I was, but I just got back. Had to run some stuff by Matt Nolan.”

  “Nolan? Was there a gun involved?”

  “Yeah, sort of… Stuff doesn’t really add up. I’m hoping to get more from the autopsy tomorrow, and then I’ll be able to fill you in.”

  “Can’t wait,” the captain said with a smile as the elevator door opened to the second floor.

  “I’ll keep you posted, Boss,” Mia responded.

  Mick McCallister was a rising star within the RCSO. Barely forty years old, he had advanced through the ranks faster than anyone else at the department. The current sheriff, Cole Connelly, was set to retire in less than a year and while McCallister hadn’t announced his intentions, it was pretty clear he’d be the guy to beat—if he chose to run.

  Standing 6’4” tall, McCallister was a formidable figure. His light brown hair had just a bit of gray sneaking in at the temples. He was physically fit and did his best to keep his waist at a respectable thirty-four inches. He had a true command presence, especially in uniform, and women all took notice of him when he walked into the room.

  He had been a star athlete in college, excelling in both baseball and football. He ultimately chose football and was the starting safety for the University of Washington for all four of his years there. Following his graduation in 1995, he entered th
e NFL draft and was selected by the Jacksonville Jaguars. He was never signed to a contract but was proud of the plaque he had hanging on the wall of his office. “Mr. Irrelevant” it read, something instantly recognized by those who followed professional football closely. The significance of being named Mr. Irrelevant meant McCallister had been the very last person selected that year in the NFL draft. He kept the plaque on his wall to remind himself that he had come a long way and that good things happen to people who never give up.

  FIVE

  The Rocklin County morgue was located in a nondescript bunker-like building a half-mile from the RC Justice Center. Unlike the morgues featured on television crime shows, the facility had low ceilings and bright fluorescent lighting. That day just a handful of the living were inside.

  “We owe you for this one, Doc. I know you’re trying to get out of town,” Larry Voss told the coroner.

  Dr. David Mora was hours from departing for a pathology conference in Miami. He wasn’t looking forward to the conference as much as the sunshine and warmth.

  As per RCSO policy, at least one member of the accident investigation team was required to be present for victim autopsies, and it was usually Voss.

  “I’ll have a cold one for you on South Beach, Larry,” Mora said as he began carving a “Y” incision into the deceased.

  “I really appreciate this, Dave. We got a call on this one yesterday morning and there’s a lot that doesn’t add up.”

  “No sweat, Larry. Besides, with the snow we’re expecting my flight will probably get delayed.”

  Dr. Mora made the incision, which stretched from each shoulder to the sternum and down to within a few inches of the waistline. He pulled the skin back slowly with the help of a blade that sliced the connective tissue that had, until very recently, kept George Lombard’s skin attached to his body. Next, he pulled back the flesh, exposing the inside of the abdomen. He paused and peered closely at a yellow mass. “Well, that’s interesting,” Dr. Mora said.

  It was nearly three in the afternoon as Mia sat at her desk trying to finish up some old accident reports. There was enough caffeine in her bloodstream from the double latte she had just finished to make her jump at the buzz of her cell phone. Caller ID told her the call was from Larry Voss.

  “Hi, Larry.”

  “Hey, Mia, Dr. Mora found a few surprises with our accident victim yesterday—I think I need to give you a rundown. You gonna be around for the next half hour?”

  “Is this going to wreck my weekend?” Mia asked.

  “Yeah, it kinda looks that way.”

  It wasn’t easy getting time with Captain Mick McCallister, but Mia lucked out and caught him in the break room doing battle with the soda machine. He’d put in his dollar, but the machine was refusing to deliver his Diet Coke.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  “Captain, have you got a minute?”

  McCallister sighed in defeat.

  “Sure, come on in,” he responded, nodding towards his office just around the corner. “This about your fatal TC?”

  “Yep.”

  Mick McCallister was charged with overseeing all RCSO investigations. His office was small but had a window with a view of the parking lot and snowy grounds of the Justice Center.

  “Have a seat. Whatcha got?”

  “A lot of stuff that’s not adding up,” she said.

  “Like what?”

  Mia looked down at her notes and began to recite the facts of the case.

  “The victim is 56-year-old George Lombard of Castle Springs. Best we can figure, he was out deer hunting off Highway 46 early yesterday morning when he was struck by a car and killed. The driver, 32-year-old Lisa Sullivan from Rosebud, says Lombard suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Speed was 25-30, she says she had no time to react and hit him head on. He was thrown onto the hood of her Ford Fiesta, his head hit the windshield, which didn’t break, and he was thrown clear to the shoulder face down and dead.”

  “Okay, so far so good,” McCallister replied.

  “Well, not for him,” she replied with a bit of a smile. She cursed silently to herself at the feeble attempt at being cute with her boss.

  Their affair hadn’t ended badly; Mia Serrano and Mick McCallister parted on good terms and remained friends, seeing each other nearly every day at the station. They both knew their relationship was against RCSO policy given Mia worked in McCallister’s division. The couple had managed to keep the tryst a secret from both their co-workers and the command staff for eight months. But as Mick’s career blossomed, and he became the “talked about guy” to replace the sheriff when he retired, they decided it would be best to cool it.

  The relationship had started off innocently, mostly playful flirting. There were a few emails and before they knew it they were having drinks at a small neighborhood bar in Denver. Over time, the relationship became serious, but there was always concern that they’d be discovered.

  A holiday weekend trip to Las Vegas turned out to be the deal breaker, thanks to a close call with a RCSO deputy renowned for his big mouth. Fortunately, they saw him before he saw them, and while they were able to quickly switch hotels, they spent the weekend looking over their shoulders. Romance is hard, they’d learned, when you’re always watching your back.

  Both had a lot to lose. Married and divorced in his early twenties, Mick’s life was more or less the RCSO. A department romance could do a lot of damage to a career he’d poured his heart and soul into. And Mia had a lot to lose as well. If word got out there would be rumors and claims she’d slept her way to her coveted investigator position. It wasn’t fair, but it was department politics and human nature. They’d both worked too hard to see it all go down the drain.

  Still, neither Mick nor Mia had closed the book on the relationship completely. Maybe as they advanced, perhaps into different divisions at RCSO, they could give it another go. There were plenty of personnel at RCSO involved with each other, either in dating relationships or marriages. It was a very common thing in law enforcement. But most everywhere, relationships between bosses and subordinates were simply forbidden, and RCSO was no exception.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “this seemed like a pretty cut-and-dried fatality, car versus pedestrian.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “The autopsy. Lots of issues, I’m afraid.”

  “Like what?”

  “Glass splinters in the victim’s scalp, for starters.”

  “But he didn’t break the windshield,” Mick said, proud that he could keep his concentration. He loved it when she wore her hair back. “What else?”

  “The victim’s core body temperature was much colder than it should have been given the pathology. The ME tech on scene had him at 89.3 just four hours after the accident.”

  “It was pretty damn cold that morning.”

  “We asked about that, but Dr. Mora says while the weather may have been a contributing factor, no way does it explain a nine degree drop.”

  “Shit.”

  “There’s more. Mora found lividity that was consistent with a victim found on his back. My vic was found face down. He also looked at the stomach contents of our vic—looks like his last meal was a nice big steak. Problem is, unless he had that steak dinner at 3:30 in the morning, the digestive time line doesn’t add up. That steak hadn’t been in his stomach more than an hour or two. Oh, and there’s problems with the guy’s rifle and ammo. Other than that…”

  Captain McCallister considered his options.

  “Okay, you convinced me. It looks like this may be more than some random accident, so I want to bring in somebody to assist you.”

  Mia hesitated. “Okay, that’s fine.”

  “I’m going to ask Jack Keller from homicide to partner with you on this. He’s got some quirks, but he’s the best guy we have, and you can learn a lot from him.”

  All homicide investigators with RCSO started off in small units, a few even coming from traffic. She knew this case could be
a great opportunity to showcase her skills and learn at the same time.

  “Okay, Captain.”

  “I’ll email Keller and let him know.”

  Mia stood to leave. “Oh, one more thing. Mora said the vic had pancreatic cancer. Probably had only three or four months to live.”

  “Are you thinking suicide?”

  Mia shrugged. “I don’t know. It still wouldn’t explain everything.”

  “Anything in the victim’s car found at the scene that could point to that?”

  “No note or anything. Nothing really out of the ordinary.”

  “You might want to check with family and friends, just the same. Anything else?”

  “No, sir,” she said with a smile.

  Mia suddenly realized how much she had missed him.

  SIX

  Jack Keller didn’t have many friends outside the department, or inside for that matter, but the few friends he did have would do virtually anything for him. Divorced twice, he swore he’d never go down that path again. Women found Keller’s distinguished features attractive, but he had rarely dated in the fifteen years since the last divorce. It had left him both bitter and broke.

  He had arrived in Rocklin County almost seven years earlier after doing a thirty-year stint with the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department in Missouri. At SLMPD, Keller spent more than half his career working homicide cases—investigating more than 250 murders and posting an unheard of conviction rate of nearly 75 percent. But burnout among detectives was commonplace in his old division at SLMPD and the late night call outs, drive-by shootings, and drug-fueled murders pushed many good, hard-working detectives to an early retirement. Jack Keller lasted longer than most but ultimately went the way of the others.

  His first marriage was to his high school sweetheart; for the first few years, things went well. The marriage produced a daughter, and Jack and his young family settled in a nice middle class St. Louis neighborhood. Life was good for the Kellers and the future looked bright.