The feel in downtown Bozeman was vastly different than that of downtown Grimstad. In Grimstad, men—and it was mainly men even with the energy downturn—didn’t shop so much as re-supply. It was all about getting in and getting out with heavy clothing and gear. The outside was icy, flat, and harsh, and it was there to provide these men with a living pumping oil out of the ground.
In Bozeman, with its proximity to Yellowstone, wealthy newcomers, and the local university, the outdoors was showcased as a friendly and spiritual place that everyone must appreciate at the risk of being ostracized. It was worshipped like a fetish, she thought. Judging by the shops, the clerks, the items for sale, and the clientele, everyone in Bozeman wore high-tech outdoor clothing as they sipped lattes and wine before cross-country skiing or befriending grizzly bears.
She thought that Grimstad could use a little more Bozeman and Bozeman could use a little more Grimstad.
But she found what she needed: clothing, underwear, and toiletries that she piled in bags into the hatchback of her parked car. Cassie bought area topo maps and guidebooks at the Country Bookshelf and both hiking boots and a good outdoor daypack at Schnee’s.
Then she drove east on Main to the Bozeman Public Library.
* * *
CODY HOYT HAD TOLD HER the story before he started drinking again. Cody and Cassie had been parked in an unmarked Lewis and Clark County Sheriff’s Department Yukon on an overlook near Lincoln. They were keeping an eye on a double-wide trailer set into an alcove of pine trees down a muddy two-track road.
Cody was sure that a meth dealer they were after was using the trailer that belonged at the time to the dealer’s cousin. There was an APB out on the dealer but he’d managed to stay out of sight.
If the dealer showed up suddenly they’d have to jump into action and arrest him. But while they waited and hoped, surveillance duty was long and boring and rife with potential annoyances. The two of them were vastly different people and they had no choice but to be cooped up together in the front seat of a vehicle with fast food wrappers and empty Styrofoam coffee cups on the floorboards.
Cassie and Cody had a long-standing dispute about the inside temperature of the Yukon. She wanted it warmer and he wanted it cooler. Their dashboard dance—one of them changing the temperature while the other napped or looked away—went on for hours. They varied between being pleasant to sniping at each other. Cassie and Cody could have a benign conversation that might take a turn and end up an argument about something. Cody was mercurial that way, so Cassie kept her guard up and her opinions as diplomatic as possible.
There were times, though, when Cody told stories or relived experience he’d had that she found wise and instructive. Other “life lessons” weren’t helpful. His philosophy about good police work—that the ends justified the means and anything that might have to be done to put dirtbags away was righteous—had horrified her.
On that night outside Lincoln he told her about the horseback trip he’d taken into the most remote wilderness in the Lower 48 states—the Thorofare region of Yellowstone National Park he called “back of beyond.” He’d gone there to try and find his son Justin who was on a multi-day expedition with his stepfather and an outfitter based in Bozeman named Jed McCarthy.
After day two in the wilderness, Cody described how miserable he was not only because of the primitive conditions but because he was withdrawing from nicotine and alcohol at the same time. That, and riding a horse ten hours a day.
Eventually Cody found the expedition, and what happened changed his life—for a while.
But although Cody had grown up in the redneck outlaw Hoyt clan that was spread throughout rural Montana, he’d never really been a seasoned outdoorsman. And he knew as little about horses as he possibly could. In fact, he told her, he’d made a point of it.
So how did he locate that expedition in the first place, she wondered?
That’s when she first heard the name Bull Mitchell.
Cody had found Bull Mitchell at, of all places, the Bozeman Public Library.
* * *
CASSIE GLANCED AT HER WRISTWATCH as she pushed through the double doors. It was ten to five and she hoped most of the staff was still on duty.
A slender young woman with jet-black hair with purple streaks in it looked up from a book she was reading at the information desk. The woman, Cassie thought, had a fresh hipster-outdoorsy look and was likely the target market for many of the downtown shops she’d wandered through that afternoon.
“May I help you?” she asked. She spoke with a flat intonation Cassie had heard described as “vocal fry” that was low, burred, and to Cassie, grating.
“Please,” Cassie said, trying to ignore the tone. “I’m from out of town and I hope you can steer me to the right person here. I assume there’s someone who is in charge of children’s reading programs?”
The outdoor girl glanced behind Cassie and Cassie instinctively turned around to see if there was someone waiting behind her. There wasn’t.
“Sorry,” the woman said, “I thought you had a little one with you.”
“My little one is twelve years old.”
“Oh, well, you asked about…”
Cassie put on her most pleasant face. She wasn’t there to confuse the outdoor girl behind the information desk.
“A friend of mine told me a really charming story a couple of years ago about an older man who read children’s stories for a primary-grade group. The audience was all kids except for one senior woman. The older man did it because the older woman was his wife and she had severe Alzheimer’s. It was his way to reconnect with her.”
The outdoor girl nodded her head with recognition. “Was his name Mr. Mitchell?”
“Yes. Bull Mitchell.”
“He was an awesome dude when he wasn’t crabby about something,” she said. “He was often pissy about one thing or other. But when he read to his wife”—she shook her head and smiled sadly—“it was awesome.”
“Does he still do it?” Cassie asked. “I’d like to meet him.”
“When his wife died he stopped coming in,” she said. “I haven’t seen him in probably a year and a half.”
“Oh. Do you have any idea where I could find him?”
The outdoor girl said, “This is a library. We can find anything.”
“Why do you talk like that?” Cassie asked her.
“Like what?” the outdoor girl said in her fried voice.
* * *
EVEN THOUGH THE FRONT DOORS were locked, there were lights on in the second-floor corner of Mitchell/Estrella, Attorneys at Law, in downtown Bozeman. Cassie did a quick search on her phone for the numbers for the law firm and called while she stood on Main Street and looked up. She could faintly hear the phone ring inside.
It rang seven times before diverting to voice mail.
“You’ve reached the law offices of Angela Mitchell and Jessica Estrella. Our office hours are…”
Cassie disconnected, waited a moment, and called again after it went to voice mail.
Then again.
In Cassie’s experience most attorneys were under the general impression that they were the smartest people in the room and therefore they were always in control of it. They liked processes to be complicated and stacked in their favor, and they didn’t enjoy uncertainty or chaos. Nothing made a prosecutor or defense attorney more uncomfortable than the unknown.
In this instance, the unknown identity of whomever was calling a law office repeatedly after it was closed and not leaving a message? Could it be a client in some kind of trouble?
On the fourth attempt the phone was answered. It was a female and she sounded annoyed.
“This is Rachel Mitchell of Mitchell/Estrella. If you’re the one who keeps calling—”
“I am. My name is Cassie Dewell and I’m standing on the street outside your window. I’d like to talk to you about your father.”
There was a silent moment. Cassie guessed Rachel Mitchell was weighing whethe
r the call was professional or personal.
“What about my dad?” she asked.
“I need to ask him if he remembers helping out my old boss Cody Hoyt four years ago.”
“Now there’s a name from the past.” She said it in a way that indicated she was likely both as impressed with and annoyed by Cody as Cassie herself used to be.
Cassie looked up to see a slim woman with a full head of auburn hair, peering out the window of the corner office. She had a telephone receiver held up to her ear.
Cassie waved up at her as if to say, Here I am.
“Do I know you?” Rachel asked.
“We met once in Helena four years ago,” Cassie said. “You came up to see Cody after he came back from Yellowstone. I probably wasn’t very memorable at the time.”
“What did you say your name was again?” Rachel asked as if to confirm it.
* * *
“SO YOU’RE WITH the Sheriff’s Department,” Rachel said as Cassie entered her office.
Cassie said, “Not anymore. And up until a week ago I was working as the chief investigator for the Bakken County sheriff in North Dakota.”
Rachel Mitchell was an attractive, no-nonsense woman. She wore a tailored suit and she had athletic calves. Her manner was cool and professional as she gestured for Cassie to sit down in a chair while she skirted around the desk. Her office was spacious and tasteful, with leather-bound books of Montana Statutes lining the shelves and a collection of family photos on her credenza of good-looking outdoor kids doing outdoor things.
Cassie recalled that she’d felt intimindated by Rachel Mitchell the first time she saw her and she regretted that she still felt that way. When she sat down in the chair Rachel had indicated, she did so in a heavy-bodied way. Especially compared to how Rachel glided into hers.
“If you’re not with Helena or Grimstad who are you with?” Rachel asked.
“I’m running an independent investigation.”
Rachel shook her head, puzzled. “I don’t know what that means.”
Where to start? Cassie got the impression she would have twenty seconds to tell her story or she might not get the chance to do it again.
Cassie cleared her throat. “I’m here because I have good reason to believe that a vicious serial killer who grew up in the area might have come back with a captive teenage boy from North Dakota. I think they may be hiding out around here. From what I understand, your father knows the mountains around here better than any man alive—if Cody is to be believed. Cody told me your dad was the best outfitter and guide in the Yellowstone region. I’d like to ask him if he has any idea where I should look.”
Rachel sat back in her chair and raised her eyebrows. “My dad isn’t in very good health these days. Since my mom died eighteen months ago he’s deteriorated. There is absolutely no way he could guide you anywhere.”
“I’m not asking him to do that,” Cassie said. “What I was wondering is if I could talk to him. He might know something about the family of the man I’m looking for since they were in the area for years when your dad was working.”
“Who is it you’re looking for?”
“His name is Ronald Pergram,” Cassie said.
Rachel flinched at the name but quickly regained her composure. She said, “Also known as the Lizard King. And now I know who you are. You’re the cop who shot it out with the trooper. You’re the one who almost caught Pergram.”
“To be honest, Pergram got away before I knew who he was,” Cassie said.
“That was a big story around here. And you’ve been after him ever since?”
“More or less.”
Rachel placed an index finger and painted nail alongside her mouth. “I thought he died someplace in North Dakota a month or so ago? That he blew himself up.”
“I was there and I thought the same thing until yesterday. Now I think there might have been another man driving Pergram’s truck that day.”
“This is a lot,” Rachel said while she leaned back as if to distance herself from Cassie’s theory.
“It is. I’m aware of that. I can explain how I came to it if you’d like.”
Rachel shot a look at her iPhone to check the time. Then she said, “Please do.”
Cassie recounted the case from the evening she met with Lottie in the lobby of the Law Enforcement Center to arriving in Bozeman that afternoon. Rachel eyed her the entire time as if looking for inconsistencies or physical tells.
When Cassie was through, Rachel said, “So you’re doing this on your own.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’ve got that support network in North Carolina I mentioned but yes, I’m basically a civilian.”
“Interesting.”
Cassie said, “As I told you, Pergram may have killed Raheem. And Kyle Westergaard is more than just a missing person. He’s a friend of my son’s and we have some personal history together. Kyle has a mild case of fetal alcohol syndrome and when I think the Lizard King might have him it breaks my heart.”
Rachel’s eyes softened for the first time. “I’ve got three boys of my own and one very spoiled girl.” Then: “And you think my dad might have an idea where Ronald Pergram is?”
“Possibly. I would think he knows the family. They had a place in Paradise Valley that’s since burned down.”
“Why are you not telling all this to local law enforcement?” Rachel asked.
“Because I know how a sheriff’s department works. I hate to say that but it’s true. Cops are reactive to live situations, but the process slows way down when it’s a complicated case from another jurisdiction that requires serious investigation. Especially when there are local crimes to concentrate on. I can file a report or wait to speak to a deputy and then it’s up to them to pursue it, but what I’m telling you consists of a lot of speculation at this point. It could take days or weeks before they follow up, if at all. I can’t afford to wait.”
Rachel huffed a little laugh. “That sounds like something Cody Hoyt would have said.”
Cassie smiled ruefully.
“That kind of thing got him in trouble more than once,” Rachel cautioned.
“Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not going to try to find where Pergram is and do some kind of citizen’s arrest or something. I’m not that brave or foolish. My job as I see it is to build a solid foundational case that he’s back in this area. Once I’ve got solid evidence I’ll turn it over to law enforcement and let them take it from there.”
The attorney picked up her phone. “Call my cell so I have your contact info,” she said, giving Cassie her phone number. “My dad is living with us at home and I’ll run this by him. No promises, no guarantees. And he might just refuse to talk to you because he’s such a cranky old curmudgeon these days.”
“I understand,” Cassie said, keying in Rachel’s phone number and pressing SEND.
Rachel’s phone chimed. She disconnected it after the first ring and dropped it into her purse.
“When it comes to my dad, well, it’s hard to predict. He remembers the old days when he was outfitting very clearly. It’s the things that happened this morning or yesterday he has trouble with.”
“Thank you,” Cassie said from the chair and holding out her hand.
Rachel shook it and said, “I’ll let you know later tonight. There’s no point talking to him until he’s had dinner. After dinner—and before he sits down to watch Fox News nonstop—that’s the sweet spot to talk to him about anything.”
* * *
IT WAS FULL DARK when Cassie went outside to her car. She’d need to find a motel in Bozeman and as she scrolled through those available on her phone a text from Leslie Behaunek chimed in.
It said CALL ME.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
“THE MURDERED BOY was Raheem Johnson,” Leslie said. “The DNA results are 99.5 percent conclusive.”
“Shit,” Cassie said.
She’d just pulled off the road and she was parked under the ch
eck-in alcove of the Holiday Inn Express on the outskirts of Bozeman. The parking lot was empty except for two other cars. The neighborhood she was in consisted of branded mid-market hotels and fast-food outlets and obviously serviced Interstate 90 that pulsed to the north. Fields of brown grass surrounded the Holiday Inn Express and gave it the feeling of being more isolated than it actually was.
Cassie recalled driving through the area in the height of summer a few years before and seeing full parking lots at every hotel. Tourists on their way to or from Yellowstone. It was different in mid-October. Inside, she could see a male and female behind the check-in counter looking out as if imploring her to come inside to relieve their boredom.
Leslie said, “We’ve notified the Hennepin County Sheriff’s Department to deliver the bad news to Mr. Johnson. He probably won’t be shocked by it because he was apparently very cooperative earlier today when he provided Raheem’s toothbrush and strands of his hair to the authorities to get DNA.
“So it looks like you might be on the right track after all.”
“Still, I would have rather you said it wasn’t him,” Cassie said.
“Me too.”
“I’ll call Mr. Johnson as well. Does he know the circumstances of Raheem’s murder?”
“Not that I know of but I don’t know what the locals will tell him.”
“I’ll steer clear of that if I can,” Cassie said.
“So where are you?”
“Bozeman.”
“Bozeman? I thought you were going home. I thought we had an agreement.” She sounded miffed.
Cassie said, “You made that recommendation and you must have assumed I’d take it. But the more I thought about things this morning, the more I thought I needed to follow the only thread that makes sense to me—that Ronald Pergram finally came back home.”
They discussed her theory and Cassie could tell that Leslie was dubious of it for a couple of reasons. The first was that Cassie was flying blind, which Cassie acknowledged. She’d crossed law enforcement jurisdictions and state lines, which was something she never could have done when she worked for the sheriff’s department. The second, unspoken, reason was that Leslie wanted her joint task force to succeed.