Flintlock found the phone. It was tucked in a metal storage locker near the loading entrance. Not Voss's personal phone. A burner. Cheap prepaid Android with a cracked screen. Flintlock powered it on, connected it to a portable drive, and started pulling data.
Text messages. Deleted, but recoverable. Between two numbers. No names. Just initials. R V and S O.
R V. October 9th, 11:43 p.m. Package secure. Location confirmed. Timeline starts tomorrow.
S O. October 9th, 11:47 p.m. Understood. I'm out. Forwarding address is set. Don't contact me again.
R V. October 12th, 9:15 a.m. Day three, no complications. Proceeding as planned.
R V. October 19th, 7:32 p.m. Certificate filed. Judge approved executor appointment. 60-day clock starts now.
R V. November 14th, 10:58 p.m. Day 36, still on schedule. Transfer pre-authorized for day 60.
Flintlock looked up at Chainsaw. "R V is Randall Voss. S O, I'm guessing Sandra Oaks, the EMT who resigned 6 days after the accident. She's the one who intercepted the scene. Redirected Nell before County EMS arrived." "Can you trace S O's current location?"
"Give me 4 hours."
Dorothy Tate lived in a farmhouse 0.8 miles east of the warehouse on Route 9. She'd lived there for 38 years. Raised three kids in that house. Buried her husband from that house. And on October 9th at approximately 4:17 p.m., she'd been the one to call 911 after witnessing a two-car accident on the curve near her driveway.
Driftwood and Coldwater knocked on her door at 11:20 a.m. She answered in a floral apron smelling like cinnamon and something baking. Her face went pale the second she saw the Hells Angels patches. "Ma'am," Driftwood said gently.
"We're not here to frighten you. We're here about the accident on October 9th. The one you called in." Dorothy's hand went to her throat. "The Pruitt accident?"
"Yes, ma'am. Can you tell us what you saw?"
She invited them in. Sat them at her kitchen table. Poured coffee neither of them asked for. Her hands were shaking. "I saw the whole thing," Dorothy said.
"Two cars. The Pruitt vehicle and a truck that ran the stop sign. Mrs. Pruitt was killed instantly. I could tell."
"But the little girl, Nell, she was moving, crying. I called 911 at 4:17. I stayed on the line. The dispatcher said an ambulance was en route. ETA 8 minutes."
"Did the ambulance arrive?" Coldwater asked. Dorothy's face twisted.
"One did. But it wasn't County EMS. It was... I don't know."
"An unmarked white van. No official decals. A woman got out. She went straight to the girl, loaded her into the van, drove off." "Did you tell anyone?"
"I called the dispatcher back. I said, 'That wasn't the ambulance I saw on TV. That wasn't official.' The dispatcher checked the logs. She said County EMS had been dispatched, but was diverted to a multi-vehicle accident on Highway 12."
"She said the van I saw must have been a private transfer arranged by the family. But Mrs. Pruitt was dead. Who arranged a private transfer?"
Dorothy's eyes filled.
"I don't know. I asked the same question, but I was told it was handled. And then a week later, I saw the obituary. Nell Pruitt died in the accident alongside her mother. And I thought... I thought I must have been wrong."
"I thought maybe the girl I saw moving was just... I don't know. Reflex. Death movements. Something. I convinced myself I was wrong."
"You weren't wrong," Driftwood said quietly. Dorothy started to cry. "I should have pushed harder. I should have... I knew something wasn't right. I knew it."
"But I told myself the professionals had it handled. I told myself I was just a neighbor who didn't understand how these things worked. And that little girl has been..." She couldn't finish.
Coldwater pulled out a small recorder. "Mrs. Tate, we need you to repeat everything you just said on record. Will you do that?"
"Yes. Yes, anything. God, yes."
Harmon Greer had processed Nell Pruitt's death certificate on October 10th at 7:52 a.m., 31 hours after the accident. He'd been the county records clerk for 19 years. He knew the procedures. He knew the timelines. And he knew that 31 hours was impossibly fast for a minor fatality.
When Chainsaw walked into the county clerk's office at 12:15 p.m. and asked to speak to Harmon Greer about the Pruitt death certificate, Harmon didn't even pretend to be surprised. "I've been waiting for someone to ask about that," Harmon said. He pulled a folder from his desk drawer. A personal folder. Not county property.
"This is my photocopy. I kept it because the timeline never sat right." He laid it on the counter.
"Death certificate. Filed October 10th, 7:52 a.m. Signed by Randall Voss, funeral director. Cause of death, blunt force trauma, accident-related injuries. Time of death, October 9th, 4:23 p.m."
"State statute requires a minimum 72-hour review period for accident fatalities involving minors," Harmon said. "It's supposed to allow time for autopsy, for family notification, for any investigative holds. This was filed in 31 hours. I flagged it. Sent a query to my supervisor." "What did your supervisor say?"
"He said Voss had worked with Judge Greer on expedited processing due to family request. Judge Greer is my cousin. I called him. He confirmed. Said the family wanted closure quickly. Said it was all above board."
"But you didn't believe him." "I believed him," Harmon said quietly.
"That's the problem. I believed him because he's my cousin and because Randall Voss has been doing funerals in this county for 22 years and I couldn't imagine a reason he'd lie. So I let it go. I let it go. And I kept this photocopy in my drawer because some part of me knew..." He stopped, swallowed.
"I knew something was off. I just didn't know what." "You know now," Chainsaw said. "Yeah, I know now."
Patricia had worked Thursday evenings at the Harlan County Crisis Hotline for 6 years. Randall Voss had been her co-volunteer for three of those years. They'd manned the phones together. Listened to people in their worst moments, talked them through grief, addiction, suicidal ideation. Randall had always been good at it. Calm.
Measured. Never raised his voice. Patricia had trusted him completely.
Until about 18 months ago when he'd started asking strange questions. Coldwater found her at the Methodist Church on Pike Street arranging flowers for Sunday service. When he asked if she'd worked with Randall Voss, her face went tight. "I did until I quit." "Why'd you quit?" Patricia set down the flowers.