At the age of thirteen, when his best friend was interrogated by the police for over eight hours and confessed to a crime he didn’t commit, Victor Methos knew he would one day become a lawyer.
After graduating from law school at the University of Utah, Methos sharpened his teeth as a prosecutor before founding what would become one of the most successful criminal defense firms in Utah.
In ten years Methos conducted more than one hundred trials. One particular case stuck with him, and it eventually became the basis for his first major bestseller, The Neon Lawyer. Since that time, Methos has focused his work on legal thrillers and mysteries, earning a Harper Lee Prize for The Hallows and an Edgar nomination for Best Novel for his title A Gambler’s Jury. He currently resides in Southern Utah.
He looked like a scarecrow drenched in rain.
The man was cast in shadow from the headlights of Ryan Hooper’s Jeep. Rain drizzled through thin gaps in the windows where the roof didn’t attach properly. Ryan felt the droplets hit his face as he watched the man move into the middle of the road and wave both arms.
He slowed the Jeep. Off to the side was a white Toyota with its emergency lights blinking into darkness. Beyond, rain pummeled the barren sands of the Utah desert.
The man wasn’t wearing a jacket. He ran to the driver’s side.
He was older than Ryan, maybe in his midforties, with a thin face that looked like a skull. He wiped at his brow with the back of his arm.
“Ran outta gas,” the man said. “Mind giving me a lift?”
Ryan checked the clock on his dash. “I gotta be in Vegas soon. My wife’s due date is tomorrow and she’ll lose it if I’m not there.”
The man tried to block the rain from his eyes by holding his hand up. “My motel’s on the way. Up the road about thirty miles. My wife’s waiting for me there.”
Ryan hesitated. The man flinched as rain pelted his eyes.
“I just need a ride, friend.”
Thunder crackled in the inky-black sky above them.
“Okay, hop in.”
The man ran to the trunk of his car, took out a small duffel bag, and ran back. He opened the door, tossed the bag into the back seat, and climbed in. Ryan began to drive. He glanced at the man and saw water droplets dribbling down his nose. The man slid fingers through his wet hair and sighed with relief.
“I’m Ryan.”
“Jim.”
The darkness outside was accentuated by the looming canyons beyond. The road was two lanes of blacktop with white lines; besides that, Ryan couldn’t see much, just amber and red taillights in the rearview on the rare occasion a car raced past him on the opposite side of the road.
He’d never taken this road before, and the drive was long, but the interview he’d had yesterday at a hospital in Provo, Utah, was worth the trip. The job would be fewer hours than he worked now. Nurses could be worked to the bone in big cities like Las Vegas, but small towns were more laid-back. With a son on the way, he wanted as much free time as possible to spend with his boy. His own father had left when he was ten, and he swore he would do better.
“Your Jeep’s leaking,” Jim said.
“Yeah, I screwed up putting on the roof once, and it’s never been the same.”
He glanced at Jim again. It was too dark to see many features, but he was unusually thin with closely cropped hair.
“No coat?” Ryan asked.
Silence.
Without a response, Ryan felt the awkwardness of two strangers forced together with nothing to talk about. Awkward situations made him anxious, and when he was anxious, he talked too much.
“Not the best place to run outta gas, huh? Literally the middle of nowhere.”
No response.
The vast, empty landscape and a silent passenger made him feel claustrophobic. He wished it weren’t raining so he could open a window.
Jim stared forward as the sound of rain intensified from a gust of wind. Then the sound subsided to droplets hitting the roof and the slush of tires through puddles.
“Where you coming from?” Ryan asked.
“Nowhere.”
“Oh,” he said with a nod of his head. Fear tickled his belly. Suddenly, all he wanted was to get this man out of his car. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”
To his relief, a sign flew past them that said:
GAS AND FOOD
NEXT EXIT
Jim was staring straight ahead, and if he had seen the sign, he didn’t react.
“How ’bout some music?” Ryan said. He picked up his phone, and Jim’s hand went around his wrist. The fingers felt bony.
“I like the sound of the rain,” Jim said.
“Okay, not a music fan. That’s fine.” Ryan cleared his throat and pulled his hand away, relieved when he felt Jim let go.
Ryan glanced at the road and then back to Jim’s face. He could see his eyes in the headlights of a passing car. They were black and steely. After a few moments of silence, Ryan realized Jim wouldn’t talk unless he spoke first. Talking, at least, made the awkwardness slightly more bearable.
“Could you not get reception?” Ryan said.
“Reception?”
“Yeah. On your phone. Is that why you asked for a ride instead of calling someone?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“You don’t have a phone?”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes on the road. “I don’t have anyone to call.”
“I thought you said you had a wife?”
Jim looked at him, and a grin slowly came to his face. “Except her.”
The road narrowed to one lane on each side, and Ryan felt the desert closing in on him.
“That wasn’t your car, was it?” Ryan said without taking his eyes off the road.
“No,” he said flatly, “but I don’t think the owner’s gonna miss it.”
“Why won’t they miss it?”
“Because I cut her hands off and buried her in the desert while she was alive … and I’m gonna do the same thing to you.”
Nick Collins sat at a table in the district court’s attorney/client conference room in downtown Las Vegas. Since graduating from law school a few years ago, he had been coming here one morning a week to donate his time to victims of domestic violence who couldn’t afford attorneys.
The young woman across the table had a black eye that spread down her cheek. Her hair was pulled back, and her nails had been chewed down.
“I’ll file it right now,” he said. “I just need your signature here.” He slid a document and a pen toward her, and she signed. “And here,” he said, flipping a page over. When that was signed, he said, “There’s a seventy-five-dollar filing fee.”
“Oh,” she said, averting her eyes. “I, um, I don’t have any money. I didn’t take anything when I left. Just some clothes.”
Nick could feel her embarrassment.
“You know what, don’t worry about the fee. We’ll get it taken care of.”
“How?”
“I can pull some strings.”
She gave a shy grin. “Thank you.”
“It’s okay. You’ll get some documents at the shelter with the hearing date. Make sure you don’t miss it.”
“I won’t.”
The woman just looked at the floor as she left. Nick stretched his neck from side to side and then gathered his things. He took his suit coat off the back of the chair and went out into the hallway. The clerk’s desk was on the way out.
“What can I do for you?” the clerk said.
“Got a divorce petition to file.”
“All righty.”
She stamped the file and punched some buttons on the computer. “Just need your Bar ID and the seventy-five-dollar filing fee.”
He took out his wallet. His credit card was maxed, but he had a hundred bucks he’d been saving for a new pair of running shoes. He hesitated a second but handed her the hundred.
She gave him a sideways glance. “You shouldn’t feel like you need to pay their filing fees, you know. Everybody’s got a sob story to sell.”
“I don’t think her eye was just a story she was selling.”
Nick got his receipt and stopped at the vending machine on the way out of the courthouse.
He waited at the rail station near the court for the train. Though he had an old Kia, he hated driving and avoided it as much as possible. Instead, he preferred to read old science fiction novels on the train.
*
The law office of Anthony J. Angelo was behind a Burger King in a gray brick building off the Strip. A billboard in the Burger King parking lot had a picture of him with the words, INJURED? WANT CASH FAST? CALL FAST CASH TONY across it in bold lettering. The nickname arose after he ran a TV commercial proclaiming himself able to get cash faster from insurance companies than any other attorney in the state. A claim no one had bothered to verify.
It was the first legal job out of law school Nick could get, mostly because the pay was so low no one else wanted it, but he liked the slow pace of suing insurance companies, and as a small-time personal injury lawyer, he could come and go as he pleased. Freedom, he’d decided, was more important to him than money.
Another attorney, Stephanie Brown, someone Nick had gone to high school with, worked in the first office near the entrance, and Nick saw her behind her glass desk. Though they had gone to different law schools, they had graduated the same year, and he felt she, unlike him, could get a job at any firm or clerk for any judge she wanted, but she chose to work here with Tony. Nick had asked her about it once, and all she said was, “The grass is always greener.”
Today, she wore a thin green cropped sweatshirt, revealing the navel piercing on her flat, milk-white stomach, with black pants and white sneakers. Her hair was pulled back—except for a few strands that fell over her green eyes.
He hoped his voice wouldn’t crack like a teenager’s when he said, “Hey, Steph.”
She gave him a grin and said, “Hey, you. How was your pro bono?”
“One divorce petition and two stalking injunctions.”
“That’s a lotta work for free.”
He shrugged. “What can you do?”
“Not take them.”
A voice down the hall said, “Nick, is that you? Come ’ere, I want you to meet somebody.”
“Duty calls,” Nick said.
“Good luck.”
He went down the hall to Tony’s office. Sports memorabilia hung on the walls, along with his score on the law school entrance exam, the LSAT, which proclaimed he got a perfect score. Nick was almost certain the document was altered.
Seated across from Tony was an enormous man who overflowed from the chair. He was tall and wide, and his shirt pulled up tight over his prodigious belly. Tony sat behind his oak desk with his cowboy boots up, the rhinestones shimmering.
“Nick, this is Mr. Hank Crawford. He’s a new client you’re going to be working with.”
Nick held out his hand, and they shook. “Nice to meet you.”
Tony said, “You know that all-you-can-eat place on State Street? The Bottomless Plate? Well, Mr. Crawford was put through a traumatizing experience there. Halfway into his meal, they escorted him out.”
“For what?”
“Saying he ate too much. Humiliated him in front of the entire restaurant.”
“Oh.”
“And I’m sure it’s happened to a lot of people. So I want you to put out an ad in the papers and radio. Tell them the Law Office of Anthony J. Angelo is looking for claimants for a class-action suit against those harmed by the unfair practices of the Bottomless Plate and its owners and subsidiaries.” He looked at Crawford. “Hank, it takes courage to be the first one to step forward. You’re an American hero for doing this.”
Crawford held his head a little higher with a slight nod.
“We’ll stay in touch,” Tony said, holding out his hand. They shook and Crawford left with a nod toward Nick.
When Crawford was out of earshot, Nick said, “Um, I’m pretty sure they can do that, Tony.”
“Yeah, maybe. Who cares?”
“That’s a frivolous lawsuit. I can’t file that.”
Tony wiped a tiny speck of dirt off his boot. “That restaurant pays for insurance to cover things like this. If we don’t sue, that money stays with the insurance company as profit so their executives can buy another beach house for their mistresses. So you ask yourself, where’s that money better spent? With working folks like us busting our asses or the bloodsuckers screwing the little man in their Bentleys and private jets?”
“Well, I guess if you put it that way … maybe a suit for fraudulent advertising?”
“There’s that brain I hired. But I want you to hold off for a bit. I got something else for you.” He took a thumb drive off the desk and tossed it to him. Nick missed and dropped it.
“You didn’t play sports, did you?” Tony said.
“No. I was in chess club.”
“I can tell. Anyway, the case is in Bailey, Utah. I filed a motion to pro hac you in so you can appear there. Trial starts in two weeks.”
“Trial for what?”
“Murder.”
“What!” he said, almost laughing. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t kid about things like this, son. The defendant is Ryan Hooper. You know who that is?”
“No.”
“He’s my banshee of an ex-wife’s little brother. But family’s family. She said the public defender down there is two hundred years old and kept falling asleep at the hearings. She’s scared Ryan’s gonna be locked up for life. He claims he didn’t do it, but the victim’s hands were found in a duffel bag in his Jeep, along with traces of cyanide in there. He isn’t a bad kid. I always liked him. Go down and see what you can do for him.”
“I’m not a criminal lawyer, Tony.”
“It’s all the same. Trying to get disability from the government, suing an insurance company, murder … it’s all elements, and you gotta point out the weakest one to the jury. You’re smart. You’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think I can do it, man.”
Tony inhaled and watched him. “Well, I was gonna send Stephanie down, too. She’s had some criminal experience at the public defender’s office. Maybe I can just have her handle it.”
“Oh, she’s going?” Nick asked as casually as possible.
Tony grinned. “Yeah, she’s going.”
“Then why do you need two of us?”
He switched his feet around. “Lemme ask you something. Little quiz. You got a bat and a baseball that cost one dollar, ten cents total, and the bat costs one dollar more than the ball. How much does the ball cost?”
Nick thought for a moment.
“Five cents.”
“Why?”
“Because one dollar more means the bat costs $1.05, and the ball has to cost five cents.”
“Right. But do you know almost everyone gets that wrong? Know why?”
“No.”
“Because we’re not as smart as we think we are. We’re not meant for cities and complex laws and smartphones. We’re meant to live out on the plains hunting mammoths. So the brain gets easily confused, and we rely on gut instinct without knowing it. Our gut instinct tells us the answer is ten cents. Just like our gut instinct tells us two lawyers are better than one. The jurors think this guy must really be innocent if he’s got two lawyers sitting there. So, I’d never order you what to do like those rich bloodsuckers at the big firms downtown, but I would really, really appreciate it if you took this case with Stephanie.”
Nick stared at the thumb drive in his hand and considered his options. He could turn it down, and what he had waiting for him was preparing a lawsuit against a buffet, or he could spend a week with Stephanie …
“Yeah,” he said, hesitation still in his voice. “I guess I can go.”
Two weeks later, they took Stephanie’s Honda down because Nick wasn’t sure his car could make the five-hundred-mile drive. The driver’s side window was down, and the wind whipped Stephanie’s hair as she hummed along to a song.
“So why couldn’t we continue this to prepare more?” Nick said.
“The public defender continued it like eight times. Tony filed a motion to continue and the judge denied it, saying the case has been pending too long.”
“Seems unfair to make us go forward without adequate time to prepare.”
“Life’s not fair. So why should the law be?”
He looked at her, and she laughed at his expression.
“We’ll be fine. You need to relax and have more fun with this job, Nick. We’re not suits in an assembly line. We’re out on the road fighting the system like revolutionaries or something. Granted, really low-paid revolutionaries. But that’s criminal law. It’s not like those fake-ass slip-and-fall cases you do all day for the paycheck.”
“Speaking of paycheck, know what I can’t believe? That Tony’s not getting paid for a murder case. Especially for his ex-wife.”
She chuckled. “Oh, he’s getting paid.”
“He said it was pro bono.”
“It’s not pro bono. It’s alimony. His ex came to him to defend her brother, and he said he would do it if she ended his alimony payments. She finally agreed when she saw the public defender wasn’t doing anything. Tony doesn’t take a piss unless he gets paid.”
Bailey, Utah, was in Pyute County, which to Nick looked like little more than deserts and red rocks. One little town in the center of an environment that could be mistaken for Mars.
They got off the highway, and Nick noticed the town had only one exit.
“One-exit town,” Nick said.
“What?”
“I grew up in a small town in Idaho before I moved to Vegas. My grandma used to say we lived in a one-exit town and that people in one-exit towns shouldn’t mingle with people in big cities.”
“Eh. I think people are the same everywhere.”
Outside town was a gas station with three pumps. Gas n’ Things. Stephanie parked and said, “I need to walk around. Even my ass is numb.”
The cashier was a big guy with a red cap and a white beard. Nick bought a bottle of water while Stephanie went to the bathroom. The man’s name tag said Merch, and he scanned the water and said, “Where you headin’, son?”
“Here. Bailey.”
“What business you got here?”
“Going to court. Why?”
He shook his head. “Don’t get many people that stop in Bailey. Just curious.”
The town was laid out in a flat area and surrounded by the red rock hills. Their motel was an ugly brown building with a pool and cracking pavement in the parking lot.
Nick got out his gym bag full of clothes and a few law books about murder trials, and they went to the front desk. A man with stringy hair and glasses was bent over a magazine on the counter.
“Help you?”
“We have a reservation for two rooms,” Stephanie said.
“We got one open.”
“I booked for two.”
“Great. We got one open. You want it or not?”
“I guess we’ll take it.”
“One bed?”
They both said, “Two,” at the same time.
“Uh-huh,” the clerk said, glancing at them both. “Couch is a foldout. It’s forty-eight a night.”
Stephanie said, “Why forty-eight?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, why not forty-nine or fifty?”
The man got a set of keys off a board behind him. “Air conditioner don’t work, so I gave you a two-dollar discount. You’re welcome.”
The room was small and dirty with one window. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned … really ever.
Stephanie said, “Do we even wanna know what those stains on the carpet are?”
“It’s not so bad. The sign out front said free HBO, so, you know, it’s got that going for it.”
They hadn’t eaten since they left and decided to try the diner across the street. It was packed. Probably because it was the only place to eat lunch in town.
They were seated by a window, and a waitress took their order of two cheeseburgers.
“You ever been here before?” Stephanie said.
“No. You?”
She shook her head and took a drink of water. “I barely have time to go anywhere. Any extra time I have I spend with Max.”
Max was her ten-year-old son from a previous marriage that lasted six months. Nick knew her ex, Mike, who he had gone to high school with as well. The main thing he remembered about the guy was that he once thought it would be funny to lock Nick in auto shop overnight.
He said, “Do you know this case didn’t even really make the news out here? I checked. There was one little blurb in the local paper and it didn’t even go into detail about it.”
“So?”
“So you don’t think it’s weird that such a gruesome murder doesn’t get any media attention?”
“Nick, we’re in the butthole of the desert. The ‘media’ out here is probably some high school kid hoping to make extra pot money off of clicks. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
A man came up to their table. He wore a white shirt with a red bow tie and a white mustache matching his hair. He lit a cigar, though a large NO SMOKING sign was behind the register.
“Mr. Collins and Ms. Brown. Welcome to Bailey, Counselors.”
They glanced at each other.
“Saw your pictures on the Nevada Bar website. You’ll have to excuse the little intrusion, but I like to know who’s appearing in my court.”
“Oh, you’re Judge Goodman,” Stephanie said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, young lady.”
Two men who’d had lunch with the judge stepped out of the booth. One was in a green police uniform with brown pants and had a patch on his shoulder that declared him the sheriff. The other was a tall man who looked like a bird, and the judge introduced him as Christian Young, the county attorney who was prosecuting their case.
“You guys are eating together before a trial you’re adjudicating?” Nick said. The judge’s eyes fixed a stare on him as he puffed his cigar.
“Son, how long have you been practicing law? Couple years? Lemme let you in on a little secret; judges like people that go along to get along.” He took the cigar out of his mouth. “Lunch is on me. See you tomorrow morning, Counselors.”
After the men left, Nick said, “They’re, like, buddies. That’s clearly ex parte communications they shouldn’t be having.”
Stephanie shrugged. “He paid for our burgers. How bad could he be?”
The meeting room at the Pyute County Jail was just a conference room with a table and wooden chairs. Paintings of sunsets and deserts hung on the walls. Stephanie and Nick sat on one side of the table, and a thin, younger man in a beige jumpsuit sat across from them. He had frizzy hair and a wide-eyed expression.
“You guys are the lawyers?” Ryan said.
“We are,” Stephanie said. “I’m Stephanie Brown and this is Nick Collins. We’ll be defending you in your case going forward.”
“My sister said Tony was going to defend me.”
“He is, in a sense. We work with him and he sent us down.”
Ryan looked between the two of them. “How old are you guys?”
“Does it really matter?” she said.
“Well, I guess not.” He looked at Nick. “How many murder trials have you done?”
“Um, none.”
“What about you?” he said to Stephanie.
“If I tell you zero or a thousand, does it make any difference?” she replied. “The evidence is what it is, and not to be rude, Mr. Hooper, but beggars can’t be choosers. So if you’d rather keep Sleepy McNight-Night as your lawyer, I’m happy to go home to my son. Keep in mind you’re looking at life in prison without the possibility of parole. You’ll die in a cell.”
Ryan looked down at the table and sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just, um, this isn’t exactly how I saw my life playing out. I didn’t even get to see my son being born. It just messes with your head.”
Stephanie said, “Let’s just go through some of the events, okay? We’ve already watched your video interview and read all the transcripts of everything that’s happened so far, but we should hear it from you.”
He leaned back in the chair. “What do you wanna know?”
Stephanie said, “You described the man you gave a ride to as blond with short hair and maybe in his forties, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they get a police sketch artist in with you at any point?”
“No. No one believed me. Not even my lawyer.”
Nick had called the previous lawyer to get caught up on the case and was shocked to learn the old man didn’t do any investigation on his own. Even on simple fender benders, Nick would interview all the witnesses several times and go out to where the accident had occurred to better visualize the case.
“What happened after you picked him up? I’d like to hear it in your own words.”
Ryan shrugged. “He was acting super weird, and then outta nowhere, he says that the car I saw on the side of the road wasn’t his. That he cut the owner’s hands off and buried her in the desert, and that he was gonna do the same thing to me. I pretended like it was a joke and laughed it off, and like a minute later, we were at an exit with a gas station. I told him I needed to get gas and pulled in. I ran inside to call the cops, and when I came out, he was gone.”
“And there were no video cameras at the gas station, correct?”
“No. I mean, my lawyer said the police didn’t find any.”
Nick said, “Anybody see this other guy that maybe the cops missed?”
He shook his head. “It was the middle of the night. And the cashier wasn’t even paying attention. He was watching something on his phone.”
Stephanie said, “You didn’t know the victim, Jasher Phelps, in any way, right?”
“None at all.”
“They found her body using a methane probe about a mile from where you said you picked this man up. They got the Utah State Crime Lab to do what’s called an x-ray diffraction on mud that was found in your Jeep. The mud in your Jeep matches the mud found on Jasher and had traces of her blood in it.”
“And like I told the cops, the guy must’ve had the mud on him. They didn’t find blood or mud on my clothes, just in my Jeep. How could I cut someone’s hands off and not get blood on me?”
Nick said, “Is there any reason you can think of as to why traces of cyanide were found in the mud in your Jeep?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he tried to poison her.”
Nick shook his head. “No cyanide was found in her system. Her killer didn’t get the chance.” He hesitated. “You’re a nurse, right?”
He scoffed, “Why? Because I must know how to poison someone ’cause I have medical training?”
Stephanie said, “That’s what the prosecutor is going to tell the jury.”
“You don’t believe me either, do you?”
Stephanie folded her arms and leaned back in the seat. “Guilty or not, we’ll fight just as hard either way. So stop with the attitude. We’re on your side. Now, is there any reason you would have traces of cyanide in your Jeep?”
He looked between the two of them. “No.”
Stephanie said, “Why would he leave the duffel bag in your Jeep?”
“He probably panicked and forgot it or wanted me to get blamed for it.” He leaned forward. “What about all the other missing people?”
They glanced at each other, and Nick said, “What missing people?”
“I’ve heard from some guys in here that people coming through Bailey go missing all the time. That nobody really talks about it but that it goes back years.”
Stephanie made a note on her phone. “I’ll look into that. We haven’t heard anything, though.”
They spoke awhile longer, and then Stephanie said, “I think we have what we need for now. We have court in the morning and will meet you there. Tomorrow’s just some final motion hearings and beginning the process of jury selection. So we won’t be doing a whole lot.”
“You’ve looked at everything, though, right? All the evidence?”
“We have.”
“What do you think’s going to happen? Are you going to get me out of this?”
“Well, the circumstantial evidence against you is fairly strong. The victim’s hands and the hatchet used to cut them off were found in a bag in your Jeep; trace evidence found in your Jeep matched trace evidence found on the victim; and judging from the hemorrhaging, inflammatory-cell infiltration, and formation of granulation tissue in the wounds, the coroner estimated Jasher had her hands removed around nine to ten P.M. You were driving right past where she was buried a little before that time.”
Nick added, “But the fact that you called the police doesn’t make sense if you just killed someone.”
“That’s what I kept telling them! Why would I call the cops if I’d just killed somebody?”
Stephanie said, “They think you did it to throw suspicion off yourself, which isn’t as good an explanation as they think it is.”
Nick nodded. “But we’re in their territory. The jury will be from here, and you’re not. It’s a bigger disadvantage than you would think.”
Ryan exhaled. “This is a nightmare. I can’t believe this is happening to me.” Then he scoffed, “I was just trying to be a nice guy. And now I’m going to die in a cell for it.” He shook his head. “I feel like everybody would be better off if I just wasn’t around.”
Stephanie said, “Hey, look at me … you have a son now. So do I. And if there’s one thing I know about being a parent, it’s that you don’t get to just give up. No matter how bad it gets, you have a person in this world that needs you now. I’ll do everything I can to help you, but you don’t get to give up. This fight’s not over yet.”
The motel room felt cramped, and Nick had to leave the door open to create the illusion of space. The air conditioner spewed nothing but warm, stale air that smelled and tasted like dust. Darkness, at least, fell quickly, but the temperature didn’t drop much.
Stephanie sat on the bed in shorts and a tank top with beads of sweat rolling down her neck as she reviewed documents. Nick was standing outside in basketball shorts when he heard her answer the phone with a sigh.
“What?” she said. Then, after a minute of silence, she added, “Mike, you haven’t taken him for like three weekends in a row … I don’t care. My mom’s planning on having some time to herself. He’s your son, too, and believe it or not, he actually thinks you’re a good father.”
Nick felt bad eavesdropping and walked a few paces away.
A couple of minutes later, Stephanie appeared at the door and said, “It’s too hot in there. Let’s go to the pool.”
“I think it’s closed.”
“So?”
“You wanna break in?”
“We rented a room. It’s not breaking in.”
They got to the pool, which was surrounded by a black metal fence. The sign said it had closed at 8:00 P.M., and Stephanie started climbing over it.
“Come on,” she said from the top of the fence with one foot over the other side.
“I’m good.”
“Quit being a baby. How many times do you get to break into a pool and go swimming?”
“You said it wasn’t breaking in.”
“I lied.”
She stripped down to her underwear and dived into the pool. It looked refreshing. Nick could feel the desert heat on him like hot glue.
“I’m going to jail,” he mumbled as he carefully scaled the fence.
He stripped down to his boxers and jumped in. The water was warm. He came up to the surface and Stephanie was in the shallow end, leaning against the side and staring at the stars. He turned to his back and floated.
Nick swam up to her and let his head rest on the side of the pool. A breeze blew, and it felt good against his wet skin.
“You nervous about court tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yeah. I mean, I’ve done some personal injury trials, but it’s weird having someone’s life in your hands instead of trying to get them a paycheck. Are you nervous?”
She shook her head. “No. You get used to it.”
A beat of silence passed.
“Was that Mike on the phone?” he said.
“Yeah. Sorry you had to hear that.”
“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have been listening.”
“I forget we all went to high school together. Were you guys friends?”
“Well, he used to take my backpack and throw it on the roof of the school, and he locked me overnight in auto shop once. So I guess that’s kind of like friendship.”
She chuckled. “I’m so sorry.”
She smiled as she kicked out her feet, making little waves. “It’s weird we never hung out. Did we have any classes together?”
“Yeah, geology. I actually paid Danny Sanchez to switch seats so I could sit behind you.”
“Seriously? Why?”
He kicked his feet out like her and enjoyed the sensation of warm, splashing water.
“I, um, really wanted to ask you to a dance. One day I actually worked up the courage to tap you on the shoulder. When you turned around, I chickened out and asked if I could borrow a pen.”
“Hey!” a man shouted from beyond the fence. “Pool’s closed. You not know how to read!”
“Oh man, I think we’re in trouble,” she laughed.
They grabbed their clothes and ran out, giggling as the man continued to yell.
The courtroom reminded Nick of something from the early twentieth century. Wood paneling and polished chairs. He and Stephanie sat at a big brown table, and behind them were the audience pews with the jury box across the courtroom next to Christian.
A bailiff said, “All rise; Eighth District Court is now in session, the Honorable Wilford Goodman presiding.”
Judge Goodman came out and said, “Please be seated,” without looking up. He nodded to the bailiff, who disappeared into a back room and came out a minute later with Ryan Hooper. Bags under his eyes and messy hair. He was sat at the end of the table. Nick felt for him. He looked like someone on the verge of having a nervous breakdown.
The judge said, “We are here for the matter of State of Utah v. Ryan T. Hooper, case number 223656. Counsel will state their appearances.”
“Christian Young for the State.”
Awkward silence in the courtroom.
Stephanie nudged Nick. “Oh, um, Nick Collins and Stephanie Brown for the defendant.”
“Very well, good morning, all. Mr. Collins, now is the time set for any motions in limine you may wish the Court to hear. Do you have any you’d like to present?”
Nick took a deep breath and then rose. “Yes, Your Honor.” He went to the lectern with his stack of motions and said, “We’d first like to—” The motions all slipped to the floor because the paper clip had gotten loose, and when he bent down to get them, his shoulder hit the microphone and caused loud feedback.
“Sorry,” he said.
“How about you give me a brief outline, son. No need to read them; I’ve read the motions prior.”
“Oh yeah, um, we had the first two motions to exclude the blood evidence found in Mr. Hooper’s Jeep based on violations of the Fourth Amendment as laid out in Utah v. Strieff. The responding officers did not—”
“I find the actions of the officers in response to sections one, three, and six of the motions in limine to be within the bounds of Utah v. Strieff and its progeny. I therefore deny Counsel’s motions. Next issue, please.”
Nick looked at Stephanie, who spun her finger, indicating to go on. In civil law, everything had to be laid out by the judge because, since money was involved, everything would be appealed, and the judge needed a good reason for any ruling, no matter how small. Nick wondered if criminal court was more seat of your pants. He hated the seat of his pants.
“Um, well, the next motion is to exclude prior convictions unrelated to—”
“I find Mr. Hooper’s prior convictions to be admissible character evidence under Rule 404a and b, as the State is not using it to show that Mr. Hooper acted in conformity with that character on this particular occasion. Next issue, please.”
A slight twinge of agitation ran through Nick.
“Your Honor,” he said, forcing his voice to stay calm and even, “we would move to exclude statements made by the defendant under Rule 403 due to being unduly prejudicial in light of—”
“I find sections four, eight, and—”
“Your Honor, may I finish what I was saying?”
The judge’s face went stern, and he leaned back in his chair. Nick glanced over and saw the prosecutor grinning.
“Mr. Collins, you submitted these motions as quickly as you could, and I appreciated that. However, I have read them and the State’s motions in response and your rebuttals. The oral arguments are a formality for the record.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you’ve already made up your mind without even hearing us out?”
“Nick,” Stephanie whispered. He looked at her, and she gave a slight shake of her head.
“Counsel, let me explain something: We might just be backwoods yokels to you, but out here, we follow the letter of the law. And the letter of the law states that I can decide these motions based on the briefs without oral arguments. I have done so. If you wish to keep speaking and waste everybody’s time, go right ahead. But I’m presuming Mr. Hooper would like to resolve this matter.”
“Not if you’re going to railroad him.”
“Mr. Collins,” the judge said with a raised voice, “I don’t know what kind of judges you’re used to in Las Vegas, but down here, we expect decorum at all times. Now I would—”
“I have a new motion. Motion to recuse you as trial judge based on inappropriate ex parte communications with the sheriff and county attorney.”
Christian Young chuckled, and Stephanie groaned.
Judge Goodman turned bright red and looked like his head might explode. “Motion denied,” he spit out.
“Then I would ask that this trial be stayed, as I will be filing a motion for interlocutory appeal to the Utah Court of Appeals to have you removed as trial judge.”
“File your appeal and ask the appellate court for a stay. As far as this court is concerned, we are moving forward today.”
Nick and the judge now stared at each other with venom from both sides.
“No,” Nick said.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. I won’t move forward. I made a valid motion to recuse you and notified you of an interlocutory appeal. I would ask for a different judge. Otherwise, I’m not going forward with the trial.”
Stephanie said, “Nick, sit down.”
“I won’t.”
The judge nearly shouted, “You will go forward with the trial or we will hold a contempt hearing. Is that clear?”
“Yes, it’s clear. But I’m not doing it. Hold me in contempt if you want.”
*
The cell behind the courtroom was small but clean. It held two bunks on each side, and the sheets and pillows were surprisingly stain free. A sink and toilet were near the back of the cell, and a plant sat near the lone window. It was withered and dry, dead.
Nick sat upright against the wall. He rarely lost his temper, but it had boiled to the surface a few times in his life. What pushed him over this time was that Judge Goodman had clearly made up his mind about Ryan’s guilt and wanted to move the trial along. But all Nick could think about was Ryan’s kid growing up without a father. Like he had.
He wished he could go for a run right now. It was about the only thing that completely cleared his head.
A bailiff brought Stephanie back. She glanced around the cell and said, “As first criminal trials go, I’d say it’s going pretty well, wouldn’t you?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Come on, Al Capone. I got you out.”
While Nick was locked up, the judge, Christian, and Stephanie had agreed that the issues Nick raised would be noted for appeal, and an interlocutory appeal would be filed the next day, along with a request to stay the trial. The judge would sign off on a request for emergency relief, meaning the Court of Appeals had to approve or deny the trial getting stayed within two business days. In the meantime, they would have to wait and see if they were going forward or not.
Nick didn’t speak on the drive to the motel. When they got back to their room, he started packing.
“What are you doing?” Stephanie asked.
“I’m going home.”
“It’s only two days. Might as well stay here.”
He shook his head as he stuffed some clothes into his bag. “I’m not coming back.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he said, stopping and looking at her. “How about because the judge locked me up on the first day and our client’s kid is gonna grow up without his dad because I don’t know what I’m doing? I’m not good at this. I’ll stick to fake slip-and-falls and ambulance chasing. I never should have come down here.”
He kept packing.
“Nick, stop.”
He didn’t, and his anger bubbled to the surface again as he tried to shove law books into a bag they didn’t fit in, so he threw them on the floor.
She touched his hand. “Nick … stop.”
He exhaled and stood there, staring down at his bag.
“You think you screwed up, but you know what I saw? I saw a guy who really cares about everybody getting a fair shake. That’s really rare in our profession. It’s what I would want in a lawyer.”
He looked at her and she smiled. She smiled with her eyes, too. She was someone whose joy came through every part of her body.
“So look,” she said, “we have two days before the trial gets going or we get a new judge. Why don’t we go through the discovery again and dig in and see what we can come up with? It sounds like the cops thought they had their man right from the get-go and didn’t spend time looking for other suspects. If Ryan’s telling the truth and someone else really did it, maybe there’s something the police missed?”
He hesitated and then nodded. “Sorry.”
“No worries. I think we all have the right to freak out sometimes.”
“I’ll, um, grab the files. But let’s go somewhere that has air-conditioning.”
*
Bailey had a public library that shared a building with a small store that sold trinkets to people passing through.
They got a table by the windows and piled the stacks of documents on it.
Nick had gone through all the reports, test results, re-creations, drawings, videos, photographs, and interview recordings half a dozen times in two weeks. He’d found it difficult to sleep and stayed up reading detectives’ narratives and autopsy conclusions to see if it would help alleviate his anxiety. It didn’t. But he did understand the central issue in the case now.
Ryan as the killer just didn’t make sense. How could a mild-mannered guy with no background of violence suddenly commit the most horrific murder Nick had ever heard about? To be buried alive without hands to even attempt to claw your way to the surface was about as close to hell on earth as he could imagine. And calling the police after would have been the stupidest thing Ryan could have done if he were the killer. The body was found hundreds of yards away from the road. No one would have found it if he’d said nothing. Then again, if the prosecutor’s theory was correct, if he felt he’d screwed up somewhere along the way and left evidence behind, being the one to call it in and blame a hitchhiker would be a good attempt to throw suspicion off himself.
Nick and Stephanie pored through the reports in silence. The only sounds in the building were pages being flipped and the occasional click of the air conditioner turning on.
It was afternoon when Nick went to the diner to get a couple of sandwiches.
Stephanie paced in front of the building on a call to Max, and Nick sat on the stone steps.
When she was done with the phone call, she sat next to Nick. She looked across the street at some children playing outside the gas station.
He handed her a sandwich and a bottle of water and said, “I was thinking about something. Who’s the best lawyer you know?”
“Tony.”
“Me too. He’s got a bad reputation, but he’s really good at what he does. He told me before I left to look for the one element in the crime that’s weakest for the prosecutor and focus on that.”
“Yeah, he’s said that to me, too.”
“So what’s the weakest element here?”
“Motive.”
“Right. If Ryan did kill Jasher, why not toss the stuff, clean up the Jeep, and keep driving? It makes no sense that he called the cops after killing someone. No matter what the prosecutor says about him wanting to seem innocent by being the one to call it in.” He thought for a moment. “Do you know the only thing I had trouble understanding in the discovery? It was the x-ray spectrograph. You good at reading those?”
“Yeah, I interned at the state crime lab as an undergrad. Come on, I’ll show you.”
*
They went back to the table in the library, and Stephanie took out a few graphs with large spikes drawn on them, the pages coated in numbers. It almost looked like a different language.
“So these are the trace elements they found with their relative frequency and quantity. The bigger the spike, the more of it was found. On the left is the normal stuff you would find in mud, like silt and clay particles, and on the right is the abnormal stuff.”
Nick examined the elements on the right side. “So the biggest spike is in cyanide?”
“Which is why they think Ryan tried to poison her first before burying her.”
“But none was found in her system, right?”
“Right. But a nurse might just have some handy in case he needs to kill one of the victims fast and get away. Like an insurance policy or something. And maybe the vial or whatever broke open during a struggle and didn’t get into her bloodstream?”
“If his plan was something as clean as poison, it doesn’t seem like he’d go from that to cutting off her hands and burying her, does it? If you’re panicking and the plan changes, you want something quick and efficient, like strangling.”
“Then where else could the cyanide have come from?”
Nick thought a moment. “I had a case once where I sued a gold mine. Gold miners use cyanide to bring gold to the surface. If it’s raining …” He had butterflies as he went to the librarian and said, “Excuse me.” She looked annoyed, and he figured it was the volume of his voice, though no one else was there. “Excuse me,” he said quietly. “I need to find out if there’s any gold mines around here. Where would I look?”
“In the mining claims at the county recorder’s office.”
“And where is that?”
“I’m the county recorder. The county recorder’s office is the next desk. I’ll meet you there.”
The drive to the Turquoise Valley Mine, the only gold mine within fifty miles of Bailey, took much longer than it should have. The roads twisted through canyons into dead ends or forks that weren’t on Google Maps. The landscape was sand and rocks in every direction, and Nick could imagine walking for a week and not seeing another person.
The road twisted up a canyon, and they finally reached an open space. The mine had to be hiked to from here. They sat in the car with the air-conditioning on full blast.
“Driving that was way harder than you’d think,” Stephanie said.
“Now imagine it in the dark,” Nick said with his face buried in the file. “ME said Jasher’s hands were removed between nine and ten. Only someone who’s driven this road before could make this drive in the dark. And Ryan’s never been here.”
Stephanie rummaged through the glove box and said, “Ha. Here it is.”
She took out a used plastic bag. “We need a dirt sample to see if there’s cyanide here. I have friends at the crime lab that can get it analyzed for us.”
“You don’t think Christian will have a problem with the defense attorneys handling that evidence?”
“Yeah, he’s not just gonna accept evidence I put in a bag I used for lunch like a month ago. But if we show him the results, he’ll have to have SIS come out and do their own thing.” She closed the glove box. “Hope you like hiking in dress shoes.”
*
The entrance to the mine was up a steep incline. There was no shade. Both their shirts were stained with sweat. Nick tried to hide that he’d forgotten to wear deodorant this morning but was so miserable after a short while he no longer cared.
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said from behind her.
She trudged a few paces without responding and said, “I can almost see it. Just like five more minutes.”
“How can you almost see something?”
“Just keep walking.”
He walked for three breaths before he said, “Did you look into what Ryan said at all? The disappearances?”
She nodded but didn’t turn around. As though the motion would take up too much energy. “I talked to Christian while you were a jailbird. He said they get a lot of missing-persons cases from people driving through. It’s been happening a long time.” She took a breath. “He said a lot of people think the town is cursed.”
“Cursed?”
“There’s rumors it was built on an old Lipan Apache cemetery. Sounds like BS to me.”
“I don’t know. A lotta people believe in ghosts. There’s gotta be something to it, right?”
“Or we’re all crazy.”
Another fifteen minutes and Nick’s cell phone no longer turned on because it was overheated. Fifteen minutes later, he felt faint and his shirt clung to him as if he’d dived into a pool.
“I gotta take a break, Steph.”
She stopped and put her hands on her hips, breathing deeply. “I thought you were a jogger?”
“We’re in hell’s microwave. Jogging can’t prepare you for this.”
He leaned against some rocks, but the sun was angled in a way that provided little shade. He had to squint and noticed he couldn’t hear any cars on the road from here.
“What’s that?” she said.
He looked over to where Stephanie was gazing. The mine was up a bit around a bend, but the edge of it could be seen.
Nick took a deep breath and pushed himself off the rocks.
The entrance to the gold mine was narrow but opened up into an ample space and then went farther back into darkness.
“You sure you wanna go in there?” she said.
He peered into the dark, and it looked like it went on forever. “What if he really didn’t do it? He’s got no one else helping him. It’s just us.”
She sighed. “Fine. You go first then.”
Nick ducked his head a few inches and went through the entrance. The mine was cool and dark. He enjoyed it a minute. His skin felt cooked, and he knew he would have a bright-red sunburn come morning.
When he looked around, he caught a glimpse of something farther back in the mine. A shape. He took a few paces toward it and could make out a table or a desk with a chair. Some items lay on the table.
Nick took out his phone, but it was still overheated and wouldn’t turn on.
“Steph, does your phone work?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you turn on the flashlight and come here, please?”
She did.
“Eh. It’s better than some apartments I’ve lived in.”
“Me too. Can you point the light over here?”
Several old knives and a blade curved like a crescent moon lay on the table. Hatchets were lined up in a row, speckled with dark rust.
A noise came from the darkness beyond.
Motion against dirt and gravel. The sound made both of their heads whip toward it.
“Nick, I’m thinking maybe it’s time to go.”
He didn’t move his eyes from the direction of the sound, though he couldn’t make out anything. “I think I’m cool with that.”
She bent down and scooped dirt into the plastic bag. They hurried out of the mine.
*
While they were driving back, Nick held up the bag and looked at the dirt inside. By establishing that the cyanide could have come from the ground in the mine, maybe they could show Ryan wouldn’t have had time to commit this murder? The mine was only a few miles from where the body was found, and if they could find a credit card receipt, photograph, video… anything that showed Ryan was far enough away he couldn’t have made it here in time, they might have a shot at an acquittal. At the very least, they could argue that whoever lived there—if someone did live there—was the one that actually perpetrated this crime. Was it possible that a bag of dirt could save a man’s life?
“You think someone lives there?” Nick said.
“That’s too creepy to even think about. We need to talk to Christian and have someone look at—”
An eruption of force shoved the car forward with so much power the bag of dirt exploded all over the vehicle.
The Honda was rocked by a convulsive seizure of screeching tires as it careened off the road. Nick’s head whiplashed against the dashboard, his seat belt tightening against him like a pulled rubber band.
Stephanie screamed.
Nick looked behind him and saw the back windshield view filled with the front grille of a massive van. It rammed the car again. Stephanie’s Honda slid into the other lane before the tires straightened and regained traction.
The van sped alongside the car as Stephanie slowed down. The van’s windows were darkened, and they couldn’t see inside. Stephanie suddenly hit the gas, trying to get in front of it, but it dived across the lane, lunging toward the car.
Stephanie managed to slam the brakes as smoke rose from the tires, and the pair was thrown forward again. The van continued on, speeding down the road. Its taillights disappearing in a trailing cloud of brown dust.
Stephanie grimaced. Her forehead was bleeding from the steering wheel.
“Are you okay?” Nick said.
“Yeah,” she said. Her eyes were glossy. She tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. So she rammed her shoulder into it while pulling the handle, and it cracked open. The metal groaned as she pushed it. Nick got out and tried his cell phone.
“My phone won’t turn on. Is yours working?”
She leaned against the car. Nick looked at the wound on her forehead. “You’re bleeding.”
He got a bottle of water and some napkins out of the car. Dousing the napkins, he lightly dabbed her forehead.
She dialed 911, and Nick could hear someone say, “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”
Before she could say a word, they heard a rumble up the road. The van was shooting at them like a rampaging bull. Rocketing at top speed, the van shook and rattled.
Nick grabbed Stephanie’s hand and pulled her out of the way as the van smashed into the car. They dived onto the dirt as the grinding snarl of metal on metal filled the air. The van slammed the car so hard it sent it across the lane into a ditch. The two vehicles joined into a messy heap of metal, but the van’s tires screeched as it pulled back into a cloud of exhaust.
“Run!”
Nick ran with strength he didn’t think he had. The desert sands were so hot the heat rose up into his shoes. They ran straight in one direction, away from the road. The driver had to have seen them but didn’t follow. The van bulleted down the direction they had been driving from, toward the mine, and disappeared.
They stopped and sucked in air, Stephanie’s hands on her knees. Nick surveyed their surroundings. Nothing but tumbleweed and cacti. The road was the only reprieve, a cut mankind made across the alien landscape.
The van was gone. It couldn’t drive out here in this terrain to follow them, but Nick was worried about a rifle crackling the silence.
Stephanie said, “I dropped my phone. We need to go back for it.” She looked pale, and blood dribbled down her cheek.
“There’s a gas station like two miles up. You wanna go for that or your phone?”
“Phone. It’s right there.”
“Why don’t you wait here and I’ll go look for it?”
“I can take care of myself, thank you.”
They slogged back in silence with their eyes on the road. The one advantage they had was that the environment was flat and barren; they could see someone coming at them from any direction. But it wouldn’t matter if the man had a rifle.
The dirt and dust had settled and the road was still. They searched for her phone.
“I dropped it when you pulled me away.”
They searched another minute before Nick said, “Found it.”
Beaten into the dirt, cracked with spiderweb fissures in the glass, was her phone. He picked it up and it was bent in half, almost snapped.
“Oh, goody,” she said.
He dropped the hunk of metal and plastic.
“Gas station?” he said.
She nodded as though she had agreed to jump off a cliff.
*
It was afternoon and the sun was starting its descent, but the heat didn’t let up.
The desert didn’t get any less barren the more they walked. Nick realized he hadn’t seen a single animal out here, and they’d been walking for what must’ve been half an hour.
“If he circles back, we need to run.”
“I don’t think I can run again, Nick.”
“If we don’t make the gas station in time, we won’t have a choice.”
A few minutes of silence passed between them as they focused on their steps.
“I wonder how many of those missing-people stories are true?” Nick said.
“I don’t even want to think about it.”
The Gas n’ Things—with its three pumps in front and a small, fenced-in parking lot with brown wooden slats in the back—came into view.
Stephanie said, “I never thought I’d be so happy to see neon beer signs.”
“I’m getting the largest Sprite I can with a barrel of ice.”
“You can keep your Sprite. I’m getting a bucket of slushy.”
Near the fence, Nick heard something. The hum of a revving engine.
The van exploded through the fence in an eruption of splintering wood. The tires screeched. It charged like a shark homing in on a blood trail.
Stephanie jumped out of its path, swan diving into the dirt and rolling on her belly. Nick dashed for the pumps. The snarl of grinding gears echoed as the van lurched forward with more speed. Nick faked left and went the other way, as the driver slammed on the brakes and smoke poured out from the tires. The van smashed headlong into the first pump. The pump twisted into crumpled metal and plastic. Shooting jets of fuel into the air. The stench of gasoline burned Nick’s nostrils.
He was soon drenched in the stuff. The van didn’t move, but he couldn’t see through the windshield with the gallons of fluid shooting out of the underground tanks. Finally, the door opened, and he saw black pants. The driver stepped out. His hands were blackened with dirt and grime, and a small axe dangled from his fingers. He didn’t seem to mind getting doused in gasoline.
Nick could see where he was heading: in Stephanie’s direction. She pushed herself to her feet as she noticed him.
Nick glanced inside the station and saw the clerk, Merch, staring out at the carnage with wide eyes, a phone glued to his ear. He considered running in and asking Merch to come out and help, but there was no time. The figure had almost reached Stephanie.
Nick bolted in their direction, his shoes splashing through puddles of gasoline. The figure turned just as Nick slammed into him and threw his full body weight behind the impact. They both flew off their feet. Nick rolled on the ground and the wind was knocked out of him. The axe banged against the concrete.
Nick could see the driver clearly. Skin wrapped around a skull. Black eyes that didn’t seem to recognize him as another person. Just taking him in as though he were meat.
The man reached for the axe. A fear gripped Nick, but he knew he’d die in the next few seconds if he didn’t act. He lunged for the axe and both of them grabbed it. The man was paper thin but had a wiry strength that Nick couldn’t match. He ripped the axe away and lifted it to put it into Nick’s face.
Merch stepped out of the station and cocked a shotgun.
The man looked up at him, and their eyes locked.
“I don’t want to, son,” the old cashier said, “but I will.”
The skull face didn’t show any reaction. Instead, his expression was passive as he stared at Nick, and the axe fell from his hand and clanked onto the pavement.
Two days later, after what seemed like a dozen hours of interviews, Christian Young came by Nick and Stephanie’s motel room when the sun was setting. He didn’t come inside the room but instead smoked while he leaned against the railing outside and said, “Just wanted to give you this.”
It was a copy of the motion to dismiss the case against Ryan Hooper.
“Who is he?” Stephanie said, folding her arms and leaning against the door.
“We don’t have any idea. No fingerprint hits in IAFIS, no identification, and he won’t talk to tell us his name. So we’re going to send his mug shots up to the FBI to have it run through their facial-recognition database, but that’s like winning the lottery.”
Nick said, “What about the mine?”
“We found items from at least eight individuals and some remains that haven’t been identified yet.”
“Remains?”
Christian nodded. “He would keep their hands.” He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “I think you kids really got lucky. A lot of people didn’t get away.”
*
The following day, Nick sat outside the jail on the hood of their rental car. He hadn’t slept that night. Dreams of eyes in darkness constantly woke him. One time, he saw Stephanie wide awake sitting in a chair with a book, her eyes not moving across the page.
Ryan’s wife, Sarah, and his infant son were in a Prius near the jail entrance. Nick and Stephanie had spoken with Sarah for a while this morning, and she’d cried and thanked them several times.
The sun heated Nick’s already sunburnt neck as he looked over to Sarah now and waved at her. She gave a shy grin and waved back.
Stephanie sat on the hood with him. A thin line of stitches on her forehead.
“You sunburn like a beluga whale,” she said.
“Do they sunburn easy?”
“No idea.” She looked out over the desert to the road leading back to Nevada. “I can’t wait to go home. And I bet you’re ready to get back to ambulance chasing.”
“Actually, I’m thinking I might ask Tony for more criminal cases.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugged. “It was nice actually helping someone. Feels like I’m spinning my wheels most of the time.”
“Well, send me your fake-ass slip-and-fall cases, ’cause I think I need a break from criminal law.”
The sunlight was making him squint. Finally, he took a deep breath, as though inhaling courage, and said, “I’d like to take you to dinner and a movie.”
Stephanie laughed.
“Ouch. That wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for.”
“No, it’s not that,” she said. “You just look like you’re about to pass out.”
“So … is that a yes?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Good, because that would’ve been an awkward six-hour drive back if you’d said no.”
The doors to the jail slid open, and Ryan Hooper walked out to his family with the biggest smile Nick had ever seen.
*About fifty miles from my house, on the border of Arizona and Utah, a young family was driving through on their way to California. Darkness had fallen and a long stretch of empty road separated them from the California border. A credit card charge showed they left a Maverick gas station around 8 P.M.
Two hours later, the family was dead. Their Dodge minivan was run off the road, and each victim was killed with a single gunshot wound to the head.
This incident, which I stumbled upon in college, haunted me. Nothing was stolen, no one was assaulted other than the shootings, no motive ever uncovered; they were seemingly chosen by fate to die.
Terror, true terror, I think, is this realization that the universe doesn’t discriminate in its atrocities between the guilty and the innocent, the brave and cowardly, the good and evil.
I’d always wanted to write a story about such atrocities in that little patch of desert. The inclusion of “Kill Night” in The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2024 is not just an honor; it’s an opportunity to share this meditation with kindred spirits who aren’t afraid to look into the abyss and maybe realize something is staring back at them.