The Hunting Season
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Janice Kay Johnson
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Chapter One
Lindsay Engle set down the phone very carefully. If she’d given into her emotions, she’d have slammed it into the cradle and potentially shattered it.
The balding man who’d been chatting with another caseworker made his way between desks until he reached hers. Glenn Wilson, mentor and friend—and well able to read her, even when she was stone-faced. “What’s wrong?” he asked her.
Quiet had stolen over the room, she realized. Glancing around, she saw that her coworkers’ heads had all turned, too. She’d have sworn she hadn’t raised her voice.
“I removed a boy from his home two weeks ago.”
Nods all around; too often, as employees of Oregon State Child Protective Services, they had no choice.
“I placed him with his uncle, who sounded disgusted with his brother. Shane liked his uncle.” Her jaw clenched so hard she wasn’t sure she’d be able to relax it enough to say another word.
Glenn laid a hand on her shoulder. “Is the boy badly injured?” he asked, voice gruff but also gentle.
Lindsay shook her head, swallowed and said, “No, thank heavens. He collapsed trying to get on the school bus. The driver called 9-1-1, and Shane was transported to the hospital. That was the ER doc calling. Shane managed to tell them that his uncle Martin hurt him.” More like beat him to within an inch of his life, from the sound of it.
She opened a desk drawer and took out her handbag. “I need to get to the hospital.”
Ashley Sheldon, who sat behind the next desk, murmured, “That poor kid.”
“Apparently, brutality runs in the family,” Lindsay said bitterly.
“The cops arrest the creep?” Glenn asked.
“He’s conveniently not home. I don’t know whether he realized he’d gone too far, or whether he thought Shane would make an excuse and he’d skate.”
“He fell down the stairs,” suggested Matt Grudin, tone acid.
“Had a dirt bike accident,” Ray Hammond, another coworker, added.
Dark humor was common in their profession, but all Lindsay could summon was a pathetic smile before she said, “I’m off.”
As she walked away, behind her Glenn growled, “There’s a reason I took early retirement.”
She fully understood. Social workers, especially those on the front lines, burned out all too fast. Maybe she was getting to the point where she should do something else for a living. Something one step removed from children with purple bruises, black eyes and teeth knocked out by a fist, or girls who carried terrible secrets. How Glenn had stood it all those years, she couldn’t imagine. She admired him and was grateful that since his retirement he still stopped by the office regularly to say hi and lend his support to anyone who was especially frustrated or down.
At the small community hospital, she went straight to the emergency room, where she was allowed in Shane’s cubicle. As many times as she’d seen battered children and teenagers, she never got over the shock. His face was so swollen and discolored, she wouldn’t have been able to recognize him as the boy who, despite his wariness, was still capable of offering an irresistibly merry smile.
Maybe she should say, had been capable.
The one eye he could open fastened on her. “Ms. Engle?”
At least, that’s what she thought he’d said.
“Shane.” At his bedside, she reached for his hand, but pulled hers back when she saw that his was heavily wrapped. “I’m so sorry. I never dreamed—”
“My fault,” he mumbled through misshapen lips. “I thought—” He, too, broke off, but she had no trouble finishing the sentence. Shane had believed his uncle was a good guy.
“Can you tell me what happened? In ten words or less?”
The fourteen-year-old, tall for his age but skinny, tried to smile, then groaned.
Seized by guilt, Lindsay exclaimed, “I’m sorry! Forget it! We can wait until you don’t hurt so much.”
He gave his head the tiniest of shakes. “S’posed to clean the kitchen last night, and I didn’t. He dragged me out of bed and...” He made an abortive gesture. “You know.”
“I gather you talked to a police officer.”
“Kinda.”
“Okay. Did you have the MRI?”
She thought that was a nod.
“Has the doctor talked to you yet?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Oh. Okay.” She smoothed sandy blond, shaggy hair back from Shane’s battered face. “You know this isn’t your fault.”
His face twisted slightly and one shoulder jerked in a shrug she had no trouble interpreting. Did Shane even believe the cruelty he’d lived through from his father was anything but normal? As with most abused children, he wouldn’t have talked about it to his friends. For all he knew, the same crap might be going on behind closed doors in their homes. Now, having the uncle Shane had liked and trusted react so violently to his minor offense had to make him think men were always this violent...or else there was something about him that caused both his father and uncle to lose it.
Neither interpretation was healthy.
The original call regarding Shane had been referred to another caseworker, Emmett Harper. Emmett had thought Shane would respond better to a woman and transferred his case to Lindsay. Whether Emmett was right or not, Lindsay had never had any trouble with the boy, and thought he trusted her as much as he could trust anyone.
She hated that his ability to trust had taken another blow.
Lindsay hid a wince. Bad pun.
“I say it’s not your fault,” she told him, but saw his disbelief.
AN HOUR LATER, she’d talked to the doctor, a gray-haired, reassuring man who said Shane had suffered a concussion, two broken ribs, a broken cheekbone, three broken fingers, probably from blocking a punch, and a great deal of soft tissue damage. Nothing permanent, but he’d be in significant pain for weeks to months as the broken bones healed.
Shane was admitted for the night because of the head injuries, which gave Lindsay almost twenty-four hours to find him a new placement.
She also talked to the Sadler police officer who had responded to the call from the bus driver and who had driven to Martin Ramsey’s house on the outskirts of town. They used a small room off the ER to talk.
“Shane says, after his uncle beat the crap out of him, he told him to take a shower and get ready for school. Sent the kid out the door to catch the bus.”
“Did he really think nobody would notice Shane’s face?” Lindsay said incredulously.
Middle-aged and seemingly steady, Officer Joe Capek shook his head. “If he did, he’s delusional.”
“Do you think he took off?”
Sounding doubtful, he said, “If he’d been afraid of trouble with authorities, he could have kept the kid home from school for a few days. Threatened Shane with what would happen if he told anyone.”
Lindsay thought the same. “When do you plan to go back to the house?”
“I gather he works as a handyman?”
“More like he does remodels, but yes, he said he takes small jobs, too.”
Capek shrugged. “Figured I’d try five thirty, before my shift ends.”
“I’ll meet you there,” she said, rising to her feet.
“Is that smart?” he asked.
“I want to look him in the eye when you cuff him,” she said grimly.
His mouth twitched into an almost smile. “Let’s meet there, then.”
By the time Lindsay drove to the old farmhouse on the outskirts of Sadler, a headache had begun climbing the back of her neck. She could feel the pitons being pounded in.
Unfortunately, Martin Ramsey did not appear to be home. As Officer Capek circled the house to knock on the back door, Lindsay peered into a dusty, small-paned window on the side of the outbuilding that appeared to serve as a garage. She spotted a lawn mower and a flatbed trailer, but no car or pickup truck.
They met back at their own vehicles.
“I can send a unit around later,” he told her, and she nodded. Truthfully, there was no huge urgency to get their hands on Martin. He had no other children in the home who might be potential victims.
The next morning, she drove Shane to a receiving home, intended to be temporary. Late afternoon, she called Capek to learn he’d had a family emergency. Sadler was one of the larger towns in eastern Oregon, which meant only that it had a handful of traffic lights downtown and an array of essential businesses as well as a bunch of churches and taverns. The police department consisted of seventeen officers as well as a chief and captain. The resources weren’t unlimited, and the county sheriff’s department was stretched even thinner patrolling lonely miles of rural roads and highways. Lindsay had always found both agencies to be cooperative to the extent of their capabilities. This time, though, it appeared that in the absence of Officer Capek, nobody else had made any effort to catch up to Shane’s uncle.
Too mad to wait, she decided to follow up herself. She wouldn’t make contact, just check to see if there were indications the man was home. The situation was beginning to strike her as really strange. Had he gotten home yesterday evening and not wondered at Shane’s absence? Or had he gotten nervous and gone to stay with a friend?
Or could he be at his brother’s empty home? Austin Ramsey was serving a disgracefully short jail sentence for what he’d done to his son. Knowing that, Martin might have thought he could stay there for a week or two with no one the wiser.
Martin’s own home first.
The aging house and barn and additional small outbuilding looked as deserted as they had yesterday. Even forlorn, Lindsay thought, although that was surely all in her head.
Disturbed, she turned her car around and went back out to the road.
Shane had grown up in a somewhat more modern rambler that was also set on two or three acres. As Lindsay turned into the long dirt driveway, she became uneasily aware that, without binoculars, the nearest neighbors wouldn’t see what was happening here.
Her foot went to the brake. Maybe coming out here alone wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. But after a brief hesitation, she made sure the car doors were locked and went ahead. Why would he be a danger to her? He probably thought he was fully justified in punishing his nephew.
She rolled to a stop in front of the house, which at first sight showed no sign of life. Here, a double garage could be hiding his pickup truck.
Lindsay turned her Subaru Outback around, so that all she had to do was stomp down on the accelerator to escape. Then she leaned on the horn and watched the front door and windows through her rearview mirror.
Wait. Was that a light on inside?
Her internal debate was brief. This was hardly the first time she’d gone alone to speak to an abusive parent. Assaulting her wouldn’t advance Martin’s cause. To the contrary, in fact. He still technically had visitation with his own children, albeit they lived with their mother and a stepfather in Pennsylvania. Given his poor impulse control, it probably hadn’t occurred to him that he had put that visitation in jeopardy by beating up his nephew.
Lindsay left the key in the ignition, her engine running and the driver side door open to facilitate a hasty escape. She wasn’t even sure why she felt so tentative as she climbed the two porch steps and approached the front door.
Ringing the doorbell produced a sound inside she’d call a gong. When nothing happened, she eased toward the large front window. The blinds were down, but slanted to allow her to peer in. The interior was dim, but a light was definitely on deeper in the house. The kitchen?
She dialed 9-1-1 and clutched her phone in her hand with her finger poised over the screen as she left the porch and went around the house to the back. On the way, she reasoned with herself. Austin might well have left a light or two on in the house to make it appear someone was home. He could even have lights on timers. Lindsay didn’t understand this instinct insisting that, all evidence to the contrary, someone was here.
The quiet seemed unnatural when the road wasn’t that far away. She stopped in the middle of the overgrown lawn and looked around. Movement in the trees caught her eye, chilling her despite the heat of the day. She stared. She’d been imagining things; no one was there. A few leaves quivered, probably because a bird had taken off from that branch.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to the back stoop, which was just that: a concrete pad with a small extension of the roof sheltering it. She was only a few feet away, about to take a last look over her shoulder, when she saw that the door stood open by an inch or two.
She froze, eyes fixed on the thin band of light. Her finger twitched, but...what if she called the police, and it turned out Austin just hadn’t latched the door when he left the house?
Somehow, Lindsay knew better and knew, too, that she was going to look inside. Her mouth was suddenly dry. She used her elbow to nudge the door. It swung silently inward, revealing a utility room with a bench for the owner to sit and remove boots. Two pairs had been neatly placed beneath the bench. Several coats hung on hooks on the wall. An empty plastic laundry basket sat atop the dryer. An open doorway led into the kitchen.
Lindsay tiptoed forward, straining to hear any faint sound. As she scanned the room, her nostrils flared at the sharp scent of something burning.
For a moment, she didn’t understand why two feet clad in white athletic socks were in such an odd position. She took one more step as she grappled with the question...and saw a man sprawled on the kitchen floor. At the sight of his head and the blood pooling on the floor, her stomach lurched.
Dear God, he was dead. Murdered. And...he was at least the same general size and shape as Martin Ramsey.
DETECTIVE DANIEL DEPERRO groaned as the canned voice on his cell phone assured him he could go the company website and discover a wealth of information, freeing him from any necessity of bothering an actual person. He’d listened to the lengthy spiel and the ensuing elevator music six times now.
Since waiting on hold was a chronic time-waster for all detectives, he was mostly inured, but his mood hadn’t been good today for no particular reason. His leg ached, although there was nothing new in that. When a high-caliber bullet shattered your femur, putting the pieces together was a little bit like trying to patch up poor Humpty Dumpty. And yeah, he hadn’t enjoyed informing the parents of a high school senior that he had arrested their son for selling cocaine, and oh, by the way, the kid would stand trial as an adult since he’d turned eighteen three weeks before.
His desk phone rang and he picked it up, leaving his mobile phone on speaker so he wouldn’t miss a single note of the music.
“Deperro.”
“Detective, this is Officer Bowman. I just responded to a call from a CPS worker who found the man she was looking for dead. Head smashed like a jack-o’-lantern someone dropped. I don’t see a weapon, but someone killed him.”
“Address?”
Daniel committed the street address to memory and asked if the CPS worker was certain of the victim’s identity. A murmur of conversation in the background was replaced by Bowman’s voice.
“She thinks she knows who this is, but can’t be positive.”
“Okay. The name?”
Martin Ramsey rang some bells for him. Coming in to work yesterday, Daniel had taken note of the report of a severe beating given a fourteen-year-old boy and that the teen had tagged his uncle as the perpetrator.
Checking his computer, Daniel saw that an Austin Ramsey owned the home where the dead body had been found. Austin, however, was currently in the county jail. Interesting.
He grabbed his cell phone, cut off the beginning of the spiel, version seven, and walked out of the station to his car.
The drive didn’t take ten minutes.
Somebody had filled potholes in the dirt driveway. Ahead, he saw a brick rambler with a double-car garage at one end. Two vehicles sat in front, one an SPD car with a rack of lights on top, the second a common crossover that would handle well in snow and ice, which they would certainly see plenty of this winter. In the crossover, he could see the back of a woman’s head.
Officer Aaron Bowman came around the side of the house. He was young, twenty-eight or twenty-nine, and had impressed Daniel before with his steadiness and common sense.
When the two men met up, Daniel said, “That the caseworker?”
“Her name is Lindsay Engle. She took a boy named Shane Ramsey from his father, who owns this place, and placed him with the uncle. According to her, a couple weeks later the uncle beat the boy bloody. Nobody has picked up the uncle yet, who apparently hasn’t gone home. She thought he might be hiding out here.”
“And that’s who she thinks is dead in there.”
“Yeah.”
Daniel asked a few questions as the two men went to the back door, which according to the woman had been open. Bowman hadn’t gone past the entrance between the utility room and the kitchen.
“Didn’t need to check for a pulse,” he said, his jaw tightening.
Daniel immediately saw why. Half the victim’s head had been obliterated. He also understood Ms. Engle’s doubts. If the dead man had any face left, it couldn’t be seen from this angle.
The odd note was a small metal wastebasket sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, only feet from the body. He took another step until he was able to see the burned, broken flakes inside, like blackened sheets of paper-thin, delicate phyllo bread.
Crumpled paper, he realized. A fire that had been deliberately set, and gone out when all fuel had been consumed.
Daniel called for CSI. He wanted to walk through the house, but found the front door locked and didn’t want to contaminate the kitchen by tromping through it. He asked Officer Bowman to stay and to start a log of who came and went. Then he went to the caseworker’s car and knocked on the passenger side window. She unlocked once he asked if he could get in to talk to her.
He turned in the seat to survey her, and felt an odd stirring he identified as surprise. In some inexplicable way, she didn’t look like a Child Protective Services caseworker, yet he knew that was ridiculous. He’d worked with enough of her colleagues to be fully aware they could be young, middle-aged, near retirement, outwardly cheerful or glum, blue-eyed or brown. The stereotypes didn’t work. About all he knew for sure was that in the local office, a majority of the caseworkers were women.
This one had medium brown hair worn in a roll on the back of her head, blue eyes and a voluptuous body he thought could be a problem when she worked with unstable men and hormone-ridden teenage boys. But that was none of his business.
What did make him curious was her guarded air. He wondered if she was ever completely open. The fact that he sensed she had secrets might in fact be his business.
“Ms. Engle?” He held out a hand.
Hers was icy cold. “That’s right.”
“Tell me what brought you here.” He smiled, hoping to relax her. “Start at the beginning.”
She spoke succinctly, her voice pleasingly husky. Mostly, what she told him was a recap. He listened intently when she explained her reasoning for checking out this house, and for deciding to get out of her car and ring the doorbell.
“You didn’t consider calling for police backup?” he asked.
“I should have.” Her cheeks warmed. “I don’t like to do that unless I know something’s wrong, though. I mean, that’s a waste of your time. This was just...”
He waited through her hesitation.
Her eyes met his. “I really don’t know. Just a feeling, I guess. I almost chickened out when I first came around the back of the house. I could have sworn someone was standing in that wooded area. But I don’t know, when I kept looking I didn’t see anyone.”
Was she tossing out the possibility that someone else had been watching her to keep him from focusing on her? Or had a killer really been there, and she’d been an idiot to disregard what her instincts had surely been telling her?
She continued. “When I saw that the back door was open a crack, I justified going inside.” She made a face. “I actually tiptoed, believe it or not.”
Yeah, he could see her doing that. He wanted to say, You know walking in that way was stupid, don’t you? Instead, he settled for an “uh-huh.”
“What I don’t understand is who could have killed him. It doesn’t make sense.”
She sounded sincere. Was she that good an actor? He must have hidden what he was thinking, because her expression didn’t change until he asked, “Is Shane still in the hospital?”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re suggesting Shane would do this?”
“I’m asking where he is.”
She didn’t look very friendly now, but said, “I picked him up at the hospital late this morning and took him to a receiving home. I assure you, he’s in no shape to borrow a bike, pedal across town and beat a man to death.”
“But he has excellent motivation,” Daniel said softly.
Her anger, or dislike, flared from a simmer to a rolling boil. “That’s ridiculous! He never even fought back when his father abused him. He’s a good kid. You might as well accuse me.”
He didn’t say a word, because yes, the thought had crossed his mind that she might have cracked and killed a man who epitomized everything she hated.
She retreated without moving a muscle. The rest of her answers were single syllables. He couldn’t even blame her, but the reality was that he had to consider her a suspect at this point.
Ten minutes later, already on his phone, he watched her drive away. If she intended to call the receiving home, he’d beaten her to the punch—and what he learned in a brief conversation set a red flag to flapping.
