The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  I called Dr. Herman Crutchfield from Kay’s phone, and he agreed to see us at his lab as soon as we could get there.

  Chad had not dared to make another comment after his accident conjecture. We thanked Kay and left.

  As we walked to my Explorer, Chad said, “Dr. Sumter is a good reason never to get married and to avoid the Internet. I don’t envy her husband.” Dr. Sumter had moved to Flagstaff when she married a local fire fighter who was a few years younger than she. It was considered big news in the local law enforcement community because they’d fallen in love over the Internet and agreed to marry without ever meeting in person.

  I tossed the keys to Chad saying, “I need to make some calls while we drive over to NAU.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  First, I made a quick call to Margaret at the Chase branch where she works to let her know that I was in Flagstaff but that I should be home in time for dinner.

  “I can’t wait to hear all about the rattlesnake death,” she said. I always discuss my cases with Margaret. She often brings a fresh perspective, and her keen intelligence has helped me solve crimes many times over the past thirty years. I was not surprised that she’d already heard about the death. Working as a bank teller was as plugged into the local grapevine as one could get. A constant stream of customers updated you on the latest local news all day long.

  Next, I made the difficult call. I had waited until after the autopsy to call Quentin Thatcher’s next of kin. In this case, I needed to call his former wife so that she could let Dr. Thatcher’s daughter know of her father’s death.

  A Hispanic woman with a pleasant reassuring voice answered, “Mrs. Thatcher’s residence. May I help you?”

  I explained that I was Mike Damson with the Coconino County, Arizona Sheriff’s office and that I needed to speak with Mrs. Thatcher regarding an urgent matter.

  I could hear the pleasant musical voice say, “Mrs. Thatcher, the sheriff of Arizona must speak with you regarding an urgent.”

  And then she said, “Not salesman, is urgent sheriff.”

  After a few seconds a woman said, “This is Eva Thatcher. With whom am I speaking?”

  “I’m Mike Damson, Detective Lieutenant in charge of the Sedona Office of the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department. A man we’ve identified as Doctor Quentin R. Thatcher was found dead in the wilderness north of Sedona this morning. Am I speaking to his former wife?”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath; “Quent is dead. Oh my God. Are you certain?”

  “We’ve sent a photo to his employer for verification, but I‘m confident the man was Quentin R. Thatcher of New York City.”

  I head a thump as if someone had fallen. The phone bounced against a wooden floor. I said hello into the phone a few times until the Hispanic woman picked up the receiver and said, “Mrs. Thatcher can’t talk. Call back. Goodbye for now sheriff.”

  Chad knew the NAU campus well, and he quickly found a parking place next to the building that housed Dr. Crutchfield’s lab. Dr. Crutchfield was a rather slight man with thick glasses that distorted and enlarged his watery blue eyes. He looked like he was well over sixty, maybe even in his seventies with thin white hair and a face covered with wrinkles from too much sun and too many cigarettes.

  The professor conducted us into a room with slithering reptiles enclosed in dozens of glass cases. There was a strong smell of cigarette smoke, but the professor had hidden the evidence of his violation of the college no smoking rules. The cigarette smoke was mixed with the smell of dozens of snakes and lizards and the background odor of formaldehyde. Both the professor and the lab made my skin crawl. A dead snake was sliced open lengthwise on a wooden topped table in the center of the room.

  Dr. Crutchfield began by saying, “Dr. Sumter wouldn’t tell me anything about the snake or how it was found other than it might have been involved in a death. She didn’t want her preconceptions of the death to taint my investigation.”

  I took out my note cards and began by asking, “What can you tell us about this diamondback?”

  “That’s an easy mistake to make. This is not a western diamondback, Crotalus atrox, although it does have a diamond shaped pattern on its back. Note the white and black rings on its tail and the slightly greenish color. It is actually a Mojave rattlesnake, Crotalus scutulatus.” He spelled the words, and I wrote down the strange Latin name next to the word Mojave rattlesnake. I doubted if the distinction would have mattered to Quentin Thatcher.

  “Dr. Sumter has just finished her autopsy, but she wanted to hear your comments regarding the snake before completing her work and signing off on the cause of death.”

  Dr. Crutchfield sat on a lab stool with slithering snakes in glass cases arrayed behind him. Dead snakes floated in glass jars along the shelves that covered one wall. The professor gestured for Chad and me to pull out metal stools to sit on.

  “I have come to a hypothesis about this snake and about the death you’re investigating. You can tell me if I’m close.” The professor was clearly proud of his reasoning and wanted us to be impressed that he could figure out this case only from looking at the remains of the snake.

  “My theory is that a teenage boy was keeping a pet rattlesnake for reasons understood only to teenage boys. I think he was handling this snake with a snake stick like this one or some similar instrument.” The professor picked up an aluminum pole with a black grip like a bicycle hand break at one end and pincers for holding the snake at the other end.

  “The young man did not know the safe way to use the snake stick. He picked up the Mojave rattlesnake too far back from the head. It had room to strike out and bite him. It is crazy to keep a Crotalus scutulatus as a pet. They are horribly dangerous, but teenage boys believe they can’t be harmed. After the bite, the young man repositioned the snake stick nearer the head to better control the snake and crushed the serpent’s head with a red sandstone rock. The metal device was partly under the snake where the rock hit. It left crushed ribs on the dorsal side of the snake in a distinct pattern. The young man was careless and paid with his life and so did the unfortunate snake. Am I correct?”

  Chad and I looked at each other. We didn’t know how to reply to the professor’s conjecture. Finally, I said, “The victim was a New York businessman in his thirties. He was found about two miles from the nearest road in Sterling Canyon north of Wilson Mountain. The body was near a small Sinaguan rock structure a quarter of a mile from the main trail. It looked as if the victim tried to examine the ruin and was bitten when he stuck his head through the low doorway.”

  The professor studied me trying to determine if I was kidding. He asked, “Is Kay Sumter playing a joke on me? Your story is not true.”

  “I assure you that those are the facts as I currently understand them. The victim is certainly not a teenage boy who keeps pet rattlesnakes.”

  The professor looked at the dissected snake displayed on the table in the center of the room. Then he said, “I have another conjecture. The teenage boy grew tired of his pet or more likely his mother insisted that he get rid of it. He took it into the forest and released it near where your businessman was found. Unfortunately, because the snake had spent his life in a glass cage, it had no skill at hunting. The poor snake had not eaten for several days and therefore had very full venom glands, which it discharged in the neck of the New York businessman when he disturbed the hungry snake. Maybe something else metal and oval shaped was under the snake when its head was crushed. Is this conjecture not perfect now?”

  “Why do you think this rattlesnake was a teenage boy’s pet and not a wild one?” Chad asked.

  “Of that fact I am very certain, gentlemen. This snake had not eaten in several days, but his last meal was a white mouse.” The professor pointed to a cage with a dozen white mice in one corner of the room. “I can tell from the hair in the digestive cavity. White mice do not live in the wild. This rattlesnake was also too large for his age to have consumed a natural diet. This snake ate too well year round. Anothe
r clue was that I received the snake from the Coconino County Medical Examiner. Mojave rattlesnakes have been found in many parts of southern and western Arizona. They have even been seen in the lower elevations of Yavapai County, but none have ever been reported in Coconino County.”

  Now, I was certain this had been a homicide. “Dr. Sumter found evidence that the victim might have been held while the snake was allowed to bite him.”

  “Hot damn – a homicide by rattlesnake. What times we live in. There is no reptile that is anywhere near as vicious as your average human. Snakes will bite only for food or because they think they’re in danger. Humans kill for much less important reasons.”

  I knew from experience that the professor was right.

  “This murderer picked the only North American snake that was almost certain to kill his victim and to do it quickly,” the professor said. “I ran a high-pressure liquid chromatograph on the venom from the glands of this snake. This specimen is from the population of Crotalus scutulatus that we call Venom A. It has an extremely high level of a neurotoxin called Mojave toxin.”

  “Is it more deadly than a normal diamondback?” I asked pointing to the dissected remains.

  “The Mojave rattler with Venom A is by far the most dangerous snake in North America. It’s about ten times as dangerous as a common diamondback. We classify the venom as about as lethal as an Asian cobra’s venom, but rattlesnakes have a better system of injecting their venom making the Mojave rattler among the most dangerous animals in the world. The New York businessman who received a large dose in the neck, probably had no chance of survival, especially if he was more than a few minutes from an excellent hospital trauma center.”

  “Dr. Crutchfield, can you give us an estimate of the time between the bite and death? It’s an important factor in establishing that this was a homicide.”

  “Well Detective Damson, initially the bite would be excruciatingly painful like fifty bee stings at once. I think the victim would have lost consciousness when the neurotoxin levels began to slow his respiration and heartbeat. With a major bite in the neck area, that might be as little as ten minutes. If the bite was into a major artery, death might occur soon after, however it’s more likely that the toxin would continue to enter the blood from the muscle tissue of the neck for some time. The rattler’s fangs are probably not long enough to reach an artery directly in most parts of the body. I would guess that it might take several hours for his heart to stop, but that’s something you should ask the medical examiner. My conjecture is that the victim was unconscious within fifteen minutes and dead within three hours. However, I think mortality was certain at the time of the bite. No amount of anti venom could have saved the man from a massive Mojave toxin envenomation in the neck.”

  “Please preserve the snake’s remains and submit your written report to Dr. Sumter. Thanks for your help,” I said in closing.

  As we walked to the Explorer, Chad said, “Partner, I think the snake doctor was correct about humans being the truly vicious species, but that professor gives me the creeps.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As Chad drove us back down to Sedona, I made several calls. First, I called Kay Sumter and passed on the information that we’d received from Professor Crutchfield. She didn’t seem surprised. She responded, “That’s enough for me. This is a homicide.”

  Next, I called Art Johnson at the Cottonwood office of the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. Art had been the first law enforcement officer on the scene of the homicide. “Art my friend, that snakebite case you passed on to us this morning was a little more complicated than we thought. The medical examiner is likely to report it as a homicide when she files her report tomorrow.”

  “Hell, you guys are too damn bored over in Sedona. There is no possible way that you can make a homicide out of a bite by a diamondback two miles from the nearest road,” Art replied with considerable agitation in his voice.

  “I’m just keeping you informed. I don’t have any influence on Dr. Sumter. If she says homicide, we investigate a homicide. Chad and I would like to talk the case over with you since you were first on the scene. Can we buy you breakfast at 8:30 at the Coffee Pot tomorrow and talk about the case?”

  “It’s a hell of a waste of time Mike, but if you’re buying I’ll be there.” His skepticism would probably be shared by a lot of law enforcement officers in the area. I had to admit that it seemed very implausible. A New York businessman was found killed by a Mojave Rattlesnake in the middle of nowhere. Surely there was an easier way to have committed murder.

  Next, I called Sheriff Greg Taylor to let him know the course that our investigation was taking. He replied, “Mike, you’re the best homicide detective in the state. I’m counting on you not to let the perpetrators get away with this. You can have all the resources you need, within reason of course.”

  I was relieved to hear Sheriff Taylor commit to resources that I might need. The county budget was always tight. This death was local, but I suspected the motive was not. The investigation could easily lead to New York.

  Finally, as we drove down through Oak Creek Canyon on 89A, I called Mrs. Thatcher again. I was told that Mrs. Thatcher was with her daughter, but that she was waiting for my call.

  I heard Mrs. Thatcher say off-line, “Jennifer, mommy needs to talk to the policeman about your daddy’s death. Please go to the kitchen and let Linda fix you a snack while I talk. I’ll tell you about it when we’ve finished.”

  There was a pause and then she said into the phone, “I’m sorry officer, I don’t remember your name.”

  “I’m Mike Damson. I manage the Sedona Office of the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department. I’m extremely sorry about the shock of the news that I brought you earlier today. It’s much better to break that sort of news in person. I should have had someone from the New York Police Department come by with the report of Dr. Thatcher’s death.”

  “I just couldn’t accept it at first. Quent was so healthy and athletic, so very alive. Somehow, I still can’t accept that he’s dead. I’ve loved him since our first date in my freshman year at college. Even though we divorced last spring, I still loved him. We just couldn’t find a way to be a family anymore. Was it a car accident?”

  I had found it best to be straightforward in explaining deaths to family members, but the idea of being held immobilized while someone pushed a deadly viper against your neck was the stuff of nightmares. “The medical examiner is likely to rule that it was a probable homicide. Dr. Thatcher was killed by a snakebite, but the circumstances were suspicious. At this point, we don’t think it was an accidental bite.”

  “A snakebite, my God,” Mrs. Thatcher said while beginning to sob.

  “Maybe it would be better if I called back tomorrow Mrs. Thatcher. I know this has been a horrible shock.”

  “You think he was murdered with a poisonous snake. What kind of monsters do you have in Arizona? Was he robbed?” There was a true revulsion in her voice. Either Mrs. Thatcher was an extraordinary actress, or she actually was horrified by the information.

  “No ma’am, he was not robbed. We’ve established no motive in the case. Dr. Thatcher was found about two miles from where he parked his vehicle. His body was in the wilderness north of Sedona.”

  “Quent had no enemies. His whole life was his work and his daughter; he never had a chance to make enemies. He traveled for the bank three weeks each month and worked fourteen hours a day when he was back in New York. It must have been some redneck hillbillies like in that old movie Deliverance. Christ almighty, to kill someone with a snake! What a horrible way to die. Quent grew up quite poor over in Brooklyn. He knew nothing about snakes or hiking in the wilderness. Don’t you have a lot of racist militias out there in the west?”

  “Mrs. Thatcher, I promise to look into every possibility. Do you think Dr. Thatcher would have hiked a couple of miles from the nearest road to look at a Sinaguan Indian rock dwelling that was abandoned in the thirteenth century? He was found next
to one.” Sedona was a tolerant well-mannered community full of artists and retirees. I didn’t believe that the murder had a racial motive even though I would investigate that possibility.

  “Yes, Quent probably would have hiked a couple of miles to see one. Quentin had a brilliant mind. If he took any interest in something, he’d read everything he could about it. I went with Quent to his management retreat three years ago when he was first promoted to Managing Director. He took me to see an Indian ruin in a canyon near where we stayed and to several national monuments nearby with Indian ruins. Growing up in Brooklyn, Quent had never realized that Native Americans had a history of building substantial communities of stone houses and of using elaborate irrigation systems. It was one of many exotic things in which Quent took an interest.”

  “You came to Sedona with him only that one time?”

  “It was one of the hundreds of things we argued about. I refused to go the following year. Several of the other wives were just insufferable, especially Maggie Griffin with her English condescension and Kathy Van Ryan with her South African bigotry. I got along OK with most of the American wives, but Mrs. Griffin and Mrs. Van Ryan were impossible.”

  “Some of the wives were hostile? What was Dr. Thatcher’s reaction?”

  “Detective, I grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut and have an MA in fine arts from Smith. I don’t need Mrs. Van Ryan saying that my English is almost normal or Mrs. Griffin saying that I must have some Thai blood to play golf as well as I do. Neither woman went to college. Neither woman can carry on a conversation about anything except their TV shows or their problems with getting good domestic help in New York. Quent insisted that I try to be friends with them, and I responded by saying I was never going to see any of them again.”