“Yup,” Joe said, rolling it around in his palm.
Hunters in Wyoming didn’t use buckshot for deer. That was a southern thing, using shotguns in heavy brush at close range. Wyoming deer hunters used rifles because there was rarely much cover and most shots were at a distance. The only real use for buckshot was to kill men or bears at close range.
Norwood said, “And as you know, this makes identifying the weapons much tougher. Spent bullets have unique marks on them from the rifling of the barrel. We can identify the caliber and match up a test round fired from the same gun. But shotgun pellets? No markings. Even if we find someone with a half-empty box of double-ought shells it’s difficult to make a match that’ll stand up in court.”
“So this was a trap from the get-go,” Joe said. “Somehow, they lured him up here with the express purpose of shooting him down.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Norwood said.
—
JOE CONNECTED on the phone with FBI Special Agent Chuck Coon when he was in sight of the WELCOME TO MONTANA sign on I-90. The snowcapped Bighorns were in his rearview mirror and the vast rolling terrain was a carpet of brilliant green grass.
Coon was in charge of the Wyoming office of the FBI in Cheyenne. He was intense and honest, a by-the-book G-man as distressed by some of the goings-on in Washington as the locals. Which meant, Coon had told Joe, that he’d be stationed in far-off Wyoming for the rest of his career.
Joe said, “Nate Romanowski walked into an ambush and, from what I can tell, he wasn’t armed. How did you people let that happen?”
Coon sighed and said, “Hold on.” That was code for closing his office door so he couldn’t be overheard.
“Look,” Coon said, “the deal with your pal Romanowski was negotiated directly with the DOJ, with your governor playing a supporting role. They didn’t include us local guys in the deal and they didn’t let us see the final agreement. I didn’t even know he was gone until after the whole thing came down.”
“But they took away his weapon,” Joe said. “They sent him to his death.”
“I wouldn’t have done that,” Coon said, “but then, I wouldn’t have agreed to let Romanowski out of the basement for the rest of my natural life. Everywhere he goes, somebody winds up dead or with their ears twisted off. But this isn’t any secret to you.”
“No, it isn’t,” Joe said. “So who is the agent in charge?”
“His name is Stan Dudley.”
“Can you patch me through to him?”
“No can do,” Coon said. “The only way I can talk to him is if I go through the DOJ channels in D.C. That’s the way they have it set up. Besides, I don’t think he’s in the building. I think he’s hovering around Romanowski on his deathbed, hoping he’ll find out who shot him with your pal’s last words.”
“Dudley’s in Billings?”
“I think so,” Coon said. “That’s the last I heard. But don’t hold me to it. Like I said, Dudley’s operating on a separate track. Frankly, I don’t really like the man, but that’s neither here nor there. He probably doesn’t like me, either.”
Joe paused, then asked, “But do you know what’s going on? Why would they want Nate out? Not that I’m against it, but it doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Me, either,” Coon said. “I’ve heard some things, though. Governor Rulon wanted him out because, well, he likes him. He made Romanowski promise not to commit another felony in Wyoming. But for the feds—my understanding is they wanted to put him out there to serve as bait to Wolfgang Templeton. They wanted to snare Templeton when he came after Romanowski.”
“And Nate agreed to that?”
“Apparently,” Coon said. “He agreed to stay out of trouble, but it sounds like that didn’t last very long.”
“Nope,” Joe said. “Why is the DOJ even involved? Don’t they have enough on their plate these days?”
Coon snorted. “What I’m going to tell you is complete speculation on my part. And if you repeat where you heard it, you and I are going to have a problem.”
“Shoot,” Joe said.
“Some of Templeton’s victims were crony capitalists or friends of big fund-raisers for the current administration. It’s personal. Officials who shall remain nameless want revenge on Templeton and they want to shut him up. Simple as that. Romanowski is just a means to an end.”
Joe felt his ire rising once again. “So Templeton, or Templeton’s men, found Romanowski and they took him out? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m purely speculating. Who else would want him dead? I’m surprised they even knew that quickly he was out. Unless, of course, someone on the inside let them know.”
That possibility gave Joe an instant headache. “You mean like someone in your building?”
“Like I said, I’m speculating,” Coon said.
“Who else could it be?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” Coon said. “Maybe someone at DOJ tipped Templeton off. Maybe Templeton acted a lot more quickly than the bureaucracy thought possible and they weren’t prepared yet. Have you thought of that? We’re a big agency and we move slow. Someone may have started something that quickly went over their head.”
“They wouldn’t want anyone to know that,” Joe said. “There would be some big-time CYA action going on right now.”
Joe drove on. He could hear Coon breathing on the other end.
“Are you done?” Coon asked.
“I guess so. I’ve got a lot to think about.”
“You do.” Then, with his voice softening, Coon asked, “How’s your girl, Joe? I hear she’s in the same hospital.”
Joe brought Coon up to speed, and told him briefly about the calamity in the courtroom that morning.
Coon said, “It’s a good thing you’ve got Marybeth. If I had all that going on . . . I don’t know what the hell I’d do.”
Joe agreed.
“Chuck,” Joe said before punching off, “please let me know if you hear anything about Nate or Templeton.”
“Not officially,” Coon said. “But I may give you a call from time to time on your cell phone.”
“Thank you.”
“Hang in there, man,” Coon said.
12
April’s hospital room was dimly lit and quiet except for the muffled hum of the HVAC and an occasional soft click from one of the many electronic monitors hovering over her bed. Thin wires from embedded catheters coiled up from her head. She was being fed intravenously through a tube, and other tubes delivered hydration and medication. Additional tubes carried waste away into receptacles underneath the bed. Because she was so still, it seemed to Joe she was simply serving as a disinterested processing center for the transfer of incoming fluids.
Marybeth was with him when he entered the room and she stood behind him as he approached the bed.
“I haven’t seen her since she left,” he said, reaching out and brushing April’s cheek with the back of his hand. She was battered but sleeping, her expression untroubled. He could not tell from looking at her that she had brain trauma. Her hair was brushed neatly, although the part was wrong. How would the nurses know?
Joe listened as Marybeth explained the procedure the doctors had undertaken, and she pointed out what the readings on the monitors meant. She showed Joe the all-important readout that would indicate an increase—or decrease—in brain activity when she was brought out of the coma.
He found April’s limp hand under the blanket. It was warm but unresponsive.
“I’ve seen her eyelids flutter a couple of times,” Marybeth said softly. “That’s not supposed to happen unless there’s brain activity. But when I asked, I was told the monitors didn’t pick it up. But I swear I saw it happen.”
Joe looked over. He believed her, of course. But he didn’t want to read too much into it.