On Deadly Ground

by Michael Norman

  “An envelope full of cash and a plastic sandwich baggie stuffed with what Michael tells me is your favorite recreational drug, OxyContin. Michael wanted me to convey his apologies, and he hopes you’ll accept this small token of his appreciation for the extra trouble.”

  The promise of cash and drugs seemed to tip the balance with Call in favor of the face-to-face rendezvous. They agreed to meet in the city park at eleven o’clock on the tennis courts.

  After the call, Deluca settled on the bed for an afternoon nap. The night ahead promised to be a long one. As for Brian Call, Deluca remained wary. A junkie cop with addictions to hookers, money, and pills hardly inspired confidence.

  With luck, he would end it all tonight.

  ***

  Books was about five miles north of town when he received the call from dispatch. He was on his way to check the mom-and-pop motels in a string of small towns between Kanab and Panguitch. Unless he was chasing his tail, and he might be, the missing Ford Explorer had to be hidden somewhere nearby and with it, a possible double murderer. The dispatcher told him to meet a Kanab City police officer at the Angel Canyon Motel on the north end of town. The officer had discovered information about the missing Explorer.

  When Books arrived, he spotted the marked cruiser parked under the portico next to the motel office. A Kanab patrol sergeant stood next to the cruiser talking to a young man who appeared to be no more than nineteen or twenty. Books introduced himself to Sergeant Dave Curry. Curry, in turn, introduced Books to the young man standing next to him. Jimmy Johnson was a Brigham Young University college student who had returned home for the summer recess to help his parents run the motel.

  “J.D., Jimmy here says he had a guest for the past couple of nights who was driving a white Ford Explorer,” said Curry.

  “Really. Was it a new rig?”

  Johnson shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, I’d say it was pretty new, ’08 or ’09 model.”

  “Did you happen to get the license plate number?”

  “Sure did.” Johnson handed Books a slip of paper with a Nevada license plate number written on it.

  Books turned to the sergeant. “Dave, could you run me a registration check on this plate number and get out a new BOLO?”

  “Sure.” Curry took the slip of paper from Books and climbed into his patrol car.

  Books turned back to Johnson. “The room this guy was staying in. Has it been cleaned?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. We didn’t know……”

  “That’s okay. Can you describe this guy for me, Jimmy?”

  “Yeah, he was an old guy, maybe late 50s. I remember him cuz he had a really bad pock-marked face. His hair was almost white and slicked back on the sides. It looked shiny like he’d used too much hair gel.”

  “What about his height, weight, and race?”

  “He was a white guy, tall, maybe six-three or four, probably…I don’t know, two-ten, two-twenty. He was a big guy really, in pretty good shape too, especially for an old fella.”

  “Anything else you can remember about him—tattoos, scars, anything like that?”

  Johnson shook his head, “Naw, not that I remember.”

  “When did he check out?”

  “Early this morning. I’d just come on shift.”

  “Did he mention anything to you about where he was from or what he was doing here?”

  Again, Johnson shook his head. “No. He was friendly enough but he didn’t mention any of that kind of stuff.”

  “Did he fill out a room registration card?”

  “Yeah, he did. Want me to get it for you.”

  “Please. What name did he register under, do you recall?”

  “Tate. Arnold or Arthur Tate, something like that,” said Johnson.

  Books followed him into the lobby of the motel. Johnson walked behind the front desk and began to manually search a small metal box holding alphabetized registration cards.

  “Let me stop you right there. Did Mr. Tate actually handle the card?”

  “Sure did. I handed it to him. He filled it out, signed it, and gave it back.”

  “Did anybody besides you handle the card?”

  Johnson paused. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. I checked him in the other evening when he arrived, and I checked him out this morning.”

  “Hold on a minute and don’t touch the registration card.” Books walked outside and approached the squad car.

  Curry handed Books a Post-it note with the registration information. “The Explorer is a 2009 registered to Avis Rent-a-Car at the Las Vegas International Airport. It was rented to some guy named Arthur Tate. He produced a Nevada driver’s license with an address at an apartment complex in North Las Vegas.”

  “Interesting. That’s the same name he used to register here at the motel.”

  Books handed Curry a slip of paper. “Here’s the physical description Jimmy gave me of the subject driving the Explorer.”

  “Great. I’ll pass this information along to dispatch and we’ll get a new BOLO out to the troops. You think the guy’s split?”

  “Either that or he’s taken up residence somewhere else.”

  “Well, we’ll keep looking for him,”

  Books thanked him and Curry left.

  Books had an idea that might finally reveal the suspect’s identity. He would ask a fingerprint examiner to process the registration card for latents. If prints were found, they would be submitted to IAFIS, the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. If the suspect had a criminal history or had ever served in the military, his fingerprints should be in the system. Best of all, the entire process could be completed in just a few hours.

  ***

  Books placed the guest registration card in a plastic evidence bag, careful not to contaminate the document with his own prints. Jimmy Johnson accompanied him to the sheriff’s office where a set of his fingerprints were taken for comparison purposes.

  On the drive back to the motel, Books received a phone call from the sheriff. Sutter told him that he and Call were on their way back to Kanab. George Gadasky’s body had been turned over to the medical examiner, and everyone had cleared the crime scene.

  Books informed Sutter about what had occurred at the Angel Canyon Motel. Books arranged to meet the fingerprint examiner from the CSI unit at the sheriff’s office where he would turn over the registration card for processing.

  The logistics of getting Brian Call to the DA’s office without arousing his suspicion had turned out to be easy. As they prepared to leave Grosvenor Arch, Sutter told him they were expected at the DA’s office for a conference with Virgil Bell. Sutter told him Bell wanted to discuss the murder of George Gadasky and its impact on the case against Lance Clayburn.

  The interrogation was set.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Word about George Gadasky’s murder had spread around Kanab faster than a wildfire through dry sagebrush on a windy day. People were afraid. Several folks stopped Books to ask questions. He didn’t know the answer to some and wouldn’t answer others.

  Books waited at the sheriff’s office until Sutter, Call, and the members of the CSI unit arrived. He turned over Jimmy Johnson’s fingerprints and the guest registration card to the latent fingerprint examiner who agreed to process it immediately. She promised to run any latents that didn’t belong to Jimmy Johnson through IAFIS.

  Books ran into Rebecca Eddins in the parking lot on his way to the meeting with Virgil Bell.

  “Just the man I was looking for,” said Eddins.

  “Sorry, Becky, but I’m kind of in a rush. Can this wait until later?”

  “I don’t think so, J.D. I just heard what happened to George Gadasky. Awful! What I need to tell you is that I received a call late this morning from a guy who claimed to be a reporter from the Law Vegas Sun Times. He said he wanted to arrange an exclusive interview with Ronnie Gadasky.”

  “What nam
e did he use?”

  “Elliott Sanders.”

  Books took her arm. “I think it would be best if you got your little boy and headed over to your dad’s place for a day or two.”

  “How come?”

  “I think you just spoke with the guy who killed George. He used the name Elliott Sanders and claimed to be a reporter with the Sun Times. How did he get your name?”

  “He claimed his paper discovered I’d represented Ronnie in a couple of cases and figured I’d know how to get hold of him.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that I hadn’t heard from Ronnie and had no idea how to find him.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “He was businesslike, polite, and well spoken.”

  “Any accent or was there anything unusual about his voice?”

  “I didn’t detect any accent or regional dialects. He definitely didn’t sound like a young guy. His voice sounded older, more mature.”

  “You handled that well, Becky. Don’t stay at home for a night or two.”

  “That’s not necessary. I can take care of myself and my family.”

  “No, you can’t. Listen to me. This guy has already killed two people and he won’t hesitate to kill again. Why take the risk? You’ve got someplace else you can go. Now go get your son and get the hell out of there until it’s safe.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t do that. Nobody drives me out of my home.”

  “Pardon me, Becky, but that’s just stupid female pride talking—and it’s a damned bad idea besides.”

  She was adamant, so Books went to Plan B.

  Books tried to reach Ned Hunsaker. The old man didn’t answer his cell phone. He had probably left the thing inside that Velveeta box in the glove compartment of his truck. Books left him a message on his home phone explaining the situation Becky Eddins was in, and her stubborn refusal to leave home.

  ***

  Sutter and Call arrived at Virgil Bell’s office ahead of Books. When Books got there, he found a somber-looking group gathered around a small conference table in Bell’s office. The tension in the room was palpable. Call looked decidedly uncomfortable, as if he sensed something he wasn’t going to like. It got worse when Books placed a small voice-activated tape recorder on the table.

  “What’s that for?” asked Call.

  “So that we’ll have an accurate record of everything that’s said,” Sutter piped up. “And for the record, Brian, I want you to understand that I consider this an internal personnel investigation as well as a possible criminal matter. I’ve asked Ranger Books to conduct the interview.”

  Virgil Bell sat with a legal pad in front of him and a pen in his hand. He stared at Call without speaking, his face expressionless.

  Call’s eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal’s. “I don’t get it.”

  “Sure you do, Brian,” said Books.

  Call became belligerent. “What the hell is this all about, anyway?”

  “Regrettably, Brian, we have reason to believe that you’re mixed up with some bad characters out of Las Vegas,” said Books. “Before we can go any further, I’ll need to advise you of your constitutional rights under Miranda.” Books walked him carefully through the Miranda warnings.

  Call looked frightened but defiantly stood his ground. “I know my rights and I don’t have any goddamned thing to hide. I’ll answer your questions, and I don’t need a lawyer to do it.” He’d just violated the first rule of the career criminal—when challenged by the police skip the bluff and bravado. Keep your mouth shut.

  “We appreciate that,” said Books. “What can you tell us about a Las Vegas company called Nevada Mining & Manufacturing?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? That’s ancient history.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that. Tell us about your ancient history with the company.”

  “I didn’t say I had any history with Nevada…whatever you called them.”

  “So you’re telling us that you’ve never heard of Nevada Mining & Manufacturing. Is that correct?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I knew the people who ran that company from the old days when I lived in Vegas. I haven’t had any contact with them for years.”

  “Those people you’re referring to…that would be Michael and Victor Calenti. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And in those old days, you were employed as a corrections officer in the Las Vegas County Metropolitan Jail. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did you meet the Calentis?”

  “I didn’t know Victor. I knew Michael because he had legal problems. He had some minor scrapes with the law and ended up serving jail time.”

  “So you met Michael in your official capacity as a law enforcement officer.”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “The so what is that you were subsequently canned by the police department because they caught you consorting with a hooker who happened to be under correctional supervision—probation, I think—and because you were suspected of bringing contraband into the jail for Michael Calenti.”

  “Pure conjecture. It was never proven.”

  “If it wasn’t true, why didn’t you stick around and fight for your job?”

  Call’s face reddened and he struggled to hold his temper. “Because they’d made up their minds. I wouldn’t have gotten a fair hearing, so I decided it was time to move on.”

  “A minute ago you said you haven’t had any contact with the Calentis in years. Was that the truth, Brian?”

  Call hesitated, wondering if Books was bluffing or really knew something. He hedged his bet. “I can’t say definitively that I’ve never had any contact with the Calentis since I moved here.”

  “How frequent have the contacts been?”

  “I don’t know, on and off, not very often, though.”

  “Tell us why you would continue to have contacts with a family everybody knows has organized crime connections.”

  “That was just a rumor. I never believed it.”

  “For sake of argument, let’s say you continued to have intermittent contacts with the Calentis after you moved here and after you got back into law enforcement. What kind of business could you possibly have with them?”

  “Social, mostly. One time when I was working as an outfitter, Michael called and asked if I would guide him and some friends on a deer hunt.”

  “And did you?”

  “Naw, the trip fell through.”

  “How recently have you had contact with Nevada Mining & Manufacturing or the Calenti brothers?”

  “Not for months.”

  Books removed Call’s cell phone records from a file folder on the table in front of him. “These are your cell phone records for 2009. We don’t have your home phone records, but we’ll have them shortly. You’ve been lying to us, and we know it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay. Let’s look at the calls.” Books slid a highlighted copy of the records in front of Brian Call. “During the past several months, you’ve made numerous calls, more than two dozen, to two different Las Vegas numbers. One is the main number to the company and the other is Michael Calenti’s cell phone. And you have almost as many calls from him. How do you explain that?”

  “This is ridiculous. I don’t have to answer any more of your questions, and I’m not going to.”

  Sheriff Sutter said, “Listen up, Brian. As an officer in this department, you are obligated to cooperate with any internal investigation and truthfully answer our questions. If you don’t, I can fire your ass, and I will.”

  Call looked confused and upset. He was on the edge, unsure of what to do or say. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

  Books saw an opportunity to break him. “Look, Brian, let me tell you what I think is goin
g on. We’ve got a killer loose in this community—a killer who I believe murdered George Gadasky and David Greenbriar. I think this guy’s probably a pro, a contract killer dispatched by the Calentis. I think you’re involved, and I think you’ve gotten in way over your head.”

  Call interrupted. “That’s bullshit. We caught the killer. It’s Lance Clayburn, and we’ve got the evidence to prove it. He killed Greenbriar, and he probably killed George, too.”

  “He didn’t kill George, I’m sure of that.”

  Call sneered. “Yeah. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Lance called me two nights ago from New Hampshire. The kid got scared and ran home to his family. He wasn’t around to kill George Gadasky.”

  That news nearly brought Charley Sutter out of his chair, but he didn’t say anything. Virgil Bell raised his eyebrows, but, like Sutter, kept quiet.

  “Let me tell you something, Brian, I’ve been thinking about the physical evidence implicating Clayburn in Greenbriar’s murder. You know what? I think somebody planted that evidence so it would look like Greenbriar was killed by Darby’s jealous boyfriend. It actually made a lot of sense. And if you happened to be the guy who provided that evidence, it would explain the frequent calls between you and Michael Calenti.”

  “You’re crazy. You can’t prove any of it. It’s all speculation. Besides, why would the Calentis want to kill Greenbriar?”

  “So they could remove a serious obstacle to road expansion in the Grand Staircase. They couldn’t buy David Greenbriar, so they had him killed.”

  The sweat poured off Call’s forehead. “Why would the Calentis care about that?”

  “Because David and the Escalante Environmental Wilderness Alliance opposed Nevada Mining & Manufacturing’s plan to mine coal in the monument. The coal deposits are there. The company owns the mineral rights to what’s under the ground. All they need is new roads to make it cost effective to get their product to market. There’s a lot at stake—economic development, new jobs, and enormous profits for the Calentis.”

  “For Godsakes, man, if there’s some reasonable explanation for all these calls to the Calentis, please tell us what it is,” implored Sutter.