16
“Mr. Drewe is here,” said the assistant, peeking into Cash’s office at CBI.
“Give me a minute,” Cash said. An assistant in her office had gone through the tedious process of contacting all the hikers who had pulled wilderness permits for the Flat Tops. There weren’t many—ever since the Neander business the Flat Tops had been mostly deserted. The assistant had passed on to her a few names of possible interest, and she had called them this morning. There had only been one that she was interested in talking to.
He was now waiting outside her office, a hiker named Robert Drewe, and he seemed to have solid and potentially important information to give her related to the case.
She hit the intercom. “Ready for Mr. Drewe,” she said.
The hiker came in, looking nervous. Cash invited him to sit. Drewe had pulled a permit to backpack into Edge Lake and camp for four days—around the area known as Meachem. He had told the initial CBI interviewer that he had seen lights in the same approximate location and time as the woman, Sassafras Newton, from the gas station.
Fortunately, Drewe was from Denver, and she’d persuaded him to come in for an interview. Here he was, adjusting and readjusting himself in the chair, sweat breaking on his brow, looking so nervous that you might think he was guilty of something. But Cash figured he was probably just one of those people uncomfortable with law enforcement, or maybe just awkward. She could respect that.
“Mr. Drewe, thanks for coming in,” she said. “Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“No thanks.”
He was small and nearly bald, despite his age, which couldn’t be more than twenty-five. What little hair he had hung down his back in a long, limp ponytail. He had a wispy bit of blond hair underneath his lower lip—what did you call that?—a soul patch. A sharp runny nose, skinny physique, and a tense air rounded out the picture of a most uncomfortable young man.
“Mind if I record?” she asked.
“Do you have to?”
“I don’t have to, but it would make my job a lot easier.”
“All right.”
She laid her cell phone down and turned it on and went through the usual preliminaries of name, date, time, and permission.
“Mr. Drewe, could you please tell me in your own words the details of your trip into the Flat Tops?”
He began speaking very fast. “I hiked in on June 5. I had a four-day permit to camp at Edge Lake, so I was there from June 5 to 9.”
“Where did you hike in from?”
“The trailhead at Sweetwater Road.”
“How long a hike is it?”
“It’s twenty-three miles into Edge Lake.”
“Wow—you hiked twenty-three miles in a day?”
“Well, yeah. I got an early start.”
This guy was more adventurous than he looked. “Did you see anybody on the trail?”
“Not really. There’s almost nobody in the Flat Tops these days, on account of the Neanders.”
“So you weren’t concerned about the Neanders?”
“Not at all. In fact, it’s a good thing—emptied out the place, turned it back into a true wilderness.”
“Okay. So you arrived at Edge Lake. What time?”
“Let’s see.” He thought for a moment. “I got there around sunset—I guess that would be around eight thirty. I never carry a watch.”
“And then?”
