The Murders at El Tovar

by Charles Williamson

  “Will Blake claims to be very sexually active,” I said.

  Margaret nodded. She obviously thought he should be high on the suspect list. “He has a sexual problem. I don’t know if he has other indicators,” she replied.

  The buzzer sounded and we went to breakfast.

  We were seated near the mural of the Apache Tribes of Arizona against the wall of the large dining room. Sitting next to the wall, we had a fair amount of privacy. We continued our gruesome discussion of the serial killers.

  “It’s been a very unpleasant subject to research, but I’ve been doing some reading about other serial killers,” she said. Margaret had often done research to help with my cases so her news was no surprise. “Most are white males in their twenties or thirties. All of your suspects are in the correct age group. Every one of these serial killers is sexually dysfunctional in some way. They have low self-esteem, and most, but not all of them, grew up in terrible families. Some had very weak father figures and some had abusive fathers. These killers suffer from lifelong personality disorders in which they lack the ability to control their impulses. Psychologists call them impulse-ridden individuals with maladaptive personality disorder.”

  Margaret stopped her description as a waiter approached. It was Billy Blackstone.

  Billy greeted me with a smile and said, “Good morning Mike. I see you’re having breakfast with your daughter this morning.”

  Margaret and I are the same age, but she certainly looks much younger, not young enough to be mistaken for a daughter however. I said, “This beautiful young woman is actually my wife Margaret. Margaret this is Billy Blackstone.”

  They shook hands and Billy passed out the menus and poured coffee.

  “Billy, there a question I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said. “You were at a going away party for an Englishman the night Jim was killed. What was this fellow’s name?”

  Billy said jovially, “He’s a really nice guy named Garland Pickney who worked maintenance at the Maswik Lodge. He lived in the Commonwealth Room. We call it that because one guy is Canadian, one is Australian, and Garland is English. The fourth guy was from California, which is a lot like another country.”

  “Was that his last day here at the Canyon?” I asked.

  “I think he left for home the next morning. I hope he wasn’t too hung over to make the flight from Las Vegas.”

  I thanked Billy for the information and ordered eggs and ham. Margaret ordered buckwheat pancakes.

  After Billy left, Margaret asked, “Mike, did you say Billy was off work when each of the deaths occurred?”

  “He’s fairly high on my suspect list because he has no alibi and was a roommate of Jim Otto.”

  “Billy seems pleasant, but people described Ted Bundy as jovial and charming. Several of the serial killers that I read about were very well liked by their neighbors and acquaintances. I understand that Billy’s father is a career military man, but the fax you showed me didn’t indicate any real history of problems at an early age. I don’t think Billy is a killer. His fact sheet seems to indicate a normal guy to me. Unfortunately, the serial killers with the most normal façade seem to get away with their crimes the longest,” she said.

  “All of my suspects seem like normal fellows. Billy reminds me a little of our son at that same age. He has something on his juvenile record but the courts sealed the documents. Alan Markley said he didn’t think any of his new roommates were murderers.”

  “I certainly don’t see a prime suspect in the information that Chad sent this morning,” she said. “These young men seem normal. I wish I knew more about their families. There wasn’t any information about Craig Callison.”

  I had the brief feeling that I was missing something significant, but I just couldn’t pull the suspicion up into my conscience mind.

  A young couple with two small children were seated next to us, and we suspended discussion of sexually dysfunctional serial killers. We talked about the hike and the week’s news from Sedona. We had received two drawings of a tree and statue in Central Park from our granddaughters in New York. Margaret had displayed them on our refrigerator using her Arizona Diamondbacks magnets that normally support the shopping lists. A new Pacific Rim style restaurant had opened on Monday in West Sedona, and Margaret heard great reviews of it from her customers.

  We finished the hearty meal and moved to the verandah to digest our breakfast before we started the hike. We like to wait at least an hour between a big meal and a strenuous hike.

  We sat watching the tourists go in and out of the hotel, and Margaret asked, “Did you notice the two single women who have walked past in the last ten minutes?”

  “I was also thinking that it would be easy to sit here or in the lobby and notice unaccompanied women. It wouldn’t be difficult to follow them to various places along the Rim Trail,” I said.

  Margaret finished the thought by saying, “and push them off.”

  “Margaret, I still think you were correct to suggest that the Jim Otto case was the most important because it was clearly murder. Also, I have fairly good evidence that someone hit Helga Günter deliberately. The medical examiner agrees that it was a very implausible accident. I’m focusing on those deaths.”

  “Many of the serial killers that I researched were only caught using enormous police resources. In some cases, it took a victim’s escape from their clutches to put the investigators on the correct track. Maybe you need help.”

  “You’re right as usual,” I said. “I’ve been thinking of calling Agent Linda Surrett and asking her to refer me to an FBI profiler.”

  Margaret was surprised. “I thought you disliked Agent Surrett because she was obstinate, overbearing, and after publicity for the FBI.”

  I smiled, “That’s all true, but I figure she owes me a favor after Santa Fe. I’ve only been on this case a few days, and I need to prove that these women didn’t die from accidents or natural causes. I won’t be able to get the Feds to form a task force or provide much help unless I can prove these were actually murders.”

  “Do you think Agent Surrett works on Saturday?” Margaret asked.

  I picked up my cell phone and said, “Let’s find out.”

  I started by calling a friend who works in the FBI lab. He was working on a Saturday morning as usual. He was able to provide Agent Surrett’s direct phone number, explaining that it would roll to her cell phone if she wasn’t in the office.

  I was slightly apprehensive about Linda Surrett’s reaction to a weekend call. When I dialed the number the familiar voice answered.

  When I told her who was calling she asked, “Did you run into some terrorists in Sedona, Mike?”

  Linda Surrett was a senior agent in the anti-terrorist efforts of the FBI. She was probably very good at her job but not an easy person to work with.

  “Linda, I have a case at the Grand Canyon National Park that may involve five or six murders over a period of a few months. I wondered if you could help me set up a call to one of the agency’s profilers who has worked on serial killers.”

  There was a pause. I thought she would say no, but Linda replied, “It’s not in my area of expertise, but if the deaths occurred in the National Park, I think we should help. An official request from the Park Superintendent should be made, but I don’t think you’ll need to wait for it to be processed. It could take two to three weeks.”

  I was pleased she was going to help. I nodded at Margaret and smiled.

  Linda continued, “I’ve been working with the best person we have on a terrorist that the FBI has been tracking for eight months. I’ll ask her to call you. She’s Dr. Laura Sherman-Jones. Laura usually goes sailing on weekends. It may be Monday when she calls. Please have the park administration follow up with an official request.”

  I explained the conversation to Margaret and we relaxed for another thirty minutes before going back to our room for our daypacks. It was a most peaceful and pleasant half-hour as we sat visiting on the broad verandah of
the historic hotel. We talked of other beautiful hikes in other spectacular locations in the American West. We both wanted to return to Glacier National Park where the hiking is astonishingly beautiful.

  CHAPTER 23

  Margaret and I walked along the rim near the Bright Angel Lodge. It was bustling with visitors from a dozen countries and every state in the US. As we neared the Bright Angel Trailhead, I smiled at each passing tourist. I was excited about getting back into the deeper portion of the magnificent canyon. Seeing the Grand Canyon from the South Rim when compared to actually hiking deep into the chasm is similar to the difference between looking at a photo of a delicious meal and actually eating one. We were headed for a magnificent banquet of hiking.

  It was about 9:30, and the air at 7,000 feet was cool and invigorating. Phoenix had a forecast for a high temperature of 114 degrees while the South Rim expected a high of 82. The high temperature deep in the Canyon at the Colorado River was usually similar to the high temperature in Phoenix.

  Today would be a scorcher for Alan Markley and Will Blake as they hiked up from Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Canyon. Sam Gilbert was the one with the easier hike. He was moving down to Phantom Ranch and would not need to return to the South Rim for several weeks. I didn’t envy their hike. Margaret and I had hiked to the Colorado River and back up to the Rim within a single day several times, but we’d never hiked it in the June heat. I was concerned that the scorching heat would be dangerous to Alan because he didn’t have the hiking experience in the Grand Canyon that Will Blake had.

  The hike down into the Grand Canyon along the Bright Angel Trail follows the route of a prehistoric Native American trail down to the Indian Gardens Campground, which is about half way to the river. The campground was once the location of an agricultural community of the Havasupai Tribe. The tribe still occupies some of its ancient communities west of the National Park. They welcome tourists who come to visit their community and view the spectacular series of waterfalls and the astonishing canyon scenery.

  We started down the busy trail not far behind the morning mule train, which was taking tourists down to Phantom Ranch. I knew that Sam Gilbert was shipping most of his heavy load of weight lifting gear down by mule, but the three roommates would carry the remaining weights. To stay in shape, Sam Gilbert needed to lift more weights than a mule can carry.

  As usual, the higher portion of the trail was crowded with all sorts of people. Foreign nationals frequently outnumber sedentary Americans on the Inner Gorge portions of the trail. Many here at the beginning of the trail people wore street shoes and who did not carry enough water. Ambling Japanese tourists hiked three abreast, making passing them difficult. Young and obviously fit Europeans marched by us at twice our hiking speed. Most would have never experienced the Sahara-like temperatures at the Canyon bottom on a hot June day.

  The trail is wide enough to walk abreast, making for good conversation on the way down. I’m normally too out of breath to carry on a conversation on the way back up. Once the crowd had cleared somewhat, and we couldn’t be overheard, Margaret suggested, “It appears that all of the unfortunate women ate alone at the El Tovar dining room. Do you have a way of checking for potential victims and then having them followed to see that they don’t come to any harm? Maybe you could both prevent another death and catch the killer.”

  I admit that I almost stumbled and fell on my face because of her comment. It was such an obvious strategy, but it hadn’t occurred to me. Certainly, we could never use a civilian as bait for a murderer. I replied, “Good idea, Margaret. However, we don’t need to wait for an unaccompanied woman who resembles our victims to show up. There’re several women deputies in Coconino County, or we could borrow someone from another jurisdiction who looked more like the killer’s other victims. With the correct wig and a little makeup, one of them might attract the attention of this bastard, especially if she had dinner alone at El Tovar for several nights. It would be dangerous, but the Sheriff could ask for a volunteer.”

  “Maybe you could get your undercover man moved to the dinner service at El Tovar. There seems to be no connection between the Arizona Room steak house and the deaths. He would notice single women diners and could alert you.”

  “And we know there’s an opening because Sam Gilbert was reassigned to Phantom Ranch. Another good suggestion, Margaret.”

  We had hiked through the Kaibab Limestone formation, a tan rock formed in an ancient seabed more than two hundred million years ago. Another marine limestone layer called the Toroweap Formation followed. Fossils are abundant in both limestone layers. We stopped for a drink at the top of the steep switchbacks that had been cut into the buff colored Coconino Sandstone. The sandstone was formed from wind-sculptured sand dunes of an enormous wasteland that covered the area in the early Permian period of geologic history about two hundred eighty million years ago. The trip down into the Canyon is a geological trip through time and a favorite for geology students. The very hard metamorphic rock, Vishnu Schist, through which the Colorado River flows in the Inner Gorge is more than one billion seven hundred million years old. Each layer between has its own story to tell.

  A young French newlywed couple stopped next to our resting-place. They were holding hands. It reminded me of vacations that Margaret and I had taken when we were their age. Margaret is extremely gregarious, and she was soon busy trying her recently improved French. Margaret has been studying French at Yavapai Community College to refresh the French she’d learned thirty years ago at UCLA. Margaret is interested in taking a cooking class in Lyon next summer, and she wants to be ready to get the most from it.

  After we started hiking again, Margaret explained that the young couple was going to stay with us in Sedona for a few days before they headed back to Paris from Phoenix Sky Harbor. I wasn’t surprised. Margaret has often invited strangers to visit us, especially people from other countries. My wife is such an excellent judge of character that we’d never been disappointed with our guests. Margaret also had a little bit of an ulterior motive. She wanted to get acquainted with someone who could show us around Paris next summer.

  When we reached the point where Helga Günter died, I pointed out the location and explained my theory of the crime in detail. Margaret said, “I’m confident that you’ve figured this part out. You’re a very smart man.”

  We continued down the steep trail enjoying both the breath taking scenery and the diversity of the other hikers. A man raced past carrying his eighteen-month old boy on his shoulders but without even a canteen on his belt. Margaret and I always walked fairly slowly downhill, about two miles an hour. It’s a lot less strain on our fifty-five year old knees, and my bullet scarred leg. We also drink water at a regular rate even when we don’t feel thirsty.

  Most people hike down into the Canyon at three or four miles an hour without realizing how much strain they’re putting on their leg muscles and knees. They find the hike back up much more arduous. Overreaching their physical limits is how inexperienced hikers usually get into trouble in the Grand Canyon. It’s much easier to race down than to trudge back up. It’s also thirty degrees hotter in the Inner Gorge.

  We traversed dozens of switchbacks while hiking through the magnificent June morning and reached Indian Gardens a little before noon. We planned to eat our picnic lunch at the dramatic Plateau Point, 1,300 feet above the rapids of the Colorado River. Surrounded by the Grand Canyon with the sound of the rapids drifting up from the river, Plateau Point has one of the planet's most awe-inspiring views. We sat on the benches at the Indian Gardens rest area after filling our canteens. The French couple we had met on the trail was resting on the next bench. They also planned a picnic at Plateau Point.

  Will Blake came striding along the trail, his long muscular legs moving him at about twice my normal hiking speed. He was dressed in tan hiking shorts, a navy blue T-shirt that said, “UP A MOUNTAIN, DOWN A BEER”, and sturdy well worn hiking boots. He was carrying a large internal frame backpack without showin
g much strain in his bouncing step. A New England Patriots cap shaded his eyes.

  Not far behind was Sam Gilbert. His tank top shirt revealed the over-developed arms of a body builder. A floppy, wide brimmed hat hid his blond hair and protected the fair skin of his face, but his shoulders were red. Sam’s pack was bulging, and every manner of thing was tied to the outside of his over-stuffed external frame pack. I guessed he was carrying at least eighty pounds, maybe a hundred. However, Sam showed no sign of stress from the overloaded pack as his shorter stride carried him along six feet behind Will.

  I was concerned with the sight of the third man, lagging about thirty feet behind his roommates. Alan Markley’s face was crimson and his steps were the shuffling of an old man, indicating that his legs were already tired. He was less than half way down to Phantom Ranch and still would have a difficult hike back up. Sweat darkened his red ASU shirt and dripped from his forehead. His smaller pack seemed very heavy. The straps dug deep into his shoulders; it was poorly adjusted and not putting most of the weight on his hips. Alan was forty pounds lighter than his traveling companions and no hiker. It was clear from a brief glance, Alan was not going to make it.

  Before the group even reached our resting spot, I knew I’d have to do something. Here were two of our prime suspects hiking with an undercover officer who was already too tired to protect himself, much less anyone else. I hadn’t discounted Sam Gilbert as a suspect, but it was difficult to believe that his friends in high school didn’t know him well. I didn’t think the former student body president of Provo High School fit Margaret’s profile of a serial killer. However, I did think that Will Blake could fit it. His parents were divorced, and his mother lived on the opposite coast. He was sent away to a fancy boarding school when he was still in his early teens. He seemed to have both an insatiable sexual appetite and a strained relationship with his father. If Will had a reason to fear that Sam Gilbert suspected him, Sam might be in danger. If either man suspected Alan Markley was an undercover officer, Alan might also be in danger.