“It’s a fort?” I was astonished that Captain Horn would have led lightly armed officers against a fortress with bunkers and high walls.
“It would take tanks or air power to take it. There are more than twenty children in there. There’s no way the federal government will let you rubes do that. The Attorney General has already called your governor. This is a negotiation. It will not be an assault. I want you to tell that to the local hillbilly-in-charge when we get there, some jerk off named Horn. Is that very clear? There will be no assault. I have orders directly from the most senior possible level. No goddamn assault.”
“Yes madam,” I said. Silence settled on our drive for the next hour. We crossed the bridge over Marble Canyon and drove along the dramatic Vermillion Cliffs National Monument before we wound up to the high country around Jacobs Lake. There, we turned on to a dirt road that bounced through the pine and spruce forest. After another half hour, we left the spruce and aspen forest and descended to the sagebrush desert where a roadblock had been established. Linda showed her identification without saying much. One of the Page deputies recognized me and said hi, but nothing else was said until we reached a circle of vehicles pulled off into a field. Half a mile from the hilltop staging area we could see Freedom First Ranch. Gathered in a circle to one side were three TV trucks with their dish antenna pointing toward the same satellite.
“Which one is Captain Horn?” Linda asked.
I pointed him out, and we walked straight for him. He was looking at a map spread out on the hood of his white Explorer, a vehicle identical to the one I had before my suspension. He saw us approach and said, “Mike, I’m glad you’re here. I sincerely want your help. I’m in charge until the sheriff is free, and you’re officially reinstated as far as I’m concerned. We’ve got a real mess.”
Linda looked surprised at the reinstatement comment. I introduced the two FBI agents. After shaking hands, Linda said, “Captain, we’re here to negotiate you out of the mess you’ve made. Agent Peabody is one of the agency’s top hostage negotiators. He’ll be the only one who talks to the ranch residents from now on.”
“Residents? Residents my ass! Those ‘residents’ killed four sheriff’s deputies and are holding Sheriff Taylor hostage. We’ll have to blast them out of there, probably with National Guard jets. Every man in that compound with a weapon is destined for death row at the state penitentiary. They’re not going to give up without a fight. I told Sheriff Taylor that, but he went in anyway. We haven’t heard from him since. Little lady, are you telling me the FBI is taking charge of this crime scene?” His face was as red as a Phoenix sunset. Saliva was dripping down his chin, and I was briefly afraid that he’d attack Linda. Of course, she’d toss him half way across the staging area without breaking a sweat.
“From your surly comments, I take it that you’re not currently in negotiations with the residents?” Linda said.
“They have no telephones,” Captain Horn said, regaining a little composure. “The only one who’s approached the fortress was Sheriff Taylor, and they took him inside at gunpoint after making him strip to his drawers. We’ve tried to use our bullhorns, but they just ignore them and play religious music back at us. They have plenty of water and I assume lots of food and fuel for their generator. They could hold us off for months without heavy weapons of some kind like the jets I mentioned.”
“If it takes months, then it will take months. There will be no assault as long as there are more than twenty kids in that compound,” she said.
“Bullshit, who made you god?” he said getting pissed off again. I thought he might have a stroke. I was glad a team of paramedics was waiting nearby. “Unless you’re taking over responsibility for this murder scene, you don’t have the final say, but I’m willing to allow your negotiator to try and get the sheriff and the kids out before the assault.”
He walked away pretending to have urgent business on the other side of the staging area.
“I’m going to shoot him myself if he tries another assault,” Linda said. I believed she was serious.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Linda abruptly walked away without another comment and hiked up to the highest promontory overlooking the ranch. Standing next to a clump of sagebrush and a stunted juniper, she made a call on her satellite phone. In the bustling area near the news trucks, I saw Chad talking with an unhappy reporter. As I approached, I heard Chad say, “I’m sorry, I can’t let you get any closer. It’s the captain’s orders. You’ll need to take it up with him.”
He saw me and excused himself, walking over to me with a grin. “I’m damn glad to see you Mike. How was New York, did you learn anything?”
“It was productive, but I rushed back to see if I could help here. Captain Horn reinstated me, at least until the sheriff is freed from the ranch and rescinds it.” I was glad of the vote of confidence from Captain Horn, but I knew the sheriff would be likely to respond to the political reality of the lawsuit. If I were lucky, the lawsuit might become a non-issue after the SEC investigation of Bank E & A was in full swing. The sheriff is an elected official. He’d need the support of the county commissioners at the next election, but maybe the lawsuit would be long past by then. There was also the troublesome matter of the phone call from his home to Henry Griffin’s private telephone. I wanted my reputation cleared, but maybe I didn’t want to stay with the department in the long run.
“Well, were you able to nail that Griffin character?”
“The proof for the murders isn’t solid yet, but he’ll be in a passel of trouble with the securities regulators by Monday evening. I do have proof that he flew to Sedona the night after Thatcher reported the trading problem. He used a substitute pilot who agreed to file a false flight plan to cover up the trip. I think his visit to Sedona was to arrange Dr. Thatcher’s murder. Griffin also flew to Sedona last Friday. He was in the area when Reggie Neely was murdered. We have a good shot at getting him for the murders with a little more proof, but I’m afraid he might flee the country before we can arrest him. He’s a British citizen, and it would be damn hard to get him back if he makes it home.”
“Too bad we’re stuck up here and not in Sedona looking for witnesses that could put Griffin near Reggie’s house last Friday. Do you really think he’d strangle Reggie himself rather than paying someone to kill him?” Chad had a good point, would a man like Henry Griffin kill with his own hands?
“He might if he wanted to reduce the number of people who could tie him to the crimes,” I said without a lot of confidence. “It’s a little hard to see how anyone could easily take Reggie by surprise unless he knew them. He was killed at home where his dog would have warned him of anyone sneaking onto the property. Reggie was a big guy who’d trained as a pro wrestler. I never met Griffin, and I don’t know if he’s a big man. However, he’s a middle-aged investment banker. It’s difficult to believe that he could kill Reggie by himself.”
“Must have been two people present when Quentin Thatcher was killed, one to hold him and one to hold the snake,” Chad said. “Maybe Griffin wanted to reduce the witnesses and didn’t think his remaining cohort could do it alone.”
I thought of five possibilities for the extra person, Art Johnson and his two sons, Chris Moore, and my boss Sheriff Taylor.
“Since Griffin has an alibi for the day Dr. Thatcher was killed, at least two local people were involved,” Chad said. “I think Reggie was waiting at the Sinaguan ruin with the rattlesnake and someone local who knew Dr. Thatcher guided him. The guide was strong enough to grab Quentin from behind and hold him with his arms pinned while Reggie applied the snake. That same person probably helped when Reggie was murdered.”
“I agree with your theory, Chad. I think it was either Art Johnson or Chris Moore, both of them knew Dr. Thatcher from previous visits to Sedona because they both worked security at the retreat center. He might have trusted either of them,” I said.
I could see by Chad’s expression when I mentioned Art that he still thou
ght that there was no way a sheriff’s deputy and personal friend could have been involved. I still wasn’t ready to mention the possibility that the sheriff was connected to the murder. “Was there any new information about either crime before you left the office Friday afternoon?”
“There was one peculiar thing I learned Friday afternoon,’ Chad replied. “Remember that partial boot print that we recovered in the dirt in the doorway to the ruin? The crime lab says it was identical to the boot that Quentin was wearing except that it was a half size larger. It was from a 10 ½, rather than a 10. Both boots were new.”
I though of the storage room with rows of identical imported boots of each size. They were available for use of the guests of the retreat center. Chris Moore had access to that room, and his feet were about that size. I wondered about Reggie Neely’s shoe size. “Was there any information from Reggie’s autopsy before you left Sedona?” I asked. “I assume Doc Parker in Prescott was doing the exam.”
“Yes, the body was taken to Prescott. That old fart can’t even see anymore, so we’re not likely to get good information from his examination, but he might not be the only one to see Reggie. Your buddy Kay Sumter called Friday afternoon and asked for you. Rose transferred her to me, and I explained you’d been suspended. She’d been at a conference in San Francisco and hadn’t heard about it. When I told her about your getting shot at last week and about Reggie’s strangulation, she was pretty excited. She cussed like a marine drill sergeant and said she’d see what she could learn about Reggie’s death.”
“Maybe, I could use your phone and call her?” I asked. Chad gave me his satellite phone, and I called the medical examiner’s office in Flagstaff.
After a few minutes, Kay came to the phone. “Mike where are you?”
“I’m up at the Freedom First Ranch. I came to see if I can lend a hand, and Captain Horn reinstated me at least until the sheriff is released.”
“Keep away from those fifty caliber rounds. I spent most of the night examining the wounds those machine guns can make. Four dead already, what a goddamn waste.”
“I hope it’s a negotiation rather than a fire fight from now on,” I said with more hope than conviction. “An assault on this stone fortress will produce a lot more causalities. Kay, I was calling to see if you learned anything from Doctor Parker about Reggie Neely.”
“I was in Prescott examining Neely yesterday when the news of the Arizona Strip fiasco broke. I told Doc Parker that I was doing a paper for an upcoming conference on strangulation deaths, and he was happy to let me take a look at the body. I noticed some things that are not in his official report.”
“I’m very interested,” I said.
“Neely had blunt force trauma to the posterior of his cranium, but the blow was probably not enough to knock him out. It caused minor bleeding. He had similar bruises on his chest to the ones in the Quentin Thatcher case. I think he was struck on the head and then grabbed from behind with his arms pinned by someone very strong. He was a big man himself, and an ordinary sized man could probably have not restrained him. Mr. Neely was held with his feet off the ground while someone punched him in the abdomen and ribs, maybe twenty or twenty-five times. He had three broken ribs and extensive abnormal bruising. There were also ligature marks on his wrists. Probably after the beating, his hands were tied with a nylon cord, and he was held face down on a gravel surface by the pressure from a knee in the small of his back as indicated by a bruise. I think Mr. Neely was strangled from behind while he was face down on the ground. However, it was the marks from the strangulation with a wire garrote that were most curious.”
“It sounds like this wasn’t a straightforward killing,” I said. “Someone was very angry with Neely and wanted to beat him and hurt him before he died. What was strange about the strangulation marks?”
“Picture this Mike. A man has been hit on the head, beaten badly, had his hands tied behind his back with nylon cord. He’s face down in the gravel. The murderer holds him down by kneeling on his back and loops a three-millimeter wire around his neck, probably pulling the wire tight by wrapping it around wooden dowels that the killer holds in his hands. How long would a victim last under those circumstances?”
“He’d be a goner within minutes. The victim would be completely helpless and unconscious very quickly,” I said. I’d never seen a death exactly like this one, but I had a case in LA where the victim was killed by a similar wire garrote, a very effective murder weapon that could be made easily with things from any Wal-Mart or hardware store.
“There were indications of eleven or more separate ligature marks on the neck before the final fatal one,” she said.
She didn’t need to elaborate. Someone had wanted Reggie Neely to suffer. These marks indicated that the wire had repeatedly been released after partial strangulation. I asked, “Would Neely have been able to talk after the first partial strangulation?”
“Probably not. I don’t think it was torture to solicit information. I’d guess it went on for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. The final pull of the garrote cut very deeply through the skin rather than just bruise the victim. There would have been plenty of blood.” She paused and then asked, “I understand that you got shot at over near Cottonwood last week. Do you know why you were a target?”
“I think it concerns the Quentin Thatcher case. I also think Reggie Neely’s murder is connected to that case,” I said.
“Both deaths showed an element of unnecessary sadism. There were easier ways to kill these men. A painful death from a snakebite and a slow strangulation seemed to tell us something about the murderer. He enjoys it,” she said.
“My chief suspect is the head of the investment banking firm where Dr. Thatcher worked. He got a promotion in his previous job in India when his boss died from a cobra bite,’ I said.
“I’m no profiler, but I’d guess that the murderer is a sociopath with a sadistic history. This probably showed up when he was still a kid,” she said.
“Mike, don’t let them do something crazy up there at the ranch. I don’t trust Horn with the sheriff out of the picture. Don’t let him get more good men killed,” Kay said with her voice almost breaking up. It was one of the few times that I’d heard her voice laced with strong emotion.
I didn’t know what to say in reply. I mumbled, “I’ll do my best.”
I explained Kay’s account of Neely’s death to Chad and mentioned her final comment.
“A horrible way to go. If that was Griffin, he’s a sadistic bastard. Did you know about the night vision goggles that are being delivered this afternoon?” Chad asked changing the subject.
“No, I haven’t had much time to talk to Captain Horn. I introduced him to the FBI agents that drove me up here from the Flagstaff airport. That meeting didn’t go well. After a few minutes Captain Horn stomped off. What’s this about night vision goggles?”
“The word among the deputies is that Horn plans a nighttime assault on the compound. There’s a new moon and no manmade lights within twenty miles, except those from the generators in the Freedom First Ranch. It’s as dark as a cave up here at night. I heard Horn wants us to sneak up to the bunkers in the dark and take them out with flash bang grenades and small arms before a general assault on the walls. At first he wanted jets to bomb the bunkers, but the governor wouldn’t let the National Guard do that so this nighttime attack is his fallback plan.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I knew from my years in the army how news that comes through the grapevine about an upcoming action can be extremely distorted. I was confident that there must be more to Captain Horn’s plan than an attempt to climb a ten foot stone wall defended by well prepared and well armed men who were protecting their own wives and children. Captain Horn wasn’t crazy.
Chad and I discussed our investigation strategy for the Quentin Thatcher case for the next few minutes. Reggie Neely was killed outside of our jurisdiction, and I was skeptical of the quality of the investigation. Art Johnson was in charge
of the investigation of the sniper that shot at me. It occurred in Yavapai County outside of the city limits. He was also involved with the Cottonwood Police Department in the death of Reggie Neely. Even if Art or his sons were not involved in the crimes, how would he behave if the trail led to his cousin, Chris?
After our discussion, I began looking for Captain Horn to learn about his plans for an assault. Before I reached him, I saw Linda Surrett signaling me to join her. Allen Peabody, the negotiations expert, and she were standing on the highest ground in the area, a small promontory with a single juniper about two hundred yards from the staging area. I could see that they were taking turns at looking through a spotting telescope mounted on a tripod.
As I approached, Linda said, “Mike take a look and tell me what you see.”
I took a long look, maybe two minutes moving the scope over the whole length of the wall. We were high enough to see slightly over the walls into the central area. As I stood up from bending over the scope, I said, “It would be a very good idea to negotiate.”
“If we can figure out how to contact them,” Allen said.
“Describe the compound for me Mike. Just humor me for a minute,” Linda said.
“OK,” I said. “What I see is a fortress. The compound has a ten-foot high wall of pink sandstone that connects four very solid looking bunkers, one at each corner. The bunkers stick out about twenty feet from the defensive walls. I can see the barrels of a fifty-caliber machine gun in the small opening on the two bunkers on this side. They are designed to get attackers trapped in cross fires as they attempt to scale the wall. It’s safe to assume that they also have machine guns on the side I can’t see. Sixteen men are patrolling the wooden walkways built about four feet below the top of the wall. It’s the traditional design for a wilderness fort from the nineteenth century. It’s made of local stone and imported concrete. It reminds me of the structure at Pipe Springs National Monument except that this fortress is much larger. The outside wall has a single stout wooden door. I can’t make out the structure behind the door, but the wall continues back making a ten-foot wide corridor before connecting just outside of the central plaza. Is that what you wanted to hear Linda?”
The Victim at Vultee Arch Page 19