Sacrifice

by Michael Arches

  “Are you okay?” the dispatcher asked.

  “So far. The first shot hit the windshield, punching a hole. My face stings, so I may have a chunk or two of glass in me. Second shot hit a tire. I’m on the side of the road just northeast of the pass. Alert Delta and Gunnison County Sheriffs to the fleeing shooter driving a dark SUV.”

  It occurred to me that the ambusher must’ve been working with someone else. Even if he’d realized this was the only logical route home from Telluride, the shooter wouldn’t have been able to recognize my vehicle in the dark.

  Someone had to have been following me as I drove up the pass. But only sporadic lights had followed me. Or so I’d thought. Should’ve paid better attention.

  I reached for the radio mic and asked the dispatcher to call Willow. He promised to pass on that I’d run into some trouble but was fine.

  Next, I put on my bulletproof vest and helmet and hunkered down in my SUV to wait, holding my shotgun in my lap. Unfortunately, I was stuck for a good long time. McClure Pass was about an hour away from our office at normal speed. Paonia was closer.

  Inside the vehicle, I felt like a sitting duck, but it was windy outside and well below freezing. I kept all the lights off so my eyes could adjust to the darkness. Couldn’t see much through the many cracks in the windshield, but the side windows remained clear. Nothing moved outside except a few tree branches. Or so it seemed. I was getting more paranoid by the moment. Chills kept running through me.

  -o-o-o-

  From time to time, a car or truck zoomed by, but none of them seem to notice me. I was well off the road at this point. It was probably hard to tell that my windshield had seen better days.

  I listened to the radio as our dispatcher updated reports from the Paonia Police and Delta County Sheriff’s Office. They were looking for someone speeding toward Paonia in a dark SUV but saw no one matching my vague description.

  I was relieved to spot flashing emergency lights in the distance on the northeasterly approach to the pass. They belonged to Gene Taylor’s vehicle, one of our deputies. He was a stocky guy with a bald head. Fond of country music. I didn’t know him well because we shared few interests, but he’d always been friendly. A Mormon with five kids. He seemed traditionally conservative, like most cops, and I had no idea what he thought about me as his soon-to-be boss. It didn’t really matter. Cops hung together or we’d hang separately.

  I hopped out and waved.

  He skidded to a halt near me. “Hank, you okay? Dang, your face got a little chewed up again.”

  Not what a lady wanted to hear after a tough day, but Gene tended to be blunt. “Stings a little, is all. Damned good to see you.”

  “Same back atcha. Otherwise, okay?”

  I nodded.

  He grinned. “A miss is as good as a mile. I might as well start investigating this attempted murder of a police officer.”

  He checked out my vehicle first. Found the spent bullet that’d hit the metal floor behind my seat and bounced off. Probably too deformed for ballistics. Looked like a .223 round, a caliber commonly used in assault rifles.

  Two cops from Paonia arrived. I introduced myself and Gene and explained what had happened. Neither had noticed any suspicious drivers. Unfortunately, there were dozens of side roads between here and Paonia that the shooter and his accomplice could’ve used to avoid being seen.

  We walked up to the bluff overhanging the road at the pass. I spotted packed snow where the shooter had lain down and waited. We found two spent cartridges that had melted into the white fluffy stuff. They were .223 casings. If we eventually found the right rifle, the tiny scratches on the brass might link a specific gun to this ambush.

  A hundred yards west from where the shooter had waited, we found tire tracks. Typical truck tires used on pickups and SUVs. We took pictures, but I didn’t see anything unique enough to distinguish a certain vehicle.

  By the time we returned to my rig, a tow truck had arrived. I explained how I wanted the vehicle taken to our Aspen impound lot.

  The driver spit out a slug of tobacco juice. “Yes, ma’am, no problem. I’ll hook you right up, and we can all get the hell off this here windy mountain.”

  Ten minutes later, he had the SUV chained to the bed of his truck. I thanked the Paonia cops for their support, and Gene drove me home. When we reached Carbondale, my phone got a signal, and I called Willow to confirm I was safe and sound.

  She didn’t say much, which was unusual for her, so I knew she wasn’t happy that assholes kept taking pot shots at me. I wasn’t thrilled about it either.

  Willow’s perfectly reasonable reaction got me to thinking. Why were a group of at least two killers coming after me instead of clearing out? They somehow thought it was smarter to ambush a cop than to leave the area. It was bold but incredibly stupid. If they eventually got me, the other Western Slope law enforcement folks wouldn’t stop pursuing them until they’d found every last co-conspirator. That’s cop culture, baked into our DNA.

  Chapter 9

  Dawn came way too early, even though we were only a few days away from the winter solstice. My mind circled in an endless loop of frustration, and my face stung. Before we’d gone to bed, Willow had picked the chunks of glass out of it with a pair of tweezers. The pillow I’d slept on was spotted with blood.

  “Maybe it’s not too late to let Randy become sheriff,” my girlfriend said.

  “Despite the common view, it’s almost never too late to do the right thing. But damned if I’m going to stop chasing the bastards who kidnap women, brutalize them, and chop them up.”

  She blew out a deep breath. “I expected you’d say that. Doesn’t mean I have to like how stubborn you are.”

  She headed for the shower. The master bathroom suite in her newly remodeled house was straight out of Architectural Digest. The walk-in shower was big enough to hold a dozen people, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Willow rarely experienced sour moods. Being in a relationship with a cop was a shitty deal, and she was still coming to grips with it.

  To make up for some of the stress my job had caused her, I made her favorite breakfast, waffles with bacon and maple syrup. She was one of those disgusting people who could eat whatever they wanted without gaining an ounce. Not that I resented it, God, no. But if I ate half what she was going to shovel into her face, I’d gain weight.

  When I finished cleaning up, she asked, “Will you wear your bulletproof vest all day today?”

  Time after time, I’d tried to explain there wasn’t any such thing. Ballistic vests were a compromise between weight and affordability on the one hand, and projectile-stopping power on the other. Mine might stop a .223 rifle bullet, if I was lucky, but it was really designed for pistol shots. Most rifle rounds moved much faster and would punch through. “I’ll put it on before I leave the house.”

  -o-o-o-

  I made it to the office early, as a boss who’s trying to set a good example should. The newspapers had printed pictures of the suspected kidnapper in Telluride, and as promised, Jasmine had put the photos on the radio station’s website. I hoped someone would recognize the guy.

  Actually, someone did, and right away. According to a voicemail on my office line, the kidnapper worked the register at a café on Aspen’s pedestrian mall.

  I left Boomer at the office because he tended to go crazy inside restaurants that served a lot of bacon. I updated Skip, Linda, and Randy by email.

  While I was walking to the café, Linda called. “Don’t get too cranked up about your current suspect, Hank. Four people sent emails overnight to the general office contact box, and three of them think the suspect owns a wine bar in Snowmass Village. The last one thinks he’s her mailman, and she’s sure he belongs behind bars.”

  “Did you have to ruin my budding sense of anticipation?” I asked. “For once, I thought we were making real progress. Hardly anyone in Telluride had seen the guy.”

  “What can I say?” she aske
d. “Aspen has lots more thugs than they do down in the San Juans. They’re all stoners.”

  That was their town’s reputation, a hidden Shangri-La for hippies. But these days, you had to be a damned rich hippie to live there. “Okay, text me the details on the other two suspects. I’ll try to catch up with them after I’ve talked to the café guy.”

  After I hung up, I realized I should’ve had doubts about the first interview. How could a guy who worked in a café snag an invitation to a fancy party thrown by Tom Cruise in Telluride?

  When I opened the door to the café, I realized right away I was on the wrong trail. I recognized the person I was looking for immediately. Unlucky for me, he was barely over five feet tall—and had a wart on his chin. Those were the kinds of thing others would notice right away, but Ursula and Felix had remembered the guy as tall. Also, if he’d had a wart, they would’ve mentioned it.

  Still, it paid to be thorough. After introducing myself, I told the guy, “I need to speak to you about something important. How soon can you be available?”

  He glanced at the clock, which showed it was a few minutes before nine. “I get off in six minutes. If this is about my ex, I’m caught up on my child support. I got canceled checks—”

  I put up my hand to stop him. “Not here about that.”

  To pass the time, I sat at the counter and ordered a bran muffin from the display case.

  When his shift ended, the cashier motioned for me to follow him to an empty table in the corner. We sat down. I collected his personal information.

  “What’s going on?”

  “When were you last in Telluride?” I asked.

  “Never. Hear it’s pretty. Only been in Colorado since mid-November. My cousin Saul said I could stay with him in El Jebel. Told me there were lots of seasonal jobs. He’s right.”

  “You know any Hollywood movie stars?”

  He cackled. “Sure, me and Bruce Willis? We’re like brothers. ‘Anybody else want to negotiate?’”

  I recognized the quote from the movie The Fifth Element. “Cute, but I’m not fucking around here. Answer the damned question seriously.”

  That wiped the grin off of his face. “Sorry. No, I don’t know any Hollywood stars.”

  “Did you attend any parties in early December anywhere southwest of Aspen?”

  “Actually, I’m a recovering alcoholic. Don’t go to parties anymore.”

  “What were you doing on the evening of December eighth?”

  He pulled out an old, beat up cellphone and checked a calendar. “AA meeting at the Catholic Church on Main Street. It was my first time there, so I think folks will remember my story about dressing up as the Easter Bunny on New Year’s Eve. Father McLaughlin was there.”

  That’d be easy enough to verify. “Thank you for your cooperation. If anybody comes in and says you look like a person the sheriff’s office is looking for, you can tell them you’ve already talked to me.”

  Outside again, I blew out a deep breath. That’d been a bust. I called Skip and asked him to check with the priest about the AA meeting. At least it hadn’t taken me long to eliminate the guy as a suspect.

  -o-o-o-

  It was too early to head over to a wine bar, so I decided to check out the mailman. First, I went back to the office for my furry partner. We dropped by Aspen’s post office to speak with the postmaster. I told him where the woman who’d fingered her carrier lived, and he told me the mailman’s name, Robert Franklin. I showed the postmaster the two pictures of our suspect.

  “Yeah, that kinda looks like Bob, all right. I heard about your case on radio but didn’t see the photos. I know what they say about going postal, but listen, Bob’s not your guy. Driving all the way to Telluride to kidnap somebody would take way too much effort. He complains about how hard it is to load his mail bags into his truck.”

  Not the most convincing claim of innocence I’d ever heard. “I’m going to have to track him down and ask a few questions. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Take as much time as you need. We always cooperate with local law enforcement. And if it takes him a little longer today to finish his route, them’s the breaks.”

  The postmaster printed out a map of the route that Franklin was supposed to follow. He estimated where the guy should be, and I drove to that location.

  Sure enough, a mail truck was parked on a street in the center of town. No driver.

  I presumed that Franklin was in one of the nearby businesses, so I circled around and parked my SUV down the block. Boomer and I stood across the way, trying to look inconspicuous. From behind a windowless van, I had a good view of the mail truck and most of the opposite side of the street.

  A few minutes later, a tall, thin, middle-aged mailman with a brown mustache exited a Swiss chocolate shop. He walked with a pronounced limp. That ruined whatever hopes I had that he was the Telluride kidnapper. Ursula or Felix would’ve told me if the guy they’d seen had limped. But I followed standard procedure and asked my questions.

  When he opened the back of his truck and peered inside, the mutt and I hurried over. “Excuse me, sir, Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office. You Robert Franklin?”

  He froze then glared. I thought for a second he might swing at me. Instead, he spun and pulled the tailgate close to his body, blocking my view into his truck. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

  My internal radar pinged. That wasn’t the kind of comment an innocent citizen gave. I was wearing a lanyard with my badge around my neck. “Detective Henrietta Morgan, at your service. I have a few questions regarding an investigation we’re conducting. Probably won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  He checked his watch. “I’m waaay behind schedule. Maybe we could do it on Sunday.”

  More pings on my radar. His boss had explained Franklin’s schedule, and the squirrelly mailman happened to be right on time. “I’m afraid it’ll have to be now. This is a murder investigation, and it takes priority. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Murder! Can’t get involved.”

  Something definitely wasn’t right about good ol’ Bob. Innocent folks would say something like, I’ve never seen any murder. “No, your boss says you have to cooperate with local law enforcement.”

  This was his make or break moment. If he was innocent, he had to be asking himself why he needed to make a big deal of this. If he was guilty, he had to figure out how to get past me and my big-ass mutt.

  “Never seen any murder,” he said. “Can’t we clear this up here and now?”

  Right answer but too late. Something was definitely hinky. “We can. Come over to my vehicle…unless you want to entertain the crowd behind you.”

  He glanced back at the sidewalk where people were gathering then nodded.

  I waited for him to move toward me, but he awkwardly spun in place and tried to close his truck’s rear door without me seeing what was inside. “Whoa, dude. Whatcha got back there?”

  “Nothing!” His voice went up an octave.

  I reached forward and caught the edge of the door with my right hand. He struggled to close the tailgate without looking ridiculous. Huge fail.

  “Knock it off!” I ordered. “Show me your hands, NOW!”

  Boomer woofed from deep in his chest. A scary sound.

  Someone behind me yelled, “Hey, what’s going on?”

  I turned and put up my right hand. “POLICE! Stay back, sir.” I spun again. “Robert Franklin, get your hands up now!”

  A woman screamed on the sidewalk. Somebody else said, “I’m filming this!”

  As if I cared. I put my hand on my service pistol’s grip.

  “Shit!” the mailman yelled and raised his hands.

  A larger crowd gathered, both in the street behind me and on the closest sidewalk. Gave everyone a quick glance to make sure they were keeping their distance. Several people had their phones out to record video.

  “Good,” I said to Franklin. “Turn around now a
nd put your hands behind your back.”

  Instead, he said, “Wait, this is all a big mistake.”

  “Do it now,” I said, “or I’ll be forced to drop you to the asphalt. Don’t make this any worse for yourself.”

  He blew out a deep breath, turned, and put his hands back. I holstered my gun, dropped Boomer’s leash, and cuffed the suspect. Then, I let out a deep breath of my own.

  The back of his truck contained a half-dozen unwrapped product boxes, including two canisters full of chocolate. They weren’t suitable for mailing. He’d been shoplifting.

  I felt like smacking his empty head. “You risked getting injured to hide your loot? I can’t believe it.”

  For once, he kept his mouth shut. I locked his truck and marched him toward my SUV. Boomer circled around us, doing his best to get in the way.

  We didn’t make it far before I noticed Franklin’s limp again. “Did you injure yourself recently? If so, we can go to the hospital first.”

  He shook his head. “Bad right hip. Been getting worse for months. I’m supposed to get it replaced in a week.”

  I called our departmental dispatcher and arranged a lab tech to come and process the mail truck for evidence of theft. I also asked for a deputy to assist me.

  -o-o-o-

  When the tech and Chaz Newton arrived, I gave Chaz my prisoner to process so I could focus on obtaining a search warrant for Franklin’s house. It didn’t seem likely that the thieving mailman was also the Telluride kidnapper, but I couldn’t exclude him for sure yet. The thefts gave us a good excuse to get inside his home.

  Back at the office, I called the postmaster and explained why good ol’ Bob wasn’t going to finish his route today and why we’d impounded his truck. To his credit, the postmaster didn’t give me a hard time.

  After I got off the phone, I wrote up an affidavit to support the warrant and sent a draft to my favorite assistant district attorney, Sarah Abraham.

  While she gnawed on that thing, I switched my attention to the third guy whom the tipsters had reported looked like the Telluride kidnapper. Donald Viceroy owned a wine bar in Snowmass Village that was a replica of an old-time saloon named End of the Trail.