What She Saw - 9

Sloane

I parked in front of the Dawson Sheriff’s Department. It was a simple brick building with small windows and solid doors. It mirrored hundreds of other municipal structures across the country. I’d been in dozens of police departments over the last decade, and I’d come to wonder if the same guy had sold all the jurisdictions the exact same blueprint.

I grabbed my backpack, got out of the car, and crossed the sidewalk to the front door. Inside, I faced a glass wall that separated the working office from the public waiting area. The walls were covered with community event flyers, lost-dog announcements, wanted posters, and local ordinances. The navy-blue walls had been refreshed with a coat of paint in recent years, and the upholstered chairs had new coverings. Law enforcement administrations didn’t embrace change. Redecorating, like justice, was rarely swift.

Behind the thick pane of glass sat a stocky woman with graying brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. She cradled a phone under her chin as she took notes on a pink message slip.

The receptionist set the phone down and looked up. I moved closer to the speaker nestled in the thick glass. “I have an appointment with Sheriff Paxton. My name is Sloane Grayson. And you are?”

“Jennifer Watts.” She leaned forward a fraction. “You’re the writer?”

News traveled fast. “Yes.”

“Right.” Jennifer studied me through the glass as she pressed an intercom button and announced my arrival.

I turned from the window, finding her curiosity annoying. Most in her world didn’t like people like me. I was the disrupter, the finder of secrets, the troublemaker.

While I waited, I surveyed a flyer detailing upcoming community events. Next Friday, there was a band playing ’70s music in the town square pavilion.

A side door opened, and a short man dressed in a uniform appeared. He’d shaved his head but sported a big mustache. For a moment I wondered if they’d sent the wrong man out to see me and then realized it was Paxton. All the images I’d seen of him were at least twenty years old, and back in the day he’d been muscular but trim. The muscle had softened to fat. In his mid-fifties now, he’d run for sheriff after Taggart died. During his campaign, he’d never mentioned the Mountain Music Festival’s missing victims. His unwillingness to dredge up the past had won him the election.

“Sheriff Paxton?” I extended my hand.

He accepted it. “Sloane?”

“One and the same.”

“Come on back to my office. We can have a little chat.”

“Great.”

Jennifer buzzed us back in. I followed him down a long, painted cinder block hallway. It was covered in formal images of the sheriffs who’d served the town of Dawson. I paused when I passed Taggart’s portrait. Judging by his dark hair, the photo had been taken shortly after he’d arrived on the job.

“Taggart left some big shoes to fill.” Paxton paused at his office door.

Taggart’s vivid gray eyes glared, as if daring the world to contradict Paxton. I pulled my gaze away and produced what should have passed for a friendly smile. I decided Paxton had had his fill of comparisons to the last sheriff. “A complicated legacy, from what I’ve read.”

“That’s what some say.” His gruff voice was stuffed with emotions.

Though still in Taggart’s shadow, Paxton was the sheriff. I needed to highlight that distinction often.

I followed him into his office. More white cinder block walls with photos of Paxton with state and local officials. Bookshelves included awards from local businesses and the state association. They reminded me of participation ribbons that parents gave to kids when they finished dead last in a swim meet.

He motioned toward two olive-green chairs angled in front of his desk. As I sat, he moved around to the chair behind his desk. A classic power move that always amused me.

I didn’t reach for my notebook because it tended to make people nervous. They were inclined to talk if they believed their words were unrecorded and could be forgotten. Lucky for me, I had one hell of a memory.

“Quite the operation you have here,” I said. “Looks like you run a tight ship.”

His chair squeaked as he leaned back a fraction. “I like to think so.”

“You’ve been sheriff for five years now?”

“I have.”

“What made you want the job?” I asked.

“I’ve been with the department since I was twenty-one. No one knows this county better than me.”

“Nice for the business owners to know who they can call if they need help. Not a 9-1-1 number but a name and face on the other end.”

“Exactly. Dawson is a close-knit community.”

“One big happy family?”

He chuckled. “Like all families, sometimes we get along and sometimes we don’t.”

“Crime can’t be that bad in this area.” That was the image the tourism bureau promoted in all their posts.

“You didn’t come here to talk about crime statistics.” He threaded his fingers over his rounded belly. “You said in your email that you’re doing a piece on the Mountain Music Festival in 1994.”

He’d broken the ice. Good. Small talk annoyed me. “That’s right. It’s been thirty-one years, and cold cases are always of interest to readers.”

He steepled his fingers. “It’s not a cold case. We caught the killer.”

“I was thinking about the bodies. They were never found.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“It’s a mystery. A missing piece of the puzzle. The human brain likes pieces in their rightful place.”

“Think anyone cares now? Most folks have bigger fish to fry. How many millions of people have died or gone missing in the last thirty-one years? The price of gas or groceries trumps this story.”

“I disagree. Stories like this tend to distract people from their everyday world.”

“You write to remind people that someone else has it worse off than them?”

“Something like that.”

“There’s not much I can do for you, Sloane. It’s been thirty-one years, and the chance of finding any traces of those bodies is slim to none.” His voice wrapped me in a patronizing, fluffy ball.

“Time can shake loose facts and confessions. New information can solve cold cases.”

“I don’t know who you’d talk to.”

“You’re my first. I was hoping you could tell me a little about that weekend. You were right there at ground zero.”

“I was there.”

“From what I read you were a big help to Sheriff Taggart.” There was no rule that said I had to tell the truth.

“I was. Sheriff Taggart and I worked as a team.”

“You weren’t looped into the festival planning?”

“No. The old sheriff did the bulk of it. It was a done deal when Taggart accepted the job. The planning committee was more worried about posters and concessions than security.”

“Can you tell me about the first few hours of the festival?”

“They were the easiest. Weather was warm and the skies clear. The bands and vendors were arriving, but it was orderly at that point.”

“But . . .”

“Taggart wanted to make a last-minute request to the state police for extra men. But Mayor Briggs was a cheap son of a bitch, and he would nickel-and-dime the event to the very end.”

“What about Woodward Security?”

“I made calls for hours about Woodward. They were a new outfit and had no track record. Their rates were the cheapest in the state. When I arrived, I didn’t see any of their guys.”

“When you testified at the trial, you said Tristan Fletcher was the first victim you saw at the festival.”

“She was issuing wristbands to staff and attendees.”

“What do you remember about her?”

“She wore cutoff jeans and a halter top. I didn’t recognize her, and it wasn’t till later that I realized she would be one of the missing.”

I’d seen pictures taken of Tristan that day. The cutoff jeans hugged her butt, and the halter top put her breasts on full display. “I’ve seen pictures of her. Terrific figure.”

He stilled, as if imagining that tight body swaying. “She was pretty.”

“Lots of good-looking girls at the festival.”

“Yeah.”

I’d seen hundreds of festival pictures. One captured Paxton in uniform along with a couple of young girls passing him. The girls were wearing shorts and ripped T-shirts that skimmed full breasts. In the image, a tall blonde was looking back at him and smiling. Paxton’s gaze was locked on her breasts—or, as he said in court, the long line of her neck.

“Who approved the tents?” At least a dozen campers had set up pup tents on the edge of the field. Most were patched and covered in dirt, as if they’d seen their share of camping trips.

“I’m not sure. Taggart and I didn’t.”

“The tent owners insist that they’d pitched the tents for the purpose of sleeping.”

He shook his head. “They weren’t fooling anyone.”

“Several women who filed assault complaints said they’d been pulled in one of those tents.”

“The tents were a pain in the ass. We should have pulled them down as they went up.”

“Did you see Patty?”

“Yeah.”

“What were your impressions of her?”

“I liked Patty. Even considered taking her out.”

“But she had a kid.”

He nodded. “I didn’t need that kind of complication in my life.” His face flushed as if he remembered. “Sorry. You’re Patty Reed’s kid?”

“I am.” A half smile tipped my lips. “And for the record, I’m not sure I’d date anyone with kids. My work is my life.”

He studied my face as if searching for more traces of Patty. “I was totally into my job,” he said finally. “My plan was to work in Dawson a few years and then move on to a bigger department. I dreamed of being a city homicide detective.”

But he’d stayed in Dawson. Big dreams faded, and his life hadn’t changed much. “Why didn’t you?”

“In the end, I couldn’t leave Dawson. More ingrained in me than I’d imagined.”

“You also crossed paths with Laurie Carr,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve seen pictures taken of her. Hot.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

In a different era or maybe if I were a guy, he could have made a few off-color jokes about hot chicks. But he was careful now to watch his words.

“You said you saw Taggart arguing with Colton at about seven that night.”

“They were standing toe to toe by the stage. Taggart didn’t look happy, but Colton was relaxed and smiling. I guessed they were discussing security.”

“You didn’t approach?”

“No. I walked toward the stage, which already had hundreds of people clustered around. The guitar player grinned at one of the girls standing close to the stage. He said something only she could hear, and she tossed back her head and laughed.”

Thirty-one years ago, Paxton’s comments had been more forthcoming. “ Guys in bands get all the pussy, ” he’d told a reporter. “I reckon Colton had all he could handle. I should take up guitar again. I was pretty good at it at one point.”

“About that time there was a woman by the tents who was in trouble,” I prompted.

“Which one? That festival walked hand in hand with booze, drugs, and sexual assault.”

“She was young. About seventeen, eighteen.”

“Right. Bailey Briggs.” She’d been lying face down in the grass beyond the tents. Her arms and legs were spread eagle. But her jeans and peasant top appeared intact.

He’d testified that he’d knelt by Bailey and rolled her on her back. Her thick blond hair was swept over her face, and he hadn’t recognized her immediately. She’d breathed in and out slowly, and he’d pressed his fingers to her throat, searching for a heartbeat. He’d studied the silken hair framing the freckled, pale face and realized who she was.

“The mayor’s daughter.”

She was a senior in high school, and she’d had her troubles with the law. The last sheriff had fixed several tickets for her.

“I escorted her to the first aid trailer. She didn’t have any idea where she was. She said she was fine and then she threw up on the ground. Moments like that were why I’d set my sights on homicide in a bigger city. The dead stayed where you left them, and they sure as shit didn’t barf.”

“You left her at the first aid trailer?”

“Yeah. I thought she’d be fine.”

“But you lost track of her.”

“I couldn’t remember which trip to the first aid station it was when I realized Bailey had vanished.”

“But she didn’t leave the festival. She hooked up with one of the victims, Debra Jackson, also a local high school student.” All the girls had been young and pretty.

“I didn’t find that out until later.”