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August 2000
Agent Santos knocked on Randolph’s motel room door just before dawn on the morning of Sunday, August 13. She and Agent Randolph were staying at the Burden Inn, a low-rise motor lodge that was as grim as its name. It was clean at least.
He answered, ready for the day, wearing his suit jacket and tie.
Santos stepped into the room and was met with stale, hot air. The room was like an oven. “Shit,” Santos hissed. “Is your air conditioner not working.”
“No,” Randolph said, but he wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
“I got a message to call the medical examiner at the state lab. I’m hoping she’s got some results for us.” Santos sat at a small desk and reached for the phone while Randolph tried to coax the air conditioner into operation.
“Yes, this is Camila Santos. Dr. Foster, please,” she said. “I’m returning her call.”
The air conditioner shook and rattled but whatever Randolph did to it seemed to be working. Semicool air breezed across her forehead. Santos sat up when she heard a voice on the other side of the line and Randolph looked on as she listened and jotted a few notes.
“You’re sure?” Santos asked, setting down the pen. “Why would someone do that?” At the response, she gave a little chuckle. “No, I think that’s why they payyouthe big bucks. Thanks for letting us know—we’ll add this to the list of things that don’t make sense about this case.”
Santos hung up the phone and looked up at Randolph who was watching her expectantly.
“The Doyles were shot with more than one gun,” Santos said, getting to her feet.
“We did find two types of shell casings at the scene, so that’s no surprise,” Randolph said. “So we’ve got two shooters and two guns.”
“Or one shooter, two guns,” Santos suggested. “Where the Doyles were shot, that’s what’s interesting,” Santos explained. “William Doyle was shot in the throat with a 9 mm and again in the exact same spot with a shotgun. Same with Lynne Doyle, except in the chest.”
“Maybe to conceal the type of firearm used,” Randolph mused. “We know Ethan Doyle had access to a shotgun, did he have a handgun too?” Randolph asked. “But they had to know that eventually we’d find out what kind of weapons were used. Seems pretty calculated for a sixteen-year-old.”
“I agree,” Santos said, “but it’s possible. If we’re looking at a Bonnie and Clyde crime scene, maybe Ethan and Becky both shot the Doyles. Kind of like a pact—I’ll do it if you do it kind of thing.”
“Maybe, but if that’s not the case, why?” Randolph asked.
Santos thought about this a minute. “If I killed someone with my 9 mm, it might be beneficial if someone thought a shotgun did the deed. It makes a bigger hole, does more damage. It would buy me some time at least.”
“Shotgun beats 9 mm,” Randolph said, heading to the door.
“Every single time,” Santos agreed.
Farmwork didn’t end with death. Matthew Ellis needed to care for the animals at his daughter and son-in-law’s farm. Though Caroline and Matthew were hesitant to let Josie come along, she begged to. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the house but wanted to visit the goats and see if Roscoe had come home.
Though it was early, and the sun was just rising, the heat was going to be as unrelenting as the day before. Temperatures were forecast to hit a hundred and four degrees with the heat index.
They made the short drive to the house without seeing any other vehicles. No volunteer searchers had yet arrived, and only one deputy was stationed at the top of the lane.
When Matthew slowed his truck to pull into the drive, the deputy waved at him to keep moving. “Hey,” he said, “you can’t come in here.”
In the passenger’s seat, Caroline straightened her spine. “This is my daughter’s house,” she said through the open window. “I want to talk to who’s in charge.”
“Yes, of course,” the deputy apologized. “I’m sorry for your loss. Go on through. You can pull right into the drive. Another deputy will meet you down there.”
Matthew parked in front of the house and they stepped from the truck. Josie looked up at the house. Homes were supposed to be safe havens, meant to protect. It was supposed to be a shelter from the elements, a fortress to keep out evil, and her home had betrayed Josie in the worst possible way.
“We’ll go and tend to the animals,” Matthew said. “Are you sure you want to go in the house?” he asked Caroline.
“I’ll be fine,” she said stoically. “I’m just going to get a few things for Josie.”
Matthew and Josie watched as Caroline and the deputy made their way into the house.
Josie imagined her grandmother having to walk through the house, up the stairs, past the room where her daughter died, then having to step across the bloodstained carpet in her room. Josie didn’t know how she could do it, knowing what had happened to them. Josie vowed to never step foot in that house ever again.
