“I had a Winchester 338 and a shotgun for quail. They were stolen a year ago. I haven’t won an elk tag in six years. People like Dr. Cantor have all the luck when it comes to getting tags. I think he bribed someone at Game and Fish.”
The 338 was the same caliber as the round we removed from the elk at Doyle Saddle. “You reported the theft to the police I assume.”
“No, you cops never recover anything. I just figured they were gone for good,” he said. “Someone took them from my truck at Metro Center.”
“When you won the elk tag, where did you hunt?” I asked.
“It was in the White Mountains, but that’s ancient history. Anyway, I was home alone last weekend, and that is all I have to say. Goodbye Damson.” He stood up and turned completely towards the window and stared down at the street fair.
Mr. Goode suggested that I submit any follow-up questions in writing to him, and he would forward them to his client. I think he also realized that his client was lying and didn’t want him to make more verifiable mistakes.
Mathew was now on top of my suspect list. He was a hunter with the same type of rifle that had killed Dr. Cantor. He knew the location of Dr. Cantor’s vacation home, and he seemed obsessed with the fact that Dr. Cantor had rejected him as a patient.
I took my small digital camera from my briefcase and said, “I hope you’ve told me the truth.” When Mathew turned to respond with an obscenity, I snapped a picture. I planned to have Sean show it around town, especially at Forest Highlands. The guards might recognize him if he had tried to see Dr. Cantor last weekend.
“Kiss my pretty white ass,” Mathew said in lieu of a final goodbye.
I could hear the beginnings of an animated discussion between Mr. Goode and Mathew as I walked toward the elevator.
Once I was on Washington Street, I called Margaret to let her know that I would have something to eat before I left Phoenix because I wanted to let the traffic thin out before starting home. I also called Sean’s cell phone for an update on his research regarding who had seen Dr. Cantor while he was in Flagstaff. Sean had not found any new information except that Dr. Cantor liked ordering pizza when he was home alone. I asked Sean to come by my office at 8:30 in the morning to discuss the case and decide on our next step.
The Pan-Asian Street Fair was a celebration of Asian cultures, and there were booths with a dozen kinds of Asian food. I was enjoying a Thai fresh roll when I noticed Mathew Andrews in a new white pickup stopped at a light. I took a digital photo of the truck. The paper dealer’s tag in the back window indicated that it was only a month old. Mathew had already installed a gun rack in that rear window. The rack was empty, but a man who’d had his only Winchester stolen a year ago would not have needed to rush out and have a gun rack added to his new truck. Having a rifle visible in a gun rack would seem ordinary in Flagstaff on the first day of the fall elk hunt.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My strategy of staying downtown until 6:30 to avoid traffic worked until I was about forty miles north of Phoenix on I-17. A few miles past Black Canyon City, a semi had overturned blocking the northbound lanes and turning the interstate highway into a very long skinny parking lot. There are no service roads or alternative routes; we were all trapped until the truck was removed.
The hour delay gave me a chance to think. What motive did Mathew Andrews really have to kill Dr. Cantor? Mathew had referred to Mrs. Cantor as Alexis as if he knew her even though he referred to Zackary Cantor as Dr. Cantor. He claimed that she was the reason for the restraining order. He also had been at “small” gatherings at her home, and he got mad when I pressed him on what sort of visits they had been. If Alexis Cantor would sleep with one of her husband’s partners, she might also sleep with one of his patients. I looked forward to tomorrow’s interview with her.
I got home at 9:45 and had a glass of wine with Margaret to relax before bed. One thing led to another, and we spent time enjoying each other’s company rather than talking about the case. The next morning at breakfast, Margaret wanted her full case update. She couldn’t wait a whole day without knowing the latest. She agreed that Mathew was a prime suspect.
“Sweetie, I don’t think you should dismiss Karla Sheen’s claims of sexual harassment by Dr. Boatwright just because she’s a toilet mouth,” Margaret said.
Margaret is always ready to believe a charge of sexual harassment because she’d experienced it several times in her career. She is a very attractive woman in her mid fifties, but at thirty she was a Grace Kelly classic beauty. She was always the most beautiful woman at whatever office she worked in. I ended up going to see one of her bosses many years ago to personally remind him she was a married woman. When I’m unhappy, I can be sort of intimidating.
“I agree she doesn’t make a great suspect, but her comments might be useful in understanding the odd relationship between Dr. Boatwright and Dr. Cantor. Boatwright claimed that Zack Cantor was his best friend in Arizona, but it looks like he is intimately involved with Alexis Cantor. That’s about as inconsistent as it’s possible to be. I’d keep him on the top of my list for now, but I agree Mathew Andrews is an important suspect too. I have the feeling that we’re missing an important detail,” she said.
I had that same feeling as I thought about the case during my drive up to Flagstaff. When I got to the office, I asked my assistant to print copies of the photo I’d taken of Mathew Andrews and of his truck. I wanted them to give to Sean when he came in to discuss the case. I reviewed my case notes for other things that needed follow-up.
There was one item that I had not been able to verify. Joe Banning was guiding an out-of-state hunter in the forest south of Flagstaff on Sunday. I’d had placed a series of calls to the phone number he provided without reaching anyone. I decided to try early in the morning before the man went to work.
When I called the LA phone number of Adam Shoenlinger, a man answered with a gruff hello. I explained who I was and that I wanted to verify Joe Banning’s whereabouts last Sunday. Shoenlinger said he could positively verify that Joe Banning spent all of Sunday, dawn to dusk with him. He had not even gotten a shot at a bull elk and regretted wasting money on a guide for the hunt. There was something about his tone that sounded as if he had been expecting my call and recited something he had memorized.
I phoned an old friend with the LA Police Department to do a little checking.
“Chaplain Mike, good to hear from you,” Senior Detective Bob Simpson said. A lot of my former colleagues on the LAPD knew me as Chaplain Mike. They called me that because I was very by-the-book and because Margaret and I attended mass regularly. It had started when I was a rookie and went to work on Ash Wednesday with the ash still on my forehead. A fellow rookie who I’d known in my army military police unit knew that my MP colleagues sometimes called me the chaplain, and unfortunately, the nickname carried over to the LAPD.
We chatted for a few minutes before getting to the point. “Bobby, can you check something on your PC for me?”
“At your service, but you’ll owe me one. We plan to be out your way in February and you can show us around Sedona.”
“I can do better than that. Margaret and I have two guestrooms; I insist that you and Rita stay with us.” We had deliberately bought a house that was well equipped for out of town guests. Our guestrooms had great views of Sedona’s rock formations and of Wilson Mountain.
I explained that I was suspicious of the phone contact that I had just made. He looked up the name Adam Shoenlinger and could find no one by that name in Los Angeles. The address Joe Banning had provided was bogus. The unlisted phone number that I’d called belonged to Simon Banning.
By the time I was finished with that call, Sean was in my office for our 8:30 case review. I explained what I’d learned in Phoenix and gave him the photos of Mathew Andrews and of his truck.
“Sean, you grew up around here. Do you know Joe Banning?”
“The Bannings are a big clan around northern Arizona. Joe is a hunting guide. I’ve seen him ar
ound. He had some cousins in school with me, but he’s five years older. He was out of high school by the time I started.”
“Do you know a Simon Banning?”
“Sure. He is a no good shit who is Joe’s first cousin. They were running buddies around town until Simon got into some trouble and moved away. There was a meth bust in a property Simon rented. He wasn’t home when it went down, and the DA didn’t have enough for an indictment.”
“Do you know how to find Joe Banning’s house?” I showed him the address that was listed in the phonebook. It was out in the country north of town.
He nodded, and we headed for my Explorer. In the parking lot, I explained that Banning had lied about his alibi for Sunday and that I wanted backup for my meeting with him.
“Captain, if you want to take him into custody, do you think two is enough? He’s one tough looking guy. We might need a SWAT team or the National Guard.” Sean was kidding, maybe only half kidding.
“We’re only going to talk to the man, but if we need to take him into custody, I don’t plan to make it a fair fight.” I had stopped thinking of myself as the toughest guy on the block twenty years ago.
We drove north on Highway 89 until Sean indicated we should turn west on a gravel road. We followed it about a mile into a residential neighborhood with modest houses on five-acre lots. The area had been cleared of trees, probably by logging a century ago. The lack of trees gave the properties spectacular views of the northeast side of the San Francisco Peaks.
“I think that is his,” Sean said, pointing to a small log house with a green metal roof. It was probably assembled from a kit. It had a nice front porch with a great mountain view and four large dogs roaming the yard. Joe was standing on the porch watching us approach.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When we pulled up in front of the house, Banning called his dogs to the porch and instructed them to sit. They obeyed instantly but seemed to eye us suspiciously as we approached. He invited us in, leaving the dogs outside. If we tried to take him into custody, we would have to deal with those dogs.
The cabin was a single large room with an open upstairs sleeping area. The furniture looked homemade, but the chairs were comfortable. The walls displayed the heads of some of the game that Banning had hunted and the tools of his trade. There were seven rifles and shotguns hung on the wall nearest the door. A steel chest below them probably held ammunition. One section near the fireplace held two hunting bows, and there was a whole wall of knives and pistols. Crossed sabers graced the rock fireplace. The room held enough firearms to hold off an army, and the solid log walls would provide a lot of protection. There was probably a dugout basement below the room as well.
He poured cups of cowboy coffee in tin mugs. Banning added half a cup of sugar into his own coffee and asked what he could do for us.
“This is Sean Mark. He’s assisting me with the Zackary Cantor investigation,” I said by way of introduction.
“You a grandson of Hoops Mark?” Banning asked. When Sean nodded, Banning seemed satisfied that he properly placed Sean in the ranks of old Flagstaff families.
“Mr. Banning, I’ve been checking on the information you supplied when you came to my office on Wednesday, and something unusual has come up.” I wanted to give him a moment to retract his claim to have been guiding a man named Adam Shoenlinger.
“Everything should have checked out just like I told you,” he said.
“It seems that you gave me the phone number of your cousin Simon by mistake. Also, the address was bogus. When I talked to Simon, he seemed confused about his own name and claimed to be Adam Shoenlinger – maybe your cousin has had too much crystal meth.”
Banning’s eyes were like those of one of the animals he hunted. He glanced at the door or maybe at the wall with the rifles that was near it. I pushed back my chair from the table and reached under my sports coat and unsnapped the strap on my shoulder holster. The small sound broke the spell, and Banning turned to look at me. I noticed that Sean had his hand on his pistol too.
“Mr. Banning, perhaps you would like a chance to restate your explanation in light of subsequent events. This is a murder investigation, and it would be a good idea to tell us the whole truth at this point. Where were you last Sunday?”
He drank some coffee and thought things over for a minute. He seemed to relax as if no longer considering fleeing or fighting.
“I was no good at school or at anything else much except hunting. It’s nice if you can make your living from your passion. Being a hunting guide is all I know; more than that, it’s who I am.”
“I’m listening; please continue,” I said when he lapsed into a prolonged silence.
“Maybe I could go to Alaska. No one knows me up there. Maybe I could start over as a guide up there, or in Canada,” he said. The giant grizzly bear of a man seemed close to tears.
“Did you kill Zackary Cantor?” I asked.
“Lord no. He was an arrogant ass, but he paid well. I don’t know anything about his death, but I lied about what I was doing on Sunday.”
“You have to tell us the whole story, Mr. Banning. There is no way around it now.”
“It’s damn hard to get those elk tags nowadays. Too many guys like Dr. Cantor apply every year. They’re not really hunters, but they want a chance at a bull elk. Sometimes, a rich man is not willing to wait. I won’t tell you his name, but I took a man hunting who had no elk tag. He harvested a prize elk down near the rim above Sycamore Canyon. If the Game and Fish Department finds out, I’ll never hunt or guide again in this state.”
“Mr. Banning, I still don’t think you understand. That man is your alibi. You must give us his name so he can confirm you were not at Doyle Saddle. Dr. Cantor was ambushed by an expert shot who knew he would be hunting at Doyle Saddle. You are one of the few people who knew where he would be Sunday morning, and I suspect you’re a good enough shot to hit the elk in the heart and Dr. Cantor in the forehead from over a hundred yards shooting uphill in the dawn light.”
“I can’t tell you his name; that wouldn’t be ethical.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Twenty-five thousand in cash,” he replied.
“That’s about the going rate for a contract killing. If you recently got a hold of that much cash, that would supply a motive as well as opportunity,” I said. I started on his Miranda Statement. I was attempting to intimidate Banning. We could not actually hold him on hunting without a tag.
“Shit man. I didn’t shoot anybody. I hunted without a tag,” he said when I took out my handcuffs.
“Your only choice is to give us the name of the man who can alibi you.”
“Ethan Kearns was his name. He contacted me after seeing my web page. At first I said no, but he kept increasing the amount. Twenty-five thousand is more than I make in a year.”
“How can we reach Mr. Kearns?”
“Don’t know exactly. He called me and never told me how to reach him.”
“Where was he from?” I asked. He could as easily have made up the name Ethan Kearns as he had the name Adam Shoenlinger.
“He never said; New England I think. I don’t know how to reach him. I’ll give you guys the money if you won’t tell Game and Fish about it,” he said. Tears were now visible in his eyes, and he had a desperate look again.
“Mr. Banning, I’m willing to forget that offer, but if you ever insult me again by offering a bribe, you will regret it for the rest of your life. Please stand up and put your hands behind your back. Stand up NOW and turn around; you are under arrest. We’re going to my office to talk some more.”
I admit that I’ve made my share of mistakes in my thirty year career. So far none has gotten me killed, but my early retirement from the LA Police Department was a result of one of those mistakes and a subsequent bullet to the leg.
Banning moved incredibly fast for a big man. He grabbed the heavy wooden table as he stood up. He tossed it at me as if it was weightless, knocking me to the floor.
He spun around and landed a vicious kick to Sean’s groin, leaving the young man a moaning heap on the floor. As I was pushing the table off, I saw Banning grab a small duffle and dart through the door.
The four dogs entered the cabin as he ran past. They snarled; the pack headed straight for the prostrate deputy. One went for Sean’s throat, one for his groin, and two grabbed his legs. I had my pistol out almost instantly. I emptied every round into the dogs before they were all down. Sean lay in a pool of dogs’ blood and moaned. The whole thing lasted only seconds. I had been stupid to run a bluff arrest. I had misjudged the situation badly and gotten the young man I was trying to train hurt.
By the time I got to the door, I could see Banning’s truck turning south on Highway 89 headed for town. I called in an APB and reported an officer was down.
There were teeth marks on Sean’s throat and some blood from the bites on his ankles, but nothing seemed life threatening. It would be a long time before he wanted a date after that kick and the subsequent attack. I waited with him for the ambulance, while every other law enforcement officer in the county looked for Joe Banning and his rusty old Chevy truck. I knew he had relatives all over the area who might help him escape. I assumed the duffel contained the twenty-five thousand in cash. In spite of his brazen escape, I didn’t think he had anything to do with the death of Doctor Zackary Cantor. His account of the illegal hunt had seemed credible.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The kick to the groin was the most serious of Sean’s injuries, and he endured an embarrassing examination by the paramedics before being transported to the Flagstaff Medical Center. He could expect to be the butt of jokes around the Law Enforcement Building for weeks, but it was unlikely he would be hospitalized. The remains of the dogs were taken for examination for rabies.
Any dog bite had infection risks, and the paramedics insisted the wounds should be cleaned and treated at the emergency room. Sean claimed he was ready to go after Banning. I admired his bravado.
The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle Page 8
