Icy Betrayal (2 page)

The morning sun began to faintly illuminate the sky as the four members of the RCSO traffic investigations review team, led by Mia Serrano, arrived on scene.

“Good morning, Mia,” offered Sergeant Valenzuela, his breath hanging in the very cold morning air. “Want the dime tour?”

“Sure, that’ll work.”

As Valenzuela walked Mia through the accident scene, her team went right to work, dividing the tasks between the four members of the squad. They measured the distance between the Fiesta and the deceased and noted the skid marks left behind. They checked visibility and road design, and they ultimately would check the mechanical condition of the car. The braking system, lights, steering mechanism, and other key components of the vehicle would all be thoroughly checked out at the RCSO CSI lab.

Accident investigations were highly technical and often took hours to process at the scene. Then, additional days or sometimes even weeks were needed to complete the investigation, depending on when toxicology results on the victim and the driver were completed. Once all the pieces of the puzzle came together, investigators would be able to draw an official conclusion of what happened.

Mia’s lead assistant, Deputy Larry Voss, was handling the video and still camera duties. He followed behind Mia and the sergeant, snapping away as they walked toward the victim.

“Did you or your deputy move anything, Sergeant?”

“Pulled his ID and covered him up, that’s it,” Valenzuela said, handing her a worn brown leather wallet. “There’s the ID and…” he said, pulling back the tarp carefully so as to preserve the scene, “here’s your vic.”

Mia opened the wallet and eyed the Colorado driver’s license in the faded yellow plastic window of the wallet. A hunting license was tucked behind it.

“George Myron Lombard,” she said to no one in particular, “of Castle Springs.”

“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Lombard,” she added in a quiet, contemplative voice.

The wallet also contained several credit cards and $70 in cash.

“Larry, be sure and get video of the roadway and the curve of the road where this happened,” said Mia. “And get me Mr. Lombard ‘in situ.’”

“Will do,” Voss said respectfully. He was nearly fifteen years her senior but sincerely liked his boss. The work they did wasn’t pleasant but Mia was, and it was better than pulling overtime on the beat.

Voss had recorded hundreds of victims “in situ,” a Latin term meaning that the object has not been “newly” moved. In essence, Mia wanted video showing the victim exactly as Deputy Brooks found him when arriving on scene. The position of the body was something Investigator Serrano would include in the final report.

After five years of investigating traffic fatalities, Mia could often tell as much by looking at the area around the body as at the body itself. While this one seemed to be pretty straight forward, she was careful and thorough just the same.

Mia noted that the victim was dressed in relatively light clothing given the frigid temperatures that morning. While he was wearing an orange hunters vest, his coat, pants, and shoes were inadequate for temperatures well below freezing. Mia found that a bit odd.

She noted that the victim’s left leg was jetting grotesquely away from his body at an odd angle—evidence that the collision with the Fiesta likely broke the man’s hip. Even a relatively slow speed collision could inflict these types of injuries.

But it was the head contusion that really got her attention. She studied it closely and then stood up looking back at the Fiesta.

“Interesting. So our driver hasn’t given you much, Sergeant?”

“Nope. Deputy Brooks said she was cold and pretty shaken up. He thought it best to let you talk with her about what happened,” said Valenzuela.

“That’ll work. Once Voss is finished getting the video, cover the body back up, okay?”

TWO

“
T
he Lord be with you.”

“And with your spirit,” they recited loudly, almost in unison.

Most days at the 7:30 morning Mass at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Castle Springs, the “regulars,” as Rocklin County Sheriff’s Investigator Jack Keller called them, numbered no more than a dozen. Keller, the relative newcomer in the group, had been warmly welcomed by these regulars when he had begun attending morning Mass many years earlier. Over time he had grown rather attached to the group, even though most of the regulars were in their seventies and eighties.

“Behold the lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the lamb.”

Blessed and quick. That was the message Father Jon Foley had gotten loud and clear early on in his stint as the pastor of St. Joe’s.

“Forty minutes max, the closer to thirty, the better,” old man Callaghan had told him. Callaghan had been a parishioner for sixty years and was nearly ninety when he instructed the priest upon his arrival three years earlier. “We’re burnin’ daylight, me boy,” he’d said in his thick Irish brogue.

“The Body of Christ.”

“Amen,” said Jack to the priest. They shared a quick nod.

Jack Keller was old enough to be Foley’s father, but the priest was the best friend the homicide investigator had. Besides, Keller preferred morning Mass to spending evenings at AA meetings.

THREE

B
rooks gave Mia Serrano a quick rundown on his version of the events before introducing her to Lisa Sullivan. The poor woman, disheveled but no longer shivering, peered at Mia through the side passenger window of the cruiser. Brooks reached over, opened the door, and made the introduction.

“Investigator Serrano will take good care of you. She’s the best we’ve got, so you’re in good hands.”

Mia smiled and replied to Brooks, “There’s a thermos of hot coffee in the front seat of my car. You look like you could use some.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Investigator.”

Mia walked to the driver’s side of the car, climbed in the cruiser and started in.

“I’m very sorry you had to experience this, ma’am. Can I get your full name?”

“Lisa Ann Sullivan,” the woman replied, looking away.

“May I call you Lisa?”

The woman nodded as a fresh stream of tears ran down her cheeks.

“I know this is a horrible experience for you, but I do need to ask you some questions as to what happened out here this morning. I hope you understand.”

“It’s okay, I just feel so bad for that poor man. I just never saw him till it was too late.”

“Okay, let’s start from the beginning.”

Sullivan told Mia she had left her home in Rosebud at about five that morning, setting out for her sister’s apartment in the town of Big Pine some forty miles away. Her sister had been going through a nasty divorce and had called in the middle of the night, very upset. Sullivan decided she’d go to Big Pine to be with her sister.

“It was so dark,” she sobbed. “I was coming around that corner and there he was. I wasn’t speeding, honest. It was slick, and I was worried about ice.”

“How fast do you think you were going?” Mia asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe twenty-five, thirty miles an hour. I tried to stop. That’s when it happened.”

Sullivan described the impact with more detail than the investigator expected. She said she hit him full on, and the victim was thrown onto the hood of her car. After contact, she slammed on her brakes and the man went skidding off the hood and landed on the shoulder of the road. She stopped and quickly checked on him, trying to find a pulse but couldn’t detect one. She told Mia she worked as an LVN at the hospital near Rosebud, and that from her training she knew he was dead. She then “freaked out,” as she put it, and after gathering her wits about her, used her cell phone to call 911.

“I’m so sorry, Lisa. We will need to get a more detailed statement from you at headquarters in Castle Springs. Deputy Brooks will take you there, and we’ll see that your car is towed. We’ll need to process your vehicle as part of the investigation—this is just routine protocol in these kinds of incidents. Would you like me to call your sister?”

Lisa Sullivan shook her head. “I’ll call her.”

“Okay, wait here and I’ll have someone come and take you to headquarters.”

Sullivan agreed and Mia climbed out of the car. She shielded her eyes from the morning sun, now breaking over the horizon to the east, and walked towards Larry Voss to check in with him on the progress being made. Her crew would likely be on scene for the better part of the day completing the preliminary investigation. With traffic fatalities it was important to get everything needed from the scene the first time around, especially when weather was a factor. The forecast that day called for snow.

“Investigator, you might want to check this out,” called out a deputy coming out of the trees and onto the road thirty feet beyond the body. Mia walked over for a look. There, off the edge of the shoulder, was a rifle, its barrel obscured by fallen pine branches. Mia reached into her pocket for some latex gloves, put them on and carefully removed the rifle from the branches. She examined it closely, noticing the initials GML carved in the handle of the weapon. The rifle, as well as the orange vest George Myron Lombard was wearing, led Mia to believe their victim had been out hunting when he was struck and killed by the driver of the Fiesta.

It all fit and made sense, so why was she so uneasy?

FOUR

T
he sheriff’s department building was just one of several that made up the Rocklin County Justice Center complex. The two main floors of the RCSO building were above ground and served largely as office space for investigators, support staff, and administration. The underground area, known commonly as the dungeon, housed the RCSO shooting range, two squad rooms, and the intake center where arrestees were processed. Adjacent to the dungeon were the holding cells, jail lockup facility, and the “tag and bag” evidence room.

Mia nodded to the deputies as she made her way through the dungeon, carrying the .22 rifle and the ammunition she had found on the body of the deceased. Normally, the crime scene guys would bring it in, but she wanted to have someone take a quick look at it, so she had taken the initiative.

She walked through the large double doors leading into the RCSO shooting range, giving Matt Nolan a quick nod. The range was Nolan’s world, and he ruled it in black SWAT fatigues, clear wraparound protective eye wear, and big black earmuffs draped around his very large neck. Though just 5’6”, Nolan was still an imposing figure. He was a walking encyclopedia when it came to weapons, and while not a sworn officer, he had earned a tremendous level of respect within the department.

“Whatcha got for me, Mia?”

"I got called out this morning on a TC. It looks like our victim was hunting with this rifle. What can you tell me about it?"

“Your victim picked a hell of a day to go huntin’ squirrels,” he said, looking over the weapon. “Too damn cold out there if you ask me.”

Mia nodded but didn’t say anything.

“I’ll bet you this was his first real rifle. It’s just like the one my dad gave me when I was a kid,” he said, lost in memories of hunting trips in the mountains with his father years earlier. “But you got a bit of a problem here, Mia.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

Mia qualified each month on her department issued Glock but beyond that didn’t have much interest in firearms. Too many bad memories.

Nolan continued, “Was this the only rifle he had out there this morning? And is this the only ammo your boy had with him?”

“Yes and yes,” she responded.

“It’s deer season, so he’s got the right ammo. It’s .243 boat tail soft point, hundred grain. But this ammo doesn’t fit in that rifle.”

Mia felt a little silly at her ignorance about weapons. “And the rifle?” she asked.

“Mia, unless you sneak up on that whitetail buck and put this thing right up to his temple, it ain’t killin’ no deer.”

Mia stood there processing what Nolan had just told her.

“Okay, thanks, Matt. Just book it into evidence for me.”

Captain Mick McCallister’s day wasn’t off to a great start having spent the last forty-five minutes reviewing overtime logs with staff. As he stepped inside the elevator to return to his second floor office, he heard a female voice calling out to hold the elevator. He extended his arm to hold the doors open and was surprised to see his lead traffic investigator as she stepped inside.

“Hey, Mia, I thought you were out on a pedestrian TC.”

“I was, but I just got back. Had to run some stuff by Matt Nolan.”

“Nolan? Was there a gun involved?”

“Yeah, sort of… Stuff doesn’t really add up. I’m hoping to get more from the autopsy tomorrow, and then I’ll be able to fill you in.”

“Can’t wait,” the captain said with a smile as the elevator door opened to the second floor.

“I’ll keep you posted, Boss,” Mia responded.

Mick McCallister was a rising star within the RCSO. Barely forty years old, he had advanced through the ranks faster than anyone else at the department. The current sheriff, Cole Connelly, was set to retire in less than a year and while McCallister hadn’t announced his intentions, it was pretty clear he’d be the guy to beat—if he chose to run.

Standing 6’4” tall, McCallister was a formidable figure. His light brown hair had just a bit of gray sneaking in at the temples. He was physically fit and did his best to keep his waist at a respectable thirty-four inches. He had a true command presence, especially in uniform, and women all took notice of him when he walked into the room.

He had been a star athlete in college, excelling in both baseball and football. He ultimately chose football and was the starting safety for the University of Washington for all four of his years there. Following his graduation in 1995, he entered the NFL draft and was selected by the Jacksonville Jaguars. He was never signed to a contract but was proud of the plaque he had hanging on the wall of his office. “
Mr. Irrelevant”
it read, something instantly recognized by those who followed professional football closely. The significance of being named
Mr. Irrelevant
meant McCallister had been the very last person selected that year in the NFL draft. He kept the plaque on his wall to remind himself that he had come a long way and that good things happen to people who never give up.