Her eyes flashed, and then she looked into the forest. “I’m sorry I said anything. I’m just fine doing my duty, sir. I’m not looking to be coddled.”
“I know. And don’t be sorry for telling me what you’re feeling. I’m glad you did.”
She said nothing, her gaze locked on the woods.
He gave her the wipes and looked toward Hammes’s house. Yates was already over the fence and at the front door, his purple-gloved hand probing something on the doorjamb as he disappeared inside the house.
“I’d better head down there,” Wolf said.
“Right,” she said.
“We’ll have to get an official report from you, of course.”
“Of course.”
Wolf walked over and knelt down next to Deputy Chavez. "How are you doing?"
His eyes flicked to Wolf. "Not very good, sir."
Wolf nodded. "Shooting somebody is tough business.”
“And a dog.”
Wolf nodded again. “And a dog. I know you're feeling some pain and doubt. That’s what happens. You're going to think about this day for the rest of your life, I'm not going to kid you about that," he said. “But you’ll get through it. You acted quickly. You protected yourself and your fellow deputy. You did good. He had a gun. He’s shot at innocent civilians before. If you wouldn’t have shot, it would have been you or Deputy Cain out there on the road right now.”
Chavez nodded, closing his eyes.
Wolf patted his shoulder. “They say the dog’s going to be okay.”
Chavez kept his eyes closed, tilting his head away from Wolf slightly.
"Deputy Nelson will take you back," he said, standing up.
Wolf walked down to the house, feeling a knot forming in his neck. He rolled his head in a circle, gripping his shoulder with one hand.
“What are you searching for?” Cain asked, walking up next to him. She acted as if nothing had just happened, marching in step with him down the road, her eyes forward, her chin tall.
"We have a search warrant.”
“Did you tie him to Mary Dimitri’s death?”
“Yes. We found his fingerprints on two beer bottles inside her house yesterday. Dr. Lorber confirmed the match this morning.”
“So you’re looking for a weapon,” she said. “But it’s not the Beretta up there.”
“Correct.” He told her about the .45 caliber Glock with sound suppressor that was supposedly missing from Chris Oakley’s trailer at the mine.
“And you think Hammes took it and shot Chris Oakley with it?”
“That’s the idea,” he said. “And Mary Dimitri.”
They walked down the road to the front gate in silence. The neighbor, Ned Larson, was outside his own fence line, watching them.
“You don’t need to be here,” Wolf said to her.
“He was yelling at us,” she said.
“Who?”
“Hammes. Before the dog jumped the fence and all hell broke loose. He was saying,” she shook her head in thought, “he was asking what Mary told us he did. I keep thinking about that. He said, ‘what is Mary telling you I did?’ Like we were in the process of talking to her or something.”
Wolf narrowed his eyes. “Like he didn’t know she was already dead, you’re saying?”
“Yeah. Exactly. It was just…he talked about her in the present tense, like he was completely in the dark, if you ask me.”
Wolf let that information settle. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
They walked up the dirt driveway to the side door. At the top of the drive sat a Dodge 4x4 truck, its rear bumper bent into a V from a collision.
“I’ll be out here,” Cain said, as Wolf gloved up and entered the open side door of Hammes’s house.
He stopped inside, assessing the kitchen he’d just walked into. Three ripped vinyl chairs surrounded a tiny table. Two dog bowls sat on the floor near his feet. A dozen eggs sat on the counter, along with a bowl and a fork. A pan sat on the burner.
“The burner was on, but I turned it off,” Rachette said from the next room.
Next to the eggs stood at least a dozen empty brown beer bottles matching those they had found in Mary Ellen Dimitri's house. The place smelled of beer, stale cigarette smoke, and rotting food.
Wolf joined Rachette in the living room. Framed drawings and paintings of different satanic symbolism pulled his eyes to the walls.
“Guy is devout,” Rachette said. “A devout freak.”
Wolf scanned the rest of the place. Hammes’s belongings were scattered about, seemingly at random: a dirty ashtray, more beer bottles, a remote control fought for space on the table; stacks of vinyl records, a laptop computer bag, a pair of dirty boots encrusted with flecks of concrete and mud, and a duffle bag lay discarded on the carpet.
“You looked in the duffel bag yet?”
“Not yet,” Rachette said. “I was heading to the bedroom.”
“Go ahead. I’ll take this.” Wolf bent over and unzipped the worn canvas bag. Inside was an array of dirty clothes: jeans muddied at the knees and crusted at the hems with the same color dirt that was on the boots, dirty socks and t-shirts, and a yellow reflective vest.
“Work clothes," Wolf said. “Construction work clothes. Where’s Yates?”
“He’s outside,” Rachette’s voice came from down a hallway.
Wolf checked the pockets of the jeans, finding a single crumpled receipt for a twelve-pack of beer purchased at a liquor store in Eagle, Colorado on Thursday, June 24th. The night before Chris Oakley’s murder up at the mine.
“Nothing in this first bedroom,” Rachette called out. “Checked all the drawers. Personally, I’m doubting we’ll find anything. If he had any sense, that is. You don’t hold onto the weapon after shooting two people. I’d go dump it in an old mine, a river, or a lake if I were him.” Rachette’s voice receded deeper into the house. “Maybe that’s why he was gone when we came over yesterday. He was out dumping evidence.”
“Hey!” Yates’ voice came from somewhere at the front of the house. “Out here!” He waved from the open front door. “Over here. I found it.”
“Found what?” Rachette asked, coming around the corner.
Wolf walked out, following Yates around the corner of the house to a
