Carnosaur Crimes

by Christine Gentry

  “What federal repository?”

  “Probably the Museum of Paleontology at the University of California.”

  Ansel’s cheeks flared red. “Those fossils belong here in their natural state where they can be studied and enjoyed by Montanans.”

  Broderick shrugged. “Scholars from all over the world go to UC to study their fossil collections. They’re always re-evaluated. Fresh discoveries aren’t made just in the field.”

  “You still don’t understand, Agent Broderick. Our museum generates a lot of income for the city. You can’t take Big Toe’s livelihood away.”

  With a nod he said, “You’re right. I can’t. However, the state director, under a Secretarial Order, can issue a permit for the removal of vertebrate fossils to qualified paleontologists under certain terms and conditions.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to come to that,” interjected Ranger Eastover out of the blue. She gave Ansel a commiserating look.

  “We’ll get a fossil specialist out here and see,” Broderick pronounced.

  When Eastover said nothing further, Ansel asked, “Doesn’t the FBI already have a paleontology consultant with them?”

  Broderick shook his head. “The BLM uses real field experts, not desk jockeys like LaPierre.” He suddenly rose to his feet. “I have everything I need for the moment. If I have more questions, I’ll be back.”

  Ranger Eastover was obviously piqued. Her lips stretched into a grimace which obliterated the deep dimples on her cheeks. She flicked a strand of shoulder-length hair away from her face and jumped up.

  Ansel got up, too. “Who was the thief?”

  “We don’t know,” Eastover spoke up, “but he might be part of a poaching ring. Two other places were hit yesterday besides the museum. A fossil supply store in Sidney and a college exhibit in Glendive.”

  Broderick had just opened the trailer door and he wheeled around. “That’s restricted information, Eastover,” his voice boomed. “Do that again, and I’ll personally see to it that you’re no longer employed with the government. Let’s go.”

  Eastover simply turned and met Ansel’s eyes for several long seconds. Pulling a white business card from a pocket beneath her brass name tag, she slipped it to Ansel without comment.

  Ansel breathed a sigh of relief as the trailer door closed behind Eastover. The whole experience had been nerve-wracking but worth it. She knew exactly what the BLM was up to. Close the museum and remove the fossil footprints? Not if she had anything to do with it.

  Time to make some phone calls. The first to Reid Dorbandt.

  Chapter 5

  “White men have too many chiefs.”

  Nez Perce

  Dorbandt shifted his body and prayed the chair in front of Sheriff Bucky Combs’ desk wouldn’t squeal like a wounded animal and draw undo attention. He’d been sitting for twenty minutes. To pass the time, he’d listened as Combs groused on the phone to every FBI and BLM law officer that he could lasso with a phone line. Right now Combs was on an ass-rending tear with BLM Incident Commander Bob Carson.

  “I know the museum property is on BLM land,” Combs yelled, “but you have no authority to close public access thoroughfares. My deputies should have road-blocked Barnum Brown Road. Instead some Utah FBI geek with gun-toting goons waltzed in giving orders which you obeyed.”

  There was a moment of blessed silence as Combs listened, large right hand clenched on the receiver as if he’d bludgeon something given half the chance. His silver hair, buzzed to old Navy regulations, glittered beneath fluorescent tubes with a failing ballast. As Combs ground his lower jaw, the cleft in his chin did a horizontal dance. A knock at the door saved Dorbandt from zoning out completely as he watched the indentation’s hypnotic rhythm.

  Combs beckoned Chief Flynn inside. “Sure, both of us should have been notified that the FBI was here. The fact remains that I keep the peace and I knew nothing about this from you. I’m supposed to be protecting citizens from criminal offenders, not federal hotshots. Any matter involving Lacrosse thoroughfares or municipal properties had better involve my office, Bob.”

  Combs hung up without further ceremony. “Damn, I’m sick of these federal cluster fucks. Bad enough I stroke the BLM and the USFS all the time, now the Effin-Bee-Eye is in my face telling me what I can and can’t investigate.”

  Flynn, looking nappy in his starched blue uniform and took the seat next to Dorbandt. His hair blazed orange under the jaundiced light tubes. “Morning, Sheriff. Lieutenant. I guess if I’m here, you’ve decided to do something about it.”

  Combs shook his head. “No. We’re going to do something about it.”

  Dorbandt straightened. He hadn’t appreciated being dismissed like an errand boy by Agent Outerbridge. “What did you have in mind?”

  “We need to pool our resources. The feds are freezing us out, but I’m going to light a brand fire under them,” Combs declared, throwing his stocky bulk against his chair seat.

  “I’m in,” Flynn said.

  Dorbandt nodded. “I’m with you, Sheriff. I just don’t know how far the detective division can go. Outerbridge took the forensics evidence and robbery hardware. Even the truck. That makes us blind in one eye from the start.”

  “We’ve still got something they don’t.” Combs picked up a folder. “The perp.”

  “Howdun’s autopsy report?” Dorbandt asked.

  The Sheriff nodded. “The DB was an Indian male in his early twenties. Height about six feet, one inch. Weight around one-hundred-sixty pounds. Looks like a faulty gas valve on the propane tank exploded.” He opened the file and pulled out four full-color eight-by-tens.

  Dorbandt’s eyes widened. An Indian. He wondered how Ansel would take the news. “How do you know that?”

  “Howdun pulled a handwheel valve out of the vic’s stomach. That’s the only reason we have it. It’s not stamped with the letters OPD. That tells us that the tank wasn’t fitted with an Overfill Protection Device. A spark must have ignited leaking gas, and the resulting flame wicked backwards to blow the cannister wide open.”

  “The saw might be a pre-2002 model,” Flynn said. “That’s when National Fuel Gas Safety Code legislation was passed that said all propane tanks up to forty pounds had to have an OPD device or they can’t be refilled.”

  Combs passed the glossies of the contorted, burnt corpse lying on the autopsy table to Flynn. “Maybe. Or it was a new saw with a cheap replacement tank of earlier vintage. Hell, could be just an old saw with an old tank that wasn’t refilled by a certified propane distributor that knew about the laws. Add the fact that the saw was carried in a flatbed during record high temperatures, and you’ve already got a super-heated, incinerary gas bomb.”

  Flynn shuffled quickly through the grisly pictures, shook his head with revulsion, and passed them to Dorbandt. “Damn. What a way to go.”

  Combs nodded. “I won’t argue that. He had third degree burns over eighty percent of his body. Burned off his clothes. Even melted his rubber boot soles and night vision goggles. His lungs were congested and showed focal hemorrhage due to the inhalation of hot gas so he was alive until the explosion wedged him into the dinosaur’s mouth. A big tooth punched right though his heart. He died from cardiac arrest due to heart trauma and hemorrhaging.”

  Dorbandt looked up from the photos. “So, technically speaking, the lizard killed him.”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say the dino did it.”

  Flynn asked, “What are the chances of getting an ID?”

  “Good. We’ve know his physical characteristics, and we’ve got skin, blood, teeth, and bone marrow to work with for the dental, blood grouping, and DNA comparisons. I’ll push it through computers, but it takes time. We need a facial ID. Without one, we can’t get his picture into circulation so somebody steps forward to identify him.”

  Dorbandt concurred. The stiff, inhuman form had only a charred, skeletal mask, its shrunken, lidless eyes lacking recognizable color. The hair was gone. Dorbandt handed th
e photos back to Combs as Flynn asked, “What about personal effects?”

  Combs swiped a bear paw hand across his brow. “Nothing left. Maybe the feds got clues from the truck. I did find some interesting information in the x-rays, though.”

  The sheriff pulled out another sheet. “He had a T10-T11 spinal cord injury, multiple rib fractures, a tension pneumothorax, and was missing his spleen. He also had a claw-foot or curled toes because of a Lisfranc fracture of the right foot. The bone injuries looked like they’d healed on their own. The surgical incision was several years old. Our perp was relatively young, but he’d sure taken a pummeling.”

  “Think he was beaten?” Dorbandt asked.

  “No. His injuries are common to somebody who’s been thrown from horses or bulls several times. Maybe a rodeo rider or a horse trainer. The spinal injury and the ruptured spleen probably happened when he fell off an animal. The ribs and chest problems could come from falling against a bucking animal or striking body parts while on the way to the ground. A Lisfranc fracture involves the dislocation of the tarsometatarsal joint in the middle of the foot. It happens when there’s a high-energy blow to a boot or a twisting fall where the foot gets trapped in the stirrup and a person is hung-up during a fall. Maybe even dragged.”

  Dorbandt’s stomach turned. He’d once seen a fourteen-year-old boy without protective gear illegally riding a bull at a rodeo event. The kid struck his head against the bull’s head with such force that he suffered a traumatic brain injury, a spinal fracture, multiple nasal fractures, and remained unconscious for sixteen days. He was transferred to an acute care facility. He’d last heard that the boy remained in a persistent, vegetative state. So far, protective gear designed for bull or bronco riding hadn’t been recommended or even developed by rodeo organizations.

  Dorbandt jumped in. “You want me to check the local rodeos and ranches to see if the perp worked nearby, right?”

  “Sorry. I think Flynn should do it. He’s more familiar with the Big Toe locals.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” the Chief said.

  Combs looked at Dorbandt. “I have another assignment from the Coroner’s Office for you. Since I am the Chief Coroner, the feds can’t bitch about interference with their case.” He showed Dorbandt a block-toothed mouth full of white enamel. “I want you to visit a forensic anthropologist associated with the University of Technology who does facial reconstructions.”

  Flynn shot Dorbandt a sympathetic look. “Oh, oh. Guess you drew the short straw, Detective.”

  Dorbandt stared at Flynn, then turned toward Combs. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re transporting the perp’s head to Billings,” the sheriff said.

  A range of emotions surged through Dorbandt’s body. Disbelief. Disgust. Resistance. Surrender. “Can we do that legally? Just lop off the head and cart it around?”

  “If it will ease your mind, the head fell off during the autopsy,” Combs clarified. “And, yes, the Medical Examiner has total control over what means are used to identify a victim and the cause of death. Doc Tweedy prepared the papers authorizing delivery of the head to the facial recontructionist an hour ago. I’m not signing the death certificate until I’m sure it was an accident.”

  “I agree,” added Flynn. “You saw the cutter, Lieutenant. Those self-propelled, concrete machines retail around three to five grand. The night vision goggles run up to fifteen-hundred dollars. I doubt he was alone in this get-rich-scheme to rip off tracks.”

  “Exactly,” Combs agreed. “I’ve heard some whispers that the FBI sniffed around Lacrosse because they’re chasing a Montana fossil theft ring. I’ve got feelers out through our office and the state police to see if it’s true. Drop the head off, talk to this expert, and see what she can tell you She’ll need time to examine the skull and work up a profile, but something’s better than nothing right now.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning. The itinerary will be on your desk late this afternoon. I’ll talk to Captain McKenzie. You’ll report your findings to me. I want a low profile, gentlemen.”

  Flynn got up. “I’ll do my best, but I’ve got five Big Toe town councilmen nipping at my heels. I’ll bear down if it comes to it, FBI or not.” He looked at Dorbandt. “Have a good trip.” In a second, the Irishman was out the door.

  “Can I have a copy of the autopsy report?” Dorbandt asked.

  “Take this.” Combs passed it over.

  Dorbandt flipped quickly through the brief provisional report. One specific paragraph caught his eye. It listed the perp’s stomach contents, and his pulse quickened. A clue to the Indian’s activities during the last few hours of his life had just leaped out at him. The trilling of his cell phone broke his concentration.

  “Go ahead and get that if you don’t have any other questions.”

  “Nothing right now, sir.” Dorbandt rose, file in one hand while pulling the phone from inside his jacket pocket with the other. He moved quickly through the office door and into the hubbub of a harried, central administrative area. “Lieutenant Dorbandt.”

  “Reid. It’s Ansel. Can you talk?”

  He made sure his voice didn’t betray his surprise. “For a minute. What is it?”

  “It’s about the museum investigation.”

  “According to the FBI, I’m officially off the case. I told you to stay out of it.”

  “I’m involved whether you like it or not. This morning two BLM officers talked to me.”

  “Only because you brought attention to yourself by deliberately being at a crime scene, Ansel. You knew better. I warned you that you’d be messing with a federal posse.”

  “You sound like my father. I didn’t call for a lecture. I need your help.”

  Dorbandt sighed. “All right. What did the cops say?”

  “So you’re interested. If you want to know, you’ve got to meet me. How about lunch?”

  Despite his irritation, Dorbandt’s curiosity was piqued - an Achilles Heel that Ansel had speared with a woman warrior’s eye for blood. Since June the year before, they’d talked occasionally. Nothing but friendly chatter. The last few months had been hectic in homicide, and she’d been busy doing book drawings. Maybe he could get some bonus legwork done on this case before leaving for Billings.

  “How about dinner instead?”

  “Where?”

  “Humpy’s Grill in Swoln. I’ll give you directions. Be there by eight.”

  “Swoln? It’s on the other side of the county.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got a craving for a buffalo tongue sandwich,” Dorbandt replied, slapping the autopsy file against his thigh.

  Chapter 6

  “Life is both giving and receiving.”

  Mohawk

  Lacrosse County covered approximately seventeen-hundred square miles with a total population of three-thousand. That boiled down to one-point-eight people for every square mile, Ansel considered as she drove into Swoln, a rooster tail of gumbo dust arching behind the truck’s exhaust. Of the three towns - Mission City, Big Toe, and Swoln - why did Dorbandt have to pick this godforsaken place to have dinner?

  Swoln, inhabited by about two-hundred people, was an isolated livestock range for sheep. The town’s name referred to an historical incident. In 1905 the first commercial flock, brought in and accidentally placed in a pasture with clover, ate so much of the tasty plant that every sheep developed a severe case of bloat. Digestive gases expanded their stomachs like balloons, and they all fell over on their sides, feet uphill.

  The entire town spent a night rolling over hundreds of distressed, glassy-eyed sheep so their feet faced downhill and they could stand by themselves, or in cutting a single hole in the beasts’ rumens so the gasses were artificially expelled. Luckily only a few sheep expired, and the associated town appellation of “Swollen” gracefully morphed into Swoln over time.

  Ansel followed Dorbandt’s scanty directions and cruised down Main Street. If she’d blinked, she’d have missed th
e whole downtown area. The only sign of civilization in the dark, rolling landscape was a row of dimly-lighted, two-story brick buildings on one side and a row of contemporary glass-front buildings on the other. The clay monstrosities looked like original town structures - a municipal building, bank, and feed store. As for the other canopied storefronts, Ansel figured that contemporary around here meant the1950s.

  Humpys Grill wasn’t hard to find. Every decrepit truck in town was hunkered in front of it. Only Dorbandt’s unmarked, white sedan spoiled the pickup conga line. A huge, blue neon sign over the soaped-over store windows flickered the restaurant’s name and the profile of a buffalo.

  Lovely, Ansel reflected, parking next to the cop car. She fussed with her form-fitting, scoop-necked T-shirt and fringed, brown suede vest before grabbing her purse. Out of the cab, she quickly placed her left palm on the sedan hood as she passed it. Aside from residual heat from a broiling hot day, the engine was relatively cool. Reid had arrived quite some time before her.

  She moved toward the entrance, hoping that her casual, sexy look would hold Dorbandt’s attention long enough to disarm his usually guarded interaction with her. It had worked before. A crude cardboard sign taped to the door read, “If you don’t pay, don’t bother to runs. My bullet is faster than your buns.”

  Ansel sighed and entered. The cloying smells of horseradish, smoke, and, dish-washing soap hit her nose as the door slowly closed behind her. She’d expected every dirty, grizzled sheepherder’s head to turn and leer at the sight of a Native American woman entering their lair, but it didn’t happen.

  Everybody was too busy eating. The tiny room was jam-packed with tables full of clean-shaven cowboys and rosy-cheeked women. The men wore dressy western shirts, boot-cut denims, and polished boots. The ladies wore brightly-colored gingham and calico dresses with puffed sleeves. An open mesquite grill crackled and smoked along the rear wall.