Campbell drove down the dirt road off Saldnon Street till reaching his father’s horse ranch in Fallon’s Creek, Idaho, some twenty miles from Reston Hills. After leaving the police force nearly a decade ago following his wife’s death, Mason Sawyer bought the one-hundred-and-seventy-five-acre private property, east of the Caribou-Targhee National Forest. There, he raised American quarter horses, Appaloosas, and Percherons, offered trail rides, and seemed at peace.
Or at least, that was how Campbell saw it as he pulled up in front of the main house behind his father’s black Land Rover Range Rover Evoque and a red Hyundai Tucson hybrid that belonged to his longtime girlfriend, Sally Panettiere. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to marry again.
Standing in the driveway, Campbell watched as his father and Sally rode up to him on their horses.
Mason Sawyer was in his early sixties and had gray hair in a flow cut and a horseshoe mustache. With his work on the ranch and weightlifting, he had managed to stay in shape since his days on the force. Touching the wide brim of his off-white suede cowboy hat, Masonpeered at Campbell through blue eyes and said tonelessly, “This is a surprise.”
“Guess I should’ve called,” Campbell admitted, but he felt that this was something that needed to be discussed in person. So he took his chances. He regarded Sally, a book editor, who was in her late fifties, slender and hazel-eyed, with a blond shullet haircut, wearing an almond-colored straw cowgirl hat. “Hey, Sally.”
“Hey to you, Campbell.” She showed her teeth. “Believe me, your dad’s just as happy to see you as I am.”
“She’s right,” Mason said, leaving no doubt. “You’re always welcome here, surprise or not.”
“Thanks.” Campbell grinned, comforted with the thought but still wishing he had texted him first. He gazed at his father and asked, “Can we talk?”
“Sure,” Mason told him. “We’ll put the horses in the stables and meet you inside.”
“Okay.” Campbell watched as they rode off, then he headed for the house. He had a key but rarely used it, preferring not to intrude if uninvited. In this instance, he had his father’s permission.
The spacious ranch house was amid mature chokecherry trees with a pond nearby. He unlocked the door and went inside, looking at the open-layout with lots of windows and Western style furnishings on plank flooring. It was the type of place his mother would have loved, had she lived long enough to see it.
But life didn’t always work in ways that were understandable. He got that. At least his dad had found a way to move on, and with someone who made him happy in her own right. Just as his mother had.
Twenty minutes later, Campbell was sitting on theback porch with Mason on Adirondack chairs. Both were drinking fresh lemonade that Sally made for them. Resting on the floor, as if with nothing better to do, was Mason’s dog, a male yellow Labrador retriever named Hopper.
After a moment or two, Campbell got to the point when he said, “I’m working on a case involving a young woman named Mia O’Dell, who died on Founder’s Day from fentanyl poisoning.”
“Hadn’t heard,” Mason said. “Sorry for her.”
“So am I.” Campbell looked at him. “She was found in Reston Hills Park—naked. The initials KB were tattooed on her right forearm. I was able to establish that they were short for Kenneth Braison, the current leader of the Braison Family cult—”
“Really?” Mason tasted the lemonade as his expression grew more distraught. “Interesting…”
“I had the same reaction, all things considered,” Campbell admitted. “I took a look at the cold case that you investigated twenty years ago involving the death of Lynda Boxleitner. The similarities were uncanny, right down to the tattooed initials WB on her forearm—albeit, which were short for Wendell Braison, Kenneth Braison’s father. I couldn’t help but wonder if the two deaths could be connected in one way or another?”
Mason’s brow furrowed. “Two decades is a long time, son.”
“But not so long that a killer couldn’t have hung around from one murder to let history repeat itself, for whatever reason,” Campbell suggested, even if he knew it would be a hard sell. Even for himself.
“I suppose.” His father brought the glass of lemonadeto his mouth. “One problem with that theory is that Wendell Braison, the chief suspect in the murder of Lynda Boxleitner, died seven plus years ago. Though I was never quite able to nail him, no one else surfaced to the degree that I came to believe I had targeted the wrong man. So unless Wendell found a way to rise from the dead, there’s no way he could have been responsible for the latest death. Besides that, Lynda died from thallium sulfate poisoning, as opposed to fentanyl that you say Mia O’Dell OD’d on. Lynda’s death was ruled a definite homicide. Apparently, that wasn’t the case with Mia’s. Doesn’t seem to add up.”
Though he agreed at face value, Campbell said, “Clearly, Wendell Braison did not kill Mia. But maybe his son picked up where he left off—right down to all but staging Mia’s naked body at the park on Founder’s Day to practically mimic the death of Lynda Boxleitner. As for fatally poisoning the victim with fentanyl mixed with the fentanyl analog, carfentanil, instead of thallium sulfate, it could be mainly a matter of accessibility. Go with what you have—in abundance these days for practically anyone who wishes to obtain it on the black market. Though the coroner didn’t outright declare the death a homicide, she might as well have. Aside from going after the drug dealer for supplying the fatal dose of fentanyl, cuts and abrasions on the victim’s arms, legs, and feet indicate that there’s a good possibility she was trying to get away from whomever may have given her the drug, as though in fear of her life. That amounts to murder, in my book.”Or close enough to warrant a serious investigation into the death, he told himself, sipping the lemonade.
Mason jutted his chin. “Have to admit, it smellsfishy—the whole thing.” He paused. “I assume you’ve questioned Kenneth Braison?”
“Yes, I questioned him,” Campbell verified.
“And…?”
“And the jury’s still out on that,” he told his father. “Braison apparently has an alibi for the estimated time of Mia’s death. But given that those in his inner circle will likely say whatever he tells them to, I’m not ready just yet to see that as the gospel—till we can get into the compound, where Mia was staying, with a search warrant. It’s also more than possible that if Kenneth Braison was the one pulling the strings in killing her, it wouldn’t have been difficult to get someone else to do his bidding as a loyal soldier for the cause.”
“I suppose.” Mason ran a hand across the dog’s head. “If the Braison Family is behind both deaths—a generational murder pack of sorts—I hope you can succeed in piecing together where I fell short.”
“So do I.” Campbell eyed his strained profile. “But for the record, you investigated the Boxleitner murder to the best of your ability with what you had to work with, Dad. No one still around today on the force faults you for being unable to solve the case. Unfortunately, cold cases are a part of law enforcement across the country. Hell, even around the world. We can’t solve them all—even if we wanted to.”
“You’re right about that,” Mason said, with a catch to his voice. “Somehow, though—strange as it sounds all these years later—I felt as if I let Lynda down in not being able to allow her the dignity of being able to rest in peace.”
“Doesn’t sound strange at all,” Campbell said. “You and Lynda dated once, giving you a reason to take whathappened to her personally on some level. Just as we both had to deal with some things when Mom died—though the cause of her death was quite different.” He drew a breath. “Maybe my investigation can make things right for you with Lynda. Or at least give those close to Mia some closure.”
