But Sheila knew that this did not diminish the terror that the victim must have felt in his last few moments of conscious thought. Judging from what she could see on the path, George Timms had died a violent and horrible death. The cougar had been lurking in the brush or lying on a low limb of a live oak, perhaps waiting for a deer to come along the path, up from the creek. Instead, Timms had come down the hill and into the animal’s line of sight.
Why? Timms’ binoculars were on the table beside his partially eaten meal. Perhaps he had glimpsed the cat and, not quite sure what he had seen, had gone down to investigate, not thinking of the possible risk. Most city people were completely clueless about the predators of the Hill Country, from rattlesnakes and cottonmouths and copperheads to wild cats.
But no one would ever know for certain what had happened, because there was no one left alive to tell the tale. All that could be known was what could be read from the marks along the trail. Timms had been in a hurry, taking long, sure strides toward the creek. The animal had launched itself onto his back, knocking off his red Texas Rangers baseball cap. Timms was fit, but he was only Sheila’s height and less than 170 pounds—facts that did not work in his favor. He had staggered, suddenly burdened by an animal that could have weighed as much as he did. Powerful claws sank deep into the flesh of his shoulders, muscular jaws bit his neck, drawing blood. He struggled to keep to his feet, instinctively putting down a hand to brace himself and leaving the imprint of a flat palm and fingers in the soft dirt.
And he hadn’t given up without a battle. The bloodied chunk of
limestone China had found, with a scrap of fur clinging to it—Timms must have grabbed the rock and hit the animal as hard as he could. And the snapped sapling, the scatter of branches, scuffed soil and leaves, the dark spill of blood. Was it in the fight that the lion had broken Timms’ neck? Or had that come a moment later, when the animal clamped the man’s head in his jaws and was dragging his kill through the patch of river ferns?
China came out of the bushes, then left the group and started up the trail. Sheila stayed long enough to be sure that the sheriff’s department would be handling the next-of-kin notification, then went after her, joining her on the deck at the top of the landscaped slope.
She put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You okay, China?”
China wiped her hand across her mouth. “Not the kind of thing you want to see right after breakfast,” she muttered.
Sheila nodded sympathetically. “I hate to say this, but it’s a good thing you came out here this morning. No telling how long it would have been before somebody else found him—what little would have been left of him.” In fact, they might never have known what became of George Timms, until a hiker discovered a litter of loose bones and a DNA test eventually revealed their identity. But after that amount of time, with all the soft tissue gone, it would have been impossible to know for certain how the man had died, or when. His disappearance might have had a major impact on their investigation into Kirk’s death.
China’s face was grim. “I’m glad he was found,” she said bleakly. “I just wish I hadn’t been the one to find him.” She frowned. “Sheila, I didn’t mention this to the deputies, but Banner saw two cats last night. He shot the male—the female got away. I saw her running across Limekiln Road as I was coming home. A beautiful animal, sleek, strong, wild.” She shook
her head. “I didn’t mention her because I hate to think of the sheriff’s office sending out a team to… to slaughter that lovely creature.”
Sheila regarded her friend. “Then let’s not say anything about her,” she replied. “From your description, it sounds like your neighbor has already shot the killer.”
Killer
. That was a silly thing to say, wasn’t it? Carnivores were killers. They killed to eat. That was their nature. This carnivore hadn’t deliberately targeted a human: it was simply a wrong-time, wrong-place situation, for which both man and animal would pay a terrible price.
But China was nodding, and Sheila knew that she understood. “Everybody likes the idea of living at the edge of the wilderness,” she said, “until the wilderness tries to kill us. Then it’s a different story.”
“A different story,” Sheila agreed. Parks and Wildlife would pick up the cat Banner had killed, and a necropsy and tests of its stomach contents would show whether that was the animal that had killed Timms. There’d be a brief flurry in the
Enterprise
, and letters to the editor suggesting that a bounty be paid for all dead mountain lions. And then the matter would be forgotten until the next time somebody—man, woman, or child—got in the way of a big cat. With more and more people moving into the animals’ habitat, encounters like this one were bound to keep happening.
“Yeah.” China straightened her shoulders. “Yeah, well, as I said on the phone, you need to take a look in the house, Chief. Did you get that warrant?”
“Bartlett’s bringing it out.” Sheila looked at her watch. “He should be here pretty soon. Can you stick around for a few minutes?”
“I called Ruby to tell her I’d be late. Ramona is there—she’s opening the shop for me. So yes, I can hang out here for a while.”
“Good,” Sheila said. “When Bartlett gets here, we’ll go through the house. In the meantime, I need to radio the SAR unit and see if Martha Meacham can locate some dogs for Parks and Wildlife. I think when they see the cat that Banner killed, they’ll call off the search, but in the meantime, I’ll put SAR on standby.”
“While you’re doing that,” China said, “I’d like to use Timms’ phone to call Charlie Lipman. You got a problem if I let him know what’s happened with Timms?”
“Nope,” Sheila said. “Lipman might as well hear it from you as get the word at Bean’s or the diner, wherever he happens to go for lunch.” Once the tracking dogs were called out, this death would be big news, in a big hurry, and Hibler would be all over it for the next issue of the
Enterprise
. Sheila knew that this death was worth at least two domestic shootings, in terms of the newspaper’s readership. It wasn’t just the victim, although that was sensational enough. It was the way he died.
China turned and gestured toward the table, where Sheila saw a partially eaten sandwich, some damp-looking chips, a container of yogurt, a beer, a burned-down cigarette. “I know that you’re wondering about the time of death,” she said. “Because of Kirk’s homicide, I mean. So listen to this. When I used Timms’ phone to call nine-one-one a little while ago, the message light was blinking. After I made the call, I played the messages back.”
“Damn it, China,” Sheila said. “You know better than—”
China raised a hand. “Yes, I know. Not my job. But hear me out. There were four. The first was a girl, at twelve twenty, saying she’d left a gold bracelet here and hoping that George had found it. The second and third were from Charlie Lipman, at two forty-five and three fifteen, wondering where Timms was. The fourth one was from Charlie, too, at three
fifty. He was pissed. He told Timms that if he didn’t show up for the surrender, he could kiss his lawyer good-bye.”
“But by that time,” Sheila said thoughtfully, “Timms must have been dead for several hours.”
“Exactly,” China replied.
“He didn’t pick up at twelve twenty,” Sheila went on. “So maybe he sat down around noon to eat a sandwich, with chips and beer. Saw something at the bottom of the hill, went to investigate, and died there—well
before
Kirk was killed.” That twelve-twenty phone call might eliminate him as a suspect in Kirk’s homicide.
China pursed her lips. “Wonder if that girl will ever get her gold bracelet back.”
Sheila went out to the Impala, where she radioed Dispatch and was patched through to Meacham. Without going into detail, she asked Martha to telephone the sheriff’s office, find out what was going on, and get her assignment. She signed off, knowing that the dogs and their handlers would be on their way as quickly as possible, with a backup team ready to go if they were needed.
While Sheila was down at the creek with the deputies, an EMS van had pulled in and the medics were waiting beside it, talking to another pair of deputies who had just arrived. As she finished with SAR and got out of the car, Jack Bartlett pulled into the parking area. He stopped beside her and got out, patting the pocket of his brown corduroy jacket.
“Got the warrant,” he said. “The judge was happy to oblige.” He looked over his shoulder. “In fact, she’s not far behind me. The sheriff’s office notified her of the death while I was there with the warrant. She’s on her way out here to officiate.”
“Good,” Sheila replied. “Did you bring your camera?”
“Yep.” Bartlett lifted his briefcase. “Am I photographing the body?”
“No,” Sheila said. “We’ll let the sheriff’s team take care of that.” She beckoned. “Come on—we’re going inside.”
As she spoke, she heard the sound of a chopper and looked up to see a news helicopter from Channel Four in San Antonio circling overhead. The sheriff’s office obviously hadn’t been able to keep the story contained. Timms’ killing by a mountain lion would be the lead story on the network news that night.
As they walked, Bartlett said, “Blount called as I got about halfway out here, Sheila. She’s been working for the past hour on Timms’ computer. She’s found some photographs that she thinks might have been a motivating factor.”
“Lewd?” Sheila asked quickly. “Pornographic?”
“I haven’t seen them yet. All she would say was that she thinks she’s got something. Plus, she says that the photos are linked to names in Timms’ email address book, which may be helpful. Butch dusted before Annetta got started,” he added. “He said he picked up several prints. He didn’t have any luck with Hatch on AFIS, though. Looks like he’s not in the system.”
“Disappointing,” Sheila said. The AFIS fingerprints and criminal history information were submitted voluntarily by state, local, and federal law enforcement agencies. Smaller jurisdictions didn’t always submit.
“Yeah,” Barlett said, as they went around the house. “We’re calling this a separate investigation?”
“Yeah,” Sheila said. “We don’t know where it’s going or how it’s connected to our other two cases. The Kirk homicide, the break-in.”
“Agree,” Bartlett said. “You’re taking the lead?”
“On this one, Jack,” Sheila said. She’d already thought about this. It wasn’t that she was giving in to Blackie—this just made sense, that’s all.
But she felt the need to add an explanation. “There’s likely to be interface with the sheriff’s office.”
“No problem as far as I’m concerned,” Bartlett said. “Just keeping us straight.”
They were on the deck. Sheila pointed out the food on the table and told him about the calls on the answering machine. “Looks like we might be able to eliminate Timms in the Kirk homicide,” she said, and Bartlett nodded, agreeing.
“Sounds like he was here when Kirk was killed,” he said. “And likely already dead.”
In the kitchen, China was still on the phone to Charlie Lipman. “No, he wasn’t a suicide,” she was saying, “unless he walked down there, shot himself, disposed of the gun, and was then attacked by a mountain lion. Which doesn’t seem at all likely, from the evidence on the ground.”
Lipman must have asked her when this had taken place, because she said, “Before he finished his lunch, looks like. Your messages were on the answering machine, unplayed, plus a twelve-twenty message from a girl about a bracelet. Since he didn’t pick up that call, it’s possible that he was already dead by that time.”
Sheila tapped China on the shoulder. “I’d like to talk to Lipman when you’re finished, China.”
China nodded, listened a moment, then said, “Anyway, that’s the story. I thought you ought to know. Chief Dawson’s here. She’d like a word with you.”
Sheila took the phone China held out to her. “Good morning, counselor.”
“Not a good one for Timms,” Lipman growled.
“No, sir,” Sheila said. She cleared her throat. “I hope you’re not going
to tell me that Timms’ secret died with him. The motivation for his break-in at the computer shop, that is.”
Lipman was gruff. “Chief Dawson. If that was a question, there’s no point to it. I know that you know that attorney-client privilege extends beyond the client’s death.”
“I understand,” Sheila said. “But there’s a chance that whatever information you have about the blackmail—the alleged blackmail, that is—might help us to clear the Kirk case. You know about that, I suppose,” she added. She gave China an eyebrows-raised glance, and China nodded.
“I thought Kirk shot himself.” Lipman’s tone was guarded.
“The cause of death has not yet been identified,” Sheila said. “We’ll have the autopsy report sometime later today.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Ah,” Lipman said. “Yes, I see.”
Sheila said. “What about it, counselor? Can you help us out?”
Lipman was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, he was gruff. “I figure you had my client fingered as your chief suspect in Kirk’s homicide, Chief—since that’s what you obviously think it was. Now that he’s out of the running, you’ll be moving somebody else into that slot. But I can’t tell you any more than I told Detective Bartlett when I set up the surrender. Timms liked to play his cards close to his chest. He never got around to telling me the whole story.”
Sheila wasn’t sure whether to believe him. “Too bad. Detective Bartlett and I are here with a search warrant this morning. I thought maybe you could see your way clear to giving us some context for what we’re looking for. But since that’s not the case—”
“Related to Timms’ death?” Lipman asked, sounding startled, then puzzled. “I thought he was killed by a mountain lion. You’re not telling me that—”
“No,” Sheila said firmly. “The warrant is related to possibly illegal
activities in which the man was engaged. I don’t suppose you know anything about that,” she added.
She could hear the lawyer’s chair creaking as Lipman sat back. Instead of answering her question, he posed one of his own, warily. “What are you looking for?”
Sheila didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The warrant satisfied the requirements of the court. It didn’t need anything else.