“Sure you do.”
“Suppose you enlighten me.”
“Last year you were ready to throw an upstanding member of the community under the bus for a murder he didn’t commit, and now you’re up to your neck in a pot-hunting case involving a local couple revered by this community.”
“I don’t see your point.”
“Let me draw it with a crayon for you, then. You’re prepared to besmirch the reputation of Rolly and Abby Rogers over their involvement in an activity that most of us see as our God-given right—an integral part of our local culture and history.”
“Geez, Lamont, don’t you ever give it a rest? We’re trying to do our job, and in this instance, that happens to be saving the lives of two people we believe are the victims of foul play. That the Rogers are beloved members of the community who also happen to be avid antiquities collectors seems beside the point.”
“Oh, but that is the point, Books. Now you’ve got another high-profile case where you get to put pot-hunting in the spotlight while scoring points with the press and your BLM bosses in Salt Lake City—never mind what happens to the Rogerses.”
Books stopped and faced Christensen, “Look, you little weasel. I don’t give a shit what you think of me personally, but for you to assert that I’m interested in garnering kudos from the media and impressing my superiors while a missing couple may be lying out there dead or dying is pure rubbish. Why don’t you say what’s really got your tail in a knot?”
“And, what might that be?” said Christensen.
“You’re pissed because the sheriff no longer calls and leaks sensitive information about an ongoing case to that rag you call a newspaper. And you blame me for that.”
“What if I do? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I can’t help it that you’re in the First Amendment business—the public’s right to know and all that happy horseshit. That’s your business. But somebody has to be concerned about catching the bad guys and not jeopardizing the case before it gets to court by giving too much information to suspects who might be reading the stuff you’re printing. And that’s my business.”
Christensen smiled as he clicked off a small tape recorder he removed from his jacket pocket. “I assume I can quote you on that.”
“You can quote any damn thing you want, Lamont, and, while you’re at it, you can also kiss my ass. Why don’t you print that, too?”
Chapter Sixteen
Books found Ned Hunsaker planting vegetables in a small garden behind his house. He was on his knees and barely glanced up as Books approached. “Morning, J.D. What brings you around this time of the morning?”
“I’ve got a question for you, Ned. What do you know about a local business called Red Rock Touring?”
Hunsaker stopped what he was doing, sat back on his heels and took a big drink of water from a plastic bottle. “Twelve, thirteen years ago, right about the time you left Kanab, a guy by the name of George Gentry moved here from Albuquerque and opened Red Rock Touring. I never thought he’d make it, but he sure fooled me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tourism in the late 1990s wasn’t what it is today. I just didn’t think there was enough business to support a company operating seasonally and catering exclusively to vacationers.”
“What do you know about Mr. Gentry?”
“Not much—used to say hello when I’d run into him in town, but that’s about it. He was retired when he moved here. BLM, I think. He ran the business with his son, Brett. They worked it together until the old man retired five or so years ago. Brett took over, and the business has continued to prosper.”
“Is the father still alive?”
“Yeah, as far as I know. I heard he developed dementia and the family moved him to an assisted living facility in St. George.”
“Is there a Mrs. Gentry?”
“Brett’s married, but I’m not sure about the old man. One time I heard he was a widower, but then someone else told me he got divorced shortly before he retired. Why all the interest in Red Rock Touring?”
“Just chasing what I think is probably another dead-end lead. It’s probably nothing.”
Books drove to the sheriff’s office, met Beth Tanner, and the two of them went looking for Charley Sutter. They found him in the department lunch room drinking a can of Diet Coke while munching a bag of potato chips and eating a peanut butter sandwich. With a suspect in custody, and the press conference behind him, Sutter looked like a happy man.
“Don’t look so happy, Charley. At the moment, the only thing we’ve got is a suspect sitting in your jail who we can’t talk to. He’s probably involved up to his eye-balls in the disappearance of Rolly and Abby Rogers, and all we can charge him with is a single count of possession of stolen property and misdemeanor possession of pot.”
“So figure it out.”
“I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel considering, that at the moment, we don’t have any leads. We’ll see how happy you are this time next week if we’re still at a standstill.”
“How about the physical evidence? Getting anywhere with that?” asked Sutter. “And have you spoken with Becky about interviewing her client?
“No and no. It’s too soon to know anything about the evidence and Becky was only appointed this morning.”
Tanner added, “The crime lab should have some results later today on the latent prints I lifted at the Rogers’ home. I shipped them a copy of Benally’s prints and they’re running the comparison now.”
“That might tie up the burglary beef, but it doesn’t get us any closer to finding the Rogers,” said Books.
“Charley, what do you know about Red Rock Touring and Brett Gentry?”
“The old man was a damned good businessman if you ask me, a visionary of sorts.”
“In what way?”
“Red Rock Touring took off financially right from the get-go. How old George knew it would work is beyond me. It’s been a very successful local business for a lot of years.”
“What did George do for a living prior to opening Red Rock Touring?”
“He’s a retired BLM archeologist—thought you probably knew that.”
Books shook his head. “What about his son, Brett?”
Sutter’s expression became quizzical. “Why all the questions?”
“When we arrested Benally yesterday, I found a slip of paper in his bedroom with a phone number on it. The phone number was listed to Red Rock Touring.”
“That’s strange. Was there anything else on the note besides the phone number?”
“Nothing.”
When the impromptu meeting ended, Sutter looked noticeably more uneasy. Books had seen cases like this before when all the leads evaporated, leaving detectives with nothing but a cold case. This one was starting to feel like that.
***
Books knew a strategy that had served him well in prior cases. With few options remaining, he decided to shake the tree and see what happened.
Red Rock Touring was located in a nondescript stucco building along State Highway 89 on the east end of Kanab. As Books parked the Tahoe, he noticed a half-dozen all-terrain vehicles parked in a row fronting the highway. A rail-thin middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair greeted him as he entered the lobby.
“Good afternoon,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Emily Gentry. How can I help you, Officer….?”
“Books, J.D. Books.”
“Of course, Officer Books, I should have known. What brings you by today?”
“I’m looking for your husband.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s not here at the moment. Can I help you with something?”
Books ignored the question. “Can you tell me when you expect him to return?”
“He’s in St. George p
laying golf with a couple of his buddies. I expect him back sometime this evening. Now if you’ll tell me what you want, I’m sure I can help you.”
“Perhaps you can, Mrs. Gentry, but I’d rather wait until your husband gets back so that I have to say it only once.”
“Say what only once? What are you talking about?”
“Your company has come up in our investigation of the Rogers couple. And that’s all I’m going to say until I can sit down with both you and your husband.” With that, he walked out of the office leaving Gentry stammering in mid-sentence. He smiled to himself as he climbed into the Tahoe believing that he’d accomplished what he intended—he’d shaken the tree.
Books found a text message from Maggie: “Surgery at 9 a.m. R U coming?”
Books hit the reply button and wrote, “Doubtful. Call U later.”
As he headed for BLM headquarters, Books received a radio call that would change the course of the investigation as well as alter the lives of his own family.
Chapter Seventeen
Tanner was waiting for Books in the sheriff’s department parking lot. She jumped in the Tahoe, and they sped south out of Kanab, across the state line into Arizona, and then headed west on State Highway 389.
“What’s going on?” asked Tanner.
“Dispatch relayed a call from the Paiute Tribal Police telling us they’ve arrested a digger they apparently caught red-handed plundering an Anasazi burial site.”
“And you think it might be connected to the Rogers case?”
“Don’t know, but it’s worth checking out. From what I can tell, this site isn’t too far from where Rolly and Abby disappeared.”
“Is it on Paiute land?”
“Nope. It’s further south, not quite to Toroweap and just east of Mt. Trumbull.”
They rode on in silence, Books hoping that whatever they were about to learn might give them their first tangible break in the case. Instead, what he discovered shocked him.
Partially concealed behind a stand of juniper pine was an all-too-familiar white Chevrolet Silverado pickup bearing Utah license plates. Seated on a near-by rock, hands cuffed behind his back, sat his brother-in-law, Bobby Case.
“Holy shit.”
“What?”
“I know this guy. He’s my brother-in-law.”
“Whoa, J.D. How do you want to handle this?”
“Just like we’d handle any other case, I suppose. We find out what happened, and, if there’s evidence a crime was committed, Bobby goes to jail.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t see another choice. Do you?”
Four armed Native American men milled about the scene. Each was driving an all-terrain vehicle and nobody was in uniform. “Careful here,” he told Tanner, as he got out of the Tahoe. “I have no idea who these guys are.”
“Jesus, J.D. Am I glad to see you,” said Bobby Case. “These assholes…..”
“Shut up, Bobby,” replied Books. “You’ll have a chance to explain yourself in a minute.” Case looked surprised but refrained from saying anything further.
One of the men approached Books. “You know this man?”
“Unfortunately, I do. This is Deputy Beth Tanner from the Kane County Sheriff’s Office and I’m Ranger J.D. Books. Who might you be?”
“I’m Sergeant Albert Tom, Paiute Tribal Police.” The man didn’t smile or extend a hand.
“And your colleagues. Are they also tribal police?”
“These two are reserve officers with the Paiute Tribal Police and the one standing by the suspect is with the Navaho Tribal Police.”
“And what were the four of you doing out here in the first place?”
“Hunting for grave robbers just like this one,” replied Tom.
Pointing at his brother-in-law, Books asked, “How did you happen to come upon this guy?”
“Somebody called tribal headquarters and reported that an Anglo was out here digging. We came in as close as we could on ATVs and walked in from there. Guy was so busy he didn’t hear us until we were right on top of him. Easy bust.”
“And the four of you just happened to be out here on your ATVs and decided to help out,” Books said.
“Something like that, yeah.”
Books didn’t like what he was hearing. It didn’t make sense. Who were these guys and what were they really doing out here? They were patrolling on BLM land well away from the Paiute Reservation. They had no jurisdiction off-reservation, so any time they detained someone it was the equivalent of a citizen’s arrest.
He glanced around the site. Shovels, trowels and other tools used by pot hunters were scattered about indicating recent digging. Several cracked and broken clay pots were lying together next to a shallow hole in the ground. From all appearances, it looked like Bobby had been caught red-handed scavenging the site for relics.
Books tried a more direct approach. “Sergeant Tom, there’s something I’m not understanding. Are the four of you part of some tribal police unit responsible for protecting sacred burial sites? And if you are, what are you doing patrolling off tribal land?”
Tom studied Books for a long moment before replying. Books couldn’t tell whether the look was hostile or merely contemplative. “We are all members of a multitribal organization dedicated to stopping the desecration of sacred Native American sites and returning stolen antiquities to their tribes of origin. And while tribal police authorities are aware of our existence, we are not a part of any specialized unit or agency.”
“Look, I have no problem with what you’re doing,” said Books. “In fact, I think it’s admirable. I am, however, concerned about your authority to act when you’re off tribal lands as you are this morning.”
“Usually we confine our patrols to reservation lands unless we receive a report of an in-progress crime like this one. Then we respond regardless of whether the incident is on tribal or BLM land.”
As Books tried to absorb what Sergeant Tom had just told him, Tanner, who had been quietly listening to the exchange, pulled him aside.
“I think we’ve got a pretty good idea about what happened. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to have a look in Bobby’s truck.”
“Do that while I finish up here.”
Books returned to Sergeant Tom. “We’re going to need written statements from you describing what happened. How can we get in touch?”
Tom produced a tattered business card with an address and phone number for the Paiute Tribal Police Department. On the reverse side, he wrote another number. “That’s my cell number. We’ll prepare written reports and have them available for you ASAP.”
“Great. I appreciate that. I am going to need the names and contact information for each of your fellow officers.”
Tom nodded. “I’ll get that for you. What happens to Mr. Case now?”
“He’s about to be arrested for illegally digging on federal land. As to whether charges are going to be filed, that’ll be up to federal prosecutors.”
Tanner interrupted. “J.D., could you come over here please.” She was searching the extended cab of Case’s pickup.
He walked to the truck and looked over Tanner’s shoulder. “What have you got?”
Tanner stepped aside. “I haven’t moved anything. Take a look in the back. Anything look familiar?”
Books groaned, “Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it does. Bobby’s in deep shit.”
“You want to talk with him or do you want me to do it?”
“I probably shouldn’t. He’s family and that puts me in a major conflict of interest. You advise him and see if he’ll give you a statement. I’ll finish up with the tribal police and then go to work on the crime scene.”
After the tribal officers left, Books retrieved a crime scene kit from a sto
rage compartment in the rear of the Tahoe. Tanner had moved Bobby Case into the Tahoe’s front seat and had begun questioning him. Moments later, Books looked up and saw Tanner walking toward him.
“Sorry, J.D. Afraid it’s a no-go. He says he’ll only talk to you. What do you want me to do?”
“Leave him in the truck. He can wait. Let’s finish up with the crime scene, impound the truck, and transport him back to Kanab. We’ll talk to him there.”
They spent the next hour carefully photographing the dig site and gathering physical evidence. They waited until a tow truck arrived to impound Case’s truck before returning to Kanab.
Awkward hardly described the drive back to town. An angry and sullen looking Bobby Case sat next to Books in the front passenger seat of the Tahoe staring out the side window at nothing, while Tanner sat behind him. Nobody said a word leaving Books to ponder not only the extent of his brother-in-law’s involvement in the illicit pot hunting trade, but also whether that involvement might include kidnapping and murder.
Chapter Eighteen
“What next?” said a visibly upset Charley Sutter as he paced back and forth in front of his desk, perspiration stains decorating the armpits of his uniform. “As if this mess wasn’t complicated enough, now we’ve got the son of the most powerful politician in Kane County caught in the act of pot hunting and in possession of artifacts belonging to Rolly and Abby Rogers. How much worse can it get?” It was a rhetorical question Books thought, and one Beth Tanner should have left alone.
“Don’t forget that Bobby Case happens to be J.D.’s brother-in-law,” said Tanner.
“Thank you for that enlightening bit of information, Deputy Tanner,” snapped Sutter.
Books sat next to Tanner on a weather-beaten, black leather couch facing the sheriff’s desk, arms folded across his chest as Sutter continued his rant.
“Nothing like having the chairman of the county commission seriously pissed off at me with department budget hearings scheduled to begin in two weeks. I can probably kiss goodbye my budget request for replacement patrol vehicles and two new deputies.”
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