The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  “Chris told me the whole story, and I called to thank you for keeping your head and for letting him off. I know I have a problem with Bridger, and I’m trying my best to deal with it.”

  Art sounded very sincere. My son, John, had gone through a drug problem and spent time in rehab when he was about Bridger’s age. I was sympathetic. I said, “Did Chris tell you he was smoking marijuana? I think Bridger uses steroids too.”

  “Yes, Chris took the boys to a movie at the Harkins in Sedona. He called me from the lobby and explained things when they weren’t around to hear him. I searched both boys’ rooms and found several marijuana cigarettes in Bridger’s room. I flushed them. When the boys came home I grounded both of them. Bridger swears he won’t touch the stuff again.”

  “Did you find steroids?” I asked. I thought that might be a bigger problem than a few joints.

  “Both boys have been using several kinds of oral supplements. They buy them at a heath food store in Flagstaff. I checked on the Internet and found that the kind they use contain 4-hydroxy-testosterone. It’s not illegal, but it can have the same side effects as other steroids. It’s not as dangerous as the injected kind.”

  “And what are you doing about the steroids?”

  “I’ll talk it over with Bridger’s coach. If he’s only using legal supplements, I guess I’ll wait until the season’s over and make him cut back on them.”

  I didn’t like Art’s answer, but I knew how important getting a scholarship was for the family. “Art, you can do me a favor for forgetting the marijuana possession charge. I don’t want you to mention that I was following Chris to anyone.”

  “That’s a deal. I know you were suspended. It was a raw deal, but those county politicians are morons. You’re the best homicide detective in the state. You’re wrong about Chris. He has a temper but also a really good heart.”

  I thanked Art for calling. If Chris wasn’t involved, who were the two huge men who broke into the evidence room? Maybe I’d ask Steven Bradley to take a look at Art’s sons and at Chris Moore. The guys wore masks, but he might recognize their build. Chris is about two seventy-five, Bridger is about two fifty, and Gordon is about two twenty-five. All three have almost no body fat. There couldn’t be a lot of men with those physiques in Northern Arizona.

  The next morning, I was sore but not willing to postpone my investigation. Chad called at 7:30. He hadn’t been in the office on Sunday so there wasn’t anything new to report. Today, he planned to work with Rose to determine the exact status of the Thatcher investigation and of the break-in.

  I made a suggestion. “Steven Bradley is the only witness to the burglary. Can you talk him into checking out Chris Moore and Art’s boys to see if they resemble the men who tied him up? You’ll have to get him to cooperate without Captain Horn knowing that we’re still working the case.”

  “Steven feels responsible for your suspension. He thinks of you as his mentor, and he’ll do anything to help get you reinstated.”

  I suggested that Steven might be able to get a good look at Art’s sons at this afternoon’s Mingus Union High football practice, and I provided Chris Moore’s address.

  “Steven is still working nights. I’ll call him right now. He doesn’t seem like a great witness. You know how easy it is for a person who’s half asleep to misremember details,” Chad said.

  “I know it’s a long shot. He didn’t see the faces, but these three fellows are not normal size and two of them have bright red hair. Something might register.”

  “I should have his answer when I call you after work. What’s up with you today?” Chad asked.

  “Following my research on Henry Griffin on Saturday, I have a lot of information that needed follow-up. I’m almost certain he’s involved. The break-in wasn’t public information until Friday morning; the lawsuit was presented to the county attorneys Friday afternoon. That’s just too damn quick for any law firm, even the biggest one in Phoenix. If they started preparing the documents on Thursday, they could have made some associates work all night and had those documents ready the next afternoon but that means they started work before the break-in.”

  I could hear the excitement in Chad’s voice. “Hot damn, did they screw up big time? You’ve got them Mike. There’s no way they could have learned about the break-in when the sheriff called the bank Friday morning and filed a fifty-page lawsuit that same afternoon. We have to tell Sheriff Taylor,” Chad said. He still didn’t understand that the issue was out of the sheriff’s hands. The lawyers were running the show.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to mention it to him. He could pass it along to the county attorney. Talk to you later.” Chad was a good person, but he has no sense when it comes to politics.

  I longed to float in the hot tub for half an hour. Because of the tape on my ribs, I was restricted to showers for a few days. After Margaret left for work, I spent two hours on the Internet investigating Henry Griffin. I paid for a full financial report and used a paid service to search for any appearance of his name in the press in England, India, and the U.S. I was still digesting the information when I decided to see if Chris would live up to his promise to help.

  When I called him, he suggested that we meet at a Mexican restaurant near Cottonwood. It took about twenty minutes to reach the family run place on Cornville road. Chris’s Hummer was parked in front of the dilapidated building. It occurred to me that the very last thing I would want with back pain and broken ribs was stomach trouble, but the small place seemed to have good business in spite of its appearance and its rural location.

  Chris stood up and shook hands when I reached his booth in the dimly lit place. “I owe you one Mike. How can I help your investigation?”

  “I believe senior people at Bank E & A are involved in both Quentin Thatcher’s murder and in the theft of Dr. Thatcher’s personal effects from the Sedona office. Are you willing to help me even if your employer is involved?”

  “This job is just something to do until I get back in the ring, and I certainly don’t give a shit about the tight-assed management of the bank. Quentin Thatcher was one of the few bosses that didn’t make me want to puke on sight. He was a real person.”

  We paused as the waitress came to take our order. Chris ordered three orders of beef fajitas without the tortillas, beans, or rice. He explained that he was on a high protein and low carbohydrate diet to keep below 5% body fat. I had only one helping of the chicken enchiladas to help me keep below twenty percent body fat. When the waitress brought the iced tea, I had a couple of pain pills and got to the point.

  “Tell me everything you know about Sir Henry Griffin,” I said.

  “He waits for me to open the car door for him like he’s some sort of royalty. I just walked off the last time he did that. I wouldn’t trust that guy any farther than you could throw him. He’s been here about ten times since I’ve been working for the bank. He comes to entertain big shot customers at the retreat center. You should hear him talk them out of their money. He’s a regular snake oil salesman.”

  “Do you have any idea where a guy might get a pet rattlesnake around here?” I asked not expecting an answer.

  “Sure, there’s a guy in Cottonwood who sells them. He catches snakes down by Wickenburg and sells them as pets. Some men like the sense of danger from owning snakes. Personally, I’ve got a pair of Irish Setters. I can’t see having a pet you’re afraid to touch.”

  Wickenburg is down in the portion of Arizona where the Mojave variety of rattlesnake is common.

  “Tell me more about this snake guy.”

  “His name is Reggie Neely, he lives here in Cottonwood in a cabin down by the Verde. He’s sort of a fan, so he always wants to talk when I run into him in town. He wanted to be a pro wrestler but never made it onto the circuit.”

  “Big man?” I asked.

  “About your size, maybe six two with a lot of flab around the middle.” I’d gained a few pounds in the past year. Maybe I should start a diet.

  Chris r
ealized what he’d said and said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean you’re flabby, just Reggie. You seem pretty tough to me. Bridger really blindsided you yesterday, and you walked away.”

  “Do you remember what size hands Reggie has, are they bigger than yours?” I asked.

  “Probably so. My hands and feet are small for my size. That’s a disadvantage in the ring.” Steven Bradley had mentioned that a huge hand had held the note that demanded he hand over the keys to the evidence room. Chris’s hands were the same size as mine even though he was three inches taller.

  “How is it that you know Reggie captures and sells rattlesnakes? That’s not legal so he wouldn’t be likely to brag about it,” I said.

  There was a pause while Chris decided on his answer. “I’d rather not say, but I’ve never owned a snake. I can’t stand the slimy things.”

  I didn’t press it. Chris had given me a good lead and confirmed my opinion of Sir Henry Griffin, AKA the Anaconda. The meal was excellent, and I decided to bring Margaret here sometime soon. Chris insisted on paying the bill. We sauntered out into the bright sunlight together like old friends. Chris slapped me on the back and said, “I still owe you. I’ll help more if I can.”

  Chris hopped into his Hummer, and I was entering my rental car when the shooting started.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I’ve been shot at enough times to recognize the threat. The first indication was the windshield exploding outward. I heard the retort of the rifle as I was diving to the floor of the car. I didn’t immediately realize that I’d been hit. Three other rounds entered through the rear window and blasted through the top of the driver’s seat before imbedding themselves into the dash and instrument panel. Two seconds after I hit the floor, I felt the pain in my right temple to augment the existing pain from my back and side. I put my hand to my head and felt the warm blood. The first bullet had grazed my head cutting the skin, but not hitting bone. The shot had been only an inch or two off target.

  I heard a vehicle slide to a stop on the gravel parking surface. The sound came from directly behind my car. I saw the enormous bulk of Chris Moore blocking the passenger window and figured he wanted to finish me off.

  I reached for my pistol as Chris opened the door and said, “Are you OK Mike?”

  Chris had heard the shooting and driven his Hummer between my vehicle and the sniper. It was a gutsy move that blocked my car from further shots. Once I was convinced that the shooting was over, I let Chris help me from my rented car.

  I sat on the ground behind my car while Chris called his cousin Art. The restaurant is in rural Yavapai County and the investigation would be under Art’s jurisdiction. Art arrived in a few minutes, and many other deputies and six Cottonwood police officers responded to a call to search of the surrounding high desert landscape. The paramedics bandaged my scalp wound, and I declined to be transported to the Verde Valley Medical Center over their glaring objections.

  The Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department’s helicopter was soon circling the area. Half an hour later, Chad and three other people from my Sedona office joined the search.

  About forty minutes into the search, we found the location from which the shooter had fired the rifle shots. It was on a small hill about two hundred yards from the parking lot. The hill was topped with enough vegetation to provide good cover. Below the hill was a dry ravine. It had allowed the sniper to escape the area without being spotted. There was not much useful evidence. The shooter had picked up his brass and taken it with him. The rocky soil didn’t retain useful footprints, and no one had seen the sniper. The deputies would work the crime diligently because a brother officer was involved, but there was little chance of finding the gunman unless there was a witness that we hadn’t found yet.

  The crime scene technician removed the three slugs that had slammed into the dash, but they were badly damaged and would be difficult to match with a rifle. However the first shot had hit the wooden side of the restaurant, traveling through the busy room, narrowly missing several customers and a cook, before imbedding itself in the back wall of the kitchen. If we could find the rifle, the round would connect it to the crime.

  About 4:00, I drove the damaged car back to the Cottonwood rental lot. Chad followed, alert to another ambush. In spite of my one-week rental agreement, the manager adamantly refused to consider providing another car. Two damaged cars in two days was a good reason to be mad. He refunded my full week’s price and told me to never attempt to rent from them again. Chad drove me home. That gave us a chance to talk on the drive.

  “Did I understand correctly that our prime suspect blocked the shooter with his own car?” Chad asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “but that leaves me even more confused. Chris suggested that we meet at a restaurant out in the boondocks where I’d never been. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, and I’m certain I wasn’t followed.”

  “If he set you up, why did he try and save you?” Chad asked.

  “Maybe he thought I was already dead when he parked behind my car, or maybe he told someone about our meeting and was honestly surprised by the ambush.”

  “Chris is involved, either he set you up or he told the person who did,” Chad said. “Did he pass on anything useful during your meeting?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “He mentioned a man named Reggie Neely who lives in a cabin by the Verde River. Chris claims he deals in rattlesnakes as pets. Reggie captures the snakes in an area near Wickenburg.”

  “I’m taking a vacation day tomorrow. I’d like to go with you when you talk with Reggie.”

  Chad didn’t want me in Cottonwood without backup. The ambush had almost killed me, and I appreciated his offer to help. He also knew me well enough to be certain that I wasn’t going to let a few bullets scare me off the case. I said, “It’ll be great to have you along. Let’s meet at 10:00, and we’ll drop in on this snake man unannounced. Did you and Rose learn anything new about the Thatcher case today?”

  “Captain Horn has eleven deputies working the hate group angle,” Chad said. “I had no idea how many crackpots live in northern Arizona, but he hasn’t found any leads. He’s also got the New York police investigating Mrs. Thatcher. Rose said his case notes indicate that he thinks Mrs. Thatcher hired some local group to kill her ex-husband before he could change his will. She knew about his interest in Sinaguan ruins, has enough money to hire killers, and might have hated him enough to have the locals use a snake to kill him.”

  “It’s a neat theory, but how does the theft of the business documents tie in?”

  “The captain thinks it’s a coincidence not related to the murder. He believes someone broke in hoping to find drugs and valuables and took the leather suitcases to fence them.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I said. It was frustrating that all of the county’s resources were directed away from the bank and its management.

  “I’m going to call your ex girlfriend and find out if Bridger and Gordon were missing from school this afternoon.” I called the counselor’s office at Mingus Union High and Cheri answered on the first ring. She said that she would be glad to check and call me back to confirm whether the boys had been in school at the time of the ambush.

  Chad dropped me off at home about half an hour before Margaret was due. I was a mess, and I took a shower as best I could with taped ribs and a bandaged temple. I changed into my most comfortable sweat pants and Diamondbacks T-shirt and poured myself a tumbler of Glen Scotia single malt scotch. When Margaret arrived, she was shocked and angry that I’d gotten injured a second day in a row.

  “Mike, we’ve got to leave town. That sniper could be waiting for you anywhere. Let’s go to New York and see what we can learn from up there. The motive for this murder is in New York,” Margaret said. She seemed very determined to get me out of the Sedona area, but she was right about the bank being involved.

  “I have a lead I want to investigate tomorrow, a man who sells rattlesnakes in Cottonwood. If it’s a dead end, I’ll be
ready to try New York.”

  “I don’t want you going back to Cottonwood alone,” Margaret said. She’s been the wife of a law enforcement officer for thirty years, and she never insists that I not do my job.

  “Chad offered to go with me. We’ll be OK. No one but Chad will know that I’m in town.” I didn’t mention that I’d gotten Reggie’s name from Chris Moore. Chris might anticipate that we’d go visit the snake man, but the risk of an ambush was small if no one knew when we’d be there.

  “I’ll check the Internet for cheap flights and call John and let him know we’re coming,” she said.

  “Let’s stay in a hotel. My back is not up to their couch for a week. Look for a Wednesday flight and a hotel within walking distance of the bank,” I said.

  Margaret made dinner and had a scotch with me after we enjoyed the meal. We spent a quiet evening at home watching a rented James Bond movie. I’d been shot before, but a sniper concerned me a little more than most risks.

  Margaret planned to get a temp job at the bank. Maybe the bank used a security service where I could apply. I’d really like to get into the bank building after dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Cheri called from Mingus Union High the next morning about 8:30. “I checked with their 1:00 teachers and with the cafeteria staff. Both Johnson boys ate the lunch they brought with them here at the school lunchroom and made it to their 1:00 class. They never eat the regular cafeteria food because they’re on high protein diets. I don’t think either left the school grounds yesterday afternoon. Often they go out for lunch with their buddies, but they complained to one staff member that they’d been grounded. They’ll be bringing their lunch for the next month.

  I thanked Cheri and considered my problem. If the boys were not involved, who was doing the shooting and how did he know where I’d be. I had no ready answer. Maybe this snake man, Reggie Neely, followed Chris to our meeting, but that seemed like a long shot. If Chris and Reggie were working together, why would Chris mention Reggie at all?