Pandori turned onto a gravel road that passed between two large wooden pillars. Black wrought iron rods formed an arch connecting the pillars. Hanging from the arch was a sign indicating they were entering the Lazy 7 Ranch. A half mile later, the gravel road wound up a hillside and through a grove of trees. Nicoletti figured somewhere in the distance the gravel road led to a ranch house. They turned onto a dirt road and followed it for a mile before they saw the stables, which consisted of a large barn flanked by two long one-story structures.
All the buildings were painted a deep red with white trim. To the right was a training paddock enclosed by white fencing. Parked along the fence line were two marked cars: one from the police department, the other from the sheriff’s office. In front of the barn door were two unmarked cars, both black Ford Expeditions.
Pandori parked next to the Expeditions. “Looks like Garland is here,” he said as they got out and walked into the barn.
After stepping from the bright sunlight into the dark barn, Pandori and Nicoletti stopped to allow their eyes to adjust. From the far end of the barn, they heard voices and the sound of furniture being dragged across a wooden floor.
At the back of the barn was a tack room separated from the main building by half walls and topped with small-paned glass windows. In the center of the room was a desk and several wooden chairs. On the back wall were dozens of nylon horse leads, several saddles, and shelves of tools and hanging bridles. A narrow hallway led to a room with more tack and horse blankets where the suspect slept.
Tim Benson stood in the corner of the small room, watching the officers sift through his belongings. Chief Garland stood next to him, leaning on the wall and chewing on a piece of straw. Garland nodded as Pandori and Nicoletti entered.
“Take a look at this,” one of the uniformed officers called to Reichert and held up a stack of magazines he had pulled from under a pile of clothes on the floor of the closet.
Pandori and Reichert moved toward the officer.
Garland pushed Tim Benson into a chair. “Stay there until Detective Reichert tells you to move,” Garland said. “Mike, I’m going outside for a minute,” he said to Reichert. As he passed Nicoletti, he spit the straw on the floor and said, “Come with me.”
Garland took a beige cowboy hat from his car and set it on the back of his head.
“What do you think?” he asked Nicoletti.
“Anything is possible, but I think he’s much too young. Marie-Justine’s killer has been at this for a while. The hair, the makeup, the red choker are all preferences developed over years, maybe over decades. If you can tie Benson to an older, more mature suspect, someone with a history of violence, then it’s an outside possibility. But acting alone? No way, Chief. Benson is too young.”
“I don’t know about him being too young, but I agree he didn’t do it.”
“What about the prior arrest for rape?”
“That was a bullshit charge. And I should know; I was the one who arrested him. It was my case.”
Garland pulled the hat forward on his head and put on a pair of sunglasses. He put his hands in his pockets and walked to the paddock area with Nicoletti at his side.
“You have any idea what it’s like growing up as a local, or worse, as a country boy in a university town?” He looked at Nicoletti from under the brim of his hat.
“Can’t say I do.”
“Every day you’re surrounded with pretty girls walking in town, sitting in cafés, driving past you in their fancy cars. They seem to be part of a different world.”
Nicoletti nodded as he looked across the gentle hills. Three horses were grazing in the shade of a stand of trees. The leaves were a vibrant green and yellow with a touch of red against the dark blue sky.
Leaning on the white paddock fence, Garland rested a tan boot on the lowest crossbar. “And you know, they really are from a different world. They come from all over the country, from big cities that could swallow up Missoula so you could never find it again.” He pushed his hat back. “Once in a while, one of those girls actually dates a local boy. Not often, but it has happened. Every lonely high school kid secretly fantasizes that one day a pretty coed from New York or California is going to stop and talk to him. Maybe talk long enough to fall in love with him. Sounds pretty silly, doesn’t it?”
“What’s that got to do with the rape charge?” Nicoletti continued to watch the horses.
“The complainant in the case, a twenty-year-old sophomore from Boston, claimed that she met Benson at a concert. They had a few beers, she got drunk, and he offered to take her back to her apartment. She said she passed out on the couch, and when she came to, she was naked in her bed and he was forcing himself on her. She said she had begged him to stop and tried to fight him off, but couldn’t.”
“Doesn’t sound too farfetched.”
“The victim had a roommate who identified Benson. She said she had been out with friends and got back to the apartment around midnight. Benson and the victim were on the couch, drinking wine. She said hello to them and noticed that the victim was pretty drunk. She had suggested that Benson leave, but he ignored her.
“She said she left them on the couch, showered, and went to bed. Claimed she didn’t hear anything; said she had taken a sleeping pill that knocked her out. When she got up about eleven Sunday morning, her roommate and Benson were gone.
“The victim didn’t report the assault until Sunday afternoon. She showed up at the station with her boyfriend and the roommate.”
“Let me guess… By then, she had cleaned up, so there was no physical evidence?”
“No, we got some of Benson’s hair—long blond strands caught up in a rubber band I found on the victim’s bedroom floor. He had used the rubber band to tie his hair in a ponytail. And there were a couple of used condoms in the trash.”
“Thoughtful rapist.”
“Actually, it was more accurately a prepared victim. Only her prints were on the foil wrappers, and the remains of a box of twelve were found in her dresser drawer under some thong panties.”
“Did you say a couple of condoms?”
“There were three.”
“All matching the Benson kid’s DNA?”
“We never got that far.”
“Why the delay in reporting the assault?”
“The victim and her boyfriend had gone to church Sunday morning, then to lunch. When they got back to the apartment, Benson was sitting on the front steps. He walked up to the victim and said, ‘I thought we were going riding this afternoon’ and walked away without another word. According to the roommate, he had been to the apartment earlier, looking for the victim, and had left a bouquet of flowers for her.”
“Not typical rapist behavior, unless the perp is a real psycho,” Nicoletti said. “Where was the boyfriend on Saturday night?”
“He had broken up with the alleged victim a few days before. He said he wanted to date other people.”
“So maybe Miss Boston took on the Benson kid to make the boyfriend jealous.”
“That’s what I figured. She probably would have never discussed the incident with anyone, but with Benson waiting on the front steps and acting like a jilted lover, followed by the flowers on the dining room table in the apartment, she probably felt compelled to come up with a story for the boyfriend.”
“And ‘he raped me’ was the best she could do?”
“Buyer’s remorse,” Garland said. “Monday morning, an assistant DA insisted on filing the complaint before I had a chance to get Benson’s version of the story.”
“Why was the assistant in such a rush?”
“All sex is rape,” Garland said. “You know the type.”
“What did Benson say after you picked him up?”
“For the most part, he corroborated the victim’s account of the first half of the evening. He said she had invited him to her apartment. They opened a bottle of wine and were making out when the roommate came in. The three of them talked for a while and had planned to go riding out here at the ranch the next afternoon. Then they all went to bed.”
“Together?”
“No, but if half of what Benson said really happened, I’m sure by Sunday morning, he thought he was in love.”
“So what happened to the case?” Nicoletti asked.
“The roommate was the first to break. She didn’t have the stomach to ruin the kid’s life. In her second version, there was no sleeping pill. In fact, she said she was up half the night listening to the laughter and moaning coming from the next room. She said at about four A.M. she could smell popcorn cooking. I found popcorn in the bed, and in the bedroom trash can, there was a crumpled bag of microwave popcorn with a condom draped across Orville Redenbacher’s face.”
“Classic,” Nicoletti said.
“When I confronted the victim with the roommate’s statement, she denied it and insisted the sex was not consensual. According to her, I was an incompetent bastard who was trying to protect another low-rent, ignorant redneck cowboy.” Garland took off his hat and wiped his brow. “But in the end, she refused to cooperate with the assistant DA, and she and the boyfriend transferred to some college back East.”
“Why are you telling this story to me?” Nicoletti looked directly at Garland.
“I don’t know. While I was in the barn, standing with Benson, I realized that I’d forgotten what this job is all about. The last year, I’ve been totally focused on politics and running for sheriff.”
Nicoletti turned his gaze to the horses and said nothing.
“Since Marie-Justine was murdered, I’ve been in meeting after meeting with the DA and the mayor and on the phone with the state attorney general. All we’ve discussed was the impact of this type of crime on the election. The only interest any of us had in catching the killer was directly related to our own ambitions.”
Garland reached in his jacket pocket and took out a plastic bag of marijuana.
“What do you think?” He held up the bag. “About an ounce?”
“I guess that’s about right.” Nicoletti took the bag. “Where’d you get it?”
“Benson pulled it out from under his mattress and gave it to me before the others got here.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“You’re the retired DEA agent. You tell me.”
Nicoletti took the bag and shook the contents into the wind. “The kid’s got enough trouble. And I’m not running for sheriff.” Nicoletti handed him the empty bag.
“Neither am I,” Garland said.