If a Tree Falls

by Robert I. Katz

  It didn’t help that he wasn’t the only operative in place. He didn’t know who the others were, and he didn’t want to know. So far, the organization had respected his insistence on staying away from any local jobs, but the more things got stirred up, the harder the cops were going to look.

  It was time, Seamus thought, for a little diversion.

  Chapter 17

  Money, thought John Snowden, is the most wonderful stuff on Earth. It’s like magic. It could be solid gold. It could be cash. It could be something so simple as an electronic transfer from one account to another, but whatever form it takes, money dances from one pocket to another and in the process, can transmute into anything, anything at all: a car or a house or a hooker for the evening. Money equals everything that exists, anywhere. Money surely does make the world go round.

  John Snowden imagined swimming through a pile of money, like Scrooge McDuck. He liked the idea. He liked it a lot.

  John Snowden had seen a lot of elected officials come and go. Power, in John Snowden’s opinion, was ephemeral. Power never lasted. Money was different. Money was forever, if you tended it and took care of it and didn’t waste it.

  John Snowden had been Executive Assistant to the Governor for nearly three years. It was an amorphous title with no clearly defined role. It waxed and waned in power and authority, depending upon the needs and desires of the current Governor. John Snowden had more influence than most, having a keen insight into both voting and business trends. John Snowden gave good advice, and if he got rich doing it, well, that was no more (and certainly no less) than he deserved.

  Clark County rarely came up on anybody’s radar, being small, mostly mountains and farmland, sparsely populated and with no economic base to speak of. However, this new project was likely to change that.

  Premier Projects Development had already donated generously to the re-election campaigns of fifteen members of the House of Delegates. Premier Projects Development looked to be a growing power in the State of West Virginia. The company had made it clear that they would be happy to support an administration that would be happy to support them.

  Nothing wrong with one hand washing the other. Onward and upward together. Premier Projects Development meant money and jobs. Nothing wrong with money and jobs.

  Soon now, the Governor would pick between the three candidates for Clark County Delegate who the local party had proposed. The Governor had made it clear that he would pick the candidate recommended by John Snowden. And why not? Nobody had ever lost money by listening to John Snowden.

  Three-hundred-twenty-seven men were listed in the latest census as living alone within ten miles of the dump site. No reason to limit it to ten miles, of course, but it seemed unlikely that a killer would be wandering far in the woods with a dead body. Shit, even five miles was probably too far. And that did raise the question of how the bodies were transported. A big guy could simply carry a little girl over his shoulder but the killer would also have to bring along at least a shovel and probably some weapons. Unlikely that a lot of witnesses would be wandering around in the woods but there might have been a few. An enterprising serial killer would want to be able to eliminate witnesses. And bears.

  So how did he do it?

  Drew Hastings’ best bet was a small off-road vehicle. A Coleman Outfitter, maybe a Trailmaster or a Polaris. Plenty of others on the market. They were cheap, easy to maneuver through thick woods and pretty much a requirement for hunters wanting to bring home big game. And in the great state of West Virginia, they didn’t need to be registered. He would bet that the killer had one sitting in his garage but he couldn’t see this fact helping them much, since there were hundreds of them around and there was no way to track their ownership. Still, if they ever managed to identify a suspect, the presence of an ATV would be at least one small nail in the coffin.

  Vans were different. Vans required registration. So how many full-size vans were registered among these three-hundred-twenty-seven guys? Drew Harris smiled. Only ten, and of those ten, seven had a wife and multiple kids. That left three.

  The door opened. Bill Harris and George Rodriguez walked into the office. “You ready?” Bill Harris asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Drew Hastings replied.

  A small smile flit over George Rodriquez’ face. “Let’s go interview some suspects.”

  Twelve hours later, Drew Hastings was not feeling so pleased with himself.

  Sam Snyder, a middle-aged bachelor with a gimpy leg, had greeted them calmly enough when they knocked on his door. He blinked, his eyes going back and forth between all their faces. “Can I help you?”

  George Rodriguez took point, the FBI no doubt being more impressive to the local citizenry than the local cops. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Rodriguez said.

  “Yeah?” Snyder said. “What about?”

  Good question, Drew Hastings thought. A routine question that the Feds must get asked a lot. He was interested to see how a professional organization like the FBI danced around it. If they did.

  “It’s in relationship to an ongoing investigation,” George Rodriguez said.

  Drew frowned. No dancing at all, then. Probably for the best. Why else would the cops and the FBI be standing here?

  “I’ve watched enough crime shows on TV to know that I don’t have to answer any questions if I don’t want to.”

  “This is true,” George Rodriguez said, “but if you refuse to speak with us, you’ll go from being a person of interest to being a suspect. Believe me, it’s better not to be a suspect.”

  Again, perfectly straightforward. Drew Hastings did admire the calm, dead-pan way in which George Rodriguez delivered this implied threat. No way to pretend, after all, that this was about anything other than the dead girls buried in the woods. What else would it be about?

  Drew Hastings was already certain that Sam Snyder was not their man. He was small, for one thing, and while a bad leg might not have precluded him from lugging dead bodies around, it surely would have made it tougher. Also, he seemed more curious than concerned, and lastly, Sam Snyder had been Drew Hastings Ninth Grade English teacher and Drew didn’t believe for an instant that the man would hurt a fly. Drew had received a B+ in the course, which was better than he had deserved.

  Sam Snyder looked at Drew Hastings. “How’s your Mama doing, Drew?”

  “Pretty good, sir. The nursing home agrees with her.”

  Sam Snyder grinned. “Come on in,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Sam Snyder seemed amused by the whole process. He claimed no alibi for anything and didn’t seem to feel that he needed one, which he didn’t. He didn’t hesitate to show them the contents of his garage, which included a Mercedes Benz Sprinter, a tool case full of tools, a work bench and table, and nothing else.

  “I use the van for transporting old furniture,” Snyder said. “I re-furbish it and sell it at fairs and yard-sales all over the state.”

  Since Drew’s Mama had once purchased a beautifully restored rocker from Sam Snyder, Drew knew this to be true.

  He had offered them coffee, which they refused. They thanked him and left.

  The second ‘suspect’ was Bert Coning. Drew had never met Bert Coning and knew nothing about him. He turned out to be a big, barrel-chested guy with a bushy beard and a big live-in girlfriend named Essie. Bert and Essie lived in an average sized, split-level house in a small neighborhood of similar houses. Bert Coning was a typical denizen of the area. He liked to hunt and fish, hung out at the local tavern with Essie and their friends and was gainfully employed as an electrician.

  Bert Coning fit the profile, but the neighborhood spoke against it. Too many people who could report on your comings and goings. No, the perp wouldn’t be living around neighbors.

  Bert Coning also did not hesitate to answer all their questions. Essie insisted on sitting there while they talked in the small, comfortable den. Essie seemed amused by the whole process.

  The van was a Niss
an Passenger, blue, with the name “Coning Electrical” stenciled on the side. It was filled with electrical equipment and supplies. A fishing rod and tackle box were tucked along the back.

  Bert Coning was the right size but nothing else about Bert Coning rang a bell. Again, they thanked him and left.

  By now, Drew was feeling glum.

  “Goddamn wild goose chase,” he muttered.

  Bill Harris gave him a quick smile. George Rodriguez barely shrugged.

  The third and final ‘person of interest’ on their list was Adam McDonald, a big, middle-aged guy with pale, freckled skin, pale, blue eyes and frizzled red hair. His house was isolated, with stone walls, a wooden porch in the front and a wooden deck out back.

  He stared at them, unblinking, when they knocked on his door. Something very spooky about that stare, Drew Hastings thought.

  “Come on in,” Adam McDonald said. He turned and lumbered inside. Spooky.

  Drew frowned at Bill Harris, who shrugged. They walked in and found themselves in a small, neatly laid out room with a couch, a coffee table made of dried tree branches, and three comfortable chairs arranged around a large screen TV. A game console sat on the coffee table. An office chair and a large computer desk with an IBM desktop filled one corner of the room.

  “Sit down,” Adam McDonald said.

  They all sat. A striped cat jumped into McDonald’s lap and stared at them. McDonald’s left hand idly stroked the cat, which ignored the stroking and continued to stare.

  “I know why you’re here,” McDonald said.

  “Okay,” George Rodriguez said.

  Adam McDonald barely grinned. “I fit the profile. I’ve been waiting for you to come by.”

  George Rodriguez cleared his throat. “Do you?”

  Adam McDonald nodded, his expression blank.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. McDonald?” George Rodriguez asked.

  McDonald frowned. “It’s customary to find out everything you can about a suspect before beginning an interview. Information is like gold during an investigation. A good investigator hoards it. Unless you’re idiots, you know what I do for a living.” McDonald frowned. “You’re the FBI guy. I’ve seen you on the TV. It’s a felony to lie to the FBI.”

  Annoying, as well as spooky. He was right, though. They had done their homework and they already knew that Adam McDonald made an excellent living by repairing and refurbishing outdated computers and gaming systems and selling them on Ebay.

  “You mind if we look over your house?” Bill Harris asked.

  “Not at all.”

  Adam McDonald, as a person of interest, and one who seemed at least marginally interested in what the forces of justice were doing, had made an impression, not necessarily a good one. They stayed together and spent over twenty minutes searching through the small house.

  They paid particular attention to both the basement and the van, a Peugeot Boxer. Both were unlocked, filled with monitors, keyboards, hard drives and electronic components that none of the three recognized.

  They found Adam McDonald still sitting in his chair, still stroking the cat, which by now had its eyes closed and its head resting on McDonald’s knee. “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Tell us about the profile,” George Rodriguez said.

  “A guy living alone, somewhere isolated. He’ll need a place to keep his victims, probably a basement or an outbuilding, maybe an old barn or storage shed. He’ll have a vehicle large enough to transport them, probably a van. He’ll have another vehicle, something small, to carry them to the dump site. Serial killers almost always have a long history of aberrant behavior, usually a juvenile record of some sort.”

  Drew Hastings cocked his head. Adam McDonald did have a juvenile record. He had been accused and found guilty of assault. Court records showed that he had responded to taunting, and some minor physical abuse in the form of being shoved from behind in the school cafeteria by an adolescent jackass. In Drew Hastings’ opinion, the jackass might have gotten no less than he deserved, except that Adam McDonald had taken a baseball bat and broken both the guy’s legs. As retribution, this seemed a tad excessive. Adam McDonald had gotten off relatively easy since it was not hard to show provocation, and in addition, Adam McDonald had been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. Other people’s actions and motivations were a mystery to Adam McDonald, social cues a puzzle that he would never be able to decipher. Adam McDonald was as socially inept as one could get. He had a high IQ, though.

  “Anything else?” George Rodriguez said.

  “He’s been doing this for a long time. He knows how to cover his tracks. It was pure dumb luck that his activities came to light.”

  Smart, Drew Hastings thought. Nothing magical or mysterious, but smart.

  “You’re looking in the right place,” Adam McDonald said. “Keep looking. You’ll find that it’s somebody just like me.”

  Spooky. Definitely, spooky.

  Chapter 18

  “Look at this,” Joe Partledge said.

  Kurtz looked up from his ham sandwich. Partledge was holding the latest weekly edition of the Clark County Clarion. He proffered it to Kurtz as if the paper was something unclean. Kurtz took it. The headline read:

  Local Hospital in Cover-Up

  “Oh,” Kurtz said.

  The story claimed that Clinton Memorial Hospital had recently suspended for cause the privileges to practice medicine and surgery of Gerard Mandell, MD, the cause being a pattern of serious patient mistakes dating back for many years. The story cited numerous complications and implied, but did not state, that these complications were all related to Dr. Mandell’s well-known history of senile dementia. The story did state that hospital administration had known but refused to act in regard to this clear danger to patients until some enterprising (but currently anonymous) do-gooder complained to the State Medical Board.

  “Are these real complications?” Kurtz asked.

  “Yes, but none of them were due to human error.” Partledge shrugged. “People get sick. Sometimes, they don’t get better. We guarantee a treatment. We don’t guarantee an outcome, not unless we’re goddam fools. And Jerry Mandell had nothing to do with any of them.”

  “And has anybody complained to the State Medical Board?”

  “Aside from you?”

  Partledge, Kurtz realized, was serious. That was…annoying. “I have never spoken to the State Medical Board,” Kurtz said carefully. “I had no reason to speak to the State Medical Board. The only person I spoke to about Jerry Mandell was you.”

  Partledge looked as if he didn’t believe him. Then he shook his head, sighed and sat down opposite Kurtz. “This place has enough problems,” he said. “We really didn’t need this.”

  “No,” Kurtz said, “but I do wonder where this crap came from.” He waved the paper in Partledge’s face.

  “Yeah,” Partledge said, “and why?”

  Three more weeks, Kurtz thought. Three more weeks until freedom.

  What the hell was going on, here?

  Real estate title and sale were publicly available information. Years ago, one of Kurtz’ colleagues, who owned a house out on Long Island, gleefully recounted how he succeeded in getting his property taxes reduced. The process was simple. You fill out a form claiming that the actual value of the property in question was less than the assessed value. In order to justify this claim, you needed comps: the actual sale prices of homes similar to yours in the same or similar neighborhoods. You get the comps by personally going down to the county offices and looking up the recent sales. You fill out the form, submit it and if you’re lucky, the county will find your claim to be valid and your taxes will be reduced. Kurtz’ colleague had been lucky.

  So here Kurtz was, in the county offices, looking up sales. The clerk, a pleasant, elderly lady named Mavis Hodge, had shown Kurtz to the filing cabinets, set up against the wall in a large room otherwise filled with folding tables and chairs. A barred window looked out on a parking lot. Kurtz ha
d the room to himself.

  The sales were interesting. Premier Projects Development had been buying up property for nearly three years. They had first gone after low hanging fruit, grabbing run-down, unprofitable acreage for cut rate prices from near-bankrupt farmers eager to sell. After that, they had upped the ante, offering market rates, which had resulted in a steady stream of purchases.

  It wasn’t the whole county, or even the whole town. The purchases were centered around Eagle’s Ridge, a plateau half-way up Mount Pendleton, at about four thousand feet of elevation. Kurtz could imagine it, a grand hotel with views of the Sharon Valley, dotted with lakes, and across the valley, the northern Alleghanies spread out in the distance.

  The Greenbrier was set on eleven thousand acres in the southeastern portion of the state. Premier Projects Development had already purchased over seven thousand acres, and if they could buy all the rest, to turn it into one contiguous property, they would own over fifteen thousand acres.

  Nice, Kurtz thought. All the comforts of home, plus, probably homes. The Greenbrier offered the Greenbrier Sporting Club, a deluxe enclave of very expensive, luxury homes in proximity to the hotel, which shared its amenities.

  The summer before, some friends of Kurtz and Lenore, Bill and Dina Werth, had taken a long road trip through the South. They had stayed for a few days at the Ritz-Carlton at Reynolds Plantation in Georgia, on the shore of Lake Oconee. The resort was surrounded by its own golf courses and luxury homes. Their next stop had been Palmetto Bluff, a Relais and Chateaux resort on the May River in Bluffton, South Carolina, mid-way between Hilton Head Island and Savannah, Georgia, also surrounded by large, luxurious and expensive homes.

  A popular, tried and true model. Lake Oconee, Georgia hadn’t had much to attract visitors until they built a world-class resort, multiple amenities and a ready-made lifestyle to fit. The same for Bluffton, South Carolina. Now, both places attracted vacationers and buyers eager to share in the fun.