The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle

by Charles Williamson

  Sean snoozed the last forty miles of the drive. His last words before dozing off had been, “At least this guy didn’t get away.”

  I checked the messages in my office after letting Sean off at his car. There was a note from Jimmy Hendrix indicating when the Winchester from Mathew’s house would be compared to the round from the elk at Doyle Saddle. I should be able to get the results Sunday afternoon. I had some normal calls to return that would wait for Monday and a slim folder from June Rosetta that had a sticky note on top. “More on Amanda Brandt and Trevor Joyce,” it read. Her writing was perfect, like cartography. I took it with me to review in the morning.

  When I got home, Margaret welcomed me with a kiss and a late night snack. I took a couple of pain pills with the Kahlúa and walnut brownies, and we moved to the hot tub to loosen the vice that was squeezing my lumbar region. It was already after 11:00, but she wanted to hear all of the details of my day.

  When I got to the part where Sean found the rifle in the carport storage area, Margaret said, “If a round from that weapon matches the one from the elk, your case gets much simpler.”

  “But I’m not convinced that even a flake like Mathew Andrews would hide a murder weapon in a place like that. He would probably stuff it in a restaurant dumpster or bury it in the desert,” I said in protest.

  “Of course he wouldn’t hide it there,” she said.

  “Then why does that help solve the case?” I asked.

  “You’re tired and sore or you would see it immediately. The only people who would frame Mathew are people who knew about the restraining order and about your interest in him. If the rifle was planted, it takes the other hunters off your suspect list. It also proves it wasn’t a stray shot that killed Dr. Cantor, and it goes a long way to establishing that the case was premeditated murder. It limits your suspects to Mrs. Cantor and the people who work at the Scottsdale clinic like Doctor Boatwright. They knew that you were asking questions about Mathew Andrews as a possible suspect in the Cantor homicide so it’s logical that they would choose him to frame.”

  I admit I was not thinking at full speed, but I could understand Margaret’s point. It would limit my suspects. “How did the murderer know that we would search Mathew’s house?”

  “It was a fairly safe assumption, but if you hadn’t acted, you might have gotten an anonymous tip.”

  “So who’s the murderer?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. It depends on whether the motive was sex or money or both.”

  We went to bed, and I slept well until about 2:30. I took a couple of more pills at 3:00 and slept the rest of the night in a chair that provided good back support.

  Margaret woke me at 8:00. “Do you feel like going to mass this morning with me? Maybe you should give your back a chance to recover. Those pews are hard and uncomfortable.”

  “I’ll go. Afterwards, I’m going to the office. We’ll get the results on the Winchester this afternoon. As you pointed out last night, that will narrow my suspects. There is no way I can take the whole day off.”

  “Then I’m driving you up to Flagstaff. That way you can take pain pills without worrying about falling asleep while you drive. I’ll have an afternoon of shopping while you’re at the office. No, don’t protest; it’s a done deal.” She had the pain pills and a glass of orange juice and stood there until I took them.

  On the kitchen table was the folder that I’d brought home regarding Amanda Brandt and Trevor Joyce. It was information from the Arizona Secretary of State about a business owned by Amanda. The business charter was for RED LIGHT NIGHT, an Internet based art company. Also in the folder was a handwritten note from June. “I tried to access the web site run by RED LIGHT NIGHT, but the Sheriff’s Department’s internet system blocked me.” The note listed the web address associated with the business.

  We made it to the 9:00 service at St. Paul; Margaret had been correct about the pews being uncomfortable. We returned to the house afterward to change clothes, and I had a chance to try and bring up the web page owned by Amanda Brandt. It was a pay-for-view porno service. I reluctantly gave the damn thing my credit card number because I was anxious to see exactly what Amanda Brandt was up to.

  Margaret came into the office while I had the web site up. “So, I’m not woman enough for you anymore. I’m crushed,” she said, smiling at my embarrassment.

  “You asked me what Amanda Brandt looked like. You can see every bit of detail now.” The screen showed a totally nude Amanda in the foreground with Trevor in the background in a setting that looked like a medieval dungeon. Trevor was chained to a wall. Amanda held a riding crop.

  “Great body,” she said.

  “Those breasts can’t be natural,” I said.

  “My dear, I meant Trevor. He’s quite a man.”

  “This is one of over a hundred photos on this web site. All that I’ve seen so far have Amanda, but this is one of the few with Trevor. Look at number 42.” I clicked on that icon. Amanda wore only a nurse’s hat and the man in the photo had nothing but a stethoscope. They were playing doctor.

  “He’s really cute too,” Margaret said. She was embarrassed, but she preferred kidding about the pornography to ranting about it.

  “That’s a real doctor, Steven Boatwright,” I explained. It was difficult to think of Amanda as a victim since she owned the company that was selling her own images to horny teenagers. Her photos left little to the imagination.

  “The Cantors ran with a very fast crowd. Are they in any of these photos?”

  “I’ve only gone through half of them, but I haven’t seen either of them. There are many different men in the photos, but the only woman is Amanda Brandt.”

  “I guess this is not a crime, but it’s a shame that a successful professional woman, a nurse practitioner making excellent money, would do this sort of thing. I don’t think I would like to meet any of the people involved in your case.”

  “It will take me some time to view all of these. They’re slow downloads.”

  “I think I’ll make some tea,” she said in a curt tone. “Have fun and let me know when you’re finished.”

  Margaret came back to the office with her tea a few minutes later, but she sat where she couldn’t see the computer screen.

  “Here is another familiar face. Would you like to see what Mathew Andrews looks like?”

  Margaret came over and glanced at the screen. “He has a cute bottom,” she said, “but he’s very thin.”

  “His rear is no more natural than Amanda’s breasts. The implants were one of the cosmetic surgeries he had done by Dr. Cantor.” I recognized the location where the photo of the threesome was taken. The photo showed Amanda with both Trevor and Mathew on the mattress on the floor in Mathew’s bedroom. I searched the location yesterday, and I even recognized the cheap Holiday Inn white sheets.

  Margaret gasped when I advanced to the next photo. It was a reenactment of one of the most disgusting of the Abu Ghraib Prison shots that had shocked and embarrassed America a decade ago. Amanda wore military fatigues and dog tags but no shirt. At her feet lay the nude Iraqi prisoner. A dog leash was attached to Mathew’s neck, the strap held by a laughing Amanda.

  “She’s disgusting,” Margaret said as she fled the room.

  I took an hour to finish viewing the whole site. There were often two or more men in the photos, but Amanda was the only woman. There were no photos of the Cantors or anyone else I recognized.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Margaret was quieter than normal on the drive up to Flagstaff. The traffic was heavy with Sunday drivers who had come to Sedona to enjoy Arizona’s most spectacular autumn foliage along Highway 89A as it passes through Oak Creek Canyon. I fell asleep at some point on the drive and woke after we reached Flagstaff.

  “Feeling better now?” Margaret asked.

  “The pills are working fine. Thanks for driving, Sweetie.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the case while you napped,” she said. Her tone had su
ch an undertone of excitement that I wondered if she’d solved the mystery while I slept.

  “So what have you figured out?” I asked.

  “It took me awhile to set aside my distaste for Amanda Brandt’s web site and focus on the facts we know. We know for certain that Amanda and Trevor have been in Mathew Andrews’ house because there is a photo of them in his bed.”

  “Yes, they would probably know he had an unlocked storage area in his carport,” I said. “Unfortunately, that is not much to support a murder charge.”

  “I think that someone filled out Dr. Cantor’s prescriptions after he’d signed them. Someone converted them to large dosages of Oxycodone using a computer printer. Only the signature was in his hand.”

  “I suspect that too,” I said.

  “And who would a physician trust to fill out prescriptions — his nurse practitioner.” She smiled as if she had solved the murder.

  “Maybe so, but that’s a long way from proof. I’ll need tangible evidence not just a theory.”

  “But now you have motive. If Amanda altered the prescriptions, she would want to stop the DEA investigation before anyone had a chance to discuss it with Dr. Cantor. He was hunting when the pharmacy records led the DEA to the clinic. She would know that time was running out on her scam.”

  “It’s a good theory, but still not proof,” I replied.

  “It’s your job to find the proof, my love. I can understand someone getting involved in pornography because she has no career prospects and needed money, but only a person with no morals or scruples would pose for that Abu Ghraib prison photo when she already had a nursing career and made good money. If she would do that, she would sell drugs.”

  “What about Steven Boatwright,” I said. “He was playing doctor with her in one of those photos. He and Alexis Cantor are still suspects.”

  “You said there were dozens of different men in the photos. I think most were unpaid volunteers. Some might not even know the photos were taken, or if they knew there were photos, I’ll bet they don’t know about her web site. She’s just using Dr. Boatwright like she’s using those other men.”

  “Boatwright could have hired someone to commit the murder. He’ll inherit a lot of Dr. Cantor’s patients, and he may have thought he’d end up with his wife. She’s worth millions. That’s a pretty good motive too,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t you expect a professional hit man to dump the weapon at the first opportunity and head out of town?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “Then how would Dr. Boatwright or Mrs. Cantor retrieve the rifle and plant it at Mathew’s house. If you find that the Winchester you recovered was involved in the crime, I think it proves that the murderer was an excellent shot but not an out-of-state professional killer; Trevor is an ex army Ranger. The killers knew Mathew Andrews, and they knew you suspected him.”

  Margaret had some good points, but they were all based on the assumption that the Winchester that Sean had found in Mathew’s carport could be linked to the round he’d dug from the elk at Doyle Saddle. We stopped and enjoyed lunch at Chili’s Bar and Grill on Milton before Margaret dropped me off at my office. She would return after spending several hours shopping.

  Jimmy Hendrix had shipped the Doyle Saddle round to the Arizona State Crime Lab for delivery by 10:00 this morning. He had indicated that I should call the Lab sometime after 1:30 for results. The technician I reached at the lab reported that the round was unquestionably fired by the rifle from Mathew’s house. There were no fingerprints on the rifle; it had been thoroughly cleaned by someone wearing gloves. The smudges left in the gun oil were consistent with latex gloves like those used in medical practices and available at every drug store.

  I contacted the Phoenix police who had taken custody of Mathew Andrews at Camelback Mountain. They referred me back to the Scottsdale police, claiming it was their case. After talking with eight people at three different police departments, I finally ended up on the line with the Maricopa County Jail. Mathew Andrews had made bail on the charge of violation of a protective order at 9:30 this morning. He was released on a $2,000 bond posted in cash by his father.

  If I wanted to have a warrant issued for his arrest for homicide, I needed to start the process over. He had already run once, and I wanted him in custody even if I suspected he was being framed. With direct evidence that tied a weapon from his house to the murder, I clearly had enough evidence to hold him. I contacted the Scottsdale police and asked them to pick him up and hold him pending an arrest warrant for homicide that would be issued in Coconino County on Monday morning.

  I spent part of the remaining time in the office on paperwork that had piled up while I had focused on this case. I also did some follow-up on tips we’d received regarding local marijuana traffic. Flagstaff has become a major distribution point. The weed was brought up I-17 to Flagstaff and then distributed both to the West Coast and Midwest along I-40.

  Sheriff Taylor had returned a copy of my proposed budget with the changes he wanted. Money was tight in Coconino County, and I might need to look at staffing changes again this year unless I could find other expense cuts. Fiscal problems were chronic at all levels of Coconino County because of a mismatch between size and revenue. Geographically, it is the second largest county in the United States, but it has less than 150,000 people to pay taxes.

  We also had a serious turnover problem with deputies during their first two years. The Flagstaff and Sedona Police Departments pay about $8,000 a year more for beginning officers. Many of our best recruits left as soon as they had completed training. I’d proposed saving money by giving a raise to beginning deputies and saving money on the training budget from the lower turnover. The sheriff had left me a note to come to his office on Monday to discuss it.

  About 3:15, I was notified that the Scottsdale cops had picked Mathew up at his father’s house in north Scottsdale. Someone would need to drive to Phoenix on Monday and bring him back to the Coconino County Jail in Flagstaff. I decided to send two deputies rather than spend the time myself. Mathew was not likely to say anything incriminating during transport, and his attorney had made a point of telling me that we couldn’t question him without him present. I also thought that Trevor was a better suspect than Mathew, and I wanted to spend more time investigating him.

  After that call, I decided to use my remaining time on another project. I began to call the list of hunters who had been in the forest north of Flagstaff last Sunday. I had a new question for them. I wanted to know if any of them had seen a pale blue Lexus early Sunday morning. I knew Trevor didn’t have a car of his own; he might have borrowed Amanda’s in order to stalk Dr. Cantor at Doyle Saddle.

  I completed the list just before Margaret came to pick me up. I had only been able to reach about half of them; I left messages for the rest. So far, I could find no one who had seen Amanda’s car near Flagstaff last Sunday.

  I had proof that Mathew Andrews was in Flagstaff because the guards at Forest Highlands saw him. My strongest evidence still pointed to him even though Margaret’s hunch and her excellent reasoning pointed at Trevor and Amanda.

  As Margaret drove us home, we discussed the case again. She understood that it made sense to pick up Mathew since the evidence pointed directly at him, but she was still focused on Trevor and Amanda. She suggested that I call Alexis Cantor and see what she could tell me about the couple. We knew they had been intimate at least for one evening.

  When we got home, I thanked Margaret for driving, and she suggested that I find a ride to work for the next few days so I would be willing to take my pills. Jimmy Hendrix was conducting crime scene procedures training for new deputies at his office in Flagstaff. I called my former partner, Chad Archer who manages the Sedona office and found that one of his deputies, a young man named Graham Freemont, would be attending. Chad would have Graham come to my house at 7:00 and drive for me on Monday and Tuesday.

  “Thanks, I don’t want to cause extra hassles for Graham, b
ut it will make things much easier,” I said.

  “No problem. Graham has been worried about his old clunker getting up the switchbacks to Flagstaff. He’ll be happy to drive your Explorer. I haven’t had an extra patrol vehicle to lend him for the trip.” It was settled. I would have a driver for a couple of days. My back was bound to be better soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I was feeling much better Monday morning when Graham arrived for our drive to Flagstaff. I’d taken two pain pills with Margaret’s German pancakes and sausage breakfast. I had met Graham only when he toured the Flagstaff Sheriff’s facilities last month soon after Chad had hired him. He parked his rusty Civic in front of the house and seemed impressed by my new Explorer patrol vehicle. Having a new vehicle that you’re able to drive home every evening is a perk of a lieutenant or a captain.

  Graham was pleasant but perhaps slightly intimidated by driving a senior officer and by going up to headquarters for training. There were only three captains in the department; we reported directly to Sheriff Taylor. He adjusted the seat all the way back to accommodate his long lanky frame and drove a little hunched over as if concentrating on avoiding any chance of damaging my vehicle in a collision.

  “So how has your first month gone?” I asked as he drove past Indian Gardens into the narrow part of Oak Creek Canyon.

  “The Sheriff’s Department is a great place to learn law enforcement. Chad has been an excellent teacher; but I have a lot to learn.”

  “Do you live in Sedona?”

  “Oh, no sir. I couldn’t afford anything in Sedona. I live in my parents’ house down in Cornville.” It’s a tiny village about twenty miles south. Sedona prices have been driven up by the influx of Californians over the past five years. Only about 40% of the people who work in Sedona can afford to actually live there. A lot with a view of the red rock buttes and mesas in Sedona cost more than a very nice house in Cornville.