A door banged shut behind me. Burt, starting down from casita number five, short and bow-legged, one arm swinging, the other bringing a cup of coffee to his face. Burt senses distress as surely as a shark. I told him what had happened and not to let Lindsey out of his sight.
“Don’t worry about Lindsey,” he said, clapping a strong little hand on my shoulder. “You just do what you have to do. You’re in a war, my friend.”
31
We stood near the snow-dusted footpath where Marlon Voss had died, watching as the Nevada County sheriffs cleared the scene. A surprisingly large group had gathered behind the yellow tape, heavily bundled against the Sierra Nevada cold. Two old volunteer deputies in Day-Glo green vests talked solemnly with the onlookers. A creek rushed past, loud. Smell of cedar and pine. I’d paid the taxi driver to wait and I could see him parked along the road, checking his phone.
Voss’s body was gone and the decomposed granite trail was thoroughly stained with his blood. One detective, two uniformed deputies, and a crime scene tech were the only law enforcement left. They didn’t seem to mind us being there. The tech squatted to take pictures of a small red flag that had been poked into the trail eight or so feet from where Voss had died.
“What caliber?” asked Taucher, her words a frosted exhale past the raised collar of her peacoat.
“A nine-millimeter.”
“How many?”
The tech looked us over. Big-faced, freckled, and young. “Just this one. I’m surprised he left it here.”
“Maybe it was too dark,” said Joan, looking up at parallel ridgelines of the canyon.
“Sunrise was seven nineteen,” he said. “But that eastern ridge blocks first light. So it’s more like seven thirty right here. Enough light to see a shell casing? Hard to say.”
“Did he see anyone?” I asked. “The man who found the body?”
“You should talk to a deputy,” he said, swiping the flag off the ground and standing. “I’m not even sworn. But I can tell you one thing — this is the most sickening killing I’ve ever seen.”
Dave Bridgeman, the detective, had spoken to Taucher earlier by phone. He confirmed that Voss had been shot at least once and beheaded, neither of which had been confirmed yet to the media, or to Voss’s widow or children.
“But we couldn’t get him covered before two more runners saw the whole gruesome mess,” said Bridgeman. “Everyone’s buzzing about it and the media’s all over us. The guy who found the body went into shock and we took him to Memorial.”
“I need to see him,” said Taucher.
“Sierra Nevada Memorial Hospital on Glasson. You can’t miss it.”
She drew her phone, voice-dialed, and waited for the call to go through. I looked at the bloody swatch of gravel and listened to the creek roar past. This was once serious gold country. I tried to picture big lazy gold nuggets rolling downstream along the creek bottom. Tried to picture anything but Voss. Snowflakes slowly fell.
“What’s a PI doing here with the FBI?” asked the detective.
“Trying to help a friend,” I said.
Taucher turned her back to us, apparently in disagreement with someone.
Bridgeman put his hands into the pockets of his winter jacket. “I’m told there was something down in Bakersfield I might want to know about.”
“Ask Joan.”
“Don’t think I’d learn much,” he said with a small smile.
Joan’s voice was rising. I thought a moment, decided to take a chance on doing a good deed for what seemed like a good cop. What did I know? “Bakersfield PD detective Marcy Brown is a reasonable sort. You can use my name, but it might backfire.”
“I understand.”
The lobby of Sierra Nevada Memorial Hospital bristled with reporters and camera crews trying to beat the cold. Taucher walked through them with her head down. I got to the elevator first and held the reporters off while Joan stepped in.
In a second-floor room sat the man who had discovered Voss at first light. He looked to be in his late seventies, probably trim and fit beneath the layers for warmth. He wore a hospital robe with a parka over it, and a fresh pair of light blue pajama bottoms. Patient-issue white terry-cloth slippers. There was a nurse in the room with him and a sheriff’s deputy outside the closed door.
He rose and shook my hand. “Bill Immel,” he said. “And you are?”
I introduced myself and Agent Taucher, whom Immel scrutinized with sharp eyes. He had a handsome but pugnacious face and a head of brown-gray hair.
“Sorry, I pissed my pants,” he said, pulling on the legs of his baggy blue pajamas. “Haven’t done that since the day Oswald shot Kennedy. But not because of Dallas. I was in a recon Huey over Quang Tri and the gooks hit us with fifty-caliber. That gets your attention.”
The nurse was a petite Filipina who gave Immel a flat look as she wrapped an old-fashioned blood-pressure cuff around his upper arm.
“I like you, Alma,” he said, sitting on the bed. Alma squeezed the rubber inflator. “Sorry about the ‘gook’ remark. I’m not racist. But I’ll tell you two, when I saw that man on the running trail with his head lopped off I fell to my knees and peed. It just happened. I was in the middle of a good run, too. Who came in behind you just now?”
Taucher and I both looked back at the closed door, then to Bill Immel.
“There’s no one,” said Taucher.
“Behind you, I said.”
“No one, Mr. Immel,” said Joan.
Alma released the pressure and took the reading.
Immel squinted at each of us knowingly. “Have you made an arrest yet?”
“No, Mr. Immel,” said Taucher. “Did you see anyone else on the path this morning? Before or after you found Mr. Voss?”
“I did not,” said Immel. “I’m always one of the first ones out there. Along with the decedent.”
“So you had seen Mr. Voss before?” Taucher asked.
“All the time. Always running opposite directions. Nodded but never spoke.”
Alma hung the pressure cuff over one shoulder and entered something on her tablet. “Still high, Mr. Immel. You lay back on the bed and relax.”
“I will not,” said Immel. “I’m trying to help these people. So listen up. It was seven twenty-eight a.m. when I found him. I don’t know why I looked at my watch, but I did. Kneeling there, my heart was beating very hard and my whole body went cold. There was nothing I could do. His head... Kay always used to tell me... well, a lot of things.”
“Did you hear a gunshot?” asked Taucher.
“No. The path runs along the creek. Loud with all the run-off. The first part of the month was warm for these parts.”
Taucher nodded. “Did you hear or see a vehicle when you were kneeling beside the body?”
“I saw a vehicle parked off the road. Sometimes the runners park there in summer, when it’s crowded. It seemed out of place there, because this morning it wasn’t crowded at all.”
“What kind?” asked Joan.
“Toyota 4Runner,” said Bill. “Two thousand two, gray. I’ve got one, too. Love it. Oh, and I almost forgot — there was someone behind the wheel. Possibly a woman.”
Taucher and I traded looks while Immel peered at us. “You’re like watching two lemons that just lined up on a slot machine,” he said. “But the third lemon never comes. Meaning you don’t pay off. Meaning you don’t tell me anything.”
“Describe her,” said Taucher.
“You try describing a smudge behind a windshield two hundred feet away with snow coming down,” said Immel.
“Did you touch the body?” asked Taucher. “Mr. Voss, I mean?”
“No,” said Immel. “I saw no profit in that. I think that’s the whole point of these beheaders, to make you feel helpless.”
“That’s an excellent synopsis of the terrorist mind-set,” said Joan.