Uncertain Justice

Chapter 35

From the river he walked uphill to check the backpack he'd left in his small camp. Small animals liked to investigate it from time to time. It was a constant battle to keep them from getting into his precious store of salt.

He inspected the campsite as he walked closer but saw nothing that would betray its existence to an observer. He made a practice of never approaching the camp from the same direction twice to avoid creating a well-used trail a hunter might use to track him down.

The tent was set up in the middle of a thickly forested section, concealed from all directions by trees and brush. Just in case, he'd arranged a number of branches so they leaned against the tent and broke up its outline. It couldn't be seen from more than a few feet away in the twilight. A rock field behind it offered a quick escape should anyone approach. The pebbles and undergrowth up there made it impossible for anyone to sneak up on him from that direction.

The fish and cattail root should be about ready. He was so hungry he could taste them already. Delaying only to closely examine nearby terrain and scan the distant horizon one final time, he made his way back to the cook fire.

§

Special Agent John Randall--Jack to his friends--frowned at the documents he was reading and leafed through the file for a summary report he'd found earlier. Comparing the two, he shook his head in irritation and paper-clipped them together for a closer review later.

He looked through the entire folder, reading statements and examining raw data relating to the case the boss had handed him early this morning. He'd only returned yesterday from a nice three-week leave of absence for his marriage and honeymoon. Maybe the boss was punishing him for being away from the job so long.

Grumbling under his breath, he gathered the papers together and chivied them haphazardly into the manila folder. He left his desk and made his way to his boss's much bigger office. The dark-haired secretary waved him into FBI Assistant Director Pat "Paddy" Reilly's modestly furnished, but deliciously private, inner office.

"Hey boss, got a minute?" Without waiting for a reply one way or the other, and not even looking at the man he addressed, Jack opened the file to check the wording on one of the documents. "What did I ever do to you, sir? This thing with ... uh ... Miles Underwood is screwed up six ways from Sunday already and it's only going to get worse." He flicked one of the papers with a forefinger to emphasize the point.

"Well ... for one thing, you married my only daughter and took her away from her mother and me. Did you think I was going to forgive you for that anytime soon?"

Delivered in a quiet tone, it wasn't immediately obvious whether the Assistant Director was serious or not. Looking up quickly, Jack thought he saw a hint of a twinkle in his father-in-law's eyes. He decided it was a joke ... probably.

"Yeah ... well, I'll have to do my best to make it up to you ... Dad." He took a chance being so familiar with a man so senior and who supervised so many Bureau employees that he held the title of Assistant Director instead of the more common "Special Agent-in-Charge" held by other office chiefs. The Denver office had only recently been made the FBI's fourth regional office with an Assistant Director in charge.

"Anyway," he added quickly, "how did we get involved in this can of worms? Shouldn't the locals in San Antonio be handling this one? He's their boy."

"Well, he's wanted for three counts of k********g in two states plus interstate flight to avoid prosecution on several other felonies for starters. Those are just the Federal offenses ... and Washington sent this one to us for a couple of good reasons, actually. One is that he's apparently found a hole to disappear into out west of Pueblo. That's definitely our bailiwick.

"Another reason is some possibility of ... irregularities in the investigation conducted by the police and state's attorney in the original case against Underwood. The Director also thinks our local office in San Antonio might be a little too friendly with the state authorities there."

There was no possibility of kidding in the Assistant Director's voice now. He was totally serious.

"Yeah," agreed Jack. "What's with all these witnesses not appearing at this guy's trial, for Pete's sake? Most of them are military personnel or dependents of military personnel. It's not like they can just decide to disappear one day."

Jack had served a three-year hitch in the Army to earn money for college and regarded himself as the office expert in military affairs. His frustration was evident in his voice.

"And then, the way this guy Brady says Underwood shoot him ... did you read the ballistics report?" Jack shuffled the papers in the file, nearly dropping the package to the floor. He gestured at the chair in front of the desk and got a nod. He sat and spread the file across his lap.

"ATF doesn't have a thing on Underwood owning a .25 caliber weapon, but Brady sure does and it's his g*n that was found on the floor of his office." He rifled through the file again to find the paper-clipped pages he'd set aside before.

"Apparently the lead splashes on Brady's safe are the same composition as the slugs taken out of his shoulder and the one cartridge left in the g*n. You really have to wonder what really happened there." Jack peered inquisitively at his father-in-law across the wide desk, inviting his superior to make a comment. When the Assistant Director only nodded his head, Jack continued.

"And ... this guy Brady didn't say a word about Underwood fighting him for the g*n ... not until he was asked, that is--and that didn't happen until his third or fourth interview with detectives.

"If I had to guess," Jack ventured, "this guy managed to shoot himself somehow and is blaming it on Underwood. I can't find anything that suggests Underwood was even there ... well, other than Brady's statements."

"Well ... a fire will hide lots of little details like that," Paddy observed dryly. "But I agree with you. There's no physical evidence at all."

"Yeah," sighed the young Agent. "If only this Underwood hadn't cut and run like he did. If he didn't have anything to do with it, why'd he take off?

"Also," he continued slowly, "Underwood's house was neat as a pin when the sheriff broke in ... well, except for a broken mirror and some sheetrock damage that hadn't been replaced in a bathroom. The front door was unlocked ... no indication why.

"You know ... I think Underwood had decided to get out of town and it was a decision he'd thought through and made meticulous plans for." He glanced at his boss. "But, if he really did have anything to do with the fire, I don't think it was part of those plans." His voice trailed off as he thought. He shook his head and sighed audibly when he couldn't connect the dots.

"None of this makes any sense," he complained.

"Look at the forensic report from the Fire Department," suggested Paddy when Jack didn't continue. "Arson investigators say the screen in front of the fireplace was partially open and they've identified the start of the fire as being about a yard away from the fireplace. They said something about that being consistent with ninety-five percent of all accidental fires associated with fireplaces."

"Yes sir," muttered the junior investigator as he shuffled papers in the file to find the report. "And this--'there is no evidence of any accelerant being used to induce combustion at the point of origin or any other point in the structure' ... that's real interesting." He caught the Assistant Director's eyes. "In the Academy they taught us firebugs invariably make sure a fire is burning nice and hot right from the beginning." He shook his head and looked down to find another of the documents.

"And this business down by La Junta? Colorado State Police HQ has positively identified Underwood as the guy who kidn*pped these two officers, but there's nothing to corroborate that, even if they did identify Underwood from a fax photo.

"Heck, the description they gave would fit half the men in Colorado, let alone Texas. No fingerprints, and they couldn't identify him later on in a photo lineup. Well ... the first three times they were given a photo lineup, they couldn't." He paused.

"The only thing that puts Underwood anywhere near La Junta is his pickup they found a long, long ways off. That's confirmed, by the way. Forensics found his prints all over it--got the report just before I came in."

"You know, boss, a rookie public defender could get that lineup thrown out and if they don't have that ... hell, all they have is a half-assed description of a pickup that might be Underwood's.

"They'll have the devil of a time in court trying to connect the dots on that." If Jack Randall had a pet peeve, it was bad police work. This file showed a general picture of sloppiness that grated badly. "So ... what do you want me to do with this?" Jack was still hopeful he might escape assignment to the case he'd been reviewing.

"For starters, add this to your file," ordered the Assistant Director. There wasn't even the slightest emphasis on "your file," but Jack sighed to himself anyway. He was stuck with it.

"What's this?" He accepted the three stapled sheets even as he posed the question.

"The Agent-In-Charge at the Pueblo office sent everyone she could out to the State Police command post for the search in the Monarch Pass area. That's a rough draft of their report. I had it faxed here this morning. There's nothing new in it but it goes over everything we've heard about unofficially. It confirms they almost caught Underwood the day they found the truck, but he slipped away from them--killed a K-9 in the process--and he hasn't been seen since.

"Dan ... let's see ... Dan Rogers was the senior agent in the field and he wrote the report. I don't know him, but he's included a pretty fair summary of the state police's search over the last week or so. He says there haven't been any big foul-ups there, but Underwood--assuming it actually was him--apparently disappeared into thin air."

Assistant Director Reilly settled back in his chair and studied the young man his daughter had chosen to marry. The boy's forehead grew more creased as he read a passage in the draft report. Jack was one of the brightest and most dedicated agents he'd ever had work for him. He wasn't nearly as upset as he pretended to be at the loss of his only girl child. It wouldn't do to let Jack know that though. He smothered a grin.

"Great ... just great," continued the youthful special agent. "Chief, have you checked this guy Underwood's record?" Randall asked as he finished the draft. He pulled out another bundle of papers stapled together.

"St. Louis faxed a copy of his military personnel file to us and there's some other things that don't make sense. For instance," he shuffled the stack for a moment, "did you know this guy was awarded a bronze star, among other things, for bravery?

"Seems that he was a witness to a bad accident one afternoon driving home ... some drunk ran a red light and t-boned a van and the van caught on fire. He ran over to the burning wreck and pulled a mother and her three kids out right before the gas tank exploded ... got some second degree burns that took a long time to heal." The young agent thumbed through a few more pages.

"I found a phone number for his last supervisor in the Army. Turns out the Command Sergeant Major ... he's a very senior enlisted guy ... was still there. He told me Underwood was a quiet man and would give you the shirt off his back if you needed help.