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  “Right this way, folks.” Deputy Smythe held open the door as Byron and Tara passed through. “We’ll go down this hallway to the second room on the right.”

  They entered a room with a small table and four chairs. On the wall was the one-way glass mirror that was in every interrogation room Byron had ever seen on TV. The corner near the ceiling held a wall-mounted camera with a red light flashing continuously.

  Byron and Tara were offered seats and bottles of water. They thanked the deputies for both.

  The deputies dropped down in the seats across from the couple but made sure not to block the mirror since the sheriff, Clay Burke, said he might watch the interview from the observation room.

  Deputy Smythe began. “First, I’d like both of you to state your name, address, and affiliation with each other, and then we’ll start from the beginning before you came across that young lady.” He nodded at Tara. “Go ahead, ma’am.”

  “My name is Tara Philips, and I live with”—she pointed—“Byron, my husband, at 6219 Mayflower Way in Bozeman, Montana.”

  Smythe tipped his chin. “And you, sir.”

  “My name is Byron Philips, and I also live at 6219 Mayflower Way in Bozeman with my wife, Tara.”

  Smythe tapped his notepad with the pen. “Okay, I need one of you to walk me through what happened and how you managed to have a critically injured girl in your car.”

  “That’ll be me,” Tara said.

  “Sure. Whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

  “As my husband said before, we were driving on back roads, enjoying the scenery on our way home, when I had to use the restroom. Of course, there were none anywhere in that area, so Byron had to pull over, and I headed into the woods. Seconds later, I heard a man’s voice coming in my direction. He had a rifle and that girl with him. He was threatening her. I tried to hide but stumbled backward, and he saw me. I think we were both shocked. He said, ‘Hell no’ or something to that effect then slammed the end of the gun into that poor girl’s face and ran off. We had passed a parked truck a little ways up the road, but when we returned to our car with the girl, the truck was gone. We’re assuming it was his.”

  Smythe jotted that down. “Did either of you catch the plate number, make, or model of that truck?”

  Byron took his turn. “It was a good half mile behind us, so no. The only thing I remember since we weren’t really paying attention to it was that it was a dark color. It could have been black, dark blue, dark green, charcoal. I just don’t know. It was in the shade.”

  “So nothing other than the dark color?”

  “Sorry, but no.”

  “How about a location where this happened? Maybe a nearby billboard or a mile marker?”

  “There wasn’t anything, but I’d say we were on that road for another fifteen minutes before we reached Highway 12 and made a right-hand turn there.”

  “Okay, that’s something. And which side of the road did this happen on?”

  Byron wrinkled his brow. “It had to be on the west side since I was heading south. Yeah, I’m sure of it.”

  Deputy Knight looked at Tara. “And a description of the man?”

  “Wow, okay. I only saw him for a split second. I was focused on that girl as well as my own safety. Um, let me think.” She closed her eyes and then said he had nearly black hair that was straight and greased back behind his ears.

  “Age, height, and weight?”

  “Nothing that stood out, but he wasn’t old.” Tara stared at the deputy. “Probably your age and similar to Byron’s height and weight.”

  “So mid-thirties?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Mr. Philips, what is your height and weight?”

  “I’m six foot and one ninety.”

  “Thanks.” Deputy Knight sighed. “Unfortunately, that isn’t much to go on. A dark-colored truck, a man with dark hair who could be my age, and Mr. Philips’s height and weight. That includes a lot of men. Did you notice what he was wearing?”

  “Yes! Jeans, a green plaid shirt, and one of those tan canvas jackets.”

  “Got it. Did you see his shoes?”

  “No. There was too much brush.”

  “And you’re sure it was a rifle he was carrying?”

  “Positive. It was at least three feet long and had a scope on it.”

  “Did either of you go through the girl’s pockets?”

  Tara pulled back. “Of course not.”

  “Okay, then I think that’s all we need other than your contact numbers.”

  “But what about her? What about searching for that man?” Tara asked.

  “We’ll find out from the hospital if she had an ID on her, but if she didn’t, we’ll have to wait until she wakes up to question her—if she does wake up.”

  “And the man?” Byron asked.

  “We’ll search the area, but you’ve already told us that there wasn’t a house, a sign, or even a mile marker to use as reference. There’s thousands of acres of national forest land back there, but we’ll give it our best shot. If he drove away in that truck like you think, then what or who are we searching for?”

  Tara didn’t have an answer and had no idea how to respond. “Will the hospital tell us anything if we stop in to check on her?”

  “Maybe and maybe not. She isn’t related to you, but on the other hand, we don’t know if she was related to that man either. We may have to put a guard at her door if she makes it through the night. You’re welcome to go there and ask, though. All they can say is no. One more thing before you leave.”

  “Yes?” Byron asked.

  “We’ll need the names of the relatives you visited in Minot and their phone numbers.”

  After jotting down that information along with their cell phone numbers, Byron and Tara left for Mountainview Medical Center, where the girl was taken. According to Deputy Knight’s directions, the hospital was only a few blocks away.

  “Should we go in through the main entrance or the emergency entrance?” Tara asked when they arrived.

  “I’d say the emergency entrance. That’s how she was brought in, I’d assume. We’ll ask at the front desk and see if anyone will update us on her condition.”

  They entered through the automatic sliding doors. A large waiting area was directly in front of them, and before the wall stood a long counter with three ladies sitting at computers behind it.

  “Over here, babe.” Byron took Tara by the hand and walked to the first station.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I certainly hope so. A young lady was brought in here by EMTs about a half hour ago. She has a severe head injury.”

  “Name?”

  “Mine?”

  “No, sir. The patient’s name.”

  “We don’t know. Um”—Byron rubbed his forehead—“it’s a long story, but we found her in the woods, called 911, and the ambulance met us halfway between Checkerboard and here. We’d just like to know that she made it and what her condition is.”

  The receptionist stared at Byron. “Okay, sir. Why don’t you and your wife have a seat. I’ll find the attending and see if he’ll discuss the girl with you.”

  “Thank you.” Byron turned. “Let’s wait over here, honey.”

  They walked to a corner seating area near a bank of windows where they could be alone. Looking out, they could see the mountain range that they’d come from.

  “That man is out there somewhere,” Tara said.

  Byron nodded. “He is, and that worries me. I hope to God he didn’t get a look at our car or take down the plate number.”

  They waited for what seemed like an eternity, then a man in a white lab coat pushed through the double doors that had the word Emergency in large red print above them. He whispered with the woman behind the counter who had spoken with Byron, then he approached them.

  “I’m Dr. Barnes. Are you the couple who were asking about the Jane Doe?”

  Tara grasped Byron’s hand and began to cry. “Does that mea
n she’s dead?”

  “No, ma’am. It means she has no identification on her person. We don’t have any other name to call her.”

  Tara breathed a sigh of relief. “Can you tell us anything about her condition?”

  “I hear you aren’t family.”

  “We aren’t, but nobody is looking for her or knows she’s injured except us.”

  “I understand. What I can tell you is that we put her in an induced coma until the swelling on her brain goes down. She took a really hard hit, and she has a severe hematoma. We may need to operate, but for now, she needs to remain still and calm. We’re monitoring her brain activity, but if any alarms sound, we’ll have to operate immediately. If we’re lucky and the swelling goes down, there’s a good chance she’ll wake up on her own.”

  “Do you have a prognosis?” Byron asked.

  “It’s too early to know anything since we don’t have a baseline to go by. This is our starting point and a bad one, honestly. If we see improvement over the next day or two, I’ll have a better indication of a prognosis with testing. You can come back or call in a few days and ask again then. From what the EMTs said, she was bashed in the head with the butt of a rifle?”

  Tara nodded. “She was, and I heard the crack.”

  The doctor grimaced. “You witnessed what happened?”

  “I did, and I believe the man intended to kill her.”

  Concern clouded the doctor’s face. “I’ll have to get a guard on the ICU twenty-four hours a day, then, and I need to discuss that with the sheriff’s office immediately.”

  Chapter 27

  We arrived in Butte at one thirty, and with the time change, we gained an hour of daylight. We would head east, where most of the cattle auctions and stockyards were. Studying the map while in flight, we’d decided to visit the nearest one on I-90. The majority of them ran along the central-to-eastern area of the interstate.

  “Renz, you do know that we’ll never be able to visit all of them. Between the auction sites and stockyards, we’re looking at thirty different locations.”

  He seemed to give that some consideration as he rubbed his brow. “Let’s go to a few just to get an idea of what we’re dealing with and then call the others.”

  “And you think they’ll give us their customer list over the phone? Won’t they cite it being privileged information?”

  Renz shrugged. “What’s so privileged about buying and selling cattle? Some may say no, and some might oblige, but I agree, we can’t drive to every location.”

  “So, what do we ask for, the name of the rancher who buys or sells the cattle or the name of the company that hauls them?”

  “Damn it, I don’t know anything about cattle.”

  I chuckled. “That makes two of us. We need information first so we don’t come across as completely ignorant. What about that government site we saw online? Maybe we can learn something from them. At least what to ask for anyway.”

  “Good idea. That was the Department of Livestock in Helena, right?”

  “Yep. Let’s see what they can teach us. They’re only an hour away, and they might know which places are worth contacting.”

  I made the call as Renz drove toward Helena. As it turned out, there were different departments within that complex, so I went with the top dog, the man in charge, Jeff Andrews. He could give us the information we needed. I was told he could meet with us at three o’clock. I thanked his secretary and ended the call.

  “Okay, that’s a start, and there were three to four auction houses within twenty miles of there. So how does that work? The rancher sells or consigns their stock to the auction house to sell to whom?”

  “Other ranchers or farmers, according to the internet, who’ll raise them until it’s time to go to slaughter. They want the top dollar per pound.”

  “So our killer could be a buyer or a seller?”

  “Hmm… I guess he could.”

  “Shit. I don’t know if the angle we’re chasing is going to tell us anything.”

  Renz gave me a side-eyed glance. “Have faith in the system, Jade. There’s buyers and sellers, and I’m willing to bet that the auction houses have regular customers they deal with all the time who have their own ranches. They’ve got to know those people by name and where they live.”

  “I hope so, and as long as we focus on Montana only, we should be able to come up with the main players.”

  “That’s right. We’re trying to get in through the back door since plat books didn’t seem to be much help according to Taft. She said that many spreads are owned by corporations and don’t list the person’s actual name.”

  After we reached Helena, I guided Renz to the Department of Livestock by using the map on my phone. We arrived ten minutes early. As we waited in the car, I looked over my list of questions.

  “Anything you want to add?” I passed the list to Renz.

  He gave it a once-over. “Nope. I think it’s fine just as it is.”

  With everything we needed in hand, we entered the building and walked to the counter ahead of us. Renz made the introductions and said we had a three o’clock appointment with Jeff Andrews. The receptionist offered to page him and said it would be just a few minutes. Renz and I took seats in the waiting area, where every magazine in the racks and on the tables had cattle on the cover.

  When I heard footsteps, I nudged Renz. “I think he’s headed our way.”

  A middle-aged casually dressed man approached with his hand out, and we stood. With a hearty handshake, he introduced himself as Jeff Andrews, executive officer of the department.

  “Come on back, folks, and I’ll try to answer all your questions.” He led us to his office, a well-appointed room with a western flair. “Please, have a seat and tell me what the department can do to help you.”

  Without getting too deep into the investigation, Renz explained that five teenagers had been dumped along the interstates in Montana, Utah, Kansas, Missouri, and Nebraska. Those states were considered cattle country, and each victim was branded on the left hip. We believed the killer was the same person in all the cases and possibly a rancher who took cattle to the auctions or a buyer who went to the auctions and purchased livestock to raise until they were sold to slaughterhouses.

  Jeff’s grimace told us he was appalled by that news. “I do remember hearing about that young man who was found near Whitehall, but I had no idea there were more.” He shook his head. “And I certainly didn’t hear about the brands.”

  “That’s because that information wasn’t released to the media. They’d have a field day with it.”

  “I have to agree. That would definitely be fodder—excuse the pun.”

  “What we’re looking to find out is if records of all consignments, sales, and purchases are kept at every auction site.”

  “They absolutely are, but people come from neighboring states too.”

  “We understand, but at this point, we’re only focused on Montana residents. We believe the killer is based here, and we need the names of all Montana ranchers who consign to sell or buy cattle to the auction houses. Is that something the auction houses would share with us, or would they demand warrants?”

  Jeff scratched his stubby blond beard. “There are a lot of ranchers in Montana, but I don’t believe any of their information is confidential. Nothing personal is given to the auction houses that anybody couldn’t find online or in a phone book. They gather names and addresses. Some sellers and buyers might have a line of credit or a card on file, but you wouldn’t need that information, and as FBI agents, you could access that if necessary.”

  I nodded. “That’s true. Is there a general list of registered names, or would we have to contact every auction house for that information?”

  “Well, I may have some pull as the department’s executive officer. There’s a chance I can get the buyers and sellers list from each location emailed over to me, but how is that going to tell you who the killer is?”

  I sighed. “I’m not s
ure it will, but at least we’d have names and addresses.”

  “Have you researched the brand yet?”

  Renz took over. “We did for the Whitehall area.”

  “Ah, Jefferson County. There’s many more ranches east of there, more central in the state.”

  “I noticed that on our interactive map,” Renz said, “and Jefferson County didn’t have the killer’s brand on file.”

  “Do you have a picture of it? We have the active and inactive brands in every county in Montana in our records book.”

  Renz gave me a head tip. I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled to the photos of the victims that I had taken while in the autopsy rooms. “These are the actual brands on two of the victims’ hips.” I passed my phone to Jeff.

  He frowned at the sight. “Pretty barbaric if you ask me.”

  “We don’t know if those are zeros or O’s,” I said.

  “Likely O’s since most brands use alphabet letters and symbols. Some use numbers, too, but in conjunction with the other two.” Jeff reached across his desk and took a pencil from an advertising cup, then he recreated the pattern on a slip of paper. He handed my phone back to me.

  “By only checking O’s, we could get through the active and inactive brands for each county pretty quickly, but there are fifty-six counties in Montana. There’s also the ornamental and no-county brands to look through, too, although there aren’t many.”

  “What if it’s an antique branding tool?”

  “If we can’t find the brand we’re looking for, then that’s a pretty good guess.”

  “And we’re likely up the proverbial creek without a paddle?” I asked.

  Jeff scratched his head. “Now you’re getting into murky waters. There are thousands of brands in the Montana Memory Project archives. Very interesting to look at but extremely time-consuming to research.”

  I groaned. “You don’t know of any process that’s fast?”

  “Sorry, but no. Either we go through all the brands in every Montana county or search the historical archives of brand records that go back to 1873.”