I have traded up.
But still I’m . . . sad.
I find myself touching the image of Telly’s grim face. As if trying to find something that was probably never there.
Back to work. I tap my phone’s tiny little touch-screen keyboard. Search: Frank and Sandra Duvall, Bakersville, Oregon. Turns out, Sandra has a Facebook page, where she talks about Crock-Pot recipes, shares photos of an older boy wearing OSU orange, and recommends DIY craft projects.
Is she a good foster mom? I wonder. She certainly seems proud of her oldest son. And her husband, Frank? Did they volunteer for Telly? Did they have any idea what they were getting into?
I find one last photo, recently posted. A big guy wearing head-to-toe army camo, a smaller teen similarly clad to his right. I recognize Telly immediately. Both are holding rifles, a dead animal at their feet. “What the boys did today,” the post reads. My brother, the hunter.
Once again, I’m confused. Did Telly have fun that day? Quality time bonding with the foster dad? Happy to be outdoors, experiencing the thrill of the hunt? Or was he thinking the whole thing would’ve been easier if they’d given him a baseball bat?
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.
I would like to know how to shoot. I asked Quincy to teach me. He wanted to know why. Self-defense, I explained. You know, just in case.
You have Luka, he told me. You don’t need anything else.
There are guns in the house, I tried again. I should at least know basic safety.
He smiled, and I thought I had him. But he’s still never taken me. Later, he says, though I don’t know what either of us is waiting for.
Now I study this online image and wonder about my brother. Did he like the Duvalls? Had he been with them a while, thought of them as family? Or had he bounced around the system, an older boy already with a reputation for violence?
He fed me Cheerios, I think.
He broke my arm.
He saved my life.
And he’s never spoken to me since. Was that my decision, his decision? I don’t remember. I was just a little girl, and that night was so overwhelming. I cried, I screamed, I remember that. Did I yell at him? Call him a monster and tell him I never wanted to see him again?
Or did he blame me? Did he look down at his baby sister, sobbing pathetically at his feet, and think it was all my fault? If I’d been quieter, better, my father never would’ve snapped, and Telly wouldn’t have had to kill our parents.
I’m ashamed now. Or maybe I’ve been ashamed all along, and this is just the first time I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it.
My parents are dead. My older brother killed them.
And I left. Never looked back. Got myself a new family in a better house with a great dog. And forgot all about them.
Final search. I look up the EZ Gas, scene of my brother’s last known crime. Then I request directions from my current location to there. Twelve miles to the west, the map tells me. Twenty-five minutes by car, a lot longer on foot.
Close, but not too close.
Which is exactly how we’ve been living for the past eight years.
I sit back on the sofa, contemplating. I feel like I should do something, but I don’t know what.
The past is a luxury foster kids don’t have. We’re too busy living in the moment. Whatever thoughts I’ve had about my parents, I don’t think them. Whatever emotions I’ve had about what my brother did, I don’t feel them.
Now I wonder if Telly did the same, right up till this morning, when he climbed out of bed, loaded the first gun, and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 11
WHAT DO YOU MEAN you can’t find any trace of the missing firearms?”
“Sorry, Sheriff. But we’ve searched every square inch between Frank Duvall’s truck and the EZ Gas. There’s no cache of weapons.”
Shelly scowled, pushed her wide-brim hat up on her sweaty forehead, and just resisted the urge to scratch her itchy hairline. Or, for that matter, the rope of scar tissue snaking up her neck. Damn heat.
She exhaled, stared at her lead homicide sergeant, exhaled again. “Roy, we need to know everything about this boy. Every pimple, every wart, and sure as hell every single firearm he might be carrying. Those are our people out there.”
“I know.”
“If the boy is on foot, no way he’s walking around with six firearms and dozens of boxes of ammo. It would be too heavy.”
“I know.”
“Which means either he stashed some of the weapons somewhere or”—she hesitated—“he has an accomplice.”
“Or stole another ride.”
Shelly sighed heavily. Any of those could be true. Which was why they needed to stop with the theories and start with some answers.
“No calls to the hotline? No hits on the BOLO?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Where is he, Roy? What the hell is this boy doing, and why can’t we find one seventeen-year-old kid?”
Roy didn’t answer. Shelly gave in, rubbed her neck. She was standing in the mobile command unit, which came with a generator capable of powering the air-conditioning. For now, however, Shelly was more concerned about juice for the array of computers, monitors, and satellite devices. Physical comfort would have to wait.
Shelly was worried. And not just about finding some juvenile delinquent already wanted for shooting four people. She was worried about her search teams. She had three of them, deployed to the woods behind the EZ Gas. Each walking around without any decent intel on the target they were seeking.
“Let’s walk through it,” Shelly said, reaching in front of Roy to pull up a map of Bakersville on the closest computer.
Roy nodded. He didn’t sit. The only chairs available in the narrow space were stick models tucked in at the various workstations. Meaning the sitter was taking up position in front of computers that were throwing off even more heat. Both he and Shelly remained standing as she bent down, zoomed in on the satellite map until they were staring at the immediate area around the Duvalls’ home.
“Kid started the day here.”
Roy nodded. “TOD on the parents is around six A.M.”
“Meaning first thing this morning, Telly Ray Nash shot the Duvalls, stole the weapons. Then loaded up food, water, supplies?”
“Unknown.”
Shelly scowled. Roy shrugged. “Kitchen wasn’t ransacked, nothing obviously disturbed. Crime scene techs found Frank Duvall’s wallet intact on his nightstand; same with Sandra Duvall’s purse and jewelry box. There’s evidence of dinner last night but no indication anyone ate breakfast this morning. Given there aren’t any witnesses to Telly’s actions at the Duvalls’ house and no supplies left behind in the truck, we don’t know what happened between the shooting of the Duvalls at six and Telly walking into the EZ Gas shortly before eight.”
Shelly remained disgruntled. But then she frowned. “EZ Gas wasn’t ransacked either.”
Roy didn’t say anything.
“Kind of interesting,” she continued. “For a teenager who’s running around on a rampage, he’s being awfully tidy about it.”
Again the silence. Maybe there was nothing to say to that.
Shelly returned to the computer screen. “Telly leaves the Duvalls’ and heads . . .”
Based upon the map, there were several roads around the Duvalls’ house. Most were dead ends, purely residential roads. Two led back to the main artery, heading into downtown Bakersville, then Highway 101, which ran along the Oregon coast.
“He heads north,” Shelly muttered, her gaze following 101 through Bakersville, past the cheese factory, until, eventually, she came to the EZ Gas. “Roughly twenty-minute drive, though he had to walk the last bit, given the truck broke down. Still, that leaves a solid chunk of time unaccounted for. Cell phone?” she asked Roy.
br /> “Family had four phones on a family plan. We recovered the Duvalls’ phones from the bedroom and a third in the glove compartment of Telly’s truck. Fourth appears to be with the older son, away at college.”
“So Telly initially took a phone but left it behind in his father’s truck? Why? What self-respecting teenager leaves behind his cell phone?”
“The kind who doesn’t want to be tracked. He’d already killed his foster parents. If Telly’s watched any cop show on TV, he knows we can use the GPS on his phone to find him.”
“Then why take the phone at all?”
Roy shrugged. “Maybe he grabbed it out of habit, then later, while driving around, realized the phone could be used to find him. I don’t know. I’m not exactly a teenager.”
Shelly considered the matter. “Or he got himself a prepaid phone, another means of communication. Then he didn’t need his personal phone anymore.” She tapped the map they’d pulled up. “He would’ve driven right by the Walmart. We should see if he stopped in, made any purchases.”
“I’ll send an officer. Right now, Dan Mitchell is running down the names and contact info we pulled from Telly’s phone. So far, we got his PO, the school office, and his foster parents. But no classmates or obvious friends or associates. Most of the boy’s texts seem to be purely logistical stuff, asking his PO what time to meet, telling his parents he’s running late for dinner, that kind of thing. Not exactly a kid with a robust social life, at least according to his phone.”
“What about Erin Hill, the cashier from the EZ Gas?”
“Not in his contacts. But like I said, not many people are.”
“Telly’s a loner,” Shelly stated. It would fit the model of many mass shooters.
Roy hesitated.
“What?”
“Mitchell did find one thing interesting on Telly’s phone. Some photos, taken recently. Not great quality. Looks to him as if the shots were taken from a distance, zoomed in. The images are of a teenage girl. Maybe thirteen.” Roy glanced over at Shelly. “Mitchell sent me the copies. I’ve only met her once, but I think . . . I’m pretty sure the pictures are of Rainie and Quincy’s foster daughter, Sharlah.”
Shelly paused, straightened. She had to think about this, because already, her gut instinct was this was very, very bad news.
“Sharlah is also Telly’s younger sister,” Shelly murmured out loud. She’d known something was up the second she’d mentioned Telly Ray Nash’s name and watched Quincy’s expression freeze. What he’d had to say about their suspect’s past, not to mention his own family’s connection, had been disquieting. “According to Quincy, Telly Ray Nash killed his parents eight years ago in self-defense—basically saved his and Sharlah’s lives. Afterward, the two kids were separated. Sharlah ended up with Quincy and Rainie. Telly found his way to the Duvalls. Quincy swears Sharlah hasn’t had any contact with her brother since. Rainie and Quincy haven’t ever met Telly, didn’t even know he was still living in the area. Which seems to corroborate that Sharlah and her older brother are estranged.”
“Gets a little more complicated,” Roy said. “Not sure what this means, but the photo stream on the phone had been cleared. As in, the only images on Telly’s cell phone are the pictures of Sharlah.”
Shelly got his point. “That seems rather intentional. When were the photos taken again?”
“Five days ago.”
“Browser history? Any sign he was looking up information on Sharlah? Or Quincy or Rainie?”
“Phone’s browser had also been cleared.”
Shelly stared at her sergeant. She was back to her gut instinct—this was all very bad news. And yet, she still wasn’t sure what it meant. “What about the family computer? Anything useful there?”
“The Duvalls had a single desktop, shared by everyone. Initial glance showed the browser history had been recently cleared on it as well. I sent it to state for processing. If something useful was deleted off the family computer, their experts will find it, but it’s gonna take some time.”
“All right. So Telly grabs his phone when leaving the Duvalls’ house. But then he turns around and leaves it behind. Browser cleared, text messages and contact list virtually empty, and the camera containing only images of a sister he supposedly hasn’t seen in years.” Shelly shook her head. “That sounds less and less like a kid forgetting his phone, and more like a suspect sending a message.”
She glanced at the map on the computer screen again. Telly Ray Nash’s last known location was more than ten miles west of Quincy’s house. If the boy was on foot, there was no need for immediate concern. And yet . . .
“Okay,” she said softly, more to herself than Roy. “One last time, what do we know here? Telly Ray Nash shot his parents. Telly Ray Nash raided the gun safe. Then he headed north on Highway One-Oh-One until his truck overheated. At which point, he pulled on a heavy black sweatshirt even though it’s already hotter than hell out. He selected a nine millimeter out of a collection of six firearms. And he walked north until he came to the EZ Gas. Where he shot and killed two more people, seemingly at random.”
Roy nodded.
“You’ve searched the area all around the truck,” Shelly tried again. “How thoroughly did you inspect the truck itself? Maybe Telly stashed the remaining firearms beneath the seat, or tucked up in the undercarriage?”
“Removed door panels, shredded the upholstery, pried at the undercarriage. Trust me, no guns. Also scoured a one-mile area around the vehicle. Whatever Telly did with Frank Duvall’s guns . . . they’re not around the truck.”
“Which brings us back to our earlier theories. Maybe Telly met up with someone, gave the extra firearms to an accomplice. Even sold them for cash.”
“If so, he was smart enough to use a second phone to make the arrangements.”
Shelly scowled. “We’re missing something. Too many assumptions, not enough facts. Cameras. That’s what we need. Traffic cams, video feeds, anything that might help pinpoint Telly’s movements between the Duvalls’ house and the EZ Gas.”
“Not a lot of cameras around this part of the highway,” Roy said, but he was already bending over the monitor, studying their options. “Downtown Bakersville, however . . . Here, intersection of Third and Main. Pretty sure there’s a traffic cam.”
“Next block over.” Shelly tapped the screen. “First Union Bank. ATM faces the street. That camera might have caught something.”
“All right. I’ll get on it.”
“Put together a timeline,” Shelly said. “Everything Telly Ray Nash did this morning. From what time he got up to what he ate to who he spoke to. Then exactly what happened in the minutes after he shot his parents and before he arrived at the EZ Gas.”
Roy nodded.
“After that, full background. Every foster family the kid ever stayed with, every person he ever said hello to, every classmate he bumped shoulders with in the school hall. We need to learn everything there is to know about Telly Ray Nash, and then some.”
Roy nodded.
“You said one of the numbers on Telly’s phone was his probation officer, Aly Sanchez?”
“Yeah. She’s the one who gave us the information on the Duvalls.”
“Okay. I’ll follow up with her. See if she can shed any light on the kid’s state of mind. In particular, does she know if he’d had any contact with his sister or was thinking of contacting his sister, that sort of thing.”
“Should we assign an officer to watch Sharlah?”
“Let me talk to Quincy and Rainie first. Good news is, Sharlah has a built-in security team of sorts. And then there’s her dog.” Shelly shook her head, still trying to make sense of what they knew. “Two shootings. One close to home. One seemingly random. And a cell phone with photos of a younger sister the suspect allegedly hasn’t seen in years.”
Shelly scrubbed at the roped scar tissue
on her neck. “Kid’s gonna resurface. Needing supplies, wanting revenge, hell if I know. But one way or another, we’re going to see Telly Ray Nash again. Only question is, what’ll it cost us?”
Chapter 12
CAL NOONAN HAD FOUND a drainage ditch. Snaking along the road, partially obscured by a thick bramble of blackberry bushes, it was just deep enough to keep a lone occupant mostly hidden from sight. Right now, he and his team were working it northbound, moving from sign to sign—a heel imprint in exposed mud here, a broken spiderweb there, crushed grass everywhere.
Someone had definitely traversed the narrow ditch in the past twenty-four hours. But the question remained: Was it their suspect?
Tracking in the movies generally involved some half-wild, silent loner, gliding effortlessly across a trail invisible to all others and issuing such outlandish statements as “Based on the taste of the wind, the target crossed here, thirteen minutes ago, dressed in flannel and eating a Snickers bar.”
Real life, nothing at all like that. Cal had a sign. The sign made him happy. Foot imprints, broken twigs, crushed ferns all told Cal something had definitely passed this way. But that didn’t mean his shooting suspect had done it. For all Cal and his team knew, they were currently tracking a thirty-year-old former Vegas dancer who’d walked up the drainage ditch yesterday after visiting the EZ Gas for a pack of gum.
Evidence was what Cal wanted to see now. A shred of black fabric caught in the bramble from a torn black hoodie. A discarded water bottle with a SKU number the detectives could trace back to a batch delivered to the EZ Gas. Hell, brass would be nice. A kid running around with a nine millimeter and a pocket full of ammo, least he could do is drop a slug or two.
Instead, at the beginning of the gully, where it met with the parking lot of the EZ Gas, Cal had found a partial heel print in the softer mud. Size looked about right for a male, but no tread pattern. A casting would be made for future reference. For now, Cal’s job remained to identify their target’s trail.
He figured he was half right: He had a trail.