The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle

by Charles Williamson

  We played them in the living room, and the homey setting made the conversations even more bizarre. Their attorney was present for all three sessions, and she did at least half the talking.

  The most striking part of the tapes was the casual tone of all three as they described their pornography photography. It was a regular weekly thing to get together and produce new photos. They took turns deciding what was missing from their site that might increase sales.

  Amanda bragged that most Internet sites showed simulated sex. She was proud that hers was authentic. When Trevor was shown bound to a pillar, he was actually taped and completely incapacitated while Amanda had real intercourse with John. Trevor complained that the hair was pulled out of his ankles when the tape was removed. He also claimed that they kept him bound for hours that night as they taunted him. The attorney interrupted at times with comments about consenting adults and community standards, but mostly the three told similar accounts of a night of group sex and bondage.

  When we were through, Margaret said, “I’ll make you a list of a dozen places that their stories are too close not to have been rehearsed. I was disappointed in the lack of follow up questions in places where there seemed to be a flaw.”

  “They’re all back in custody. What do you think the Scottsdale cops missed?”

  “All three are suspected in a drug scheme, and I think there all involved in a murder,” she said. “Alibis for each other are useless. The police should have focused on getting physical evidence of when the amorous session took place. Was there a houseplant in the room? If so has it grown new leaves since the photo was taken? Were there traces of the tape on the pillar? If so, can the CSI tell how long the adhesive residue had been exposed to the air? What did they have for dinner? Were there leftovers in Amanda’s fridge or trashcan? I can make you a list to take to work in the morning.”

  “At least they’re in custody. That should take my personal risk back to its baseline level. I know that you’re upset about someone my age still getting shot at, but what I have now is really a desk job.”

  “We really don’t need the money. You can quit anytime you want to, but I know you’d be restless at home.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  When I woke at 5:00, Margaret was awake and writing on a yellow pad at the small desk in the bedroom. She was working on a list of questions and listening to my tape recorder through earphones. She smiled and nodded when I got up but continued to work. As I passed her, I could see she was on her third page of questions.

  I made breakfast for both of us while Margaret continued to listen to the tapes and make notes. Breakfast is the only meal I’m good at cooking. I made buttermilk pancakes, scrambled eggs with cheese, and crisp bacon. I persuaded Margaret to stop long enough to have some while it was warm. She glanced around the mess I’d made of the kitchen dubiously and said, “Breakfast looks good.”

  “I’ll clean it up,” I replied to the unspoken part of the conversation.

  “Speaking of clean up, can you get Mr. Patel and Trevor together? It would certainly put the pressure on if you had a witness who would testify that Trevor was in Flagstaff at the time of the murder.”

  “I’ll work on that today. The man who registered as Mr. Smith was driving a Ford rather than Amanda’s Lexus. However, Trevor has no credit card or driver’s license so he couldn’t have rented one himself.”

  “Amanda wouldn’t want her own car identified. Plus, I suspect she wouldn’t let him drive her car on these rutted gravel roads to get to the Weatherford Trailhead. It’s an almost new $55,000 vehicle. I suggest you check the lesser known rental agencies where Amanda might have rented and paid in cash.”

  We both ate quickly. Margaret returned to the tape recorder, and I cleaned up the kitchen, including the mess from the bacon grease and overflow from the pancake batter. I had just started the dishwasher when Chad arrived in the driveway. Margaret presented her list of questions, eight pages, as I headed to the car.

  “Margaret was busy,” Chad said correctly guessing that the hand written pages were Margaret’s suggestions on the case. He is one of the few people in the department who understands that Margaret is the real brains behind my law enforcement success.

  “I haven’t read them yet. They’re her suggestions for questions for our suspects. Have you heard any news about Graham’s operation?” I asked.

  “It went well, but they won’t know the extent of the brain damage for a couple of weeks.”

  Chad explained the details of the procedure at the Barrow Neurological Institute; they would keep Graham in an induced comma for at least a week.

  I read the list aloud as Chad drove. The questions were excellent. I would not be allowed to be involved in the interrogations because I’d been a target of the shooting so I passed the list to Chad. He could use whatever questions he wanted when he had another chance at the suspects.

  We talked over the plan for the day. This might be the day this case came to a head. We were assembled and ready for good news at 8:30 when Grant’s phone call came in.”

  After the greetings, he got right to the point. “We have very strong proof that Amanda Brandt was involved in a prescription scam. We recovered Word documents that had been formatted to emulate the automated prescription system’s layout. Using the Word document left no record of the prescription in the automated control system, but produced a document that looked identical. She merely fed the signed forms through the printer and then deleted the Word document. We will charge her this morning. We also have John in custody on a dozen drug related charges.”

  “What about Trevor?” Chad asked.

  “He’s still in custody, but we don’t have proof he knew about Amanda’s Oxycodone scam or John’s heroin distribution. We may need to release him today unless you can charge him in Coconino County.”

  “If Amanda makes bail and Trevor is free, they’ll run,” I said.

  “Unless we can tie Amanda to the heroin as well as the oxycodone scam, she’ll make bail before the end of the day,” he said.

  “I have a witness that might prove Trevor was in Flagstaff when Dr. Cantor was murdered. I would like to make a formal request that he be brought to Flagstaff for a lineup,” I said. Even if I could prove he was in town, it wasn’t enough for a murder charge, but it would delay Trevor’s release for a day.

  “His attorney will fight it, but I think we can transport him to Flagstaff. I’ll push for it. Amanda is still likely to be out on bail. Any ideas about how to keep her?”

  “We have noticed some discrepancies in yesterday’s interviews,” Chad said, taking Margaret’s list out of his notebook. “I have a list of additional questions. Can you set up a second interview for Amanda?”

  “If you want to interview her in Flagstaff, I can send her up with Trevor,” Grant said. “We’ll seat them on opposite ends of a bus so they have no chance to talk on the way. Their attorney is certain to want to be there.”

  “Is it possible that you will need to interview John in Phoenix about the same time this afternoon?” I asked Grant. “Even a drug dealer’s lawyer can’t be in both towns at once? If we want John to rat on Trevor, it would help if they had separate representation.”

  “I’ll call her and tell her that no deal is possible if she continues to represent all three suspects. She knows how much heat is on when a celebrity physician well-known for his philanthropy has been murdered and two cops shot with one seriously injured. I can’t let John Nordstrom walk completely, but a deal is certainly possible.”

  The arrangements were set; Amanda and Trevor would be in Flagstaff this afternoon. If we were lucky, they could be charged with two murders in Coconino County by the end of the day. After Grant was off the line we continued to meet, planning the interrogation, which Chad and Sheriff Taylor would conduct. My assignments were to find out if Amanda had rented a blue 2003 Ford Taurus and to arrange for our witness, Mr. Patel, to be present for a lineup. It would take a combination of direct evidence and J
ohn Nordstrom’s testimony to get an indictment. The uncorroborated claim of a heroin dealer who was negotiating for a lower charge would clearly not be enough.

  Mr. Patel was very agreeable to returning for a 3:00 lineup. I arranged for six deputies in the right age group to participate. Around 9:30, I was busy calling rental agencies when Chad came to my office obviously excited about something.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “We got a call about Joe Banning a few minutes ago. I think we’ve found him; let’s go,” Chad said. He seemed to relish the excitement, but I suspected Joe was one of the best shots in Arizona. Any attempt to bring him in could be dangerous even if he was not involved in Dr. Cantor’s murder.

  We ran to Chad’s Explorer. Once we headed north on Highway 89, Chad tried to explain why we were going at 95 miles an hour with lights and sirens on. “Have you heard of the Arizona Site Steward’s Program for archeological and historic sites?” he said.

  A burst of acceleration took us around a gravel truck; we avoided a head on collision with an SUV by seconds.

  “Don’t talk, just drive. I don’t want to survive Tuesday’s assassination attempt and have you kill both of us.”

  “It’s OK Mike. I’m turning off the highway in a mile.” Less than a minute later, he slammed on the brakes, leaving skid marks on the highway before he made an abrupt turn onto a gravel road. We bumped along a dreadful unnamed road a few miles north of the exit to Wupatki National Monument, a site of elaborate prehistoric Indian ruins.

  He filled me in as he accelerated spewing dust and gravel behind us. “I got a call from Alan Flint, the chief archeologist for the Coconino National Forest. He received word from one of his site stewards this morning. The site stewards are volunteers who monitor archeological ruins to make certain that no unauthorized people are hanging around trying to loot them.”

  “The program sounds like a good idea. Did one of the stewards spot Joe?” My head almost hit the car roof as we took to the air briefly at a washout. We had dropped a thousand feet in elevation since leaving Flagstaff, and the terrain was very different. Volcanic cinder cones dotted the area, and sharp volcanic rocks edged the road. Scrubby Utah junipers and sagebrush had replaced the big ponderosa pines of the Flagstaff area.

  “A man who fits Joe’s description made himself at home at a site known as the Turkey Fort. They keep the locations of these ancient Sinagua Indian ruins secret to protect them; they’re not on any of our maps, so they’re not in our search plan. We’re going to meet Alan so he can take us to the location.”

  “What about backup? This guy is a fantastic shot,” I said.

  “The sheriff and a dozen deputies will be on the way as soon as we confirm that this is Joe. We’re not to take any risks or let him know we’re nearby till we call for help.”

  We soon pulled up beside a pale green forest service truck. We got out and introduced ourselves to Alan Flint and asked him to describe the site.

  “Turkey Fort is a unique ruin. It’s on top of a hill with panoramic views and thick walls. We think it was a defense site that the Sinagua Indians moved to in times of trouble rather than a permanent settlement. When it was first explored in the 1930’s, they found dozens of large jars to hold water and grain, enough to last the Indians for many weeks. There’s also a cave just below the fort, really just an overhang about fifteen feet deep that shows a long history of use. There’s a seep near the base of the hill where you could get water.”

  “Tell me about the walls,” I said.

  “The sandstone walls are still standing to a height of five to seven feet. They’re four feet thick at their base. The site predates the 1064 Sunset Crater eruption by fifty to a hundred years. However, the hill is now covered with loose volcanic debris from that eruption. The structure once had a roof, but of course, it’s long gone. It’s a rectangular building twenty-eight feet by fifty-six feet with a side room for storage.”

  “If it was designed for defense, it must have a great view of anyone approaching it,” I said.

  “You can see for fifteen miles in every direction from up there. This is a significant and unique Sinagua site from over nine centuries ago. You cannot allow it to be damaged even if your suspect is there,” he said.

  “We can’t even get close without being seen,” Chad said. I’m sure he was thinking of Joe’s excellent marksmanship now.

  “I’ll drive you. People are used to seeing our Forest Service green trucks. It won’t seem unusual for me to be in the area.”

  “There’s no easy back way up to this fort?” Chad asked.

  “It’s a steep slope from every direction. There is not even a trail to the top; it’s a scramble up boulders and sharp volcanic rocks. It would take a strong man to carry his supplies up that slope,” Alan said.

  “It sounds like it would take an F-15 bombing run to dislodge him unless we’re willing to take casualties. Since we can’t damage the site, this may be a damn long siege,” I said.

  We took a few supplies, including our weapons, canteens, and vests, from the Explorer and joined Alan in his Forest Service truck. As we headed along a faintly visible jeep trail, the impressive bulk of Sunset Crater’s cinder cone rose to the southeast, and the massive bulk of the San Francisco Peaks were to our northwest. The area is so arid that it was difficult to imagine it once supported a sizable Native American population.

  Alan drove slowly over the difficult trail just as he would on a normal inspection of the nearby Indian ruins. Soon, Alan pointed to a hill in the distance. The Turkey Fort was on top; however, it blended in so perfectly that it was indistinguishable from the rest of the boulder-strewn hill.

  About a mile from the fortress, Alan pulled over and said, “Let’s pretend to examine this pueblo while we check out Turkey Fort. He had stopped at the remains of a substantial rock pueblo of about fifty rooms. It was a Sinaguan Indian village that had been constructed before the Norman Conquest of England and abandoned several centuries before Columbus was born.

  We walked among the ruins while Alan described the encounter between his site steward and the bearded man. “The major archeological sites have a volunteer assigned to check on them once or twice a quarter. We train them to avoid confrontations. If they see someone on the site, they are taught to drive away and contact me.”

  “Did your site steward get a good look at him?” I asked.

  “Yes, she ran right into him. He was probably in the cave that’s on the southwest side just below the summit when she arrived.” He pointed to a spot on the hill, but I couldn’t make out the cave. “Because there was no car, she assumed the site was unoccupied and climbed right up to it. We teach site stewards to take the vehicle tag number down and drive away if anyone is present.”

  “Did he assault her when he discovered she was snooping around?” Chad asked.

  “He scared her, but he didn’t try to hurt her. When she entered the fort, she found a huge stash of supplies, including a lot of water containers. She was starting down the hill in a hurry when he came out of the cave. She told me she screamed loud enough to wake the ancient ghosts and ran like hell. He was armed with a rifle, but he didn’t fire at her.”

  “He’ll know his cover is blown, he might already be on the move again,” I said.

  “He wouldn’t necessarily know the woman he startled was a site steward who would report him. He might have thought she was a pot hunter who would want to keep her activities quiet,” Alan said.

  My eye caught a flashing from the hilltop fort. All three of us turned to look, and after a few seconds, Alan said, “That’s a signal mirror; he’s using Morse code.” After a pause as the message repeated, Alan said, “He’s been watching us through a spotter’s scope. He recognizes you, Mike, and wants to talk.”

  “You can’t get any closer; you’d be within rifle range,” Chad said.

  “I believe that Joe hasn’t hurt anyone except for that kick to the groin of poor Sean Mark. I can’t see any easy way of getting him out o
f there without casualties except by talking.”

  “The sheriff will be pissed at me for letting you do this,” Chad said as he headed for the truck. “I’ll call him after we get Joe down from Turkey Fort.”

  We drove over very difficult terrain to the base of the hill. As we got closer, it became obvious why the Sinagua Indians chose the site. With nothing but rocks, spears, and arrows the ancient Sinagua could have held off an army. Chad wanted me to wear my vest, but I knew Joe was a good enough shot to hit my head at this distance so it seemed useless. I wore it to make Chad feel more comfortable with this strategy.

  I stood at the base of the steep incline with a loudspeaker while Chad and Alan remained behind the truck. I called on Joe to come down and surrender. He yelled down and asked me to come up and talk about it with him face to face. I replied that would not be possible.

  “I’ve been able to verify your alibi for the murder of Dr. Cantor,” I yelled through the loudspeaker. “I found the man you were with that Sunday. He’s an insurance man from Hartford, Connecticut.”

  “I hurt Sean,” he said in a barely audible voice. “I’m sorry.”

  “Joe, being sorry is not enough, but Sean is willing to treat this as a misdemeanor. You may spend some time in the county jail.”

  “I won’t be a hunting guide anymore.” I could hear the anguish in his faint voice even across the distance.

  “The illegal elk hunt is a matter for Arizona Game and Fish and out of my hands. Come down now, Joe, and I will report that you willingly turned yourself in. That will cut your sentence,” I said.

  After a minute to collect some things, he started down. He carried the same bag he had grabbed from his cabin when he fled, the one with the cash. He also had a backpack with his rifle tied to it. He looked sad but relieved to have the running and hiding over with.