The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  “Let’s talk as we drive. This isn’t the place to discuss things,” I said. A large group of men were moving in our direction to see what the cussing was about. We walked to the camping area and loaded his gear into his truck for the drive back to Sedona.

  “Let’s take turns driving. We’re both beat and that dark empty road is extra dangerous when we’re exhausted. I’ll go first,” I said. It was well after midnight, and with his anger just below the surface, I wasn’t sure I wanted Chad driving right now.

  We were in Chad’s truck driving through the camp followed by the gaze of thirty deputies who’d heard of our exile. As we neared the gravel road, Allen Peabody rushed up to my window and tapped on it.

  When I rolled it down, he said, “Mike, give me your home and cell phone numbers. I want to talk with you later.”

  I gave him the phone numbers. Did he look at me with a trace of pity as his face faded into the darkness? I drove off along the bumpy road towards Jacob’s Lake. A few minutes later, Chad said, “We were the only men who’ve seen the inside of the compound and been through that tunnel. The sheriff didn’t have goggles, so he couldn’t have seen much himself. Why would he send us both away?”

  “I don’t know. He suspended me because he made that commitment to the county commissioners and county attorney, but I have no idea why he wants you to stay in Sedona. He wants both of us out of there for some reason.”

  “But the lawsuit is bullshit now that the truth about the bank’s problems is public,” Chad said.

  At least that part I understood. “The sheriff’s been a prisoner. Unless someone told him in the few minutes before he ordered me out of the area, he doesn’t know about the problems at Bank E &A. The lawsuit is probably not much of a risk now, but he didn’t give me a chance to even talk about things.”

  We talked for the first half-hour as we drove toward the Navajo Bridge where we’d turn south for Flagstaff and Sedona. Chad fell asleep as we descended from Kaibab Plateau. I pulled off the road for gas a few miles before the bridge, and Chad took over driving. I slept soundly until Flagstaff. I woke when we reached the lights of the city.

  “You were really out partner,” Chad said. It was almost dawn, and Margaret would probably be awake by now.

  “I feel great now after a little sleep. Let me drive us down to Sedona after I call Margaret and see what’s happened with Bank E & A,” I said.

  She answered after the first ring. “Mike, I’m glad you called. I’ve wanted to talk, but I was reluctant to call that satellite phone. You always say it costs the county a fortune.”

  “I’m in Flagstaff on my regular cell phone now,” I said.

  “You’re coming home. That’s great. Did you guys get everything solved last nigh? I haven’t heard anything on the morning news about it yet.”

  “We got the sheriff out last night. I’m on my way home because he reinstated my suspension and told me to get lost.”

  “Why would he do that? The lawsuit business must be over now. The regulators closed the domestic subsidiary of Bank E & A last night.”

  “I thought they had a rich and respected parent company in Europe,” I said.

  “The Scottish parent company refused to meet the capital call because they couldn’t determine the extent of the losses. If the North American CEO was in on the scam, they have no way of knowing how far the problems go. It’s like Enron; the loss of confidence in the firm would have destroyed the trading business even if they’d met the immediate capital requirement. There’s no way the regulators will continue to pay the legal costs for that frivolous lawsuit.”

  “The sheriff had other things on his mind,” I said. I still wondered why he’d called Henry Griffin’s private line from his home phone, and I didn’t understand why he was so anxious to get me out of the Freedom First Ranch area. “Sweetie, he didn’t ask me anything about the murder. Of course, he’s ordered me not to have anything to do with the bank, so I guess he had no reason to ask me about it. Things will be fine once the suit is dropped.”

  “I recorded the news about Bank E & A. It’s on the bedroom recorder. Sweetheart, I think you should call the sheriff and tell him about the bank or maybe the county attorney if the sheriff is too busy,” she said.

  “I’ll see you in about an hour. We can visit before you head to work.” I hung up and explained the news about the bank to Chad.

  Chad was very quiet on the drive through Oak Creek Canyon. As we approached Midgley’s Bridge I asked, “What’s up Chad? Are you still mad at the sheriff? He’s just doing what he committed to in suspending me.”

  “That’s not it. You’ll be fine after the lawsuit is gone. Mike, the problem is with me. Captain Horn thought I was a coward and an AWOL bastard because I got to the ranch after the shooting started on Saturday, and now the sheriff doesn’t want me to be part of whatever happens next. There were four deputies killed already, but he sent me home like a naughty boy. What are the other men going to think of me? Does Sheriff Taylor think I can’t handle it? Maybe it’s time to look for something else to do.”

  Margaret always knows what to say at times like this, but I have no skill for it. I thought for a moment. I was still considering private detective work, and I’d love to have Chad as a partner if we could find enough work to support him. I had my pension and didn’t need to depend on the unreliable PI income in slow times.

  “Chad, you infiltrated the compound in a dangerous mission to rescue the sheriff, and you took out that machine gun bunker. Both jobs were dangerous, but you did them without hurting anyone. No one will think you’re a coward. Get that crazy thought out of your head. As for the sheriff, I don’t know why he wants you in Sedona, but I know he thinks highly of you.”

  Chad didn’t say much in response. I’d decided it was premature to bring up the alternative that I was considering. I’d been pretty restless with the slow pace of activity in the Sedona substation before Quentin Thatcher’s murder. I wasn’t certain I wanted to continue to work for the Sheriff’s Department and for a man I didn’t trust. It was hard to believe that Sheriff Taylor was involved in a murder, but why did he call Henry Griffin’s private phone?

  A few minutes later when we reached the Y in Sedona, Chad’s mood had changed. “At least here in Sedona we might be able to nail that banker, Griffin, and whoever he worked with locally. I’ll call a police friend in Cottonwood and get us an update on Reggie’s murder. What are your plans for this afternoon? Even if we’re stalled on the Thatcher case, we might make some progress on Reggie Neely’s murder.”

  “Let’s start with the airport here in Sedona,” I suggested. “I want to see if anyone remembers Griffin’s visit last Friday. I need to come up with a photo of him somewhere. Can you pick me up at 1:00?”

  “Sure, that gives me plenty of time to check in at the office and see if Rose and Steven need any help,” Chad said.

  When Chad dropped me off at home, Margaret came out to greet me with a hug. She led me to the kitchen table and showed me a stack of newspapers, including the morning New York Times and Wall Street Journal. She had gone out early to buy them. I was pleased to see a photo of Henry Griffin on the front of the business section of the New York Times. It would come in handy when Chad and I went to the airport this afternoon.

  I took a close look at the unremarkable man. Griffin seemed older than I expected. He had receding blond hair that had been combed over to cover that bald spot on the top of his skull. His facial wrinkles were probably a result of his fair complexion and his time in the tropics. His deep set-eyes looked intelligent and maybe a little sinister. He had the nose from a Roman senator’s bust. From the posed head and shoulders photograph, I couldn’t tell much about Griffin’s physique, but I assumed there was no way he could have subdued a big man like Reggie Neely.

  Margaret saw my close attention to the photo and said, “He doesn’t look like a monster that would have someone killed by a snake or strangle someone with a wire. He looks a little like my former bo
ss in LA.”

  “I’ve arrested other businessmen including a couple in murders. They seldom seem remarkable. Somehow their business suits are one of the world’s greatest disguises. It’s easier to tell the street criminals by their looks. This man could be an accounting clerk.”

  Margaret served waffles while I read the news about Bank E & A. At eight she left for work, and I went to the hot tub to soak my old body. Crawling around the Arizona Strip and sleeping on a cot had left me feeling my age.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I watched the news program that Margaret had recorded and channel surfed through the business news stations. Bank E & A of North America was certainly out of business. The regulators were going to liquidate it. The news had been bad for the stock market in general and a disaster for other stocks in the investment securities business. The bank’s parent company’s stock had recovered slightly in European trading, probably because the loss was now limited to the value of the North American operations.

  There wasn’t much news specifically about Henry Griffin. The whole management team was under investigation, but Griffin hadn’t been arrested. I was still afraid that he’d return to Britain before he could be detained.

  All of the management and trading staff in the U.S. had been terminated without severance, and there were some interviews on FOX and MSNBC with very angry former employees. The managers and traders had become general creditors of the bankrupt firm for any back bonuses or pay they were owed. For some former traders that might be a huge amount since some of them would have seven digit annual incomes.

  The regulators were taking a much harder line in the liquidation of Bank E & A than they had in the closure of similar firms. The news commentators thought it was because the parent had refused to provide additional capital. The talking heads didn’t seem to connect the closure of the bank with the murder of the firm’s head risk manager and compliance officer less than two weeks earlier. If they figured out that connection, the story would certainly get bigger and move from the business news to be a major crime story. Heather had encouraged the regulators to look at Quentin’s murder when she became a whistle blower. My guess was that the regulators thought Quentin’s death was connected to a cover-up. They considered the investment bank to be completely rotten and decided it should be liquidated rather than sold.

  I kept busy that morning checking the Internet for news stories about Bank E & A and reviewing my notes about the case. The motive for the murder of Quentin Thatcher was clear. I was certain that Henry Griffin wanted to cover up his firm’s trading losses, and I knew Griffin came to Sedona immediately after learning that Quentin had uncovered the problem. I was certain that he arranged for someone local to kill Quentin during that trip.

  He’d lured Quentin into his trap, probably by a phony e-mail. The use of a snake was a weird touch, but Griffin had the nickname of the Big Snake and been promoted when a previous boss was killed by a cobra in India. It all fit nicely. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get an indictment without something to directly connect him to the crime. I knew the motive, the method, and the person responsible. Surely there was a way of proving it.

  Maybe we could make progress on the Reggie Neely case. If Reggie was connected to Quentin’s murder, it was probably for money. We could try and find the money and trace it back to Griffin. We might find a witness or evidence to tie Henry Griffin directly to the second murder; he could be executed for the murder of a local snake keeper just as easily as the murder of a New York risk manager. We should look for anyone who could place him near Reggie’s house.

  The Cottonwood police had found the rifle in Reggie’s house that was used in the attempt to kill me. I felt safer continuing my investigation since Reggie was dead, but I thought there must be at least one additional local person involved. Who would Dr. Thatcher have trusted enough to let guide him to the Indian Ruins? He would have trusted Art Johnson because he was a law enforcement officer, and he would have trusted Chris Moore because he served as security for the company’s retreat center. Did Dr. Thatcher even know anyone else in the area? Did he know Sheriff Taylor?

  Chad arrived at 1:00 and we headed for the Sedona airport. It’s a small facility located on a mesa with dramatic views. It has one good restaurant, lots of storage hangars, and a fixed base operator that supplies gas and mechanic services. I’m told it can be a rather dangerous airport because of tricky winds. There’s no commercial service or control tower.

  On the way, Chad reported on his discussion with his buddy with the Cottonwood police. “My friend was helpful, but they don’t seem to have much to go on. They’re fairly certain that Reggie took that shot at you, and his fingerprints were the only ones on the rifle.”

  “What about the physical evidence at the murder scene?” I asked.

  “Reggie was killed only a few feet from the table where we talked with him in the yard. His dog was killed too, a blow from a firewood log.”

  “Any foot or tire tracks?” I asked.

  “That gravel yard didn’t leave usable footprints. They’ve taken some tire prints from an area outside his gate, but they have nothing to match them to except for eliminating the ones from Reggie’s truck,” Chad said.

  “Bank E & A keeps a vehicle at the Sedona airport. You might suggest the Cottonwood police take a look at its tires,” I said.

  “Will do. Hope we get lucky,” Chad said. He was smiling and seemed his old self. The doubts of this morning seemed to have passed.

  Chad drove straight to the fixed base office. We were directed to a man named Cliff Archibald who drove the fuel truck. Cliff was reported to know every single person who came to Sedona by air on a regular basis. If you purchased fuel for a return flight, you needed to deal with Cliff.

  We introduced ourselves and explained that we were concerned with the visits by the Bank E & A corporate jet.

  “I know them well. That’s a beautiful jet. They fly from New York once or twice a month. Their pilot’s named Jimmy Torch. He brings bank big shots and customers to their place out in the Dry Creek area,” Cliff said.

  “Did you meet a young man named Rick Callahan who flew the plane last Saturday?” I asked.

  “Sure did,” Cliff said. “Nice young fellow who’s a substitute pilot. The regular pilot was sick I think. It was the second time he’s flown here. I saw him the previous week too. Rick spent four or five hours waiting for his passenger to return. I had a cup of coffee with him in the lounge. He’s a New Yorker, but an OK guy.”

  “It’s really his passenger that I’m interested in.” I showed him the photo from the New York Times.

  “Yes. That fellow was his only passenger. Didn’t even say hi to me. He just got in that tan SUV the company keeps here and drove off. Came back after four or five hours, and the plane took off. I’ve seen him before, but I don’t know his name. Why’d he get his picture in the paper?”

  “Well Cliff, if you didn’t get paid cash for that gas, you may have trouble collecting. Bank E & A went broke yesterday. This was the guy in charge,” Chad said.

  “You never really know do you. That multi-million-dollar jet and they turn out deadbeats. I guess that’s a worry for my boss,” Cliff said.

  “Did you notice anything strange about what the man in the photo was wearing while he was here?” I asked after a pause to let a bright red biplane taxi by. The noisy biplane is a popular way for tourists to see the Sedona area. Margaret and I had never been on one, but one of our houseguests had flown in it and loved it.

  “Funny you should ask,” Cliff said. “The fellow changed clothes somewhere. He came back in a flannel shirt. It was out of character for a guy who came in a private jet. It was a new shirt. It still had those wrinkles from being folded like new shirts. I think he had on new blue jeans too.”

  “Griffin was the CEO of an investment bank. He’s an Englishman with some type of title. Flannel and blue jeans seem a little out of character,” Chad said.

  “That’s exactly what I though
t when he came back. I figured he ruined his other clothes somehow,” Cliff said.

  I was glad to have additional proof that Griffin was in town during the time Reggie was murdered. The change of clothes further convinced me that Henry Griffin had murdered Reggie with his own hands, getting blood on his clothing. We thanked Cliff, and showed the newspaper photo around the airport without success.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon in Cottonwood, showing Griffin’s photo to clerks and checkout people at Wal-Mart and Penney’s. We got a possible ID from one person at Wal-Mart, but it wouldn’t be strong evidence in court.

  As Chad drove back to Sedona, a rainstorm surprised us, forcing us to pull off the road and wait it out. It was an unusually violent storm for autumn, but it passed quickly. There was a dramatic rainbow over Capital Butte as we reached Sedona. The open cockpit biplane flew low over 89A with two rain-soaked tourists sharing the front seat. I was certain the tourists had a lot more excitement than they had bargained for when their flight began on the clear blue afternoon. There was something potentially important about the biplane, but it was lodged too far back in my mind to pull out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Chad dropped me off at home. The answering machine showed that I’d missed a call, and I immediately returned the call from Allen Peabody because I was anxious to hear the latest news from the standoff. Allen asked if he could call back when he was alone.

  While I waited, I looked around the kitchen for something to fix for dinner. I have no skill at cooking, and Margaret is a wonderful cook. However, since Margaret was working full time, and I was temporarily unemployed, I felt an obligation to take on more of the domestic chores. I was considering ordering pizza from Moondog’s Pizza when the phone rang.

  “Mike, I didn’t want to be overheard, but I need to talk with you about Sheriff Taylor,” Allen said.

  “What’s up?” I asked. I wasn’t sure that I should do anything to get between Sheriff Taylor and the FBI, but it wouldn’t hurt to listen.