+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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**picture: Portage Lake, ME
Brock stopped by the Portland agency only for Russell to get out of the SUV.
On his way to Portage Lake, Janowsky called with a quick update—according to his standards. The three witnesses were so upset that they started telling their stories right on the spot. Agent Allen was at the gas station with Ashland police officers, and he would fill Brock in about their statements. Agent Coltrane was at Ashland Health Center, instructed to report anybody asking about the attacker. The man was still in the OR, where doctors were basically stitching him up to stop the bleedings so he could die in peace.
Cooper's call gave Brock the perfect excuse to say Janowsky he'd call back and disconnect.
The Iron Lady didn't waste time in greetings. "You'll have two Tac teams in Portland by nightfall, and two more on standby here in Boston, ready to leave at your request. Anything else you need?"
"Maybe a hand with the state media, but I'm not positive yet."
"Let me know as soon as you can, so I can handle it myself."
"I will. Thanks."
Now Brock knew what she meant, because Russell had told him about her leave and Gillian taking her place for a couple of days.
It had to be something really serious, for Cooper to take days off even in the middle of such a sensitive situation. And if he was right about this case, it was going to be a hard weekend for Gillian. Nothing she wouldn't be able to handle, but this seemed custom-made for the punks. And if he decided to call them in before Monday, she would have to stay behind, in Boston. She'd hate every minute of it. And him, of course.
He rolled his eyes at himself. It'd be but another drop in the ocean. Even if Gillian's feelings made any difference anymore.
Last night he'd finally understood his time was long due, and somehow it'd given him some peace of mind. He'd made his choice to devote his life to his law enforcement career thirty years ago. Now it was just too late to change any of it—even if he had the right to. So the best thing he could do was wrap his mind around it, drop any silly idea he'd harbored of late and keep living up to his choice.
So he followed the GPS up to the gas station near the south end of Portage Lake, where he arrived with his head clear and ready to work.
Agent Allen was near the pumps with a couple of uniforms, taking notes of what a big man in his forties said, waving his hands all around, his loud, high-pitched tone showing how upset he still was. Brock traded a look with Allen and went on to the minimarket. Nothing to see there, but the gore. So he left the police techs working and headed to the red pickup truck guarded by another uniform.
He wore latex gloves and took a look inside. A thick rain jacket on the passenger seat, empty beer cans, mud—maybe Schwarz could identify where it came from, as he did for the Baileys case. A box of rifle ammo in the gloves box, tissues, a bunch of tickets.
Allen was done with the witness. Brock asked the uniform to bag the tickets as evidence and collect a sample of mud, then joined Janowsky's agent.
"Afternoon, sir, my name's Allen. Wanna take a look at the witnesses statements?"
"Tell me what you got, please."
Allen checked his notes. "The attacker was a regular. He'd stop here every couple of days, and lingered talking to the gas station owner, a Nam vet. He used to wear a military jacket with sergeant bars, so people around here knew him as 'the Sergeant' or 'Sergeant Simon'."
"Keep that 'Simon' in mind, it's his real first name."
Allen underlined it. Twice. "They don't know where he lives. But they're sure it's not here in Portage Lake, or Ashland. All of them think he's got a cabin here around, and he's a hunting guide. One of the witnesses saw him a couple of times down W Road, driving into Rocky Brook Road to the west.
Brock held his eyes without a word.
"Sorry, W Road circles this end of the lake to the west, Rocky Brook is a dirt road coming down from Fish River Lake."
Brock frowned.
"That's the Northern Woods, sir. Good place to hunt black bears, moose, deer."
Great. The Northern Woods. Brock couldn't help a glance up at the clouds, darkening in the dwindling light. He recalled the forecast of early snow. Just great. He swallowed a sigh.
"Do you have the model of rifle he carried?"
"No, sir. The police had already seized it when I got here."
"Any news from the hospital?"
"No, sir. Jill Coltrane is there. The subject is still in the OR and nobody's asked about him."
"I want one of us there around the clock."
"Yessir."
"I'm going to Ashland now, to check in with the locals. You stay here until they finish processing the scene, then meet me at the station."
