On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  Books was a local, born and raised in Kane County. His father, Bernard, was a retired federal government employee who still resided in Kanab. The librarian told him that Books had a sister, Maggie, who had married into a prominent ranch family. Before he left the library, Deluca borrowed a local telephone directory and jotted down addresses for Bernard Books and Bobby and Maggie Case. He might never need this information, but if he did, he wouldn’t have time to go looking for it. In the past, whenever he’d needed leverage, nothing worked better than putting family members in harm’s way.

  Deluca stopped at a convenience store on Center Street where he purchased cigarettes. He asked the store clerk to recommend a good bar, not a touristy place, but one frequented by locals. The clerk suggested a joint called the Cattle Baron.

  Deluca was a likeable man. When necessary, he could be charming, friendly, and easy to talk to. He spent the next two hours in the Cattle Baron nursing several beers, buying drinks for other customers, and soaking up as much information as he possibly could. It was almost midnight when he returned to the motel.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Books followed Johnson Canyon Road north into the national monument. Sunset glowed against the towering Vermilion Cliffs as daylight gradually surrendered to night. The road climbed and traversed the terraced Grand Staircase through jagged rock formations, sagebrush, and junipers. A pinyon mouse darted across the road in front of the Yukon, racing for the shelter of a twisted stand of juniper trees.

  Most roads in the monument were unpaved and primitive, requiring high clearance, four-wheel drive vehicles to get around. Several miles up the forty-six mile stretch, the paved road suddenly forked and became a graded dirt surface. At the fork, he bore to the right following the Skutumpah Road northeast.

  The day’s rain storm had him worried. Experienced monument travelers understood that wet conditions frequently made the upper portion of the road impassable. Wet clay had an annoying habit of adhering to tires, leaving unsuspecting travelers stranded. Books had no idea how far McClain might have ventured into the monument. Finding him at all would take a stroke of luck.

  He had just come around a narrow, rocky curve in the road and begun a steady uphill climb when he heard the shot. He pulled the Yukon to the side of the road, doused the headlights, and turned the motor off. It was silent. He waited.

  Several minutes passed before Books saw the oncoming headlights top the rise directly in front of him. The vehicle, whatever it was, crept along slowly, the occupants apparently oblivious to his presence. As it came closer, he heard loud, raucous laughter. The vehicle stopped not more than one hundred yards from him. How could the bozos not have seen him?

  Books saw a muzzle flash and heard the loud report of a rifle. More laughter. They were firing into the darkness at something or maybe nothing. The vehicle inched closer to the Yukon. Books started the engine and hit his bright lights. His lights illuminated the cab of the GMC pickup, and Books saw clearly the surprised faces of two men. The driver was Trees McClain, and the passenger was Derek Lebeau, the same jerkoff who’d lobbed the rock through the front window of his trailer several days prior. He pulled the Yukon alongside McClain’s pickup.

  “Evening, boys. What are you shootin’ at?”

  “Nothin’ in particular,” said McClain. His speech was slurred and the cab of their truck reeked of alcohol.

  “Suppose I don’t have to tell you boys, but hunting from a vehicle is illegal in Utah.”

  “We weren’t huntin’,” said McClain. “It’s too dark to see anything.”

  “Really. Then what were you shooting at?”

  McClain glanced at Lebeau for help. Lebeau said, “Varmints. We was just shooting at varmints.”

  “Varmints, huh. That sounds like hunting to me. Shut the engine off, Tommy, and let me have a look at your permits.”

  Books moved the Yukon a few feet further up the road and radioed dispatch. He gave them his location and asked for immediate backup. The dispatcher told him that an officer from the Utah State Fish & Game Department would be sent but was at least thirty minutes away.

  He was on his own. He knew it, and so would McClain and Lebeau. He got out of the Yukon, crossed the dirt road, and came up alongside McClain’s truck from the passenger side. He eased the nine-millimeter from its holster and held it low at his side. In some ways Lebeau made him more nervous than McClain. Somebody in that truck had a loaded rifle and who could tell what other weapons. Books looked into the cab and immediately saw a rifle with its barrel pointed toward the floor of the truck. An opened half-gallon bottle of Early Times rested on the seat between the two men. Most of the bottle was empty.

  “Hand me the rifle, Mr. Lebeau, butt first.”

  Lebeau complied. The weapon was a Savage Arms .30-06.

  “Did you enjoy the jug of Early Times? Let me see those hunting permits.”

  Books examined the permits and handed them back to Lebeau. “Everything seems to be in order except for one thing. This is the bow hunt, not a rifle hunt. Where are your bows?”

  “In the bed of the truck mixed into our camp gear,” slurred McClain. “Are you fixin to arrest us?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Books told McClain to remain in the truck and ordered Lebeau out. He holstered his weapon long enough to reach for his handcuffs. He slapped one cuff on Lebeau’s wrist and attached the other to the outside door handle of the truck.

  “Sit tight, Derek, I’ll be back with you shortly.”

  “Don’t leave me shackled like this, man, I gotta pee.”

  “You can hold it or piss your pants. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “You cocksucker.”

  Books ordered McClain out of the truck and walked him over to the Yukon. “Tommy, I don’t have a lot of time. I need you to answer some questions about David Greenbriar’s murder.

  McClain grunted, “Huh, I don’t have no fancy education, Books, but I do know one thing. I don’t have to say nothin’ to you. I don’t have to tell you jack-shit.”

  “That’s true, Tommy, but if you don’t, I’m going to hook your truck and throw your sorry ass in jail, Lebeau along with you. Last chance. What’s it going to be?”

  “Fuck you, asshole,” shouted McClain.

  Books anticipated McClain’s next move. The big man threw a wild, round-house left hook that Books ducked. He took one step back and then kicked McClain on the inside of his right knee. He heard something pop and McClain screamed in pain. McClain’s legs went out from under him and both men went to the ground in a tangled wrestling match. McClain reached a beefy hand for Books’ holstered gun. Books rolled to his side and brought his elbow down hard on top of McClain’s hand, breaking his grip on the weapon. Books rolled again until he had McClain face down in the dirt road. He placed his own knee in the center of McClain’s back and used the leverage to force his hands behind his back, slapping on a second pair of cuffs.

  When the incident was over, Books realized that he’d been lucky. It had taken all his strength to subdue one highly intoxicated man, operating on only one good leg. If he hadn’t had Lebeau handcuffed to the pickup, he might have been overpowered, killed, and his body dumped in some remote part of the monument never to be found. As it was, he’d gotten out of the incident with a torn, dirty uniform and numerous bumps and bruises.

  Books got home after midnight. An officer from state fish and game arrived shortly after the melée ended. McClain required treatment at the hospital for a possible torn ACL in his knee. He and Lebeau had been booked into the Kane County Jail with numerous charges pending. The pickup truck had been impounded, and Lebeau’s .30-06 booked into evidence. Books planned to submit the rifle for a ballistics test on the outside chance that it had been used to kill David Greenbriar.

  Chapter Thirty

  Early the next morning, Deluca stopped at the Ranch Inn and Café for breakfast. The motel clerk recommended it as a local favorite. He was
taking a calculated risk. While he might pick up valuable information in a local diner, he might also be noticed. This was a small town, a place where strangers stood out like drugstore cowboys at a pro rodeo bull-riding event.

  He ordered coffee and breakfast. As he waited, he kept one ear open to the conversation around him while he perused the local paper, a rag called the Kane County Citizen. The paper’s lead story was devoted to the continuing murder investigation. Deluca read it with interest. On the back page, in the Police Blotter section, he discovered that a local woman, Rebecca Eddins, reported a prowler around her home earlier in the week. The short piece provided no address for Eddins.

  Could the prowler have been Ronnie Gadasky, stalking the woman in the photos? He intended to find out.

  ***

  Books stopped at the local Gas ’N’ Go for coffee and a copy of the Kane County Citizen on his way into the office. The lead story confirmed what Books had been afraid of—that Brian Call was leaking sensitive information about the investigation to the press. The front page headline read Murder Investigation Stalls—Widow of Victim Pregnant. Books scanned the article. It mentioned that an anonymous source told the newspaper that Darby Greenbriar was pregnant and that her murdered husband, David, was not the father. The article went on to name Lance Clayburn as a suspect in the slaying and intimated that he and Darby were having an affair at the time of the murder.

  Books hadn’t been in his office long enough for his morning coffee to cool before he was summoned to Alexis Runyon’s office. Charley Sutter was there holding a copy of the newspaper. He was angry. Runyon didn’t look particularly happy either.

  “Jesus, Books, why didn’t you tell me?” asked Sutter.

  “Tell you, what, Charley?”

  Sutter waved the morning paper in his face. “Don’t stonewall me, Books. Did you know?”

  Books closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why wasn’t I told the minute you discovered that Darby Greenbriar was pregnant and her late husband wasn’t the father? Kind of an important piece of information, don’t you think? And that’s just the beginning of the shitstorm I found waiting for me when I walked into the office this morning.”

  “Hold on, Charley, let me explain.”

  “Go ahead, and it better be good.”

  “I learned about the pregnancy yesterday from discussions with Darby and Lillian Greenbriar. It’s true that I deliberately withheld it from you, but I did it for a reason. Somebody’s been leaking information about our case from the beginning. And now I know that that somebody is Brian Call.”

  “I don’t believe it,” replied Sutter. “Call has my full confidence. He wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “Well, he did. The reason I know is that Brian was the only person I told about Darby’s pregnancy and David’s sterility. Apparently, he couldn’t wait to drop that information on the asshole that runs the local paper. I knew the leaks had to be coming from you or Call. I just took a guess that it was Call and baited the trap.”

  Runyon, who had been listening attentively, said, “What do you think, Charley?”

  He sighed. “Frankly, I find it hard to believe. Brian Call has given this community more than ten years of dedicated service. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Charley,” said Books. “How much do you really know about Brian Call?”

  “I know he’s done an excellent job in this department for over a decade. That’s all I need to know.”

  Books frowned. “Did you check him out thoroughly with Las Vegas P.D. before you hired him?”

  “What the hell are you intimating, Books?”

  “That maybe you don’t know Brian Call quite as well as you think. Now, did you check him out or not?”

  Sutter thought about it before replying. “I don’t recall. I’d have to go into his personnel file and take a look.”

  “Why don’t you? Maybe it’s time to contact Las Vegas P.D. and find out a little more about him.”

  “But what’s the point?” said Sutter. “Suppose he is leaking information. What’s he trying to do—sabotage the investigation?”

  “I don’t know, Charley. But it’s a question we need answered.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to ensure a certain outcome in the case,” said Runyon.

  “What do you mean?” asked Sutter.

  “She’s suggesting that Call may want to do everything in his power to see that Lance Clayburn takes the fall for Greenbriar’s murder.”

  “That’s nonsense,” replied Sutter. “Call probably does believe Clayburn committed the murder. As a matter of fact, so do I, because that’s where the evidence points.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Runyon, “what’s going on with Call might turn out to be the least of our problems. Neil Eddins has been making phone calls to some people in high places, and there’s bound to be fallout.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said Sutter.

  Books said, “What’s he saying?”

  “Try an illegal search for starters,” said Sutter. “You know the kind I’m talking about, one where you enter someone’s home without a warrant, and then get caught by the property owner. In this case, that would be Neil Eddins.”

  “You mean the bunkhouse where McClain lives,” said Books.

  “One and the same,” said the sheriff. “What the hell were you doing out there?”

  “Following leads, Charley. I was trying to find McClain so I could ask him about the threats he’d made against the Greenbriars.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. It’s conducting a search of his home without a warrant and without permission that crosses the line, J.D. You might be able to get away with that in the big city, but this ain’t the big city. That little stunt is going to end up in the newspaper, and it isn’t going to make us look very good.”

  Sutter was right and Books knew it. “I was wrong to do that, and I apologize for any embarrassment I may have caused the BLM or the Kane County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Apology accepted,” said the sheriff, “but that might not be enough to get us through this. I’ve been summoned to a three o’clock meeting this afternoon with the commissioners in a closed-door session, and I know what’s on their agenda. They’re going to ask me to remove you from the investigation.”

  “And what are you planning to tell them?”

  “I hope I can tell them that Lance Clayburn is about to be arrested for the murder of David Greenbriar, and the case will be closed. You haven’t forgotten our eleven o’clock meeting this morning with the prosecutor. If everything goes as expected, charges should be filed in the next day or two.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Good. And just so you know, J.D., Eddins is not only complaining about the alleged civil rights violation, but he intends to portray you publicly as some kind of loose cannon with an ugly temper. He’ll cite as evidence your Denver history, as well as the two arrests you’ve made the past several days, both involving what he claims is the questionable use of force.”

  “That’s bogus and you know it. I used reasonable force when I arrested Lebeau and McClain. If they hadn’t decided to put up a fight, force wouldn’t have been necessary.”

  “Hell, I know that J.D., but think how it looks,” said Sutter.

  After Sutter left, Books stayed in Runyon’s office. For a while, nobody spoke. Then Runyon said, “You don’t think Clayburn did it, do you?”

  “Nope, but I can’t prove it. And there is the physical evidence. It’s impossible to explain away. What would you like me to do, Alexis?”

  “It’s your decision, J.D. If you want to pull out of this thing, I understand. On the other hand, it might be interesting to see what you can find out about Brian Call. And what about that kid, Ronnie Gadasky? I wonder what he has to say.”

  Books returned to his office and phoned Grant Weatherby in Las Vegas. He picked up immediately.

  “I hate to keep pes
tering you, Grant, but I need some more help.”

  “Not a problem. I needed to call you anyway. What’s up?”

  “Can you access personnel records from your department?”

  “Depends on the reason and who’s asking.”

  Books told him about Brian Call’s past employment as a corrections officer in the Las Vegas Metropolitan Detention Center.

  “What kind of information do you want?” asked Weatherby.

  “I’d like to know the conditions under which he left your department, and anything else that looks interesting.”

  “How long ago did he work for us?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it’s been twelve or thirteen years at least.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you.”

  “Thanks. You said you had something else for me.”

  “I do. I talked to several people from the room service department at the Hard Rock, and nobody recalls seeing Lance Clayburn on Sunday.”

  Books sighed. “It was a long shot anyway.”

  “But that’s not the end of the story,” said Weatherby. “The casino security staff was kind enough to search the floor tapes beginning at 12:01 A.M. Sunday morning. At 9:12 A.M., they found your boy playing the dollar slots.”

  “How long was he in the casino?”

  “The security cameras picked him up leaving the casino twenty minutes later.”

  Books thanked him and they disconnected. Ten minutes later, Weatherby called back.

  “That was fast.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I haven’t got the information you requested, but I did learn one interesting thing. When I called personnel, I was told that any inquiry concerning Brian Call would have to be routed through the department’s criminal intelligence division. I placed a call to a contact over there, but he hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”