“I assume that the FBI has most of the Muslim students at NAU under some sort of electronic surveillance by now. Maybe they know who wasn’t at home last night,” he said.
“Let’s ask Special Agent Timber,” I said as the sound of two approaching helicopters grew louder.
Sheriff Taylor yelled for Jimmy to join us before the feds arrived. Their helicopters were still not visible, but they were only minutes away. Sheriff Taylor was willing to ignore their request to stay away from the scene, but he didn’t want them to know it. When Jimmy arrived, the sheriff said, “Anything interesting?”
“My guess is that they were killed about midnight. The marks and swelling on their hands make me think they were bound for several hours to that tree before their heads were hacked off. The car is positioned to provide enough light for a nighttime execution. Whoever killed them wasn’t very good at it. It took five blows for the man and three for the woman. Of course, we might learn something from the poles. They were machine milled; we need to check lumber yards,” Jimmy said.
Further conversation was stopped by the noise of the two huge military style helicopters, which descended on the clearing like the cavalry coming to the rescue in a John Ford western. It was now an FBI show, and we were mere extras.
CHAPTER 35
A dozen people got out of the two helicopters and headed toward the crime scene. They received their directions from the only person in a dark blue business suit. After a few minutes of observing the bodies, the man in the suit walked over to us and introduced himself as Jacob Timber. I’d recognized him from his TV regular appearances on the Phoenix news broadcasts. He’s a man of about forty with regular features and a very good haircut and an excellent tan. Sheriff Taylor said hello and asked if Agent Timber had dressed for a press conference.
Pretending not to understand the jibe, Timber said, “No time to change when I left the office, Sheriff, but there’s always media interest in the Saturday Night Arsonist case.” Of course, wool suits, blue shirts, and subtle silk ties were not normal dress for the FBI anymore during the Arizona summer. They’d adopted business casual years ago. Today’s high in Phoenix was expected to be 114 degrees. Until this week, the FBI had no role in the most important arson case in Arizona history, and now Agent Timber had arrived in Flagstaff prepared for a press briefing.
“I assume that you had the NAU Muslim students under surveillance last night. Were any of them unaccounted for?” I asked.
I wanted to redirect attention to the case rather than on the press coverage before my boss came to blows with the special agent in charge for the state of Arizona. It was common knowledge in law enforcement circles that the sheriff of another Arizona county once slugged Timber over a press coverage matter. The rumors of the assault had added substantially to that sheriff’s reelection margin. Arizonans like tough sheriffs.
“No surveillance scheme is foolproof, but our Flagstaff suspects have the FBI as an alibi. We’ve been following every Muslim student who’s in town this summer since Thursday night. Our Flagstaff office reported that none of them were involved,” Timber said.
“That jumps Muhammad al-Mukhtar to the top of my list, but he’s got an alibi from his boss, a man who calls himself Mr. Ali. He owns the Mogul Art Emporium in Scottsdale. Can you check him out? The only way Muhammad could be involved is if his boss is covering for him,” I said.
Agent Timber nodded in agreement and called a research assistant in his Phoenix office. He said, “I’ll get call back from Brad within twenty minutes with a profile of Mr. Ali.”
“Did you get a look at the sword?” I asked.
“Looks like an ornate Arab thing,” Timber said.
“It’s not something that a student could bring from his home country in his bags. The murderers must have gotten it here in the States, possibly from an antique dealer in Scottsdale who uses the name Mr. Ali,” I said. “Also, we should be able to trace those poles if they were purchased anywhere in the area.”
“Those poles would be a good project for the Sheriff’s Department. There’s nothing you can do here,” he said. “I’ll call you when I’ve learned anything about your Mr. Ali.” He turned, crossed the yellow crime scene tape, and walked towards the bodies without another word.
Sheriff Taylor watched his back for a few seconds and said, “Let’s go.” After we got on the helicopter, he continued, “I’d like you and Chad to check on the poles. I’ll substitute for you at the taskforce meeting this afternoon.”
“Here are the diameter measurements and the approximate length of the poles. They were made from white pine,” Jimmy Hendrix said. “Maybe I touched them very carefully just to measure them.”
“Was there anything else you noticed?” I asked.
“The ebony handle of that sword had been polished to a spotless sheen, and I think the poles were handled carefully too. I don’t think there will be prints. We found none except from the victim at the Zayd Jabran crime scene. This killer is very careful.”
At the Law Enforcement Administration Building, Chad and I took a Chrysler 200 from the motor pool and started our rounds at local lumber companies. Both of our cars were still in Sedona.
“At least we’re out in the fresh air rather than in that boring meeting,” Chad said as we drove to the first lumberyard on our list. It was a clear day in Flagstaff because a stiff wind was carrying the smoke west towards Sedona, and the temperature was hot by Flagstaff standards, 88 degrees. It was difficult to see the danger that was growing closer by the hour unless one looked to the southeast where the sky was a roiling orange-tinted black cloud. Unless the wind shifted, the fire would run into the substantial firebreak provided by the width of Interstate 17. Bulldozers were busy adding another hundred feet cleared of vegetation along either side of the roadway. It’s much easier to fight a fire when you have easy access for heavy equipment.
I was also glad to miss the meeting and pleased with the soft ride and comfort of the Chrysler. Compared to the helicopter, it was a pleasure. “The FBI is not watching Muhammad,” I said once we were underway. “That worries me; he’s now our prime suspect.”
“That’s easy to solve,” Chad said. “I’ll drive down this afternoon and wait for him to get off work at 8:00. I can follow him on I-17 by staying a few cars back. He has to go through Oak Creek Canyon with I-17 closed if he’s coming to Flagstaff for the weekend. You can wait in town and follow him in Margaret’s car when he drives through. I’ll call you when he turns onto Highway 179. That will save you a long car trip to Scottsdale, and it will help to have both of us tailing him once he gets tangled in the Sedona traffic.”
It was a good suggestion, and I readily agreed. We stopped at one lumberyard after another without success. Home Depot was our last stop in Flagstaff before our drive back to Sedona. We sat in its parking lot and called every lumberyard in nearby towns, but found no one who had sold two poles of that length in the past month. They were a specialty item that most stores didn’t stock. They were often used as curtain rods for specialty drapes. Interior design specialists usually ordered the poles at a specific length for a specific job.
The traffic jam started almost as soon as we left Flagstaff. Cars on Interstate 17 were backed up two miles before the Highway 89A exit where the interstate was blocked. There were two Flagstaff deputies directing traffic, but even with their help the traffic was moving at about ten miles an hour. My cell phone rang when we were about five miles south of Flagstaff.
“I’ve received a report on the art dealer you asked about,” Agent Timber said without any small talk. “His name is actually Ali Hussein Jumblatt, and he’s originally from Tripoli, Lebanon. He and his wife immigrated to the US in 1988 and became citizens in 1993. They lived in Brooklyn, New York where Mr. Jumblatt ran a restaurant until his wife died in April 2008. A few months later he moved to Scottsdale, and in January 2009, he opened his art gallery on Scottsdale Road. Our sources say Mr. Ali is a well-respected businessman who’s active in the Scot
tsdale Chamber of Commerce and the United Way. He’s never even gotten a parking ticket. I’d say he’s nearly a perfect witness for Muhammad al-Mukhtar. If he says the young man was working, he was probably working.”
The normally scenic drive to Sedona was an ordeal of stop and go driving through the smoky canyon. It took us more than two hours to reach Midgley Bridge, and it was even slower for the traffic moving north to Flagstaff. Angry red faces of the motorists headed north at parking lot speeds could not be helped, nothing could speed the traffic through the steep switchbacks at the north end of the canyon. Even on good days, the speed limit through the switchbacks was fifteen miles an hour.
Sedona was clouded in smoke, its red rock buttes barely invisible in the gray haze. It was also much hotter than Flagstaff, and we passed several overheated vehicles stalled on the road. There are no shoulders on 89A, and each stalled vehicle caused another mini traffic jam until it could be pushed into one of the few turnouts.
As we drove through uptown Sedona, I commented to Chad, “If we had a fire in the canyon now, thousands of people would be at risk. It’s one long parking lot, and the sides are too steep for people to climb. We were very lucky that no was killed a few years ago when that fire burned from near Slide Rock State Park up the west side of the canyon; it burned out hundreds of acres of ponderosa pine on the rim and left the western face of the canyon covered with blackened trees and ash. With this wind, the fire could move much faster than people could run. It would be a scene from hell.”
“There’s a monsoon storm in the forecast for 11:00 tonight,” he said. “We could get a lightning fire even if we stop the arsonist. Can we limit access tonight?”
“Sheriff Taylor said the governor made the final decision. There’s no way we can overrule him locally, but I’ll call him and ask if we can hold traffic at either end and let a limited number of vehicles in at a time. At least the traffic jam wouldn’t be in the canyon. It would be here in Sedona and up in Flagstaff.”
“I’ll drop you at the office. With this traffic snarl, I need to head to Scottsdale to get there before Muhammad gets off work. I’ll take the old Cornville Road to avoid the traffic between 179 and I-17.”
The office was deserted except for one deputy at the front desk. Everyone was working traffic or manning roadblocks. It was nearly 4:00 PM, and the taskforce meeting had started hours ago. I decided not to call into the conference line. I had other things to do.
CHAPTER 36
I checked my e-mails as soon as I reached my office. It was great to be out of the car and able to work standing up. I was better but still very sore. The first e-mail was from the parents of Randy Roberts, one of the dead Happy Jack rangers. I didn’t have any helpful information about Randy’s final day, but the second e-mail from an old friend of Randy’s who now lives in Portland was extremely interesting. In part it said, “… saw the pitcher of our little league team today. Tommy Gunderson was driving around with an ATV in his truck. This summer they’re banned because of fire danger. I didn’t give him a ticket for old time’s sake…” That was exactly what I’d been hoping for. It was enough to arrest him, even if it wasn’t enough to convict him as the Saturday Night Arsonist and for six murders.
I called Sheriff Taylor’s administrative assistant and had her connect me to the taskforce meeting so that I could share the news. It would be two hours before Chad reached Scottsdale, but there was no reason to wait that long to arrest Muhammad. Either the state police or the FBI could pick him up. I also thought Mr. Ali should be held for questioning because he’d furnished an alibi to Muhammad for a time in which we now knew he was actually near Happy Jack.
When I reported on the e-mail to the taskforce, everyone needed to have a say. It took twenty minutes before Major Ross summarized the comments by saying, “While e-mails are often discounted by juries because they’re easy to fake, this new information warrants picking up Mohammad for additional questioning. Mr. Ali might have been mistaken about his working last Saturday afternoon. There’s no reason to pressure or intimidate a respected businessman over the matter. Naturally, he should be questioned in due course. I will send two state police officers to pick up Muhammad at his workplace. He should be in custody within an hour. Is there anything else you’d like to bring up Lieutenant Damson?”
I explained the chaos and frustration that Chad and I experienced in our two-hour drive between Flagstaff and Sedona. With another monsoon storm bringing lightning after sunset tonight, the danger was very high that people could be trapped in the Canyon on 89A in the event of fire either from arson or from lightning. I suggested using a system like a construction project where motorists are forced to follow a lead vehicle. We should keep the number of motorists in the canyon at one time to four hundred in each direction. That will keep the traffic moving through the canyon even though it would back it up more in Sedona and Flagstaff. I thought I made a strong case, but after another twenty minutes, the committee decided to refer the suggestion to the Arizona Department of Transportation tomorrow if I-17 was still blocked by the Happy Jack fire.
The meeting lasted until 5:30 when it died a quiet death because no one had anything else to say. After I got off the line, I called Chad to let him know that the state police would pick up Mohammad. After talking it over, he decided to drive on to Scottsdale to talk with Mr. Ali about the alibi that he’d provided for Mohammad. We didn’t like the idea of discussing things with him in due time as the committee had decided.
Sheriff Taylor was holding for me when I got off the line with Chad. “Good job on the e-mail evidence, Mike. You’ve convinced me that Mohammad is involved. He may not be in it alone; we’ll keep all of our surveillance in place.”
“Good. Chad was about three quarters of the way to Scottsdale when I called to tell him that the state police would pick up Mohammad. We decided that he should continue to the Mogul Art Emporium and talk to Mr. Ali. I didn’t buy into the theory that he couldn’t be involved because he’s a well-known businessman.”
There was a pause as he considered that. “Maybe you weren’t able to reach Chad with the taskforce decision. If we get into trouble, I’ll back you up in either case. I think it’s more likely that these Saudi boys are also involved. I know the FBI is on them like melted cheese, but I’ve got a couple of deputies watching to make sure they don’t go for a late night ride into the forest tonight,” he said.
“There’s one more group that might be worth watching tonight. Ashley Campbell and her family are probably not connected to these fires, but there are still some things that I’m uncomfortable with. I don’t think Ashley has been frank about her relationships with Zayd and Mohammad, and her father’s rhetoric and some religious comments he made about Zayd bother me.”
“I’ll put some men on their house tonight. Anyone else that worries you?” he said.
“I’m going to keep worrying until we get a couple of inches of rain, but there’s no one else I know of. Mohammad is not acting alone. Someone picked him up when he dumped Zayd’s truck on the reservation. He also had help in painting it. The crime lab said there were two different types of hand motions, one from a left hander. Muhammad is right-handed.”
“Mike, I hate to press you about a management matter at a critical time like this, but you said you had the expense reduction proposals ready. I’ve got an 8:00 meeting Monday morning with the county commissioners, and I need to consolidate all of the information tomorrow.”
“It’s ready to go. I’ll e-mail it right away.” He thanked me and hung up. I thought I might hear from him again as soon as he got the two proposals. I sent the e-mail just as Margaret walked in and gave me a big hug.
“I came to pick you up because you left your car at home. You’ll be up all night waiting for another arson attack, but you should come home for dinner. You’ll feel better and think better.”
As usual she was right. The drive home, normally five minutes, took twenty because the whole town was full of an angry honking tr
affic jam. The stalled motorists couldn’t even enjoy some of the world’s best scenery because the town was blanketed in acrid smoke. The visibility was the worst I’d seen since the Happy Jack wildfire began.
Margaret had prepared a wonderful dinner: grilled chicken roll-ups stuffed with roasted sweet pepper, prosciutto, and fontina cheese, risotto Milanese, creamed spinach with morel mushrooms, and chocolate amaretto cheesecake. It was a big meal and a real treat, especially since I’d missed lunch. Of course, we ate standing at the kitchen counter so I didn’t need to sit at the table. I waited until after dinner to update Margaret on the progress of the case, starting with the discovery of the decapitated bodies of the Khans. The gruesome story was not appropriate during dinner.
“That sword sounds like something that the Mogul Art Emporium might carry as an imported art artifact. Why did they kill the Khans?” she asked.
“Ahmed Khan was well connected in the NAU Muslim community. They elected him president of their association. The Khans’ were killed in a manner that was intended to intimidate other students who might know something about the arsonist. It will be headline news all over the state in the morning. Maybe someone saw Ahmed meet us at Bun Huggers Hamburgers or maybe they just thought he might cooperate with the authorities.”
“Then they were executed as traitors,” she said. “Zayd was killed because he might want to reject Islam. This is a group of rabid fanatics. No truly religious person could approve of killing Mrs. Khan even if they considered her husband was a threat. They’re just murderers using religion as an excuse.”
“That’s true of most terrorists. They kill innocent non-combatants and think they’re doing God’s work. They’ll find out the truth when they face the final judgment, but I’d like to help these bastards get there as soon as possible.”
The Arson at Happy Jack Page 17
