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Albert had driven south at first, because that was just the natural way to go. Pull out of the zoo entrance and take a right—south.
Then he realized he needed to think things through. Pick a destination. Come up with a plan. Or should he even bother? It was futile, wasn’t it?
He decided there was no harm in taking time to think things through, so when he reached San Antonio, he went west on Interstate 10. Had plenty of time to think.
Zoos are prissons.
That’s how it had all started—with that creepy note in the mail. But Albert hadn’t seen it for what it really was. Why was he wasting time thinking about that now? It was too late to react differently. Time to focus on the future, such as it may be.
Should he go to El Paso? Was that far enough? Should he keep going? California? The Northwest? If he tried to go to Canada or Mexico, would his name raise a red flag? By now, the cops would be wondering where he was, of course. Asking friends and employees where he might be. Asking when they’d talked to him last. Maybe they’d already identified the body. Maybe they’d already figured out the make, model, and license plate of the rental car Albert was driving.
Wouldn’t be long before they put out an APB, or whatever they called it nowadays. Would they monitor the airlines and border crossings? A photo of him could zip from a computer in central Texas to a phone or computer in California in a millisecond.
At 9:38, just west of the town of Junction, he passed a state trooper parked on the shoulder. Same side of the highway as Albert. Running radar, obviously. Albert wasn’t speeding. The speed limit on this wide-open stretch of interstate was 80 miles per hour, and Albert had the cruise control pegged at 75. Reasonable. Not so slow as to draw attention.
But the trooper pulled onto the highway and fell in behind him.
Albert was all alone. No other vehicles in sight.
He swallowed hard. His heart was beginning to thump hard in his chest.
The trooper was now fifty yards back, holding a steady speed.
Running his plate? But why? The trooper would have no probable cause to pull Albert over, would he? Or would they say he’d stolen the car? That he was a fugitive? Had the cops in Blanco already pieced it together?
His palms were moist on the steering wheel. Gripping it hard.
He readied himself for the traffic stop. He’d give up, of course, and then keep his mouth shut. Refuse all questions. Hire an attorney. He had plenty of money saved up. The attorney could tell his story for him. Help him obtain a deal. Arrange a new life for him. Start over. Again.
A Corvette in the oncoming eastbound lanes zoomed past at about 100 miles per hour. The trooper braked hard, whipped around, crossed the median, and gave chase.
Albert watched in the rearview mirror for several seconds, just to be sure.
Then he took a deep breath.
Marlin scrambled for the nearest tree—a tall cedar no more than twenty feet away. He had to stand sideways for the trunk to provide full cover.
“State game warden!” Marlin yelled. “Put the rifle down!”
No response.
“You hear me?”
He pulled his .357 from its holster. Not easy to make an accurate shot with a revolver at this distance.
“Put the rifle down!” Marlin yelled again. “Game warden!”
This was not the first time a hunter or landowner had failed to recognize that he was a game warden and had pulled a weapon, thinking he was a trespasser. All game wardens had to deal with that situation from time to time. But it usually happened at night, or when there was a greater distance between them. Or when the subject was drunk or stoned.
By now, Marlin had expected to hear the man shout his apologies—or to at least acknowledge that he had heard what Marlin was saying—but all was silent.
Marlin could either radio for backup or take a quick peek around the tree. Surely this was a misunderstanding. Perhaps the man was deaf or visually impaired? Marlin had to take these possibilities into consideration.
He took a quick peek around the trunk of the tree. The man was nowhere to be seen.
“Thanks for coming in,” Lauren Gilchrist said.
“Oh, no problem,” the young woman said. “I’ll help if I can, but I don’t even know what happened out there.”
Her name was Tracy Lavelle. Probably 27 or 28. Medium-length brown hair. Tall and slender. Tanned skin. Outdoorsy. She was the assistant zookeeper at Safari Adventure—second in charge after Albert Cortez.
They were seated in one of the interview rooms at the sheriff’s office. Lauren had offered coffee or a Coke, but Tracy had declined. Ernie Turpin was conducting an interview in the adjoining room with another zoo employee.
Lauren said, “First question—do you have a list, or some kind of inventory, of every animal in the zoo?”
“Oh, sure. Absolutely. I could list them all by heart. But if you need an actual printed list, I can get it.”
“We’ll need to determine how many animals are still loose,” Lauren said. “Can you help with that?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Lauren shifted gears away from public safety concerns and toward the investigation.
“Have you talked to Albert or seen him this morning?” Lauren asked.
“I have not. I was on my way to work when the deputy called.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“The deputy?”
“No, Albert.”
Tracy laughed. “Oh. Sorry. I talked to him at work yesterday afternoon, when I was leaving. It wasn’t Albert, right? I mean the dead person you found?”
“No, it wasn’t him, but we’re having trouble getting in touch with him.”
“So who was it, then?”
“We haven’t been able to make an ID yet.”
“You think it’s one of our zoo employees?”
“We just don’t know yet. I’m sorry.”
Lauren had asked Deputy Callie Young, a recent hire, to check the zoo’s website, Facebook page, and other social media accounts for photos of employees to see if she could make a match with the dead man. Callie had only been here for a month, but she seemed to be a great fit so far—not just in the sheriff’s office, but in the community.
“Do you think Albert is okay?” Tracy asked.
“We have no reason to think he isn’t, but we’d like to find him, obviously. Did he say anything to you yesterday about any plans for today? Was he planning to go anywhere this morning?”
“He didn’t say anything to me,” Tracy said. “Normally he’d tell me if he wasn’t going to be there. He does tend to run errands on Wednesday, because we’re closed, but not always.”
“How do you get the gates open when he’s gone? You have keys?”
“Yeah, I do, and a couple of the other senior employees.”
“How many employees are considered senior?”
“There’s me and four tour guides that have been there several years.”
“What would their job titles be?”
“To be honest, it’s kind of a casual place to work. We don’t really have titles or, like, a hierarchy. After Albert and me, everyone is kind of equal, but the newer employees generally take orders and learn the ropes from the ones who’ve been there longer. Most of them are tour guides, and we all do other things, too, like clean pens or feed the animals or maintain the grounds.”
“So you and four other people have a key to the gates?”
“Right.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“Nearly six years. I totally love it. Best job I ever had. I worked my way up from being a tour guide. A lot of the employees sort of come and go, or maybe just work summers or weekends, which is cool, but I’ve stayed there because it’s awesome.”
Lauren noted that Tracy was wearing blue jeans, work boots, and a faded sweatshirt from the Grand Canyon. That meant zoo employees didn’t typically wear their zoo uniforms—a blue polo shirt and khaki shorts or pants—on the day the zoo was closed.
“Is Albert a good boss?”
“The best. Everybody loves him.”
“So you and he are close?”
“Well, yeah, as far as a working relationship. He doesn’t share much about his personal life.”
“So you don’t know, for instance, if he’s dating anyone?” Lauren said.
“I have no idea. He keeps that kind of thing to himself. I always thought that was kind of sad. I want him to open up more, but that just isn’t his style.”
“You said all of the employees love him. Literally everybody?”
“Well, I mean, I guess there’s always going to be someone who, uh, doesn’t fit in perfectly. That’s just the way it goes.”
“Is there someone like that at the zoo?”
“Kind of, yeah, but I feel bad even bringing it up.”
“That’s okay,” Lauren said. “You can share whatever you like. You never know what might help. I can keep it between us, if you’d like.”
“Okay, well, there’s a guy named Rory who—let’s just say he doesn’t get along with everybody there.”
“Rory Grafmiller?” Grafmiller was the person Ernie was interviewing in the next room.
“Right.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“Well, he’s good at giving tours. He can be really funny and charming and he’s nice looking. But when he’s doing other things—I don’t think he even likes animals that much. Why would you work at a zoo if you don’t totally love animals? Plus, I hate to say this, but he’s kind of a slacker. He runs late a lot, and he’s not very good at doing things the way they’re supposed to be done. And if you mention something to him, he gets kind of touchy about it.”
“Are we talking mildly touchy, or more like full-on arguments?” Lauren asked.
“Sometimes arguments, but not always. He has a temper—that’s the problem. I mean, not like anything super ugly, but he sort of gets into a huff and gets all quiet. You can tell he’s mad by the way he bangs things around. It’s basically a tantrum—slamming gates and things like that. He’s kind of immature and spoiled, to be honest. But on the other hand, he can be totally chill and nice. Don’t get me wrong. He’s not always like that. Most of the time, he’s not.”
“How long has he worked there?”
“Probably about a year.”
“Has he had any arguments or tantrums recently?”
Tracy had a sour expression on her face now. “Yesterday morning.”
“Yeah? With whom?”
“Albert.”
“What was it about?”
“Rory came to work late again, so Albert got on him about that. Later, I saw Rory kick an antelope that wouldn’t move out of his way, so I had no choice but to tell Albert. So then they got into a shouting match and Albert ended up sending Rory home for the day. I was glad, because I thought they were about to get into a fistfight. It was pretty intense.”