The Edge of Justice

by Clinton McKinzie

  “You look worse than some corpses I've seen,” he growls to me.

  “You don't look so hot yourself,” I say.

  “Frigging altitude.”

  “Or those cigars you smoke and all the whiskey you drink. It looks like I made the papers, Boss. Again.”

  “I sold you out to Rebecca Hersh . . . that intrepid reporter. She wants to do . . . a feature on you now.”

  It is Rebecca's turn to blush. I say, “I hope it's not more about me getting beat up by a bunch of kids.”

  “I haven't worked it all out yet,” she explains, suddenly very professional, after the waiter comes back to fill my coffee and take orders from the new customers, “but I want it to be about police officers who have to use the guns they carry. And how it always ends in lawsuits. A sort of comment on the state of the law these days. I'd also talk to Morris Cash and the federal judge who's involved.” After the waiter leaves I suggest she use the various recent examples from New York or Los Angeles instead of my case in Cheyenne. I have had quite enough publicity.

  “The Post's readers aren't concerned with those places. They want to hear about something closer to home. So you're my man.”

  I wish.

  Rebecca says she has some questions for us both about the Lee trial. McGee waves a fat hand at the café full of reporters around us and replies that she can ask them later. So instead she tells us about the two antelope and the badger she saw while running on a trail through the foothills that morning. “This is an amazing place,” she says. “You've got gangs, murderers, cowboys, corrupt cops, hippies, and incredible wildlife all in the same town.”

  I remember the times when my brother and I, as kids, hiked into the low hills and canyons just east of town. A badger lived just off the overgrown road. If we ran around a turn and came quickly enough into view, we would catch the badger out of his hole and get to watch him scurry for it, muttering in annoyance. We even had a name for him—we called him Nixon because he reminded us of a picture of the president. Then one day just as we came around the corner there was a long series of staccato gunshots followed by laughter. Three university students were gathered over the corpse of the badger they had just shot. They laughed and fired into it some more until all that was left of Nixon was a blown-apart pulp of hair and blood. I remember crying silently in the bushes while Roberto crept up to their truck, took out his pocketknife, and slashed all four tires. It was the same general area where Matthew Shepard was tied to a buck fence and pistol-whipped to death, the same area where Rebecca witnessed such beauty today. Wyoming is a strange place, I think.

  Once I finish my own meal, I put a ten-dollar bill on the table and reluctantly leave, explaining that I have some calls to make and reports to write.

  Back in my room, I again try Chris Braddock's phone number. It is answered by the same mature male voice I had spoken to on Sunday evening.

  “Is Chris there?”

  “No, he's not. Want me to take down a message for him?”

  “No, that's all right. But I really need to get in touch with him. Is he at work or something?”

  The voice laughs. “Chris doesn't exactly work. He's gone on a climbing trip. Some of his hippie friends came by and carted him off on Sunday night.”

  “Listen, my name is Antonio Burns. I'm a Special Agent with the Attorney General's Office. It's important that I find Chris and ask him some questions. Who am I talking to?”

  “This is Chris's landlord. I own this house and rent out rooms to college kids, mostly. Chris isn't in any trouble, is he, Agent?”

  “I don't think he's in any trouble. I just have a couple of questions for him.”

  “He's not a bad kid, you know. Just smokes a little dope in the backyard where he thinks I won't notice and hangs out with a strange crowd. I wouldn't want to see him go to jail or anything.”

  “Who came and got him on Sunday?”

  “They were the same ones he always hangs out with. An older guy named Billy who looks like a professional wrestler and a younger guy who never washes his hair. The guy with the hair's name is Brad Karge. He's the County Attorney's son.”

  “Do you know where they were going?”

  “Only because they were arguing about it so loud in the room next to where I was trying to watch the Rockies game. See, Chris didn't want to go anywhere. He kept telling those two that he was tired and had things to do. But they weren't having any of it. They kept on arguing with him. I walked in to ask them to keep it down and saw that those two were packing his gear, with Chris just sitting there like a kid who didn't want to go to church. The big guy gave me a nasty look, so I ended up just turning up the TV.”

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  “They kept talking about someplace called Cloud Peak. They were acting weird, like they usually do. Telling him something like that's where the angels fly.”

  I hang up the phone and sit still on the bed for a long time. Despite the old codeine I took after breakfast, my head, back, and legs still ache. The stuff is probably too old to be fully effective. Or worse, maybe it has developed some side effect like hallucinations. I try to remember when I was last injured and got the prescription. Two years ago? Three? After a few minutes I get up to stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are set deeper than ever, pushed back by the swelling of the bruises on my cheeks. The tennis shoe tread is still plainly visible on top of the old scar that runs down my face.

  “Shit,” I say to my reflection. The visage there looks as bad as I feel. I really don't feel up to taking a trip.

  When I get my car keys from the top of the dresser, their jangle causes Oso to lift his heavy head. The beast follows me outside, past the pool and the curious stares from the tanning journalists. In the parking lot I unlock the truck and drag a large storage crate from the rear. I carry it into my room and then make a second trip for the other.

  Back in the room I open them up and pull out some of my camping and climbing gear. Within minutes the room looks like an outdoor store that has been bombed. Everything smells slightly of dirt and sweat and gasoline. Oso recognizes those odors and is familiar with the packing process. He watches intently, in anticipation, as he always does when a trip is being planned. He knows we are going out into the mountains, and there is nothing he likes better. And I usually feel the same.

  There is a knock at the door and I call for whoever it is to come in. I expect the maid or McGee, but it is Rebecca. She steps into the room and over the mess to sit on the bed while I wrestle my sleeping bag into the tiny stuff sack. The effort makes my ribs ache.

  “Going somewhere, or are you just a slob?” I'm pleased she is back to being casual with me.

  “An impromptu camping trip. That witness I wanted to talk to, Chris Braddock, was apparently coerced off into the mountains Sunday night by Heller and Brad Karge. I want to talk to him, and I'm a little worried they know it. I don't want him to have a climbing accident up there.”

  “So what are you going to do? Try and stop them from climbing? By yourself?”

  I shake my head as I fill water bottles at the sink. “No, just try to talk to them. But mainly make an appearance in the hopes that it'll keep the other two from doing Chris any harm up there.”

  “Great. I want to come.”

  I turn off the sink and wipe the bottle on a towel before tossing it in the open pack. “Sorry, but I don't think that's a very good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, they're up in the Big Horns, in Johnson County. It's easily a four-hour drive up there. And where they're climbing is a place way back in the wilderness—a long, long hike. It's cold, there's bears, and I may have to do some climbing myself. But I promise to give you a full report when I get back.”

  She crosses her arms in front of her like a petulant, beautiful child. “I still want to go. Like I told you yesterday, you seem to be where all the excitement in this town is, at least until the sentencing. And do you realize that if the Knapp brothers didn't
kill Kimberly Lee, that this could be the biggest story I'll ever see?”

  Instead of replying, I shake the fuel bottle to see how much gas it holds.

  “Maybe you don't think I can keep up. Well, I ran six miles this morning. You may have once been some semifamous athlete, but I can easily keep up with you, especially the way you look right now. And I may not know how to climb, but I grew up camping all over the country with my dad.”

  “Sorry, but also there's the fact that these are not three of the nicest guys.”

  She looks at me, her smile gone. I know what she is thinking, and wonder if she will say it. That I owe her for having helped me the day before. That she was the only one who tried—even the police wouldn't help me. But she doesn't say it, and I like her even better for it. She doesn't say another word. She just gets up and walks out of the room.

  Finished with my packing, I have a brief conversation with McGee over the hotel's phone system. He wants me to take backup, either one of the other DCI agents or some local deputies in Johnson County. I explain there is no time—I'm leaving this minute. McGee reluctantly agrees to let me go but clearly isn't happy about it. I make him feel better by saying that I'm taking Oso, and that he will back me up. And I tell him I'll be back the next night, I hope. Thursday morning at the absolute latest, as that is when I'm due in federal court for the summary judgment hearing.

  I tell Oso to heel, grimace as I sling the big pack over one shoulder, and walk out to the car. The old dog is almost dancing beside me with an excitement that this time I don't share.

  I stop when I see the car. From the rear of it I can see a familiar ponytail in the passenger seat. When I open the driver's door, she says, “You can drag me out, but I'll make a scene and all those reporters by the pool will run over here. Besides,” she tells me, finally playing the trump card, “you do owe me.”

  The hot wind whistles through the truck the entire ride to Buffalo. I keep the windows down so Oso can hang his massive head out and fling drool down the side of the Land Cruiser. We drive north past the ghost town of Bosler, then northeast through the jagged tear of Sybille Canyon. From the CD player I installed, the only modern convenience on the rattling old truck, howl the sounds of Blues Traveler and Blind Melon.

  Rebecca's long hair wraps around her face until she uses a bandanna that she wears like a pirate to hold it down. From behind my sunglasses, which sit crooked on my swollen face, I admire the long runner's legs that extend from her shorts. She calls a brief halt as we pass the high fence of the wildlife refuge in the canyon. Beyond the gate, in a meadow cut down the center by a stream, stand a herd of elk. Rebecca climbs out of the truck and gazes at them without speaking. Oso shoves his head through the fence and stares beside her. After a moment he lets out a fierce bellow that startles the elk, causing them to turn and bound into the forest beyond the meadow. The beast looks at us for congratulations. Rebecca laughs and says to herself, “Wow. You're a long way from Denver, Dorothy.”

  We leave the canyon near Wheatland and meet up with the interstate highway. On it, the pitch of the wind in the car rises to a gale. There is no point in conversation in these conditions, so I simply turn up the music and press down the accelerator. One of the things I still enjoy about being a cop is my practical immunity from traffic tickets. We speed northward through the ranching towns of Douglas and Glenrock, then Wyoming's largest city, Casper, and then there is nothing but grass and sandstone and an ungodly wind that shakes the truck until we ascend up to the pine trees outside of Buffalo. Over the town and to the west I can see the snowcapped peaks of the Big Horn Mountains.

  I point at them, finally feeling Oso's infectious excitement, and shout over the noise, “That's where we're going.”

  TWENTY

  IN BUFFALO WE eat lunch on the patio of a small, funky café called the Moonbeam. It is the one place in town that isn't franchised fast food or a truck stop. We both order the special, some sort of couscous and tofu, and drink glass after glass of sweet mint tea. Besides us, there is only the proprietor. He is a thin, older man adorned with gold hoops in both ears and ribbons braided into his goatee. Without being asked, he brings Oso a bowl of cool water.

  “This place belongs in Boulder,” she says, referring to Denver's granola-ish suburb where I spent my graduate school years. “Or maybe even Ward. Did you ever go to Ward? I did an article on it last year, after the town elected a horse as their mayor.”

  I once dated a girl who lived there in the summertime and tell Rebecca about her. Her home was an old VW bus with a sun shower rigged on the roof. It was just one of many such homes in Ward. And across the road was the trailhead to the Indian Peaks Wilderness, where there are some of Colorado's finest and least-crowded mountaineering routes. I had liked the place. And I respected the people who had the good sense to elect a horse rather than a politician.

  “Are you still dating her?” Rebecca asks, eyeing me with what I hope is more than casual interest. She looks good with the red bandanna tied over the top of her head. Her hair spills out from under it and has been twisted by the wind. Dressed like this she could be a local in the Moonbeam Café and she would fit right in in Ward. All she needs is a tie-dye instead of her black silk T-shirt.

  “No. That was years ago. The last I heard she'd moved her van to the Valley. Yosemite.”

  “Tell me then, does Special Agent Burns have a love interest? My sources have confirmed that you've been spotted with a very tan blonde.”

  She certainly has good sources. That must have been Kristi, the DCI secretary. At least I hope no one spotted Lynn leaving my room early Saturday morning. As I ponder the safest way to answer her question, I realize that I don't mind the way the conversation is going. It gives me an excuse to ask about her situation.

  I take a gamble. “If your sources are referring to a Mexican restaurant in Laramie, then no, that wasn't a love interest but a working dinner.”

  The gamble pays off—she looks satisfied with my answer.

  “And how about you? What's your status?”

  “I think in the Moonbeam Café you should be asking me my sign.”

  “Okay, what's your sign, then tell me your status.”

  “Aries. Dating, but nothing serious.”

  We watch each other for a moment, then at the same time we both look away. That makes her laugh.

  “So why did you become a cop? With your background, you could have been a diplomat, a lawyer, or an Air Force officer like your father.”

  “I didn't want any more of the military life,” I explain. “By growing up in it I put in my twenty years. And I'd lose my mind if I had to sit behind a desk all day. I don't have the attention span for that. I used to do some guiding in the summers, in Alaska, but that was boring too, short-roping clients up Denali. I thought carrying a badge and a gun would be more exciting. Going after drug dealers and child molesters. It sounded like fun.”

  “It's not?” she asks.

  “Not anymore. Not since that thing in Cheyenne.”

  “Why don't you quit, do something else?”

  “The problem is that it's a game. That's what's wrong with it—it shouldn't be a game. But it's a game I can't stand to lose. Every time I'm ready to quit, something like this comes up and I have to see it through.” The thought of the Knapp brothers being put to death for a crime they didn't commit makes me angry. So does the thought of Heller, Karge, and Willis getting away with something, even profiting from it. A part of me feels not only righteously indignant but also competitive. I want to win.

  After our food comes I begin to quiz her on the contents of the duffel bag that she's brought along. When she tells me, I shake my head in dismay, teasing her. It turns out that the things she brought aren't suitable for anything but car camping. And she finally admits that is the only kind of camping she has ever done. On a paper napkin I make a list of the things she will need. I feel like I'm starting a wonderful vacation rather than working on a murder investigation.

  A
fter paying an exorbitant bill for the healthy, flavorless meal, we drive a few miles outside of town to a small camping and mountaineering shop I know. I park the truck in the dirt parking lot outside the store. The only other car in the lot is a battered pickup, its back window and bumper plastered with stickers supporting environmental causes. Instead of telling Oso to stay, I invite him out of the truck. He bounds out too youthfully for his years and runs up on the porch. Rebecca looks at me, puzzled, as I hold the store's door open first for the beast, then her.

  From inside come the sounds of squeals, shouts, and the clatter of merchandise being knocked over. It is a single cluttered room. Metal climbing devices hang from one wall; from another, sleeping bags are suspended; and from a third is an assortment of dehydrated food. On the floor there are tents both fully erected and half collapsed amid the racks of clothing. One rack is knocked over near a rapidly deflating tent. A middle-aged woman with long, stringy hair is yelling at Oso and two other dogs, the three of them leaping and wrestling in the tight spaces.

  “Stop that, girls! Cut it out, Oso!” she says, then she turns to us at the door and yells at me too. “Goddamn it, Anton!”

  I stand grinning. Despite the bruises and the aches, I'm feeling good. Relaxed. This place is another memory of better times.

  The woman goes on yelling and the dogs scrambling and fighting until I grab Oso by the collar and drag him, with the two smaller females hanging on tenaciously, out through a small door at the back of the store which leads into a yard. When I come back in, the woman pushes her hair out of her face, then puts her hands on her hips, letting out a sigh of exasperation as she observes the mess. Then she turns to Rebecca.

  “My name's Cecelia,” she tells her.

  “I'm Rebecca. I'm very sorry about Oso causing all this mess.”

  Cecelia glares at me. “Anton always does that. It scares the hell out of me. But my girls just love that monster of his.”

  I take Cecelia in my arms and kiss her cheek. Rebecca observes this critically, looking for signs of past or current intimacy, I guess.