On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  “Since Mom’s funeral. I’m fine, Bernie. How’ve you been?” Books couldn’t remember when he had stopped calling him dad, but it had been a long time ago.

  “Doing very well, thank you. Retirement suits me just fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.” An awkward silence fell between the two men.

  “I get to spend lots of time with your sister and the grandkids. Never hear much from you, though, except what I manage to pickup secondhand from Maggie.”

  “Well, Bernie, it’s not like I’m living right here in town. Six hundred miles, I’m afraid, is a little more than a weekend jaunt. There is such a thing as a telephone. Ever heard of it?”

  Before things could deteriorate further, Becky stepped in, as if on cue, and led him away. She walked him from one group to another until he’d made the rounds.

  Becky smiled and said, “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Call it woman’s intuition. You’ve been uncomfortable at these kinds of shindigs for as long as I’ve known you.”

  “I thought I disguised it better than that.”

  “Most people probably don’t notice. It’s just that in those days, I thought you were so cute that I watched every move you made.”

  “And today?”

  “I’ll plead the fifth on that, thank you very much. Anyway, that was a long time ago, J.D. Life beats us all up. People change. I know I have, and so have you. Better leave it at that, don’t you think?”

  “Probably a good idea. And thanks for guiding me through that maze of people, including the clumsy encounter with Bernie.”

  “You’re welcome. Now shall we find you something cold to drink?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Since Kanab was settled by Mormon pioneers and the LDS faith remained the dominant religion in the area, Books was sure about two things at tonight’s party. There wouldn’t be any booze on the premises, and ice cream would be the only dessert. He was right on the latter count but delighted to find an ice-filled tub with bottles of Coors and Miller beer. He snatched a Coors and offered one to Becky. She gave him a conspiratorial wink and shook her head suggesting she would like a rain check. To imbibe at the home of her Mormon parents was probably a big no-no. Assuming he had Ned as designated driver, Books downed several Coors over the course of the evening and washed a grilled cheeseburger, potato salad, and baked beans down with the last two. He had an ice cream sundae for dessert.

  After dinner, while the sun slowly disappeared in the western sky, folks stood around talking in pairs or small groups. Gradually, most people said their good-byes and disappeared into the gathering darkness. Books felt a large hand on his shoulder.

  “Got a minute, J.D.?” Neil motioned toward the house. Seeing no avenue of escape, Books followed him inside. Eddins had always been a handsome man. He was in his early fifties, tall, narrow at the hips, and broad through the shoulders. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.

  Eddins ushered him into a spacious office with maple hardwood floors. A large oak roll-top desk sat in the center of the room on an expensive Two-Grey-Hills Navajo rug with a burgundy leather couch and matching chair in front. Charles Russell Western prints adorned the walls. On the corner of his desk sat a framed picture of a smiling Neil Eddins with his arm around former Secretary of the Interior James Watt. Watt, a former Reagan appointee, was the darling of ranchers and big oil but had been despised by every conservation and environmental group on the planet.

  Eddins had been a politically powerful figure on the local scene for as long as Books could remember. He’d been a member of the Kanab City Council, and later, chairman of the Kane County Commission.

  As soon as they sat down, Boyd Eddins and Tommy McLain walked in. Trees didn’t seem happy to see him. In fact, he looked downright hostile.

  After several minutes of perfunctory small talk, Neil brought the discussion around to the real purpose of the meeting.

  “I’m not going to kid you, J.D. Part of the reason we invited you out was to have this opportunity to correct any misconceptions you might have about the CFW. God only knows what kind of wild stories you’ve been hearing from that new boss of yours, or worse yet, from the local environmental groups. That includes the late David Greenbriar and his granola-eating friends.”

  The comment didn’t provoke any reaction from Boyd Eddins who sat chewing on a toothpick, but it brought a stupid grin to the face of Trees McLain.

  “Look, Neil, you and I both know that the tension between locals and the Green community isn’t anything new. It’s been a part of the Kane County landscape for as long as I can remember. And, actually, Alexis Runyon hasn’t said much to me about either group.”

  Books didn’t express his concern that relations between ranchers, the federal government, and environmental groups were far more strained than anything he could recall as a kid.

  “Perhaps I was unnecessarily concerned,” said Eddins.

  “Perhaps you were. As far as David Greenbriar is concerned, he was murdered shortly after I got here—never had the opportunity to meet him. But I am going to find out who killed him. It must have been some lowlife coward, a bushwhacker at that.” He stared hard at Trees McLain, who stared back.

  Neil Eddins looked from Books to McLain and then back to Books. He cleared his throat. “From what I hear, J.D., you’re pretty close to making an arrest.”

  “Still chasing leads.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t think anybody from the CFW had anything to do with it, because I can assure you they didn’t.”

  “That’s comforting, Neil, but tell me something. How can you be so sure?”

  Eddins’ face reddened. “Because I know the kind of people who belong to the CFW. They’re good, hard workin’ folks, people with good conservative values, Christian values. They wouldn’t get involved in a murder. We have our differences with the Greenies but none of it so serious that anybody’s going to resort to murder.”

  “Somebody sure did,” said Books.

  “I hear Greenbriar was killed by one of his own,” said Eddins.

  “Who’re you gettin your information from, Neil?”

  “None of your business, J.D.”

  “Fair enough. And while we’re on the subject, the EEWA was kind enough to provide us with a list of their members. I’m sure you’d like to extend the same level of cooperation by giving me a list of CFW members.”

  That request brought a paternalistic smile to Neil Eddins’ face. “Sorry, J.D., that information is private. Get me a court order, and I’ll hand it over without delay.

  Boyd, who’d been quiet, spoke up. “Even though you never had the chance to meet David Greenbriar, by now I’m sure you’ve had the opportunity to meet some of his extremist friends, one of whom apparently killed him. The word ‘compromise’ isn’t in their vocabulary, J.D. They want all the federal land sealed up so that nobody can use it for anything. We don’t intend to let that happen.” McLain grunted his agreement.

  “I’m afraid Boyd’s right, J.D.,” said Neil. “At least groups like the Sierra Club and the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance are known quantities. On some issues, we can find common ground. They seem more moderate compared to the Escalante Environmental Wilderness Alliance.”

  Books listened intently as the Eddins brothers rattled on.

  Neil continued. “Most of us have been here for several generations. You know that. We’ve established a way of life, and we intend to defend it. We’re committed to using every legal means at our disposal to stop this radical group before they become any stronger.”

  “And maybe a few methods that aren’t so legal,” said McLain.

  “Afraid I didn’t hear that, Trees,” said Books.

  “You’d better hear it,” said McLain, “cuz you’re either for us or against us. What’s it gonna be, Ranger Books?”

  Before Books could answer, Neil cut in. “Th
at’ll be enough, Tommy. Consider yourself excused.” Trees started to say something else but thought better of it.

  “I’ll be seeing you around, Books.” He got up to leave, offering a weak smile that exposed yellow, tobacco-stained teeth.

  “Sooner than you think,” said Books.

  “Please accept my apology, J.D. Tommy means well enough, but he tends to be short on manners sometimes. We didn’t invite you here to insult you,” said Neil.

  “Forget it. Apology unnecessary, but tell me something, Neil, why did you invite me here?”

  “Two reasons, actually. I happen to have a very persistent daughter who seems quite fond of you. Also, I wanted to find out where you stood on the issues.”

  “What you really want to know is whose side I’m on, right?”

  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Seems like a fair question.”

  “I think you already know the answer to that. For better or worse, the BLM is committed to the notion that federal land can serve multiple purposes. When reasonable people sit down and talk, solutions to problems can be found in ways that work for everybody. There’s no reason the land can’t serve the interests of everybody as long as it’s done in a way that protects the ecosystem.”

  “Easier said than done,” said Boyd.

  Books looked directly at Boyd. “Your family is one of the most influential in Kane County, Boyd. You and Neil should be leaders in discussions that are going to have to take place sooner or later.”

  “Spoken like a true bureaucrat,” said Neil. “As the old saying goes, it takes two to tango, and, at the moment, we don’t seem to have a dance partner who wants to be reasonable.”

  “That’s exactly what the environmental groups are saying about you,” said Books. “Taking your dance analogy a bit further, at some point, people on both sides are going to have to find a dance partner and get out on the floor. Short of dialogue, the alternatives just aren’t very good.”

  The conversation lasted almost an hour. By the time it was over, Books was exhausted and sober as a judge. He found Ned, iced tea in hand, doing his best to entertain Becky. The two men said their good-byes and left.

  When he got home, Books found a voicemail from Lillian Greenbriar. She explained that she and Victor Stein would fly into Las Vegas early Friday morning, rent a car, and drive to Kanab in time for David’s memorial service. A small cadre of David’s friends and former colleagues opted to drive from Berkeley and would arrive sometime Thursday night. Lillian and Stein asked to meet Books at the sheriff’s office at noon for an update on the status of the case.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Books arrived at the office early Friday morning to find Sutter and Brian Call waiting for him. Something was up; he just wasn’t sure what. Both men looked uncomfortable.

  “Morning, Charley, Brian. You boys don’t look too happy, this morning. What’s up?”

  “We’ve had a development in the case,” said Sutter.

  Books’ interest was instantly piqued. “What kind of development?”

  “Not a very important one, at least we don’t think so,” said Call.

  “But important enough for both of you to be sitting on my doorstep this morning. Tell me about it.”

  “You remember the Gadasky family, J.D.?” asked Sutter.

  “Scrapiron Gadasky?”

  Sutter nodded.

  “Sure do. The old man operated a salvage business and towing service out of that decrepit old place they lived in outside town.” Books recalled the place being a graveyard of rusted-out cars, trucks, farm equipment, even some old school buses.

  “That’s him,” said Call. “Last night old man Gadasky called the sheriff’s office and wanted to speak to a deputy.”

  “About?”

  “The Greenbriar murder,” said Call. “A deputy went out to the house and ended up taking a statement from Ivan’s youngest son, kid by the name of Ronnie.”

  “And what did Ronnie have to say?”

  “Boy said he was out on the Smoky Mountain Road last Sunday afternoon and says he got a look at the guy who shot Greenbriar,” said Call.

  Books’ temper flared. “Jesus, why didn’t I hear about this last night? It’s kind of important, don’t you think?”

  “Hold on a minute, J.D. Don’t get your tail in a knot,” said Sutter. “Ronnie Gadasky’s a loony-tune, and everybody in town knows it.”

  “Since you placed me in charge of the investigation, maybe you ought to let me be the judge of that?”

  Sutter frowned. “And you will be, J.D. I just thought maybe you’d like a little insider information about the family, since you’ve been gone so long.”

  “You’re right, Charlie, sorry. Tell me about Ronnie Gadasky.”

  Sutter continued. “What do you remember about the Gadasky family?”

  “Not all that much. They had four or five kids. The oldest boys, Ernie and George, were at Kanab High School around the same time I was. The other kids were pretty young at the time….”

  Sutter interrupted. “Here’s the story, J.D. Ivan and his wife had five kids, four boys and a sweet little girl named Irina. You’re right about the older boys. They were a year or two behind you in school. Ronnie is eighteen. He’s the youngest. About seven, maybe eight years ago, Ivan’s wife ran off with a construction worker—never did come back. Ivan did the best he could raising the kids, but things didn’t work out very well.”

  “Skip the family history, and get to the point.”

  Sutter ignored him and continued. “Ronnie started getting into all kinds of mischief, and so did Irina. Rumor had it that Ernie was having his way with Irina, although we never could prove it. She eventually got pregnant and ran off with a Navaho boy—lives somewhere near Page, Arizona. Ronnie started sniffing glue when he was about thirteen. He’s been in and out of juvenile court numerous times over the past couple years. You can ask Rebecca Eddins. Ivan hired her to represent the boy a time or two.”

  “Okay,” said Books. “So what you’re telling me is that we’ve got a possible murder witness with a juvenile court record and brain damage from spending too much time with his head in a plastic bag sniffing glue.”

  Call picked up the story. “It gets worse, J.D. About two years ago, Ronnie stole his brother Ernie’s motorcycle. The kid was high on something. Anyway, he was racin’ along Highway 89 toward Kanab, with Ernie in hot pursuit, when he came up behind George Detmer’s plumbing supply truck. You remember George Detmer?”

  “Detmer Plumbing, how could I forget,” said Books. “The old man drove a ratty old panel truck around town with a sign on it that read, ‘We’re Number One in the Number Two Business.’”

  “That’s him. Anyway, it was an old flatbed truck that George used to haul plumbing supplies around when the weather was good. What happened was that old George was hauling several commodes for a job he was doin’ in Orderville. About the time Ronnie rolls up behind him, a commode falls off the back end of the truck and lands smack in the middle of the highway. Ronnie does an Evel Knievel, hits the commode head on, goes airborne, and crashes the bike. He lands on his head and ends up with serious internal injuries and head trauma. The boy almost died.”

  “Jesus.” Books shook his head. “What an epitaph that would make: ‘Here lies Ronnie Gadasky, killed by a flying crapper.’”

  Sutter and Call laughed.

  “Point is, J.D., the kid’s goofy,” said Call. “He just isn’t credible.”

  “Okay. Now what you’re telling me is we’ve got a potential witness with a juvenile record and brain damage caused by sniffing glue as well as injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident. Is that it?”

  Sutter looked frustrated. “There’s not a juror in his right mind that’s going to believe one word that comes out of that kid’s mouth.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Books. “You can never tell what a jury will choose to believe—unpredictable, that’s what they are.”
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  “You’ll be wasting your time,” said Sutter.

  “Let me worry about that. I definitely want to talk to him. Where can I find him?”

  “Have it your way,” said Sutter. “Best place to find Ronnie is at home. I don’t think he works other than doing odd jobs for the old man. Since the accident, the kid disappears into the Grand Staircase, sometimes for days at a time. Nobody knows where he goes or how he survives. I suspect one of these days he’ll walk into that wilderness and we’ll just never see or hear from him again.”

  “That’s why I should have been called last night.” Having a disabled witness was difficult, thought Books, but having a disabled, missing witness was worse, much worse.

  As Sutter and Call got up to leave, Sutter gave Books a final admonition. “Remember this, J.D., as far as I’m concerned, we’ve already identified our killer, and if you haven’t come up with something else for me by tomorrow, I’ll be going to the DA for a murder warrant on Lance Clayburn.”

  Books leaned back in his chair and finished his lukewarm coffee. Call and Sutter had already made up their minds about Clayburn’s guilt, and they weren’t about to allow the emergence of Ronnie Gadasky as a possible witness to influence their thinking.

  ***

  Books still had almost four hours until his noon meeting with Lillian Greenbriar and Victor Stein. It was time to start tying up loose ends, and he had several that required his immediate attention. First, he called Grant Weatherby and explained the problem with Lance Clayburn’s alibi. If room service receipts or hotel employees could place Clayburn in Darby’s suite on Sunday morning, the case against him would be weakened. Weatherby promised to get back to him after another visit to the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino.

  Books hopped in the Yukon and drove to the sheriff’s office. He wanted to pick up a copy of Ronnie Gadasky’s statement.

  What the statement said was that Gadasky had heard the report of a rifle along a stretch of the Smokey Mountain Road Sunday afternoon around four o’clock. He recalled seeing David Greenbriar’s Chevrolet Suburban but claimed not to have seen Greenbriar. Gadasky told the deputy that he saw a man dressed in camouflage hiding in a rocky outcropping above and to the west of Greenbriar’s Suburban. He had been unable to provide a physical description of the man other than he was white and older looking. A quarter mile further down the Smokey Mountain Road, Gadasky saw a shiny black car parked in a turnout. Although uncertain, he thought it had Nevada license plates.