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One

Wenatchee, Washington

C hief, we’ve got a bad situation.”

Berrett has the inside track. Ava and Emily, two of the kids in the group sitting outside the rental house, work at the football stadium. The Kibbie Dome is under Berrett’s purview, so he knows them well.

It’s Sunday, and Fry is about an hour into the four-hour drive back from an overnight visit with a friend in Wenatchee, Washington, 150 miles east of Seattle. Whatever has happened, whoever the victims are, it already feels too close for comfort.

In the passenger seat, listening, is Julie Fry. The chief’s whip-smart wife of thirty-odd years also happens to be the newly elected Latah County clerk. Chief Fry will later say he should have let Julie drive, but now it’s all he can do to absorb what Berrett tells him.

Four young people, likely UI students, stabbed in their bedrooms? In their beds? In a residence that’s part of a large cluster of student housing right on the campus line? And no one heard a thing?

Fry’s put in thirty years on the force. The common assumption about small-town police chiefs is that they have no experience with murder, but this is not Fry’s first brush with homicides on campus.

In 2007, when he was still a sergeant, he worked on three homicides in just one year.

One involved a University of Idaho student, David Boss, who was shot by a former classmate.

In 2011, as a lieutenant, Fry oversaw the investigation of another university tragedy.

That summer, psychology professor Ernesto Bustamante, who had a history of mental illness, fatally shot Katy Benoit, a twenty-two-year-old graduate student he’d previously dated, outside her home, then later turned the gun on himself.

Even so, Fry already knows that this one is different.

He knows this is going to test the department in an unprecedented way. He also knows that this is too big for Moscow to handle without help. In a rural area like this, there’s a general view that it’s all hands on deck.

He’s going to need support from the state. Probably the FBI.

But first things first…

It’s not his job to run point at the scene of the crime.

When he was a detective, which was not so long ago, he headed up investigations, but now he’s chief, and chiefs who get in the way of their teams can really screw things up.

His role today is to stay in close touch with his officers, provide whatever support is needed.

Part of leading, Fry believes, is trusting and delegating. But Fry knows that when adrenaline is running high, anyone can forget things, so he rattles off a punch list to Tyson Berrett, realizing from experience that his captain is out in front of him.

“Have you reached Bill?” he asks, referring to veteran county prosecutor Bill Thompson, who has never lost a case.

In their parallel careers, the chief and the prosecutor have worked every crime scene together.

They meet every single day at eight a.m. Fry’s belief in Thompson—the only prosecutor in Idaho who has ever won a murder conviction in the absence of a dead body—is unwavering.

“On his way,” Berrett says.

“Forensics?” The two forensics officers, Lawrence Mowery and Andrew Fox, are Fry’s appointments. “State?” A scene as big as this needs help from the Idaho State Police forensics team, based in Lewiston, about thirty miles south of Moscow.

“On their way.”

“Who have you got there?”

Berrett tells him that Mitch Nunes was the first officer on scene.

And at this, Fry blanches. “My heart broke,” he said later. His thirty-seven-man department runs like a family. Twenty-two-year-old Nunes is like a son to Fry, a baby.

He knows that his youngest officer will never be able to erase from his mind the horrific crime scene that he’s just witnessed. That he will be forever altered. And Fry will need to find Nunes—and his wife—the resources to cope with the trauma.

Mental health is not something that was discussed when Fry was a rookie, and he believes that was a mistake. PTSD, according to Fry’s longtime ride-along partner and best friend, Paul Kwiatkowski, lingers as he sorts through memories that won’t dim.

Fry is going to take care of his young officers and their families. Make sure they feel supported.

Speaking of…

“Has the university been notified?”

“Affirmative.”

“Where’s Brett Payne?”

Two months prior, Fry promoted Brett Payne, a thirty-two-year-old cop and military veteran whom he hired in 2020, to detective corporal—a new position in the department that Fry created for a reason.

Ordinarily, detectives are the higher rank of sergeant.

But Fry had been faced with a specific set of challenges—he had to run a small department at a time when applications for jobs in law enforcement were dwindling (this was shortly after an officer in Minnesota had been convicted in the death of George Floyd).

The chief decided to free up some of the sergeants to learn the administrative part of police work—how to actually run a department, pay bills, budget, and so forth.

Which means today, Fry realizes, Payne will be the one to lead this investigation. Organize the department into teams.

Talk about diving into the deep end.

Tyson responds that yes, Payne is on his way to the crime scene. He’ll get there at around four p.m.

Which will be ahead of Fry. He presses harder on the gas. And dials a number.

“Rand,” he says into the phone to Dr. Rand Walker, a local therapist who has counseled his officers before. “I need you to be on standby.”

The rest of the drive is a blur of staccato calls.

Chief Gary Jenkins—the head of the Washington State University police over in Pullman and former chief of the Pullman PD—phones.

“Do you need backup from us?” Jenkins asks.

The two departments often tag-team. Moscow’s last convicted murderer, John Lee, had in fact been caught on the run by the officers in Pullman.

But Fry is cautious. In 2015, they knew who the murderer was.

This time they have no idea.

Fry is aware of the importance of locking down an investigation, keeping information on a need-to-know basis to stop leaks that could jeopardize it.

He and Bill Thompson are completely in sync on this. Thompson never speaks to anyone about an investigation until he gets to sentencing—and even then, he keeps it short.

And there are too many unanswered questions right now. It’s not safe or prudent for Fry to involve another team.

“Not yet,” Fry tells Jenkins. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Berrett’s shared with Fry that a knife sheath was found in one of the rooms. It’s imperative this doesn’t get out.

Somewhere, there’s a maniacal murderer on the loose who is almost certainly watching their every move.

Who in God’s name could have done this? Fry wonders.

And again he presses harder on the gas.

One good thing about being the police chief is that no one is likely to arrest him for speeding.