The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  “Linda has no idea that you’re not up here anymore. I don’t have any way of contacting her; I can just hear what she’s telling the residents. She’s trying to talk them into negotiating with you. They don’t trust Captain Horn or Sheriff Taylor. Linda explained that you were in New York when the shooting started so you can be unbiased. She told them you were a nice guy who gave her a lift to the ranch from the Flagstaff airport. They claim that the sheriff’s department started the shooting. They were just returning fire. It’s going to be a mess if they agree to negotiate, and you’re not available.”

  “What’s the sheriff say about it?” I asked.

  “He’s not inclined to talk to the residents unless they want to surrender because when he tried on the first day, they took him prisoner,” Allen said.

  “Can you insist that he give Linda more time?” I asked.

  “No, the sheriff says that the FBI can either take charge of the incident and bring in its own people or butt out. He appreciates that we have Linda inside, but only because she now has the freedom of the compound and might help us know the disposition of their forces. He and Captain Horn are planning a night assault, maybe as soon as tonight. Your action against the bunkers and your entry into the compound to rescue the sheriff, proved we have a strong advantage in night operations.”

  “What can I do? Of course, I’ll help if you need me, but my boss ordered me out of the area.” I was not sure what Allen was really after.

  “The idea of any further in-person negotiations is out of the question after the sheriff’s experience. I’m just asking you to keep your cell phone with you and be available night or day in case I’m able to stall the assault and get negotiations started.”

  I’d left my phone in the charger while Chad and I were in Cottonwood, so it was now good for three or four days of standby. “Call me any time. I’ll do whatever I can. What’s this story about us shooting first? Is there any truth to that?”

  “I’ve overheard Linda talking with people inside the compound about it. The residents are all convinced that one of the deputies who died in the exchange fired the first shot. Four deputies were killed while serving a lawful warrant. Those are homicides, but if law enforcement started the shooting, that will be significant from a public perception standpoint.”

  “Did you ask Captain Horn who fired first?” I asked.

  “When I mentioned it, he almost slugged me. Sheriff Taylor had a deputy escort me out of the area where they were planning their next action. No one is even talking to me anymore. I have a very bad feeling about what might happen.” Allen’s voice had moved from professional detachment to honest concern. I didn’t know the man well, but I shared his apprehension. It would be very difficult to limit casualties, especially since the women and children might be armed.

  “I’ll do anything I can, Allen. Call me if you need me.” I doubted that I’d get a call.

  Soon after my conversation with Allen, Chad called and explained that no one was actually working the Quentin Thatcher murder since most of the force was up at Freedom First Ranch. He’d discovered that the report on the partial footprint we’d found in the Sinaguan ruin had been on Captain Horn’s desk since Friday. The state crime lab had verified that it was a print from the same brand of imported hiking boot as Quentin wore, but that it was a half size larger. Quentin’s boots were new, no more than a few miles of hiking. The tread on the print showed that it had seen many months of hiking. It was certainly not a new boot.

  “Can you find out if Chris Moore and Art Johnson are 10 ½’s?” I asked.

  “Sure, I’d just need to meet them somewhere they’ll leave footprints. I’ll invite them both for a beer at a place I know in Cottonwood. It has a dirt parking lot that will easily show prints after the rain this afternoon. Art’s feet are bigger than a 10 ½. Haven’t you noticed that his feet and hands are all out of proportion to his tall skinny frame?” Chad had never thought that Art could be involved, and he was probably correct about his shoe size.

  “Anything else new on the case?” I asked.

  “I mentioned to Rose that you were concerned that Henry Griffin might leave the country. Rose is able to access the Homeland Defense air travel database. She’ll be able to tell if Griffin makes reservations for any flight out of the country.

  “Excellent. Henry Griffin will never get another job in the investment business, but he may have money stashed somewhere. He’ll run rather than stand trial.”

  After my call from Chad, I focused on Chris Moore. I remembered my first meeting. I had the impression when I shook his hand that it was small for his massive wrestler’s body. It was about the same size as my hand, and I wore a 10-½ shoe. He was certainly large enough and well trained enough to subdue either Quentin Thatcher or a large man like Reggie Neely. He’d known both Quentin and Reggie before their deaths. In fact, Reggie was something of a fan. It would have been easy enough for Chris to get close, grab the big red neck from behind, and hold him while Griffin tied his hands and then strangled him. How would we prove that?

  When Margaret arrived, she brought dinner with her. Without my sheriff department’s Explorer we were down to a single car, and she’d done the shopping on her way home. We enjoyed a roasted chicken, slaw, potato salad, and a chocolate cheesecake from Safeway. The evening was relaxing and intimate. I was grateful that the cell phone didn’t ring with bad news from the Arizona Strip. Margaret and I didn’t talk about the case until breakfast.

  When I explained the shoe size information, Margaret asked, “You were suspicious of Chris Moore at the start of your investigation. Why did you move away from him as your main suspect?”

  I thought about that, looking for a good answer without success. “I don’t really know, maybe because he got between that sniper and me. He pulled his Hummer right into the line of fire. Chris seems like a guy that might kill in anger, but I don’t see him doing it for money.

  Lately, I’ve been thinking that it was Art because of the break-in. Art would have known that only one deputy would be at the Sedona office at night. He’d also have known exactly where to look for the documents in the evidence room. Chad has always said it couldn’t be Art, but I’d almost convinced myself that he was involved until we received the footprint information.”

  “What size boot does the sheriff wear?” Margaret asked.

  “I don’t know, but his feet are about the same size as mine,” I said. I couldn’t accept that he might be involved. “The boot was the same kind that the Bank E & A gave to its guests. They have a whole storage room full of them in every size. They’re a fancy Italian import. It’s much more likely to be Chris Moore’s boot.”

  “But not proof unless you find it in his closet,” she said, and she was right. Knowing who was involved was not enough. “What did you find out at the airport?”

  I explained what I learned about Griffin’s visits to the area. The change of clothes was significant, but there was no chance of finding the discarded, probably bloodstained ones unless we knew where to look. Everything was still circumstantial. “If Chris Moore does have 10 ½ boots, Chad might be able to get a warrant to review his financial records. If he received a payment from Griffin, that would be strong circumstantial evidence, but without a witness or strong physical evidence, homicides are difficult to prove. The jury will insist on more than motive and circumstantial evidence for a capital crime.”

  After Margaret left for work, I called Chad to see if there was any news from the Arizona Strip and to find out if he’d learned our suspects’ shoe sizes. He hadn’t heard anything new about the standoff, but he’d been successful finding our suspects’ shoe sizes. Chris Moore wore a 9 1/2 and Art wore a 12 ½. Neither man fit the print we’d recovered. Chad said that he’d come by this afternoon at 2:00, so we could spend more time in Cottonwood trying to find people who could identify Henry Griffin and see if we could get a lead on the bloodstained clothes. He explained that the Cottonwood police had taken tire prints of the Bank
E & A vehicle. We’d know by this afternoon if the SUV matched any of the tire prints near Reggie’s house.

  I was stuck at home without a car, and I wished that I’d driven Margaret to work. I was no longer welcome at the rental place in Cottonwood, but maybe I could get one in Flagstaff tomorrow. I was doing laundry when my cell phone rang. Allen called to give me an update on the standoff.

  “Mike, things are not looking good for a negotiated settlement. Two military helicopters arrived about half an hour ago. A twenty-man swat team from Phoenix PD got out. The National Guard returned with three trucks of equipment and supplies. The guardsmen are still here. They seem to be a unit of medics. I think it’s a go for tonight, but no one is talking to me.”

  “What’s going on with Linda?” I was concerned about her safety as well as the possibility of direct discussions with the Freedom First Ranch.

  “Linda was sleeping in a room full of women and children when you got the sheriff out. They still think she’s a nurse. It was smart to put the door back on its hinges, because they don’t suspect that the sheriff had help in his escape. They think he got loose and scaled the walls. They probably have no idea that their secret exit had been discovered.”

  “Are they still arming the youngsters?” I asked.

  “The kids have great nighttime vision. There are always boys on the walls after dark, some as young as eight. They’re armed with shotguns,” Allen said.

  “What are the odds that they’ll talk with us?” I asked.

  “Linda needs more time, but she’s not likely to get it.” His answer sounded final. “Mike, the Phoenix Police Department is not going to let its swat team stay up here long. Phoenix is a big city, and that team is needed for local situations. Those men didn’t even bring sleeping bags. It’s going to happen tonight, unless someone in Washington can stall it. I’ve called my boss, but the Agency is not anxious to be associated with another Waco. They want to keep things local.”

  NEW YORK:

  The previous evening, Henry Griffin had sat alone in his home office drinking 18-year-old scotch and thinking about his situation. He was alone because his wife was on a flight to Austria where they kept their special bank accounts. By this time tomorrow, the money would be in Indonesia, and Henry would begin the long drive to Tijuana, Mexico where he’d catch a flight to Mexico City and from there to Bali. He planned to move on to Bangladesh within a few weeks. He had no plans to include his wife in the final step of his relocation. She could fend for herself. Besides, her parents were wealthy enough to take care of her without his help. His modest fortune would allow him to live in great luxury in Bangladesh, one of the least expensive countries in the world. He’d always found the exotic women of the subcontinent very attractive. He’d disappear for good.

  He looked around his spacious apartment. Henry was uncharacteristically sentimental about his final evening in New York. He smiled at his own misfortune. It was better to have tried and failed than to have just let life pass on by. He needed to decide on a new name before he reached Tijuana so that documents could be prepared. He hated to part with his knighthood. It was more important to him than the physical things that he’d leave behind, but it wouldn’t be safe to claim it in his new life.

  He’d done everything perfectly, but there was no possibility of eliminating all bad luck. He’d needed to involve incompetent people in Arizona.

  The lawsuit was brilliant; it killed the investigation dead in its tracks. He was off the hook until the hillbilly cretin who furnished the snake screwed things up. To begin with, the fool had provided a snake that wasn’t native to the area, and when things went bad, he’d taken a shot at Detective Damson.

  Even though the detective wasn’t badly hurt, the local sheriff had been furious. He’d called on his private phone and threatened to ignore the lawsuit and assign every lawman in northern Arizona full-time to investigate the bank if there was another attempt to kill Mike Damson. Henry was sorry that he’d given the hick sheriff his direct line the first time he’d called him to try and retrieve the papers. Otherwise the threatening call would have gone through the recording system, and he would have proof of the threat for his lawyers.

  At least he’d feel better about things after his drive through Arizona on his way to Tijuana. He still had business there that would provide a great deal of satisfaction, maybe even genuine pleasure. He hated loose ends.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  I spent a frustrating morning doing laundry and cleaning. I needed to be up at the Arizona Strip where I could help. Why the hell did the sheriff run both Chad and me off?

  I considered calling Sheriff Taylor in an attempt to persuade him to wait at least a week before assaulting the compound, but I was certain that he didn’t want to hear my opinion or he would have asked before sending me home. The sheriff had probably heard the news about the bankruptcy of Bank E & A by now. He’d known that there was no legal need to continue my suspension.

  When Chad arrived, I told him the news from the Arizona Strip. He agreed that the Phoenix PD would not leave its swat team up at Freedom First Ranch. He was as frustrated as I was about being excluded from the action.

  However, Chad had some good news. There was a match between the driver’s side front tire of the Toyota SUV owned by Bank E & A and one of the tire tracks found at Reggie’s place. We had a witness that would testify that Henry Griffin was driving that vehicle the day Reggie was murdered. It might be enough for an indictment, but it was probably not enough for a conviction. Chad and I went to the Cottonwood police station and spent the afternoon working with them to find additional witnesses that could verify that Griffin was in town when Reggie Neely was killed. By 5:30, the local police had forwarded an arrest warrant to New York. We hoped that Griffin would be picked up by morning.

  As Chad and I drove back to town, I noticed the biplane again. This time it was making an approach over west Sedona to land at the airport.

  “Chad, there’s something about that airplane. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Maybe you’re thinking of it because the body was spotted by a helicopter pilot. The biplanes also fly tourists to the Dry Creek area, but the case received so much local publicity that those tourist pilots would have contacted us if they knew anything. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them tomorrow, but who’d remember a small group of people hiking near Vultee Arch a couple of weeks ago? They must see hundreds of hikers around that part of the back country every week.”

  I knew Chad was right, but I was still forgetting something.

  Chad dropped me off at home just as Margaret was driving up. Since Margaret wasn’t in the mood to cook and I hadn’t been home to fix anything, we went out to eat at our favorite Japanese restaurant on Jordan Road. It was about 9:00, and we’d just finished our green tea ice cream when my cell phone rang.

  “Mike this is Allen. It’s a go for tonight. The units are starting to move forward.”

  “I’m sorry Linda ran out of time. Is there anyway of getting her out of the line of fire?” I asked.

  “She has on that silly white nurse’s uniform, and the teams all know about her. They’ll try and avoid hurting anyone who’s not carrying a weapon. If you’re willing to standby, I’ll keep this line open. Maybe the residents will be willing to talk when they realize we’ve started moving forward.”

  “They’re moving in,” I said to Margaret.

  “I’ll standby as long as you want,” I said into the phone.

  “Good,” he said, and the line was quiet except for a little background noise. I gathered that Allen was also moving toward the compound through the dry creek that Chad and I had used.

  Margaret signaled for more tea, so that the wait staff would know we’d stay awhile. After fifteen minutes Allen said, “I’m in the dry creek about two hundred yards from the wall. The night vision equipment is excellent even with just a sliver of moonlight, but with the lights along the wall it’s not easy to use it. I counted fifteen people pa
trolling the walls, many of them are short enough to be boys.”

  “Will the sheriff use snipers?” I asked. “They’re just kids, surely he knows that.”

  “The swat team is moving into the tunnel you found. I think they want to be inside before anyone knows there’s an attack underway.”

  That was a good tactic. The people on the walls would have nowhere to hide when they were attacked from both sides. It was low risk for law enforcement, but it might be slaughter for the people defending the walls. Everyone in law enforcement was using night vision goggles. I was sure the swat team would take out the generator first. The defenders would be helpless in the dark.

  We waited with an occasional comment from Allen that I repeated to Margaret. At ten, we left the restaurant for home. I kept the phone to my ear as Margaret drove. By 10:30, Allen was certain that everyone was in place for the attack, but he hadn’t been told when it would begin. He was still on the outs with both the sheriff and Captain Horn.

  Margaret and I sat in the living room near the fireplace. I had my arm around her shoulder as we waited. The hall clock was striking eleven when Allen said, “The lights are out.”

  I could hear shots fired in very rapid succession. A minute later Allen said, “There’s no one left standing on the walls. The compound’s unguarded now.”

  A few minutes later he said, “We’re moving forward, but the shooting has mostly stopped. All the deputies are staying outside of the walls. Only the sheriff and Captain Horn have entered since the swat team went in through the tunnel. They went in when the main door was opened.”

  There was a fifteen-minute wait until I heard the distant voice of a woman calling for Allen. It was Linda, and she wanted Allen to join her inside the compound.

  I heard Linda explain the situation to Allen. The swat team had used non-lethal weapons, beanbag and rubber bullets, to subdue the armed men and boys on the walls. They’d quickly subdued the people in all but one of the houses, and no one on either side had been seriously hurt. Minor injuries were being treated including several broken bones, and the whole compound was secured except for a small group of holdouts.