Skeleton Picnic

by Michael Norman

  “For at least another two or three days. If he continues to improve, I’d guess he’ll be ready to come home early next week.

  “That’s good.”

  “They want to work with him, get him back on his feet and put him through his paces.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much fun.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t, but he’ll improve a lot faster that way.”

  “You’re right. They don’t just let you lie around in a hospital bed these days.”

  Books gave her a hug and promised to contact her the next day.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Books wasn’t particularly hungry but he wanted to talk with Rusty Steed, the owner of the Ranch Inn & Café. When he walked in, Rusty wasn’t there, but Ned Hunsaker was seated at the counter drinking coffee, eating a slice of apple pie à la mode, and reading a copy of the New York Times.

  “Stuff’ll clog your arteries and kill you, Ned.”

  Hunsaker looked at Books over the top of his reading glasses unimpressed and grunted. “When you get to be my age, son, you can eat pretty much any damn thing you want. For a hunk of Dixie’s homemade apple pie, I’ll take my chances on the clogged arteries.”

  The “Dixie” Hunsaker was referring to was Dixie Steed, Rusty’s wife of more years than Book could remember.

  “Where’s Rusty?”

  “Had to run next door and give something to Dixie. He’ll be right back. Grab yourself a cup of coffee. Rusty won’t mind. I’d offer to share this last piece of apple pie, but I wouldn’t want to do anything that might clog your arteries.”

  Books smiled. “You got me on that one.”

  “I think there might be one piece of cherry pie left,” said Hunsaker.

  “Feeling a little guilty, Ned?”

  “Not even slightly. In fact, if you don’t grab that last piece, I might just eat it myself.”

  “It’s all yours. I’ll pass on the cherry pie.”

  Books poured himself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the counter next to Ned.

  “Suit yourself. How’s your investigation going?”

  “Not very good, I’m afraid. The Rogerses have been missing for seven days without a single sighting or any word from them. It’s hard to remain optimistic after that many days.”

  “I see your point.”

  Rusty emerged from the kitchen. “Well, look what the wind blew in. I see you already got yourself a cup of coffee. Can I get you anything else?”

  Books shook his head. “Coffee’ll do, and maybe some information.”

  Steed arched his eyebrows. “What sort of information?”

  “How often does Bobby come around?”

  “As in your brother-in-law, Bobby?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Hmm. I see him some, breakfast usually, lunch once in a while.”

  “Who’s he hang out with?”

  “Family mostly, but occasionally he comes in with the Harper kid or Ed Mason’s boy—can’t remember his name.”

  “Dwight,” Hunsaker chimed in.

  “Yeah. Dwight Mason.”

  “I know the Masons and the Harpers,” said Books. “Bobby grew up with those guys. Can you think of anybody else?”

  Steed thought for a minute. “Not that I recall. Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason—just an idea and probably a dumb one.”

  The nagging worry Books hadn’t been able to dismiss was that the individual who introduced Benally to his brother-in-law might be Brett Gentry.

  So much for that idea, thought Books. He felt relieved.

  Steed walked down to the other end of the counter where he began clearing away dirty dishes.

  Books’ sense of relief was short-lived. A moment later, Steed turned and said, “Come to think of it, I have seen him in here a couple of times with Brett Gentry from Red Rock Touring.”

  “Recently?”

  “Yeah. The past few months.”

  For a second, that exchange brought Hunsaker’s head up from whatever he was reading in the newspaper. He glanced from Books to Steed, but didn’t say anything.

  “Did you happen to overhear what they talked about, Rusty?”

  Steed frowned. “No, J.D. I’m not in the habit of eavesdropping on my customer’s private conversations. I assumed he might be planning to do some guiding for Red Rock Touring this season.”

  “Sorry. I had to ask.”

  “Is this personal, or does it have something to do with your investigation?”

  “It’s business and, like I said, it’s probably nothing,” said Books, hoping he was right.

  So far, there was almost no evidence linking Brett Gentry to the Rogers case. All Books really had was Gentry’s phone number on the slip of paper found in Benally’s bedroom and the fact that a wacky old pot hunter had claimed to have seen a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows driving in the area where the Rogers went missing.

  Hunsaker closed his newspaper and motioned toward Books’ coffee cup. “Want a refill?”

  “Sure.”

  Hunsaker filled Books’ cup and topped off his own before returning to his seat. “I can’t help but feel you’re worried that Bobby may be up to his eyeballs in this thing.”

  “I don’t want to believe it. My sister doesn’t believe it. And I’m sure Bobby’s folks wouldn’t believe it either, not for a skinny minute. But Bobby refuses to identify the person he claims introduced him to Joe Benally.”

  Maybe he’s just trying to protect a friend.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Of course, he could be lying about that. What if nobody introduced him to Benally. Have you thought about that possibility?” asked Hunsaker.

  “I have. I suppose he could have invented that story. But if he did, where did he obtain the artifacts we found in his truck?”

  Both men paused. “Not a particularly pleasant thought, is it?” continued Books.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “He had to have gotten those relics from somebody.”

  “What’s he going to be charged with?”

  “Up to federal prosecutors, but I’m sure he’ll be charged with a violation of the Archeological Resources and Protection Act for illegally digging artifacts on federal land. It’s hard to say what Virgil Bell might decide to do. I’m sure he realizes he could bring state charges against Bobby for possession of stolen property.”

  “That seems like a no-brainer,” replied Hunsaker.

  “Maybe, but you know local politics. As the chairman of the Kane County Commission, Doug Case controls Bell’s budget in the prosecutor’s office. You can bet that Virgil will think very carefully before filing state charges against Bobby.”

  “True, but it sure doesn’t make it right.”

  “Right has nothing to do with it. Doug Case has a lot of political clout in this community and you can bet that he’ll use every bit of leverage he’s got when it comes to protecting his family.”

  Hunsaker finished his pie and both men drank their coffee.

  “Present case aside,” said Books, “the more I learn about the illegal antiquities trade, the less confidence I have in the ability of the federal government to do much about it.”

  “Like I’ve said to you before, it’s a murky, complicated business. For starters, you and your colleagues are badly outnumbered. There’s too much land to patrol and not enough cops. About the only good thing you got going is that the center of the illegal antiquities trade is a good deal east of us. The Four Corners area is one giant graveyard. Hell, I read an estimate recently that San Juan County alone contains a hundred thousand abandoned settlements and over a half million graves.”

  “When grave diggers are caught, they almost nev
er end up in prison,” Books said. “It’s difficult to take the problem seriously when prosecutors and judges don’t.”

  “It’s the truth. The federal courts need to make an example out of some of those buggers. The risk/reward factor clearly favors the diggers. Add to that the fact that families pass the pot-hunting tradition down from generation to generation, plus poverty and unemployment probably contribute as well,” said Hunsaker.

  Books thought about his brother-in-law—grave digging to supplement the family budget.

  “How’s the Benally boy doing?” asked Hunsaker.

  “Out of intensive care, so he seems to be improving. We’ve got police protection on him round-the-clock in case they go after him again.”

  “You really think they might?”

  “It’s hard to say, but why take the chance. It was a pretty brazen attack. That tells me these guys are pretty desperate. And Benally could turn out to be an important prosecution witness, assuming he decides to cooperate.

  “Desperate men will do desperate things.”

  “If he wasn’t ready to talk before, it’s hard to imagine he won’t be ready now,” said Books.

  The men parted company and Books returned to his office. He still had time to get a couple things done before calling it a day.

  Earlier in the afternoon, Books had run a criminal background check on Brett Gentry hoping to find a set of fingerprints on the man. That, however, had turned out to be an exercise in futility. Gentry had no criminal history that Books could find. But there was one thing he hadn’t tried.

  Books dialed the office of the Utah Department of Public Safety in Salt Lake City. By statute, the Department was required to administer the state’s concealed weapon permit program. The law mandated that all concealed weapons permit applicants submit a copy of their fingerprints to the state in order to facilitate a background check.

  Books had a feeling that Gentry was the kind of man who might enjoy packing heat. And he was right. Within minutes, a Public Safety Department supervisor confirmed that Gentry had been issued a concealed weapons permit in 2009 and had renewed the permit each year since. A few minutes later the same Public Safety supervisor had scanned the prints and emailed them to Books.

  The second task was a bit more labor-intensive. Armed with what he believed was an accurate physical description of the man who had posted Benally’s bail, Books set about preparing a photo lineup. An hour later, he sat in the living room of assistant court clerk, Wilma Harris.

  Harris was nervous as she sat on the couch next to her husband who gently patted her hand. Books wondered if she was going to hyperventilate.

  “Relax, Wilma. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Books explained. “I’m going to show you a series of photographs one at a time, and I want you to point out the individual who posted Benally’s bail if that persons’ picture is among the photographs I show you. Do you understand?

  “Yes,” she replied, hesitantly.

  They moved from the living room to the dining room table where the light was better.

  “I want you to take as much time as you need. Look carefully at each photograph and don’t make a selection until I have shown you all of them. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  She studied each photograph intently. After Books had laid all eight on the dining room table, Harris pointed confidently to a photo of Earl Buck.

  “That’s him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  ***

  Books headed home. As he climbed out of the Tahoe, his cell chirped. The caller was fingerprint examiner Greg Jasper.

  “Bad news, J.D. The prints belonging to Mr. Case don’t match the latents I found on either the note or the Ford Explorer.”

  Books felt an immediate sense of relief.

  “Sorry to pester you again, Greg, but I’ve got another set of prints I’d like you to look at.”

  “Sure. Give me the information.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Saturday Morning—Day 9

  Early the next morning, Books called the University of Utah Hospital and was immediately connected to his father’s room. The phone rang for a long time and he was about to hang up when Bernie finally answered. His voice sounded weak and raspy.

  “Morning Bernie, did I wake you?”

  “Don’t I wish. I hardly slept a wink last night—just couldn’t get comfortable.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Maggie said you came through the surgery just fine and that you’ll be out of there in no time.”

  “I sure hope so. Is something wrong with Maggie or the boys? She sure left here in a hurry, and I could tell she was upset about something.”

  “Not to worry. The boys are fine and so is Maggie. You just concentrate on getting well.” Books saw no reason to upset Bernie further by telling him that his son-in-law had been arrested for pot hunting. That would come later.

  The men chatted for another few minutes and then said goodbye. Books promised to call back later that night or first thing the next morning. He debated about sending flowers, but quickly dismissed the idea. Bernie wasn’t a flowers kind of guy, never had been. Now dark chocolate caramels were another matter. He’d seen his father go through a two-pound box faster than a rabbit through a carrot patch.

  He met Beth Tanner a few minutes later at the Ranch Inn & Café for breakfast. He arrived ahead of her, taking a booth in the back of the restaurant that would provide a modicum of privacy while they discussed the case. Charley Sutter and Doug Case were seated at a table by the front window engaged in what Books thought was an animated discussion. Both men nodded as he walked past, but neither asked him to join the conversation.

  A waitress stopped at the booth. “Want the usual, J.D.?”

  “I’ll wait on the food order until my partner arrives, but I’ll have a cup of coffee.”

  “You got it.” She moved on to another table.

  Books had finished his first cup by the time Tanner scurried into the restaurant. She was wearing blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a long-sleeved gingham shirt. Her hair was still wet. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Long night?” Books said, smiling.

  She returned the smile. “None of your business, Ranger Books.”

  “Fair enough. Listen, there are a couple of things we need to discuss.”

  “Sounds serious, but all right.”

  Before Books could begin, the waitress returned and placed a cup of coffee in front of Tanner and topped off Books’.

  “I know this young lady well enough to know she’s a grouch in the morning until she has that first cup of coffee. Now what can I get you kids to eat?”

  “You’re a sweetheart, Marla,” said Tanner, “and you sure got me figured out.”

  Marla smiled, took their breakfast order and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “As I was about to say,” said Books, “effective sometime later today, Special Agent Randy Maldonado is going to arrive from BLM headquarters in Salt Lake City. He’s going to assume control of the investigation.”

  “What do you mean? That’s bullshit.”

  “No, it’s not. I can understand how it’s being seen at headquarters. We’re now eight days into this and we don’t have it figured out yet. Headquarters probably thinks it’s time for some fresh eyes to take a look, and maybe they’re right. Besides, they’ve gotten wind that Becky Eddins is representing Begay, and they’ve been told that she and I have been a bit more than casual friends.”

  “How would they have found out about that?”

  “It’s hard to say, but I think our local newspaper editor, Lamont Christensen, may have tipped them off. They obviously smell a conflict of interest.”

  “For the record, I don’t think it’s fair,” said Tanner. “You�
�ve done a great job with this case, and besides, we’re close—about ready to blow this thing wide open.”

  “That might be a stretch, but I love your optimism. And for the record, Beth, you’ve more than pulled your weight in this investigation. You’re a good young cop with a bright future. And Charley knows it, too.”

  “Enough of the mutual admiration society. And speak of the devil, here he comes,” she whispered.

  Books glanced around in time to see Doug Case leave the restaurant. Sutter slid into the booth next to Tanner, spilling coffee on the table as he sat.

  “Shit,” said Sutter, mopping up the mess with a napkin. “What sort of mischief are you two up to this morning?”

  “Just talking things over,” replied Books.

  “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll just drink my coffee, if I can avoid spilling it, and you just pretend I’m a fly on the wall.”

  That suited Books just fine. For some reason, the sheriff seemed upbeat, not his usual starched, brusque self.

  “I was just about to tell Deputy Tanner that Wilma Harris picked Earl Buck out of a photo lineup as the mystery man who posted Benally’s bail. He used false identification of the famous pot hunter, Earl Shumway. He and his son, James, also have their fingerprints plastered all over the stolen explorer.”

  “James is the one whose print we found on the trowel at the excavation site, right?” asked Sutter.

  “That’s right.”

  Sutter continued. “What about the note?”

  “So far, we’ve drawn a blank on the note. Besides Benally’s prints and those of Officer Harris, there is a third set, but we don’t know whose they are.”

  “Huh,” said Sutter. “You’d think they’d belong to one of the Bucks.”

  “That’s what I would have guessed,” replied Books. “But no such luck. I’ve even had them compare Bobby’s prints. They’re not his either.”

  “That must have been a relief,” said Tanner.

  “It was.”

  “What about the Benally kid?” asked Sutter.

  “I hope to get a call from Becky sometime today telling us he’s accepted the plea offer and is coherent enough to be interrogated. I’ll be at that hospital in a flash as soon as I hear he’s ready to talk.”