The Murders at El Tovar

by Charles Williamson

  “If he did get a car last night, where do you think he’d go?” she asked.

  I knew where Margaret’s question was leading. She wanted to know if he’d come to Sedona. I didn’t want to scare her, but I wanted her alert to the possibility of danger. I explained that the profiler thought Jason needed either a big city or an area with a lot of tourists to spot women who fit his profile.

  “Sedona has millions of tourists. There must be women traveling alone here almost every day who fit his profile,” she said.

  Our food was delivered, and we stopped the conversation after I said, “Yes, Sedona certainly fits the profiler’s description of a town with a lot of tourists.”

  The rest of the lunch involved Margaret’s telling me all of the town’s gossip. She often heard surprising details about what was happening in Sedona as she visited with her customers at the bank. People had noticed the Jason McKinney wanted posters. Many of her customers knew Margaret was married to the manager of the Sedona substation of the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office. They wanted Margaret to tell them the real reason for all the attention to this handsome young man in the photos. Margaret claimed to know nothing about the guy except that he was an extremely dangerous fugitive.

  After a pleasant lunch, I took Margaret back to work, waiting until she was inside the bank before I drove off.

  Back at the office, Chad had some urgent news. “Mike, I just hung up from a call from Sean Bridger who manages the Junipine Resort in Oak Creek Canyon. Sean said that our wanted man might have been there this morning. I took copies of Jason’s photo to all the merchants in Oak Creek Canyon early this morning. Sean and I grew up together. He’s a solid guy. We should take his sighting seriously.”

  There was only one road through Oak Creek Canyon. If Jason was still in Oak Creek Canyon, he was trapped. I said, “Let’s shut down both ends of US 89A. We’ll trap him within that fifteen mile stretch.”

  Chad frowned, “Unfortunately, Sean called for me half an hour ago and left a message for me to call back. He saw the man he thought was Jason nearly an hour ago.”

  “Damn partner, that’s too much time. Even the slowest driver would be out of Oak Creek Canyon by now. What did your friend have to say about his sighting?”

  “Sean saw a man start to enter the restaurant. The young blond man had his hand on the door when he suddenly stopped, turned abruptly, and rushed away. Sean thought it was a weird reaction and walked over to the glass door to see what happened. The man was gone, but Sean noticed that Jason’s photo was positioned at eye level on the door where everyone who entered would see it. Sean thought the man who rushed away was the same one in the photo. A white American car that was racing up 89A toward Flagstaff, but he didn’t get the tag number.”

  Chad called the Sheriff with the news of a possible sighting in Oak Creek Canyon. The Sheriff was personally coordinating the four state search. He told Chad this was the fifteenth sighting of Jason McKinney in the past three hours, in places from St. George, Utah to Phoenix. Sheriff Taylor would make certain that all of his local officers and the Flagstaff Police Department were notified. The mention of a white domestic car would not help much. Arizona was full of white cars, chosen to reflect more of the intense sunlight and keep the cars slightly cooler in the broiling summer temperatures of the desert sections of the state. Also, white domestic sedans were the most popular rental cars, and Sedona was always full of them.

  Chad and I decided to drive up to the Junipine Resort and talk to Sean Bridger together. The drive through Oak Creek Canyon was pleasant; the warm June air grew cooler as we drove up the tree shaded highway that followed the clear spring-fed creek. When we reached the resort, we saw the outside deck of the restaurant crowded with diners enjoying lunch in the bright afternoon sun. Chad pointed out Sean Bridger, a man who was working the crowd in a white apron and assisting the young wait staff. I was surprised at the number of people enjoying lunch on a Monday afternoon.

  As we parked, I saw Sean break away from his duties and walk over to talk with us. He was a man of about thirty with a runner’s build, very long legs supporting a short torso, and prematurely thinning black hair. Chad introduced him as a friend since grade school. My partner was born in Sedona and knew almost all of the old timers. His local knowledge was often useful in our cases. I’d only lived here for a few years, and my social contacts were mostly people I knew at St. Paul’s Catholic Church or people in our neighborhood. Margaret on the other hand, seemed to know two thirds of the town. She’s very gregarious and never forgets a name or a birthday.

  Chad greeted Sean Bridger saying; “Thanks for the call old bud. This is my boss and partner, the infamous Michael stonehearted Damson. Mike and I came to hear your story in more detail. Can you take a break from the crowd?”

  Sean smiled. “The place is full of insurance sales reps up from Phoenix for a planning session. I’m sure they’ll get fed without my hovering around. Would you like a beer? It’s on the house.”

  “Coffee works for us. Thanks,” Chad said.

  We went into the restaurant’s cozy indoor dining area. Most of the customers were outside in the sunshine, and we found a quiet table. As we sipped coffee, I asked, “Sean, please tell me the whole story. I’d like to hear it in your own words. Do you mind if I record this?”

  Sean had no problem being recorded and began his story. “The whole thing lasted only five or ten seconds. The guy started in the door and then turned abruptly and left. What caught my attention the most was the range of expressions in that few seconds.”

  “Good start. Tell us about his expressions,” I said.

  Sean shrugged and explained, “This may sound weird, but the man showed surprise followed by rage, followed almost instantly by fear and panic. I don’t think a trained actor could’ve changed expressions that quickly. This jerk’s emotions seemed pretty damn real to me. I walked quickly toward the door. All of a sudden, I remembered the photo that Chad had brought this morning and taped to the door with the photo showing on the outside. I opened the door to look at it. It was the same guy.”

  This was not a casual sighting of a person in a passing car. Sean’s story sounded very credible to me. I wondered what I should do next. Every law enforcement officer in Coconino County was already on the lookout for the guy. I asked, “What happened next?”

  Sean pointed up the highway. Trees obscured the view of the road only a hundred feet from the resort as the road curved to follow the course of Oak Creek. Sean commented, “I saw a car going around the curve. I just had a glimpse of it, but I think it was a new white four-door Chrysler 300. I’ve no idea of the tag number, but it was the most common Arizona plate.” Arizona issued two-dozen specialized plates to support local sports teams or charities. Mine supported Cardinals Football Team.

  It sounded like a rental car. I wonder if anyone had bothered to notify the rental companies about our fugitive. Maybe he rented a car in Page or swiped one from a rental lot. We talked with Sean Bridger for another fifteen minutes, but nothing useful was added to the information that he’d already provided.

  As we got into Chad’s car, he said, “That profiler woman was right. I think this fellow has something personal going with you Mike. If he left that Jeep Liberty in Page last night, it can’t be an accident that he drove three and a half hours to get down here to Sedona. He could have driven to Salt Lake City or Las Vegas just as easily.”

  I said, “Chad old buddy, when you’re right, you’re right. This gives us the best possible opportunity to bring him in. He may have turned around and headed back to Flagstaff after seeing his photo at the Junipine, but I think he’ll be back to Sedona. We’ll be waiting.”

  As we drove back to the office, my cell phone rang. It was Sheriff Taylor. “Mike, a fly fisherman found a man’s body washed up against the east bank of the river about a mile north of Lee’s Ferry.” The Colorado River between the Glenn Canyon Dam and Lee’s Ferry is a favorite Arizona spot for trout fishing. The frigid wat
ers from deep in Lake Powell are used to power the dam’s turbines. The river water is very cold below the dam even in June, and the rainbow trout are huge. The steep sides of Marble Canyon make the river inaccessible except by powerboats that can fight the strong current and take anglers upstream. Guides take the fishermen up river from Lee’s Ferry, the only place in fifty miles where you can easily put a boat in the Colorado River.

  The Sheriff continued, “The fisherman checked the wallet and identified the man as Marty Sorensen from Middletown, Connecticut. Mr. Sorensen’s family says he’s on a fishing trip. We’ve confirmed that he rented a white Chrysler 300 from Avis at Phoenix Sky Harbor about noon yesterday.”

  “Our possible sighting of Jason McKinney in Oak Creek Canyon indicated that he was driving a late model white Chrysler 300,” I said.

  “Mike, I have every officer in Flagstaff looking for that car. McKinney drove down here for a reason. I think he’s after you. I want you and Chad to stay together. This is a time for two-man patrols only.”

  “I understand boss.” I repeated the details of my conversation with Sean Bridger. The account sounded very reliable to both of us. I said, “He’ll try and change cars again.”

  “We’ll be watching for that,” the sheriff said. “He was stupid to stay in Coconino County. We’ll have him soon. If we catch him in the stolen Chrysler, we might get a homicide conviction for the dead fisherman who rented the car. Even a good attorney can’t convince a jury that all of this is a coincidence.”

  Maybe the Sheriff was correct, but we hadn’t found useful evidence in the Jeep Liberty taken from the North Kaibab Trailhead. Jason was covering his tracks well. However, he’d grown overconfident. He’d been shocked to see how widely his photo had already been distributed in the area. He’d thought that he was still an anonymous young man who could charm his way out of any trouble.

  Jason would lay low for at least a few weeks until the heat was off. He’d wait to strike when surprise was on his side. I assumed that Jason had already changed cars and was headed out of Arizona. If he actually thought he was in a weird kind of contest with me, he might return weeks or months from now to resume his crimes in Coconino County. This guess was not the first time I was wrong about Jason. I was underestimating his self-confidence and resourcefulness.

  CHAPTER 36

  Chad and I spent the afternoon cruising the streets of Sedona and the highways that connect it to the rest of the state. We were looking for a white late model Chrysler 300. I would not have wanted to drive a white Chrysler sedan through Sedona that afternoon. One man that Chad and I stopped on 89A claimed that it was his fourth time to be stopped by the police during his two-hour visit to town. He just wanted to go back to Phoenix and be left alone. He was a young man with blond hair who fit Jason’s description. The traffic convinced me that local law enforcement was taking the danger from the serial killer seriously.

  At 4:30, Chad and I returned to the office. I wanted to call Australian authorities to learn if there had been any progress on the fingerprint research. I was anxious to know the real identity of the young man who had called himself Jason McKinney while he worked as a desk clerk at El Tovar.

  I phoned Victor White’s direct line at the Bondi Beach Station. He answered immediately, in spite of the early hour in Sydney. Victor did have some news. “Detective Lieutenant Damson, we appreciate your rapid response with the fingerprints and photo of the Jason McKinney imposter. Our staff ran the prints against our complete computer fingerprint file last night. Sorry Lieutenant, it’s bad news. We found no matches. The man in America has no criminal history in Australia. We’ve made no progress on the case here in Sydney, and we’re no closer to knowing his real identity. This morning, I’m going to chat with Jason McKinney’s family. I hope they can help us uncover who is using their son’s passport. I have the photo you e-mailed to show them.”

  I explained that Jason was now on the run in a stolen rental car somewhere in northern Arizona. The renter of that car had been found floating dead in the Colorado River this morning. I was anxious to stress the urgency of our search. There had now been two deaths in two days. This serial killer was spinning completely out of control, killing people who did not fit his previous pattern. These new killings were coming at such a rapid pace that Jason appeared to have lost all constraints on his behavior. I knew that he’d kill again for another car unless we found him today.

  Victor White said he would call with any new information no matter how late it was in Arizona. He assumed that the young man in the photo must resemble the real Jason McKinney in order for him to have gotten through the American customs checkpoint at LAX. I gave Victor my cell phone number so he could reach me at home. I wasn’t certain that knowing the true name of our serial killer would bring our search to a quicker conclusion, but I had a very strong hunch that this information might be critically important. I wanted to talk to the FBI profiler about the details of Jason’s life before he came to the US. Maybe that would let her predict his next move.

  After the phone call, it was time to pick Margaret up at the Bank. I didn’t want her to be left standing on the curb waiting for me. It was a short drive to the Chase branch in west Sedona. Margaret had waited inside the glass front door. She smiled as she got in the car saying, “Mike, you haven’t been this attentive since we were newlyweds; chauffeuring me around town and taking me out for both lunch and dinner.” She leaned over and kissed me.

  We hadn’t spent much time discussing the personal risks, but she understood them. Either of us might be a target for Jason McKinney. We decided on dinner at the Javalina Cantina, a good Mexican restaurant in the Hillside Sedona shopping area. Margaret loved their fish tacos, and I favored their chicken enchiladas. It was the first time that I’d felt truly comfortable since Jason evaded our roadblocks at the North Rim.

  Although Margaret didn’t resemble the other women that Jason McKinney had killed, he had already broken his pattern in order to steal the Chrysler at Marble Canyon and even earlier to eliminate Jim Otto as a possible witness.

  My cell phone rang as we were finishing our meals. It was Sheriff Taylor again. His deep voice sounded exhausted. I felt a little guilty to be relaxed, enjoying a delicious meal with Margaret. I knew he’d worked very late on the manhunt near Page calling all the nearby jurisdictions. He’d worked all day coordinating the search near Flagstaff and Sedona.

  He was calling with an update. “Mike, we found the rental car abandoned in the forest. It was left on an unimproved forest service road fifteen miles west of Flagstaff and about a quarter of a mile from Interstate 40.”

  “It would have been a short walk to the Interstate. He might have hitchhiked either east or west. Do we know how long the car’s been there?” I asked.

  The Sheriff sighed. “The deputy who found the vehicle said the engine is completely cold and the interior smells of ammonia.”

  The Sheriff continued his update; “We had several possible sightings soon after we last talked. All were false alarms with the exception of a call from a customer who’d been to Wal-Mart. She thought Jason might have been shopping for clothing while she was in the store. She saw his photo twenty minutes later when she went to the Denny’s for lunch and called us. She remembered the man because he was so good looking. I sent a deputy to interview the caller and some of the employees who might have seen him. One Wal-Mart clerk thought she recognized him. She said he didn’t talk just smiled and nodded, but he was cute and had a wonderful sympathetic smile. This possible sighting was at about 1:00. It’s now after 6:30. If he dumped the car immediately and caught a ride on the Interstate, he could be in California or New Mexico by now.”

  I asked, “Have you been able to determine what he purchased?”

  The Sheriff explained, “He didn’t use a credit card. We’re still checking all of the cash transactions, but our best bet at this point is concerning.”

  “Did he buy things for a disguise?” I asked.

  “Someone pai
d cash for three hundred and sixty dollars worth of men and women’s clothing, a variety of cosmetics, three colors of hair dye, and three wigs,” the sheriff explained.

  I was sitting in a crowded restaurant with my wife and talking to my boss. I didn’t say what I felt. Instead, I said, “That’s him. No one else would buy three different colors of hair dye at one time. Boss, this may be getting more difficult, but we’ll get him. He’s smart to have purchased so many kinds of disguises. We have no way to know if he looks like a man or a woman, what hair color he’s used, or even his skin color. Do we have a detailed list yet?”

  The Sheriff said, “I have a copy of the receipt, but it doesn’t tell us the details like the color of the wigs, cosmetics, or clothing. This customer also purchased a suitcase, a small backpack, three types of men’s work clothing, and three kinds of gloves, including rubber gloves for dishwashing. He bought a bottle of ammonia cleaning solution and a hunting knife.”

  If someone picked up a hitchhiker on that stretch of I-40, the knife would probably be used. He would not want a witness, and he needs a car that would not be missed for a while. I thanked the Sheriff for the information and told him of my call to Australia.

  Next, I called Alan Markley’s cell phone. He was at work at El Tovar, but he was able to take a break to take the call outside of the dining room. I told him of all of the day’s developments and asked if there was anything new regarding the murders at the Grand Canyon Village.

  “His friends at the Colter House have been talking a lot about Jason, but no one seems to connect him to Jim Otto’s death. They think he took Will Blake’s car to get away from some immigration problem and left it unharmed on the North Rim. Jason still has friends here who would help him if he asked,” he said.