Mortal Fall (46 page)

The Snow Ghost Bar and Grill was busier than I expected and, with its golden evening lighting, looked more inviting than it did when I met the veterinarian, Dr. Pritchard, for lunch in the middle of the afternoon with only the sunlight from the front windows streaming in to illuminate the lounge. About half the tables were occupied and the bar was still lined with people, just as I had hoped. Will was working, serving drinks to the patrons lined before him. I found a seat at an empty table not far from the bar and ordered a beer from the cocktail waitress. I thought of Gretchen, halfway wished she was with me to go over the case. I wanted to ask her about the trace elements in the car, but would have to wait until morning. She didn’t need to be woken up in the middle of the night with questions from me.

I was sitting near a young couple that were crooning and melting into one another. Beside them sat a wiry and white-haired man hunched over a glass of whiskey, definitely looking like he shouldn’t drive. I hoped he was within walking distance to wherever he was
headed after closing. Two red-faced men farther down the bar were arguing over politics with big gestures and loud voices. A round table was full of garrulous middle-aged women and some low, throbbing music droned in the background. I sat back in my chair and watched everyone, trying to shed the evening’s events.

When the cocktail waitress brought me my draft, I thanked her and started up some small talk, asking her about her summer, where she was from, and whatnot. It felt good to act like everything was normal, like I was just some visiting tourist and that I hadn’t just interrogated my own brother in a jail room. She said her name was Lindsay, and she wore a tank top, her shoulders sunburned as if she’d been out playing on the lake or up in the mountains all day.

“You’ve been busy tonight?” I asked her.

“Yeah, always this time of the year. It’ll slow down for just a few weeks in the shoulder season, but even that’s getting smaller and smaller these days.”

The drunk from the bar stood up and staggered toward us. “I’d like another,” he slurred to Lindsay. “Will won’t serve me.”

“Mr. Talbert, you’re going to have to stop now. It’s close to last call.”

He looked at her with the confused face of a drunk—one I’d recognize anywhere—for a moment, shrugged, then stumbled off to the bathroom.

“Poor guy. He lives nearby.” She shook her head sadly. “He’s lonely. Gets drunk a lot. His son’s a bartender here, so he comes in quite a bit even though it drives him crazy.”

“His son works here?” I asked.

“Yeah, Will.” She motioned to the bar.

“Yeah, I know Will. I thought his last name was DeMarcus?”

“Yeah, it is.” She shrugged. “Not sure how that works. You better drink that one quickly if you want to get another in before last call.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That probably won’t be a problem.” I watched her saunter off to the next table, a tingling sensation starting in my arms and spreading to my fingers. I’ve read that some creative people,
like painters, musicians, or writers, claim that halfway into their paintings, songs, or stories, it is almost no longer their piece, and that some greater energy or muse takes over—that the painting almost paints itself, and the song or story nearly writes itself.

Now, I’m not pretending that solving a case is some creative process; quite the opposite. It involves fact-finding and plenty of objective thinking, but when a case begins to come together, begins to make sense, there is a similarity to other creative endeavors. I experienced it as a game warden, as Park Police, and on the Lance case while working with Systead. At some point, all the cogs begin to rotate as one. Information that feels like it’s free-floating suddenly finds gravity and pulls together into something that makes sense. Clues fall seemingly out of nowhere right into your lap and eventually, order emerges.

It feels like sheer coincidence, but perhaps it’s just the power of the brain—subconscious parts leading you to a particular clue or spot that your mind has been dwelling on and steering you toward anyway, so that when the hint pops up right in front of you, it feels like luck . . . like the detective angels are out there looking out for you, when, really, your own mind has been setting you up for a break all along.

I sat and took a long gulp and as I set my beer down, I went through the files I’d researched earlier in my head. Names flashed through my mind: Jonathon Fieldland from Seattle, Zachary Gentry from Missoula, Paul something or other from Syracuse . . . a Bradley Talbert from Kalispell, Montana. I left my drink on the table and went to the men’s room. Mr. Talbert, apparently Will’s father, stumbled out of the bathroom stall and went to the sink and clumsily turned on the water. He looked in the mirror at himself, squinting, trying to make sense of his own sagging face.

He reached for the soap, but couldn’t figure out where the push lever to dispense it was located, so I reached over. “Here, let me help you there.”

He looked at me, that same baffled look, his eyes trying to catch some purchase, then muttered, “Uh thanks.”

“Are you Mr. Talbert?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Are you Will’s father?”

He squinted at me, one eye completely closing, then began to laugh, his head swaying on his shoulders.

“You’d have t’ ash him,” he said, then stumbled out of the bathroom. “He’d say no.”

I pushed the lever on the soap dispenser and watched the pink liquid trickle down onto my palm. I figured it had been purchased in bulk, which, in and of itself, meant practically nothing since—I was also certain—a hundred other restrooms open to the public used the same type. But I couldn’t help think about what Gretchen had told me—that a residue of a commercial-grade soap was found under Phillips’s nails. I wiped it off my hand, grabbed my phone, and dialed Gretchen’s number, waking her up after all. She answered with a groggy voice, “Monty?”

“Yeah, hi. Sorry to wake you, but I need a favor. Can you look online to see if a Brad and Will DeMarcus underwent any name changes and call me back with what you find? I wouldn’t call you this late if it weren’t important.”

I went back out and sat down with my half-empty glass of beer, and eyed it suspiciously. I got out my smartphone again and pulled up the Internet. Sometime last year, I recalled that there’d been a few incidents in the town of Whitefish where several women had claimed they’d been slipped Rohypnol, the date-rape drug, while out at some of the local bars. If I remembered correctly, the date-rape drugs, specifically Rohypnol and GHB, were difficult to detect in a normal autopsy, much less a body that had been decomposing outside and fed upon. And even the full-panel toxicity test Wilson had sent to the lab, which took four to six weeks to get back, might not show the drug. For Phillips, Gretchen had said there had been no sign of struggle, a low level of alcohol, and residue from a type of commercial soap. I searched until I found the article, but it didn’t mention the name of the bars suspected.

I took my beer with me to the end of the bar farthest from the men still talking too loudly and leaned into it with one elbow, motioning to Will. He looked around, then came over. “Hey, Will,” I said.

“Hi,” he said. “You need a drink?”

“Nah.” I held up my beer, the amber liquid rich in the light of the bar. “I’m still good.”

Will picked up an empty to the side of me and put it in a tray full of other dirties.

“I wanted to ask you,” I said. “Did your last name used to be Talbert?”

He looked at me and blinked several times, one of the obnoxious men laughing boisterously and saying something to Will. “They’re calling me,” he said. “Just a minute.”

“Will,” I said, catching him before he slid off. “I’m just wondering—the man over there.” I pointed to Mr. Talbert now studying something in his empty glass, his head bent over it like a broken-stemmed bud. “He says you’re related.”

Will shook his head. “He’s a crazy ol’ man,” he mumbled as he scooted off down the bar.

I waited for him to serve each of the men down the bar another beer, then called him over again, but he either legitimately couldn’t hear me or was acting like he couldn’t, so I moved closer and leaned in further. “Will,” I said.

The expression on his face said he was annoyed to be bothered.

“Your brother, Brad,” I said firmly. “Did he go to Glacier Academy?”

Will frowned, deeply furrowing his brow. “What?”

“Did Brad go to Glacier Academy?”

“Why?”

“I was just wondering if—”

Lindsay, the cocktail waitress, walked up and called out for two glasses of the Trouchard and a vodka martini with extra olives for the cackling table of ladies.

“ ’Scuse me,” Will said. “I’m busy here.” He hustled to the other end of the bar before I got out another word.

I walked back to my seat and studied him. After Will filled the wine and made the martini, he said something to Lindsay as she stood holding the tray of drinks. They were nearly arguing, then Will walked into the back room and she looked confused and a little angry. I put a ten on the table and went up to her. “Excuse me, Lindsay.” I waved her over.

She came and I said, “Is everything okay with Will?”

“Yeah sure.” She shrugged. “I mean. I guess so. He doesn’t usually leave before closing, but whatever. Can I get you another beer?”

“No, I’m good. I left some money on the table. Any idea where he went?”

She shook her head, “Just said he needed to leave. Wants me to close up.”

My radar shot up. I walked out the front, the only exit available to the patrons, and went around the block to where the back employee entrance was. It was dark and empty. I scanned the parking lot directly behind it for anyone getting into their car or leaving, but saw no one, just a couple giggling as they walked down the sidewalk. Will had either headed home on foot or had already pulled away.

I went to my car and got my gun out of the trunk, where I’d locked it before going in, and drove the few blocks to Will’s apartment complex toward the railroad district. The windows of his apartment were dimly lit. Either Will had left a light on or he’d already arrived. I sat and watched for a moment, trying to see movement in the apartment, and also kept one eye on the street for anyone walking up on foot until my phone buzzed.

I picked it up. “What did you find?”

“That Willem’s and Bradley’s birth certificates show that they were born twins on April eleventh in Kalispell to an Ericka and Ray Talbert. At twenty-two, both Willem and Bradley Talbert changed their names to Willem and Bradley DeMarcus, the same as their mother and stepfather. Ericka married John DeMarcus in 1990 when the boys were nine.”

I thanked Gretchen and told her I had a strong hunch, and that I was going to question Will DeMarcus again and would call her back
as soon as I knew more. The fact that Will’s brother was also at Glacier Academy, and had worked for Wolfie before committing suicide was interesting. It didn’t mean Will murdered anyone, but I wanted to check it out, especially since Will left the bar early after he saw me there.

I drove and parked outside the apartment complex, just as Ken and I had done before, and peered up at the windows of his unit. I waited, watching for movement to see if he was inside, but I didn’t see anything. I got out, tucked my gun away, locked the car, and went up the stairs and peeked inside the window. The light was coming from the hallway, but other than that, it didn’t look like Will was home.

I knocked on the door, but no one came, then checked through the window again, still not seeing any sign of him. I went back down the stairs thinking I’d have to come back in the morning to talk to him. What I had learned was suspicious and interesting, but not enough to get a warrant. I strode through the shadowed street and went back to my car. My thoughts returned to Adam, and I wondered if Adam had known Bradley DeMarcus. I tried to remember the dates that Bradley was at Glacier Academy, and thought I recalled that it was several years later than Adam’s stay, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have a connection. I dug in my pocket for my keys as I got to my car, thoughts of Adam still plaguing me, and just as I was about to open my door, I heard the click of a gun safety unlatching by my right ear.

“Stop,” he said, “and hold your hands up.”

I could see a man’s reflection in my car window and was sure it was Will. My heartbeat shot up and I cursed myself for not being more on guard. His voice sounded strained, slightly shaky. His 9 millimeter was pointing no more than five inches from my head.

“Hold it,” I said, shaking my head and raising my hands as he instructed. “Don’t pull that trigger, Will. It’s Will, right?” I looked slightly to my right, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see his face. I could sense fear in him, and I felt a solid dose of intense terror shoot through myself. Fear could be good or it could be really bad; scared-shitless
people made for jittery fingers. People pulled triggers because they felt power doing so, or because they were angry or scared and had snapped. Or because they felt nothing at all, as if they were simply playing a video game and pulling the trigger gave them a rush. Will, he felt things, I could tell by the sweat gathering on his temple, the strain in his eyes, and the quiver on his lip.

“Will,” I said as calmly as I could muster. “You need to point that someplace else. Point it at the ground.” I could hear his breathing, shallow and shaky—almost staccato.

“Don’t look at me. Face the car.” The voice was rising. I hoped like hell someone from one of the apartments would look out and call for help. I did what he said and looked forward, back into the reflection of the car window.

“He deserved it. He hurt my brother. He
raped
my brother.”

I was going to ask who, but was afraid I’d interrupt his train of thought. “I’m sure he did a lot of things,” I said, still facing the driver’s door of my car. “Let’s drop the weapon and talk about it.” My head felt light. I knew it was the adrenaline mixed with the sharp stab of fear.

“He’d come in all smug into my bar after his hikes,” Will continued. “Like he was some mountain man, at one with nature, healthy and fit as can be—his own body a temple. As if he’d never hurt a soul. Talking about his hikes and all the peaks he’d bagged like they were badges of honor, and he was some hero.”