“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“The attack happened between lampposts. I couldn’t even make out her face, or hell, the fact that she was a woman, when I rushed the scene. There’s no way in hell he actually saw her face, or anything more than two dark silhouettes. He’s just assuming.”
“Then you’re assuming that when Erickson said he saw Sunny with Julian in a bear hold before shooting him, that it wasn’t Sunny. It was the third person?”
“According to Sunny, she was on the ground at that moment.”
“If she’s telling the truth.”
“We need to follow up with Erickson. Ask him specifically. We also need to have ballistics check the pin markings on the casing I found to see if it matches Sunny’s gun. If the markings do match then that means Julian was shot by her gun and that she’s lying. If the markings don’t match, it confirms a third player.”
Colson nodded, scribbled on the pad.
I began pacing. “This wasn’t a mugging gone bad. Her attacker didn’t ask for any personal items, didn’t take the key from her pocket, nothing. She said he didn’t even speak.”
“Personal, then?”
“Possibly, but she says she doesn’t know him. Or it could be some cracked out drug addict tripping his balls off.”
“What about the abduction theory?”
“Eighty percent of women who are abducted are taken by someone they know.”
“Good point. What else do we know about her right now? Other than her ability to get out of speeding tickets.”
“I’ve got Darby looking into her now, Google, social media, any records, anything. And I’m going to sync up with the dog breeder she said she visited. Try to get some more insight on her and confirm she was where she said she was, and ask if they noticed anyone following her.”
Colson fisted his hands on his hips. “Okay. Two scenarios as of right now, then. One: this woman—what do you think she is? A buck ten?—is able to hold off an attacker twice her size until her guardian angel shows up and kills the guy for her. Or, two, the crazy bitch is lying and she killed the guy, and there is no third guy. She could know Griggs and is lying. He could be an ex-lover or some shit.”
“Okay, going with your option one, then, Sunny Harper is an innocent victim in a shitty attack. She’s banged up, which can confirm that story. Check that box. It is also plausible that a woman of her size could hold off an attacker if it’s true that she’s skilled in Krav Maga, which I’ll verify. Considering the physicality of it, it is also plausible that in the scuffle she dropped her gun, leaving her defenseless and allowing this third mystery person to shoot. The smoke clears and she’s staring down the barrel of Erickson’s pistol, and freezes. Then we show up.”
“Hell of a woman, Jagg.” It wasn’t a compliment. “Ever met a woman who checks all those boxes?”
No, was the undeniable answer to that question. Assault victims rarely fought back, and it was even rarer for them to overpower their attacker. And none carried a gun like that.
“Something just doesn’t feel right.” Colson picked up a stress ball from his desk. “The only thing we have to go on right now is her story and Erickson’s eye witness account, which are different.” He began pacing. “Self-defense is understandable and forgivable. So if she is making up this third mystery person, why? She has to know we’d write it off as self-defense and be done with it. Why make that up?”
“Killing a man fucks with your head. If she is lying, it’s probably because she’s scared she’d get pinned with murder or something.”
“Then someone needs to convince her that’s not the case so she’ll admit to lying about the third person and we can close the book before the entire town goes apeshit about this. God, I hate this already.” Colson ran his fingers through his hair again. “I’ll call old man Erickson at dawn and verify his statement. And I’ll also have Darby pull the street cams for the hours surrounding the attack. See what vehicles passed by the park.”
“Have him look for a blue, four door sedan.”
“Wait.” Colson turned to me. “You think Sunny’s attacker could be the Black Bandit? The same guy you think killed Seagrave?”
“It’s a possibility. Too much violence in such a short amount of time. We have to consider that it could all be connected.”
Colson paused, blinking, assessing. “Did I mention I hate this already?”
A knock sounded at the door.
“What?” Colson snapped.
Darby walked in, his skin an almost iridescent pale. The kid needed food and water to replace the amount he’d vomited at the scene, and maybe a valium to go with it.
“Got more information on the victim.” His eyes were wide, way too hyper for the moment. My senses went on alert.
“Julian Griggs is the pastor’s son.”
“What?” Colson’s voice raised an octave.
“Yep. Works full-time at the local Baptist church. Runs the kid program and the soup kitchen.”
Colson’s neck snapped to me. “Did you recognize him?”
I shook my head. Half the kid’s face had been blown off… and I wasn’t exactly a regular at church.
“Me, either. Shit. I didn’t even put it together when we read his name from his driver’s license. Shit, fuck, shit.”
Darby handed Colson a photo of a smiling kid surrounded by a bunch of gleeful children. “That’s Julian on his mission trip to South America last month. He just got back. Printed it from a newspaper article.”
Colson’s mouth dropped. “The pastor’s son was just shot in the head in the park. This is going to hit the fucking fan.”
Darby nodded, but the rookie had no idea how bad it was going to get. Pastor Griggs had been the lead pastor in Berry Springs since the seventies. Smart, respected, and had dunked more local citizens than the city pool.
“Does Julian have a rap sheet?” I asked.
Darby shook his head.
Of course he didn’t. Of course the kid was going to be a model citizen who would never attack a woman jogging in the middle of the night.
Yeah, shit was going to hit the fan, alright. Not just because the town angel had just been shot through the eye, but because Berry Springs was going to want someone’s head for it.
And I had feeling that head came with long, dark curls.
11
Jagg
“I’ve got to call the chief.” Colson said. “He’ll want to make this call personally. He knows the pastor. Hell, I think Pastor Griggs baptized the chief’s kids. He’ll probably come up here. Dammit.” He reached for his phone.
“Darby.” I jerked my chin to the door.
Colson was already dialing the chief when Darby and I stepped into the hallway.
“I got everything else you asked—”
“Not here, kid.”
The station was a flurry of chatter and whispers, sudden overachievers swinging by the station at five in the morning. I had no doubt everyone in town would know about the “Slaying in the Park,” by daybreak.