What She Saw - 43

CJ Taggart

Twenty Years After

The community breathed a sigh of relief when Taggart announced Colton’s arrest in early June. After Colton’s arrest, the commonwealth’s attorney had quickly filed charges. At trial, he’d fashioned the portrait of a complicated, dangerous man who should never be free again.

More sexual assault accounts like Cassidy Rogers’s came to light. Women told Taggart in graphic detail how Colton enjoyed their suffering as he sexually and physically abused them. Some admitted Colton liked threesomes and got off when one of the partners sat by the bed and watched.

Several town leaders from the region testified that Colton’s other festivals were just as poorly organized, and many were plagued by assaults and robberies. An FBI agent searched missing person reports in all the areas where Colton had held festivals. He came up with three missing women. None of them had been found, but there was never enough evidence to link any of it to Colton.

Taggart was more convinced than ever that he’d made the right move.

A few questioned Taggart’s luck. Finding those trinkets had been one hell of a Hail Mary. Almost a little too good to be true. There was talk the evidence had been planted, but it was a small sin compared to Colton’s greater depravities. Taggart’s cobbled-together puzzle pieces created a good enough picture of a murderer.

Bottom line was, the killer had been caught. It was as happy an ending as there could be.

In many jurisdictions, the case would have been thrown out. But there was an unspoken consensus in the Dawson community that Colton deserved prison. His lawyers lobbied for a change of venue, but the judge had refused. The town of Dawson, especially the mayor, wanted a pound of Colton’s flesh.

And the town of Dawson got its justice. Eleven months after the music festival, Colton was convicted on four counts of murder.

Despite all the congratulations, Taggart didn’t feel the full weight of the win. He’d never found the women, and for that he felt as if he’d failed.

Taggart had thought Colton would eventually break and tell him—or someone—where he’d buried the women. But as hard as Taggart had pressed Colton in the interrogations, the man had never wavered. He insisted he was innocent, and that Taggart was framing him.

Five years after the trial, Taggart had taken the case file records and made copies of them all. He’d swapped the copies for the real files and hidden the originals in his cabin. He’d hoped time and a new perspective would help him see the case in a new light. But the facts refused to lead to the bodies. In his gut, he knew he had the right man behind bars. But the specter of missing remains taunted him more as he got older.

He’d kept tabs on Sloane Grayson, Patty’s kid. Sara had moved her to Charlottesville and raised her there. He’d never seen her as an infant, and the first time he’d laid eyes on her, she was six. He’d spent an all-nighter reading the Mountain Music Festival files and the profile on Patty Reed. On a whim, he’d gone looking for her kid.

He’d found her on the playground of her elementary school. Her mother’s black hair and angled face made her easy to spot. The kid had been watching a couple of boys teasing another girl. She’d held back, and he’d thought for a moment she was just afraid to confront the older boys. Then she’d picked up a rock, marched toward the boys, and smacked the biggest one. He’d fallen forward. Blood stained the rock, Sloane, and the kid’s shirt when the teachers came running. Sloane, who showed no signs of remorse, had been pulled away. Teachers gathered around the crying boy.

Taggart followed Sloane through her time in school. She was arrested several times for breaking and entering as a minor, and she would’ve ended up in juvenile detention if he’d not spoken privately to the judge. Social workers determined she had sociopathic tendencies. But she wasn’t like her father. Though she didn’t take pleasure from violence, she wasn’t afraid to bend rules to the point of snapping. In his mind, she was a perfect blend of her parents.

It made sense to give her his files. He wasn’t sure if she’d tackle the story, but if he’d had to bet, he’d have put his money on her.

In thick black ink, he scrawled the only note to her: “I couldn’t find the missing women.” Maybe Sloane could.