“And he left Saturday night sometime?”
“No. He stayed over and left Sunday morning.”
“What time did he leave Sunday?”
She was thinking about it. “Not sure, midmorning, maybe nine or ten.”
Books nodded.
“I still don’t believe he had anything to do with David’s murder.”
“We’re about to find out about that. Were you planning to divorce David and marry Lance?”
“Of course not, and I didn’t have anything to do with David’s murder, either. That’s what you’re implying, isn’t it? That I had Lance kill David so that I could have his inheritance and then run off with Lance.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Well, it’s not true—none of it is.”
“Are you pregnant, Darby?”
Books hit a nerve. The tears came in buckets. Books left the conference room and returned with a box of tissues. She wiped her eyes.
“God, how I wish there was a single strand of something in my life that I could hold close and keep private, but I can’t even protect my baby.”
“I’m sorry, Darby. Would you like to take a short break?”
She shook her head. An awkward silence filled the room. Finally, Books asked, “How far along are you?”
“Eleven weeks.”
“Is David the father?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“The calendar, Ranger Books. I know when I was with David and I know when I was with Lance. David has to be the father.”
Was she telling the truth or lying to cover up for Lance Clayburn? There was no way to tell short of a paternity test. Books wondered whether Darby would go along voluntarily, or whether he’d need a court order to force the test.
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“Not today. As to the future, I can’t say. I learned a long time ago that it’s about 20 percent common sense and 80 percent following the evidence. The evidence almost never lies.”
Darby stood to leave. “It has in this case.”
Books stood. “Look me in the eye, Darby, and answer two questions. Did you have anything to do with planning David’s murder? And do you have any personal knowledge of whether Lance killed David?”
“No and No.”
Chapter Twenty-two
By the time Books finished questioning Darby and drove back to BLM headquarters, Lance Clayburn was waiting outside his office. Whether inadvertently, or by design, Darby had just blown a hole in the timeline of the murder. In doing so, she had also provided Clayburn with a possible alibi.
Follow the evidence, thought Books. The evidence almost never lies. The first seeds of doubt began to form.
Books conducted the interview with Lance Clayburn using a conference room in BLM headquarters. He got Clayburn a bottle of water and a Coke for himself.
“Lance, we’ve got a problem, and I’m afraid I’ll need your help to sort it out.”
“Fair enough.” Clayburn was sweating and Books could tell that his discomfort quotient was definitely on the rise.
“I’m not going to sugar-coat this. Officially, you’re a suspect in the murder of David Greenbriar, and before I can ask you any questions, I’ve got to advise you of your constitutional rights. I’d also like to tape-record our conversation.”
Clayburn dropped his eyes and muttered, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Books walked Clayburn through the Miranda warnings, unsure whether the growing sense of panic he saw on Clayburn’s face would result in his refusal to talk.
“I need to tell you that I just finished interviewing Darby. We know all about the affair, so there’s no need for you to lie to me again about that.”
Clayburn winced but sat perfectly still, listening intently.
“Darby told us that you and she have been seeing each other for six or seven months. Is that accurate?”
He took a deep breath. “Yes, but for God’s sake, that doesn’t mean I killed David.”
“That’s true, but sometimes it becomes a motive for murder. The last time we talked, you told me that you went to Las Vegas on Saturday, shopped for much of the day, and then returned to Kanab late Saturday night. Do you remember that?”
Clayburn nodded.
“The recorder can’t pick up a nod. You’ll have to speak up.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“That’s not what Darby says you did. She told me you spent Saturday night with her in Vegas and didn’t return to Kanab until Sunday morning. Which is it?”
He sighed. “I spent Saturday night with her, had breakfast in the hotel room on Sunday morning, and then drove home.”
“This is important,” said Books. “What time did you leave Las Vegas on Sunday?”
“It’s just a guess, but I’d say around nine-thirty in the morning.”
“What did you do after you got home?”
“I hung around the house for a while, then drove into Kanab to run a few errands, and then ate a late lunch at Escobar’s.”
“What time did you eat at Escobar’s?”
“Christ, you’ve asked me all this before.”
“Indulge me. I’m asking you again.”
“Three, maybe three-thirty. Why do we have to keep going over old ground?”
“Because it’s important.” Books let the silence hang in the air. It was an old interrogation tactic that worked especially well on nervous suspects. And Lance Clayburn was definitely nervous.
Finally, Clayburn said, “Look, I lied about my relationship with Darby. I’m sorry about that. But you’ve got to believe me, I didn’t kill David Greenbriar. I wouldn’t kill anyone, not ever.”
“Not even if you could have the beautiful wife and the substantial estate she’s about to inherit?”
“Absolutely not. Christ, J.D., think about it. I don’t need her money. Whatever money David had is a pittance compared to what’s in my trust.” He was probably right about that, thought Books. “Did Darby tell you that she’s pregnant?”
Clayburn put his head between his hands. “No, she hasn’t said a word.”
“Could you be the father?”
“I suppose it’s possible, but we used condoms most of the time.”
“Most of the time! Once is all it takes, my friend.”
Books opened a cardboard box labeled “David Greenbirar Homicide, Case Number, 08-1794.” From it, he removed three separately packaged items. There was a spent .30-06 shell casing, a plastic sandwich baggie, and two empty cans of Guinness beer.
Holding up the evidence bags, Books said, “These items were recovered from the murder scene. Can you explain how it is that your fingerprints are all over them?”
Clayburn was incredulous. “Christ, that’s impossible. There’s got to be a mistake. My prints can’t be on that stuff. I keep telling you, I didn’t have anything to do with David’s murder.”
Books held up a baggie containing the shell casing. “You own a .30-06 Remington hunting rifle, don’t you?”
“Yes, and now I suppose you’re gonna tell me that that shell casing came from my gun.”
“Well, did it?”
“Hell, no, it didn’t.”
“Where’s your rifle now, Lance?”
“It’s at home. I keep it in my bedroom closet. It’s unloaded, and I haven’t fired it in months. I’d be happy to get it for you.”
“That would definitely help clarify things.”
Books held up the empty can of Guinness beer. “I know you drink Guinness. That’s what you served me the other day at your house.”
“I don’t deny it. Everybody knows I drink Guinness. Plenty of people do.”
“Unfortunately, there’s only one set of prints on the cans, and they’re yours.”
Clayburn shrugged, resigned to an unexplainable set of circumstances that made him out to be a killer. “I want to cooperate
to catch the person who murdered David. Is there anything else you’d like me to do?”
“Yeah, there is. For starters, look me in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with either the planning or murder of David Greenbriar.”
“I didn’t, I swear it.”
“What if I asked you to take a polygraph examination? Would you be willing to do it?” Books knew the results of a lie detector test were usually inadmissible in court; however, he’d seen more than one perp cave under the pressure and confess either before, during, or after the examination.
“Yes, anything,” said Clayburn.
“I’ll try to arrange that for tomorrow—that okay?”
“Sure.”
“That’s all I have for now, Lance. The sheriff is waiting outside for you. He’s got a warrant authorizing us to search your home. He’ll give you a copy of the warrant and a receipt for any items we take. Any questions I can answer for you?”
The last thing Lance Clayburn wanted to hear was that the sheriff’s office was about to execute a search warrant on his home. He shook his head.
***
Brian Call and two deputies conducted a systematic search of Lance Clayburn’s home. Clayburn sat on a lawn chair watching the proceedings, lost in his own thoughts. Books and the sheriff conversed outside.
“Don’t rush this, Charley, that’s all I’m saying. I know you’re anxious to make an arrest, but this would be a bad time to make a mistake. We’ve got time and Clayburn isn’t going anywhere.”
“So you say. As far as I’m concerned, this guy had the motive, means, and the opportunity to murder David Greenbriar.”
“We might be able to prove motive and means,” said Books, “but given the evidence we’ve got, opportunity is a hell of a stretch.”
Brian Call emerged from the house and interrupted their conversation. “J.D., where did you say that .30-06 rifle was supposed to be?”
“In the master bedroom closet. At least that’s where Lance said it would be.”
“That’s what I thought you said. I’ll look again, but I didn’t see it.”
Call returned moments later shaking his head. “It’s not there.”
Books, Call, and Sutter walked over to where Clayburn was sitting. Books spoke. “Lance, Deputy Call can’t find your rifle. Didn’t you tell me it was in your bedroom closet?”
“That’s exactly where it is.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. It’s in the walk-in closet in my bedroom.”
“We’d better all go have a look,” said Books. Clayburn led the way into the house. The rifle wasn’t there, and Clayburn was dumbfounded. He couldn’t explain the missing weapon.
Sutter pulled Books aside. “Look, J.D., Greenbriar was killed with a .30-06 slug. This guy owns a .30-06 Remington that he assured you was here at the house. Now it’s vanished, and he says he doesn’t know where it is. I’ll bet he does. I’ll bet he used it to kill David Greenbriar and then dumped it someplace where we’ll never find it.”
“That’s pure conjecture, Charley, and that’s all it is. We still have to prove it in court.”
“Murder cases have been won on less,” said Sutter.
Books shrugged. “We don’t have Clayburn’s rifle, so we can’t run a ballistics test. Do you have any idea how many folks in Kane County own a .30-06?” Books didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t know either, but I’m sure of one thing, there’s plenty of ’em around—probably the most common weapon used to hunt deer and elk. A good defense lawyer is gonna rip us a new asshole and the jury’s apt to laugh us right out of court.” That was a stretch and Books knew it.
“But……”
“Wait, Charley, hear me out.”
Sutter nodded.
“The weakest link in our case right now is the issue of opportunity. The timeline doesn’t fit. The ME will testify that the time of death was noon to eight p.m. Sunday. Darby’s going to testify that Lance spent Saturday night with her in Las Vegas and didn’t leave for Kanab until midmorning Sunday. If that’s true, he couldn’t have made it back until at least one. Then he’s got to drive into the Grand Staircase, find and kill Greenbriar, move the body, and make it back to Kanab in time for a late afternoon lunch at Escobar’s. It just doesn’t track.”
“But you’re forgetting something,” said Sutter. “The first time you interviewed Clayburn, he told you he came back to Kanab late Saturday night. Now he’s sayin’ something different. Who’s to say that he and Darby didn’t get together and concoct this story to provide Lance with an alibi?”
“It’s possible.”
The search of Lance Clayburn’s home turned up little of value. The Remington .30-06 rifle wasn’t there, and Clayburn was unable to explain its disappearance. The sheriff’s deputies seized two pair of his hiking boots. Both had dried mud and sandstone residue. They also took a set of truck tires from Clayburn’s garage so they could compare the tire tread against photographs taken from the old West movie set where Greenbriar’s body had been discovered. They also took his computer.
In the end, Books convinced Sutter to temporarily delay arresting Clayburn, that another day or two would provide sufficient time to investigate Clayburn’s new alibi and to pursue several remaining leads.
Chapter Twenty-three
That evening Ned Hunsaker knocked on the front door. Books waved him in.
“Evening, J.D. Another busy day, I’ll bet.”
“That’s for sure, Ned. Sit yourself down for a minute. I was just getting ready to head out for the barbeque.”
“Headed into the lion’s den, huh?”
“Yeah, guess so. What’ll you bet I won’t make it out of there without a fireside chat with Neil?”
“I think you can depend on it.”
Books removed two cans of Coors Lite from the refrigerator. He popped the top off one and offered the other to Ned. Hunsaker declined. “Hell, son, I’ve been on the wagon for almost a year now, and I intend to keep it that way. Actually, about the time of your mother’s death, I started drinking pretty hard. I was boozing at night, and then getting up the next morning and feeling like I needed a shot or two of something just to get my day started. It came to a head about a year ago when I got busted by the Highway Patrol for DUI. I can’t tell you how humiliated I felt. Everybody knew about it. They put me on probation, made me pay a hefty fine, and I lost my driver’s license for six months. It turned out to be a real wake-up call.”
“I’ll bet it was. It does remind me though of something Dean Martin once said about teetotalers.”
Ned was smiling. “Yeah, what’s that?”
‘Imagine waking up in the morning and knowing that’s the best you’re going to feel all day.’
Ned laughed. “I can identify with that.”
So could Books.
“My daughter, Staci, and my son-in-law stepped in and provided lots of support. They even bought me a cell phone and insist that I carry the damn thing with me everywhere I go.”
“Not a bad idea. Do you use it?”
He shrugged. “Not often. But I take it with me all the time just to keep them happy. I tossed it in an old Velveeta box, and I carry it in the glove compartment of the truck. The problem is I never remember to keep the damn thing charged, or if I remember to charge it, I forget to turn it on.”
Books suppressed a smile. He always thought Ned Hunsaker was a little on the eccentric side.
“There are three rules you’ve got to remember when it comes to cell phones, Ned. First, you have to carry it with you; second, it has to be turned on; and third, you have to keep it charged. Sounds like you’re good for two out of three.”
“Got that right.”
Books noticed that Ned was dressed for an evening on the town—not that an evening on the town in Kanab amounted to much. He was wearing neatly pressed black jeans, black cowboy boots, a long-sleeved denim shirt, and a Western tie. His black bolo had a
beautiful turquoise stone in the center surrounded by an ornate silver border.
Books complimented him on the tie and asked where he was headed. Grinning, Hunsaker said, “I got an invite to a fancy barbeque to celebrate the return of some young buck to town after an extended absence.”
“Ah. I should have remembered. You plan on driving yourself, or would you like to ride with me?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Becky called and invited me, so, I figured, what the hell, you might as well have at least one friend amongst all those CFW boys. Actually, that’s not quite right. Maggie and Bobby will be there, and oh, by the way, so will your dad—wondered if you’d heard that?”
Books nodded. “I did.”
***
They turned off State Highway 89 and proceeded down a gravel road about a half mile. The Eddins brothers had built almost identical sprawling log homes a couple of hundred yards apart. A large barn and fenced corral sat between and behind the homes.
The Eddins’ ranch was one of the nicest and, from all appearances, one of the few prosperous livestock spreads in Kane County. Much of the land was privately owned and had been in the family for several generations. The ranch was surrounded on three sides by BLM land. It was natural for the Eddins clan to take advantage of the available federal permits and graze a significant number of steers on government land. Despite the apparent profitability of the cattle company, both Neil and younger brother Boyd, had been involved in real estate development around Kanab for as long as Books could remember. The family owned Vermilion Cliffs Realty and maintained an office on the town’s main street.
Books’ jangled nerves dissipated when he realized the gathering was smaller than he’d envisioned. With a couple of exceptions, most of the guests were familiar—friends and neighbors from a past life, a life for which he was slowly gaining new appreciation.
Becky came over and gave Ned a warm embrace. “Damn. We need to have these little get-togethers more often,” said Hunsaker.
She gave Books a peck on the cheek, placed her arm through his, and walked him through the crowd over to his father, who was embroiled in an animated conversation with Neil Eddins. When he saw his son, he broke away from the tête-à-tête and strode over. Books reached out to shake his hand. His father brushed it aside and gave him an awkward hug. “How are you, son? It’s been, what, almost two years?”
On Deadly Ground Page 12