Page 77 of What She Saw
They’d found a muddy backpack. It was black, battered, and covered with music festival concert patches. Taggart unzipped the pack and found a worn brown wallet inside. The owner’s name was Jim Richards.
He wasn’t familiar with the name, and neither was Paxton. But having the guy’s name and home address made life easier.
Two hours after finding the backpack, Taggart rolled up on a small house located in Keswick, fifty miles east of Dawson. The one-story brick rancher was painted white, and the garden beds were neat and mulched. Parked in the driveway was a Ford Escort and beside it a red pickup truck.
Out of his car, he settled his hat on his head and walked up to the front door. He stood to the left of the door and then knocked. He settled his hand on the grip of his weapon.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and the door opened without hesitation. The woman standing on the other side of a screened door appeared to be in her eighties. She was slender with stooped shoulders and a sharp gaze.
“I’m looking for Jim Richards.”
“That’s my grandson. Is he in trouble?”
“Not at all. His backpack and wallet were found, and I’m returning it.”
“I’ll take it.”
“I need to give it to him.”
“But I’m his grandmother.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I need to hand it to Jim.”
She drew in a breath. “He’s in the backyard. He’s fixing the lawn mower.”
He could walk around the back, but if Jim didn’t want to speak to him and Grandma alerted him, he’d be gone out the front door and in that truck before Taggart could catch up. “Call him to the front door.”
Grandma didn’t look happy, but she vanished into the house. Minutes later a tall, lean man appeared. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeve work shirt. Jim Richards’s DMV record stated he was thirty-one, weighed 160 pounds, and was an organ donor.
“Jim Richards?” Taggart asked.
“Yeah. You have my backpack?”
“I do.”
Jim rubbed his palms down his jeans. “Can I have it?”
“It’s in my car. Come with me, and I’ll give it to you.”
Grandma lurked close, but she didn’t speak.
“Yeah, sure.”
Taggart motioned for Richards to go first, and he followed, his hand still on his weapon. At his car, Taggart fumbled with his keys. “Do you know where I found it?”
“The music festival. I was wasted.”
“We found your backpack in the woods behind the latrines. It must have been a hundred feet into the woods.”
“I was trying to get away from the rain. Figured the thick tree cover would keep me dry.”
“It must have been pretty crowded back there.”
“It was. We were bumping into each other. It was hard to find a tree to lean on. We were all soaking wet.”
Taggart found a grin. “Sounds like it was a hell of a party.”
Jim relaxed. “It was. We all had a damn good time.”
