Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

gave a nod of approval, jabbing at the desk with his index finger. “Now, I like that Childers kid. He doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.”

“He’ll take care of Schimmel.”

“Take care of him?”

Dollarhyde held up an open palm and shook his head. “Not kill him,” he said. “Just tune him up, tell him to pull his head out of his ass.”

“A tune-up from Dallas Childers…” Grimsson chuckled softly, rubbing remnants of saliva off the desk with the cuff of his sleeve. He picked up his pipe, thinking this through. “Schnitzel’s going to wish he was dead…”

Chapter 23

It always amazed Cutter how quickly the FBI could drop into a scene with a dozen black Pelican cases and put down roots like an invasive species of khaki slacks and blue windbreakers. In this case, they were welcome, but they made no bones about the fact that they were the ones running the show. “Right-of-way by tonnage,” Grumpy had always called it. The FBI was in charge because so many of them showed up. They ran all the databases, got the latest in crime-solving technology, and had the personnel to stand up an army. The agency was a byzantine labyrinth of culture and regulations, seemingly incapable of making the simplest decisions without checking in with some muckety up the chain of command at the Hoover Building. But if the need arose – like when someone murdered an assistant US attorney, decisions were made on the spot and agents appeared to materialize out of thin air.

Assistant US attorneys were not technically criminal investigators, but they were part of the executive branch – the top twigs of that branch, really. As such, they were considered part of the law enforcement family. Petty squabbles over jurisdiction would return, but for now, the death of one of their own pushed everyone together toward the same goal.

Mostly.

“They just had to bring Beason.” Lola Teariki leaned forward in her seat so her elbows rested on her knees. “That guy—”

“I know,” Cutter said. “Chief wants us to help out, so we’ll help out.”

Lola chewed on her bottom lip in thought. “His boss’s boss is here, so maybe he’ll play nice.”

Cutter nodded. “Maybe,” he said, but couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

FBI Special Agent in Charge Skip Warneke had arrived in Juneau on the 9:51 p.m. flight with fourteen agents from the Anchorage field office. Warneke and six of his agents who specialized in crime scenes had gone straight to Shrine of St. Therese. For some reason known only to him, the SAIC had elected to bring Charles Beason, a supervisory special agent notorious for his apoplectic temper and utter contempt for anyone who was not part of the Bureau. Beason had come to the Juneau federal building to set up the command post with the remaining seven agents. A mix of special agents from the DEA, ATF, DHS, and four troopers from the Alaska Bureau of Investigation who’d been on the flight came with him. The National Marine Fisheries sent two criminal investigators, as did the Coast Guard. Both would liaise with other maritime assets in Southeast Alaska should they be needed. Eight more FBI agents were in the air, arriving on the 11:02 flight from Seattle.

Most of the men and women gathered in the courtroom command post had worked with Van Tyler – discussed cases, shared a beer. Many of them knew Ensley Rogers, at least by sight. This was not just a murder investigation or a manhunt for some random escapee. Members of their family had been murdered. This was personal, and the urgency in the room was palpable.

Judge Forsberg went on the record long enough to release the jury from her sequestration order and declare a mistrial on United States v. Hernandez without prejudice. Some of the jurors looked worried about threats, but she explained that since they would have nothing further to do with the case, there was no reason for anyone to harm them.

The jury gone, Forsberg approved the use of her courtroom as a command post for the ad hoc task force – and then got out of the way, remaining on hand and available to review any search warrants the FBI might require. Deputy marshals, formerly charged with the sequestered jury, now staffed protection details on both the judge and the remaining assistant US attorney who’d been working with Van Tyler. Both the Marshals Service and the FBI were in the middle of conducting threat assessments.

Scott Keen tried to fold Cutter and Teariki into his two protection details, but Chief Phillips ordered them to assist the Bureau task force since they’d already put eyes on the scene.

Mim and the kids had returned to Anchorage – away from the danger.

Whiteboards were rolled in from the clerk’s office. Access to all but a few support staff was limited, especially from the US Attorney’s office since they were possible witnesses to Van Tyler’s plans before he was killed. FBI technicians wired secure Internet to the telephones and computers that appeared to sprout up from every table in the courtroom. Two junior FBI agents recently out of Quantico came along as gophers. They set up urns of coffee on tables in the back with sandwiches from the grocery deli around the corner. Everyone knew they were in this for the long haul – until they ran down the person who pulled the trigger. One agent worked on getting Tyler’s cell phone records, while others conducted interviews with anyone who’d had contact with Tyler or Rogers.

Charles Beason stood at the front of the courtroom with the Chief of Juneau Police Department and Major Terry from the Alaska State Troopers, hopefully making sure to de-conflict the agencies’ various roles.

Cutter recognized a Forest Service uniformed law enforcement officer named Tarrant in the jury box. He started that way when his phone began to buzz in his pocket. The caller ID was blocked, which meant it could be a political pollster or a government number.

Cutter nodded toward Officer Tarrant, getting his