Carnosaur Crimes

by Christine Gentry

  Flynn immediately sat on a black sofa that looked like he lived in it. Magazines, empty soda cans, non-prescription medicines, and unwashed food dishes spotted the floor around the sofa and the coffee table in front of it. “What can I help you with?” he asked agreeably.

  Reid forced himself to take a nasty-looking recliner on the right side of the sofa. Odie remained standing. This was how they operated. He’d ask the questions while his partner slowly circulated the room. Odie would peruse the immediate area within eyesight for anything suspicious or telling and if Flynn bolted, Odie would nab him in a second.

  He pulled out his notebook and a pen from an inside breast pocket. “Exactly when was the last time you talked to Cullen Flynn?”

  Cyrus watched him carefully. “The end of April. The thirtieth, I think. Pay day for both of us. Uncle Cullen brought me some extra cash.”

  “How often does Cullen do that?”

  “Not much. Maybe twice a year. Like I said, we aren’t close, but he helps me out.”

  Odie shifted to the left and walked around the sofa. Reid held Flynn’s attention. “Do you ever argue with your uncle?”

  Cyrus shrugged. “Sure, sometimes. He gets on my case about my past. He’s a cop. I’m the black sheep of the family.”

  Cyrus looked over his shoulder at Odie, who had moved beyond the sofa toward the kitchen. “Hey, I thought you just wanted to ask questions.”

  Odie turned around and smiled, but kept walking toward the kitchen entrance and a closed door against one wall. “This place sure brings back memories. My grandmother had a house like this. What year was it built?”

  “I don’t know,” Cyrus said, eyeing the detective warily. “I rent. I’d prefer it if you didn’t wander too far, okay?”

  “You ever have a serious disagreement with Cullen? One that got physical?” Reid said.

  Cyrus’ head snapped around. “What? No. He yells at me and I yell back. That’s it. He was a pain in the ass sometimes, but I’ve never hurt him.”

  “Was?” he asked, staring carefully.

  “I mean is, of course,” Cyrus corrected, rubbing a hand across his face. “I’m tired. It’s been a long night, and you’re making me nervous.”

  “You just got off shift from the slaughterhouse, right?”

  Cyrus snorted and leaned back against the cushions. “They call it a beef kill, not a slaughterhouse. You know what I do? I’m the shackler. It’s the filthiest job in the whole plant, man. Cows come in three at a time, and another guy called the knocker shoots a three inch long spike through their heads before they drop down, twitching and kicking, into a pit with me. I wrap a chain around their left rear legs so they get hoisted thirty feet over my head and moved to another guy who cuts them throat to breastbone. Bleeds them out.”

  Cyrus glanced at Odie, who had returned near the sofa. He heaved his shoulders dramatically and then gazed hard at Reid, “Hell, I stand in that bloody piss and shit hole eight hours a day, and you guys wonder why I can’t talk straight?”

  He had listened with one ear as Cyrus rattled on and perused the room with both eyes. The sympathy ploy was standard fodder for ex-cons. When they weren’t jiving, hustling, or lying about one thing, they were wheedling, whining, or wowing you about something else. So far, he’d only seen one item in the house that interested him.

  “You’re using drugs, aren’t you Cyrus?”

  “No, dammit. I’m clean.”

  “You don’t look it. What is it Crank? Crack?”

  “I’ve got a cold. You can test me. I’m clean,” Cyrus flared.

  “How about a gun?” he asked, going straight for Cyrus’ jugular. “Got one stashed here?”

  Cyrus’ face went flat. “No. What are you doing? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You’ve got a gun and ammo magazine on the coffee table,” Reid pushed.

  “I used to hunt a lot. A man can read about guns can’t he?”

  “Ever use a shotgun?” Odie queried.

  Cyrus calmly reached for a pack of smokes on the table. “Oh, now you’ve got me, boys.” he retorted, as he pulled a cigarette out and stuck it between his lips. “I confess. I used one plenty before becoming a guest of the states of Montana and Wyoming. Gut shot three deers and a turkey if a recollect right. Is that illegal these days?” He used a lighter to stoke the smoke in between a few congestive coughs.

  “Lying to a sheriff’s detective is,” Reid snapped. “If I have to come back again, it will be with a search warrant, a DAF swat team, and an army of sheriff’s deputies. Get smart, Cyrus. Is there anything you want to tell us about your uncle’s vanishing act before we leave?”

  Cyrus glared back, cigarette burning between his pale, trembling fingers. “I don’t deserve this. I’m out of jail and off the drugs. Just trying to straighten my life out, man. You should be detecting what really happened to Uncle Cullen, not harassing me.”

  He closed his notebook and stood. “Don’t leave Swoln.” He headed for the front door at a jaunty pace, Odie’s heavy footfalls behind him. Cyrus didn’t bother to leave the couch, just sucked on his cigarette with short angry puffs as they opened the door and departed.

  Once at the sedan, Odie said, “He’s lying.”

  “Like a cur dog in dirt,” Reid agreed as they both slid into the car. “Have you ever been to a slaughterhouse?”

  Odie shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Well if you had, you’d know that anyone who works there smells like blood. They can’t come home and wash it away. It’s in their clothes. It’s in the skin. It’s in their hairs. Cyrus had taken a shower, but he still didn’t smell like blood, feces, or urine. Either did that house. Makes me wonder what he’s really doing at Swoln Stockyards.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. What’s next?”

  Reid strapped on his seatbelt and grinned. “Today we’ll stop in Swoln and ask some questions. See if anybody saw Chief Flynn’s Jeep pass through town the day before yesterday. We’ll also ask about the Indian with a gimp. I got the lab results back from Butte. My buffalo tongue sandwich matched the poacher’s stomach contents. He was at Humpy’s all right.”

  “That was good work, Reid,” Odie said reverently.

  “If you like that, you’re really going to like this. I’ve got an idea how we might slap a face on the poacher without having to wait for the reconstruction from Billings,” he said, thinking as he had been for the last few days about Chloe Birch. Who knew when he’d get back to see her again with the Cullen Flynn dilemma?

  “Odie started the car and backed down the drive. “How’s that?”

  “There’s a bank across the street from the restaurant with a money machine. It has a closed circuit camera on it. Maybe it catches people going in and out of the restaurant. That means he’s on tape.”

  Odie’s large, square teeth gleamed like Chicklets. “Sweet. And maybe the lab can tell us something about the wadding from the jailbird’s car. Somebody shot a gun near it. The only problem is, it doesn’t mean it has anything to do with the Chief’s vanishing act.”

  Reid nodded. “True, but I’ll bet you a bucket of cluck from the Chicken Barn that this week was payday at the Big Toe police station.”

  Suddenly a cell phone rang. “That mine or yours?” Odie asked as he sped down the gumbo road.

  “Mine.” He pulled it out of his jacket. “Lieutenant Dorbandt.”

  “Hi, Reid. It’s Chloe.”

  “Well, hello. This is a surprise,” Reid turned his head toward the passenger window.

  Chloe giggled. “A pleasant one, I hope.”

  “Very. How are you progressing on your reconstruction, Dr. Burke?”

  “Oh, so formal. You’re not alone, I gather.”

  Reid looked at Odie, who grinned wolfishly at him. “No.”

  “All right, I get the message. I’ve been working day and night since you left. Even begged off some of my college classes on other professors who owe me favors. I know how badly your department needs
this completed. Besides, it’s really for you,” she said meaningfully.

  Now Odie was grinning at him. “And I appreciate your efforts.”

  Chloe laughed again. “I’ve scanned the skull and finished placing the skin depth markers this morning. I going to convert those measurements into a computerized program this afternoon.

  “Great.”

  “As I mentioned before, this is a radical approach that sometimes gets negative press as not being as accurate, but I think that’s just subjective resistance to change.”

  “Do whatever you have to. The poaching case may tie in with something else I’m working on. It’s imperative that we get some leads. Chloe, this is great news.”

  “Chloe, huh?” Odie echoed.

  Reid shot him a stern look, which partially dissolved when he saw the man’s broad, clownish mug. “This couldn’t come at a better time,” he told Chloe.

  “Just trying to help. I’ll call when the reconstruction is done.”

  Her voice sounded anxious and excited about the idea of speaking to him again soon, and Reid smiled. “Thanks, Dr. Birch,” he said and clicked off. He glared at Odie. “Don’t say a word. Not one, New York Times puzzle word.”

  Chapter 18

  “Man’s law changes with his understanding of man. Only the laws of the spirit remain always the same.”

  Crow

  Ansel’s remote rang beside the art table and she scooped it up. “Phoenix Studios,” she said, critically surveying the new pen and ink sketch of a Giganotosaurus she’d use as a template for the Argentine book drawing. “How may I help you?”

  “Tell me what you’d get if you crossed a dinosaur with a herd of cows?”

  She stiffened. “Daddy, you told me that joke when I was six years old. You get a dinosaur that isn’t hungry any more.”

  Chase laughed. “You’re no fun, Sarcee.”

  “Why are you calling?” Her simmering ire about Rusty Flynn was bubbling over.

  “Just wanted to say that Noah Zollie will phone you. I talked to him this morning.”

  Ansel didn’t care about Zollie. “I didn’t need your help. I’m perfectly capable of running my own affairs. Stop doing things behind my back. I don’t like it.”

  A heavy silence prevailed until Chase said, “I’m missing something. What’s wrong?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that Rusty was back in Lacrosse?”

  Another long beat. “Shoot. I was going to. Who told you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you didn’t,” Ansel declared. “How could you let me wander around town not knowing he’d been back for a year? A year! What if I’d run into him? What if he did something to me? How would you feel? You and Cullen Flynn. Neither of you bothered to tell me. How could you do this, Daddy?”

  Chase sighed his distress. “I can see how much you’re hurting, Sarcee. Your flashbacks are still strong, and...”

  “Don’t throw psychology at me,” she screamed. “And don’t call me for a while. I’ve got to forgive you first.”

  She disconnected, then sat clutching the device in one, white-knuckled fist. Tears of anger and frustration pooled in her eyes, and she blinked them back. Cut the waterworks, she thought. It had felt good and she was right. Rusty could be very dangerous. Her father had been patently wrong to keep her in the dark. As she glared down at the drawing, the remote rang again.

  Reluctantly, Ansel grabbed it. “Phoenix Studios. May I help you?”

  “Is this Miss Ansel Phoenix?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hello, this is Noah Zollie from Land Commerce Partners in Billings. Your father asked me to call you. I gather you need some legal advice.”

  “Hello, Mr. Zollie. Yes, I have some questions regarding land trusts. Do you have time?”

  “I have plenty of time for Chase’s daughter. What is it you’d like to know?”

  Ansel inhaled and stilled her inner turmoil as she explained to Zollie about Chester Dover’s problems with his BLM contract, how the land became trust property, and why the Big Toe city council leased the museum grounds. Then she told him about the attempted fossil theft.

  “I need to know how solid the BLM contract is, and if the council would have any legal leverage to keep the museum business and the fossil tracks intact. Is it possible to find out?”

  “Sure. I’d see if the land records for the parcel are secure and valid up to the point the BLM re-possessed it and placed it in trust. I’d also research the current covenants, conditions and restrictions in the Big Toe contract that would prevent termination of the lease agreement.”

  “Could you find out that information right away?”

  “Certainly. We’re experts on governmental land laws including land transfers, trusts, and exchanges with the Federal Bureau of Land Management, the U.S. Forest Service, public agencies, and private clients. I can do the usual land patent, title, and BLM archival document searches for the property right away. It’s all available under the Freedom of Information Act. Then I’ll review the data and give you my opinion. How does that sound?”

  “Wonderful. How much will this cost?”

  “For you nothing, Miss Phoenix. Chase has paid me well over the years, plus the BLM state office is right here in Billings so all the research can be done very inexpensively.”

  “Thank you. That’s very generous of you, Mr. Zollie. How long will this research take?”

  “All I need is the museum address, and we can begin collating the public documents today. I should get back to you within a week.”

  Ansel felt much better. She gave him the information. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  His hearty chuckle warmed the line. “Call me Noah.”

  “Only if you call me, Ansel.”

  “Agreed. Talk to you very soon, Ansel.”

  She turned off the remote and focused on her work. The new sketch was better, depicting the Giganotosaurus from a side view. The carnosaur chased a herd of Gaspirinisaura across a watery, coastal marshland. In the sky, a flock of small Pterosaurs flapped upward, startled by the life and death drama unfolding below them. The drawing was action-packed: a stalking predator, leaping prey, scattering observers, splashing water, and flying dirt.

  Next she would redraw the sketch onto a larger sheet equal in size to that of the final artwork dimensions. Then she could transfer the entire image onto smooth illustration board which was the best surface for achieving precise detail with a plate-finish that looked like eggshell.

  She winced as her thoughts drifted toward the Giganotosaurus cover she was supposed to design for Permelia, but the memorabilia she’d seen from Barnum Brown’s 1908 fossil expedition brought a smile to her face. Permelia had a nice collection of bones her father, John Reading, had been allowed to keep from the quarries, mostly Ankylosaurus and Triceratops fragments.

  There were also vintage photographs of the roving Montana camp sites along Big Dry Creek which showed the plow, scraper, and dynamite work required to wrest huge fossils from the sandstone bluffs during the early nineteen-hundreds.

  Most interesting to her where the photos of the skull, jaws, and pelvis of an otherwise limbless Tyrannosaurus Rex being removed with primitive tree trunk braces and rope winches, then hauled away by continuous trips from a six-horse-team wagon. Barnum had originally discovered this specimen in 1906 and covered it until he could return and excavate much later.

  She also viewed old pictures of Barnum wearing a snappy hat and a full length fur coat, which he was known to wear to quarries on occasion, plus other members of the digging crew such as Peter Kaisen and C.H. Lambert. All and all, Ansel decided, even spending a few hours with Belle Starr had been well worth the aggravation. It had given her great insight into Permelia’s family history and would definitely flavor her creative inspiration for the better.

  Still, dark thoughts about Rusty Flynn intruded again. Ansel shook her head. First an emotional breakdown in front of Dorbandt and then yelling at her father. The urge
to grab a few beers to erode away the rough emotional edges occurred to her. Don’t go down that road. You have work to do.

  A loud and low thrumming noise coming from outside the hangar drew her attention. There were no windows. She looked up and listened. The sound grew exponentially. It was a mechanical whine resonating with deep cyclic bursts of power.

  Ansel rose and headed quickly out of the art room, through the front sculpture room, and opened the personnel door. The noise was deafening, and gusts of sweltering air and dust blew past the open doorway. One step outside and she could see the sleek, black helicopter landing on the grass several hundred feet from the east side of the hangar. The FBI chopper.

  Her heart beat faster. Not because of Outerbridge’s unexpected visit, but because Standback would be piloting. She was dressed in her painting clothes, an old tee-shirt beneath paint-stained, jean coveralls. She wore no makeup and her hair was hastily braided with Indian-style pigtails down to her waist. She looked like an overgrown child from a Rocky Mountain bootlegger’s camp who’d been interrupted painting the outhouse.

  That didn’t stop her from walking toward the copter through a wall of swirling dirt as the chopper made a smooth touchdown and the rotor blades and turbines decelerated. The aft cabin opened first and Agent Outerbridge, carrying a large steel briefcase, stepped down. Dr. LaPierre followed carrying a duffel bag. Ansel saw Standback’s helmeted head and sunglass-shrouded face through the front windscreen as he continued his post-flight operations. Walthers was missing.

  Outerbridge wore his suit again. Dixie had dressed in casual jeans, short-sleeved shirt and black pumps. Outerbridge turned and spoke to Dixie, but Ansel couldn’t hear what he said. Then he turned with that fox grin on his face. “Miss Phoenix.”

  Dixie gave a little wave. “Hi, Ansel.”

  Ansel crossed her arms. “This is a surprise.”

  Outerbridge nodded. “It’s time for that talk I promised you.”