Page 11 of Shadow Sabotage
“Sheriff McGrath,” he said, introducing himself, pumping my hand. “Appreciate you coming out, Agent Weston.”
“Of course.”
His eyes went to Deputy Hawkins, who had seen him and was walking toward us. He glanced at the vehicles crammed into the site. “Is Sergeant Collins manning the site?”
Deputy Hawkins nodded. “Yes. He just took over.”
“Good deal,” Sheriff McGrath said. “Have you met Agent Weston yet?”
I answered for her. “Yes, we met down at the crime scene.”
Deputy Hawkins gave us a tight smile.
“Great.” Sheriff McGrath took a deep breath, staring off at the tree line in an awkward moment of silence before remembering himself. “Claire, go home and get some sleep.”
Her head jerked back. “What? I’m already here. I can help process the scene.”
Sheriff McGrath shook his head. “No,” he said, his tone firm. “You’ve done enough. We’ve got this covered.”
“But—”
“That’s an order,” he said, cutting her off. He called out to her friends. “Rhett, Cheyenne—make sure she gets some sleep, okay?”
The man nodded, his arms crossed, while Cheyenne gave the sheriff a salute.
Sheriff McGrath turned back to Deputy Hawkins. “Be at the office tomorrow at eight.”
She clamped her lips and gave a little nod, then turned on her heel and joined her friends. She refused to even look at us when Sheriff McGrath and I grabbed my gear and headed down the trail together.
The next morning,I stepped out of my car and surveyed Wildwood’s Main Street, my first real look at the town in daylight. You could tell a lot about a place by scoping out the area. This looked like your typical tourist town—minus the tourists.
Main Street was set up like other cowboy towns I’d seen, with false front shop buildings and a western vibe that you’d think had been plucked straight out of a theme park. There were hitching posts out front, and one of them actually had a live horse hitched to it. Either a nice touch for visitors or a holdover from days gone by. The business names promised all your typical touristy fare—a bar with saloon doors, an old-fashioned “trading post” where suckers probably bought overpriced groceries, and a hipster-meets-western coffee shop that likely served eight-dollar cups of coffee. Down the street, I spotted a gallery advertising local art, stores hawking cowboy boots and hats, and a place claiming to sell authentic Native-made goods.
It was like a dozen other towns I’d seen in Wyoming, except that the streets were nearly empty, missing the hordes of tourists that flocked to places like Jackson Hole. And there was something else that felt different. I leaned against my car, crossing my arms as I thought it over.
Authenticity.
Strange word to give a town like this, but I had to admit, the street gave off vibes that felt different than some of the other places I’d been.
We’d just have to see.
I strolled over to the sidewalk, heading toward the county courthouse that also housed the jail and the Sage County Sheriff’s Office. I’d deliberately parked a few blocks away, wanting to get my lay of the land before I headed in. As I walked, I studied the buildings that lined the street, casting quick glances in the windows and getting my first look at the citizens of Wildwood. Wondering if one of them knew what had happened to my victim.
It would take time to get an official identification, but my gut said the bones we’d painstakingly removed from their resting place belonged to Katelyn Brown. It all fit, including the charm bracelet. Once I’d seen the photographs of it, I had to agree with Deputy Hawkins’ assessment: itwasidentical to the one worn by Katelyn.
But Wildwood was a long way from Laramie. If the remains turned out to be her, my first step would be to start looking for someone here who had a connection to her. That was the ideal scenario.
There was always the chance that the location was random—that she’d either come here or been brought here because it was small and remote. If there wasn’t a connection between Wildwood and her or her killer, it would make the case significantly harder. Difficult, but not impossible to solve.
After all, I’d done it before.
But with any luck, there would be some connection here, something to tug at until the pieces fell into place and I had figured out what happened.
Despite being the easier option, it presented a different set of difficulties. In small towns, when the victim was an outsider and the killer was local, people sometimes protected their own—no matter how horrific the crime.
When I reached the entrance to the Sage County Sheriff’s Office, I pulled off my sunglasses and stuck them into the pocketof my jacket, then headed into the building. A woman with frizzy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail was manning the front desk.
“Can I help you?” she asked, looking over the rims of her gold-framed glasses. Her smile was friendly but guarded.
