I wondered when she became a hunting expert but didn’t say so.
“A normal stray round would have impacted the mountainside far below where you found the body,” she said. “Someone deliberately and accurately shot up at a target on that ridge. He was an expert shot who knew how to adjust for wind, the thin air, and extreme upward angle trajectory of the shot.”
“You have a good point, but I don’t understand why you’re certain it was a premeditated shot by an expert from below? It could have been from somewhere on the ridge or above it higher on the mountain,” I said. I used a Kleenex to stop the blood flow from the nick I got trying to talk and shave at the same time.
“Was there anyplace the elk could have been seen except from the steep talus slope or forest on the north side of the ridge?”
“No. The elk had to be shot from somewhere below the saddle on the north side of Humphreys Peak.”
“You told me the elk was killed with a single round through the heart. That is my proof that an expert marksman was involved. If he can hit the heart of an elk, he can hit the forehead of a man with an orange cap.”
I have never won an argument with Margaret, and she was probably right in this case. However, I was not willing to discard my theory that it was another hunter, probably a stranger. It might have even been a dispute over the elk. People waited years to win an elk tag and to even get a chance to hunt the big bull elk. One hunter each year would be recognized as taking the prize elk, and that might be a motive for a serious dispute between two armed men.
When I described my theory to Margaret, she just smiled and said, “There is a small flaw in your theory.”
“And that is?” I asked. We’ve been married thirty years, and I knew better than to dismiss her comment.
“Jimmy Hendrix discovered that Dr. Cantor’s rifle hadn’t been fired since its last cleaning. The doctor could not have thought he brought down that elk so he had no claim on the trophy.
Before breakfast, I checked the voicemail on my cell phone. There was a message from Mrs. Cantor. She and her sister would arrive in Flagstaff on the 12:10 Mesa Airlines flight from Phoenix. She asked me to call her on her cell phone and leave a message if I was not able to meet them at the airport.
Margaret and I enjoyed a pleasant breakfast, relaxing at our kitchen table and talking about the latest news of our granddaughters. It was another glorious Sedona morning. We’d never been disappointed about our move from crowded LA to this little Arizona tourist town.
At 7:30 I headed for my office in Flagstaff. The autumn foliage along highway 89A was vibrant, and puffs of smoke curled above cabin fireplaces along the winding canyon road. Even though Margaret and I love Sedona, it is a little too quiet for my tastes in law enforcement. I was enjoying my recent promotion to Chief of Criminal Investigations for Coconino County. I’d spent most of my career on the LA Police Department investigating homicides. I’ve gotten pretty good at it.
I found Sean Mark waiting in my office. He’s a fourth generation Flagstaff area native from a prominent ranching family. I liked his earnestness and valued his local knowledge. I wanted him to be the one to talk to local hunters about Dr. Cantor’s death. He was in his late twenties with a down-home manner that should make the hunters willing to talk. He was excited about a chance to work temporarily with the Criminal Investigation Unit on a major crime. I covered all the information that I had so far gotten from the autopsy and from Jimmy Hendrix’s investigation.
When I checked my e-mail, I found a list from the Arizona Game & Fish Department reporting every elk tag holder for the current season for the section of forest north of Flagstaff. There were only twenty names on the list for the early-fall bull elk hunt near Flagstaff: six from other states, seven from Coconino County, one from Prescott, and the rest from Phoenix and Tucson. I knew that out-of-state hunters often employed guides to make certain that they actually found elk on their trip to Arizona, but local hunters usually did not. I decided to track down all of the local guides and find if any of them were in the Kachina Wilderness north of Humphreys Peak this past weekend.
Sean would begin on the elk-tag list. He would ask to test fire each rifle for comparison with the round from the elk. A good portion of the hunters would be suspicious of turning over their firearms even if they had nothing to do with Dr. Cantor’s death. We might need warrants before we could secure cooperation, but I was not confident any local judge would issue a broad warrant without more evidence that a hunter was actually involved in a crime. Arizona was very protective of gun owners’ rights.
Even if we got the warrants, many hunters own multiple rifles, and we had no way of determining if they had turned over the rifle they had actually used this weekend. Since hunting rifles are not registered in Arizona, the whole process seemed like a long shot. Our best bet was to find someone who was in the forest this past Sunday who remembered something useful. I stressed that Sean should talk to each hunter about whether they had seen Dr. Cantor or his truck or remembered anything suspicious. By knowing who was in the area, we at least had a place to start.
CHAPTER SIX
I had my normal schedule of budget meetings, employee reviews, and administrative work to contend with that Tuesday morning. It’s my regular day for such chores. Between meetings, I managed to contact three local hunting guides who had been in the forest north of the San Francisco Peaks on Sunday. I scheduled appointments to meet in my office for late in the afternoon. I left callback information for the other guides that I’d been able to identify through phonebooks and the Internet.
About 10:00, I received a message from a local reporter asking for comments on the hunting accident that had occurred at the Doyle Saddle on Sunday. I returned the call because I wanted to have some input in how the information was released. I told her that Dr. Cantor was wearing an orange baseball cap and gave his description and information about his vehicle and where it was found. I wanted anyone who saw Dr. Cantor on Saturday or Sunday to call my office. I called the news desk at the Arizona Republic in Phoenix and provided them information. I also contacted five Phoenix TV stations and provided similar information. I was careful to tell all of the reporters that the investigation had not yet determined if Dr. Cantor’s death was a hunting accident. One of the TV news reporters mentioned that he would try and obtain a photo of Dr. Cantor for the 6:00 news.
At 11:00, I stopped by Sheriff Taylor’s office to update him on the case. There was a good chance he would begin to receive calls from the press. Greg Taylor looks like a movie version of a strong and silent western sheriff. County sheriff is an elected position in Arizona, and Greg has held it for over ten years. He was responsible for hiring me and for my recent promotion. Our relationship is best described as mutual professional respect. It was part of my job to never let the sheriff be publicly embarrassed by being uninformed about important cases.
“Boss, I just want to give you a heads-up on the Zackary Cantor death,” I said.
“That doctor killed in the hunting accident; anything new?” he asked.
“Yep, but I’m not convinced it was an accident. His weapon hadn’t been fired, so it couldn’t have been an accidental discharge or suicide. As far as we know he was hunting alone and got hit by a round while standing on the ridgeline at Doyle Saddle. There was a six-point trophy sized bull elk dead about fifty feet away. We recovered the round from the elk, but not from the doctor. I’ve talked to the Phoenix TV news stations and both the Arizona Daily Sun and Arizona Republic. Since the story will be on the news, you might be asked about it.”
“Who is working on this with you, Mike?”
“I’ve borrowed Sean Mark from traffic to do some of the leg work. He’s contacting the hunters with elk tags for that area of the forest.” I watched for his reaction.
He might have wondered why I didn’t use one of our regular investigative staff, but instead, he smiled. “I know Sean’s family. I’m glad you’re letting him work with you. His dad has always been su
pportive of our efforts, and I’ve heard good things about Sean.” I suspected that meant Sean’s dad contributed to the sheriff’s campaign, but I wasn’t about to ask.
“I thought he would be good for contacting local hunters. I’m hoping to get sample rounds from their hunting rifles to compare to the one we recovered from the elk.”
The sheriff’s gray eyes showed signs of tension. A pause to think things over is highly unusual for Sheriff Taylor; he’s not bashful about telling me exactly what he thinks. Finally, he said, “You may not be aware how sensitive asking a hunter to turn over his rifle for testing will be.”
“At this point it will be strictly voluntary. I’m not seeking a warrant. I hope a personable young man like Sean might be able to persuade some of the men without raising a ruckus. At best, it will let us narrow the field a little.” I knew from public financial disclosure that the National Rifle Association had been a significant contributor to the sheriff’s reelection efforts.
“Be careful; talk to me before seeking any warrants for hunters’ rifles. Thanks for the update. Is there anything else I should know?”
“Nothing yet. I’ll keep you informed. Sheriff, have you ever hunted elk in that area?”
“I haven’t won a damn tag for a rifle-hunt in twelve years. I bow-hunted there in 2012, but I didn’t get an elk.”
“I was surprised to find an elk that high on the north side of Humphreys Peak. There was almost nothing to eat on that rocky slope.”
“An old bull elk would have some understanding of the risks of hunting season. He might have been leading his herd over the pass to the other side of the mountain near the ski slopes. Hunting is prohibited in the ski area, and there’s good grass in the areas cleared for skiing. If your dead doctor was a savvy hunter, he might have been waiting at the Doyle Saddle, expecting the elk to flee the hunting areas below in the Kachina Wilderness. It’s the easiest place for the herd to cross, but I doubt it’s legal to harvest elk from that ridge.”
When I got back to my office, Eric (Pop) Cramer was waiting for me. Even though we’d only met once in a crowd at a large party, Pop was difficult to forget. He has a long white beard and white hair tied in a ponytail half way down his shoulders. He’d lived in Arizona for nearly fifty years, but he still has his Vermont accent. Pop is in charge of the Arizona Game and Fish Department’s northern region.
“Hi Mike; I stopped by to discuss the shooting on Humphreys. I hiked up to look things over this morning.” He was probably in his late seventies, but he had no problem with a morning hike to nearly 11,000 feet.
“Pop, I’ve been intending to call you,” I claimed. “I’m glad you had a chance to see the scene. The round that killed the elk did not come from Dr. Cantor’s rifle; in fact, his rifle hadn’t been fired. Do you think a stray round could have killed the man while he was standing on that ridge?”
“I’ve been to every fatal hunting accident location in northern Arizona since 1984,” he said. “This was not a hunting accident. You should be looking for a murderer, not sending that Sean Mark kid out to harass hunters.”
“The hunting tags provide a list of who was in the area and might have seen something. I’ve been leaning towards this being a homicide, but I’m not ready to say so in public. Why are you so sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“Most hunting accidents are caused by fools who try and mix hunting with drinking or just something silly like dropping your rifle when the safety is off. These elk hunters are using scopes. There is no way to mistake a man for a bull elk when they are both standing clear of any obstructions. I think someone deliberately drove an elk herd onto that north-facing slope and took down the bull. He then waited for this doctor to investigate the carcass and took him down too.”
“They were both great shots. The doctor took one through the forehead exactly between the eyes, and the elk was killed by a single shot to the heart. That might take an experienced hunter,” I said.
“He was certainly a marksman, but he’s not likely to be on the elk tag list the state office sent you. Really, what are the odds that a victim and his murderer would both win elk tags for the same period and location? About a million to one. The shooter had no tag; you can count on that. You should call off the Mark boy; you’re kicking an Africanized bees’ hive with these requests to check the rifles of honest hunters. My office had three calls this morning complaining, and the state headquarters had already heard from the NRA.”
“You’re right. I’ll ask Sean to suspend the request to examine rifles. He will only ask the hunters what they saw or heard last weekend.” I knew I could not count on the sheriff’s support if Pop went over my head, so I gave in gracefully.
That produced a big grin from Pop, and he promised to help in any way he could. I asked one last question. “You’re an expert on this kind of thing. Are you willing to testify that there is no way a stray round could have been fired from the forest and killed a man at Doyle Saddle?”
“Completely impossible. A firearm might have been fired almost straight up by accident, you know, dropped or something. It would have entered the man or the elk from above as it fell back. This was a careful, accurate, and difficult shot because it entered his forehead and not the top of his skull. The same with the elk, you don’t accidentally shoot one in the heart.”
I was convinced this was a homicide.
I had only ten minutes to get to the airport before the widow and her sister arrived. I thanked Pop and called Sean with instructions not to ask the hunters for permission to test their rifles. He was pleased; his requests had not been going well. I headed for the Pulliam Airport, too late to get there before the airplane.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I noticed the two tanned, well-dressed women standing near the airport exit. They were clearly sisters; both appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties. I walked over to them to introduce myself. It was Mrs. Alexis Cantor and her sister Mrs. Sandra Hyde.
As I drove them to a local funeral home, Mrs. Cantor said, “There are so many things to do; I’d be lost without Sandra.”
“It’s a very difficult time. I’m sorry that I couldn’t notify you in person, but I’m glad your sister was there for you when you got the news.” I hoped she might comment on who had actually been with her on the beach.
“Sandra has been wonderful.” Mrs. Cantor was in the front seat, and she reached back to her sister to grasp her hand. She was not interested in volunteering information, and I decided to save any interrogation until a few days after the funeral. It was scheduled at a Phoenix synagogue for tomorrow.
“Have you learned more about the accident?” Sandra asked.
“Dr. Cantor’s death has not been ruled an accident at this point. There are suspicious circumstances; we’re still investigating it.”
“What circumstances? I thought it was a hunting accident.” Her tone did not indicate surprise; it sounded more like apprehension that the investigation was still going on. “You told me on the phone that it happened while he was hunting.”
“Dr. Cantor was hunting high up in the mountains at the pass that connects Humphreys Peak with Agassiz Peak. He was well above timberline and wearing an orange cap. He should not have been mistaken for an elk. A local expert from the Arizona Game and Fish Department is certain that because of the angle of entry this could not have been a stray round fired from the forest more than a thousand feet below.”
“Oh my God,” Mrs. Cantor said. She started to sob, but it sounded a little staged. I sensed that she was disappointed that there would need to be an extensive investigation. I thought she had something to hide. However, my opinion might have been a judgment tainted by my original phone call to her. Her sister tried to comfort her.
“I need to talk with you about possible enemies of Dr. Cantor, but that can wait for another time,” I said.
It took only a few minutes at the funeral home to arrange for Dr. Cantor’s body to be moved to a Phoenix funeral home. Afterward, I took
the women to the Cantors’ vacation cabin. They wanted to make certain that the property was in order before returning to Mrs. Cantor’s Paradise Valley home.
When we passed through the guarded entrance to Forest Highlands, I made a mental note to check on visitors during Dr. Cantor’s Flagstaff stay. The guards recorded the name of every non-resident who entered the neighborhood, including mine.
The home overlooked Flagstaff’s best golf course. It was a “log cabin” of about 6,500 square feet. The living room was big enough for a hotel lobby with a two-story rock fireplace and great views of the mountains on one side and the ninth fairway on the other. A huge elk head decorated the fireplace, and a stuffed grizzly bear stood rearing and snarling in the entrance hall. The stuffed monster appeared ready to attack as you entered the front door. It took some forbearance not to draw my pistol when we entered.
The wall opposite the fireplace was decorated with miscellaneous stuffed heads interspersed with stuffed trout and bass. The coffee table held a diorama of stuffed quail and dove. A well-used poker table that was overhung with an enormous antler chandelier took up one corner of the huge room, and a large copper and leather bar took up another corner. Dr. Cantor had either been an avid hunter and angler or hired a decorator who liked dead fish and animals.
A burnt coffee smell led the women into the kitchen where they discovered the coffee pot had been left on. Otherwise, the house was in order. Dr. Cantor had not set the alarm when he went for his Sunday morning hunt, but he’d locked the doors and windows.
I asked Mrs. Cantor about the doctor’s firearms, and she led me to a wooden panel in an office next to the huge living room. She got a combination from the desk and opened a gun safe to reveal a rack that held three hunting rifles with scopes and two Purdy shotguns. One of the shotguns appeared to be an antique Purdy from the 19th century; it would have cost a fortune. There was also a pile of cash sitting on a shelf below the firearms. Mrs. Cantor seemed surprised at finding the money and quickly closed the case, mentioning that one of Dr. Cantor’s rifles was missing.
The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle Page 3
