Chapter Twenty-Four

As soon as Bo and Jim were back in the Explorer, Jim said, “Do you want me to see if I can find anyone with the last name of Bundra in any of the databases?”

“Absolutely,” Bo said. “Too bad we don’t have a first name, but we could try Devonte. Who knows, maybe he only uses a different last name. And while we’re at it, I think we should check to see if Leonardo has flown out of any of the major airports in the state or surrounding states.”

“Are you thinking what I am?” Jim asked. “Are you wondering if he’s still around but just doesn’t want his employees to know that? He’s looking more like he could be our killer. He was attempting to take over Emil’s territory—if what Lucas and Joe said is true.”

“Yep. Let’s go back to the office and see what we can learn. Who knows. We might find out that Grillo-Bundra may have a record somewhere,” Bo said.

The sheriff, in an abundance of caution, had a female deputy move into Ron’s house to stay with Nattie while Melia was in the city and Ron in the hospital. Rosina, of her own volition, volunteered to stay there as well. Social services did not offer any reasonable alternatives, and when Ron spoke to Rosina on the phone, he still insisted that his home was Nattie’s home as well. With Lucas out of the picture, Nattie was safe now, or at least, that was the hope. It was possible that there could be others who might be a danger to her, but it was not likely.

Melia stayed with her grandfather at the hospital, and Karmen returned home with the promise to come get both of them once Ron was released.

The men who had come to help with Ron’s chores turned out to be from his church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And the elders quorum president in the ward assured Rosina that someone would come every day for as long as needed to keep the farm running. Nattie still couldn’t believe people could be that nice.

Joe did not try to fool himself. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had not seen his captor since he’d regained consciousness. He was helpless, weak, choking with thirst, and in agonizing pain. Since he was going to die, he wished it would come quickly. What he was going through was unbearable.

The hours ticked by so slowly it seemed like he’d been here in this helpless position for days. In reality, he’d lost track of time. He tried to think of happy things to pass the time. He thought of his dog, Melia, Ron, the farm, and the animals on the farm. Those were all things that had made him content with his life in the past. He also thought of fishing with Bo. But with thoughts of Bo, depression deepened. Bo would be trying to figure out where he was, but that would be useless. No one could find him, at least not before it was too late for him.

Joe tried something he was not any good at; he tried praying. The words that came to his mind were jumbled, but he believed that God would get the gist of it. If nothing else, He would read Joe’s mind. God could do that. What Joe was trying to tell his Father in Heaven was that he was sorry for smoking pot, terribly, terribly sorry. And he was begging for forgiveness and asked that since he was to die, to please let it happen soon.

Then he forced his prayer from his own needs. He prayed that Melia and Ron would be okay and that the farm and animals would be taken care of. He asked God to help Bo understand the message he’d tried to send by misspelling words. If Emil’s killer was never caught, he prayed that at least his so-called confession would not be believed and that he would not die with people believing he was a murderer.

Eventually, his prayer faded away, and he fell into a deep sleep. In that state, he felt no pain, and his worries vanished.

The killer, disguised and in yet another stolen vehicle, drove slowly past Joe’s house and then past the Brady farm as he had done a couple times before. As he’d expected, it was dark at Joe’s, but there were vehicles in the yard at the farm. He’d been playing with an idea in his head, and as he drove on down the road past the farm, the idea became firmer.

He laughed out loud at the justice of it all. At least in his mind, it was justice. He knew the cops wouldn’t think it was justice, but that didn’t bother him. He was untouchable. Joe had confessed to the crime, and there would be no reason not to believe his confession. He—the real killer—was in the clear. He had killed Emil, and he’d killed before too. No one had ever suspected him before, and they wouldn’t now.

Later he went back to the old house where Joe was lying bound and wounded on the floor. Maybe he was dead by now. He hoped not. Joe had become a toy to him, a toy to be played with and then slowly allowed to die. He couldn’t let him die yet, he decided, if it was not already too late.

Bo and Jim were exhausted, but they’d made some progress. Unfortunately, they had not made progress in figuring out where either Bryan Bayle or Leonardo Augur was hiding out or had fled to. Nor did it involve any progress in the search for Joe, a search that now involved officers in several counties going to abandoned houses and outbuildings. The thought that Joe could be in one was the only thing any of the officers could come up with. It was taking countless hours and tons of manpower, but it was the only course of action anyone in law enforcement could think of.

No, the progress had to do with another, though lesser, suspect. Devonte Grillo’s true identity had been discovered through some diligent database searching, both on the computer and through phone calls to many people.

“I think we’ve got it,” Bo said to Jim. “This mystery man who was putting pressure on Emil has to be Devonte Bundra. Apparently he must have felt some attachment to his first name. But that made it easy for us since Bundra is such an uncommon name.”

The silver Mercedes was registered under the name Devonte Bundra, as was an address in West Valley City and its utilities. Another vehicle, a pickup truck, was listed under Bundra.

“So now do we go to West Valley City and check out Bundra’s house?” Jim asked with a yawn.

“I guess we should,” Bo responded. “If he happens to be our killer, we might find Joe there, but I don’t think so. We might find the other vehicle, his Dodge Ram, at that location, but I’m not sure how that would help us.”

“His arrest record under the name Bundra is rather extensive, but there’s nothing recent. I was hoping we would find out he’s on parole since we could more easily have him brought in to question him. I’m afraid we struck out there,” Jim lamented and not for the first time.

“We’ll keep looking and contacting people who may have known him. Who knows. We might get lucky.”

“I think the two of us need some sleep so we can think clearer,” Jim suggested.

“I’m afraid you’re right, although I sure hate to quit working. Joe is out there somewhere. I will never quit looking until we find him, even if he’s dead,” Bo said. “Let’s give ourselves six hours, and then we can decide what our next move will be.”

Joe awoke to someone prodding him in the side. He forced his eyes open. They were not covered, and he moved his head enough to see. The killer was wearing cowboy boots. Maybe his suffering was about to end.

“Hey, Joe. Are you awake now?” his tormentor asked.

“Yes,” Joe managed to say through his parched throat and dry mouth.

“I’m taking pity on you. I got some water and a sandwich for you. Do you think you can eat?”

Joe was stunned. He’d expected to die at any moment. “I’ll . . . try,” he managed to choke out.

“Then sit up,” the killer ordered.

He couldn’t do that. “I . . . can’t.”

“Oh, Joe, you are such a wimp. I guess I’ll have to sit you at the table because you are going to eat.”

The killer was a big man, and after untying Joe’s legs, he managed to get him to his feet and to the table, though it was not the same table Joe had broken the leg off of. It wasn’t even the same room. For all Joe knew, it wasn’t even the same house.

The hope he’d felt when told he was going to get food and water vanished when, for the first time, his abductor let him see his face. Why would he feed him if he was letting Joe see his face? It made no sense. He knew then that he was going to die because if he didn’t, he’d be able to describe this man to the police.

Once at the table, the killer freed Joe’s hands as well. He was chuckling when he handed a bottle of water to Joe. Joe was so weak that he couldn’t even get the cap off. The killer helped him but said, “If you want a drink, you’ll have to do it yourself. I won’t hold the bottle to your mouth and feed you like a baby.”

It hurt, but Joe forced himself to hold the bottle, and even though he spilled a little, he managed to get some of it in his mouth, and he swallowed it. The relief was wonderful. He drank some more and began to feel a little strength return to him. He finished half the bottle before the killer took it and placed it on the table.

“That’s all for now. You need to eat. I brought you a grilled cheese sandwich. Eat it.”

Fifteen minutes later, the sandwich was gone and so was the rest of the water. Joe was in terrible pain, but at least he felt stronger. Although, he wasn’t strong enough to even think about trying to fight his captor.

“I need medical help,” he managed to say as he sat with his hands on the table, his head bent over.

“That won’t happen. Just be glad you got to eat and drink some water. I have to leave again. When I come back, maybe you’ll feel a little better,” the killer said. “Now, let’s get those ropes back on you.”

Joe didn’t have the strength to resist, so he soon found himself once more bound and lying on the floor. The killer left without another word to him. Joe wanted to have hope that he was going to be allowed to live, but he couldn’t manage it. Why he’d been given food and water was beyond his comprehension. He feared that he had no future. He once more drifted into an uneasy sleep—the only relief he could get from the excruciating pain.

At her grandfather’s insistence, Melia returned home to be with Nattie and to keep an eye on the farm. “I’m going to be okay now,” Ron had told her. “I’ll be home soon myself, but I want you to go as soon as you can. You’re needed more there than you are here with me.”

She had argued, but he was insistent, so she obeyed his wishes. Karmen gave her a ride home, and Bo and Jim had both met her at the farmhouse upon her return. Bo explained that they were going to West Valley City. They would have left earlier but decided to wait when Karmen told Bo that she was headed back to Price from Salt Lake with Melia.

“You need to know about a false confession that was mailed to the sheriff with Joe’s return address on it,” Bo said. He explained how he knew it was something Joe had been forced to write. As he was explaining, Nattie, Karmen, and the female deputy listened in.

“At least it shows that he’s alive,” Melia said as she rubbed tears from her eyes.

“Yes, it does,” Bo agreed. “We’re going to let the press know about the letter but not that it’s bogus,” Bo told them. “If the killer hears that the confession is believed and that new charges are being brought against Joe, he may relax and slip up in a way that helps us find him and Joe.”

“Are you really going to charge him with murder again?” Melia asked.

“No, but the press won’t know that, so neither will the killer,” Bo explained. “You guys keep your eyes open, and don’t take any chances. We still don’t know for sure that the killer doesn’t present a danger to you, Melia, and to you, Nattie, for that matter.”

Melia was not comforted by that, but she put on a brave face.

Bo and Jim left for West Valley City shortly before noon. They found the home of Devonte Bundra, and accompanied by a couple of West Valley City officers, they approached the house. No one answered the door, so they canvased the neighborhood to see if anyone had seen him.

They learned that no one had seen him or his car for a couple of days. None of them knew him by the name of Bundra; he was Devonte Grillo to them. That made sense to Bo because Grillo had plenty of reasons not to be known by his real name. That was what had kept them from realizing he was more than just a suspected drug pusher. Once his real past had been uncovered, they knew he was a very dangerous person.

They wanted to go into Devonte’s house but did not have enough probable cause to get a search warrant. The only thing they gained from the time spent there was a promise from several neighbors that they would call Bo if they saw Bundra, or Grillo as they knew him, or even his car or his pickup. Disappointed, the two officers headed back to Price.

As they were driving down the freeway toward Spanish Fork, Bo got a call from Sheriff Hermock. “We just got a break,” he told the officers. “Bryan Bayle was just picked up in Salt Lake. He got in an argument with someone at a gas station. Someone else called it in, and officers went there. By then, Bayle had assaulted the other customer and was arrested. He’s at the Salt Lake County jail now.”

“We’ll turn and head back that way,” Bo said. “What have they done with his vehicle?”

“He was driving a stolen car, one taken from a parking lot right here in Price this morning,” Sheriff Hermock said. “Apparently, he’s changed his look, but there’s no question it’s him. Let me know what you learn. The Price police are working to get him brought back here to face murder charges, but they agreed that since you two were in the area, they would like you to bring him back.”

“We’d love to,” Bo told him as he took an exit so he could head north again. “If he’ll talk to us, we’ll question him before we head that way. If he’s our killer, and there’s a good chance he is, then he should know where Joe is.”

“The police in Price are okay with you doing that, but they don’t want you to question him about the murders of his brother or wife or the stolen car. Of course, if he offers some information without you asking about it, that will be okay,” the sheriff said.

Bryan spoke with a lisp, leaving no doubt about who he was, although he’d had no ID on him when he was arrested. He certainly didn’t look like the photos the Price police had obtained that showed him with long, dirty-brown hair and a long, scruffy beard. He was now clean-shaven and had a shaved head. Still, the shape of his round face and his heavy body and that distinct lisp left no doubt as to his identity.

His fingerprints had been taken at the jail, and when they were run through the system, they matched Bryan Bayle. Once he realized his identity had been established, he began to blab.

All Bryan Bayle wanted to talk about was his wife. He didn’t mention his brother at all. He apparently did not realize that his brother’s body had been found buried in his backyard. He was under the mistaken impression that the only reason he had been arrested was the stolen car, which he admitted to without a single question being asked. As for his wife, he blurted out—without the officers even asking—that someone had killed his wife, but it wasn’t him.

“We are here to talk to you about a separate matter,” Bo told him, ignoring what Bryan had just said about his wife. “We are investigating the murder of Emil Eifler, your drug supplier. And don’t tell us he wasn’t your supplier, because we know he was. If you will recall, you told us he took your stuff at gunpoint.”

“Oh yeah, he was a nasty character. But if you’re gonna say I killed him, you’ll be wrong. I didn’t like the guy, but I never killed anybody ever.”

That was a lie, but Bo let it go. The officers from Price City could deal with that. “Tell us where you took Joe Whalen,” Bo said, attempting to catch him off balance.

“Oh, him? Wasn’t he the one who killed Emil? If he was, why are you pestering me about it?” he asked.

Bo pursued a few more questions about Joe’s location, but he got nowhere, and outside of Bryan’s presence, he and Jim discussed what they’d learned. “I don’t think he took Joe,” Jim said.

“I think you’re right. But if not, then he’s probably not Emil’s killer either. Despite that, I don’t feel comfortable in ruling him out just yet. Maybe when the officers in Price speak with him about his brother, he’ll realize he’s in pretty deep trouble and confess to killing Emil.”

“Maybe,” Jim agreed, but Bo could tell that they were both skeptical about that happening.

“Let’s load him up and head home,” Bo said.