A few minutes later, Jimmy Hendrix came into the office and put a document on Mike’s desk. “I got a fax from the Arizona State Crime Lab, which identified the tire tracks as belonging to three relatively new Honda off road vehicles. The tires are clearly from three different vehicles because of slight tire wear differences, but the state crime lab thinks were from three similar Honda single passenger ATVs, most likely the Rubicon models. They were not able to help with the two-wheeled cart. They have no comparison records for them, but those tire impressions would be useful if we find the cart.”
“Thanks Jimmy. Good work. Will you take a copy to June Rosetta in research? Please ask her to check the registrations for all similar ATVs. I’m especially interested if anyone owns three of them.”
At noon, there was a fortieth birthday party for one of the deputies. Mike joined the other employees in the break room for the pizza and cake. There was a lot of kidding about the deputy entering middle age. Mike had been to his own fortieth party almost fifteen years earlier, and the birthday party made him feel old. For the first time in weeks, his leg ached where he’d taken the bullet from a suspect six years earlier. That injury was the reason for his early retirement from the LAPD, but it had not taken long after they retired to Sedona for Mike to realize that he missed law enforcement too much to stay home. Every year his leg had gotten better until his limp was gone as was most of the pain. After the birthday celebration, Mike went back to his office so he’d be available when Mr. and Mrs. McFarlane arrived.
Just before 1:30, Sean escorted Mr. and Mrs. McFarlane and Susan Graham to the door of his office. Mike invited them to sit, and nodded to Sean to pull in a couple of more chairs for Susan and himself.
Mr. McFarlane shook Mike’s hand before sitting. “Thank you, captain, for briefing us before we head home. We hired a local funeral home to deliver Paul home to Warroad. We’ll leave tomorrow morning on the 8:00 Mesa Air Flight. We live in a small town, and nearly everyone in it knew Paul. They want to honor his military service by lining the street as he returns to town. Warroad is very much a hockey town, and Paul was All State for two years. They retired his jersey at the high school in January when he returned to Warroad after his discharge from the Marines.”
Mrs. McFarlane said, “Paul was very quiet after his discharge. This long hike was to clear his head.” She couldn’t hold her tears any longer, and Mike paused while she recovered her composure. Her husband reached over and held her hand. Mike could see he was holding back tears too.
Susan said, “He was the finest man I’ve ever known.” She began to weep.
After the pause, Mike said, “Everything I heard of your son indicates he was an outstanding man, someone to be very proud of. We’ll do everything we can to find his killers; it’s the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department’s highest priority. I do need to warn you that a homicide in a remote spot with no witnesses is extremely difficult to solve. So far, we have a few leads, but no real break in the case.”
“Please tell us about the leads,” Mrs. McFarlane said. Her voice broke again as she spoke.
“We have DNA from the looted grave. Because of the porous volcanic gravel in the area, water drains quickly during the summer monsoons. The specific location originally had a layer of flagstone that further protected the remains. The burial was under the floor of an ancient room that originally had a roof. Artifacts and human remains buried in the right locations will survive centuries in northern Arizona. We have DNA samples from the remains of the Sinagua shaman who was buried there eight hundred years ago. There is an excellent chance that the DNA from the burial site will also be on some of the stolen artifacts.”
“Ah good. I see where you’re going,” Mr. McFarlane said. “You can prove that the stolen artifacts came from the specific site. That would tie whoever has them to the murder.”
Mrs. McFarlane looked dubious and annoyed with her husband’s excitement. “Any idea where to find any of these artifacts? That seems like a long shot,” she said.
“Yes ma’am. I’m driving down to Scottsdale tomorrow to retrieve some necklace beads that might have come from the burial site.” Mike took out the two sets of drawings of artifacts that might have been found at the site. “We sent these photos to two hundred and twenty-six dealers in Southwestern artifacts. This is our best chance to find anyone who is trying to sell the looted items. If the artifacts haven’t been extensively cleaned, we may find the DNA from the ancient burial site. DNA techniques have advanced to the point that we can get a match from the slightest trace. Of course, we hope to find the DNA of whoever else touched the beads as well. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll send these turquoise beads to the FBI lab in Virginia for evaluation. I hope to get a good description of the man who sold them from the storeowner. We have another lead in Santa Fe that may pan out. We also have tire impressions of the three ATVs used at the homicide site. From those, we know the specific type of ATV used. If we find the actual ATVs, we’ll be able to match tire wear to the impressions from the murder site. We really do have hope of a resolution, but even with DNA evidence, a conviction might be difficult because no one witnessed the homicide except the three killers. I promise that I will keep you informed every step of the way.”
They were grateful for the update and left Mike’s office with at least some hope for resolution. Mike knew that whatever happened, the loss of their only son would never heal, but only get more distant and slightly more bearable.
Chapter 11
Just before he left his office to head home, Mike received a call from Margaret. “Mike, can you pick up KFC on the way home. I’m so busy; I won’t be home until about 8:00. I couldn’t get to all the new customers today, so I made some appointments to open accounts after the normal closing time. The manager is staying late with me to let people in. I’ll be tired and want some wine that goes with fast food, maybe a red Two Buck Chuck.” She sounded exhausted.
“Are you draining all the deposits from that mega bank that used to employ you?” Mike joked.
“My sweet, they have deposits of over one trillion four hundred billion. They won’t notice my efforts, but I already have enough new accounts to pay for last night’s dinner. I love you.”
“Love you too. See you at home. I’ll put the food in the warming oven and wait for you.”
Even though Margaret had worked during their whole thirty plus years of marriage, she did almost all of the cooking. It was her hobby, and she loved to try new recipes. He couldn’t remember her ever asking him to bring home fast food. Since she normally got off work earlier than he did, she usually picked up something if she didn’t want to cook. Mike knew that they had a warming oven below the regular one. When he got home, he figured out how to turn it on and set the proper temperature. He also realized that the paper bucket and Styrofoam containers shouldn’t go into the warming oven. He got everything into safer containers and sat down to read the Sedona Red Rock News.
It was 8:45 when Margaret finally got home. Mike had sampled a chicken leg and breast to contain his hunger, but he’d also set the table with wine glasses and opened an excellent Spanish red to go with the fried chicken.
“Please tell me about your first day at the new bank.”
“Oh Mike, I made a stupid mistake when I sent that Facebook post before breakfast. I should have notified potential customers in smaller groups. Anyway the place had such a long line waiting to see me that I asked some to come back after normal hours and about half to come back tomorrow.”
“How many new customers did you bring in?” Mike mentally pictured hordes of Sedona residents lined up waiting for his wife’s attention.
“Today we opened fifty-two individual accounts and sixteen business accounts. It’s a good team to work with. If the branch is the top performer in the region for the quarter, everyone who works in our branch gets a thousand dollar bonus. That makes us work as a team. I couldn’t have opened that many accounts without a lot of help.”
“I’ll bet your
old branch manager is having a fit.”
“It’s funny how that works. In many cases, she won’t even realize the accounts are moving. I set the customers up to allow all their outstanding checks to clear before I send through a bank draft for the remaining account balances. I’d guess it would be about two weeks before they realize that they will totally fail to meet their own deposit targets for the quarter. The mega bank uses a branch grading system. They won’t know about their downgrade until next month, not that anyone in management beyond the area manager or maybe state retail boss will even notice. Unfortunately, my former coworkers are not likely to get bonuses for the quarter. However, since machines have replaced so many of my friends, it doesn’t matter as much. For the company as a whole, my activities won’t even represent a rounding error, but I’m having a lot of fun.”
They talked in more detail about Margaret’s day. It was the opposite of their normal routine when Mike was involved in a murder investigation, and that evening, Mike enjoyed focusing on Margaret’s success.
The next morning, Margaret shook Mike awake at six thirty. “Sorry sweetie, I agreed to meet the assistant manager at the branch at seven so I can catch up on the paperwork for the new accounts. Of course, it’s all on the computer, not really paper, so I can’t bring anything home to work on. Please tell me all about your homicide case tonight. Love you. See you about seven thirty.”
“Ok, I’m headed to Page Springs and then down to Scottsdale, but I should be home by six or seven.”
After their goodbye kiss, Mike went back to sleep. It was only a twenty-minute drive south from Sedona to the Poole Vineyards on Page Springs Road, and he decided to sleep until seven thirty.
Mike and Margaret had taken out-of-town guests to several wine tasting rooms located among the vineyards along Page Springs Road, but he knew the Poole Vineyards did not offer a tasting room. Their target clientele was high-end restaurants and people who were willing to spend a thousand dollars to order a case of wine for their own enjoyment. Mike had no trouble finding the turnoff to the vineyard because there was an impressive arc of metal signage over the gravel road that passed by rows of vines planted along a hillside. He drove slowly along the road so as not to stir up dust that would bother the workers he saw in the nearby fields. The vines were light green with new growth. As he came around a limestone cliff he noticed a log building that looked a little like a small motel. Behind it was a massive stone and timber farmhouse. He pulled up in front of the huge home’s covered front veranda, which was supported by posts made from whole Ponderosa pine trees. A tall and athletic-looking man dressed in casual clothing came out to greet him.
The man smiled and stuck out his calloused hand. “Hi Captain Damson, I’m Jim Poole. I’ve read a lot about you in the Arizona Republic. Your cases of the murdered priest and the one with the arsonists in the national forest were big news. I also remember that incident in the compound in the Arizona Strip. All three cases even made the national network news.”
“Please call me Mike. I’m also very pleased to meet you Mr. Poole. My wife and I enjoyed your fine vintage at the Sedona Wine Festival and even ordered a bottle the last time we ate at L’Auberge in Sedona.”
“Please, call me Jim. I’m glad you like our unpretentious Arizona vintages. I understand you’re here to talk about a homicide up near Anderson Mesa. I’ll do anything I can to help. Please come into my office to discuss it.”
Mike entered a room the size of a hotel lobby with a high wooden ceiling, supported by enormous beams. It reminded Mike of the lobby of the Grand Canyon’s El Tovar Hotel except that it was much larger than the hotel’s lobby. The room was decorated with five groups of leather couches and chairs. At the far end was a table that would easily seat two-dozen people for dinner. A whole herd of cattle must have died to supply the brown leather furniture for this single room. The floor was covered with a dozen Navajo rugs. Other rugs that looked like they might be Nineteenth Century antiques were hung from some walls.
Jim motioned for him to enter an office alcove. Rather than sitting behind a massive antique desk covered with papers and containing four computer screens, he motioned for Mike to sit in one of a pair of oversized armchairs facing each other across a coffee table made from a petrified tree trunk. When Mike sat in the indicated chair he could see a wall of glass-covered cases like a museum display that separated the office from the massive living room. There were hundreds of Native American artifacts on display in the cases. Each object had a small sign below it with an explanation of its origins like you might see in a museum.
“Thank you for allowing me to meet with you this morning. The sheriff told me of your busy schedule. I’m checking on every owner of ground penetrating radar in the state.”
Jim Poole looked surprised. “Is looting of Sinagua artifacts connected to your case?”
“The sheriff told me you’re a very smart man. It’s not public, but we think the man who was killed came on three people looting the Kinnickinick Pueblo ruin.”
Jim motioned to the wall of artifacts. “Since my grandfather’s time running the ranches, our family has worked with the University of Arizona to excavate any sites found on our property. It’s sixty years of a close relationship with the university, and I donated the funds when they bought their own ground penetrating radar. They consider it very useful. The University of Arizona has exclusive rights to excavate on Poole owned property. However, the Poole Vineyards didn’t buy our own GPR for that. How much do you know about vineyards, Mike?”
“Very little. My wife and I like good wine, and have toured some vineyards in California and Italy. I don’t know the connection between the radar and vineyards.”
“Getting the best possible wine starts with getting the finest vines planted in the perfect place. Drainage and sunshine are critical. We use the radar to understand the subsoil without needing to dig everywhere. We have a complex proprietary computer program to determine the best sun exposure and drainage. With that combination, we can determine the depth of the hard subsoil limestone layers and see the subsurface boulders before we ever plant a vine. As far as I know, we’re the only Arizona vineyards to use a radar unit. It’s actually one of the secrets of our success in making prize-winning wines, and I wouldn’t like to see that our secret got out. They’re not that expensive, so it wouldn’t be hard for other vineyards to follow suit.”
“I will not mention it unless it comes out in court. Is the device here on the property?”
“Yes, its over in a shed near the wine aging building. We didn’t plant new vines this spring, so I think it hasn’t been used in a year. Would you like to see it?”
“Do you keep a log of its use like the universities?”
“No. It’s not locked up or anything. We mostly have loyal long-term employees on the property. We don’t ever lock the buildings except this house when we’re not here. These artifacts are worth a lot, and we have an alarm system to protect them.” He motioned at the glass cases.”
“Have you heard of the Magician of Ridge Ruin?”
“Damn it Mike, you don’t mean that the looting was of a similar site. Christ, that would be a terrible loss to archeology.”
Mike explained, “A Hopi clan leader and one of the specialists at the Museum of Northern Arizona both think it was the burial of a similar Sinagua shaman from the thirteenth century with many similar artifacts. Besides the homicide, we want to recover whatever we can and return the artifacts to the Hopi Tribe.”
“That kind of discovery is irreplaceable, totally irreplaceable. Even if you recover the artifacts, it would be difficult to do much study of them out of context. You think a looter killed a man who discovered his dig?”
“We think so. That dig and four others here in the Verde Valley were very exact. Someone or rather some group of looters dug straight down to the artifacts. There was no indication of probing or making other holes.”
“Let’s go see if that unit is still in the shed.” He stood an
d walked quickly through a side door, taking long purposeful strides. Jim Poole led Mike to a native limestone building with a green metal roof. Jim pulled the door open and came to an abrupt stop. Mike almost bumped into him he stopped so quickly.
Jim backed out of the shed and yelled at two men who were walking by. “Giuseppe, Hal come over here.” The two men wore work clothes and seemed disconcerted by the tone in Jim’s voice. When they got closer, Jim said in a barely controlled voice, “Where is our ground penetrating radar unit?”
Both men looked in the shed to see the bare spot where the unit had been. The men looked at each other waiting for the other to say something. After a pause, Giuseppe spoke in a softly Italian accented voice. “Jim, we haven’t used it since last spring. It should be in the shed. We only used the equipment in this shed for planting, and we added no new vines this spring.”
Hal said, “I haven’t even looked in there this year. There’s nothing we needed for the harvest or the pruning.”
“So neither of you have seen it in a year? It could have been taken anytime since the last planting?”
“Yes Jim,” they said in unison. They seemed intimidated by the suppressed anger of the normally affable vineyard owner.
Jim turned to Mike and said, “I should have kept it in a locked storage space, but even though we have sometimes seen trespassers, we’ve never had anything stolen in the history of the vineyard. I will cooperate any way I can. I have the paperwork someplace and can give you the serial number. It may take a couple of hours to go through the files. I think we bought it about five years ago. Do you need to check the shed for prints or anything?”
“I’m not optimistic because of the time uncertainty, but I’ll ask our crime scene technician to dust it for prints if you’re OK with that. He can come down from Flagstaff and be here in a couple of hours. We already have its serial number from our contact with the manufacturer.”
The Mauling at Kinnickinick Pueblo Page 8