Joe took a deep breath. He said, “What did she say next?”
“Nothing,” Marybeth said with a sigh. “She hung up the phone.”
“Did you call back?”
“No. I thought if I called right back I’d spook her. She obviously didn’t want to talk to me or hear anything I had to say about her son. Just think: What if I was the police chief in Laramie or the head of university security calling? Mrs. Young didn’t even want to hear who I was or why I was calling before she blurted out what she said.”
Joe asked, “Do you think you could call her again later tonight and get her to talk? You know, mother to mother?”
“That’s my plan,” she said. “She may see the area code again and not answer, but who knows? Maybe she will have talked to her son by then. But all I can do is try. Meanwhile, I’ll keep digging. Young’s path from California to Laramie might include some other stops where he might have made a mark. Plus, I haven’t dug into social media yet. He’s got to have a Facebook page, and he might have a blog or sites where he posts.”
“Keep me updated,” Joe said. “I’ll keep my phone close.”
“Oh,” Marybeth said, “you asked me about two other names…”
She went on to detail the extensive rap sheets of Bill Critchfield and Gene Smith.
“Nothing at all in the last five years?” Joe asked.
“Not that I can find.”
“That’s odd,” he said. “I didn’t get the impression they’d reformed.”
“I thought that, too,” she said.
Joe paused, thinking it through. Then he said: “You know that wealthy rancher I told you about? He moved into this county five years ago.”
There was a pause. Marybeth said, “What’s the connection?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think those two became model citizens all of a sudden. But obviously no one arrested them. You’d think they would have had run-ins with the town cops or the sheriff, or Jim Latta.”
He said, “I think maybe those two either work for the rancher or have something on him. But I’d guess the former.”
“Then steer clear of them, Joe,” Marybeth cautioned.
He nodded, but of course she couldn’t see it.
“Joe?”
“I got it.”
“Joe, how are things going?”
He said, “They’re heating up. It’s probably good I won’t be here much longer.”
As he said it, he glanced up at the motel office to see Anna quickly back away from the window, where she’d been watching him.
“Good work,” he said. “You’ve produced more results than the FBI at this point. But that shouldn’t surprise me.”
“Just get done and hurry home,” she said. “I’m worried what I might learn from Mrs. Young, and you may need to get to Laramie in a hurry.”
16
Joe finished his conversation with Marybeth and dug in his back Wrangler pocket for the key to cabin number eight.
As he reached for the knob, he paused as a thought came to him about what Anna B. had said. Daisy must have heard him outside, because she was snuffling up against the inside of the door, dying to say hello. But he didn’t slide the key into the lock.
Instead, he backed away and speed-dialed Chuck Coon’s private cell phone.
Coon picked up in two rings.
“Great job getting me that intel on those three names I gave you,” Joe said, as a greeting.
“Look,” Coon said with quiet irritation, “I’m in the middle of something. We all are. The state highway patrol stopped a van last night on I-80 going east filled with nine illegals who came over the border. That in itself isn’t a big deal, but only four of them are from Mexico or South America. Three are from Yemen, and two are from Chechnya. As you can imagine, we’ve got all hands on deck trying to figure out what’s what. I’m sorry I had to pull my agent off your inquiries, but—”
“Never mind,” Joe said. “Marybeth got it all. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“I’ve got maybe a minute,” Coon said, lowering his voice. Joe imagined the agent-in-charge excusing himself from a room full of men in suits and stepping out into the hallway.
“That’s enough time,” Joe said. “I’m going to call you back on your office landline number in twenty minutes.”
“But I won’t be at my desk.”
“Just as well,” Joe said. “I don’t need you to be there. I assume the incoming call will be recorded on your server, right?”
Coon hesitated, then: “Yes. But that’s not supposed to be public knowledge.”
“Come on,” Joe said. “Everybody knows you Feds record everything. Anyway, just make sure you get a copy of the call and get it transcribed in case you need to send it over to the governor’s office. You might need to refer to it later when you need to build a case.”
“Joe, what have you learned? It sounds explosive.”
Joe smiled to himself at that. He said, “Nothing has exploded yet, but I might be lighting the match.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s time to jump-start things.”
“Uh-oh…” Coon cautioned.
“You’ve got to get back to your meeting,” Joe said. “I’ll explain later. I’ll give you a call on your cell.”
“Remember our deal—”
“Thanks again for the timely intel. You guys have been really helpful so far,” Joe said, and terminated the call.
He let Daisy out to allow her to blow off some steam and relieve herself in the copse of trees behind the unit. While she loped around and through the tree trunks, he inspected the back of cabin number eight where the power and phone lines entered the exterior walls and compared the wiring with other cabins in the row. He tried to do it without looking obvious, in case Anna had found another place in her office to spy on him.
While he ran his dog he heard the sound of a vehicle enter the parking lot. He stayed back in the trees but peered around cabin number eight to see a Chevy Silverado with Michigan plates pulling a trailer with two ATVs strapped on behind it. The bed of the pickup was filled with hunting and camping gear, and two large bearded men in camo climbed out, stretched, and went inside the office. Obviously hunters checking in, Joe thought. So there would be some company besides Anna at the motel after all.
After a few more minutes of tossing a plastic dummy for Daisy to retrieve, he thought it was time to go in. He was surprised to see the Michigan truck swinging around in the lot and heading back out. He wondered if the hunters didn’t like the motel or the rate — or if they’d been turned away — and why.
Inside, he again sat at the makeshift desk and scribbled notes to himself in his spiral. After he’d gone over his script a third time, he punched Coon’s office phone number into his cell.
As Coon had warned, it went straight to voicemail.
Joe said, “Is this the Division of Criminal Investigation? Yes, well this is Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett. I need to talk to Director Don White. Sure, I’ll wait.”
Joe sat up straight in the hard-backed chair and counted to ten, then: “Don? This is Joe Pickett. As you know, I’m up in Medicine Wheel County, and I’ve spent a couple of days poking around like you asked.”
He paused as if being asked a question, and said, “Yeah. I wanted to alert you that I’ll be sending along a report soon that you’ll probably want to hand-walk over to the attorney general’s office. It’s as dirty up here as you said it might be and maybe even worse. That grand jury idea you had might be the ticket for something this big and this wide-ranging. The whole county seems to be rotten to the core.”