Still waiting for an update from @MaderaCASheriff.
—@JackSchapiroCNN
On the screen of his computer, Jordan studied the PDF of Cara Campbell’s arrest record he’d requested from the Ventura County sheriff. First, he looked at the photos of 6’ 2”, 210-pound Karl Campbell, his face beaten beyond recognition. Jordan had seen plenty of murdered people before, but this attack seemed particularly vicious: the hammer blows had destroyed the man’s facial structure and removed half of his teeth.
There were a couple of defensive wounds to his hands and arms—Jordan noted pale skin on the left wrist, indicating the dead man usually wore a watch—but most of his killer’s fury had been concentrated on the face.
He looked at the crime scene photos, which were poor quality and showed too many footprints to be much help.
He read Cara Campbell’s sworn statement.
Glamping International, LLC reached out to me and offered a three-day, two-night stay, all expenses paid, to promote theirresort on my Instagram. I was excited because I thought the trip would be great for all of us: Glamping International, my brand, and Karl, who always works too hard. He wanted to come, even though he knew it wasn’t just a romantic getaway—I had to work. He didn’t like being on camera but he knew what to expect.
After we were shown our lovely tent, we did a photo shoot with a team I’ve used before. I took a swim and a few pictures in the saltwater pool while Karl checked his emails. That’s what he said he was doing, anyway, but I suspected he just wanted a nap because we were going to be up late. We enjoyed a cocktail at our tent before heading to Johnson’s Point for the moonlight picnic dinner that had been arranged for us.
The path was lighted by luminaria. Halfway there, I heard a crunching noise, like a footstep on a dry leaf. Karl scanned the area with his headlight beam but couldn’t see anything. We both assumed it was a staff member who forgot something important for the picnic and was trying to drop it off before we arrived.
At Johnson’s Point, there was a wicker basket waiting on a plaid blanket with matching camping table and chairs. We just looked at the view for a while—the stars were bright, and the view of the valley below was amazing. I had just pulled out my phone to take a short video on night mode when suddenly someone was there. I think they were hiding behind a rock outcropping. They were wearing all black, including a black mask like a balaclava.
Honestly? I froze. It was just so surreal. But Karl shouted and rushed toward the intruder to protect me. But he was farther away.
I remember seeing long, straight blond hair spilling out the back of the mask. I saw a flash of metal and felt an unbelievable pain in my skull.
I grabbed my head and fell to my knees. I heard Karl fighting back. My hands were sticky with my own blood.
“No!” I heard Karl say. “No!”
And then everything went black.
I will never, ever recover from what I saw when I finally came to: Karl was dead.
I did not kill my husband. I loved him more than life itself.
There was a rat-a-tat knock on his office door. Before he could answer, it opened and Beto stuck his head inside. “Ready, Boss?”
Jordan closed the file and looked at his old-fashioned wall clock. It was nearly 2 p.m. “Fifteen more minutes.”
Beto frowned, unconvinced. “Going to have anything new to say by then?”
“If I don’t eat something, I might pass out. Not a good look in front of the cameras.”
“I’ll tell them ten.”
Jordan nodded and Beto withdrew.
He knew he had tested everyone’s patience and failed, having promised updates every hour for the past three hours and postponing each time. But hewasfeeling lightheaded. He hadn’t eaten anything since the breakfast sandwich Amber put in his hand as he headed out the door just after dawn. His stomach was a bubbling acid pool filled by too many cups of coffee.
Cara Campbell did a convincing job of pleading her innocence, but so did a lot of killers. And wasn’t her whole career about making things look better than they were in reality?
Guilty or innocent, she was still out there, and he didn’t have any answers for the people who wanted them. A thorough search of Fisk’s property had revealed him to be either a man with no interests other than survival or a man so paranoid he had eradicated all traces of a social life.
Almost all. One of his deputies had found two frames from a photo-booth strip showing a younger, less grizzled Fisk grinning alongside a cute woman with long, black hair. Marshal Wen had promptly confiscated it.
The bloodhounds confirmed Cara had been there and had departed via a trail at the rear of the property. Signs on the trail indicated Fisk and Cara were moving together, along with some livestock. Then fire had moved in, sealing off their escape route from behind. Marshal Wen had ordered the search parties to regroup at a new location, and in a role reversal he was sure was intentional, now she wasn’t returning Jordan’s calls.
Jordan opened a desk drawer, fished out a power bar, and took a bite. It tasted like sawdust. The foil wrapper showed it was six months expired. He ate it anyway. Somehow, it helped.
He stood up and brushed off his pants, then checked his face for crumbs in the small mirror he kept on his office shelf. For some reason, he had put it between the pictures of his dad and granddad, which looked like stock photos of every old sheriff on the walls of every sheriff’s station: slicked-back hair, clean-shaven cheeks, and placid expressions that betrayed no trace of doubt.
