The Arson at Happy Jack

by Charles Williamson

  “I called because I wanted some diplomatic guidance. Zayd was attending a Flagstaff Christian church on a regular basis with a local girl he was dating. He might have been considering a conversion from Islam.” I heard a grunt of surprise followed by a choking sound as I finished the last sentences. “Mr. Cameron, are you OK?”

  “I now have coffee all over my shirt and a meeting with the Secretary in twenty minutes.” The man sounded pissed. “Detective Damson, conversion is quite impossible. A young Saudi from a prominent family would never consider conversion. The suggestion is outrageous. I served seven years in Saudi Arabia; believe me, what you’re suggesting is not reasonable,” he said.

  “The seventeen year old girl is the daughter of a Flagstaff evangelical minister. She reported that Zayd was afraid of his friends or family discovering their relationship and learning about his church attendance. Can you confirm that would be a serious issue with our victim’s family?” I asked.

  “It might be possible that a young Saudi would marry an American.” The condescending tone was gone from Mr. Cameron’s voice. “It’s rare, but it happens occasionally. However, she would have to convert to Islam. He could never become a Christian or marry a non-believer.”

  “What would be the reaction of his family if Zayd had converted? It’s just a hypothetical question,” I asked.

  “Do you have a son, Detective Damson?”

  “Yes, my only son lives in New York.”

  “What is the worst thing that he could do - become a child molester, a serial killer? To Zayd’s father, to renounce Islam would be even worse. Under the laws of Saudi Arabia, the penalty for being an apostate of Islam is death by beheading. No Saudi could convert and ever set foot in the country again. For a Christian to even try and convert a Muslim in Saudi Arabia is punishable by 150 lashes and immediate expulsion from the country. Such expulsions happen regularly.”

  “So when Zayd told his girlfriend that his father would kill him if he converted, it might be literally true?” I asked.

  “I see where you’re leading this discussion, but please don’t go there. Please, never mention that this young man was attending a Christian church. It will only hurt his family, and they’ve already lost a son. It might cause serious diplomatic problems, and it’s not likely to help solve your cases. Unless you have specific reason to suspect a family member, you should drop the subject. Can I assure the Vice President that you will never mention it to the family?”

  “Zayd was left to die of thirst while chained by the neck to a tree. He was provided two gallons of water to prolong his suffering, and the key to the lock that bound him was hanging from the tree just out of his reach. If his family might have been connected to his death, I can’t ignore the potential conversion issue.”

  “Detective, if you will leave this alone for now, I promise to help on a diplomatic front if you need to discuss this matter with Ali Abdullah Jabran at a future date. Until you have evidence that Mr. Jabran or one of Zayd’s brothers was in Arizona near the time of Zayd’s death, you really have no reason to bring up the relationship with this American girl.”

  Chad was driving up to the fixed-base operations at Pulliam Airport where the largest corporate jet I’ve ever seen was parked. Its tail displayed the green flag with a sword and Arabic writing of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. The airplane was a Boeing Business Jet. The BBJ 2 was built on the airframe of the Boeing 737. They can fly almost 7,000 miles without refueling and cost more than the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department’s total budget for the year. I finished my conversation with Mr. Cameron by agreeing to not bring up the subject of Zayd’s church attendance at the upcoming meeting. It was still an issue I might need to deal with.

  Smoke blanketed the airport, which is south of town and closer to the Happy Jack fire. I wondered how much longer the Pulliam Airport could remain open to commuter flights and general aviation with visibility very poor and the fire moving in this direction. The airport was the current base for the helicopters fighting the fire, but the large tankers were flying far north to Lake Powell to refill because of the lack of water in the Flagstaff area.

  Chad parked near the impressive jet, and a young man descended the stairs to greet us. He was one of Zayd’s brothers, Bandar. He was dressed in khaki slacks and a teal polo shirt. His alligator loafers and matching belt probably cost a small fortune.

  “Thank you for coming to brief us on your investigation,” Bandar said in unaccented English. “My father is waiting for you and anxious to hear news of the investigation.”

  We climbed the stairs to the airplane. I admit to being shocked at the opulence of the interior, which smelled of fine leather and polished wood. I’d seen the interior of large corporate jets only in the movies, but nothing I’d seen or imagined came close to the luxury of Saudi Aramco’s BBJ 2.

  Mr. Jabran was seated at a burl wood table. He rose and greeted us with a firm handshake. His brown eyes were sad, his skin was darkly tanned, and his gray hair was cut short. He wore a navy business suit, and, except for the suit, he looked like one of the generals who retire to Sedona and play golf every day. My block in Sedona has three of them, and they have the same erect stance and military bearing.

  Bandar sat next to his father, and Chad and I sat on the opposite side of the table. Two women sat behind Bandar and Mr. Jabran in first-class-style airplane seats. They were veiled with black scarves that revealed only their red and tear-stained eyes. They were not introduced or mentioned during our meeting, but I assumed one of them was Zayd’s mother.

  We offered our condolences and explained that Sheriff Taylor would be here at 4:00 with Zayd’s remains. Everything had been cleared by the State Department, and they would be able to leave as soon as they wanted.

  “Thank you for making the arrangements Detective Damson. I understand that you discovered my son’s body. Please tell me what happened. I’ve not heard much of the details. Zayd was going to work for the summer in Oregon, and we assumed he was there until our embassy in Washington called,” Mr. Jabran said. His manner was businesslike, but his eyes were sad.

  I explained the discovery of the remains in detail including the information about the empty water jugs and dangling key. The family deserved to know the truth. Mr. Jabran and Bandar had the stoic look that men around the world substitute for emotion, but both women began to cry. When I got to the part about the key, the women got up without a comment and moved through a door into the back section of the plane. I could hear their weeping through the open door.

  “He loved the pine forest. To avoid the forest fire, our pilot flew north of Flagstaff over the area where you found his body. There was no forest. It was a sad, empty place,” Mr. Jabran said.

  “His remains might never have been found in that uninhabited area,” I said. “His body was ten miles from the nearest Jeep road. Whoever chained Zayd to that tree knew that no one would stumble on him in time to rescue him. We suspect it was someone who knew Zayd. The murderer probably realized that Zayd would be relocating to Oregon for the summer to report to a job in a remote campground with no phones. I think the murderer counted on Zayd not being missed by his friends and family until school started in the fall. We don’t think this was a random crime like a carjacking.”

  Bandar was angry when he spoke. “It was a hate crime by some bigoted American. It’s been dangerous here for us since 9-11 even though we’re on the same side in fighting terrorists. I read that a man was killed in Arizona just because he wore a turban. He wasn’t even Muslim, but an Indian Sikh.”

  “I’m sorry to say that’s true.” I was embarrassed for my adopted state. It has as many racists and fanatics as most places. “The murderer was apprehended and punished, but there have been similar instances since that first attack. We’re looking at the possibility that this was a hate crime. It was an especially cruel way to kill. We’ve been talking to Zayd’s friends and acquaintances and looking for his missing truck, but I will certainly look at all possible m
otives.”

  “I realize that your investigation is just beginning, but do you have any strong leads?” Mr. Jabran asked.

  “We have no suspects. The forensic evidence is not very useful because it was two months before your son’s body was found, and the murderer was careful to wipe his prints from the chain and key and from the water jugs. Only Zayd’s prints were found on the water jugs and chain. There were no prints or DNA recovered from the key. Right now, we’re looking for a motive and trying to establish who had contact with Zayd the weekend he disappeared. Is there anything you can suggest regarding a motive?”

  “My son was not political, and although he was religious, he was not a radical. He was an ordinary boy from a large family, except for his love of the forest. Zayd was only five the first time we took him to Austria, and he fell in love with the whole concept of a large expanse of evergreen trees. It was a very alien environment, the opposite of our hometown, but he wanted to learn forestry and live near the mountains. I went to school here in the States at the University of Texas, as did six of Zayd’s brothers, but we worried that this was a bad time, a time of hostility to observant Muslims. The plan was for Zayd to manage the family’s forestry operation in Indonesia once he graduated.”

  “Zayd was killed because he was Muslim,” Bandar said. “It’s a perilous time to be different in America. I can hardly wait to leave your bullying, Zionist, corrupt, cesspool of a country. As soon as my brother’s body is onboard, I will leave this decadent place forever. You claim to have freedom of religion, but you have repressive laws only for Muslims. You fingerprint only us when we enter your country. You hold Muslims indefinitely without trial in Guantánamo or in your alien detention jails. You prevent our access to lawyers and torture us with sleep deprivation and cold. You’re such total hypocrites; the whole world hates you.”

  In thirty years of police work, I’ve had scores of meetings with the families of homicides victims. Political polemics and attacks on law enforcement are surprisingly common. I looked directly at Mr. Jabran, ignoring Bandar. “Mr. Jabran, your son is wrong. I have no political or religious agenda. My only interest is justice. I will never give up on this case until your son’s killer is behind bars. You have my unconditional promise.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I resumed my briefing of Mr. Jabran and Bandar as the weeping from the jet’s rear compartment continued. Perhaps I’d been too specific in describing the crime scene, but I wanted to be frank with the family. I hoped for some lead from them that would help me understand the motive. Both Saudi men believed that Zayd was killed because of his religion by some local redneck even though there was no evidence that pointed in that direction. I tried to convince them that someone who knew Zayd’s plans for the summer committed the crime, but their minds were closed to the possibility that the murderer was an acquaintance of Zayd’s. They maintained that they knew nothing of Zayd’s friends in Arizona, but they could only be other NAU students. He’d not been a very outgoing or gregarious young man.

  The sheriff’s Explorer, two other department vehicles, and the coroner’s van arrived exactly at 4:00. Sheriff Taylor did an excellent job of offering his condolences, treating the family with great respect, and providing reassurances regarding the priority of the case. The uniformed deputies added a ceremonial touch as pallbearers as they placed the casket in the cargo hold. Their load was lighter than normal because of the desiccated condition of the remains and the lack of embalming. The loading process took only a few minutes. Sheriff Taylor, Chad, and I stood on the tarmac and watched through the drifting smoke of the Happy Jack fire as the Saudi Aramco jet lifted off.

  I updated Sheriff Taylor on the interviews with the Muslim students and with Ashley. I recounted my call to Cabot Cameron and my decision to not mention that Zayd was dating a Christian girl and considering conversion.

  “If the Arabs cop your head off for becoming a Christian, I guess there are not many Saudis who convert,” the sheriff said in his typical cowboy-style understatement. “Zayd might have been just leading the girl on to get in her pants. You were right to not bring it up. Nothing is more dangerous than discussing religion with the devout.”

  We talked about the Happy Jack arson case for a few minutes. The sheriff disclosed that the fire had already had a substantial impact on the local tourist-based economy. If evacuations were to occur, the high cost of the relocation and of police services together with the loss of sales taxes and hotel occupancy revenues would require a major belt tightening in Coconino County, including in law enforcement. He mentioned that it would certainly impact the Sedona Substation. The Sedona office is the least busy in the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department. I wondered if he was considering closing it, but I didn’t want to ask him in front of Chad. My pension from the LAPD is plenty of money to live on, but Chad spends every cent he makes. He probably didn’t have a hundred dollars in savings.

  The sheriff left for a meeting with the county commissioners, and Chad and I drove to the command center of the Arson Task Force. Major Ross was available to brief us on progress of the arson investigation and to explain the situation with the growing Happy Jack wildfire. He met us in an empty conference room. I introduced Chad to Major Ross and asked for an update on the fire.

  “Good to meet you Chad; I’m glad you stopped by, Mike,” Major Ross said. “The wind is strong from the south, maybe twenty miles an hour, and the Happy Jack fire is still moving towards Flagstaff. We’ve had some success in keeping it from spreading east and west. That helps contain the main front and allows more concentrated effort. The crew chief will focus on a fire line to protect Flagstaff. Big fires in New Mexico and California will take some of our air resources tomorrow, but the chief thinks we’ll contain it before the fire reaches town.”

  “That’s great news; the sheriff was just talking about an evacuation, but your scenario sounds like we won’t need it,” Chad said.

  “That’s for others to decide, but if the fire jumps the fire line, at least a thousand homes in south Flagstaff will be at risk. The problem is timing. If we lose control, it might be too late to evacuate. It’ll be a tough call.”

  An aide came in and handed Major Ross a message. He made a call. After he hung up, he explained, “We may have a break in the arson case. The Navajo Tribal Police found a dark green Sierra extended cab-pickup truck abandoned in a dry wash near White Rock Mesa east of the Chilchinbeto Chapter House. They called me because it fits the description that the couple from Stoneman Lake gave you. The license tag and VIN plate on the dash have been removed, but it should be easy to trace from the vehicle identification number on the engine. Most perps don’t even know it’s there, and it’s much harder to remove.”

  “There was a ton of press coverage on that truck; it wouldn’t be surprising if the arsonist dumped it,” I said with some excitement. “With modern DNA techniques and all the skills at the state crime lab, there’s bound to be trace evidence discovered.”

  “I’ve suggested that the Navajo Police ask the local residents for any information about hitchhikers and other strangers in the area. It’s an area where any non Navajo would stands out. They’re going to protect the crime scene until the state CSI gets there,” Major Ross said.

  “He might have had an accomplice who picked him up,” I commented. Margaret had firmly rejected the profiler’s description of a lone maladjusted male as the culprit, and nine times out of ten she was right about that sort of thing.

  “This guy is a loner, and he’s certainly not a Navajo. The profile indicates he’s a young, white, low-income male. He probably doesn’t have any friends he can ask for help, but hitchhiking or paying someone for a ride into town are common on the reservation,” he said. “If he was in this vehicle, I think we’re much closer to catching him.”

  “Perhaps we should go to the scene,” I said.

  “No, you should just let the state CSI do its work. I’ll call you at home if there’s any breakthrough,” Major Ross said in a
manner that didn’t leave much room for discussion. He was the boss of the taskforce, so Chad and I headed back to Sedona at 5:00.

  As we drove down through Oak Creek Canyon, Chad said, “Bandar and Mr. Jabran are my prime suspects. They probably had Zayd killed so he wouldn’t embarrass them by marrying a Christian girl. His manner of death fits with the ostracism customs of the early Arabs and conversion from Islam is a capital crime in Saudi Arabia.”

  “That’s one possibility. I haven’t thought of any better motive to kill Zayd in that manner. But Chad, it’s no easy thing to murder your own son even if he’s a disappointment and embarrassment. I can’t conceive of the family leaving the jugs of water and hanging the key. The penalty for being an apostate of Islam is death by beheading, bloody but quick.”

  “Nobody local would have killed him by letting him die of thirst,” Chad said. “If an Arizonan wanted him dead, he’d have shot him right between the eyes and buried him in the wilderness. It’s too bizarre. I think it’s an Arab thing.”

  When we reached the Sedona office, the haze from the Happy Jack fire had settled in. The red rocks and buttes were pastel in the late afternoon light. Rose had gone for the day when we reached the substation, but I spent an hour returning the stack of phone call messages she’d left on my desk. She’d also left a note for me to call her at home some time after 6:30. First, I wrote my daily e-mail to Cabot Cameron assuring him that I had not insulted Mr. Jabran. I called Rose at exactly 6:30.

  “Mike, is it true that the Sedona office might be closed?” she asked. Rose is exceptionally well networked. She has about a hundred cousins and distant relations she calls cousins who live in the area. Rose often knows department news long before I hear it.