by Todd Borg
Diamond walked back to the body. He opened the wallet, pulled out the driver’s license, held it next to the victim’s face. “It’s him. Name is Matthew T. Woodvale.”
“Matt,” I said in a low voice. “That’s the person who was looking for me.”
“The guy who was going to give you information about the murders,” Diamond said.
FIFTY-TWO
T wo hours later, after multiple statements from people who had seen nothing and could provide no help, Spot and I got home to my cabin.
It was late, so I didn’t check in with Street. With luck, she’d be asleep.
I tried to do the same, but I couldn’t sleep with a dead man on my conscience. For two hours, I lay in bed, replaying in my mind what had happened. Eventually, I gave up. I got up, opened a beer, and turned on my laptop.
Spot knew something was wrong. He came over and stuck his cold wet nose on my hand.
“Don’t worry, boy. I’ll be back to normal in a year or three. You have to drop people on their head every now and then, just to show them who’s boss. It’s best to do it from a hundred feet up. Cave that head in good.”
Spot lowered his head so that he could rest his jaw on my lap while he was still standing.
“And then, just for good measure, it’s good to let a killer stalk your girlfriend. Don’t send in any armed guards. Don’t put up any extraordinary barriers. Don’t demand that she sleep at your place with your hound at her side. Let her stay out in the wilderness alone. Because that’s what she wants. Famous philosophers say that you have to keep your hands off. The imperative category principle is all that matters.”
I Googled Matthew T. Woodvale. I found nothing. Which in itself was notable. Nearly everyone shows up in some manner on a Google search. It suggested that Matthew was a complete shut-in with no presence in modern life. Or he used a pseudonym for everything he did on the internet. Anyone who is so careful not to have any online presence – no Facebook use, no blog writing, no comments posted anywhere on the internet, no listing in an online phone or address service – those people have hidden everything else in their life. To find them, one needs a starting point. An address, the name of a school they attended, their occupation, a friend or acquaintance, a phone number.
But when someone calls you out of thin air, with no caller ID, and then hangs up…
All I knew about Matt was that he apparently knew something about the murders. It was a tantalizing notion. But it got me nowhere. My only hope was that Diamond would get a match on his fingerprints or, if he searched for it, his DNA. That might take many days.
However, there might be something to find at the crime scene come daylight.
I looked at the clock. I still had hours of darkness during which I could be miserable. Probably, Douglas Fairbanks could quote a poem about misery. Probably, a poem could put my misery in perspective, which would help me to focus on the fact that my misery was nothing compared to Matt’s.
FIFTY-THREE
I went back to bed.
I lay in the dark, trying to focus on calm thoughts. But my attempt was useless. It would have been easy to anticipate that the line holding the victim would stretch from the tree where he hung into the forest at the top of the bluff. Any idiot could have thought to look for the line instead of just charging ahead like a stampeding bull. Yet I ran without thinking, and I went full speed into a disaster.
After another hour, I got up and made some tea. My brain was thick with self critique. My mood was black. What good is making an effort if the result is death?
I thought about my advice to Douglas Fairbanks when he was in despair over having been taken in by a thief who had hidden behind her beauty and charm.
Figure out your next, best task, and go do it. Get something done, and you will be better off for it.
So I turned my attention to other aspects of the case. In the past, I’d often found it useful to reconsider everything I knew about a case.
A doctor named Jack Smith had died while hanging from his ankles in Ukiah. I’d gone to Ukiah and met his neighbor Judy. She told me about the woman who showed up to sell the property, a woman Judy thought was the doctor’s daughter. The daughter was named Glenn. But Judy had no idea about Glenn’s last name. Maybe she used Smith.
So I once again went online and looked up Glenn Smith. There were hundreds or thousands. Same for doctors named Smith. A huge number were connected to Southern California. Because Jack is often a nickname for John, I also paid attention to any doctor named John Smith. I read through medical clinic websites. I looked over blogs that mentioned doctors named Smith. As I perused, I watched for any mention of a woman named Glenn. If I could find a doctor Jack Smith mentioned in the same place as a woman named Glenn, I’d be onto something.
But the only Glenn I found in connection to a Smith was another doctor, an oncologist named Dr. Glenn Numesa. And after a bit more reading, I found out that Dr. Glenn Numesa was a man.
There seemed no easy way to learn about the man who’d died hanging from his ladder.
The next obvious source of information was public records of real estate ownership.
So I got on the website for Mendocino County and discovered that they had put much of the legal public information online. But I could find no recent transactions for a Dr. Jack Smith near Ukiah.
When morning came and I wasn’t worried about waking people up, I called a prominent realty office in Ukiah. I explained my question and got transferred to two different people. A woman named Francine Sargent was very helpful and said she’d be happy to find me the perfect property for my dream home. When I told Francine that I was interested in the property owned by Dr. Smith that had been sold by his daughter after he died, Francine went silent.
After a long pause, she said, “I’m sure we can find many better properties for you.”
“Any chance you know the purchaser of the doctor’s property?”
“I have no idea.”
“Perhaps you can direct me to the title company that handled the transfer of deed.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know that, either. I suppose you could try Fidelity Trust and Coastal Escrow,” she said. “They pretty much have a lock on property transfers in our area.”
“Thank you very much. I’ll remember your help,” I said.
“I’m sure you will,” she said, her tone dry.
So I got the title company on the phone and after two more transfers, I learned that they had no idea about Dr. Smith. But they found that the property had been sold to a winery and vineyard outfit that was big in Coastal Pinot Noirs. Next, I called the winery, was transferred yet two more times, and was unable to learn anything about the dead doctor and his daughter who’d sold the property.
I realized I’d probably have to go to San Diego to track down the doctor and his daughter and establish their names, and that would be a big project.
In the meantime, I knew that Judy had said the daughter Glenn expressed outrage when she found in the mail a come-on from The Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children. Not much to go on in tracking down a murderer, but it was all I had. Not much more than being at a dead end.
Then I remembered the man I’d seen at the pop-up party, just before Matthew Woodvale was hoisted up into the treetops. The man had looked like Gray Rodriguez, son of Betty Rodriguez, world’s greatest croissant baker.
I looked through my notes, found Betty’s number, and dialed.
“Betty Rodriguez,” she answered.
“Hi Betty. This is Owen McKenna calling. I’m the guy who…”
“Was asking about charities,” she interrupted. “I remember. You liked my croissants.”
“The best ever. I’m calling because I had a question for your son Gray.”
“You know Gray? Well, what a surprise.”
“Could you give me his phone number, please?”
“Of course.” Betty said. “But you won’t get him now. He went up to Tahoe, and he doesn’t use a cell phone. I
don’t either. But I’m always here at my kitchen phone. He should have one for his job even if he has no social life.”
“Do you know what he’s doing or where he’s staying in Tahoe?”
“No. I’m his mother not his pal. He doesn’t keep me informed much about his activities.”
“But you know he’s in Tahoe,” I said.
“Well, sure. He told me that much.”
“Is he taking a vacation?”
“No. He just said he had something he had to do and he didn’t know how long it would take.”
“Betty, let me ask you a different question, if I may. When I talked to Gray, he seemed unhappy that you donate to charities.”
“Oh, don’t get him going on charities.”
“Why do you say that?”
Betty paused. “I suppose it’s the resentment of a son who thinks his mother didn’t give him an easy ride through life. After we adopted him, I made Gray earn everything. I wanted him to understand the value of hard work, the value of delayed gratification. And I think I pretty much succeeded at instilling those values in him. But whenever he sees me giving money to people he thinks are crooks, he turns red. I swear, if smoke could come out of a man’s ears, Gray would be adding to our air pollution.”
“Betty, do you have a photo of Gray you could email me?”
“I don’t do that technology stuff, Mr. McKenna. But Gray showed me the Parks and Recreation website once. There’s a photo of him planting trees on the American River Parkway. Maybe you could look at that.”
“Thanks, Betty.”
I found the Parks and Rec website, and poked around until I found the photo of Gray Rodriguez. It looked very much like the man I’d seen at the pop-up party. I copied the photo. Then I wrote a group email to all of the law enforcement people connected to the case. I explained what I’d learned, and I attached the photo of Gray.
I next called Elena Turwin, the woman in Tahoe City who focused her donations on charities that help children.
I reminded her who I was and that I recalled her saying that her husband didn’t like charities.
“You got that right. Hubby isn’t the mean and aggressive type. Truth be told, he’s a pussycat. But charities for him are like a taunting mouse for a cat. He’d be happy to see those people strung up.”
“Mrs. Turwin, remember the murder victims in Tahoe and Truckee? People who were hung up by their ankles?”
“Oh, yes. I see why you would ask. But I just meant it as a figure of speech. Hubby wouldn’t really do it.”
“Mrs. Turwin, I need to ask you a question. It’s just a pro-forma matter that investigators do. Can you vouch for the whereabouts of your husband at night for the last two weeks? Especially last night around ten p.m.?”
“I see where you’re going with this line of thought. Unfortunately, the answer is no. Hubby keeps his own schedule, and I often don’t know whether he’s in his shop or out on a beer run. And I take half an Ambien when I go to bed. So I have no idea about anything until the next morning.”
“May I ask his full name?”
“Harley Jasper Turwin, U.S. Army Reserve Captain, Retired.”
“May I visit again and talk to him?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t mind it. But I think I told you that Hubby doesn’t speak to strangers, and he doesn’t even engage with anyone but me. Maybe you thought I was just exaggerating. But it’s the truth. Call it a combination hearing problem and social problem. You could haul him in on an arrest warrant, but he would just sit there stone-faced. It would be a waste of taxpayer resources.”
“Is he currently at your house?”
“Like I already explained, unless he walks into my kitchen when I’m cooking, I have no idea where he is most times. We sleep in separate bedrooms. He comes and goes as he pleases. He always says that the Army Reserve spent decades telling him what to do and where to be. Now that he’s retired, he treasures the fact that he doesn’t have to answer to anyone. All I know is he’s usually around for breakfast and dinner. But sometimes I find a note on the counter. ‘Back tomorrow.’ Things like that.”
“Thanks, Elena. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Welcome.”
When I hung up the phone, it rang immediately.
“McKenna,” I answered.
“Jack Santiago.”
“Sergeant.”
“I’m calling about the body on the Kings Beach flagpole. You said that your doctor friend thought we should look for some kind of chemical in the vic’s lungs.”
“Right.”
“I just got a call from the medical examiner. Turns out the toxicology report shows the man had Prallethrin in his mouth and lungs.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s an insecticide. Commonly found in wasp and hornet killer.”
“That’s a nasty thing to spray into someone’s lungs,” I said.
“Yeah, no kidding.”
We hung up.
I called Diamond and left a message on his voicemail. I explained about the wasp killer and suggested the ME check the body that had fallen from the treetops. I next called Amtrak PD Inspector Humboldt. He answered, and I told him about Prallethrin. He said he’d contact the Truckee ME to check the body on the train. Then I did the same with Sergeant Bains regarding Dory’s body.
Diamond called back and said, “The wasp killer must be how the killer at Van Sickle Park was able to get his victim tied around his ankles with no one noticing. He’d already killed Matt Woodvale with wasp spray, and he did it off in the dark where no one saw him. Then he tied the man’s ankles with paracord and hoisted him up into the sky.”
“Yeah, that description fits the evidence,” I said.
“So you don’t have to feel like your moves killed the victim. He was already dead.”
I thought about it. “Thanks, Diamond.”
FIFTY-FOUR
I looked up the charity website to see the details on the Tahoe Grand Tour bike ride that Fairbanks was participating in. It had the start times for the different groups, with Men 51 and over being the last group. It showed estimated finish times so that onlookers could be at the finish at the appropropriate moments.
I thought it would be good for Fairbanks to see the support of a familiar face when he came down to the finish line. And it would probably be good for me to get out and see that life goes on.
I checked the time. The bikers riding the Grand Tour would be approaching the finish in another hour. It was time to leave.
Spot and I drove up to Incline Village. The road to the Grand Tour finish line seemed familiar, and then I recognized that it was the road that the scientist, Giuseppe Calvarenna, lived on. I wondered if his Lagrangian points could provide a metaphoric parking place for my emotions after the death of the young man. Maybe they could also be a model for Douglas Fairbanks.
I found a place to park not far from the Grand Tour finish line, which was on a road not far from the base of Diamond Peak ski resort. The event was a true grand tour. Even without a major focus on speed, the bicyclists would get a supreme workout.
After riding dozens of miles up and down the mountains, the race route brought them to the finish line up above Incline Village. Hopefully, there would be a large, cheering crowd.
I parked, and Spot and I walked over to where tables had been set up in the trees. On the tables were water coolers and stacks of energy bars that had been donated by a food company. There was a good crowd of people with cameras and smartphones out, ready for photos. The race organizers were busy with clipboards and lists, talking on phones and radios.
The first group was women up to the age of 30. When the first riders appeared, there was a lot of cheering and whoops and yells. The finish was close with multiple athletic young women flashing by at very high speed. Not much later, the next group began to come in, women 31-40. They also rode very fast. There were six women in the 41-50 group, and three 51 and over. When all four age groups of women were done, it was
the men’s turn, youngest to oldest.
When the 51-and-over men finally appeared, I counted sixteen riders. But they didn’t include Fairbanks. I worried that he had crashed up on the mountain. I hadn’t wanted to call Fairbanks before he left and spoil the surprise of showing up, so I had no way of knowing if he’d actually made it to the race start. But the organizers seemed to be waiting for more racers.
Spot and I waited, too.
After a long minute, another rider appeared up the trail, coming around a curve, leaning into the bank. It was a skinny, bald guy, older than me by a couple of decades, but riding faster than I ever would. When he shot through the finish line, the organizers continued to wait.
After another minute passed, we saw movement in the distance. Another rider came around the last banked turn. This one was chunky like Fairbanks. But he was wearing typical mountain bike gear, so I couldn’t tell his identity from a distance.
A cheer went up as everyone realized that this was the last rider on the course.
When the rider got closer, I saw that it was indeed Fairbanks, his new gear helping him look like the other riders. His face was set in a grimace that looked like a combination of determination and fear. He was standing up on his pedals just as all the other riders had. His grip on the handlebars was firm. Too firm, I thought. And his elbows were too straight. It seemed to me that he was also going too fast, as if trying to make up for being last. Although I was no expert, I knew that riding a mountain bike at speed required a loose grip on the handlebars and bent elbows so that the violent vibrations from wheels bouncing on the trail weren’t all transmitted into the racer’s body, shaking everything, including his brain. But Fairbanks looked like he was squeezing the grips hard enough to crush them.
People yelled louder as he got closer.
When he was twenty yards out, his front wheel hit a protruding rock in the trail. The bike shimmied left and then right. Fairbanks’s grip was so tense that he couldn’t absorb the shimmy. He overreacted, first one way, then even more to the other. His bike began to skid. It was the kind of situation from which an athletic, experienced rider can often recover. And if he can’t, the professional rider knows how to lay a bike down in the dirt at high speed with minimal chance of injury.