Nothing Left: A Jack Cameron Thriller Read online

  Vaughn said, “So Saunt is our killer. We know that. That part’s obvious. What’re you getting at with the motive and this girl?”

  I said, “How old is the girl?”

  Vaughn said, “I don’t know. Fifteen? Fourteen?”

  I nodded and asked, “And what about the other one?”

  “Maybe thirteen or fourteen.”

  I nodded.

  I said, “Saunt didn’t plan to kill them. Like we thought from the beginning, the two cops were shot to death by an amateur shooter. Someone who had no idea what he was doing. Someone with little or no experience with a gun.”

  Vaughn nodded.

  I said, “So it’s Saunt. No question he was out there and he shot those cops and then he drove back here and was distraught and tried to kill himself.”

  She said, “What’s the girl got to do with it?”

  I walked pasted Vaughn and over to the bathroom. I kicked the door open all the way gently with my boot.

  I said, “First, he ran bath water.”

  “Yeah. And?”

  “He stopped the bath.”

  Vaughn nodded.

  “See the tub isn’t flowing over. It’s plugged up and hot and ready for someone to get in it.”

  Vaughn said, “It’s not hot now.”

  “I meant it was hot.”

  Vaughn said, “Okay.”

  I said, “Saunt was out in the desert. He brought a gun with him. He killed these two cops and he hadn’t planned on it. In fact, he hadn’t planned on doing anything even close to killing them.

  “The gun was really just a precaution.”

  Vaughn said, “I agree. It’s all sloppy, but we don’t know that he didn’t plan to murder them. The guy tried to kill himself; maybe he’s out of his mind.”

  I said, “He might be, but if anything it’s temporary insanity. He met them out there. They told him something that made him snap. Then he shot them. He came back here, started to take a bath, maybe like he always did.”

  “Do you think baths are normal for men?”

  I said, “Not for me. I’m a shower guy, but who knows. Maybe for him.”

  She said nothing.

  I said, “But as he was getting ready for a bath, something else happened to him.”

  “What?”

  “He snapped out of it. He came back into reality and realized that he had nothing left to live for. So he did what thousands of people do every single year. He tried to take his own life. Maybe he even thought about using a razor in the tub like a lot of suicides do, but then he just thought, ‘Hey. I’ve got more bullets. I can just end it with one shot to the head.’”

  Vaughn said, “Only he failed at that.”

  “Maybe. But you’re missing the point.”

  She asked, “What’s the point?”

  “Why did he try to kill himself?”

  Vaughn walked forward around the bed and stared down at the floor as if she were watching for the cracks and didn’t want to step on them.

  She said, “I want to say because he realized what he did, but after he came back to reality then he realized that he wasn’t going to get away with it. But I imagine you’re going to tell me I’m wrong.”

  I nodded and said, “You are.”

  “So why did he try to kill himself after and why is the girl motive?”

  Then I saw her face light up like she was getting it as I was explaining it.

  I said, “We theorized at first that this was over money. And it was, but it wasn’t payment for blackmail or anything like that.”

  A look of horror started to creep slowly across Vaughn’s face as she realized what it was payment for.

  I said, “It was ransom money.”

  Vaughn looked back at the camera.

  I said, “Do a background check on Ryan Miles Saunt and I bet that you’ll find that he either was or is a family man and he has a teenage daughter.”

  Vaughn said, “And she’s about fourteen or fifteen.”

  I nodded and said, “With blue eyes and blonde hair.”

  Vaughn said, “I didn’t recognize his name. If his daughter was missing, there’d be a report and amber alert and everything.”

  I said, “That’s if it was ever reported to begin with.”

  Vaughn nodded and said, “Oh, God! They took his daughter!”

  I said, “Probably, but we need confirmation. You need to run a background check on him and make sure he has a daughter.”

  Vaughn nodded.

  I said, “We should alert the FBI. Kidnapping is their thing.”

  She said, “But won’t that endanger her?”

  I said, “Not really. The kidnappers are dead. We’ll need their help.”

  She nodded and said, “At least two of them are dead.”

  She was right. There might’ve been a third man out there somewhere.

  Chapter 12

  VAUGHN AND I returned to her police car after she bagged the Glock, the empty magazine, a shell casing that we found on the floor from Saunt’s fired bullet, and the camera, which had an almost dead battery. I carried what looked like a power cord for the camera. It had a tiny, flat end that appeared to fit into the camera someplace. I wasn’t sure if it was the right cord to recharge the battery, but I hadn’t seen any other loose power cords in the room and as far as we could tell, there was no cell phone. Saunt’s cell phone was probably in his car or in the pocket of his jacket or his pants and both were on him at the hospital.

  Vaughn also took the motel room key off the table. The key was clearly marked by a round metal badge that had the motel’s name and room number written on it in small letters and numbers made by hand. Next to the motel room key, underneath a lamp, she also found a set of keys to Saunt’s car.

  At her police car, Vaughn popped the trunk and tossed the bags in. I watched as she shifted them around to make sure that they were stationary and not in danger of being tossed about in the car while we drove. She kept the car keys out and in her palm. She slammed the trunk shut without giving me time to toss the power cord in.

  I stuffed the cord into my pocket.

  She said, “Can you drive?”

  She jingled the keys in her hand.

  I said, “Sure. I don’t have a license or anything.”

  I had had one, but it expired.

  She said, “Don’t tell and I won’t.”

  She tossed me the keys underhanded. I caught them and held them with my finger through the key ring. It was a tight fit.

  I said, “Which car is his?”

  She pointed at a maroon-colored Silverado with Colorado plates.

  I looked down at the key and it was a Chevy key with one of those black plastic covers with the lock and unlock buttons—no trunk button.

  I pressed the unlock button and the truck’s dome lights lit on, slow and forlorn. The door locks clicked as they unlocked and the low fog lights lit up the ground in front of the tires.

  I looked around the parking lot. There were two other Chevys in the lot, a Malibu and a blue Camaro.

  I asked, “How did you know that his was the Silverado?”

  Vaughn smiled and said, “I told you. I’m smarter than you think.”

  I nodded and asked, “Because the key has no open trunk button and the Silverado is the only Chevy without a trunk?”

  She started to move around to the driver’s door of the police cruiser.

  She said, “Damn. I didn’t even think of that.”

  And then she said, “I knew it was his because of the color. It’s maroon.”

  “So?”

  “When a man picks a maroon truck, it doesn’t mean anything on its own. But did you see his clothes? Did you check out his socks next to his shoes? On the floor?”

  I shook my head.

  She said, “Saunt is colorblind. His clothes didn’t match. His jacket and his shirt were both gray.

  I said, “How do you know? They look like they match to me. They’re both gray. Ugly, but gray.”
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br />   She said, “Colorblind people often were gray because they don’t know it’s gray. They think it’s different colors.

  I nodded.

  She said, “His socks are two different shades of white and two completely different pairs of cotton socks. So I assumed he’s colorblind. My dad was like that. He always picked out maroon or dark red or gray-colored vehicles. He thought they were blue. My first car was gray. He thought it was black. I never had the heart to tell him.”

  I nodded again, but I wasn’t sure if I bought the colorblind thing—maybe.

  Vaughn said, “Follow me. We’re going to the station.”

  I said, “Lead the way.”

  She got into her cruiser, slammed the door and fired up the engine.

  I got into the cab of the truck and felt around under the front of the seat for the bar that set it back but I couldn’t find it. Then I switched my hunt to the door, with no luck there. I looked over at the console in the middle and found it, nice and neat next to the seat adjustment controls for the passenger seat too.

  I hit the little lever all the way back and my seat started moving slowly. Then it stopped as it went as far back as it would go. I released the lever that controlled it and sat upright. It was comfortable and I had plenty of room between my lap and the steering wheel. I reached out and grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. I jammed the key into the ignition and fired it up.

  The radio jumped to life and a country music station boomed. I didn’t recognize the song, but it was a male’s voice and it was on a chorus that was about his wife leaving him, which seemed to be every country song that I’d ever heard. Today’s country was a lot of music about sorrow and lost loves, like the new blues. I looked for a knob to turn it off, but there wasn’t one. Instead there was a touch screen that lit up the center of the dash. I looked at it. There was a menu which led me along a string of choices such as: map, connect Bluetooth to phone, radio, and status. I ignored all of the choices except radio and pressed it with my index finger. The screen flashed and changed quickly over to a choice of preset stations and scanning and volume controls.

  I didn’t see an off button, so I pressed the volume control and held my finger there until the volume was all the way down and the whiny country singer’s voice had faded into silence.

  I smiled and thought the last thing that I needed to hear was a song about a guy missing his wife or dog or lover or whatever it was that people went on to miss.

  Vaughn led me to the end of the lot, where she stopped and exchanged a couple of words with Clark. Then she headed out to the road, turned right and slowed to allow me to stay close, not that I was going to get lost in the first place.

  I followed about a car length away. We drove under the moonless sky and stayed at a speed comparable to the speed limits in small towns all over America, although I never saw a speed limit sign.

  I followed her through another turn to the right. At a stoplight that had no other cars, she shrieked her sirens and we drove through the light as it changed to red. We drove on for another three blocks and then she turned on her right turn signal and pulled into a lot that was shared among four different departments. One was the Hope Police, which was clearly marked at the top of a sign that also had the district attorney, the city clerk, and a public library. Each department also shared a building, with the police department taking up the entire first two floors and the District Attorney’s Office the third and then the library sharing the top floor with the city clerk’s office.

  Public libraries weren’t something that I had seen too often in my travels. In today’s America, the libraries and bookstores were going the way of the spotted owl or panda bear. A library wasn’t something that people wanted to lose, but it wasn’t something that most people really made an effort to save either. In today’s fast-paced world of technology, people didn’t want to admit that they really weren’t reading as much as their grandparents and their grandparents’ grandparents, but that was the way it was. And those who did still read used their devices more than actual books. Although almost everyone would agree that a book is better, having all of your books on one device is a means of convenience over preference.

  I pulled into the parking lot behind Vaughn and parked the truck away from the line of police cruisers because I didn’t want to block parking spaces that I figured were designated for official vehicles.

  After switching off the Silverado, I hopped out and shut the door. Vaughn waited for me behind the trunk of her cruiser. She popped it open and began taking out the evidence bags. She handed me the one with the camera in it and we closed the trunk and headed into the police station.

  The first floor lobby was occupied immediately at the entrance by a guard seated next to a metal detector. He wore a brown uniform, freshly shined shoes, and a polished badge on his left breast pocket. He had a clean shave, jarhead haircut, and a military look in his demeanor and face. He was even more militarist and steadfast to his station than Gene, but this guy lacked the crush on Vaughn that was obvious with Gene.

  The guard stood straight up as Vaughn entered and did everything but salute.

  She said, “Franklin, this is Cameron.”

  He nodded at me and gave me a half smile that said he was required to be polite, but had his eye on me. This was his domain and I was new to him. Any seasoned centurion will tell you that the newest faces are the first ones that you automatically suspect as possible threats to the peace, even though history was full of the reverse being true. Men and women who were known, and usually well known, were normally the greatest threats to base security.

  I said, “Hi, Franklin.”

  He said, “Pleasure. Walk on through.”

  Vaughn didn’t wait for his permission; she walked through the metal detector and it sounded. Then I went through and it sounded again.

  Franklin gazed at me, but didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t know if I was carrying a weapon or not, but I wasn’t. The camera in the evidence bag or the Silverado keys in my pocket had set off the metal detector.

  I had no loose change and no belt buckle, or belt for that matter. The only metal on me was the set of keys and the camera, the prongs on the plug to the camera, and the small button on my pants, which was too small to set off the detector.

  I ignored Franklin’s suspicion and followed Vaughn down a short hall and through an empty counter, where the daytime secretary probably sat as well as the night desk guy that Vaughn had sent off to a long dinner. He still was not back.

  We walked past it and through a swinging half-door.

  The station was basically a bullpen with two offices at the far back of the wall. The first office had a frost-glass window on the door that read “Chief Vaughn.”

  The other office was empty and had nothing written on the window in the door.

  Vaughn opened her door, which wasn’t locked, and walked in and set the evidence bags on her desk.

  She said, “Put the camera here.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cable and plug.

  I said, “We should plug the camera in. It has a low battery. We might need it fully charged later.”

  Vaughn said, “Go ahead. There’s an outlet behind that chair.”

  I went over to a gray leather lounge chair that looked like it belonged in a man cave and not in the office of the chief of police.

  I pulled it away from the wall and saw the outlet. I unzipped the evidence bag.

  Vaughn said, “Use gloves.”

  I said, “I won’t touch it.”

  I didn’t use gloves. I reversed the plastic in the bag and held the camera with it, pinched it tight in my right hand and slid the USB into a port on the bottom of the camera. Then I shoved the plug into the wall outlet. The screen came to life and showed a glimpse of the last image that we had seen, the dead girl and the gloved hand reached out toward her. The camera screen shifted to a large battery icon that started flashing green, indicating that the camera was charging
.

  I turned and dumped myself down in the chair and left the camera half in the bag and lying on the arm.

  Vaughn said, “I gotta call the FBI. We can’t sit on this anymore.”

  I said, “Yep.”

  “You disagree?”

  I said, “No. Not at all. I think that you don’t have a choice.”

  She stayed silent.

  I said, “If we don’t call them now, they might find out. And that’s bad for you. Bad for the case.

  “The FBI handles kidnappings. They’ll know what to do and how to get her back.”

  Vaughn said, “If we can get her back.”

  I nodded.

  Vaughn sat down in a black swivel desk chair, no arms, low back and tires so small that they might as well not be there because other than saying that the chair rolls, there was no point.

  The office wasn’t big, but wasn’t small. It was the same kind of chief’s office that was in thousands of police stations in thousands of small towns across America. Vaughn was lucky enough to have an office, I supposed, but not lucky enough to have a view. Instead of an office with a window, there was a white wall with exposed brick. It was old and even though it was painted white, the brick was dark like in an artist’s loft. The detail was fine, almost as if it was done on purpose, like each individual crack and line was etched out to showcase the fine Colorado architecture. I supposed that instead of a window, the next best thing was a nice exposed brick wall like this one. Vaughn must’ve thought the same because there was one other wall that separated the two offices and on that wall she had multiple hanging photographs and framed achievements.

  She plopped herself down in the chair and I took a few steps over to the wall. I started with the row of achievements, which wasn’t a long row and wasn’t a short row. She had accomplished some impressive things. The first thing I saw was a bachelor’s degree in criminology from the University of Colorado. Next to that she had a letter from a Wilson Marks, PhD with his personal signature. Under his signature was his printed name and underneath that was his job title, which was Chair of the Criminal Justice Department at U.C.

  The letter was one of congratulation to Vaughn, written one year ago, after she was promoted to chief because the letter was congratulating her for acquiring the job title.