He tosses a number of eight-by-ten photos on the table and straightens them into three neat rows of seven. “On the west side of the property, where the driveway comes in, is a barricade wall that looks like something out of a Mad Max movie, so that’s a no-go. The north, east, and south boundaries of the property, however, are unfenced.” He points to each picture in turn. “Though the south and east sides have some formidable underbrush and a good stretch of rough terrain, making infiltration and exfiltration problematic.” He points to several more photos.
“Leaving just the northern edge of the property,” Sheriff Gant clarifies.
“Yes, sir. The property’s a regular junkyard: dozens of old cars, piles of scrap, mountains of tires and rims, even a junkyard dog. The good news is all that junk should give us plenty of cover coming in.” Picking up one of the photos, Detective Bovencamp holds it up so everyone can see. “This single-wide trailer is Zell’s primary residence, but there are also four travel trailers on the property. The newest is probably twenty years old.”
“Good places to hold someone captive,” Jimmy says.
“My thought exactly.” Troy swallows a mouthful of microwave-warmed coffee and sets his mug back on the table. His auburn hair is cut high and tight; his woodland camouflage fatigues are starched and look almost new but for the fresh dirt and grass stains at the knees and elbows.
You couldn’t tell by the look of him, but he and two other members of the SWAT team had set up surveillance on Zell’s compound the previous afternoon and hunkered down for the night. They didn’t exfiltrate until eight this morning, and only just arrived back at the S.O., or sheriff’s office.
Bovencamp likes those words: Infiltrate, exfiltrate, and S.O.
He uses them repeatedly.
I think he likes infiltrate and exfiltrate because they’re military terms, and the acronym S.O. because it’s short and it sounds cool. He’s a former Marine, so I figure he can say pretty much whatever he wants.
“He didn’t return to the house until almost ten last night and spent about twenty minutes off-loading a bunch of scrap metal from the back of the truck: old tire rims, a broken wood-burning stove, the rusted hood off some seventies-or eighties-model car, even an aluminum ladder, which I’m pretty sure was stolen.” Looking right at me, he says, “No one throws away a perfectly good aluminum ladder.”
Like I didn’t know that.
“When he finished, he went into his trailer, the light came on for about an hour, and then it was lights-out until just before seven A.M. We heard his alarm go off and within maybe three minutes he was going out the front door looking like he’d slept in his clothes and combed his hair with a greasy fork. He went into the travel trailer nearest to his single-wide and we heard some banging about and a lot of clatter before he came out again with a bowl of dog food for Tumor.” Troy shrugs. “I don’t know if that’s the dog’s real name, but that’s what he called him—twice, that I heard. I asked Alex and Jason and they heard the same thing. The guy’s not right in the head … but I guess we already know that.…” His voice trails off.
Clearing his throat, the detective continues.
“After Zell cleared out, we waited a few minutes and went down to try and make friends with the pooch. He was your typical doper-bad-guy dog at first, barking and yanking on his chain so hard I thought he was going to snap it off the tree.”
“Let me guess,” Jimmy says. “Pit bull?”
Bovencamp is gulping down more coffee but manages to shake his head at the same time. “Some kind of Heinz 57 mutt,” he says. “Probably part German shepherd, part rottweiler, and six parts something else. Jason had a leftover bologna sandwich in his pack—I swear he brings six or seven on every op—and he was able to calm Tumor down and make friends while Alex and I did a quick sneak-and-peek.
“The windows to Zell’s trailer were mostly curtained, but you could see through the cracks well enough to tell that there was no one else inside … unless he’s keeping her in the bathroom. The travel trailers were a different story. Newspaper was pasted to the inside of every window and we couldn’t see a thing. We gave the rest of the property a quick once-over, but without a warrant, there wasn’t much we could do about the travel trailers.”
Over the next half hour, Detective Bovencamp covers additional details from the op, mostly minutia that would prove irrelevant to the takedown of Arthur Zell, but in the early planning stages, everything is relevant. We still have one big problem: no probable cause. And without probable cause, we can’t get a warrant and we can’t arrest Zell.
I suddenly realize that I need to see him—in person. I need to see Zell’s shine, see if he glows brilliant amaranth with a rusty texture. I need to see the aura of a monster. Of course it’s him, I tell myself. It has to be him; he was in Ashley Sprague’s car. But I’ve learned through bitter experience that just when you’re sure of something, that’s when it gets turned on its head.
As the briefing winds down and Troy gathers his pictures and slides together, I know what needs to be done. “Sheriff,” I say, turning to Walt. “I need to get in there. I need to see it for myself.”
Walt sighs and pats me on the shoulder. “My deputies are tactical thinkers, Steps,” he replies, being kind with his choice of words. “I can promise you they didn’t miss a thing. They’re good at this.”
This is immediately followed by a few testy words from Jimmy. “The place is under surveillance, Steps; you can’t just stroll in there and have a look around.”
I’m not finished, and I won’t be put off. “Sad Face has some peculiarities with the way he walks,” I lie, giving Jimmy a scathing look. “They’re barely noticeable, but if I can just look at some of the prints around the trailer, I might be able to say for sure whether Zell is Sad Face or not. I know it’s not enough for a warrant, but at least we would know that we’re on the right track. After that, we can build a case and take him down.”
Walt seems intrigued by the idea. “There’s something to be said about being certain. I’d hate to waste time and resources on this guy and have it be some weird coincidence.”
“And we don’t want another Matt Swanson incident,” I add.
“No, we don’t,” the sheriff replies emphatically.
Jimmy’s not so enthusiastic.
CHAPTER THIRTY