Page 105 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
She gives me a disapproving look. “I don’t know, Casey. Does it matter to you whether the murderer killed him with this one”—she points—“which would have been pure luck. Or this one”—she points—“which would indicate an intentional thrust through the ribs to the heart. Or this one.” She points to one at the base of Sandy’s skull.
“Shit,” I say. “That last one would be the equivalent of a CNS shot. Straight to the central nervous system. Dropping him instantly. That would mean a professional— No, wait. Max reported hearing a cry. So it wasn’t a silent kill. Two perfectly positioned fatal stabs, though, means something. The killer slides the first through the ribs, but Sandy has time to scream. The next comes to the top of the spine, killing him.”
“And the rest?” Dalton says.
“Overkill. Literally. Wounds made after Sandy was already dead, which I presumed proved frenzy, but I don’t think so anymore. I’ve been compiling the evidence along with everything Max has said.”
I look at them both. “Whoever took Max was a pedophile. Nothing happened, thankfully, but even Max could tell it was only a matter of time. That indicates an experienced pedophile. Could that be a wild man of the forest? Someone who escaped to the Yukon but still remembers how to hunt his victims? Yes. But nothing in the behavior of Max’s captor suggests he was unbalanced. He knew what he was doing, and he was meticulous—hiding his trail, securing Max, making sure Max didn’t see him or even hear his voice.”
I flip through photos on my phone to the two sites we found with the hanging figures made of bones and feathers. “Then we have these. Clearings in the forest with ritualistic trappings. One of them was arranged around Max’s jacket, linking the ritual to his kidnapping. Clearly the work of an unstable mind, right?”
“Or the work of someone who wanted us to think we were chasing a madman,” Dalton mutters. “Making us fear he’d taken Max for a ritual. Making us look for meaning in all this.”
“Like wearing a bearskin?” I say.
Dalton answers with a sigh as he rubs his temples.
“You aren’t looking for a wild man, then,” April says. “You’re looking for someone who impersonated one to throw you off the trail? Is that enough cause to go through all that trouble?”
“There’s a reason Max’s captor would be desperate to mislead us,” I say. “The limitations of a locked-room mystery.”
April frowns.
“A locked-room—” I begin.
“Yes, I know what a locked-room mystery is. One where there is a very limited number of suspects. But there is no door on this crime scene, Casey. Anyone can get here if they wish to, and there are bound to be people out there we haven’t encountered. Nomadic people, like Jacob and Nicole.”
“True. We don’t have a pure locked-room environment here. But the geography simulates a locked house with one window in the attic where someone could enter. Yes, the killer could be an outsider, but the most likely suspects are in here with us. Also, remember how much trouble Max’s captor went through making sure Max couldn’t see him or hear his voice.”
“It’s someone from Haven’s Rock,” she says. “A pedophile has his eye on Max, like Dana feared with Gunnar.”
“Could be,” I say. “Except for one problem.”
“No resident could have been gone that long,” Dalton says. “We’d have noticed.”
I nod. “Also, just because the captor hid himself and his voice, that doesn’t mean Max would recognize him. It could mean he was afraid that if Max escaped, his description could lead someone to recognize him—or for him to be recognized in a lineup. As for the timing, Max thought his captor was leaving for hours at a time. A man of the woods might have gone hunting. But he could also have been checking in someplace. Trying not to be missed. That wouldn’t work for Haven’s Rock. It’s a very long walk to where he was keeping Max. Even if it had been closer, we’re still too small for anyone not to be missed.”
“Rule out a Haven’s Rock resident,” Dalton says.
“Yes, Max’s captor wasn’t from here, thankfully. Who else do we have in the area? Tyrone and Jen are out there, and Ty is a big man who could fit the description, but even if we didn’t know that they’re near Dawson City right now, this doesn’t fit Ty. It sure as hell doesn’t fit Jacob. Who else? Lilith. She was away—or said she was—but she’d never fit Max’s description of a big, burly man. If she was working with his kidnapper, she wouldn’t come to tell us she’d heard someone near her cabin.”
“That eliminates everyone we know who could be in the region, leaving the most likely suspects,” Dalton says.
“The miners,” April says.
“We know their employees are allowed into the forest,” I say. “That gave Max’s captor opportunity to find a place to keep him and also to snoop over here, on a day off, and see Max himself. Then he returned wearing a bearskin, which I presume is from their camp—either an actual trophy or just rustic northern decor. He uses the bearskin to spy on Max. Grabs him. Takes him to that ruined shack.”
“Which is on their side of the boundary,” Dalton says. “Close enough to camp for him to go back and forth. He stashes Max there and then intends to keep going back and forth while he grooms him.”
“I understand the presumed logic,” April says. “But the miner won’t be here forever. In fact, I doubt the camp will be here over the winter. So what would he do with Max?”
Dalton and I don’t respond. There is only one answer. Max’s captor could hardly release the boy to tell his story. Max was a plaything, a diversion. When the miner went south for the winter, he might kill Max … or he might just leave him in the wilderness to die.
It was the perfect setup for a predator. Endless empty wilderness with two tiny settlements. Take a victim from one while pretending to be a half-crazed loner. That would have everyone scouring the forest, but it’s so vast that they’d never find the child, and eventually they’d give up, leaving him with his prize.
And no one would ever suspect the culprit came from one of those settlements because, duh, wild man wearing a bearskin and leaving weird ritualistic scenes? Clearly it was one of those mountain-man hermits you hear about. Maybe a serial killer who disappeared into the wilderness to avoid capture.
“There’s more,” Dalton says, peering at me. “Your brain has been working overtime.”
