“Nope. No car. No noise. He’s not here. Let’s go.”
Per Chaz, Patty McKenzie was a caregiver for Potterford’s only Hospice. She too would be easy to find.
“Who do you want to call, Jaime? The wife or the girlfriend?”
“Both. You take the wife.”
“How about Beck?”
“Not yet.”
Things were looking good, but they still hadn’t laid eyes or hands on the jacket or the murder weapon. Lynch wasn’t going to rally the suits, armed only with what he’d reasoned so far. When he had a solid piece of evidence literally in his hands, he would call Agent Beck; not before.
They held their conversations simultaneously as Lynch peeled out from the curb headed down a one-way street.
“Hello this is Detective James Lynch.”
“Hello, is Patty McKenzie available? Hi, Patty. This is Detective Ernie Gomez.”
“We’re looking for Mick. Any idea where his?”
“We have some questions for your husband. Do you know where we might find him?”
“Quit jerkin’ me around! I’m not looking to out your relationship to his wife. If I was, I wouldn’t be calling; I’d be at your door with the friggin’ photographs!”
“Something’s come to light, and we’re taking another look at the Ellisport shooting.”
“We tried his house. He’s not there.”
“We just need to re-eliminate him as a suspect.”
“Give me a good guess then.”
“He’s not home? Do you have any thoughts as to where else we could try?”
“Do you know where that is?”
“Could I get an address from you?”
“Thank you. Stay on with me until we get there. I don’t want you calling him.”
“Thank you. Could you stay on the line in case we get lost? Great.”
They put their phones to their chests, and Lynch stepped on the gas.
Gomez spoke.
“His uncle has a…”
“Patch of property out Pruss Road. I’m on it.”
9. The Woods
Philip circled around…
“No…not today. You want to stop me. You don’t understand. You don’t want me to finish. You want to make me a murderer. I am not a murderer. I am not a murderer.”
…and climbed
I am not a murderer.
10. Walter’s House
Pruss Road ran north-south, parallel to route 100. The ride was hilly, green, and served as a haven for anyone wanting to avoid the highway during rush hour. The homes visible from the road backed up against thick woodlands, giving the illusion that all the properties ended at the tree line. Some of them did. Others, like Walter’s, had gravel or dirt paths that started behind the houses, wound through the woods, and opened onto acres of protected, undeveloped land.
Retired river ranger and former recluse Walter McKenzie spent the majority of his days jarring pickles and meticulously cleaning the sizable gun collection hidden in his basement. With no kids of his own, over the years he’d tried to teach his nephew a thing or two about survival in the wild, but it didn’t take. All Philip wanted to do when he visited was ride the dirt bikes, and even that stopped when he got his driver’s license. The kid was good with his hands though. His ability to pick through trash and use what he found to fabricate useful little gadgets would allow him to last longer than most when the shit hit the fan.
Had he pegged the two plain-clothed visitors on his porch as cops, he never would have opened the door.
“You want to talk to Phil? Uh…yeah, he went back to the field maybe an hour ago. Follow the path.”
“Mind if we take a look inside your house, sir?”
The door to Walter’s basement/armory was well-hidden, but not that well-hidden.
“I prefer you didn’t.”
“May I ask why (the fuck) not?”
“I don’t like visitors. Look, my nephew’s right where I told you. Park him in if you don’t believe me.”
Again…no warrant. Without much choice, they took him at his word.
“Thank you. I guess we’ll be in the field then. Back a path you said?”
“Right off the yard towards the woods.”
Hands in pockets, Lynch and Gomez descended the wobbly steps and disappeared around the side of the house.
Uncle Walter, having diverted the detectives from his house and the half-ton of illegal firearms under his feet, went into the house, locked the door, took a seat in his living room, and opened a jar of pickles.
“Pigs.”
The one-car garage housed an ozone-destroying pick-up with a blue Toyota Prius behind it on the tarmac. Philip evidently decided to get to wherever his uncle was talking about on foot. Some recon revealed the reason.
The path to the field was not naturally formed. It started in the back yard’s left corner, snaking left and right so a person had to travel it to see where it led. It was wide enough for a car, but covered in gravel and had at least one mountainous speed bump. One purpose; it offered passage that was neither quick nor quiet.
“Think Mick’s armed?”
“To the teeth.”
The woods were dense, but not too deep. Foregoing the gravel path, Lynch and Gomez quickly found themselves on the other side of the trees facing a grassy field three football fields deep and too wide to estimate. It ended at another tree line with more woods that stretched beyond the horizon.
Lynch spoke.
“Walk it, or ride it?”
“I’m a little short on Kevlar. I say we take the car.”
“We lose the element of surprise.”
“We gain the element of Detroit steel and bullet-proof glass.”
“Well-observed, except my car doesn’t have bullet-proof glass.”
Gomez reacted as though he’d been told there was no Santa Claus.
“What???”
“Get the poop out of your ears. My car doesn’t have…”
“You mean I’ve been riding around with you for four years behind non-bullet-proof glass?”
“Can we get back to the task at hand please?”
Gomez crossed himself.
“Dios me salve.”
Gravel shot up into the wheel wells as they weaved their way to the field. Upon breaking the tree line, gravel turned into two parallel lines of tire-worn ground that led just about directly to a small grey structure at the far edge of the field.
“How are you feeling, Ernie?”
“Like a sitting duck.”
“Me too. Get as low as you
