by Dave Stanton
I opened a notebook on my lap and waited for him to speak. He studied me for a long moment, and I studied him back. His hair was military cut, the bristles gray and shiny. A thin white scar ran from the corner of an eye down to his square jaw. His skin, tanned and flared with wrinkles, was weathered but taut.
“I want to know why my daughter is dead.” Voice flat, no emotion.
“You said the police in Nevada have hit dead ends.”
“Correct. Both the Douglas County detectives and the Gardnerville police.”
“You’ve lost confidence in them, I take it.”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
“One week, and they have no solid leads.”
“Not all murder cases get solved in a week, General. Sometimes it takes longer.”
He paused, then swiveled his chair and pointed to a collection of photos tacked to a board above his desk.
“I spent my entire career in the military, Reno. I assume you know that already.”
I nodded.
“I spent five years as an MP. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“That picture there,” he said, reaching out to tap one with a pen. “That’s me when I was about your age.” The photo was of a man in the uniform of the military police.
“The point I’m making is I have background in police operations,” he said. “And I am not confident in the police agency investigating my daughter’s murder. Is that clear?” The volume of his voice had not risen, but his enunciation had become more concise.
“You’re more confident I can solve the case?”
“That remains to be seen. My confidence is something that must be earned. But I’m fully aware of your credentials.”
“Other than a bounty hunting and PI license, I didn’t know I had any.”
“I have a complete file on you, Reno. I know every thing you’ve accomplished in your career. That’s what I mean by credentials.”
“I wasn’t aware a complete file on me existed.”
“I’m a three-star general. I may be retired, but please don’t underestimate me.”
I didn’t respond. He could have only been referring to my FBI file, something I’d never seen. It was hard for me to believe he was well-connected enough to access it. The FBI and the US military branches do not have a cozy relationship.
“You might have made a good soldier,” he said.
“I was never big on taking orders.”
His eyes flashed with anger, then his expression softened, and a certain wistful disappointment took hold of his face. Perhaps he remembered he was no longer a commander of men.
“Don’t act like you’re special,” he sighed. “I’ve seen plenty like you. All piss and vinegar and no respect for authority. Is that your deal?”
“I’m sorry you got that impression.”
“Are you telling me I’m wrong?”
“I have no problem with authority, unless it gets in my way. I work for myself, and I do what it takes to get the job done.”
He nodded and leaned back, seemingly content with my response. His rigid posture and wide shoulders relaxed into the chair, making him look a bit smaller and older. From a drawer, he pulled two manila folders and handed them to me.
“These are the case reports from Gardnerville and Douglas County,” he said. “Look them over. Take your time. I have some work to do on my computer. When you’re finished, tell me what you think.”
“Okay,” I said. He began typing on his keyboard as I opened the first file. Somehow, General Raymond Horvachek had acquired copies of the official police files on his daughter’s murder. Or at least what I assumed were official files. They sure looked authentic, thick with graphic crime scene photos, coroner’s reports, forensic comments, and interview transcripts.
The Gardnerville PD file consisted of only a few pages. While Gardnerville was the nearest city to where I’d discovered Valerie Horvachek’s body, the location she’d been dumped was beyond the city limits. The bulk of the investigation, including the autopsy and any forensic tests, thus defaulted to Douglas County.
A Gardnerville detective had done some perfunctory work, probably well aware that Douglas County would soon have ownership of the case. The detective had canvassed a small neighborhood near Route 207, closest to the most logical entry points into the woods. He’d asked residents if they had seen or heard anyone on a snowmobile on the night in question. None had—not a surprise, as the neighborhood was almost a mile from the forest.
The Douglas County file was an inch thick, including the photos taken at the crime scene. Nick Galanis and his partner, a cop named Greg McMann, were the lead investigators. I flipped through the pages until I found the autopsy report.
Valerie Horvachek had been strangled to death, according to the medical examiner. The toxicology results showed she was drunk and had a fair amount of cocaine in her bloodstream at the time of death. She also had a large knot behind her ear, clearly the result of blunt trauma. The ME stated she was likely knocked unconscious before the murderer cinched a rope around her neck and killed her.
The next pages I read attempted to chronologically account for the victim’s whereabouts and activities in the hours before her demise.
She had arrived in South Lake Tahoe on December 23rd. With her were three friends, two men and a woman, all Sacramento residents in their early to mid-twenties. They checked into the Horizon Casino, the men in one room, the women sharing another. Around seven, they dined together at McP’s Irish Pub, a popular hot spot for young partiers. They left before nine, planning to hit Vex’s, a dance club at Harrah’s. But first, they stopped back at the Horizon to “freshen up,” which upon further questioning, meant breaking out the nose candy.
At ten, Valerie and one of men left the Horizon to walk to Harrah’s. The other two had apparently become amorous and stayed behind.
Vex’s was throwing a holiday promotion offering two-for-one drinks, and the nightclub was crowded. The two friends became separated, but Valerie was seen dancing with an older man. It was near midnight when she left with this person.
The man was identified as Nick Galanis.
I raised my eyes to the general. He stopped typing and looked back at me. “What?” he said.
“Nick Galanis?”
“Keep reading.”
Galanis said he drove Valerie Horvachek to his lakeside condo, where they had sex until two in the morning. He said he then called a taxi to pick her up, and, wearing a heavy coat, she went to wait outside. He fell asleep shortly after she left his residence, he claimed.
I scanned a few more pages consisting of interviews with Valerie’s friends. Then I closed the file.
“Having Nick Galanis involved in this investigation is a conflict of interest,” I said.
“I know that.”
“Actually, every detective in Douglas County reports to Galanis, so none of them can be trusted to be impartial.”
“Correct,” the general said, and I noticed he was squeezing what appeared to be ball of pliant wax in his left hand.
“So that’s why you want to hire a private eye?”
“Douglas County PD should have assigned the investigation to an alternative police agency once they knew Galanis was involved,” he said, his hand flexing as he spoke. “Galanis himself should have made the decision. The fact that he didn’t renders him culpable.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean he was involved in your daughter’s murder.”
“I didn’t say he was. But I can’t trust him. Would you?”
“Nope.”
He didn’t smile, but the furrows over his brow became less deep. “It seems to me we’re on the same page then, Reno. I’d like you to drop whatever you’re doing and start immediately.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Good.”
I handed the general a one-page contract and waited while he read it. So far we’d avoided any direct conversation rega
rding his daughter’s life. All I knew came from the emotionally sterilized, just-the-facts reporting in the police files. It told me that she seemed to enjoy nightclubbing, casual sex, booze, and blow. So did I when I was her age. But I wasn’t the daughter of a decorated officer, and I wasn’t dead.
Coming next was the part I hated. They say losing a child is the most painful death a human can suffer. I had no desire to probe the general’s psyche on the subject. But certain questions must be asked.
“General Horvachek,” I said, once he’d scrawled his signature and returned the contract to me. “Tell me about your daughter.”
He shifted the lump of wax to his right hand, his square tipped fingers squeezing in a steady rhythm. “Valerie was the sweetest little girl you could imagine. I was older when she was born, forty-one. She brought a light to my life I can’t describe. But my career did not allow me to always be there for her.” His voice tailed off, then he fixed his eyes on me like anti-aircraft guns locking on a target. “Do you understand that?” he rasped.
“You were defending our country.”
“Civilians never really know what that means. You never understand the sacrifices.”
“I don’t claim to.”
He took a breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “In her teen years, my daughter became a wild child. My wife said to me once that her behavior was a means to get my attention. But by the time I retired and came home for good, she was already gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. My little girl was no more. She’d grown into something I didn’t know. The tattoos, the clothes, the makeup, the attitude. Almost like she’d become infected with a disease.”
“It’s not uncommon for people her age to be rebellious,” I said.
“I kept hoping she’d grow out of it.”
“Can you describe her lifestyle to me?”
“She wouldn’t go to college. She couldn’t hold a decent job,” he said, his voice rising in intensity and edged with disgust. “She worked as a stripper. She ran around with a different guy every week. She got busted for drugs and drunk driving.” He paused. “Some lifestyle,” he muttered, the words thick in his throat.
“Did she have brothers or sisters?” I asked. If she did, I’d want their perspective.
“Her older brother was killed in action,” he recited, staring at nothing. “Afghanistan.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. He didn’t respond.
“I’ll need to get contact information for her friends and her most recent places of employment.”
“I’ve prepared that,” he said, taking another manila file from his drawer.
“Excellent. This will be enough to get me started. I’ll e-mail you updates on my progress every couple days.” I rose from my chair but paused when I heard a light knock. The door opened, and a woman looked in at us. Perhaps fifty, but fit and well-preserved. Hair dyed blond, the tips touching her bare shoulders, the skin smooth and bronze. Her slacks and blouse not tight, but not hiding her athletic figure. A woman oozing vitality and health. Except her face betrayed her.
“Dan Reno—my wife, Marilyn.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
She nodded and rested her glazed eyes on me for a sad moment. “Please bring to justice whoever ended our Valerie’s life,” she said. “We need closure.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stood aside, and I began down the hallway, but the general’s hand shot out and grasped my forearm, the grip like a steel claw.
“Find my daughter’s killer, Reno,” he growled, his eyes boring into mine. “I want to see him burn.”
• • •
Dark clouds were rolling in from the west when I drove away from the Horvachek home. The sky over Sacramento was low and overcast, the air heavy with cold. The first raindrops splattered on my truck’s dirty windshield as I pulled into a strip mall on Folsom Avenue. I parked and went into an anonymous bar tucked between a pet store and a mini-mart.
I often work in neighborhood lounges when I’m on the road. This one was just what I was looking for, a long, narrow joint, no windows, a shuffleboard running opposite the bar, a pool table in the back. The lighting was dim and provided mostly by neon beer signs hanging from the walls. Three or four day drinkers sat hunched over draft beers and highballs, their murmured conversations lost in the jukebox’s dulcet tones. This was a place where time meant nothing, where men came to escape cantankerous bosses, sullen wives, and the pressures of an unfair world. A place to pull up a stool, start with a shot and a beer, and wait for your troubles to melt away in the fuzzy clarity that usually comes around the fifth drink.
I glanced at the chalkboard menu at the end of the bar, ordered a grilled ham and cheese, and took a table in a back corner lit by an Olympia beer display that had to be twenty years old. I sipped a nonalcoholic beer and told myself it was an acquired taste. My new year’s resolution was to cut out pointless afternoon alcohol. Nothing as drastic as total sobriety, of course. Just save some calories and keep my head clear, at least before dark. Probably a good thing for my relationship. Woman dislike drunks, I’ve learned.
I settled into the warm glow of the corner and began rereading the Douglas County police file. I read slowly, resisting the temptation to skim sections. Some of the reports were handwritten, others typed, some by Nick Galanis, others by his partner, Greg McMann. As I read, I jotted notes on a separate pad.
The detectives had conducted thirty interviews, each transcribed on a form designed for that purpose. They started with Valerie Horvachek’s three friends. Next they interviewed bartenders and waitresses at Vex’s nightclub. Then they spoke with Nick Galanis’s neighbors.
When these interviews failed to turn up an obvious motive or a witness, they changed angles. They’d concluded the dead body must have been transported by snowmobile (the coroner’s analysis stated she had died before being dumped). There were three feasible starting points where a snowmobile might enter the forest and navigate to the site in question. The first spot was where I’d met Galanis and his deputies on Route 207. The second spot was more remote, a few miles deeper into Nevada, near a sand and gravel mine that was shut down for the winter. The final location was at the top of Kingsbury Grade, where a base lodge for the local ski resort operated. The area was densely built with vacation rental properties.
It seemed that Galanis became disengaged at this stage, leaving Greg McMann to search for a witness to a snowmobile taking a body into the woods late at night. It was a job that potentially meant interviewing dozens of people. McMann focused his energies at the base lodge location. He spoke to a number of permanent residents and ski resort employees. When that turned up nothing, he posted flyers at all three sites, asking citizens to call Douglas County PD if they’d seen anything suspicious.
I got my sandwich and returned to my seat. I didn’t yet have any sense of why someone would want to kill Valerie Horvachek. A robbery didn’t seem likely. My impression was she was a party girl out for wild times, not someone who’d have much worth stealing. But that was just an assumption on my part.
Rape didn’t seem part of the motive either; although she’d clearly had sex shortly before her death, there was no indication of forced intercourse, no trauma to the body other than the blow behind the ear and the ligature marks on her neck. No presence of semen either. I guess Nick Galanis believed in safe sex. Good job, Nick. Very responsible of you.
My fingers greasy, I turned back to the police report. There wasn’t any mention of calls resulting from the flyers, but they’d only been posted two days ago. I wiped my fingers on a cocktail napkin and closed the file.
Maneuvering a 115-pound corpse onto a snowmobile and securing it in a reasonable fashion would be quite a trick. The perp would probably have to tie the body to his own, likely in front of him. It would be time consuming and make operating the snowmobile difficult, especially in rugged terrain. Someone would need to be both strong and a very competent rider.
/>
Shit, very competent was an understatement, considering the killer would have been navigating at night. Riding a snowmobile on a marked trail in daylight was simple enough. But riding in the backwoods at night was something very few could do. Especially carrying an awkward, heavy object. And no one would have been fool enough to do it if they hadn’t known exactly where they were going.
I scribbled some notes, reminding myself to check if snowmobiles required license and registration in California and Nevada. Maybe check snowmobile clubs, get a line on wilderness and adventure junkies.
Behind the crime scene photos, which were neatly glued four to a page, was a map showing the three starting points the cops had determined. The spot where I’d found Valerie was accessible from Route 207, but I wasn’t sure about the other two locations. Did the detectives actually verify if routes to the body existed? Or did they just assume that by looking at a map?
I bound the police file with a rubber band. There was nothing in it that suggested procedural lapses by the Douglas County PD. There was nothing that made me overtly suspicious Nick Galanis was holding back or hiding information. On the other hand, the police work showed little creativity. For a murder case, I found their efforts uninspiring. I guess the general had drawn the same conclusion.
Before leaving, I glanced through the two pages the general had prepared on Valerie’s friends and employment history. Then I called Cody Gibbons.
“I’m going to be stuck in Sacramento for at least another couple hours,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Losing money at the casino and slurping free drinks.”
“You hear from Terr-Bear?”
“Nope, not a word.”
“Hmm, that’s too bad. Have you found a new broad yet?”
“I’m glad you find my personal life so entertaining, Dirt. Give me a break, I’m on the rebound here!”
“How long you gonna hang out?” I asked.
“My room’s already booked for the night.”
“I’ll try to be back for happy hour.”
“Well, hurry up, man. I’m going broke at this freaking place.”