Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(16)

As his request became clearer, Joe noted that Williamson relaxed and Tillis seemed more annoyed. Kapelow was apparently unaffected.

“Duane,” Hewitt said to Patterson over Joe’s shoulder, “you might be in a really good position to know what threats were made against me, since you defended a number of these pukes. How many told you after sentencing that they’d like to burn down my house or take me out?”

Patterson cleared his throat. “More than a few, Your Honor,” he said.

“Write down their names,” Hewitt said to him. “See how many are presently in Rawlins at the penitentiary and who might be out wanting to seek revenge. Deliver that list to the sheriff and me by the end of the week.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Patterson said weakly.

“Is there a problem with that?” Hewitt asked. His eyes were on the acting county prosecutor.

“No problem, Your Honor,” Patterson said. “The list might be longer than you want it to be.”

“I don’t care,” Hewitt shot back. “That comes with the job.”

Patterson said, “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, sir.”

“Not as much as Sue,” Hewitt said sharply. “Sue is in the process of dying right now due to a high-powered bullet that entered her left breast and plowed through her lungs.”

“Yes, sir,” Patterson said with a yelp.

“Kapelow,” Hewitt said, focusing on the sheriff sitting in front of him. “This is now the first and only priority of your department. Ask all of your deputies to make lists and start questioning everybody on it who is not currently in jail. Tell all your people to clear their schedules until we have the shooter in custody.”

Kapelow nodded so imperceptibly that Joe could barely see it. Joe wondered what the sheriff’s reaction would be to being ordered around like that.

“I’ll do the same,” Williamson said.

Kapelow turned in his chair toward the others in the room. He said, “The club is outside city limits. This shooting is clearly in the sheriff’s department jurisdiction. It should all go through us. All of it. We want a well-coordinated investigation and not a bunch of guys tripping over each other with their own personal agendas.”

He didn’t look over at Williamson when he said it, although it was obviously directed at the chief.

Joe narrowed his eyes at the man. Although it was technically true that the sheriff had jurisdiction over the crime scene, the way he stated it was haughty and unnecessary, Joe thought. He’d aligned himself with Judge Hewitt against the others in the room.

Kapelow turned back to Hewitt. “I’ve got my guys on the scene out there right now.”

“Good,” Hewitt said. “Tell them not to disturb anything in my house or there will be hell to pay. I’ve cleared out for the time being so you can do your work. But when I move back in, there better not be any damage or anything missing.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Have you determined where the shot was fired from?”

“We think it was from the bunker of the seventh green,” Kapelow said. “We think someone climbed the fence, trespassed on the property, and lay in wait at dusk. We’re combing the area for physical evidence: footprints, the casing, cigarette butts or spent chewing tobacco—anything we can find to help determine the shooter’s identity.”

Joe was impressed with what Kapelow had done so far.

Hewitt wasn’t. “Your ‘bunker on the seventh green’ theory is outright bullshit,” he said. “I sit at my dining room table every night and look out over the golf course and the hills and mountains behind it. From where I sit, I can’t even see the sand trap on the seventh fairway. Anybody hiding there could barely see the roof of my house, much less the back window.”

Sheriff Kapelow didn’t flinch. He said simply, “The investigation is ongoing.”

“I hope to hell so,” Hewitt said with sarcasm. “Have you determined what kind of rifle or bullet was used?”

“Not yet,” Kapelow said. “The preliminary guess from the evidence tech was that it was a .30 caliber or similar.”

“Which is just about every bullet and rifle within five hundred miles,” Hewitt said. “I hope you can nail it down a hell of a lot better than that.”

“We will,” Kapelow said.

The man had unerring confidence in his abilities, Joe observed.

Chief Williamson leaned forward, eager to please. “We’ve got our MRAP gassed up and ready,” he told the judge. “Our plan is to move it out onto the golf course so the shooter will have a hell of a surprise in store for him if he decides to come back.”

The MRAP was a twenty-ton Mine-Resistant Ambush-Protected behemoth of military hardware donated by the Pentagon to local police departments throughout the country following the Iraq War. Chief Williamson looked for any excuse to deploy it locally. Helmets, body armor, combat boots, and camouflage uniforms were also provided.

“That’s one of the dumbest fucking ideas I’ve ever heard,” Judge Hewitt said to Williamson. “If you drive that thing out onto my golf course and tear up the grass, I’ll take a shot at it myself.”

Williamson slumped back in his chair, completely deflated.

“Instead of jumping in your tank,” Hewitt said to the chief, “make a list just like the others and then go out and talk to people. Let us know who you’ve brought before me that wants a piece of me. Can you do that?”