Triple Double. James Lewis

      It was at the Bump Inn that Sergeant Terry Hollander began the story of Rose Lake to Kelsey. Gwen was two weeks gone. “Abron, you weren’t on the force two years ago when the first double homicide occurred in our area.” Kelsey stared at Terry with a keen interest. “The victims were the Nelsons—a father and son that resided on a farm between Rose and Killarney Lakes in Idaho. The case was not in our jurisdiction but the CDA Sheriff’s Department asked for us to cooperate. Like Newman Lake, the Nelsons were, for lack of a better term, butchered. The father, Joe, was found hanging by his hands from the rafters—shot and cut many times all over his body. His throat was slit when the bastards were through with him. The son was found in the meadow behind the house, shot in the back. His throat had also been slit. To this day there have been no arrests. Until now it had become, not cold but warm for the CDA Sheriff’s. I think you can understand why our team has a lot more on its plate than just Newman Lake. Obviously, these double homicides could be related.”

      The information was just sinking in when Christian’s phone rang. “Thank you,” he said then turned toward Kelsey. “Abron, I thought you might want to visit the crime scene at Rose Lake, so I requested permission from Lieutenant Bara over at CDA. That was him. We’re on for tomorrow morning at ten. There are some notes I wanted to go over at the lab before we meet. I’ll catch up with you at the crime scene.” Christian handed Abron a map with the address and location circled and notated.

      Abron Kelsey had earned a degree in forensic sciences from the University of Washington before entering the police academy and joining the Spokane sheriff team. Prior to college, he had served a three-year enlistment in the Marine corps. The former USMC sergeant had proven his worth in the corps through a tour of duty during the war on terrorism in the Middle East. Now, employed as a deputy assigned to forensics, he was making use of his remaining education benefits by attending night classes. Someday, these classes could lead him down a new path—possibly a law degree from Gonzaga. Physically, Abron was an imposing presence in any room. Mentally, he was constantly honing his skills through education. What most male acquaintances missed at first, the ladies did not. They feasted on his sentiment, sensitivity, and muscles. His parents nested in Charleston, just south of Coos Bay, Oregon. Soon-to-be retired, they were looking forward to visiting the eastern side of Washington State and their only child.

      *****

      Abron’s mind was working overtime during his drive back to the apartment. Copycat? So many similarities. Had to be the same persons involved. Knowing his job was forensic evidence, Abron couldn’t help but wonder about the cases in their entirety. Arriving home, his thoughts wandered pleasantly to the sassy little blond that he wanted to call Izzy. Maybe someday she would allow him to use her nickname. She was beautiful to him in many ways—looks, charm, wit, and “in-charge” attitude. In Abron’s personal life files, Isabel was his number 1 priority. His next move would be to wrangle her phone number and find out more about her availability, likes, and dislikes. How could something so easy be so complicated for him? I’ll see her soon, he thought, looking forward to their next encounter. His thoughts slipped back to Christian and Rose Lake. The job was growing more interesting day by day. Before turning out the night-light, Kelsey summed up his many experiences over his short lifetime. Patience was the word he was searching for. His ability to wait and observe would serve him well.

      Abron was up early. From his apartment complex, it was a short walk to the little café.

      “Good morning,” Joan said as Abron took in his favorite aromas. Joan talked to Abron almost daily. “Corn beef and hash, sourdough toast, coffee, and lots of honey?” Joan had been serving Abron breakfast since he moved into the neighborhood. She knew he was a cop of some type, but Kelsey never wore a uniform. He was a good tipper, and his conversation was educated. He led with “Did you watch Magnum last night?” already knowing the answer.

      “I love that man. Not the original but still a hunk” was Joan’s smiling reply. She poured him some coffee. Officer Kelsey was stalling by reading the paper, doing the crossword, and checking out how the Spokane Flyers had skated the night before. He didn’t want to be too far ahead of Christian. The overnight snowfall had left several inches on the street. He could already visualize I-90. The snowplows would have it cleared by now, all the way to the St. Maries cutoff. Paying his bill and usual tip, Abron began to make his move toward the door.

      Joan asked, “Busy day?”

      The deputy replied, “First stop CDA.”

      She then, for the first time, acknowledged his job. “Be safe, keep your head down. See you on Monday.” She smiled.

      *****

      Christian arrived at the farm about ten fifteen—a few minutes late but in time to have possibly saved Abron’s life. The scene was bloody. Christian made the call: “Officer down.” There was no chance of seeing the license plate on the Ford pickup now slamming away from the barn. “Need ambulance and backup. Abron Kelsey has been beaten and shot. Waste no time getting it here.” Christian chanced another quick glance out the side door and saw the outlines of two riders in the pickup, both with baseball-style hats. The perps were hunched over, offering little chance to be identified. Caine knew his Glock would be ineffective at that distance. The amount of blood already soaking his friend’s clothes sent him into a frantic search for the open wounds. There was no time to waste. It was life-and-death.

      Christian immediately turned the wounded deputy on to his side, momentarily taking away the chance of Abron choking on his own blood. Worrying about a broken neck or spine in those first few minutes, Christian held the officer’s head as still as possible. Every action taken was to save Abron’s life. Talking to the downed deputy was of no use. Christian pressed his gloves into the stomach wound; there wasn’t even a groan. While trying to cover the wounded man, Christian’s adrenaline rush had subsided. Fortunately, inside the walls, the air was still. Covering Abron with his own winter coat, Christian began to shiver. It took almost thirty minutes for an ambulance and more deputies to arrive. Caine could now testify to just how cold it was in that lightly lit freezer of a barn.

      *****

      Shoshone County deputies from Wallace and Kellogg were first on the scene after the “Officer down” call. The local deputies were ten minutes ahead of the Coeur d’Alene responders who had to navigate the icy Fourth of July pass. Holding on to the stomach compression, Christian gave as much information to the first responders as he could, including a good description of the white getaway Ford pickup. Less than a minute later, the next patrol car arrived. The first patrol car took chase down the dirt road headed south toward St. Maries. While in pursuit, an APB was sent out to all Idaho, Montana, and Washington jurisdictions. Both officers giving chase knew it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Lost time and eroding winter road conditions would make it close to impossible. Sleet falling turned to heavy snow and blizzard-like conditions. As the officers headed south on the paved highway, they realized it was too late for tracks. Snowfall had taken its toll, blanketing the highway in the last fifteen minutes.

      As Abron was being taken from the scene unconscious, Christian had no idea whether Kelsey would live long enough to make it to the hospital by ambulance. The snow and low ceiling wouldn’t allow helicopter transport. Detectives Ron Rowe and Terry Hollander pulled in and went straight to the barn area where the shooting occurred. The detectives found the north-facing side door ajar with just a skiff of snow on the ground, in the area shaded by the north-facing overhang. Two sets of footprints were entrenched. Four feet away from the outside wall, the tracks quickly disappeared. The POIs wore the same type of boot, leaving deep tread marks embedded in the mud, snow, and ice. The escape route was easy to follow. Disappearing prints led to where the pickup had been parked before the attack. “Do you think Abron heard that pickup arrive?” asked Ron.

      It was Christian who answered. “No way. He was hit on the back of the neck and head while crouched down, then they shot him. Another few seconds, and they would have finished him on the spot. I think my arrival made them bolt.”

      “From a stone-cold