Encounter on Taylor Glacier

By Anthony J Harrison

Alaskan State Trooper Jeremiah Boone is not convinced the death of a university student is a random act when he finds a Native Alaskan weapon at the crime scene. Pushed by a political appointee and a fellow officer-turned-politician to disregard his instincts regarding a potential suspect, Boone resigns, leaving the murder unsolved, and the suspect still on the loose.
In an unlikely turn of events, the former State Trooper, now a US Marshal, unknowingly comes face to face with the suspect from his unsolved murder in the remotest place on earth, Antarctica. When women assigned at McMurdo Station report being stalked and assaulted, Marshal Boone’s instincts return to the former suspect. It’s up to him and his deputies to find the person or persons responsible for the assaults.
A desperate radio call from a science party in the Antarctic Dry Valley leads Boone on the path toward an encounter with the suspect responsible for assaults in McMurdo. Boone’s suspect forces a female science party member further into the remote valley, with intentions to continue his physical assault against the woman. It’s up to the marshal to find and confront his suspect before his actions claim another innocent life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony J Harrison
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005903831

Anthony J Harrison

Anthony is a first generation American and native Californian, the son of Scottish immigrants. His father Peter was born in Glasgow and his mother Catherine was born in Edinburgh. Anthony's fraternal grandparents, Michael and Margaret were both born in Ireland.Anthony is married to his high school sweetheart, Mary, and has been blessed with two daughters, Rebekah and Jennifer.A product of a mixed education (part parochial and part public schools), he developed a thirst for reading early in his childhood, and took to writing fiction as an escape from his work as an Instructional Systems Designer.When not working on improving his writing, Anthony can be found on the local golf course, honing his game invented by his ancestors.

Book preview

Chapter One

An Alaska State Troopers’ SUV made its way through the gates of Green Fern Sawmill. The ambulance, dark and silent was just leaving, so Lieutenant Jeremiah Boone pulled into a spot near a single-wide trailer. Half-a-dozen men stood together in a loose pack. Several were smoking cigarettes, but all held a drink.

After parking near the office trailer, the 19-year police veteran from the AST Bureau of Investigations slid out of his vehicle and assessed the scene. Helluva way to start my Monday, in a soft, West Texas drawl while slipping on a pair of latex gloves. This was only the second homicide investigation in the greater Palmer area since his arrival in Alaska fifteen years ago.

Ribbons of yellow caution tape fluttered between the fence and trailer before encircling the building and the lone outhouse on the site. Corporal Wilson and a civilian were talking near the front door, and Trooper Jenkins was looking over the heavy equipment parked nearby.

A groan of protest greeted Lieutenant Boone’s first step onto the metal stairs leading to the portable trailer’s entrance. He studied the doorknob. No signs of forced entry. With a twist of the handle, Boone tugged the door open. The air inside stank like the local kennel before cleaning, only much worse. This sudden stench caught Boone off guard, resulting in his stomach’s protest.

This hint of death from within was in stark contrast to the earthy aroma of fresh-cut white spruce timber stacked fifty feet away. While Boone was leaning over the rail spitting out the bitter tang of bile which rose from his gut, his hand caught a sharp edge, ripping his glove. Damn, muttering aloud.

Boone pulled out another pair of latex gloves while walking to where his trooper and a civilian stood. Corporal Wilson; besides the paramedics, who else has been inside the office? wriggling fingers against the latex.

The young State Trooper looked over his shoulder at the lieutenant approaching.

That’d be Mr. Miller. He’s the manager for the sawmill, motioning his pen to the gentleman standing next to him before returning to his report. He arrived this morning at 5 a.m. and found the body.

And the others? Pointing to the group on the opposite side of his SUV.

They’re the sawmill crew.

Boone nodded. Alright then, before turning his attention to the manager. When was the last time you were here at the sawmill yard, Mr. Miller?

With brutish arms wrapped against his chest, the yard manager flexed his jaw against a wad of tobacco before answering. Oh, ’bout two-thirty... maybe three o’clock, Friday afternoon.

Boone paused, shifting his gaze toward the ground for the moment. He mentally considered how long the victim lay alone, injured, and helpless before succumbing to their demise.

Corporal Wilson scribbled the response before flipping the sheet of paper over, listening to the exchange.

Boone kept his expression neutral before asking his next question. And were you the last person to leave the yard on Friday?

The sawmill manager slid a finger into his mouth, and dug out the wad of tobacco, flung it aside before spitting out the rest.

Yeah, I’d let the crew knock off around two o’clock. He lifted a large plastic tankard, took a gulp of coffee to rinse his mouth out, swishing it around his cheeks.

After getting here this morning, how far inside the trailer did you go before you stopped?

Miller let loose a stream of spit on the ground before he answered. Far enough to see the chaos. Two, three steps at the most.

The lieutenant kept his focus on Miller. When you were inside, did you touch anything? Like a desk, the walls, or even the victim, perhaps? his last statement striking a nerve in the manager.

Miller gave the lieutenant an icy stare, one which hardened men exchanged, having seen the death of others.

What I saw of Alice told me she was beyond saving, in a hushed tone answering the question.

The lieutenant’s hands moistened while he flexed his fingers inside the latex gloves.

So, you’re saying you knew the victim? What was your relationship with her?

Miller stopped leaning against the police vehicle, shuffling his feet under him and stiffening his back.

Of course, I knew her. Alice was a student at the university. I’d placed an ad for a bookkeeper back in March. And her application showed experience with a family lumber business, so I hired her. She began working after her last class in mid-May. After being here the last few months, I felt comfortable enough to give her keys to the yard and trailer so she could work on her own time.

And she was here Friday afternoon when you left?

That’s right.

Alright then, Mr. Miller. Corporal Wilson has a few more questions to ask. Afterwards, you’ll be free to go. He’ll give you a time on Wednesday to come into the Palmer station to complete and sign your statement. Suddenly ending the interrogation session.

Lieutenant, there’s something else you need to know, Miller said, stopping the officer.

What’s that?

Alice’s Jeep is missing.

Boone glanced at Wilson. Make a note to check on that as well, and don’t forget a preliminary statement from them, pointing toward the other men. And Wilson; make sure you include time to get prints and DNA samples from each of them too, before turning away.

Yes, sir.

With a nod, Boone left his trooper and the manager. And today is only Monday, he thought, calculating the last time someone else might have seen the victim. Boone went back to the office’s entrance, pulling the door open against the rail. He used a length of electrical wire which hung from the railing to keep it open before he scanned the interior. The lieutenant sensed the lack of saliva in his mouth, caused by frequent attempts to swallow, dreading what he was about to find.

Hours passed as morning became afternoon. After the lieutenant noted the interior’s condition and that of the victim, he exited the trailer. Here, Boone completed his first survey of the trailer’s exterior. Trooper Jenkins continued to sketch the yards’ layout, complete with vehicle locations and corresponding tire tracks.

Inside the office, the fading afternoon light glowed against the far wall, once again providing Boone a glimpse of the carnage. Strewn across the Formica-covered walls were blood droplets spilling over onto a bulletin board. Crouching, he pulled on a pair of Tyvek covers over his boots. Stepping inside the doorway, he reached for the switch to turn on the lights.

With a glance to his left, Boone surveyed the surrounding space. In the nearby corner was a mop, bucket, and broom, waiting to be used. Alongside them stood a water dispenser and several empty five-gallon containers. Coat hooks screwed to the end-wall held several parkas and a lone hardhat adorned with union stickers.

With another hard swallow, Boone returned his attention to where the victim lay. It was here the true nature of the crime showed itself to the lieutenant. Beads of sweat gradually made their way along the back of his neck, announcing themselves with an uncontrollable shiver. With a swipe of his forearm across his brow, Boone kept small rivulets of stinging sweat from impeding his vision. Now began the uneasy task of dealing with the remains of Alice Timmons.

While sweeping his flashlight back and forth, the glint of polished metal caught his eye. Beside the woman, the lieutenant saw what appeared to be a knife. If you go to the trouble of assaulting someone, why leave the weapon behind? he muttered to himself.

The sound of crunching gravel under tires caught Boone’s attention. He turned his back to the carnage again, stepping outside the trailer. Even with the afternoon’s growing shadows, he recognized the familiar vehicle from the Anchorage Coroner’s Crime Scene Unit pull alongside his police SUV. A second vehicle, this one an unmarked Crown Victorian with a federal license plate, pulled alongside. This ought to be fun, Boone muttered seeing its occupant wearing a less-than-pleased expression.

***

Sir... you need to stay behind the police tape, Corporal Wilson said.

Special Agent William ‘Bill’ Fischer paused for a moment. Your department invited me, showing his credentials and badge. After getting the call from his supervisor at the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) in Anchorage, he followed the investigation team from Palmer to the crime scene.

It’s okay, Wilson. He can enter.

The trooper stepped aside, acknowledging his senior officer walking toward him from the trailer.

The BIA agent took a moment to glance at the trooper’s insignia and name tag.

Lieutenant Boone, why in the hell was I dragged out here from Anchorage? Fischer asked, looking at Corporal Wilson, who held out a logbook for him to sign. Fischer knew the drill. Before entering the crime scene, he needed to be identified for the record. Haphazardly, he scribbled his name and ID number under the names of the assistant coroner and his technician. Fischer noticed Boone’s name was the third on the page.

It’s good to see you too, Agent Fischer, letting the snide remark pass. Wilson, go help Casper and Stanford with their gear, will you? motioning to the SUV. Boone turned his back to the federal agent, then nodded toward the single-wide trailer. This way.

Agent Fischer noted the temporary trailer, a typical construction site unit. The fading daylight reflected off dust-covered windows, while the exterior two-tone paint started showing its exposure to the Alaskan environment.

The two men walked up to the trailer’s entrance, where the lieutenant paused. Boone grabbed a set of Tyvek slippers and handed them to Fischer. You’ll want to cover those, pointing to the agents’ freshly polished jump boots.

Fischer took the covers, slipping them over his boots while he watched Boone slip his N95 mask over his face. Is it that bad inside? nodding at the mask.

Boone hesitated. I’ll let you be the judge, before handing Fischer his own gloves before stepping aside.

Casper Perkins walked toward the two men.

Make a hole, Lieutenant, struggling with his case across the gravel toward the metal steps. Boone and Fischer made space for the Assistant Coroner to pass, before following him up the trailer steps and into their crime scene.

The junior medical officer from the hospital stopped a few feet into the trailer.

Not much room for setting up, Lieutenant? looking over his shoulder at Boone.

Just do the best you can, Perkins.

As the two officers stepped inside, Agent Fischer froze in the doorway.

Whoa, taking in the spectacle before him. I’ve seen cleaner ice floe left by an Inupiat Eskimo seal-hunting party than this room. While he made his best effort not to gawk at the horror facing him.

Barely inside the trailer’s entrance, the result of the carnage unfolded before them. Items once sitting on a desk were now shoved aside, strewn across the cracked and yellowing linoleum. These were the beginning signs of the struggle between Alice Timmons and her attacker.

Now, turning their attention along the length of the office. Each officer soon noticed several chairs, and they had knocked another desk over, blood splattered across its sheet-metal surface. A chaotic trail of blood marked the path taken by the victim and her assailant, each drop turning a deeper shade of mahogany as it dried.

While looking past Casper, his camera and lights set to document the scene, Agent Fischer saw crumpled jeans around the ankles of what appeared to be a young woman. Her legs were sticking out from behind a toppled drafting table. The exposed flesh showed deep slashes from the victim’s assailant. Boone stood silently behind him, waiting for the agent’s response.

Do we know who discovered the victim?

Boone glanced over his shoulder. Yeah, Carl Miller. He’s the manager for the sawmill.

Fischer turned, peering back through the door into the yard. Really? I didn’t spot anyone else outside other than your troopers.

Boone gestured to the open door. Corporal Wilson has his preliminary statement, and we advised Miller and his workers to show up on Wednesday to finish. If I were a betting man, I’d say he and his crew are back in Palmer having a few stiff drinks by now.

Lieutenant, I’ve finished photographing the interior, including the victim, the technician said. While glancing up at Boone, he added, Based on the visual indicators and my first assessment, I’d say our victim didn’t bleed out. I noticed she has bruises and ligature scrapes around her neck, which indicates the assailant probably strangled her. Either during, or most likely after, she lost conscience. We’ll know more when I get the body back to Anchorage. After getting up from his crouch, he added. Agent, look at the other item I found as well, with a gesture toward the floor.

Boone and Agent Fischer took deliberate steps to where the victim lay.

Don’t step on any blood splotches, Boone reminded himself while he eased toward the victim. Stepping over the legs, he glanced around the table. Here, Boone noticed the young woman’s eyes looking up at him. They looked to pierce his soul with a desperate cry for help, which was now too late.

Boone stepped aside while he motioning the agent forward.

That’s why we notified you, Agent Fischer, pointing out a blood-drenched piece of steel and bone.

The artifact was sitting amongst shattered pieces of what used to be a coffee mug next to the body of Alice Timmons.

Fischer crouched over the victim, inspecting the weapon. Its curved blade, attached to an intricate hand-carved piece of antler, sat a foot from the victim. To those familiar with Inuit script, the handle told the story of its owner. The double-edged blade, though covered in what someone might see as burned transmission fluid, still lent itself to its lethal intentions. Fischer pulled a penlight from his jacket and shone it on the untainted segment of the material. At first glance, the weapon appeared crude and unrefined. Though made from a chunk of steel and animal bone, when wielded by someone with training, it was still lethal. The glint from the sharpened edge displayed the owners’ effort.

Agent Fischer came out of his crouch before he looked at Boone.

You’re kidding me, right? This single item is why I’m here from Anchorage? I hope the State Troopers’ office or the Bureau of Investigation has a nice slush fund to pay for this brief excursion.

Boone spun around glaring at the agent. Fischer, I won’t bullshit you based on my limited knowledge of Alaskan Native culture, pointing at the weapon. But I can damn well tell an Inuit Ulu like this one is not something a person bought at the souvenir store or museum gift shop, catching his breath. I’m telling you, Fischer, the tribal member who fabricated this weapon, did so with a specific purpose behind it, gesturing to the floor.

And I’m supposed to tell you which tribe it belongs to solely by glancing at it here? Fischer shook his head, throwing his question back at the trooper. So, out of the 200-plus tribes, you expect me to narrow it to one? A single tribe? Then what? I go before the tribe’s council and ask permission to question every male member?

The lieutenant stood his ground. Isn’t that your job? To be the intermediary between the state and the tribes? arms crossed against his chest. He was seeing the special agent’s true colors. He’s more bureaucrat than advocate, Boone thought. It’s obvious I’ve got a murder victim here, and this piece of evidence is pointing to a member of an Alaskan Native tribe as a suspect. And your position, as part of the BIA’s Missing and Murdered Unit, is to cooperate with outside agencies, correct?

Agent Fischer turned his back to Boone and was heading toward the door when Stanford, the second forensics technician, stuck his head inside the trailer.

Excuse me, Lieutenant. You’ll want to see what I just found, looking past Fischer.

Boone followed behind Fischer, leaving Perkins to continue processing the trailer's interior. The assistant coroner did little to contain his surprised expression at witnessing what happened between the trooper and agent. Boone stepped out of the trailer, pulling the boot covers from his feet before sliding the mask off, which did little to hold back the stench of the victim.

I caught this when documenting the exterior, pointing his flashlight at the door. The circular beam of light was illuminating the trailer’s exterior sheeting along the doorjamb. A perceptible outline of three fingers was now visible to Boone and Fischer.

Our assailant’s bloody fingerprints?

Stanford stood aside shrugging his shoulders. Maybe... I mean... who else might have left them?

Boone stepped closer, now just inches away from the potential clue. Though unsure of what substance was used to make the impression, his gut instinct was screaming loud and clear the prints would lead him to the assailant.

Fischer watched Boone stare at the bloody prints, like a bloodhound getting its first sniff of a convict’s clothing.

It can be anything you know. And there’s nothing which shows that it’s not your victim’s blood, either. Fischer stood back, his arms folded, waiting for Boone to answer him.

Boone stepped away from the door. Make sure you get as much of that for a sample as you can, nodding to the technician. Cut the sheeting if you have to. With a glance at Fischer, he continued. I’m not considering it our victim’s, but the attacker’s blood.

How can you be so sure?

Did you notice the size of our victim’s hands, by chance? Boone took a step closer to the agent. Did you see any cuts on our victim’s palms? There weren’t any, so this set of prints can’t belong to her, gesturing to the doorway.

It could be one of the sawmill crew, you know.

Boone glared back at the agent.

A hard knock came from the window to their right, as Perkins waved them to come back inside the trailer.

The lieutenant donned his mask and shoe covers before he re-entered the trailer, leaving Fischer alone. The BIA agent stood jotting his observations in a notebook. Boone once again tread gingerly, his steps measured while avoiding the dried remnants of blood splatters while moving toward the far end of the office. Stepping behind Perkins, Boone saw him holding something aloft.

Found this in our victim’s front pocket, handing over what appeared to be a man’s billfold.

The lieutenant held the smooth leather wallet to his face while spinning it around under the light. After flipping it open, the first thing he recognized was the victim’s identification. Alice Timmons, University of Alaska Anchorage.

This just confirms what the manager told us about our victim. She was a student at UAA.

The officer thumbed through the other slots. He came across an Alaska state license, a Private Mover bus pass, a credit card, a few photos, and thirty-four dollars in cash. With the cash in hand, he displayed to Perkins. Doesn’t look as if robbery was a motive. Before giving the wallet back and Boone stepped outside the trailer.

Agent Fischer walked from behind the trailer where Boone stood.

Well Boone, since there’s nothing else for me here, I’m going to head back to Anchorage.

Well, we’re still doing the initial investigation. I recommend you stick around in the event we find something else of interest. You never know what might turn up, Agent Fischer.

Fischer stood facing the lieutenant; his face contorted in an angry scowl. I’m not sitting here any longer than needed Boone.

Boone just gave his head a tilt to one side, watching Fischer fuss about his quandary, while Perkins stepped up toward the trooper carrying a cardboard box.

Lieutenant, I’ve got everything cataloged and photographed inside. Only thing left is to prepare and remove the remains for transport back to Anchorage. After that, I can finish gathering the remaining bits of potential evidence.

Boone nodded at the technician. Yeah, go ahead. The lieutenant turned somewhat, taking a last glance back at the trailer. What am I missing? Boone asked himself. I’ll get Trooper Jenkins to help you.

And Perkins. After you and Stanford finish removing our victim, I’ll have Corporal Wilson help Stanford do a sweep of the yard for anything tangible. His arms arching across the expansive grounds.

Sounds good to me, Lieutenant, taking the cardboard box to his van.

Boone strolled to his cruiser, glancing back at the trailer. After taking off his coat, he grabbed the steering wheel and slid across the cool seat. He turned the ignition, starting the SUV, and bringing the radio and scanner crackling to life. Boone adjusted the volume before taking the handpiece and asking dispatch to acknowledge his call. Boone slipped out his notebook and jotted down the information from Alice’s wallet on the paper.

Go ahead, Lieutenant, came a woman’s reply.

Boone started relaying what information he got on Alice Timmons. After a brief delay, the voice of a dispatcher began responding to the information details he provided.

And have someone contact UAA to see if the victim held a vehicle pass, remembering the manager’s comment regarding their victim’s missing vehicle at the scene.

A brief knock against his window startled Lieutenant Boone. Turning to his right, he spied Corporal Wilson standing beside his SUV, a serious expression on his face. With a push of his finger, the window slid inside the door.

What have you got, Wilson?

I’m not sure, but the other forensic tech, Stanford, stopping to catch his breath. He’s found something. And he thinks it might be important. But before he does anything else, he wants you to see it first, while waving toward a stack of white spruce timber.

Before exiting his vehicle, Boone radioed dispatch of his status. Next, he pulled on his jacket, while he followed the trooper toward the felled timber.

The BIA agent watched the trooper walk over to the SUV and talk with his lieutenant when he pointed over to the pile of logs near the property line.

Hey Lieutenant, where are you going? noticing the pair leave the SUV.

Boone paused. Well, you’re welcome to join me and Corporal Wilson to see what they found, motioning to the fallen spruce logs to their left.

Not waiting for Fischer’s reply, Boone continued walking away. While the agent trotted behind the two officers who rounded the neatly arranged spruce logs, Boone spotted the forensic technician’s flashlight emanating from behind a piece of equipment.

Over here, Lieutenant, Stanford said, waving the flashlight in the troopers’ direction.

The men rounded the back of the large timber carrier. Here, Boone and Fischer saw what the technician, Stanford and his trooper stumbled across in the yard. Tacked to a spruce log crudely were the remains of a six-month-old fawn. Tied spread-eagle, allowing its captor the ability to gut the animal more efficiently.

What the hell? Boone asked in an inaudible murmur, taking in the scene.

One of my instructors at the academy mentioned finding something like this during one of his investigations near Skagway, Wilson said, motioning at the sight before the group. But that was over ten years ago.

The forensic tech turned toward Wilson. Did they catch the hunter who left the carcass?

Nope. They came up empty after investigating for over three years from what I recalled, before stepping aside for Fischer. And they didn’t think it was a hunter who left the carcass either. They centered their investigation as if it were some cult rituals.

Agent Fischer stepped next to the lieutenant to get a better view. Fischer’s shoulders sagged briefly after a heavy sigh, while taking in the scene. His experience with Native Alaskans told him this was a crude undertaking at a sacrifice to an ancestral being.

Lieutenant, this looks like an issue for your game warden to investigate.

Is it, Agent Fischer?

The corporal stepped toward Boone. That’s not all, Lieutenant, while pointing to a scrawled set of letters above and to the right of the carcass. We didn’t catch this until we took a step back from the fawn. Do you know what it means or stands for, Lieutenant?

Lieutenant Boone pulled his flashlight out, shining the beam across the carved letters. While he studied the letters, he took in a deep breath, exhaling calmly, while gathering his thoughts.

I only have a vague idea what it says, Wilson. Agent Fischer, you want to offer your speculation on what we are looking at here?

Fischer ran his hand through his hair before answering.

I’ll need to do more research before I can make any real determination on this scene, gesturing to the carcass and scrawled letters on the timber.

Boone looked over at the forensics technician. Make sure you take a handful of photos of the word carving along with the doe carcass, all right Stanford? Then Jenkins and Wilson can help you cut the carcass free and bag it as potential evidence.

The lieutenant swung his light back on the white spruce log, taking one last look at the word carved in the timber. It read PINGA.

Chapter Two

The glow of a single floodlight next to the trailer turned crime scene illuminated Lieutenant Boone while he affixed the metallic seal over the door. Then taking a Sharpie pen from his shirt, he initialed across the seal.

Agent Fischer shuffled his feet in the gravel while watching the trooper. You calling it a day already, Boone?

Wilson and Jenkins will finish cataloging the exterior scene along with the forensics crew. I’m heading back to the station to get the initial report started and set-up things for the sawmill crew to complete their statements, stepping off the platform.

Fischer leaned back against the fender of his sedan. Look Boone, I know you want to make this easy for yourself and your department, he began. But I’m not sticking my neck out just because your gut feeling says that your suspected killer is a Native Alaskan.

Boone shook his head. Listen Fischer, for the record, the report my officers and I send will outline each fact and each piece of evidence found at this crime scene. And that includes the potential murder weapon we found, and the scene of an animal used for sacrificial purposes, pulling open his vehicle’s door. And those facts alone point to an indigenes person as our suspect, while tossing his jacket in the SUV.

The agent stood; arms folded against his chest. I don’t believe you.

Boone took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing to explain his position. The facts are going to speak for themselves, alright? There’ll be no fabrication or manipulation to make Palmer Station or its officers sound better at their job than what they are right this moment.

Fischer shook his head. I’ve seen reports come in from other jurisdictions, you know. And they’re not always neat and tidy. There’s always something amiss or exaggerated.

Listen, the only thing I want from you, Agent Fischer, is your cooperation in answering questions when they come across your desk, agreed? before being interrupted by the crackling of the radio. The monotone voice of the female dispatcher asked for the lieutenant’s response.

With his free hand grabbing the handset, Boone replied to the call.

Say again your last transmission, dispatch.

What’s your current location, Lieutenant?

I’m still at Green Fern Sawmill. Why?

We received a report from the caretaker at Moose Creek Campgrounds of a single-vehicle accident right off the highway near their entrance, Lieutenant. Since you were in the field, we hoped you’d check it out.

Have someone on the night shift head out and look into it. If they need help, then they can call for more hands. Trooper Jenkins and Corporal Wilson are still here on scene. We can call them in if needed as well. Boone out, tossing the handset aside.

Fischer took the exchange in silence, but thought he needed to mention something to the lieutenant. He pushed off the sedan, sauntering toward the port-a-john at the end of the trailer, while whistling quietly to himself.

Boone noticed the agent’s direction and gave a shout. That’s part of the crime scene Fischer, so it’s not available to use, causing the other man to halt in mid-stride.

I guess I’ll be making a stop at the station, as long as you don’t mind letting me inside.

After a thirty-minute drive, both Boone and Agent Fischer pulled their vehicles into the parking lot of the Palmer station.

After grabbing his Remington shotgun and Colt AR-15 rifle from their respective locations inside the SUV, Boone made sure Fischer met him by his vehicle. Setting the shotgun and assault rifle against the wall after locking the SUV and walking up to the