Tuesday
Bigfork
CLAIRE SIPPED STEAMING peppermint tea as she settled into the chair in front of the lobby computer. As always, the fragrant hot beverage calmed her. She began her online search for any new information she might find on the recent spate of Whitefish burglaries. Guy sat next to her on a comfortable, chocolate-hued leather chair reading the Flathead Beacon, a weekly print newspaper. He was on his second cup of strong black coffee. The sheriff was due within minutes to lead the way to Blake Helms’s flat.
“There’s a front-page story in the online Whitefish Pilot today setting forth the entire history of the ongoing Whitefish burglaries,” Claire said, “including the latest—where a couple was at home during the time of the invasion. It talks about the arrest of a suspect, a homeowner, and states the police had to release him based upon a lack of evidence.”
“That doesn’t sound good for the police department,” Guy said, looking up. “That last invasion is a new twist to the burglaries. Entering when the owners were at home makes this a whole lot more dangerous than before. What else does the article say?”
“Well, for the story, the reporter interviewed Iron Horse management, the homeowners victimized by the criminal, Detective Briggs, and several patrol officers working the case. Each gives his or her opinion of the ‘plague’ besetting Whitefish—that’s how the reporter refers to it—and the unsuccessful efforts of law enforcement to date to stamp it out. Apparently, the Whitefish Police Department is now calling for help from the community to identify the perpetrator.”
Claire continued, “Detective Curtis Briggs is quoted as saying, ‘The person committing this series of home burglaries has insider knowledge. We have no doubt about it. He knows when folks are away, and he knows when folks are at home. That said, this last time the owners surprised him by being asleep in their bed when he entered the property, as they had altered their travel schedule. And while the owners were not harmed, they remain highly traumatized. We believe the intruder is someone we may all be familiar with. He could be a neighbor, friend, coworker, home repairperson, or anyone else. He has in-depth knowledge of security systems and how they work, and we think he has a keen eye for art. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears open. The person committing these acts is clever—skilled at lockpicking and an ace at disarming home security systems. So far, he has eluded law enforcement in a masterful way; in some cases, narrowly escaping our clutches, but escaping them nonetheless. He wipes all fingerprints from surfaces he touches, or he wears gloves from the point of entry to the point of exit. He leaves no clues behind of his being at a property.’”
Guy listened intently as Claire read on. “He ended with a serious plea, ‘If you hear, see, or know anything that may be of help to us, please call our station or stop in and see us. We need the help of the community on this one. Help us solve these crimes!’”
Claire scanned the remainder of the article and then paraphrased it for Guy.
“The citizens of Whitefish are becoming increasingly irritable and full of anger. Their displeasure is growing day by day. They’re asking how long this criminal will be allowed to ravage their peaceful little area of the world without being stopped; they’re questioning why the police department cannot catch this culprit; and they want to know how the villain is always able to outsmart law enforcement.” Claire tapped her heel on the floor. “Reasonable questions certainly, but I’m thinking the tone of the article is egging on the citizens, instead of quieting them.”
Guy nodded. “The people have every right to be upset, but the war drums are beating. This situation could easily spiral out of control real soon.”
Claire continued relaying the article contents to Guy. “Listen to this. It sounds like a small group of picketers started to gather outside the Whitefish Police Department days ago, protesting about the thief causing such great havoc on their doorstep—a criminal threatening their peaceful existence and seemingly outwitting the police at every turn. Men, women, and even children joined the cause. Each day, the crowd is getting larger and more hostile. ‘Get the job done!’ people are yelling at the patrol officers and other members of the force as they pass the group to enter or exit the department building. ‘Do your damn job! Catch the good-for-nothing sonofabitch! Nab the sucker!’ Ire is mounting with each passing day, and the situation is rapidly escalating from rage to fury.”
“There’s no doubt about it,” Guy said. “The situation is snowballing. Soon it will be impossible to manage, if something doesn’t happen. The local police have egg on their collective faces for failing to bring the perpetrator in. Despite valiant efforts, the department looks inept and bungling. Wish we could help them.”
“Perhaps we can,” Claire said.
Whitefish Police Department
“WE LOOK like idiots!” Chief Soderberg hammered his force. “Freaking hillbilly idiots!”
The chief had called another urgent meeting, and his assistant chief, detective lieutenant, patrol lieutenant, patrol sergeant, detective, and patrol officers squirmed uncomfortably in their seats.
“This news coverage is causing me great embarrassment,” the chief said, “and I don’t like to feel great embarrassment.” The glare in his eyes left no doubt that fury possessed him. All officers swallowed hard, as if signaled to perform the muscular movement on cue. “We have one lousy criminal to corral. One,” he continued to bleat. “And there are several of us. Yet we cannot seem to find and arrest this one criminal.” He paused and looked from officer to officer. “We know the home intruder usually stores his booty on site after he pulls a job and then returns to retrieve it, but this last time, we found none of the stolen items near the property when we searched for them. So he’s outsmarted us again! I believe he intentionally altered his modus operandi, just in case we were close to catching him.” The chief wiped perspiration from his brow. “I want this bastard found! Set a trap, throw a lasso around his bloody neck, and drag him in. I don’t care how you do it, just do it!” He again looked from officer to officer and then stormed from the room.
The team members exchanged glances and raised their shoulders slightly and momentarily.
“How do we rope this guy?” a patrol officer asked. “Seems like he’s Teflon coated.”
“Well, we’d better figure out right quick how to nab him, if we want to keep our jobs. I’ve never seen the chief so dammed mad,” the patrol sergeant said.
The others nodded.
“Then let’s do it,” Detective Briggs said. “The burglar’s not smarter than we are, but I bet he’s laughing his ass off all the way to the bank. Let’s plan another stakeout after the next hit, and another, until we catch the contemptible weasel.”
“That will take too long,” Detective Lieutenant Herb Keller said. He shook his head. “We’re out of time. And I’m plum out of any other bright ideas.”
Blank faces stared at each other.
Clearly, strong feelings of exasperation and anger abounded both inside and outside of the police station.
Bigfork
CLAIRE FINISHED the article with great interest. She picked up her cell phone and dialed Chief Soderberg.
“We saw the article, chief. You’ve got a bad situation on your hands. Things just went from bad to worse. You can count your lucky stars the homeowners weren’t harmed during this last heist,” Claire said. “Did your men find a flattened patch outside the entered property, where the burglar temporarily stashed his loot?”
“For all the sites of his first burglaries, yes, but on the most recent burglary, he didn’t follow his pattern. It’s almost as if he were tipped off that we might be on to his mode of operation. We were hoping to take him this last time for sure, Ms. Caswell. Hoping he’d revert to his well-established regular sequence, but he fooled us. Toted off everything at the time of the invasion. And we were so optimistic …”
“Don’t give up yet, chief. The last incident may not have broken his pattern for good. Try looking for a flattened area close to the house again if there’s another burglary,” she said. “It’s possible he saw law enforcement milling around some of the properties and thinks you figured him out, so he’s changed his method … for a time. Be strong. Stay with it. As you know, thieves often return to a method that’s worked for them in the past.” As they finished their conversation, she said, “Keep us posted.”
The Whitefish police officials she and Guy had met with the past Saturday seemed both intelligent and competent. In fact, she had commented to Guy that she was highly impressed with them. So, what was the Whitefish Police Department missing on this case? How could this burglar continue to elude them? She thought for a moment. The burglar seemed to go unseen … to enter and exit any house of his choice on impulse, whenever he so desired, and then take whatever he wanted for his own purposes … almost as if he were invisible.
Claire continued to ponder the situation as she sipped the remainder of her tea. Then a word came to her as if a loud voice screamed it out. Camouflage! The capability of blending in with the surroundings. All at once, it seemed the only logical explanation. If the criminal was using some type of disguise technique to gain access to these high-end properties, then the police—and she and Guy, for that matter—could play the same game. One, two, or ten could employ trickery and subterfuge to manipulate the situation and change the odds. Perhaps the sleuths would be able to assist the Whitefish Police Department after all.
She picked up her cell phone and called Chief Soderberg back. “Chief, Gaston Lombard and I would like to meet with you again. How about Friday?” she said. “I have an idea.”
Guy looked carefully into Claire’s eyes. “What’s up? Care to explain your idea to me? That look of determination on your face is hard to miss. I’d recognize it anywhere. Now I’m curious.”
She smiled. “Feel like catching a thief? It’s going to take some thought and planning, but I think it can be done.”
Guy raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got my attention.”
“We need to be one step ahead,” she said. She filled him in on her thoughts.
Even as they discussed her plan to catch the Whitefish predator, Claire was convinced the thief was different from the criminal who had murdered Blake Helms. It had been her opinion from the start, despite the fact law officials thought otherwise. The crimes and the methods of operation were wholly different. One was repeatedly after items of value convertible to lots of cash; the other had targeted a specific person. She was sure of it. The Whitefish thief had never committed murder. The items stolen in the early-morning hours of Blake Helms’s murder were part of a ruse, done strategically to point the finger directly at the Whitefish burglar, to make it appear the motive was yet another burglary and the clerk merely got in the way. She was sure of it. Blake Helms had been shot at close range. He had looked his shooter in the eyes. Someone he knew had ambushed him.
IT WAS early, and Claire was energized to take a look around Blake Helms’s apartment.
Sheriff Bell walked in, right on time, and said, “Ready?”
The investigators left with him and followed behind in their vehicle to the flat that had been home to Blake Helms. Upon arrival, they saw three detectives from the major case team standing beside a patrol van, waiting for them. The property’s landlord was outside talking to the men. When Sheriff Bell and the sleuths approached, the landlord handed a key to the sheriff for the upper flat and explained that they needed to walk up the tall flight of stairs around back to access Blake’s dwelling—as the place he rented had a separate entrance.
“Only charged him four hundred dollars a month to live here,” the landlord said. “He was a quiet tenant. Ideal, really. Never gave me any problems. Paid his rent in full the first of every month. It’s a tragedy, it is.”
As Claire took each step upward, she pictured in her mind the number of times Blake had taken those very stairs. He had been a vigorous person until someone cut his life short. Who was his murderer? Who had the means? Who had a motive? Who had the opportunity? Blake must have known his assailant. It did not appear that he tried to run or phone for help, and no defensive wounds were found on his body. All instincts told the sleuth that Blake’s assailant was someone he knew and no doubt trusted. Someone he did not expect to attack him. Of course, the killer could have been a stranger who pretended to need lodging and then unexpectedly pulled a gun on the night clerk. But for some reason, Claire didn’t buy into that theory. There was no evidence whatsoever that Blake had been checking in a would-be guest at the time of his demise. No paperwork or room key had been sitting on the check-in desk, and the registry book had not been open.
When the group reached the platform at the top of the flight, the sheriff handed each of them a pair of latex gloves. Claire stretched them onto her hands and stepped inside. She was initially struck by the neatness and organization of the living space. The second thing she observed were the sheer number of hardcover books filling the six bookcases that lined the living room walls. The colorful works brightened the quarters and added a feeling of warmth to the setting.
Claire found the virtual library impressive. “We now know what Blake did in his spare time and with any spare money.”
All eyes riveted to the collection of books, and as they walked around the place, they saw additional titles stacked on the kitchen countertop, sitting on the shelves of the open dining room hutch, and placed on the side tables in the man’s bedroom.
Other than the plethora of hardback books, the apartment appeared unremarkable—tidy, sparsely furnished, and not particularly interesting or surprising.
Claire scanned the titles and authors of some of the books sitting on the living room shelves, and she noted that Blake appeared to enjoy both fiction and nonfiction books in a variety of genres. Then her eyes fell upon two full bookcases housing nothing but bound works on the history of Native American Indians in the western United States. Book after book, she observed titles concerning the Blackfoot or the Flathead tribes of Montana.
“Fascinating,” Claire said, mostly to herself. “The man must have been a walking encyclopedia when it came to the Native American tribes of this area.” Her thoughts reverted to the interview with Phil Kagan and how he had mentioned that Blake was an expert on the Blackfoot and Flathead Indians.
Guy looked up and for the first time took notice of the specific books that had cornered Claire’s attention.
“Looks like they’ve all been read many times over, doesn’t it?” he asked. As he talked, he pulled several from the case, one after the other, and opened each front cover. Handwritten notes, presumably penned by Blake himself, referenced page numbers and identified points of particular interest in each work.
“Read, or studied,” Claire said. “The man must have been an aficionado when it came to the subject.” She touched a few spines of the older books and paused as if taking in the history contained between their covers. She pulled a dark green one from the shelf, held it close to her nose, and inhaled. The aroma of the old tome filled her nostrils, and she could almost envision history in the making and hear the author reciting his words.
The detectives listened carefully to the Miami investigators and watched them in action.
“And just how does all this help us, Ms. Caswell and Mr. Lombard?” the sheriff asked.
“Not sure yet,” Claire said. “But you must admit, it’s all quite thought provoking. Tells us a lot about Blake Helms, really.”
“Perhaps somewhere among all of this lies a hidden clue,” Guy said.
The detectives opened and looked through cupboards, closets, and dresser and cabinet drawers, desperately searching for something that would point a finger in the direction of the murderer.
Claire walked to the kitchen phone and touched the button to retrieve messages. “No messages,” she grimaced loudly. She spotted a memo pad and pencil on the nearby counter. Holding the pencil in hand, she drew from side to side, back and forth, with a light to medium touch—over and over again in rapid succession on the top sheet. Unfortunately, no impressions showed from whatever may have been written on the sheet once above it. It was a trick that sometimes worked, but not today. Next she walked to the side table adjacent to Blake’s double bed and opened the single drawer. It contained two books, both on the subject of the Blackfoot Indian tribe. She looked around and spotted a laptop computer on a small desk in the corner of his bedroom.
“Mind if we take a look at his computer?” Claire asked.
“Go ahead,” the sheriff said.
“Guy, will you take a look? You’re good at this,” she asked. “See what you can find.”
“It’s my favorite thing to do,” he said. He sat down on an antique oak chair and pulled open the computer lid. Instantly, his eyes grew large as he examined the contents on the desktop. “There’s even more Native American information here. Scads of folders.”
Claire continued perusing the two books she found in the bedside table drawer. Both detailed the culture of the Blackfoot tribe, and both contained Blake’s typical handwritten notations tucked inside the front cover.
“Any objection to my taking these books with me?” Claire asked the sheriff. “I’d like to spend some time looking through them later.”
“No objection, Ms. Caswell,” he said. “Not sure what you think you’ll find, but go ahead. We’ll make a note that they’re in your possession.”
She smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
Claire walked back to the kitchen to take another look around. A pair of unwashed coffee mugs sat in the sink.
“Have your men bag these mugs as evidence, will you, sheriff?” she called out. “I’d like to see whose prints are on them. Looks like Blake may have had company recently.”
She opened his refrigerator. It contained only a few items: one carton of eggs with three remaining, a partial loaf of white bread, a quart of orange juice, and a partial bag of ground coffee. The victim lived a simple and spare lifestyle by choice, she deduced. His rent was nominal, and his salary at the lodge was more than sufficient—especially with the amount of overtime he put in on a regular basis—to live in a more comfortable manner, if he had chosen to do so. But obviously he had not.
A delightfully strong scent suddenly drew her attention to the bunch of purple-blue lilacs sitting in a wide-mouthed Mason jar on the kitchen table. Would Blake have purchased these flowers? Or cut them from a shrub? Claire pondered the idea. Or was this the touch of a woman? Leaning over, she inhaled the fragrant, slightly withered blossoms.
“Sheriff Bell, I think we should bag this Mason jar and check it for prints, too,” she said. She pointed to the container holding the arrangement. “Also, please make a note to obtain fingerprints and palm prints from Lois Whiting—LoLo—at the Woods Bay Grill, and collect her saliva sample, as well. I have a hunch about these flowers … and about the potential fingerprints you may find on the two mugs.”
“No problem, on both counts,” he said. He asked one of the detectives to accede to her requests, and he jotted a note to himself about Lois Whiting.
The team was coming up with nothing of interest, but continued searching.
Guy called Claire over to the computer.
“Look at this,” he said. “I didn’t know this much information even existed on Native American art, collectibles, and antiques. Blake must have been an expert in all of these areas. And what did he do with this knowledge? It had to be oozing from his being. Bursting at his seams. And to think he was a mere night desk clerk at the lodge, with no real outlet to discuss this with others. He could have taught his vast grasp of the subject to eager students. What a grand waste.”
“We don’t know that he didn’t discuss his knowledge with others,” Claire said.
“Pardon me?” Guy asked. “We know about only one person. Phil Kagan.”
“Let’s find out whom else he may have talked to,” she suggested. “Maybe that will explain the second mug I found in his sink.”
Claire checked Blake’s closet and satisfied herself that he was the only one living in the flat. Shirts, slacks, and jackets hung neatly on the pole, all in various shades of brown or black, and shoes were displayed in systematic order by color. She examined the bottom of each shoe and found no gravel matching that found at the crime scene. She opened the dresser drawers. Sweaters were also colorized and folded to the highest standards of neatness. All underwear was black and neatly stacked, and socks were orderly and sorted by lights and darks. Nothing seemed out of place.
“Has your team dusted the inside of the front door knob for prints?” she asked the sheriff. “No one has touched it since we got here, and we should check it out.”
“Already done, Ms. Caswell,” Sheriff Bell said. “First thing we did.”
Claire was extremely thorough in her search. Sheriff Bell appreciated her help and all, but he also didn’t want to be upstaged in front of his men. Claire sensed this to be the case.
“I was sure you had,” Claire said, blinking her eyes in unison. “Just wanted to make certain.” She smiled kindly.
As he inhaled the history that filled the computer’s gigabytes, Guy eyes remained glued to the screen.
Claire looked around again. She hoped they weren’t missing anything important. She walked to the bathroom, opened the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink, and peered inside. Nothing seemed unusual or out of the ordinary. But then she spotted a small container of perfume on the lowest shelf. She took a closer look. It was a woman’s perfume. It had a name she didn’t recognize, but when she pulled off the top to smell it, the odor was definitely sweet and flowery … like fresh lilacs.
On a whim, she raced to the bedroom and pulled down the duvet. She smelled the sheets on both sides. One side definitely smelled fragrant … like fresh lilacs. A woman had definitely been there … and recently. Who was it? LoLo? Piper? Another female they had interviewed? A stranger? The murderer? Someone who could shed light on who may have wanted Blake dead? They needed to identify the female as soon as possible and question her.
Claire dropped the perfume vial into a zipped evidence bag to preserve it for future fingerprinting, if warranted, then slipped it into her pocket. She had an idea. She returned to the group. Guy had closed the computer and was now filling in the others on his findings. She listened with interest to what Guy reported. After he finished, she told them of her findings and mentioned that she was keeping the perfume with her for the time being.
“Intriguing, Ms. Caswell,” the sheriff said. He eyed her with rapt curiosity, as did the others from the major case team. “Any idea just who this mysterious woman might be?”
“Not yet,” she said. “But I plan to find out.”
The detectives promised to lock up and return the key to the landlord, and the sheriff and investigators departed.
“Are you thinking this unidentified female might be our perp?” the sheriff asked the sleuths on the way down the stairs.
“Too early to tell,” Guy said. “But until we figure out who pulled the trigger, she’s definitely a suspect—an unidentified suspect.”
Claire sat quietly on the drive back to the lodge, deeply immersed in thought. She pulled the bag holding the perfume vial from her pocket, unzipped it, held it close to her nose, and inhaled its distinctive aroma.