Hidden Horrors

Hidden Horrors

Don Stoddard

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 Don Stoddard

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

1 The Vote

2 On the Job

3 A Nice Quiet Town

4 Take ‘em Where You Find ‘em

5 A Place to Stay

6 Kathy

7 The Job Begins

8 Settling In

9 The Hopkins Murders

10 Finally Settling In

11 An Exciting Night

12 Inspecting the Troops

13 Meeting the County Attorney

14 When Good Fellows Meet

15 The Work Begins

16 A Real Investigation Begins

17 The Scene of the Crime

18 Back to the Daily Routine

19 Lining Up Some Help

20 Charlie’s Sainted Mother

21 Brainstorming Continues

22 The Search Continues

23 What Do We Have to Lose?

24 Finding the Killer

25 At the Hospital

Epilogue

About the Author

More book by Don Stoddared

Acknowledgements:

I owe a debt of gratitude to Diane Gregg, Thomas Stoddard, and Kevin McArthur for their tireless efforts in reviewing, revising, and editing this work. Applying their expertise, they have significantly improved the book’s continuity, and readability, while significantly reducing the number of grammatical spelling and syntactical errors that are the bane of all authors. Their effort and encouragement are deeply appreciated.

Prologue

A gibbous moon shone dimly through a thin veil of clouds that drifted slowly across the darkening autumn sky. Tall pines lined the narrow game trail preventing what little light there was from penetrating to the path; on the trail, the darkness was total. Despite the high altitude, wherever the sun was able to filter through the trees, underbrush choked the path so that passage was difficult during daylight, and nigh unto impossible at night.

Breathing heavily, he quietly watched the shimmering vapor rise from his mouth into the still night air. As he stood, he pressed his rifle tightly against his chest. He had been able to make only painfully slow progress against the underbrush and the darkness. His only consolation was that the man he sought was facing the same difficulties.

He had been following his illusive quarry for several hours now without catching sight of him, but he had found broken branches that evidenced his prey’s recent passage and this had fired his hunter’s passion.

As he labored through the brush, he remembered again how much he hated dealing with these damned survivalists. They were meaner than snakes and twice as deadly. Tracking lunatics through almost impenetrable forests was not the reason he’d joined the FBI but his military experience as a tracker and sniper had made him the agent of choice whenever this kind of work was called for.

Most survivalists he knew had deep-seated and irrational hatred for governmental authority, in fact any authority. If only they would stay away from the very civilization they claimed to hate, he thought, they could live peacefully here in northern Montana nursing their supposed wrongs and playing ‘little boys’ games; marching around with guns in soldier suits and erecting signs proclaiming; No girls allowed.

The nutcase he was trailing had made a brief visit to the small bank in Elkhorn and while there decided that the bank’s money was better in his hands. Consumed with avarice he cautiously walked up to the young pretty bank teller with his rifle concealed beneath his arm and down the side of his leg. He raised the gun slightly so she could see it and then gave her a hand-scrawled note demanding money.

With wide-eyed terror, a racing heart and trembling hands she did as she was told and began packing a canvas bag with the bank’s money. As she gathered the money from her cash drawer, the ancient white-haired bank guard watched intently. He had not seen the rifle but something had aroused his suspicion and he began to move toward the man with the gun.

The guard though past his prime and slow-moving, did not lack for courage. With his hand on his holstered gun, he edged toward the bandit slowly closing the gap between himself and the would-be robber. The guard was less than two strides away when the robber saw him moving out of the corner of his eye. He spun the rifle quickly and without a word, shot the guard in the chest before he could draw his weapon. He then grabbed the partially filled canvas bag, fired a shot into the ceiling and ran out through the door. The guard died instantly.

The killer was described as white, male, six-feet tall, weighing one-hundred and fifty pounds, in his late thirties or early forties, with long black hair and a vivid scar running down his left cheek. The description fit Arthur Tuttle ‘to a T.’ Art was well-known in the community as a not-so-bright hot head and drunk. He was also a member of a local survivalist group and a native Montanan.

His pursuer arrived from Washington D.C. two days after the shooting and immediately began his search. After four days of following up on a myriad of sightings, none of which proved reliable, he received word that a forest ranger had seen the killer skulking around a logging camp in the vicinity of the National Wildlife Preserve. The agent immediately loaded his camping gear and rifle into his rented car, notified his superiors, and set off into the mountains in search of Arthur Tuttle.

The agent drove to the logging camp where Tuttle had been sighted to begin tracking his man. He first made a wide circle of the camp and quickly found the fugitive’s resting place near a narrow game trail leading further into the mountains. There was no evidence of permanency at the camp but the agent did find remnants of a small fire. The coals were cold and the killer was gone.

The sun was sinking below the mountain ridges and the night and temperature were quickly falling. At this time of year, darkness and cold came early. Sensing that he was close to his quarry, he began his pursuit in the failing light. He knew these conditions magnified the danger and lessened the chance of success but the agent found himself caught up in the thrill of the hunt.

The purser moved as rapidly as he could, but the rugged terrain and the thin air at this altitude required frequent stops. When he stopped, he paused only long enough to catch his breath and listen for the telltale sound of breaking branches or rustling leaves, then moved on again.

After following his adversary for several hours, he sensed his quarry weakening. He was certain he was beginning to close in on his prey. He stopped and held his breath for several long moments listening for any unusual sounds. Ah at last! He heard rustling immediately ahead of him. It sounded as if Tuttle was less than fifty feet ahead. The hunter leveled his rifle at the source of the noise and ran forward. He dimly saw a shadow moving down the trail, raised his rifle and shouted, FBI! Drop your gun!

Arthur Tuttle spun and fired. The agent fired at almost the same instant. The agent’s bullet struck Tuttle in the throat mortally wounding him. The agent fell to his knees from the impact of Tuttle’s bullet. He felt agonizing pain stabbing through his left arm and shoulder. Then everything went black. He fell forward; his face impaled by a jagged tree limb that had been shattered by the bullet that had hit him.

When he recovered consciousness, he was lying beside the rock-strewn trail, dimly aware of where he was. The pain in his shoulder was worse than anything he had ever experienced. He knew he had taken a bad hit. He struggled to get to his feet but his left arm collapsed under him when he tried to use it.

In excruciating, mind-numbing pain, he fell to the ground and remained there until the pain lessened enough to allow him to move. He removed his canvas ground tarp from his pack and wrapped it around himself. Then, he laid on his back and put his feet up on a rock that lay in the path. He remained in this position until he felt warmer, calmer and more alert. The pain in his shoulder was unremitting.

After what seemed like hours, he decided that if he waited for help he would die on this mountain. He tried to sit up but immediately blacked out. The pain gradually lessened and he made it on his second try.

With his right hand, he gently probed the split in his face and extracted a jagged piece of wood imbedded in his cheek. He shuddered when his fingers touched exposed bone just below his eye. The pain from the wooden spike in his face however was nothing compared to the agony of his arm. The wooden shaft had fortunately missed his eye but had left a long deep gash from just below the socket to the corner of his mouth. The wound oozed blood but did not appear to be life threatening.

The agent carefully removed his coat and examined his left arm. The bone had shattered just below the shoulder and the arm was tentatively attached by muscle, sinew and skin. He removed a bandage roll from his first aid kit and wrapped a strip of cloth tightly around the stub of his arm to staunch the blood flow; remarkably, the artery had not been severed. He then carefully put his coat back on, stuffed his useless arm into his sleeve and tucked the unfeeling hand under his belt. He notched the belt as tight as he could.

After resting on the ground for several minutes he wriggled over to where Tuttle lay, saw that he was dead and decided it was time to get off the mountain. He figured he was at least ten miles from any town. He had crossed a road a while back so that’s where he headed. Despite the pain that screamed throughout his body, he forced himself erect and with the aid of a broken limb used as a crutch, he moved slowly down the trail.

It took nearly four hours of agonizing effort to reach the road. He tripped and fell repeatedly, passing out each time. Each time he fell, it was harder to get up. Often when he fell his face pounded painfully onto the hard rocky trail. Each time he awoke, he tried to wipe the dirt out of the jagged cut but the pain was too great to allow anything but an occasional gentle swipe of his hand.

He had little recollection of the trek to the road. He had crawled most of the way using a stick and his one good arm to claw through the brush.

When at last he reached the road, he dragged himself up onto the berm and collapsed into a dark warm place where he felt no pain.

He never saw the lights of the truck barreling toward him.

Chapter 1 - The Vote

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Charlie quit banging that damned gavel. There are only six of us in here. All you have to do is say sit down and shut up. You’re giving me a headache, shouted Sam.

The six old men sat around a long wooden table in the small dusty room above the county courtroom. They were all well beyond middle-age with sparse hair and wrinkled faces as befit the fathers of their community. They each had been repeatedly elected to their positions, primarily because no one else wanted the thankless unpaid job. They were dressed casually in jeans and long-sleeved shirts.

One woman sat at the table next to Charlie with a memo pad in her hand. She was somewhat younger than the men were but was still well into her fifties. She was heavy with gray hair dyed black and with a smooth complexion and a pleasant but homely face.

Okay then, everybody sit down and shut up, said Charlie. All of you! We have a lot to do and I need to get back to the bar in time to see at least the second half of the game. I got some drinks riding on the Redskins.

Pausing until all was quiet Charlie announced, The October meeting of the Stevens County Commission is officially open. Hilda, would you please note for the record that all five members of the commission are present and sober? Ah, you can leave the part about everybody being sober out of the minutes. I’m not real sure about Henry. This brought a chuckle from the whole group including Henry.

"Now down to business. As you all know we have to select a new sheriff to fill the position vacated by Gill Williams since he was convicted of domestic abuse after nearly killing his wife. Ten years ago he would have got ninety days, paid a fine and still be employed, but times have changed. So now, we’ve got to replace him for the three years and eight months remaining in his term of office. You all know this. I’m just saying it so Hilda can put it in the record. Hilda you can leave out the part about ten years ago, and this last sentence. Ah…you know what to do.

Now for the record, Hilda, we have interviewed eight candidates and eliminated all but two. The two remaining are Todd Jefferies who is currently the Chief Deputy and has been doing a creditable job as Sheriff for the two months since Gill went on trial. We all know Todd. He has been with the department for almost eleven years and is an honest man and a good cop. He had a little trouble with booze early in his career but he has corrected that. Has anybody got anything they want to add?

I do, said Carl. Todd is a damn good officer and deserves a chance at the job.

I agree with you about Todd being a good officer, said Hank. But he brings nothing to the job except what Gil taught him, which wasn’t much. He has no experience or training in using the latest forensic techniques such a DNA analysis, profiling, up-to-date interrogation methods, and a lot of other stuff I see every night on television. We can pay experts to analyze DNA once it’s gathered, but we need someone who knows where to look for it and how to collect it. Todd is not equipped to do any of this.

Anybody else have anything to add relative to Todd’s qualifications? asked Charlie. "If not let’s go on to the other candidate.

Hank, will you handle this? You interviewed the candidate initially and recommended further consideration. I know several others on the board helped but why don’t you start?

"Okay, I’ll be glad to. I first heard about Agent Justin Cooper from a friend of mine who knew him from his time with the FBI. My friend said that Agent Cooper was an exceptional agent. About five years ago, he was shot in the line of duty and badly wounded and scarred. Apparently because of this, he was relegated by the Bureau to a desk function.

"After going through extensive physical therapy over nearly five years, some of it at his own expense, Agent Cooper feels that he is capable of performing any and all duties required of a Special Agent in the field but he has been repeatedly denied transfer to the field. Part of the reason for the Bureau’s denial is that he has become an expert in many areas of arcane investigative procedures and is a resource for their field operators. Another reason for the denial is certainly his handicap and his scar, which doesn’t fit the all-American concept of an FBI agent.

"This was not acceptable to Agent Cooper so he recently accepted disability retirement from the Bureau. He stated to my friend that he would like the opportunity to once again become an active participant in law enforcement.

"I contacted Agent Cooper and asked if he would consider a position as Sheriff in a relatively small rural community. He at first demurred, but when I told him the county had a population of more than a hundred thousand citizens and was located in one of the wildest areas in West Virginia, he said he would like to be considered for the job.

"I invited him to come, at our expense to see the area and meet some of the people who live here. Last week he paid us a visit. I talked to him extensively about his background, training and experience. You have all read his resume’ so there is no reason to expound on his education and training, except to say it is certainly impressive.

I questioned him about the latest investigative techniques while he was here and there wasn’t anything I asked him that he couldn’t answer, and I spent half the night before studying the subjects on the internet. He knows more than most of the experts I checked with. In this regard he brings one hell of a lot to the County.

Thank you, Hank, damned good report, said Charlie. But as we all know, Agent Cooper has a physical disability so I asked Sam to take him over to the Martial Arts Academy and have Phil check him out. Sam, do you want to tell us about it?

"Okay. I asked Agent Cooper if he would mind demonstrating that his handicap would not impair his ability to handle some of the more physical aspects of the job. He said he would be glad to oblige, so I took him over to the Martial Arts Academy and introduced him to the owner, Phil Jeffers. I talked to Phil last week and he agreed to test Cooper. Phil is a friend of Todd Jefferies, so I was sure he wouldn’t give Cooper an easy pass.