The last reports in the first file were investigative summaries of interviews, tips that were checked out and other details from the case that might have meant nothing at the moment they were typed up but could be pivotal later.
Through these reports I could chart Sean’s growing attachment to Theresa Lofton. In the initial pages she was always referred to as the victim, sometimes Lofton. Later on, he began referring to her as Theresa. And in the last reports, those filed in February before his death, he called her Terri, probably having picked up the diminutive name from her family and friends, or maybe from the back of the photo of her first day on campus. The happy day.
With ten minutes left I closed the file and opened the other one. This one was thinner and seemed to be filled with a hodgepodge of investigative loose ends. There were several letters from citizens offering theories on the killing. One letter was from a medium who said Theresa Lofton’s living spirit was circling somewhere above the ozone layer in a high-frequency sound belt. She spoke in a voice so fast that it sounded like a chirp to the untrained ear, but the medium could decipher the chirping and was willing to ask her questions if Sean wanted to. There was no indication from the file that he did.
A supplemental report noted that Theresa’s bank and auto repair shop were within walking distance of the campus. Three times detectives walked the routes between her dorm room, the day care center, the bank and the repair shop but came across no witness who remembered seeing Theresa on the Wednesday after classes ended. Despite this, my brother’s theory—outlined in another supplemental—was that Lofton had been abducted sometime after calling her mechanic from the day care center but before she got to the bank to get money to pay him.
The file also contained a chronological record of the activity of the investigators assigned to the case. Initially, four members of the CAPS squad worked the case full-time. But as little headway was made and more cases came up, the investigative effort was winnowed down to Sean and Wexler. Then just Sean. He wouldn’t let it go.
The last entry in the chronological record was made on the day he died. It was just one line: “Mar 13—RUSHER at Stanley. P/R info on Terri.”
“Time.”
I looked up and Wexler was pointing to his watch. I closed the file without protest.
“What’s P-slash-R mean?”
“Person Reporting. It meant he got a call.”
“Who is Rusher?”
“We don’t know. There’s a couple people in the phone book with that name. We called them, they didn’t know what the fuck we were talking about. I ran something on NCIC but with just a last name didn’t get anything to work with. Bottom line is, we don’t know who it was or is. We don’t even know if it’s a man or woman. We don’t know if Sean actually met anybody or not. We found nobody at the Stanley who saw him.”
“Why would he go to meet this person without telling you or leaving some kind of record about who it was? Why’d he go alone?”
“Who knows? We’ve gotten so many calls on that case, you could spend all day just writing notes. And maybe he didn’t know. Maybe all he knew was that someone wanted to talk to him. Your brother was so caught up on this one, he would have gone to meet anybody who said they knew something. I’ll let you in on a little secret. It’s something that’s not in there because he didn’t want people around here thinking he was loony. But he went to see that psychic—the medium—that’s mentioned in there.”
“What did he get?”
“Nothing. Just some bullshit about the killer being out there wanting to do it again. I mean, it was like—yeah, no kidding, thanks for the tip. Anyway, that’s off the record, the psychic stuff. I don’t want people thinking Mac was a flake.”
I didn’t bother to say anything about the stupidity of what he had just said. My brother had killed himself and yet Wexler was engaged in trying to limit the damage his image might suffer if it was known he had consulted a psychic.
“It doesn’t go past this room,” I said instead. After a few moments of silence I said, “So what’s your theory on what happened that day, Wex? Off the record, I mean.”
“My theory? My theory is he went out there and whoever it was who’d called him didn’t show. It was another dead end for him and it tipped the scale. He drove up to that lake and he did what he did. . . Are you going to write a story about him?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Look, I don’t know how to say this but here goes. He was your brother but he was my friend. I might’ve even known him better than you. Leave it alone. Just let it go.”
I told him I would think about it but it was only to placate him. I had already decided. I left then, checking my watch to make sure I had enough time to get out to Estes Park before dark.
6
I didn’t get to the parking lot at Bear Lake until after five. I realized it was just as it had been for my brother, deserted. The lake was frozen and the temperature was dropping quickly. The sky was already purple and going dark. It wasn’t much of a draw for locals or tourists this late in the day.
As I drove through the lot I thought about why he had picked this place to come. As far as I knew it had nothing to do with the Lofton case. But I thought I knew why. He parked where he had parked and just sat there thinking.
There was a light on in the ceiling of the overhang above the front of the ranger shack. I decided to get out and see if Pena, the witness, was there. Then another thought struck me. I slid over to the passenger side of the Tempo. I took a couple of deep breaths, then opened the door and started running for the woods where they grew closest to the car. As I ran I counted by thousands out loud. I was at eleven thousand by the time I had gotten over the snowbank and reached the cover.
Standing there in the woods, a foot deep in snow without boots on, I bent over and put my hands on my knees as I caught my breath. There was no way a shooter could have gotten into the woods to hide if Pena had been out of the shack as quickly as he had reported. I finally stopped gulping the air and headed toward the ranger’s shack, debating how to approach him. As a reporter or a brother?
It was Pena behind the window. I could see the nameplate on his uniform. He was locking a desk when I looked through the window. He was calling it a day.
“Can I help you, sir? I’m closing up.”
“Yes, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
He came out, eyeing me suspiciously because I obviously wasn’t dressed for a hike in the snow. I had on jeans and Reeboks, a corduroy shirt beneath a thick woolen sweater. I had left my long coat in the car and I was very cold.
“My name is Jack McEvoy.”
I waited a moment to see if it registered. It didn’t. He had probably only seen the name written in reports he had to sign, or in the newspaper. Its pronunciation—Mac-a-voy—didn’t jibe with its spelling.
“My brother. . . he was the one you found a couple weeks ago.”
I pointed toward the lot.
“Oh,” he said, understanding. “In the car. The officer.”
“Uh, I’ve been with the police all day, looking at the reports and stuff. I just wanted to come out and take a look. It’s hard, you know. . . to accept it.”