THE ARSON AT
HAPPY JACK
BOOK FIVE OF THE MIKE DAMSON MYSTERIES
By Charles deMontel Williamson
This is a work of fiction. Similarities between its characters and any real people are a coincidence. The actual locations may have been adjusted or relocated to improve the action. The author has lived in Sedona for more than a dozen years. Sedona, Flagstaff, and the Grand Canyon are places he loves. They are delightful places to hike and to see unique and beautiful scenery. Enjoy Coconino County Arizona; it is beautiful and fun but please always remember to use fire safety.
Please respect the author by using this work only for your personal enjoyment.
This book is dedicated to the nineteen brave Granite Mountain Hotshots who lost their lives defending Arizona communities from the Yarnell Hill Fire in July of 2013.
PROLOGUE
Martin McPhee was dreaming of a delightful time when he was five and his grandfather took him to watch the freight trains speed through the small Ohio town where he’d grown up. He’d loved the attention, being singled out from his four brothers to spend time with his grandfather, and he’d also loved the roar and excitement of the trains as they rumbled by at sixty miles an hour. In his dream he could see the boxcars as a blur and hear their roar and rattle. He smelled smoke from the hobos’ nearby cooking fires in that distant and almost forgotten train yard.
He heard coughing from his wife, Nadine. Was that part of his dream? She’d smoked for so many years, that her lungs had not fully recovered even after a dozen years of abstinence. They bothered her more here at their summerhouse, seven thousand feet high in the pine forests of northern Arizona and a hundred miles north of their Scottsdale home.
It was strange to dream about a time sixty years earlier, but Martin had been thinking about his youth a lot since his retirement. How could his life have rushed by this fast? It had been a fortunate life, and he had no real regrets. Thirty-five years at Arizona Power had given them a comfortable retirement income, and they now had the time to travel and to visit their three kids, who had all moved out-of-state.
The air had been extraordinarily dry this year. Because of five years of below normal snow pack and the complete lack of the usually late July monsoon rains, they hadn’t even been able to fish or hike this summer. Nearby Stoneman Lake was bone dry, and the Forest Service had restricted most hiking and all camping in the area. The extreme dryness bothered Nadine, but they both loved the cooler summers here as a break from the brutal summer heat of Scottsdale.
A worse fit of coughing from Nadine roused Martin fully awake. He was momentarily confused regarding when his dream had halted and his waking state had begun; he could still hear the roar of the freight trains. The nearest rail line was at Flagstaff forty miles away. Their bedroom was lit by the red glow of dawn even though the clock still showed it was 3:00. It took only an instant to realize the danger and rouse Nadine. A wildfire was nearby, a big crown fire from the roaring sound and the red night.
Martin dashed to the front porch and saw a wall of flames leaping above the ponderosa pines only a quarter a mile away in the direction of the Happy Jack Ranger Station. The wind had changed and seemed to be blowing toward the approaching line of fire. He knew that was actually a very bad sign. The fire was already so large that it was making its own wind, sucking air to feed its ravenous appetite.
The danger was coming directly from the direction of Lake Mary Road, the only paved route in the area. They would need to drive west along the rutted Forest Service Road 213 to escape the monster. He rushed back to tell Nadine that there was no time to pack anything; they needed to run to the car and start their escape. He tossed several towels and two gallons of drinking water into the car before they drove west away from the raging inferno that was now only a thousand feet away. They used the wetted towels to filter the smoky air.
Martin had doubts about the soundness of his decision to flee as they bounced along the gravel road. The fire was gaining on them and skipping ahead on floating embers. He’d built their log home with a metal roof with large overhangs. He had the builder clear all the trees within a hundred feet of the house for fire protection. Maybe they should have huddled in the bathtub and hoped the wild fire would skip their home. He knew that forest fires were unpredictable, sometimes taking one house while leaving nearby ones unharmed.
Ahead he could see the Gibson’s house ablaze on the right side of the road. The fire had skipped ahead of them to ignite the cottage’s wood shingle roof. The night was a scarlet firestorm when he reached Stoneman Lake. He pulled the car into the lake parking area and drove down the abandoned boat-launching ramp.
“It’s dry. There’s no protection here. Keep going,” Nadine screamed over the thundering roar, but he continued to drive over the lifeless lakebed, which jarred the Honda with the cracks of saturated soil gone completely dry. Martin knew they would not outrun the blaze.
The car spun to a stop in the still muddy lowest spot of the small lake where the last traces of the runoff from the winter’s meager snowfall had kept the soil muddy even in July. They huddled in the cold mud, wet towels around their faces and waited for death wrapped in each other’s arms.
CHAPTER 1
It had been several minutes since either of us had said a word, but our silent companionship wasn’t unusual. Pete Aguilar and I had been partners in a squad car in LA for the first five years of our police careers, and after thirty years of friendship, sometimes there was really nothing that needed to be said. Pete was now the Police Chief of Santa Fe, New Mexico, and I was a detective with the Coconino County, Arizona Sherriff’s Department.
Our horses traveled north, finding their own way through the sagebrush, toward the infinitely distant horizon of the almost treeless plateau between Williams, Arizona and the Grand Canyon. A packhorse followed, carrying our food and water. It had been too dry this summer to count on finding any creeks or springs on the four-day trip.
My wife, Margaret, and Pete’s wife, Teresa, were down in Phoenix enjoying the July discounts at the spa at the Arizona Biltmore. That appealed to them more than four days without a bath or bed. This was a vacation that Pete and I had planned for two years, and it was something of a throwback fantasy to those movie westerns of our youth. We’d both grown up in LA with no experience in horsemanship, and after thirty years as cops, we hadn’t added much riding time. We were classic tenderfoots and city boys, but we’d talked about a long trail ride for years, and now we were actually doing it.
Just before the silence, I’d mentioned my boredom with my job managing the Sedona, Arizona office of the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department. Last year, Sheriff Taylor had suspended me for a couple of weeks for political reasons, and although I was now back in good standing, the suspension had changed my attitude. I no longer trusted the man.
“You can always have a job in Santa Fe, Mike. I’d love to have you on the force.” Pete Aguilar became the chief of police of Santa Fe, New Mexico about two years ago.
“We like Santa Fe, but I don’t think Margaret would leave Sedona. We both love it there. I was thinking that I should consider private detective work. I could travel but still be based in Sedona,” I said.
Pete was still thinking that over fifteen minutes later as we approached a dry creek that we would need to help our horses navigate. He said, “Not a lot of detective work in a town of fifteen thousand.”
“I’d need to get work in Phoenix, LA, or Las Vegas to keep busy full-time, but we don’t really need the money. I could just take what comes along from referrals. I know a lot of people in LA who might send clients my way,” I replied.
When we rode down into the creek, the seven-foot deep s
ides sheltered us from the south wind that had been with us for the whole trip. The wind was not welcome in Coconino County this summer because it increased the fire risk.
A few cottonwoods clung to life along the misnamed Cataract Creek. They were the first substantial trees we’d seen since we left the ponderosa forest near Williams. Our original plan would have taken us from the north side of the San Francisco Mountains at Flagstaff to the Grand Canyon’s west side, but the Forest Service had closed those trails because of fire danger. Susie Snow, a friend who furnished our horses, had suggested this alternative.
We guided the horses northwest within the creek’s dry bed, looking for a place where the bank wasn’t too steep to climb without dismounting. Pete was in the lead. As we approached a stunted leafless tree about five minutes after entering the creek, Pete said, “Oh shit.”
It wasn’t the tone of fear, like running into a rattler; it had the overtone of disgust. A breeze brought the scent of carrion, and I assumed that Pete had encountered a dead cow or elk. He dismounted. I did the same and walked beside his horse, Snowstorm, to see what was blocking our way.
Bits of desiccated flesh still clung to the skull and torso, but not even a mother could recognize the corpse at this point. Coyotes and birds had disturbed the remains. The body was clearly an adult human, but not much else was apparent except that we were looking at either a murder or the most bizarre suicide that I’d seen in thirty years of police work. A stout steel chain looped around the tree and the neck of the corpse. A heavy-duty padlock secured the chain. Two empty one-gallon water bottles lay nearby.
“Bad way to go,” Pete said, stating the obvious. “Probably died of thirst after the water ran out, unless the critters got him first.”
We were in the middle of nowhere, at least ten miles from the nearest dirt road. I was on vacation, but since we were still in Coconino County where I served as a detective lieutenant, my vacation was over. “Someone chained the poor bastard and left him to die. What do you think about the water jugs?” I asked.
“Damn cruel touch,” he said. “Someone wanted him to live awhile. Two gallons might have kept him alive for a week or two.”
“Or maybe they expected to come back for him and didn’t make it,” I said.
“What does JACKS mean?” Pete asked, referring to the remains of a navy blue T-shirt with gold letters. The body was still partially clothed in a T-shirt and jeans but no shoes or socks.
“JACKS refers to the Lumberjack; that’s the mascot at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. Maybe he was a student.”
“It’s your jurisdiction Mike. What do we do now?”
“Here’s the GPS. I don’t want to leave the crime scene unguarded. If you ride straight east, you’re bound to hit State Highway 64 before dark. I don’t know if you’ll be able to wave down a tourist for help, but you should be close to the small community of Valle. Call Sheriff Taylor and tell him where to find me. Sorry about the vacation Pete.”
“We could ride on and report the body after we reach Tusayan tomorrow evening” he said. Of course, he didn’t mean it. He knew me too well. My nickname on the force in LA had been Chaplain Mike because I was determined to not take short cuts or do anything outside of department rules.
CHAPTER 2
I made a lonely camp a few hundred yards away from the crime scene. I didn’t want to disturb things, but I wanted to remain nearby in case someone returned. I used the Coleman stove to make some coffee and freeze dried spaghetti. Fires were prohibited this summer in the whole county, plus a fire would let anyone who approached know someone was in the area.
It was a strange experience to be so totally alone. I hike often, but always with Margaret or friends from Sedona. My detective duties in Sedona almost always include my partner, Chad Archer. I hadn’t lived alone since Margaret and I were married in 1981. I’m not big on introspection and contemplation. I couldn’t recall the last time I was completely alone, and I decided that I didn’t like it. There was no one within miles except the decaying corpse in the dry creek bed, and I was even glad for the company of my horses, Powder, and the packhorse, Old Sled.
I grew restless after lunch and decided to check out the crime scene again. I was determined not to disturb anything before the county’s only crime scene technician arrived, but I was too impatient not to do anything for the six hours until dark.
There’d been no rain in two months to disturb the creek and remove traces of the crime. I returned to the vicinity of the body carefully retracing my steps so that I wouldn’t further disturb the area. I stood about five feet from the corpse and focused my attention on the surroundings, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There were no footprints except for those left by Pete and me. Nothing indicated how many people had been here or what route they’d taken.
It took several minutes before I spotted it. Hanging from a branch by a six-inch brown string, far out of reach of the victim, was a single small key. If it proved to be the key to the padlock on the victim’s chain, it reduced the chance of this being a bizarre suicide. A suicide might have tossed the key away so he couldn’t back out on the attempt, but I could think of no reason why he would have left it hanging in sight but out of reach. It struck me as an especially cruel part of the crime, freedom hanging there five feet away, like something from one of the Greek myths. This was probably a premeditated murder, an eerie and cruel one.
I left the creek and made a broad circle around the area looking for any foot or hoof prints. There were none. The wind had even erased most of the evidence of our passage through the area that morning. I still had hours to wait so I sat and thought about the crime. Finally, I remembered something, a similar type of murder in Japan back in the late sixties or early seventies that had received international publicity. This cruel method was used to execute unreliable members of a radical communist revolutionary group, the Red Army Faction or the Red Creeps or some name I couldn’t recall. The Marxist maniacs chained anyone suspected of disloyalty to a tree in the remote parts of the Japanese Alps and just left them to die. Maybe that was a coincidence, but there were certainly foreign students at NAU, including some from Japan.
I was even more restless by nightfall, but there wasn’t anything I could do to hurry the arrival of the crime scene technician. Coconino County, Arizona is one of the largest counties in area in the United States, but it only has 120,000 people and can only afford one person to investigate crime scenes and one medical examiner.
Flagstaff, the county seat, is a town of about 69,000 full time residents and 15,000 college students. Of course, school was out for the summer, but summer is the busiest tourist time. Flagstaff is on the main interstate highway from back East to LA, and it’s full of motels for the cross-country travelers and for the visitors to the Grand Canyon, a forty-five minute drive northwest of town.
After dark, I rolled out my sleeping bag and put it on my self-inflating mattress. We’d brought a tent, but it was more fun to sleep beneath the enormous sky, a million stars and the creamy splash of the Milky Way. I fell asleep to the sounds of the wind and a distant coyote. My last thoughts were that the sheriff and technician must have decided to wait for daylight to begin the investigation. Sometime during the night, I woke to the sound of movement nearby, but my flashlight only revealed the reflection of two eyes about a foot above the ground. The animal hurried off at the stamping and restless sounds made by the horses. Powder and Old Sled didn’t like the night visitor any better than I did.
My next recollection was the noise of the Sheriff’s Department helicopter approaching. It was already light, about 5:30, when the chopper landed and Sheriff Greg Taylor, Jimmy Hendricks, the county’s new technician, Deputy Rick Greer of the Flagstaff office, and Pete Aguilar got out.
Sheriff Taylor, who looks like a movie cowboy, led the group toward my camp. He’s one of several colorful sheriffs in Arizona. The sheriff holds an elected office, and the rugged cowboy good looks must get him a few extra votes a
t each election. His slate gray eyes fixed on me, and he said, “Mike, you can’t keep out of trouble even on vacation. Show us what you’ve found.”
Without making a comment, I led the group down into the dry creek by the same route that Pete and I had taken the previous day. When we reached the body, Jimmy Hendricks said, “He’s dead alright.”
Pete and I looked at each other. Clearly, the body had been here for several months. Jimmy was new to the job, and this was his attempt at levity. I’d made some comment about Purple Haze the first time we met, and he’d replied with a smirk, “A lot of old folks make that association.” He’s a young Californian of about twenty-seven and not very experienced as a CS tech. At least he makes an attempt at small talk, unlike his predecessor who Sheriff Taylor fired the previous December twenty-sixth.
I pointed out the key and the empty water jugs, and we retreated a few dozen feet to let the man do his work. “I don’t know if you can get prints from the corpse, but the water bottles should have retained some. Maybe the key will have some,” I said.
“Two or three months?” Sheriff Taylor asked.
“My guess is late May or early June.” I said. My relationship with the sheriff had become impersonal and business-like, but he still respected my thirty years of experience.
“We don’t have a local missing person’s reported from that period. With the T-shirt, I assume he’s local or an NAU student,” Sheriff Taylor said. JACK T-shirts were not exactly like the Harvard ones popular with high school dropouts and sold at every mall in the country.
“He was probably a student or former student. It’s the kind of shirt they sell at the NAU bookstore and at the two local Wal-Mart’s. I have one myself. If he disappeared soon after school was out, maybe no one reported him missing because of the summer break,” I said.
The Arson at Happy Jack Page 1
