The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle

by Charles Williamson

  “I’m sorry, Kay. There were gale force winds, and one of the stretcher-bearers just slipped.”

  She grunted acknowledgement and started to work. She talked constantly into a tape recorder ignoring me until about ten minutes later when she examined his legs. “Those fools broke both of his legs post mortem too.”

  “Sorry,” I said again. It was a good thing that there would probably be no one to challenge her findings if this was a hunting accident. Some troublesome defense lawyers can make everything we do seem incompetent.

  Kay weighed and examined his internal organs and did the usual medical examiner things, saving the head wound for last. Once she had finished with the torso, she commented, “Mike this man was in excellent health, strongly muscled for a man with a sedentary job and with good arteries and the heart capacity of an endurance athlete.”

  She grunted when she removed a chin implant, saying, “Evidence of cosmetic surgery to nose and chin.”

  She spent nearly half an hour trying to get good measurements of the head wound. The process was complicated because dropping the stretcher had caved in the top of the man’s skull. During the whole procedure, Kay talked into her recorder in that strange jargon of medical examiners. I had heard it enough over the past thirty years to realize that there was something unexpected in her findings. I waited patiently for her to finish and to explain what she had found. One of the hard and fast rules of Kay’s autopsy room was that no one could ask questions until she was completely finished.

  She covered the body with a sheet, and we left the autopsy room for her office. When I opened the door, two people were standing just outside. Jimmy Hendrix was next to a striking woman, expensively dressed in a black suit with silk blouse. A pearl necklace accented her low cleavage and paper white skin. The woman was about thirty with raven hair down to her shoulders; she was as beautiful as Elizabeth Taylor in her twenties. Although she was dressed like a model, and her features were perfect. Her figure was slightly too voluptuous for Vogue.

  She extended her hand to me and said, “Captain Damson, I’m Amanda Brandt, Dr. Cantor’s nurse practitioner.” Her voice showed no trace of apprehension at the upcoming view of the remains of her boss. I assumed that as a nurse she had to deal with death on a regular basis.

  I introduced her to Kay Sumter who commented, “I’m sorry to say there was extensive damage to the victim’s head, and I’ve done more damage trying to get accurate measurements of the head wound. I hope you’ll be able to identify him.”

  She nodded, and Kay led her to the body and pulled off the sheet. The nurse glanced up and down the body as if inspecting a side of beef. The head was grotesquely split open; the original wound made more ghastly by Kay’s extensive probing. Amanda Brandt removed a handkerchief from her pocket and sniffed at it. There were no tears to dry. I assumed that it was perfumed against the morgue smell.

  “That is unquestionably Dr. Zackary Cantor. I recognize the tattoo and the torso,” Amanda said in a firm voice. She showed no signs of stress. It struck me as peculiar that she had said she recognized the torso. Maybe that was just something a nurse might say to sound professional.

  We thanked Miss Brandt and walked her to the door. Once she was gone, Jimmy said, “I’d like to play nurse with her.” I cringed, waiting for Kay to blast him,

  “You wimpy jackass; you wouldn’t know what to do with an adult woman.” That was fairly mild for Kay; she must be in a good mood.

  “I agree she’s a gorgeous Foxy Lady, but she’s as cold as the Arctic Ocean,” I said.

  “Cosmetic surgeons always find the most beautiful staff. It gives the women patients something to aspire to and the male clients someone to try and impress,” Kay said. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  Once we were seated in her cluttered office, I asked, “Did you find something surprising about the size of the exit wound?”

  She smiled. “You’re good at this Mike. I’m going to e-mail my preliminary findings to an expert with the army in Dover, Delaware for confirmation. The post mortem damage also raises some doubts about the conclusiveness of my findings. In my professional opinion, the wound is not consistent with an accidental discharge of a powerful hunting rifle from less than twenty feet away. Even allowing for the corpse’s drop from the ridgeline down into the rocks where it came to rest, the weapon was found much too close to have made that wound.” Kay tapped her pen on the desk; one of her regular mannerisms which indicated that she wanted this discussion to be short so she could move on to the next corpse.

  “There is certainly a second rifle involved in this case,” Jimmy said. “I came here to find you, Mike, because the round that Sean dug from the elk did not come from the rifle we recovered at the scene. In fact, that Winchester has not been fired since the last time it was cleaned. The only fingerprints on the rifle were Dr. Cantor’s.”

  I smiled; the case might be interesting after all. “Was there anything else important in your findings, Kay?” I asked.

  “It’s probably not relevant to your case, but I think the lab results will show abnormally high levels of testosterone. I’m guessing from the shrunken testes and the quantity of muscles for his small frame; in addition to cosmetic surgery to his face, my late colleague was doing a little chemical muscle enhancement.”

  “Legal or illegal drugs?” I asked.

  “The test will tell, but there would be no reason for an MD to use illegal drugs.” The tapping of her pen was faster as she grew more impatient.

  I said, “Love, hate, drugs, or money, it will be one of the standard motives if this wasn’t an accidental shooting by another hunter who got scared and just left the body where it fell.”

  “Maybe it was just a stray shot, and the hunter didn’t know he hit Dr. Cantor. I know you like working on a good murder, Mike, but the forensic evidence will be a problem if this actually is one,” Kay said.

  “Whoever shot that bull elk left it there,” I said. “It was trophy size. The shooter must have known he took it down and tried to climb up to it. I’m betting he realized he had killed someone accidentally when he climbed up to Doyle Saddle. On the other hand, I still can’t rule out a straight homicide.”

  “Even if you find the owner of the rifle that killed the elk, it will be a real stretch to connect that weapon to the round that killed our victim,” Kay said. “I can’t even establish the type of rifle used from the wound, and you didn’t find the bullet.”

  “There could have been two dozen hunters blasting away this weekend in that area. A shot from almost anywhere could have hit our victim as he stood on that exposed ridge,” Jimmy said.

  “Dr. Cantor was hit right between the eyes, a perfect shot. Gentlemen, I have other work to do,” she said.

  As Jimmy and I stood to leave, I said, “If the shooter was hunting elk, he would need an elk tag. They’re won by lottery and especially difficult to get for bull elk this early in the season. If this killer was another elk hunter, there will be a limited number of suspects, and if this shooter was not a hunter, this is a straight homicide. I’ll look for motive and opportunity like every murder case.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kay’s official finding was that the death of Dr. Zackary Cantor of Paradise Valley, Arizona, was the result of a rifle wound to the forehead between 3:00 AM and 11:00 AM on Sunday. The cold wind this morning and absence of insects on the remains had made pinpointing the time difficult. It was up to me to discover if it was an accident or a homicide.

  After the autopsy, I called home to let Margaret know I’d be later than normal. She works at a local bank branch as a teller, mostly to keep busy since we don’t need the money.

  “You sound almost happy about the murder,” Margaret said in a kidding manner.

  “Sugar-babe, you know me too well. I haven’t had an interesting case in a month. This might be the first real homicide since I was promoted. It’s possible that it was just a hunting accident.”

&nb
sp; “I’ll fix something for dinner that you can enjoy whenever you get home. Have a good time.” Margaret is one of the best cooks in Sedona, especially for southwestern food.

  On the way back to my office, I called Dr. Cantor’s sister-in-law in LA trying to reach the doctor’s wife. It’s always best to tell of the death of a loved one in person; however, in this case, I needed to reach her quickly. It is even worse to have a loved one notified by a reporter. The death of a physician in a probable hunting accident would get a lot of Arizona coverage. Unlike traffic accidents, hunting deaths are rare enough to make the evening news even down in Phoenix. In a small town like Flagstaff, word would get out quickly, and it would be the lead story on the local news.

  The sister-in-law, Sandra Hyde, answered on the second ring. She explained that Mrs. Cantor was not available and that she would have her call me back. When I insisted that this was an urgent police matter, she reluctantly gave me her sister’s cell phone number.

  When I called, a woman with a pleasant voice answered with a languid hello. I could hear the sound of surf in the background. She was at the beach. I explained that I was a captain with the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office and that I had some bad news.

  There was a pause. In the background a man’s voice said, “What’s wrong sugar?”

  “Is Zack OK?” she asked.

  I had done this type of notification many times, and it is never easy. It’s best to be quick and direct. “I’m very sorry. Dr. Cantor’s body was recovered from a wilderness area north of Flagstaff this afternoon. He died from a rifle wound.”

  I could hear a gasp and the beginning of a sob. The man’s urgent voice said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She shushed him, and said, “Oh God, did he accidentally shoot himself? Zack can’t be dead; he’s an expert marksman and always very cautious when he hunts. Are you certain it is my husband?”

  I thought her voice carried both grief and surprise, but good actors had often fooled me. I’ve been doing this type of work for thirty years, and I focus on tangible evidence and normal police legwork, not on the nuances of a person’s voice. Of course, spouses are prime suspects in most homicides. The incongruous screams of young girls splashing on the beach provided background sound during the pauses in the conversation.

  “His nurse, Ms. Brandt, made a positive identification less than half an hour ago. We’re still investigating the shooting. There is nothing definitive about the shooter, but your husband was killed by a rifle wound to the forehead. His own rifle had not been fired.”

  “Tell me what I need to do,” she said. “Should I come to Flagstaff?” Many people seem to run on autopilot in the seconds after learning of a death.

  “The medical examiner will release the body by noon tomorrow. If you want to fly to Flagstaff, I can meet you at the airport and help you make the arrangements to return the body to Phoenix. Perhaps your sister can help with the arrangements and come with you.”

  I gave her my cell phone number. I didn’t know who the man was who had called her sugar, but I was glad she was with someone.

  I spent some time on paperwork, which is the curse of my new job. Before I left for the day, I remembered to send an e-mail to the Arizona Game & Fish Department requesting a list of every holder of an elk tag that covered the Flagstaff area for the past week.

  It was about 7:30 when I started down 89A for home. I enjoy the commute down the winding two-lane road because it gives me a chance to unwind and because it is one of the most beautiful drives in Arizona. However, I don’t leave my cases completely behind when I head home. I always describe my current project to my wife, Margaret. She loves to be part of my investigations and often provides a fresh perspective. Her insight has solved many crimes, and she has been responsible for many of my biggest successes.

  I pulled into the garage and entered the kitchen too late to enjoy the spectacular sunset views of the red rock formations that are usually visible from every room in our house. Margaret was in the kitchen making flour tortillas on a black metal tortilla press. It was her newest cooking toy, and she had never bought prepared tortillas since she’d learned to make them fresh for each meal. I could smell a spicy chicken mix stewing on the range.

  She stopped to give me a welcoming kiss and explained, “Since you were going to be late, I decided to prepare something fun that would take extra time, Chicken and Roasted Green Chilies Santa Fe Style. Pick a wine and pour us some; you can explain your new case while I finish.”

  I recounted what I knew of the death of Dr. Cantor while we sampled a Carneros Chardonnay and Margaret finished the meal. She smiled at my account of reaching Doyle Saddle twenty minutes before Jimmy Hendrix. Margaret hates the cold. She seemed to shiver a little in sympathy when I described the fierce winds at the saddle, but otherwise, she continued her food preparation while listening attentively.

  “What color was the camouflage coat?” she asked as I described the body.

  “Mostly shades of forest green with a little brown, not like the tan desert-style used by soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. Why do you ask?”

  “Was there blood on the orange hat?” she asked as she rolled the burritos.

  “Yes. It must have been on his head when he was hit.” I saw her point.

  “Above the tree line, the rocks are black/gray basalt; green camouflage would stand out. The orange hat would provide an excellent target through a scope,” she said.

  “You don’t think it was a stray shot?” I asked.

  “Someone down in the tree line would be well hidden while a man on that ridge in a green coat and orange hat would be very visible,” she said. “If it was premeditated, I can’t figure out how someone would know exactly where to find Dr. Cantor. It’s a big state.”

  “The elk tags, the permits for hunting in Arizona, are for a specific area. If someone was searching for Dr. Cantor, they might know the general area he’d be hunting from the details of the tag he won in the elk hunt draw. Those tags are very hard to get, and we plan to check every hunter in that area of the forest this past weekend. On the other hand, someone might have followed him to that spot.”

  “I see,” she said as she put the chicken burritos and tossed salad on the kitchen table. “You’ll check the other hunters’ rifles against the round you recovered from the elk. It was careless to leave it.”

  “He may have hoped that we wouldn’t bother to dig it out. At first glance, we assumed that Dr. Cantor climbed to Doyle Saddle to retrieve the head and dress the elk he shot. Before the report on the round, I assumed that Dr. Cantor was killed either by an accidental discharge of his own weapon or a stray shot from a distant hunter. For the killer to have dug out the bullet would have spoiled the illusion that this was a hunting accident.”

  “Now, you hope it was a homicide. Let’s not talk about the autopsy until after dinner,” she said with a grin. She was clearly curious, but not willing to discuss dissecting corpses over chicken burritos.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We were loading the dishwasher when Margaret brought up the case again. I explained the autopsy findings, and she listened until I got to the part about Dr. Cantor’s nurse identifying the body. She made me repeat the details and describe every word Amanda Brandt said.

  “Cold sounding woman,” Margaret commented.

  “Like a stone resting on a glacier in Antarctica in winter,” I replied.

  “She could identify Dr. Cantor by the look of his torso, but she showed no sign of grief. I assume you put her on your suspect list.”

  “Ms. Brandt didn’t look the type to use a high-powered rifle to kill someone. I can’t imagine her out hunting; it might have damaged those long, perfect fingernails. Of course, I will check on her relationship with the deceased.”

  Margaret was often correct when she expressed suspicion of someone, but in this case, she had not even met the nurse. I went on to recount my conversation with Mrs. Cantor. Margaret seemed interested in who might have been with her
on the beach because the man had called her “sugar”, but I could shed no light on that yet. I would need to check her alibi.

  It was the next morning when I was shaving and Margaret was putting on makeup that she brought up the case again.

  “You have the same washboard abs as when I met you thirty years ago,” she lied. “I’d know your torso anywhere even without a head.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve added five pounds since we moved to Sedona. Your cooking has gotten too good.”

  “But my love,” she said, “yours is the only male torso in the world that I would easily recognize on an autopsy table without seeing the head.”

  “You’re convinced that Amanda Brandt and Zack Cantor had an intimate relationship?” I asked.

  She stopped applying eyeliner and continued, “When you investigate other hunting accidents, I’ll bet you’ll find they almost always occur in dense woods. It seems improbable that a man with an orange hat could be mistaken for an elk while standing on a ridge far above the tree line.”

  “You think that this is a premeditated homicide by a sniper who took down the elk and then killed Dr. Cantor when he climbed up to investigate it?” I was still skeptical. “This may turn out to be a simple case of a random shot that missed its target and carried all the way up to the ridge where Dr. Cantor was standing. Why are you discarding that possibility?”

  “Sir Isaac Newton," she replied. When I looked baffled she continued, “Every object within the earth’s gravity field falls when not supported, even a round from a high-powered rifle. They weren’t out there hunting birds. A stray shot from anywhere down in the forest could not have reached Doyle Saddle unless someone pointed the rifle up there, almost straight up, even though the opposite could happen. A round shot from the ridge could land almost anywhere in the forest below.”