The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  Margaret was busy in the kitchen, as she normally is when I get home after six thirty. A delicious Thanksgiving-like smell filled the house.

  I hugged Margaret. “Just a whiff of tonight’s dinner has taken my mind off snakebites and a murdered investment banker.”

  She smiled. “You won’t get away with avoiding the latest news on the Thatcher case that easily, Sweetie. I have Cornish game hens stuffed with wild rice and shiitake mushrooms in the oven. I’ll trade you a hen for all you know about the snakebite murder.”

  I laughed, and Margaret put me to work making the fresh pear, roasted walnuts, and mixed greens salad. Rain threatened, and the night was too cool for dinner on the deck. We ate the fancy meal on the good china while drinking an excellent chardonnay in the breakfast room.

  I described all the events of the day as Margaret and I enjoyed our peaceful dinner. After my explanation, Margaret commented, “This Henry Griffin seems to have been trying too hard to get those documents; that does seem suspicious. I understand they’re important, but why did he insist and threaten a lawsuit when the sheriff told him the documents were evidence in a murder? The information is safe with the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “I’ve worked on cases that involved top business people before. They’re used to getting their way. They can just order things done, and their subordinates rush to do them, sort of like military brass. They often have trouble accepting that ordinary law enforcement people have the final say when there is a crime investigation.”

  “Still, it’s suspicious that this bank executive is so anxious to get those papers back. Maybe it’s not just important equations and trading positions. Maybe it’s proof that the bank has been doing something illegal. The motive might not be that Quentin Thatcher was trying to sell the information, but it’s more likely he wanted the papers to prove the bank was doing something wrong.”

  “That’s an interesting idea. It would take an expert to determine if all that information indicated problems at Bank E & A. I’ll try and find someone at the NAU business school who can interpret those formulas and trading positions.”

  We moved into the great room for dessert and coffee. I turned on the fireplace while Margaret went to the kitchen to bring her surprise dessert. In spite of the nearly sleepless previous night, I felt very relaxed and happy sitting by the fire that evening. I’m most satisfied when I’m working on a challenging case, and interesting cases were not too common in Sedona. Maybe I missed the excitement of the constant stream of murders that I investigated as the senior detective in the Ramparts Division of the LAPD. Margaret and I had moved to Sedona with the idea of retiring early. Within a year we both realized that we were not ready to give up regular work. I missed my job in law enforcement. Fifty-three was too early for retirement even though an on-the-job injury had brought me a nice pension.

  Margaret entered the great room dramatically. She was carrying Chambord-flaming pecan fudge brownies with espresso icing. A scoop of Godiva dark chocolate ice cream was on the side. I always say that chocolate is the best aphrodisiac, and it worked well that evening.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NEW YORK:

  Henry Griffin was interviewing a young woman who had applied to work with his administrative assistant as part of his executive staff when the special phone in his credenza rang. Before the call came, he’d asked the buxom young woman a series of questions about her skills, but he had not been paying much attention to her answers. Actually, Sir Henry had been engaged in a little daydream about helping the prospective employee remove her silk blouse on his office couch when the jarring sound had interrupted his little fantasy. He’d asked her to wait outside while he took the call.

  Now, he’d forgotten that the young woman was still waiting as he thought about the call from Arizona. Sir Henry had started his career with Bank E & A as a foreign exchange trader in the London dealing room. Being a trader required him to be both smart and to be very quick to make market timing decisions. He had excelled at it. He’d solved the current problem within seconds of hearing of the new complications. That was his real talent. His decisions were quick, sound, and decisive.

  Prior to the call, he had no way of anticipating that a silly little Arizona town full of New Age crackpots would have a law enforcement officer with thirty years of homicide experience in one of America’s most murder-prone cities. He also had no way of anticipating that the medical examiner for a county with only a hundred and fifty thousand people would have ten years of professional experience in the much larger city of St. Louis.

  Sir Henry lit his pipe even though he was in a non-smoking building. It had been his father’s pipe, and he only smoked it on special occasions. Sir Henry wanted to enjoy the satisfaction of solving the Arizona problem without resorting to more violence. He knew that killing a law enforcement officer in any jurisdiction in the world would greatly escalate the attention from other law enforcement agencies. He didn’t want to increase the attention that the little Arizona problem was already receiving. Sir Henry was far too subtle for a simple brutal answer. He’d immediately known how to neutralize this detective without hurting anyone or bringing more attention to the case.

  Sir Henry picked up the phone to call the bank’s law firm. He asked for the senior partner who managed the firm’s overall relationship with the bank. It was time to start the rest of the solution to the Arizona problem. Sir Henry knew that his true genius was being both agile and clever. By tomorrow morning, his plan would be well underway.

  SEDONA:

  I woke rested, relaxed, and ready for a full day of investigation. I wanted to find the best person in Arizona to review the Bank E & A documents for any signs of problems at the bank. Margaret was almost always right in her advice about my cases. Her intuition that the problems at the bank might be behind the Quentin Thatcher murder was high on my list.

  I had a busy day ahead. The possibility that the death was related to Quentin Thatcher’s estate and insurance still needed to be investigated. There were three possibilities that involved the documents as a motive: the bank might be covering up some illegal activity, some competitor might have killed Quentin Thatcher to obtain copies of the documents, or Quentin Thatcher might have been trying to sell company secrets and been killed by either the buyer or the bank.

  Margaret was also awake earlier than normal. She made me a feta cheese and tomato omelet and sent me off to solve the Quentin Thatcher case with a kiss. It was about 6:30 when I pulled into my parking place. I noticed a problem as I approached the door to our substation. There was a six-inch diameter circular dent in the metal door next to the lock. I’d seen that kind of mark many times. It was made by a hand held battering ram, the type used by police departments to force entrance.

  I called Chad at home and told him about the door to the office being forced. I used my handkerchief to carefully open the door, trying to avoid smearing any fingerprints. Holding the door with my foot, I entered with my pistol in my right hand and the cell phone still connected to Chad in the other. Steven Bradley was in the chair at the reception desk, the normal location for the night duty officer. This morning, his mouth was covered with duct tape. The silver tape was wrapped around his chest securing him to the chair. His eyes were wide and red.

  I pointed around the room trying to inquire without speaking if the burglars were still in the office. Steven shook his head no. I walked quietly over to him letting the door shut behind me. My pistol was still in my right hand, and Chad was still listening on the cell phone. When I removed the tape from Steven’s mouth, he reassured me that the burglars had been gone for hours. I told Chad to come to the office as soon as possible and hung up my cell phone. I freed Steven from the tape and helped him get to the bathroom to clean himself up. His legs were wobbly from poor circulation. After getting Steven to the bathroom, I called the night duty officer in Flagstaff and asked for the crime scene technician to come to the Sedona substation as soon as possible.

  The metal
door of the evidence room was open, the key still in the lock. I looked into the small room and saw complete disorder. The evidence from many different crimes was scattered on the floor, and the steel shelves were completely empty. At first glance, I could tell that both bags that had belonged to Quentin Thatcher had been removed. I could also see that a large blue bundle of marijuana that local deputies had taken from a Hispanic male on I-17 was missing. It was the only drug evidence that had been stored in the Sedona office.

  As I was surveying the disorder, Steven joined me explaining, “Two men with shotguns and ski masks rushed through the front door after smashing it open. They had me covered before I could even reach for my sidearm. A huge guy dressed completely in black handed me a note that said, ‘You’ll live only if you give us the key to the evidence room.’ I gave them the key.”

  “You did the smart thing Steven. They could have just shot you and found the key quickly anyway. Describe everything you remember about them.”

  I knew that eyewitnesses were only marginally reliable in these circumstances. It would have taken only seconds for the burglars to break in and give Steven the note. He explained, “There were two huge guys. Two of the largest people I’ve ever seen. They were dressed completely in black like TV ninjas. They didn’t say a word while they were here. They just rushed in and stood behind me with their shotguns pressed against my head. A huge hand in a black glove held the note in front of my face.

  When I gave them the key, they taped me to the chair and gagged me with duct tape. I heard some commotion from the evidence room, and the men quickly left carrying two suitcases, a small one and a garment bag. One of them had a blue package in his left hand. I heard the car speed away so quickly that there might have been a third person driving a get away car. The whole thing couldn’t have taken two minutes. I spent the rest of the night trying to breathe through my nose in spite of my allergies.”

  “Steven, when did this happen?”

  There was a pause as Steven considered his answer. He said sheepishly, “Mike, I may have been napping for a minute when they came in. It was sometime after midnight, but I’m not certain how long after. It seemed like I was tied up for many hours.”

  I called Sheriff Taylor to fill him in on the break-in. He said that he’d drive down to the Sedona substation. We could meet to discuss the Quentin Thatcher case in my office. He spoke with a tone that showed both annoyance and concern.

  Chad arrived about fifteen minutes after my call. The crime scene technician arrived at 7:30. When Rose got to the office at 8:00, she set the phones to forward to our backup site. I sent the other deputies and Rose to the backup location in a conference room at the Sedona Police Station while Chad and I continued to ask Steven Bradley questions.

  Chad asked if Steven could remember how high on the doorframe the tops of the burglar’s head reached, and how wide they were compared to the door opening. He could only provide a vague description of the men and of their shotguns. The break-in had been very professional, and the only clue we really had was the description that the men were huge. The size estimate might have been influenced by a little bit of panic on Steven’s part, but I naturally thought of Chris Moore and his massive professional wrestler’s build.

  The crime scene technician began working on the front door and on the evidence room. He took special care with the duct tape in case the burglars had handled it before putting on their gloves. Art Johnson arrived at 8:30 and waited with us for Sheriff Taylor to arrive.

  Sheriff Taylor joined us at 8:45, and we began a discussion of the Quentin Thatcher case. I was certain that the break-in was not for a few pounds of marijuana. The drugs were probably taken to raise some doubt as to the real motive. Someone wanted to remove the documents that Quentin Thatcher had brought to Arizona.

  After giving us a full account of what he remembered of the break-in, Sheriff Taylor sent Steven Bradley home to get some rest. Once he was gone, Sheriff Taylor asked for each of us to tell him the full details of our investigation. Art began with a report on finding the body after being directed to the location by a helicopter pilot who spotted the body while taking some tourists to see the Vultee Arch. Chad and I covered what we knew of the crime and what we planned to do in the next stages of our investigation.

  After we completed our briefing explaining every detail we could think of, the sheriff commented, “This is certainly a setback in the case. It seems that these documents were critical to understanding the motive. Chad, I’d like you to learn whatever you can about Dr. Thatcher’s insurance and his estate. It would be nice if we can eliminate the wife as a suspect and focus on the business papers as the motive. Mike, I want you and Art to go see that wrestler. Steven mentioned that the burglars were huge and that guy certainly fits the bill.”

  Art spoke up, “I know Chris Moore. He’s my cousin. Chris is completely honest. There was no way he was involved with a murder. I’ve known him all my life. I’m sure he’ll cooperate completely.”

  Sheriff Taylor looked directly at me and said, “Mike, with his cousin along, maybe Chris Moore will be easier to interrogate. He’ll be more at ease. I considered him a suspect in both the murders and break-in.”

  As the sheriff left for Flagstaff, he commented to me out of the hearing of the others, “Mike, these missing papers could be big trouble for both of us.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Art called his cousin and asked Chris to meet us at the gate to the retreat center. I wanted another look at the facility, and I certainly wanted to know where Moore was after midnight last night and at the time of the Quentin Thatcher murder.

  As we drove to the Bank E & A Retreat Center, I thought of the sheriff’s final words. I was the person responsible for those bank documents. I had brought them to the Sedona office without coordination with Yavapai County officials and over the strenuous objection of the senior officer of Bank E & A. My own son had warned me that they might be worth tens of millions to a competitor, but I’d left them overnight with a sleepy junior deputy who had access to the key to the evidence room. I wondered if my thirty-five year career in law enforcement was over.

  My cell phone rang; it was Rose Rios, my administrative assistant. She was transferring a call that had been received at our backup site at the Sedona Police Department.

  “Detective Damson, I’m Heather Potter. I’m an intern at Bank E & A in New York. I worked for Quentin Thatcher. I understand that you’re in charge of investigating his death.”

  “Yes, I’m the detective-in-charge of the case.”

  “The rumor around the office is that his death was suspicious. Was Dr. Thatcher really murdered?”

  “The medical examiner has ruled that his death was a probable homicide. We’re still investigating the circumstances.”

  “I can’t talk frankly now. Can I call you from my home tonight?”

  I agreed to take her call at any time that was convenient to her. I gave her my cell phone number and explained that I was anxious to hear from her.

  “Who was that?” Art asked.

  “Someone who asked about Dr. Quentin’s death. She said she’d call back. Maybe she’s a lead, or maybe it was just a curiosity call.”

  We spent about twenty minutes driving to the Seven Canyons Resort. During the drive, Art told me more about his cousin. “Chris is about six years younger than me. When I was thirteen, my dad moved our family to Cottonwood from a decaying neighborhood in Columbus. Dad is a carpenter, and he liked the climate out here and there was lots of work. Chris was the only child of my mother’s sister, Aunt Kate. No one else in the family knows who my cousin’s real father is, but my dad and mom have always treated Chris like one of their own kids. Aunt Kate would bring him from Columbus on the bus every summer and leave Little Chris in Cottonwood until it was time for school to start in September.”

  “I guess you don’t call him Little Chris anymore.”

  “Mike, by the time he was fifteen, Chris weighed two hundred and eighteen po
unds. It was all muscle. We thought he might be a pro football player, but he got interested in wrestling when he got out of high school.”

  “I guess the wrestling pays well?”

  “Chris was a pretty big star by wrestling standards. I think he has enough money to never need to work again. Unfortunately, he may never get back on the pro circuit. He’s been blackballed by the promoters.”

  “Chris told me that he was recuperating from an injury and hoped to be back wrestling next year.”

  Art seemed sad for his cousin. “Wishful thinking I’m afraid. He hurt too many people in the ring. Chris just can’t control his strength. He’s the nicest guy in the world, but he does have a bit of a temper.”

  “Do you know how Chris got the job as caretaker for the Bank E & A?”

  “He needed something to do with his extra time. The bank called the sheriff’s office looking for off-duty deputies to work their annual management retreat four years ago. They get very security conscious when all of their top people are in one spot. I’ve worked the annual retreat every year. Last year, their chief of security asked me for a recommendation for a caretaker, and I suggested Chris. But Mike, you’re way off base if you think Chris had something to do with the Thatcher death. He’d never do something like that. I’ll guarantee that.”

  Art described the close relationship between his sons and their famous cousin. Art and his boys saw Chris Moore every Sunday at his parents’ house when his mother prepared a big home-cooked lunch. Chris had purchased a large house with commanding views of the Verde Valley, and Art’s sons and their friends spent a lot of summer afternoons at his Olympic sized swimming pool, which has an elaborate fake-rock water slide and a diving pool.

  It sounded like a close-knit family. It was not surprising that Art couldn’t even consider that his cousin should be a suspect in a murder. However, there seemed to be some local contact involved in the case. Quentin Thatcher had been led to an out of the way location with a Sinaguan Indian dwelling, a ruin that wasn’t mentioned in any guidebooks. Chris Moore had had the opportunity to explore the local area, and he was strong enough to subdue Quentin Thatcher while the snake was used to kill him. He was also an employee of the Bank E & A. Since Margaret’s comments about the bank, I’d had a growing feeling that someone at the bank might be behind Dr. Thatcher’s death.