Next, Mr. Whitmore was called to the stand. As Brent Whitmore walked into the courtroom, he removed his cowboy hat. He was about thirty years old, but his weathered face made him look at least forty. He was wearing a work shirt, denim jeans, and boots. The dried mud caked on the hem of his pants left a trail of dirt as he walked to the witness stand.
***
Steve noticed in his outline that he had only made a handful of notations during Whitmore’s testimony. After he reread it, he remembered why. There wasn’t anything particularly eventful about the testimony. Whitmore had never seen Scottie do anything abusive; he just “never liked him” and “always thought he was bad for Ashley.”
Steve wondered why Battel had bothered to call Whitmore to the stand at all. Probably just wanted the jury to see the victim had a brother.
After finishing the testimony, Steve decided to call it a night. He wanted to get a good night’s sleep before he and Booger interviewed their two suspects in the morning.
CHAPTER 18
Steve and Booger were on the freeway, making the thirty-minute drive to Claremore. Steve fiddled with the radio a bit; however, nothing came in clearly except for a country station. He turned it off completely.
“So, what’s the game plan for the day?” Steve asked. “Start at the Scotties’ old house?”
“Yeah,” Booger replied, taking his turn at the radio. “I think we pay Mr. Whitmore a visit before heading over to the Walters’ home. What do you think about this rancher brother?”
“Well…” Steve scratched his jaw. “I don’t know. He didn’t try and nail Scottie to the cross at trial, basically just said he didn’t like him. It’d be interesting to hear his take.” He glanced over at Booger. “How about Ms. Walters… mention the affair or play dumb?”
Booger gave up on the radio and leaned back. “Play nice and play dumb. Try to get as much as we can with a smiley face before she ices us. Then we drop the bomb.”
The address, 5260 E. 420 Rd, was on the southeast corner of the Whitmore Flying W Ranch. They pulled up to the gate, which was basically a long metal pole stretched across the entryway. A barbed wire fence extended from each side of the pole. It was padlocked closed; perfect for keeping vehicles out, but someone on foot could easily pass.
From the county road, they could see the house where Ashley was killed. It was about a quarter mile up a gravel driveway and appeared to be abandoned. There were boards nailed over the windows in a shoddy fashion, as if someone had rushed the job.
“Doesn’t look like anyone is around,” said Booger as he opened his door. “Let’s go have a look inside.”
Steve hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“If you want to solve this crime and save Scottie, you are going to have to get your hands a little dirty. Come on.”
There was enough room for Steve to park the car in front of the gate and still be safely off the main road. They got out of the car, hopped over the gate, and walked up to the empty house. As Steve peered through the boarded windows, Booger jimmied the back door with a tool from his body shop and entered the cavelike darkness of the abandoned structure.
Upon entering, the first thing Steve noticed was the smell of neglect that wafted throughout the house. Light sliced through the dusty air from the gaps between the planks covering the windows. Then, he noticed the silence. The house was eerily empty. Clearly, no one had been here in several years. Steve recognized the furniture from the crime scene photos. The only items missing were Ashley Pinkerton’s body and the blood stained carpet.
The pair’s first priority was a detailed examination of the door to the master bedroom. There was not even a scratch on it. Booger took several pictures of the door to have more proof for their file. He also made a video of himself opening and closing the door. He took more pictures of the living room and of other rooms throughout the house.
After a few minutes, the aura of the house began to bother Steve. “Don’t you think we have seen enough?” he asked Booger.
“Probably. You can step on out if you want. I’ll sit here and digest the place a bit. May sound hokey, but sometimes just sitting in a place where someone was murdered can give you a feeling about what happened. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Steve went back to the car, opened Words with Friends and was excited to get to play “Zippy” on a double word square against his anonymous arch nemesis while he waited. About fifteen or twenty minutes later, Booger hopped back over the gate and got in the passenger seat.
Steve looked over at the investigator. “Anything?”
“I had some thoughts—some kind of crazy ones. Nothing I definitively want to get into just yet. Let’s go talk to the brother.”
Although it may have been a five-minute drive across the ranch as the crow flies, the drive around the perimeter of the acreage, along the county roads, took a little longer.
As their car pulled through the southwest entrance to the Whitmore Flying W Ranch, they saw the house built for Whitmore and his wife, Julie. It was similar to the one built for Scottie and Ashley but slightly bigger. It also was a classic one-story ranchstyle home with several bushes and flowers in front, a three-car garage attached on the side, and a long gravel drive connecting the house to the county road. Unlike the vacant yard of the Scotties’ old house, the front and side yards here were strewn with different children’s toys, and there were children playing on a wooden playset out back.
Mrs. Whitmore was the first to see the car. She had been sitting on the porch, watching the children play. She immediately rose from her chair and went inside. Within seconds, Steve and Booger could see Whitmore come out of the house. He was briskly walking toward them. Steve put the car in park and rolled down the window. “Is there something I can help you two with?” Whitmore asked.
“My name is Steve Hanson, and this is Harold Thomas,” Steve said as he got out of the car and approached Whitmore with his hand outstretched. “We represent Scottie Pinkerton in his federal appeals case.”
Whitmore took his hand and shook it fiercely. He then pulled Steve close to him without releasing his grip on Steve’s hand. Whitmore spoke quietly, “If you represent that bastard, then I’ve got nothing to say to you. Please leave my property now. You know, in this county they give rewards instead of prison time for shooting trespassers.” He released his hold.
“We don’t want to cause any trouble, Mr. Whitmore,” Steve said, keeping his tone polite and friendly while raising his hands peacefully in the air. “We just hoped you might be able to help us. We have found evidence that we believe might exonerate Scottie and help prove he didn’t kill your sister. We are looking to find the real killer.”
Whitmore’s eyes darted away and back to Steve. “Listen here, buddy, the person who killed my sister is in prison and will get his due soon enough. I’m not talking to you, and neither is my family.”
During this time, Booger had gotten out of the car and now stood a few feet behind Steve. “Mr. Whitmore, we don’t want any trouble. We will leave, but can you tell me if one of those kids over there is Gabriel?”
“Yes,” Whitmore snapped. “The one in the blue-and-whitestriped shirt, but you best stay away from him, too. He doesn’t need to be reminded any more than is needed that his daddy killed his momma.” Raising his voice, he demanded through clenched teeth, “Now get the fuck off my property!”
The two men slowly turned and walked back to their car. Steve put the car in reverse and began to cautiously back out of the driveway.
Steve spoke first. “Well, that didn’t go so well.”
“No, he didn’t seem too excited to hear that we think Scottie didn’t kill Ashley.” Booger retrieved his camera and telephoto lens from their bag. “Don’t pull away until I get some pictures of Gabriel.”
When they stopped to get the photos, Whitmore turned and rushed into his house. Booger got some photos just as Whitmore walked back out of the house carrying a shotgun.
Steve put his foot on the gas. He was driving so fast backward down the long gravel driveway, all the while looking back and forth between Whitmore and the direction the car was headed, that he almost ran into the county sheriff’s patrol car that was turning onto the property as they were leaving. The officer inside was none other than Deputy Andrew Blackburn.
When Deputy Blackburn saw Whitmore walking down the driveway with the shotgun, he flipped on his lights and gave one burst of the siren. Steve pulled over but made sure he did outside Whitmore property line.
“Brent, these gentlemen bothering you?” Deputy Blackburn yelled as he exited his patrol car.
“I just wanted them to leave, which it looks like they were finally doing before you stopped them.”
Steve rolled down his window. “We were just leaving, officer, if that’s okay with you?”
“You sure you don’t want me to arrest them for trespassing or anything?” Deputy Blackburn asked Whitmore.
“No, let ’em go,” Whitmore said gruffly.
“All right. I don’t know who the hell you two are or what you are up to, but the property owner seems good with you leaving.
So just get the hell out of here,” Blackburn commanded.
Steve put the car in drive and sped off.
Booger glanced back at the receding figure of Deputy Blackburn. “Wonder why the deputy was going by Whitmore’s place on his day off?”
“I assumed the wife called 911, and he was here on official business. Why do you say it was his day off?”
“Because he wasn’t wearing a uniform.”
