The Voxlightner Scandal

by Don Travis

  Paul looked at me. “We can use the conference room if you’re busy.”

  “You’ve got me curious. Show him in, Hazel.”

  A stereotypical South Valley boy strutted through the doorway. Five nine, around one seventy-five, black eyes, black hair. I knew without being told he was bright, brash, and a womanizer to his core. I pegged him at about thirty, a year older than when I made detective.

  He clasped my hand without waiting for an introduction. “Hi ya, Mr. Vinson. Heard lots about you from the lieutenant. You’ve got a rep around the station.”

  I couldn’t help responding to his grin. “Probably a rep for getting my ass shot off.”

  “But you got him,” he said.

  I assumed he referred to my murder suspect shootout. “But it shouldn’t have happened.”

  The impish grin grew. “If it hadn’t, I wonder who’d be running homicide now, you or Lieutenant Enriquez?”

  I came right back at him. “The lieutenant. He’s a better cop.”

  “How so?”

  “For one thing, he didn’t let himself get shot.”

  Roy laughed. “I guess he didn’t.” He turned to Paul and offered a hand. “Hi, guy. I take it you’re Paul. Always good to have a face to go with a telephone voice. We gonna hash this over with Mr. Vinson, huh? That’s aces, man. Get another viewpoint.”

  “BJ,” I said. “Call me BJ.”

  “Okay, I’m Roy.”

  He took a seat with us at the small table in my private office and went over what he knew of the death of Pierce Belhaven. The author was found dead in his charred garage when a neighbor saw flames and called the fire department. It appeared Belhaven had been repairing his gasoline-powered lawn mower. Somehow he’d gotten himself covered in gasoline, which inexplicably caught fire and roasted him. The mower was close to the pilot light of the water heater in the garage. When Roy finished I asked if he bought the accidental death theory.

  “I’m acluistic at this point, but I have my doubts. From all I can find out, the old boy wouldn’t have picked up a wrench. Hell, he wouldn’t even have picked up the gas can. And why do it at ten thirty at night?”

  “Ten thirty’s a pretty specific time fix,” I said.

  “That’s about the time the neighbor reported it. And the fire hadn’t really got started good.”

  “Just enough to fricassee Pierce,” Paul added.

  “Anyone else in the house?” I asked.

  “No one,” Roy answered. “But a crapload of people have keys and the code to the alarm system. Harrison—the son—was estranged, but Melanie—the daughter—was on speaking terms with him. She’s married and lives in Grants.”

  “An estranged son, and he still has keys? How estranged?”

  Paul answered. “Pierce wouldn’t talk about it much, but the way I got it was they fell out when Pierce put a stop to his marrying a girl back in high school. His son was of age, but the girl wasn’t. The girl got so despondent her folks moved away.”

  “How old is Harrison?”

  Roy waggled a hand back and forth. “Thirty-seven, thirty-eight.”

  “That’s a long time to hold a grudge,” I said.

  Roy lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Some folks hang on to their grudges better’n they do their pocketbooks. Harrison got caught in the Voxlightner scandal. Wiped him out, I understand.”

  “How was he involved?” I asked.

  “Wasn’t an insider,” Roy said. “But he was close enough to get on the list of initial investors. Put everything he owned in the company.”

  “That scam ruined some pretty prominent people,” I said.

  “Maybe it was more than busting up a romance. Harrison mighta blamed his father for an investment gone bad,” Roy suggested.

  Paul stepped up to answer. “Could be. Pierce told me he made sure his son was able to get in on the initial offering. Mending fences, you know. Harrison took a bigger bite than he should have, and it backfired. Big-time.”

  I settled more comfortably in my chair. “The fact we’re talking about an old scandal instead of Pierce Belhaven’s murder must be because you believe there’s a connection. But tell me something, Roy. Why are you willing to discuss an ongoing police investigation with us?”

  “The lieutenant says you’re solid. So why not bring in a couple more viewpoints? You’re an experienced investigator, and Paul’s a dedicated snoop. Plus he’s promised not to publish anything without my okay first.”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t wash. You have a whole department backing you up on this.”

  The detective flashed a smile. He knew how to use his facial muscles. “Okay, I’ll level. I just made detective a few months ago, and this case could be a hot potato. Noted author pokes a stick in a beehive and winds up murdered. It’s a natural, and I’m hell-bent on breaking it.”

  “How about your partner?”

  “I don’t have one right now. They’ll team me with someone sooner or later, but I’d like to add a feather to my coup stick before that happens.”

  His remark made me reconsider my South Valley categorization. Maybe he had a little native blood running around in his veins too.

  “Tell me about Belhaven’s family,” I said. “I remember reading he was a widower. Did he live alone?”

  Roy answered that one. “Lived alone but had arm candy… you know, a lover. Sometimes live-in. Sometimes not.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Sarah Thackerson.”

  “What’s her story?” I asked.

  Roy raised his chin and studied the ceiling as he recited his files from memory. “Hails from Bisbee, Arizona. Supposedly there visiting her family the night Belhaven bought it. She’s around thirty but still taking courses at UNM. School’s what brought her up here, apparently. She does… uh, did secretarial and research work for Belhaven. That’s how they met about six years ago. She answered an ad and landed the job.”

  “What makes you think she was his sweetheart?”

  “He made it clear,” Paul said. “Even brought her to some SWW meetings. Stuck to him like Velcro.”

  “You said she’s thirty. How old was he?”

  “Sixty,” Roy said. “A May-December thing. We aren’t done looking into his finances, but it’s pretty clear he was her sole means of support.”

  “Anybody else in the household?”

  “Not the immediate household, but there’s a yard boy, I guess you’d call him,” Roy said. “Spencer Spears takes care of the grounds. The Belhaven place occupies two lots, so there’s a lot of greenery to be tended.”

  “He’d be the one to repair a mower,” Paul put in. “Not Pierce.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Roy rubbed his head with the knuckles of his right hand. “Not much to tell. He goes to school part-time. Central New Mexico. Slow-walking a degree in landscaping, I gather. Twenty-seven, single, but they say he’s got women hanging all over him.” His mouth turned down in a frown. “He’s got an assitude.”

  “Which CNM campus?”

  Roy thumbed through his notes. “Montoya Campus on Morris NE.”

  “What’s his background? Does he have a sheet?”

  “He’s a local boy. Only sheet’s a juvie. Sealed. But old-timers remember it as a fistfight between him and another guy. Probably got dressed down by a judge and let go.”

  “Where was he the night of Belhaven’s death?”

  “Jiving at a sports bar. Got there around eight. The thing broke up at closing.”

  “Witnesses?”

  Roy nodded.

  I thought for a minute, all the while watching Paul’s eager face. This case was important to him, which made my decision easy. “Roy, do you mind if Paul and I look into this Belhaven death? We’ll keep you posted on anything we find.”

  Roy beamed. “Go for it. I’ll share what I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hazel wasn’t going to like me taking one more case that didn’t pay its own way. In fact when
I told her to open a file, her first question was “Who’s the client?”

  Chapter 2

  I MANAGED to pry Gene away from APD headquarters to have lunch the next day at the Courthouse Café. As usual he was rushed until I prevailed upon him to sit back and take a deep breath.

  “Okay. Now what?” he demanded.

  “Now eat a lunch without gulping it down and take time to smell the roses.”

  “Grease,” he grumped. “All I smell in here is grease.”

  I knew exactly what was riding his back. “They still pressing you to move up?”

  He nodded and snorted simultaneously. “Yeah. I’m not gonna accept it.”

  “Are you thinking of yourself, or are you thinking of Glenda and the kids?”

  He bristled. “I make a decent living. Take care of them okay.”

  “Face it, Gene, you’re already an administrator. When was the last time you went out and worked a case?”

  “That case we worked together last year. What did you call it?”

  “Abaddon’s Locusts.” I eyed my former APD partner. “You’re avoiding the issue. What are your options? You turn down a promotion, you slam a lid on your career. You’ve got in your twenty, so you can put in your papers. Or you can accept what they’re offering and continue to build on what you have.”

  He scratched his chin before dry washing his face. “What the hell would I do if I retired? Go crazy, that’s what I’d do. Six months tops.”

  “Charlie and I talked it over. You can join us. Vinson, Weeks, and Enriquez. How does that sound?”

  “Not bad.”

  “It’s there if you want it, but personally, I think you’re too much of a cop to be happy outside the department.”

  “I hear you. So Paul met with Roy Guerra on the Belhaven thing.”

  “Yep. Have you called it yet?”

  “Homicide. Autopsy showed he was hit in the head with a blunt object before he caught fire. No smoke in his lungs. He was dead before he lit up.”

  “Will you have any heartburn if Paul and I work with Guerra?”

  “Naw. He’s new to his shield and can use the help.”

  “Do I read anything into the fact he doesn’t have a partner?”

  “Roy’s a quart in a pint pot. He’s going to turn out to be a good detective. We’ll get him a seasoned partner as soon as I find a good match.”

  “He and Paul both believe Belhaven’s killing ties into his promise to reveal the killer in the Voxlightner debacle.”

  “What’s your take?” he asked.

  “Things point in that direction, but I try to keep an open mind. Refresh my memory. Wasn’t Everett Kent murdered while looking into the scandal because his law partner Zachary Greystone was involved in incorporating the venture?”

  “Not only did Greystone handle the paperwork incorporating the company, he was promoting it big-time,” Gene said. “Had a hand in setting up the list of initial investors.”

  “How was Kent killed?” I asked.

  “Shot to death in his office on the fourth floor of the Central New Mexico Bank Building. Working late alone in the office.”

  “Must have been someone he trusted if he admitted his killer after hours. When was this?”

  Gene stretched to ease his back. “End of February or beginning of March 2004.”

  “Not long before Voxlightner and Stabler took a powder,” I noted.

  While munching on tacos, we reconstructed as much of the old scandal as we could recall. In the remembering, it was dry, boring stuff, but when bits and pieces had screamed headlines in successive editions of the Albuquerque Journal like some Hollywood serial, the scandalous affair gripped all of New Mexico and half of Arizona in its thrall.

  The whole thing began when a Nevada mining engineer named Dr. Walther Stabler claimed copper tailings across the Arizona border in the Morenci district contained gold. Marshall Voxlightner’s son Barron hauled a ton of dirt to the New Mexico Institute of Mining & Technology for a series of fire assays. The tests consistently showed commercial amounts of gold and silver. Especially appealing was the fact the material did not have to be extracted from the ground because the ore was premined copper tailings.

  The mine owners realized the dumps possibly contained commercially valuable trace minerals, but they also faced local pressure to get rid of some five million tons—and growing—of ugly piles of dirt. Therefore they were willing to sell the material for $1.00 a ton, the cost of removal and transportation to be borne by the purchaser.

  After a month of positive assays—some of which were performed on samples selected by prospective investors at random from the seemingly unending piles of dirt—Marshall Voxlightner, the retired oilman with a solid reputation—put in $250,000 seed money and agreed to lend his family name to the project. His son promptly incorporated the Voxlightner Precious Metals Recovery Corporation and put his team together. He and his group matched the old man’s $250,000, and the venture was off and running.

  “How far did they get with the actual project?” I asked.

  “After the initial offering sold out, they bought all five million tons of copper tailings,” Gene said. “At the same time, a couple of guys—Greystone and Pillsner, if I remember right—were working on permits for the mill to be located down in the Socorro area.”

  “Pillsner? I forgot Wick was involved.” Hardwick Pillsner, a local businessman, made his living—and a pile of money—as a promoter. He’d facilitated the buying and selling of various local businesses. Putting together the Voxlightner operation would have been right up his alley. “Was he an officer?” I asked.

  “He’s the one who introduced Stabler to Voxlightner. Helped put it all together. But he wasn’t even a board member. He had a policy against taking a hand in operating anything he helped form. He just took a stock position for his efforts in this one, I understand,” Gene said.

  “So Wick lost potential, not money.”

  “He’d disagree. He considers time as money.”

  “Can’t argue with the logic,” I said. “My time is all I have to sell.”

  As Gene looked at me through tired brown eyes, it occurred to me why we worked so well together. What he couldn’t remember, I could. And our memories stretched back a long way. “What happened to the tailings after the company folded?”

  He assumed a thoughtful look. “As I recall, the Greystone firm attempted to get the company’s money back and were met with a suit to remove the dumps as agreed under the sales contract. Greystone eventually settled for getting back something like a quarter for every dollar.”

  “So the investors recovered a million and a quarter of their money. Funny. I don’t recall shareholders getting anything back.”

  “The recovery was used to pay off other obligations of the corporation under bankruptcy proceedings. Investors got nothing.” Gene glanced my way. “Did you lose a bundle?”

  “A bundle to me at the time. I was an APD cop, remember?”

  “With a few mil in the bank.”

  “I never touched any of the trust money. The VPMR investment just ruined me personally for a couple of years.”

  Over the dregs of our meal we continued to reconstruct the scandal… the crime, really. In early 2004 VPMR’s problems came to light when board members expressed concern over the rapid rate of heavy expenditures. Money was flowing like oil from one of Marshall Voxlightner’s gushers, and red flags began to wave. The trucking company moving ore from Arizona halted work because of nonpayment. The School of Mines lab wasn’t paid for the last batch of assays. Wick Pillsner complained of unpaid rent for the building he rented the corporation on East Lomas.

  Everett Kent dealt the nastiest blow when he filched some of the copper tailing material and took it to an independent lab for assay. Traces of gold and silver and even platinum showed up, but not in commercial quantities. He then filed suit in district court—as a stockholder—for a complete accounting by an independent arbitrator. Within a week, he was sho
t in the back of the head in his office.

  But the damage was done. An investigation was underway and couldn’t be stopped. Then Barron Voxlightner and Dr. Walther Stabler vanished without a trace. They were last seen huddling together over a conference table in corporate headquarters on a Monday night in March 2004. The next day the Journal’s headline screamed something over $40,000,000 of the company funds were missing. Some was traced to the payment of phony accounts, some to bank transfers overseas and a series of cash withdrawals. In retrospect suspicious activity reports should have been filed by the bank, but the principals backing the company were highly respected men with proven business acumen. No such reports were filed.

  The FBI moved quickly after the disappearances, arresting company COO John Hightower, and casting suspicion over the other officers and members of the company’s board of directors. Eventually Hightower was revealed as a dupe and never prosecuted. His responsibilities were for operations not finances. Doubtless he was lax in the performance of his duties but not criminally so. His reputation in shreds, he moved out of state, no doubt carefully watched by the feds wherever he went.

  After the disappearances, authorities concentrated on the search for Voxlightner and Stabler. The locals pursued the murderer of Everett Kent with about as much success as with the rest of the mess. Despite a massive manhunt for the missing men, the investigation went nowhere. The courts took over the dissolution of the bankrupt corporation, and eventually things died out. To the best of our recollection, the whole thing from start to finish lasted just over six months—from early September 2003 to mid-March 2004. Just like that, some $50,000,000 had been sucked out of the fragile economy of New Mexico.

  SHORTLY AFTER I returned to the office, Paul popped in wearing what my sainted mother would have called a bright undershirt. Red, sleeveless, and held in place by two narrow straps over the shoulders, it was cut low enough so Pedro peeked out at the world. Man, I loved that tattooed dragon on Paul’s left pec.

  “Roy and I are going to Belhaven’s house for a look-around. You wanna come?”