“Including your brother-in-law, apparently.”
“Yup.”
“Sorry about that. It must be tough.”
“It is what it is.”
“I assume Benally’s cooperation has come with a price,” said Walker.
“Don’t they all? He received a plea deal that will probably turn out to be overly generous, given how deeply involved I think he is in this mess. But I also understand where we’d be without his help.”
“Do you think you’ve gotten everything out of him you’re going to get?”
“That’s hard to say. You can’t discount the possibility that he can’t recall everything or that he’s deliberately withholding information. Time will tell.”
“And of course, the defense will attack his veracity in court, claiming he’s lying to save his own neck,” said Walker.
“No doubt. I’ve seen it a hundred times before, but we’ll worry about that later.”
They agreed on a plan.
Walker would call the Blanding Police Department and have the Buck home placed under surveillance until he could make the hour-and-a-half drive from his home in Durango.
Meanwhile, Books and Tanner would obtain arrest warrants for the four men and a search warrant for the Buck residence in Blanding. The arrest warrants would then be entered into the National Crime Information Center data base as well as the Utah Crime Information system. Armed with the search warrant, Books would make the four-hour drive from Kanab to Blanding where he and Dan Walker would lead a police raid on the Buck home. Books realized the warrants for Earl and James Buck would turn out to be unnecessary if Sutter and Maldonado managed to capture them in the ongoing manhunt.
Tanner and Books worked until almost nine o’clock before completing all the paperwork. They stopped periodically to follow radio traffic at the site of the manhunt. The searchers appeared to be focused on a rugged section of the Monument off the Timber Mountain Road. Books knew the area as extremely inhospitable terrain containing a large number of potential hiding places and nearly as many spots from which to spring an ambush.
At nine-thirty, Books and Tanner arrived at the home of district court Judge Homer Wilkins. Wilkins led them into the home’s spacious great room, inviting them to sit while he examined the warrants.
Wilkins sat in a leather chair under a bright floor lamp, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he carefully perused each affidavit. At one point, he looked over at Books and Tanner. “Looks you kids have been busy today.”
“We sure have, judge,” replied Books, “and will continue to be for quite a while, I’m afraid.”
“Sure looks like it.”
Finally, his reading finished, the judge looked at Tanner and Books over the top of his readers.
“Everything seems to be in order. Officer Tanner, please stand and raise your right hand.”
The request caught Tanner by surprise. She stood tentatively and took the oath, swearing that everything contained in the affidavit was the truth and nothing but. Books did the same with the other warrants.
From experience, Books knew that Wilkins was a thorough judge who expected that all the t’s be crossed and i’s dotted before he would sign a warrant. He had little tolerance for sloppy police work, a trait that annoyed more than a few local cops.
Wilkins walked them to the front door, told them to be careful, and sent them away with one final admonishment.
“Be sure to get me a return of service on the search warrant as soon as you can and an inventory of everything you seize.”
“Will do, judge,” replied Books. “Sorry to have disturbed your evening.”
“Not a problem. Good luck.”
“Nice home,” whispered Tanner as they walked to the Sierra.
“I’d love to have a home like that someday,” said Books.
“Me, too.”
***
“What happens now?” asked Tanner.
“We’ll get the arrest warrants entered into the system, and then I’m on my way to Blanding with the search warrant.”
“Can I tag along?”
“Sure, but you better get an okay from Charley. He might have other ideas.”
They tried to raise Sutter on the radio but he didn’t answer. Books tried his cell but that kicked directly into voice mail. He did finally reach Randy Maldonado for an update.
“What’s going on out there?”
“We found a blood trail, but so far, no sign of either one of them. You must have got the old man pretty good. He’s lost a lot of blood. I can’t believe he can make it very far—hurt too bad, I think.”
“They probably decided to lay low and lick their wounds.”
“That’s exactly what we’re thinking. The problem now is that it’s gotten so dark that you can’t see a damn thing. We’re got to hunker down for the night, get more manpower up here, and resume the search at first light.”
“Anything we can do from this end?”
“Get those warrants ready, for starters.”
“They’re done. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”
“That was fast—good work. We need to meet with you. Sit tight until we get there.”
“How soon? I need to be on my way to Blanding ASAP.”
“We’ll be there shortly.”
Maldonado explained that a team of FBI agents were on their way from the Las Vegas field office to provide assistance. Exactly what that assistance would entail, he didn’t say.
Chapter Thirty-six
Every law enforcement agency in southwest Utah volunteered personnel for the manhunt. Within hours, more than sixty cops from federal, state, and local departments had assembled in Kanab. The FBI set up a mobile command center at the mouth of the Johnson Canyon Road. The location served as the gateway into the rugged Grand Staircase National Monument, and it was located only a few miles outside Kanab.
Books huddled in the sheriff’s department conference room with Sutter, Maldonado, and an FBI supervisor from the Las Vegas field office. Sutter had refused Tanner’s request to accompany Books to Blanding citing the local need for as many personnel as possible until the current crisis was resolved. Tanner understood, but disappointment was etched on her face when she received the news.
“Having warrants out on all the major players will only serve to shorten the duration of the manhunt,” said Sutter. “Even if they slip through our net, we’ll have these wackos in the crosshairs of every police agency in the southwest.”
Maldonado said, “J.D., I got hold of BLM Ranger Florence Mendez out of our Monticello office. She’ll hook up with you and this guy from the Four Corners task force in Blanding. Do you think you’ll have enough help over there?”
“I think so. With Mendez, Dan Walker and me, plus help from the locals, we should be all right.”
“I would be very careful about enlisting the help of local law enforcement in Blanding,” warned FBI Tactical Supervisor Karl Heiner. “If you recall our 2009 raid on the pot hunters in that town, one thing we learned was that sympathetic local law enforcement officials would have leaked our operation ahead of time, and the raid would have been a bust.”
The raid Heiner was referring to had netted federal indictments against twenty-three individuals, most of them Blanding residents. Local politicians and law enforcement administrators had criticized the raid as unnecessary and another example of heavy-handed intrusion by the federal government into the lives of local citizens.
“You may be right,” said Books, “but I find it hard to believe that local law enforcement is going to view these characters as innocent victims of harassment by the federal government. These guys hardly qualify as Boy Scouts.”
Worried that the disagreement might escalate, Sutter quickly changed the subject.
> “So what’s the plan when you get to Blanding?” asked Sutter.
“I’d like to sit on the house until at least dawn before we execute the search warrant—see if any of them show up.”
“That seems highly unlikely,” posited Heiner, skepticism in his tone.
“The best shot we’ve got,” countered Books, “is if Jason surfaces. There’s been no sign of him around Kanab since the burglary a week ago. What if he doesn’t know what’s going on with his dad and Jimmy? And even if he does, it’s possible they told him to go back to the house and destroy any evidence hidden there.”
Everybody agreed on the importance of remaining in close contact as the investigation continued to unfold. “Keep us apprised of what is happening in Blanding, J.D., and we’ll do the same from our end.”
***
Books excused himself and left the meeting, anxious to be on his way. He drove home, parked the Sierra, and transferred the department-issued Remington shotgun to his own Ford pickup. If he was going to engage in covert surveillance, it wouldn’t do to show up in Blanding driving a marked BLM patrol vehicle. Inside the trailer, he removed a .25-caliber Smith from a small locked safe in his bedroom, and strapped it to his ankle. It was a weapon he didn’t use often, but it always provided him with an extra measure of safety.
The two-hundred-forty mile drive took Books about four hours. When he arrived at the town limits, he glanced at his watch. It was just after two. He met Dan Walker in the parking lot of a closed convenience store.
“Anything going on?” Books asked.
“Quiet as a graveyard. I got here about eleven. The house was dark, no vehicles on the property. Been that way ever since.”
“Was anybody watching the house before you got here?”
Walker nodded. “I spoke with a Blanding P.D. uniform as soon as I arrived. The guy had just pulled a swing shift and was going off duty. He told me that he’d done drive-bys every fifteen minutes starting at 2145 hours. Nothing going on—stone quiet.”
“How about Mendez—she here?”
“Yeah, she got here before I did. She’s on the house now.”
Walker reached out his car window and handed Books a portable radio.
“Take one of these,” he said. “I wanted to be sure we could all communicate with each other. Set it on channel two.”
“Mendez has one?”
“Yeah. So how do you want to handle this?”
“Why don’t we sit on the house until mid-morning at least? If nobody has shown by then, we go in.”
“That makes sense.”
They established a rotating schedule where one officer took a break from the surveillance while the other two covered the house. They shifted every half hour, enabling each of them to take a short break. They agreed to maintain radio silence unless there was activity at the house or it was time for the shift rotation.
Books had always hated stationary surveillance. The sheer boredom was almost unbearable. He couldn’t sit still. He drank coffee to stay awake and the coffee made him hyper. During his breaks, he got out of the pickup and took short walks, always carrying the handheld with him.
The town started to come awake shortly before sunrise. A couple of mini-mart gas stations opened at six and traffic began moving shortly thereafter. There had been no activity around the house all night, and Books was beginning to think that nobody would come. That changed shortly before nine.
Books and Mendez were on the house with Walker on break. Mendez, who was parked on a side street behind the home, broke radio silence.
“J.D., I’ve got a solo male who just drove down the street on a motorcycle. I think he’s checking things out. Stay out of sight.”
“Roger that. Does he fit the physical description?”
“That’s affirmative—appears to be the kid brother.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s headed your way.”
“Did you copy that, Dan?” said Books.
“Ten-four, I’m close by.”
“Okay, I’ve got him,” said Books. “He parked in the driveway and just walked into the house.”
“Dan, why don’t you join Mendez and come in from behind the house? I’ll knock on the front door and see if I can spook him out the back right into your arms.”
“Right,” said Walker. “Give us a couple of minutes to get into position, and watch yourself.”
No kidding thought Books. If only he’d known, staying in Denver might have made a lot more sense.
Books removed his department issue .357 magnum Smith & Wesson and stashed it under the front seat. He parked the pickup on the curb directly in front of the house and pulled on his Colorado Rockies ball cap. If the kid watched him approach, he’d see a guy in a long-sleeved denim shirt, no jacket, blue jeans, and wearing ratty looking hikers. Never mind the .25 caliber strapped to his ankle. With a little luck, the kid might assume the visitor was someone other than a cop. He could only hope.
Books followed a narrow sidewalk to the front door. The yard had long since gone to weeds, and what little grass remained, looked dead. Books knocked and waited. He heard the sound of movement from inside the house. The front door opened a couple of inches and a young man with a shock of red hair, a waxy, pale complexion, and enough pimples to make him the poster boy for every zit cleanser ever made, peeked out.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I’d like to speak to the lady of the house if I might,” replied Books.
“She ain’t here. Now go away.”
Books removed a folded copy of the search warrant from a leather bound notebook he carried and handed it Buck. “Then would you mind taking a moment to answer several questions from our consumer products survey? It’ll just take a minute.”
He gave Books a confused, quizzical look as he unfolded the sheet of paper and started reading.
“What the….”
Books flashed his police creds and stepped into the home’s entryway. “Police officer, please step back. We’ve got a search warrant for the house.”
Buck tried to slam the door but Books was already inside.
“You can’t…”
“Oh, yes we can, son. The house is surrounded. Stay calm and you won’t be hurt.”
Books spun Buck around, spread-eagled him against a wall, and patted him down for weapons. He cuffed him behind the back while telling him that he was under arrest for burglary.”
The kid looked stunned. It had all happened so quickly and smoothly that he’d had almost no time to react. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that Books realized that Jason Buck’s lack of resistance had less to do with his own theatrics and more to do with the fact that the kid was stoned on something. Suffice to say that Buck hadn’t been thinking too clearly, nor had he been able to move with any sense of urgency.
Moments after hearing the commotion at the front of the house, Walker followed Books through the front door, leaving Mendez to cover the rear. They sat Buck on the couch where he could easily be watched while they waited for a Blanding P.D. cruiser to arrive. When Books looked at Buck, he saw a frightened and confused kid. That created an advantage for them, an advantage that screamed for an interrogation as soon as possible.
In his haste to get out of Kanab, Books had forgotten to bring an evidence kit, an embarrassing but not fatal mistake. Fortunately, Walker and Mendez hadn’t forgotten theirs. With Buck secure, Mendez stood guard while Walker and Books searched the house.
It was an old place, a two-story brick affair typical of homes constructed in the years after World War II. This one had a carport that had been cobbled together years after the house was built. The main floor had a small living room, a formal dining room, a kitchen, and what today would be called a mud room that lead from the back door down a narrow hallw
ay into the kitchen. Upstairs were three bedrooms and a bath. One of the bedrooms contained an old metal desk and chair with a two-drawer wood file cabinet beside it.
To suggest the house lacked a woman’s touch was an understatement of biblical proportions. This home lacked anyone’s touch! The garbage and dirty dishes strewn about and the dust so thick on everything made Books wish he’d worn a hazmat suit.
A Blanding P.D. patrol officer transported Jason Buck to the police department, where he would be booked and held until Walker, Mendez, and Books finished up at the house.
“What a fuckin’ mess,” said Walker. “Where do you want to start?”
“Let’s ask Mendez to grab the camcorder and shoot some footage of the overall conditions in this rat hole. Then we’ll split up. Mendez and I will search the upstairs while you do the main floor. Afterwards, we’ll switch.”
“Fair enough.”
Mendez and Books moved slowly from room to room. They found little of value in two of the bedrooms save small amounts of marijuana and assorted drug paraphernalia. From the metal desk in the third bedroom, however, they made an important and incriminating discovery.
The top drawer contained a black ledger book chronologically listing what appeared to be the details of numerous sales transactions involving ancient artifacts. The meticulously kept ledger showed the date of each transaction, a brief description of the item sold, who it was sold to, and the sales price. Penciled almost exclusively into the eight-page ledger was the name B. Gentry. On the inside cover of the last page was a list of names and telephone numbers, including that of Brett Gentry, that corresponded with the names of the individuals to whom items had been sold.
Finally they had made the connection linking Brett Gentry to an elaborate criminal enterprise in which artifacts were illegally dug or stolen from unsuspecting pot hunters like the Rogerses, and then resold. Books suspected that Gentry probably acted as a middle-man, employing people like the Bucks and his own brother-in-law to illegally acquire antiquities. He would buy them on the cheap, and then sell them directly to collectors, or more likely, to unscrupulous gallery owners, museum curators, and auction houses.
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