What She Saw - 37

CJ Taggart

11 Days After

The phones had not stopped ringing since Sunday’s press conference. Three more women had been reported missing, but all had been found. One caller insisted she’d seen the bodies north of town at the Nelson farm. Another insisted he’d seen Colton with one of the girls, but his tip was discarded when he couldn’t prove he’d been at the festival. One woman said she was a psychic and the spirts of the dead were crying out to her.

Through it all, Taggart continued to watch Colton’s house. During this time, he lobbied the judge for a search warrant. He kept insisting if he could search Colton’s property, he’d find evidence related to the missing women.

Press from around the region had caught wind of the story, and reporters were swooping into Dawson. Taggart had taken a few interviews, reinforcing that the police had no suspects. Despite his efforts to assure everyone they were safe, few believed him. Kids were no longer riding their bikes alone. Girls went out in pairs or trios. The gun store sold out of Mace and handguns.

Taggart’s taciturn answers to the media weren’t selling enough papers, so a few reporters began interviewing family and friends of the missing women. As profiles of aggrieved families hit the papers, the pressure on the mayor grew.

“What the hell.” Mayor Briggs clutched The Washington Post as he closed the door to Taggart’s office. “That damn story is gaining traction.”

Taggart rose, straightening to attention. “I know.”

Briggs shook the paper as if it were a club. “What are you doing about it?”

“I’ve been asking for a search warrant for Rafe Colton’s house. So far, the judge won’t give it to me.”

The direct response caught the mayor’s attention. “Why are you so sure Colton is behind this?”

“That music festival was designed to fail,” Taggart said. “It was oversold, its borders weren’t controlled, and the promised security was MIA.”

“Maybe Colton is an incompetent con man.”

“Or he set it all up to hunt women.”

The mayor’s face paled. “Hunt women? Jesus, don’t say that out loud.”

“Either way, I want to search Colton’s property.”

Briggs sucked in a breath and blew it out. “I’ve heard from everyone from Rotary, the church, and the diner. Everyone has a story about how that festival failed.”

“There’s no downside to searching Colton’s house. If I’m wrong, then we’ll move on and keep looking for the women. You’ll be the first to know what I find.”

“What about the tips on the bodies?”

“We’ve sent volunteers north of the town and festival site. So far nothing.”

“Shit. Finding them would help.”

“Wishing won’t make it so. I need to search Colton’s house.”

Briggs shoved out a sigh. “If I make this happen, I don’t want any of this leaking to the media.”

“It won’t.”

He tapped the rolled newspaper against his thigh. “What the hell is everyone going to say if you prove I brought this to the community?”

“Guys like Colton find their way into places like Dawson. They arrive with a plan to exploit good, trusting people.”

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have trusted him.”

“He’s a hell of a salesman.”

“You didn’t buy it.”

“I’ve seen his kind before.”

Briggs met his gaze. “What if you’re wrong?”

“Colton’s festival caused untold damage to the Nelson farm. The garbage is gone, but the fields are rutted and worn bare. The roads are so furrowed, they’ll have to be regraded. I have seven sexual assault claims, twenty robberies, and twenty mugging charges. I doubt anyone will get that upset if I search his house.”

Mayor Briggs rubbed the back of his neck. “The festival was supposed to be a moneymaker. Now we’ll be lucky if we break even.”

“I need a search warrant. You and the judge are friends.”

The mayor nodded. “Can you do it while Colton’s not home? I don’t want to make a thing out of it in case you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.”

Briggs ran his hand over his thick gray hair. “Why did you set your sights on Colton?”

“It started with a feeling.” Before the mayor could rebut, Taggart held up his hand. “And a string of broken promises and a disregard for security were major red flags.”

“There’s a big difference between ‘con artist’ and ‘killer.’”

“I can’t prove anything until I search his house. I must start somewhere.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll call Judge Owens and tell him to grant the warrant.” Briggs ran his hand over his hair. “I don’t know if I want you to be wrong or right about this.”

“If I’m right, we’ll find those girls.”

“Think any could still be alive?”

It had been more than ten days. Yes, they could be alive, but his doubts grew each day. “I don’t know.”

“If you’re wrong, we both are going to get roasted.”

He’d been hung out to dry before. “It’s a simple search. No charges have been made.”

“Don’t pull in the state police yet,” the mayor said.

“It’ll be Paxton and me.”

“And Paxton can keep his mouth shut? That boy ran his mouth when he was a kid.”

“He won’t talk. I don’t tolerate any leaks.”

“Okay. When are you going to do it?”

“As soon as we have an open window.”

The mayor shook his head. “I hope you’re wrong.”

“I hope that I’m not. We have four missing women and a community that’s getting impatient. An arrest would help calm nerves.”

“Call me when it’s done.”

The mayor was right. Colton was a con artist and a shoddy promoter, but that didn’t make him a killer.

Taggart had nothing solid on Rafe Colton other than a gut feeling that he was tangled up in the girls’ disappearance.

He’d watched Colton’s house for eight nights, sitting in the dark. Colton usually arrived home about 10:00 p.m., only to leave two hours later.

On the first night Colton was on the move, Taggart had followed him to a ramshackle convenience store. Taggart had sat outside and waited almost thirty minutes before Colton reappeared with a six-pack of beer and a plastic bag filled with VHS tapes.

The next day, Taggart had returned to the store and asked the clerk to tell him what Colton had rented. Twenty bucks later, he’d learned the videos Colton liked to rent were the hardcore kind. Kink. BDSM. Forced sex. Taggart had rented a few himself, wanting to know how Colton thought. It wasn’t his first porno, but he’d never liked the added violence.

Taggart got his search warrant quickly.

He knew Colton’s pattern well enough to guess he’d leave his home by 1:00 in the afternoon. When he and Paxton had arrived on the property, Colton’s truck was gone.

Taggart pulled his Crown Vic around the house, so it wasn’t visible at first glance from the street. Out of the car, he surveyed the tall grass surrounding the house and a small barn out back.

“What are we looking for?” Paxton asked.

“Anything tying him to the missing women.”

“Where can we look?”

“Open surfaces. But if you have a gut feeling about something, let me know.”

Taggart strode toward the back door. The house was a rental, and Briggs had gotten Taggart a spare set of keys to the house. He shoved the key in the lock and twisted. The dead bolt opened.

They entered the residence. The shades were pulled, and the house was bathed in shadows. It smelled of pot and beer. Music posters decorated the walls. Woodstock. Rolling Stones. Bad Company.

“You stay in the living room,” Taggart said. “I’ll check the bedroom.”

“Will do.” Paxton moved, his body tense, as if he expected to get caught.

Taggart entered the bedroom. Colton had a large bed with a headboard and posts. The spread was smooth and the pillows in place. Across from the bed was a dresser, and on it sat a television and a VCR. He pressed the eject button on the machine and a movie popped out. Bondage Babes .

He opened the top dresser drawers, filled with concert T-shirts. He searched each drawer until he was sure there was nothing linked to the victims. He combed through the nightstands, the closet, under the bed, and behind the picture frames. A nervous energy tightened his belly as he exited the bedroom and moved past Paxton, who was searching behind the couch cushions.

In the kitchen he opened all the drawers, noting the large collection of sharp kitchen knives. The cabinets were filled with old plates, cups, and glasses.

“Find anything?” Paxton asked.

“Nothing.”

Frustration fizzled through him, and he moved back to the kitchen sink and stared out the back window to a barn. It was an old wood-frame structure with a few small windows and double doors.

The barn was fifty feet from the house and in a direct line of sight from the kitchen. “Come with me to the barn.”

Paxton joined him. “The search warrant is for the house.”

“And all structures.”

“I don’t think it says that.”

“It does.” If it didn’t and he found critical evidence, he’d talk to Briggs.

Hinges squeaked as he opened the barn door. Inside, light filtered through the roof’s missing shingles. Slashes of light cut across the air, catching particles of dust in their paths.

The barn was filled with equipment from the festival. Speakers, dismantled stages, a large banner announcing the festival hung from the rafters, wafting in the breeze that rushed in behind him. A half dozen large trunks were stacked on top of each other. Stage props included rolled-up rugs, a large sparkling globe, and stage lights.

Dust kicked up around his boots as he crossed to the trunks. It was common for killers to keep mementos from their victims. These were often small trinkets. It was clear Colton liked mementos from his concerts, and it tracked he would do the same with victims.

“What did you save?” he muttered to himself.

He flipped up the lock on the top storage box. It opened, and he lifted the lid.

“I think we’re out of the safe zone,” Paxton said.

“This box is stored in the barn.”

“I thought we were limited to the house and what was in plain sight.”

“Paxton, do me a favor? I need a flashlight from my trunk.”

Paxton hesitated. He wasn’t the quickest on the draw, but he understood he was being given an out. He couldn’t testify to what he’d not seen. “Will do, boss.”

When the barn door closed, Taggart opened the lid. Inside were blankets and folded tarps. He dug his arm into the box and rooted through the layers until his fingertips grazed the wooden bottom of the trunk. Sometimes killers went to great trouble to hide their trophies. Others kept them displayed—hidden in plain sight. These killers liked to have them accessible because the simple act of seeing them triggered sexual desire. Many killers masturbated as they fondled a trinket.

The women had been missing for a week and a half. Whatever had happened at the festival was still fresh in Colton’s mind. And with the increasing media coverage, he had plenty to stimulate memories of the event.

Taggart closed and moved aside the first trunk, then searched the second. It wasn’t until he opened the third and bottom trunk that he found a dusty brown shoebox nestled in the center of blankets.

He lifted the lid of the box. Satisfaction rushed him. A blue guitar strap was curled into a tight ball and wedged in the corner. Laurie Carr, Blue Guitar Girl. In the space between the guitar strap and the edge of the shoebox was Patty Reed’s driver’s license. Her smiling face stared up at him. His throat tightened. There were two other items in the box—a heart necklace and an onyx ring. He replaced the lid back on the box and closed the trunk.

A jolt of victory was blunted by the hard truth that these women were no longer missing. They’d been victims. They were dead.

Hinge doors squeaked open, and when he glanced over his shoulder, sunlight silhouetted Paxton’s shape. “I have the flashlight.”

Taggart’s knees protested as he straightened. “We need to talk to the judge and then radio the state police.”

Paxton’s gaze locked on the trunk. “You found something.”

“I’m not sure what I found,” he lied. “But I need to talk to the judge before I look any further.”

Paxton looked relieved. “Okay.”

Outside sunlight warmed his chilled skin. He wanted Rafe Colton to spend the rest of his life in jail, and he wanted to find those women. He would have to tread carefully to accomplish both.