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25

South Fork, Colorado

Sloane and Jim arrived at Jesse Morrison’s house just after sunset, but the sheriff’s department had brought in lights and the coroner was gracious enough not to move the body before they arrived. It had been a long day, but the cold air gave Sloane her second wind.

“I’m going to check with the coroner,” Jim said. “Go talk to Michael.” He gestured to where Michael was sitting in his car with the heater running.

Sloane walked over and tapped on the window, then slipped into the passenger seat.

“Hey,” she said. “Jim’s talking to the coroner. Where’s Kara?”

“At the station with our witness.”

“The girl who knew one of the victims?”

“She knew all of the victims,” Michael said.

“Suspect?”

“No.” Michael gave her a rundown on their interview with Riley Pierce.

“A cult?” she asked when he was done. “That was the furthest thing from my mind.”

“You should listen to the interview if you’re not wiped out tonight,” Michael said. “And she has a lot more to say. AD Montero will be here in the morning to talk to her.”

That surprised her. “From Quantico?”

“He’s an expert on cults.”

“I remember, but I didn’t think he worked in the field.”

“I’ve never met him,” Michael said. “He wasn’t at Quantico when I was at the academy.”

“You don’t sound like you’re happy to have his help,” Sloane said.

“Like you said, he hasn’t been in the field for a long time,” Michael said. “His quick debrief into the psychology of former cult members helped us—particularly Kara—get Riley to open up. But I don’t know what he’s going to be able to do here.”

“Were you inside?” Sloane tilted her head toward the cabin.

Michael nodded. “Poor guy was tortured. I don’t know what he gave up, but based on what Riley said, he created fake identities for people who escaped. Someone shot his computer, don’t know if it was him or whoever killed him. But it makes sense that he gave up some of the people—Riley confirmed that Robert Benson, Jane Merrifield, Chris Crossman, and the newest victim, Donovan Smith, were all cult members who left. Jesse Morrison was hired help.”

“Do you know if there are other former cult members out there? Or do you think Riley and Andrew are the last still alive?” Sloane asked Michael.

“Riley gave us a list of names—first names only, because they didn’t use last names at Havenwood—of people she helped Thalia get out of the cult. But she doesn’t know who left over the last three and a half years. She didn’t explicitly say, but implied that she hadn’t spoken to Thalia—her aunt—since she escaped.”

“There could be more victims out there,” Sloane said. “Or maybe the cult wasn’t able to find them.”

Michael shrugged. “What I don’t understand is how a large group of people can conspire to kill people they’ve lived with, worked with, for years.”

“Cult psychology is not my strength,” Sloane said. “But we were both in the military.”

“The military is not a cult,” Michael said sharply.

“No, of course not. That’s not what I was getting at. People who were never in the military don’t understand us. We follow orders because we trust our CO. Our CO works hard to build trust and respect. We have experience, education, training, and the confidence that there is a chain of command that reviews and vets information that we act on. There is a structure—a huge and sometimes unwieldy bureaucracy—but a clear structure so that we know our orders are righteous.

“Now, take away everything but our commanding officer,” Sloane continued. “That’s the cult leader. They’ve built trust and confidence. Whether that’s because of religion or a common goal or belief, or any number of things, they are charismatic and have the power to lead and motivate people. Others put their faith and trust in them, but they treat that person like a demigod. They can do no wrong.”

Sloane could see Michael didn’t completely agree with her. But that was okay, she was still trying to wrap her mind around everything they had learned, and where to go from here. She was new to the team, and while everyone had welcomed her and didn’t make her feel like a rookie, she had a steep learning curve.

“Maybe,” Michael finally said. “I think of it more like the mentality of thrill killers. Where a group of people commit crimes that they would never even think of on their own.”

“I can see that,” Sloane concurred. “There still would need to be a dominant personality to pull them together, convince them to abandon their morals and values.”

Jim walked down the stairs of the cabin, taking off his gloves and putting them into an evidence bag as he walked. Sloane and Michael exited the warm car and approached him.

“The coroner is going to clear the den,” Jim said, “then you two can go in to search. I’m joining him at the morgue—nice guy, a lot of experience, but he’s never handled something like this. Michael, I’m going to take the car if you can take Sloane to the hotel with you?”

Michael nodded, then asked, “Can you tell us anything after inspecting the body?”

“Not much. Wish I had my mobile lab. Maybe we should have retrofitted an airplane instead.” He didn’t sound like he was joking. “Anyway, he’s been dead at least two weeks, up to a month. We’ll be able to narrow it down. I don’t know if they opened the windows to slow decomposition, or if he had them open when he was killed. No sign that the dog was killed in the house, so I’m hoping his killers have a tiny amount of compassion and took the animal to a shelter. The sheriff’s department is checking all shelters in the county and adjoining counties.”

“One of our witnesses said that Morrison was very attached to the dog, a Saint Bernard. He’s likely chipped,” Michael said.

“Dog like that?” Jim nodded. “Yep.” He looked over his shoulder as the coroner and an assistant brought the body bag out on a stretcher and rolled it over the rocky ground to the wagon. “We’re not going to do the autopsy tonight, but we’ll prep him and if we find anything important on his person, I’ll tag you.”

He left, and Michael and Sloane went into the house.

“Where do you want to start?” Sloane asked.

“You take his bedroom, I’ll take the den.”

“You don’t need to spare me from the gore.”

“I’m not. I’m the senior agent and I want to go through his papers. You figure out if he kept anything important upstairs. In my experience, people who want to hide something and don’t have a safe, pick personal spaces, like an underwear drawer.”

“You’re the boss.”

Michael grinned. “Don’t tell Matt.”

Sloane went upstairs to where Jesse Morrison once slept in a large, open loft. There was a small bathroom, but nothing important there. No prescription medications. No sign that a woman stayed over regularly. She did, however, find mini shampoo and conditioner bottles of the same brand that Chris Crossman had at his house. Could that mean someone who stayed with Chris also came here?

His bed was made. There was dog hair on the comforter. She smiled, though it was bittersweet. When she grew up in Montana, her golden retriever slept on her bed every night. She would love to have a dog again, but with all the traveling in this position, it wouldn’t be fair to the animal.

She looked through Morrison’s drawers, which had mostly male clothes, though she found two pairs of women’s underwear, a pair of women’s jeans, and a couple T-shirts that seemed too small for Jesse. All the items were in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Old girlfriend? Maybe.

She looked under clothes, in the nightstand, under the bed. There was no closet, only an armoire. He didn’t have any formal clothes—aside from one skinny tie shoved in the back of the top drawer. Jesse Morrison lived in jeans and flannels. He had several pairs of hiking boots—all good quality shoes—and extensive outdoor gear, which would be necessary living in this climate. There were a couple books on the nightstand, nothing she’d read. A lone photo was stuck in the middle of a book shoved in the back of the nightstand drawer.

She pulled it out. It was of a dog—she presumed the missing Saint Bernard—sitting between Jesse and a woman.

Jesse appeared to be a few years younger than his current thirty-five. The woman was younger, closer to twenty-five. The photo was faded, but she had long dark red-brown hair in a thick braid that fell over her shoulder and dark eyes. She wasn’t smiling, but her arm was around the dog’s neck.

Sloane looked at the back of the photo. Nothing was written on it. She sealed it in an evidence bag, marked where she’d found it on the label, and went downstairs.

Michael was still in the den, frustrated. “Either he had no papers of value, or they cleaned him out. We’ll grab the computer. I doubt Quantico can salvage anything, but maybe there’s a chip or two that they can pull data from.”

“I didn’t find much, but this photo was hidden in the middle of a book.”

Michael stepped out of the den and looked at the picture. “We’ll ask Riley if she knows who this woman is.” He looked around. “I’ll take the bedroom down here and the bathroom. You want to tackle the kitchen and living room?”

“Got it.”

They didn’t find much else of interest, though Sloane figured out how the killers got in—someone shot out the kitchen window and then unlocked the heavy side door. She took pictures, and then asked one of the deputies to print the entire area. They might not find anything, but there was a chance the killers had left something of themselves behind.

There was a mat with the name Banjo , but no dog bowls. She opened cabinets and found one that had dog biscuits and a place where there must have been a large bag of food—a few loose kernels were scattered around.

Carefully, she examined the cabinet door and saw a small amount of blood.

“Deputy?” she called to the man who was taking prints.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Print this door, too. Where the dog food was. There’s blood here—we’ll need samples of that.” Most likely the victim’s, but after working with Jim for a short time, she knew he would want a sample of every drop of blood found where it wasn’t expected.

“On it,” the deputy said.

They would send the Denver ERT in to go over the cabin in greater detail, but that wouldn’t happen until tomorrow, and they needed all the information they could get now, as they worked to find the killers before another body dropped.

She and Michael regrouped in the living room. Michael said, “The killer—or killers—searched the place, but not in a rage. The desk drawers in the den had been rummaged through and files appear to be missing. There could be hiding spots we haven’t found. ERT will do a more thorough search of the outbuildings tomorrow.” He looked around. “The guy lived frugally and Zack is going through his finances. Why would he risk himself—legally, physically—to help create fake identities? He must have gotten paid for it. Hackers can make good money.”

“Who paid for it?” Sloane asked. “Thalia? The escapees from Havenwood? Where would they get the money if they lived in a cult for years?”

“According to Riley, Thalia stole from Havenwood when she left with Robert, who controlled the money. She also said that people went to Chris for supplies and help, so I suspect he had access to the accounts.”

“Did they have enough money to buy multiple fake identities?” Sloane said. “How much money are we talking about? Chris Crossman paid for his house in cash, so did Andrew and Donovan. Jane and Riley had money to live in Ashland. That’s a lot of money out there to help these people.”

“Zack is working on it,” Michael said. “Riley said they made their money selling handmade goods at craft fairs. Quilts, hand-carved figures, jellies and jams, things like that. If that’s the case, even in a cash business, there must be some business records. But so far Zack hasn’t found anything under the name ‘Havenwood’ and Riley doesn’t know any last names. Claims no one had a last name.”

“Zack’s only had the info for a few hours,” Sloane reminded him. She looked at Michael, really looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot. “You look beat. How long have you been going?”

“We were up at 3:30 this morning Oregon time to catch the plane, then the drive from Denver. It’s been a long day.” He looked at his watch. “It’s after eight. Have you eaten dinner?”

She shook her head.

“We’re done here. The sheriff will keep a deputy on the house until our ERT unit comes in tomorrow. I’ll text Kara and Jim and see if they want to join us. I don’t even know what’s open around here.”

As Michael pulled out his phone, his cell vibrated. “Aw, the boss.” He answered. “Harris here...Yep...Okay.” He ended the call. “Costa just landed. He’s going to the crime scene up in Fort Collins, then tomorrow he and Dean Montero will be flying down and should be here before noon.”

“Agents?” One of the deputies came down the steep driveway that went behind Jesse Morrison’s cabin. “We found something odd, thought you might want to take a look.”

“Odd how?” Michael said as he motioned for Sloane to follow them.

She sighed. She was hungry, but now her already late dinner would have to wait.

The deputy said, “It looks like someone has been living in a small cabin up here and got out in a hurry. According to the property maps, it’s on Jesse Morrison’s property. It’s old, run-down, but has a working stove that’s still smoldering.”

The hike up the narrow, unmaintained road was difficult, especially at night with their flashlights. Sloane saw tracks that looked like an ATV. She pointed them out to Michael.

She said, “It snowed last night, these ATV tracks were made after that. But several hours ago.”

“Deputy,” Michael said, “does anyone live up here?”

“No. There’s a road behind Mrs. Chastain’s house that’s closest to the highway. That leads to another house, but you can’t even see it from here. All this is part of Morrison’s property, which ends at the national forest about half a mile west as the crow flies.”

“Did anyone check the outbuildings earlier today?”

“Not to my knowledge. We inspected the barn and storage shed, but honestly, I didn’t even know this was up here until my officer found it.”

They had reached the tiny cabin. A narrow but sturdy porch wrapped around the building, which was built into a grove of trees.

Michael went inside while Sloane stood at the threshold and looked out. She couldn’t see much of anything in the dark, but she saw the lights surrounding Jesse Morrison’s house. If she could see the lights, she imagined someone here would be able to see people approaching.

Michael came out a minute later. “I told them to seal this structure and I’ll ask Denver ERT to collect evidence. Someone was staying in there. They cleaned up after themselves, but they were in a hurry. There’s some trash in the garbage can and clothing was made into the bed. Even I could see hair on the pillowcase. We’ll likely get prints and DNA. By the looks of it, he left in a hurry.”

“When?” Sloane asked. “After you and Kara arrived—or earlier, when Andrew and Riley were here?”

Michael hesitated, then said, “Once Kara and I found the body, no one could have left—there has been a South Fork deputy on the property ever since. He would have heard an ATV. If he walked, he might have slipped away. But we can’t search for a vehicle or tracks in the dark. We’ll have answers tomorrow.”