Graham really enjoyed our tale of almost losing a second suspect the following day when Mathew Andrews bolted. Sean described how we struggled to get the handcuffed Mathew down Camelback Mountain, leaving the unfortunate suspect scuffed and bruised when we failed to keep our hold on him in the steepest section of the Echo Canyon Trail.
About 5:00, Graham and I headed back to Sedona. It was a busy afternoon on 89A with hundreds of tourists jamming the two lane scenic highway. The drive was slow, but the afternoon was warm and brilliant. A gentle breeze animated the fall foliage, and we rode with the windows down enjoying the perfect weather. We had descended the switchbacks at the north end of Oak Creek Canyon and were nearing the West Fork Trailhead when it happened.
Graham was explaining that he and Polly were going to a concert in Tempe on Saturday. It was a musical group I’d never heard of, but seeing them was very important to them. He was complaining that there was not much for people in their early twenties to do in the Verde Valley. He reached over to change the radio station from my favorite oldies station to one that might play some of his favorite band’s music so I could hear their sound.
It seemed to have occurred in slow motion; at least that is my memory of the attack. I saw it happen in my peripheral vision. A spider web of cracks appeared in the windshield in front of Graham; there was a sudden jerk at the wheel as his hand fell to his lap. His head slammed backwards and rebounded to rest oddly on his chest.
As the Explorer veered sharply to the right, a second spider web appeared in the glass in front of me. We slammed through a guardrail and some brush. The vehicle took to the air, plunging hood-first from a twenty-foot sandstone ledge into the rushing waters of Oak Creek.
The airbag smashed into my face when we hit the guardrail and deflated once we were at rest, revealing the water flowing below me as I hung from the seatbelt. I was looking directly through a bullet hole and a web of cracks in the windshield in front of my forehead.
I glanced to the left and saw blood on the collapsed driver’s airbag. For the first time, I looked directly at Graham. His head slumped to one side and his body was held in midair by his seatbelt. I croaked a stuttered moan and reached over to him with a shaking hand. He was unconscious with a deep bullet track along the left side of his head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
When I saw the first drops of blood hit the windshield directly below me, it took several seconds to connect the dripping fluid to my hanging body. My two hundred and twenty pounds resting against the shoulder strap made it difficult to breathe, and I reached out to the dash and pushed back to relieve some of the weight. Blood ran down my right arm, followed the curve of the dash, and dripped on the fractured glass.
“Jesus Christ, is that you Mike,” a familiar voice said. I looked to my right and saw Antonio Xavier, a friend from church. He was dressed in waders and fishing gear, including a rattan basket to hold the trout. I remember thinking that he looked strange upside down.
“Can I help you and your friend out of there? How bad are you hurt?” he asked.
“Yes, I want out first, but Graham also needs help. Help me out and we’ll get Graham next. He’s been shot in the head.” I spoke in a cracked voice that I hardly recognized as my own.
“I need to get out without damaging the windshield. The bullet holes will be useful to the crime scene investigator. Help me get the door open.” I was operating completely on autopilot because my mind was still focused on the shock of the attack coming instantly and unexpectedly. The fine young deputy, who had been speaking a moment before about going to a concert, was critically injured.
Even though the shooter was probably already gone, there was no reason to take chances. There were two shots; one was intended for me. We needed to stay out of the line of fire. I had not seen the rifle’s flash, but the sniper had to be in the downstream direction because he had shot through the windshield. Antonio helped me out, and we lowered Graham into my arms. I put pressure on his head wound using a cloth torn from my shirt. I made Antonio crouch next to us on the upstream side of the Explorer while we waited for help.
The spring-fed creek water was cold, and sunset was approaching. I was counting on someone reporting the “accident” to the authorities. Cell phones and radios were useless here because the sandstone walls rise a thousand feet on either side in this narrow section of the canyon, but there were houses nearby. There was a lot of traffic on 89A; surely someone would stop and notify the authorities at the Sedona Fire District station a few miles down the canyon or call the problem in when they reached an area with cell phone service.
“That’s a lot of blood Mike. You must have a first aid kit in your truck.” There was a stream of red running down the creek below where I crouched and a second one from under the compress I held against Graham’s head.
“It’s in the back; out of reach with the truck stuck nose down in the creek. The shooter may still be out there. Both are scalp wounds; they bleed a lot. Graham’s is a serious injury but mine is no big deal.” I heard the strain in the unnatural sound of my own voice.
“My handkerchief is clean.” He handed it to me, and I tossed away the saturated cloth and pressed the clean handkerchief against the side of Graham’s head.
It was about ten minutes later when the first firefighter peered over the cliff and then rappelled down to the creek. In another twenty minutes, I was in an ambulance with Margaret by my side holding my hand. Chad Archer, who manages the Sedona Sheriff’s Department Substation, had brought Margaret to the scene when he was notified of the shooting. Sheriff Taylor had just arrived and taken personal charge of the investigation.
“Boss, the medics have patched my flesh wound; there’s really no need for me to go to the hospital. It’s Graham that needs help,” I said in protest.
“Mike, get into that damn ambulance. We’ve already transported Graham to Flagstaff Medical Center, and we have things under control. It’s department policy that every gunshot wound must be checked out at the emergency room. Margaret, give him a push if necessary.” He turned and went to talk with Jimmy Hendrix who had just arrived.
“Chad, do me a favor, please,” I said before they closed the door.
“Anything Mike. Anything you need me to do, Partner.” His cracking voice also displayed the shock and fury at the attempted murder of his former partner and of a young man he had recently hired.
“Call the Scottsdale Police and ask them to go to Amanda Brandt’s house and see if Trevor Joyce is there. You can get the address from Sean. There’s a good chance that Trevor was the shooter. Someone needs to check the house before he has time to drive home and use Amanda as an alibi.”
Chad nodded as the door shut. I had not been able to tell the sheriff much about the shooting. Once the airbags deployed my view of the road and the possible shooting position was blocked. I had seen nothing useful in pinpointing the sniper. If a vehicle sped away, I was not in position to see it.
Margaret put her arm around my waist, “I can’t believe this has happened again. We moved to a small town to get away from this sort of thing.” She began to sob.
It was a shooting injury to my right thigh that was responsible for my early retirement from the Los Angeles Police Department. “This is just a scratch, Sweetie. It’s really nothing to worry about. Once the hair grows over it, it will be invisible.”
“It’s not this wound that bothers me. It’s the next one.” There was a pause as she struggled to restrain her tears and control her anger. “Mike, that was an assassination attempt; the man who ambushed you and Graham is still out there.”
I waited to respond until her sobbing slowed to gentle soundless tears. We held each other in that speeding ambulance.
“It wasn’t a coincidence that the method was the same as Dr. Cantor’s murder. It’s the same goddamn sniper who wants to stop my investigation; Graham was unlucky to be with me,” I said as we reached the outskirts of Flagstaff.
Margaret pushed me back to lo
ok directly into my face. She could hear the anger in my tone. She understood that I would get Trevor Joyce.
“How did he know you’d be driving through Oak Creek Canyon after work? He must know we live in Sedona,” she said.
“I’m fairly well known in the county. There are a lot of people that know I live in Sedona. If he did a search for my name on the Internet, the accounts of past Sedona cases would show up. They would describe me as managing the Sedona substation. It would be easy to spot my Explorer with its Sheriff Department’s seals and the cop lights on the roof.”
She nodded. “Your truck is totaled. You can drop me off at work and use my car until you get another from the department. My white Honda is completely anonymous; you won’t stand out in it. Even I have trouble finding it in the Safeway lot.”
We rode along through the twilight in silence for a few minutes before she said, “You know it was Trevor Joyce.”
“Not many people are good enough marksmen for these murders. Mathew is still in jail, and Joe Banning seems to have left the state. That leaves Trevor. I called him this afternoon and insisted that he come to my office tomorrow. He knows I haven’t bought Mathew’s setup and that I’m still on the case. Trevor would have had plenty of time to drive to the area after my call and try and stop the investigation by killing me.”
We were waiting at the Flagstaff Medical Center for the doctors to finish treating the victims of a four car pileup when my cell phone rang. It was Chad who had gone to a nearby house to use their phone.
“A Scottsdale police officer went to Amanda’s address and reported that she was with a man who identified himself as Trevor Joyce. There’s no way he was the shooter unless he had a helicopter waiting to take him home.”
“Thanks Chad. Unfortunately, we’re back to square one on this case.”
“Every law enforcement officer in the state will be on this case, and we’ll get this cowardly scumbag.” His voice vibrated with controlled fury.
“What’s happening down at the crime scene?” I asked.
“There will be a lot of mad commuters and tourists tonight. Every vehicle is being checked and the twenty-five mile drive will take about two hours with one lane blocked by the tow truck that’s trying to get your Explorer out of Oak Creek. Jimmy Hendrix thinks he knows approximately where the shots originated, and we’re wandering around with flashlights looking for the sniper’s firing location. He probably picked up his brass; there are a couple of dozen trees he could have hid behind and made the shots. After seeing that windshield, it’s hard to believe that you escaped with that scalp wound. The round that nicked you went directly through the headrest. It was dead center.”
“Graham had chosen that moment to change the radio station. He moved a few inches to the right to reach the dial. I think my head jerked to the left when the truck veered to the right after he lost control. It was enough to save us. We were lucky; this guy is an expert shot.”
“Well, right now it doesn’t look promising. We’ve got nothing to work with: no description, no weapon, and no witnesses,” Chad said.
“I’ll be back as soon as the doctor has a chance to look at my head. See you in an hour or so.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was nearly 9:00 when the doctor completed my treatment, and I walked back to the emergency room waiting area. Chad was sitting with Margaret. He had driven to the hospital to give us a ride back to Sedona.
“Ayatollah Damson I presume,” Chad said in reference to the turban of bandages around my head.
“Father Garcia will be surprised at my conversion,” I replied with a forced grin. I missed having Chad as a partner since my promotion. Our feeble attempt at humor was cover for our anger. “It looks a lot more dramatic than it really is. It was just a minor scalp wound. This elaborate bandage is just for twenty-four hours. After that, they can put tape over the stitches”
“Let’s get you home to bed,” Margaret said grabbing my arm and steering me towards the door. It wasn’t until then that I realized that I was walking like a drunk. “Chad can fill you in on the investigation on the way.”
Before leaving we checked on Graham. The ICU nurse explained Graham couldn’t have visitors; he was in critical condition and had not regained consciousness.
Once we were in the car, Chad gave me the bad news. The department had found no trace of the shooter. Sheriff Taylor had called off the search at 8:00 without finding either the location from which the shots were fired or any proof of how the sniper escaped. I questioned him about every detail of the investigation, but the only slightly interesting clue was that a blue Mazda was seen pulling out of a parking place along the shoulder soon after the shooting. Joe Banning had purchased one from a relative after our confrontation, but there are a lot of Mazda sedans on the roads. There was nothing specific to connect this Mazda to the shooting.
When we passed the switchbacks and neared the crash site, the only trace of the accident I could see was an Arizona Department of Highways crew replacing the guardrail where my Explorer crashed through. I asked Chad to slow down as we passed the first pullout past the crash location.
“We did tire tracks for sixteen different vehicles in these pullouts,” he commented. “They’re probably useless unless we find him still in the vehicle he used.”
“Was there any description of the man driving the Mazda?” Margaret asked.
“That vehicle was only mentioned by two of the thirty drivers we questioned so it’s a stretch to even bring it up. One said it was driven by a big man, clean shaven and bald. The other driver thought she saw both a man and a woman in the Mazda as it passed headed toward Flagstaff. She thought the woman was driving. Of course, there were two dozen other vehicles mentioned by witnesses. I only mentioned the Mazda because Joe Banning is the sheriff’s prime suspect since Trevor Joyce has an alibi.”
I fell asleep soon after we passed the Bootlegger Campground and woke as we pulled into our driveway. I noticed a Sedona Police car parked on our cul-de-sac. Chad took Margaret’s key and entered our house with his gun drawn to check it out. He opened the garage door, and we entered. He had shut all of the blinds and curtains.
“Mike, this guy is an expert shot at extreme range. Your house is on a hilltop where it’s visible all the way from the Palisades to the Hyatt. There are ten thousand spots for a sniper to hide within range of your deck and north side windows. Be careful.” He hugged Margaret, and as he was leaving, commented, “I knew you wouldn’t take the day off tomorrow so I told Sheriff Taylor I’d drive you to Flagstaff. I think we’ll go via I-17 this time even though it takes a little longer. I’ll be here at 7:00.”
“If it’s inconvenient for you, I can take Margaret’s car.”
“Sheriff Taylor has asked me to take the lead on the shootings. It occurred in the Sedona Substation’s assigned territory, and you’re too directly involved. I am going to conduct the investigation out of the Flagstaff office.”
I thanked him.
The next morning, my head felt like a damaged watermelon and my back ached in several new places. I had ugly bruises across both my chest and waist from the seatbelt that had saved my life. The hot tub helped my back and the pain pills helped my other infirmities.
I didn’t feel like eating breakfast, but I sampled the Belgian waffles topped with blueberries that Margaret prepared as a special treat. We sat in the kitchen with the blinds drawn instead of our usual breakfast on the deck overlooking some of America’s most dramatic scenery.
As she sat across from me watching me eat, Margaret started to cry. She had been a police officer’s wife for thirty years, and this wasn’t the first or the most serious injury I’ve had. Unfortunately, having a loved one in danger does not get any easier with practice. Someone had tried to kill me, and she couldn’t help but worry that they would try again. I moved next to her and sat holding her until Chad arrived.
On the drive to Flagstaff, I told Chad every detail of my investigation of the Cantor murder.
We both assumed the attack was connected to my investigation of Dr. Cantor’s murder and that I was the principal target of the sniper.
Sheriff Taylor held a meeting in the law enforcement building’s auditorium at 9:30. Senior staff, thirty deputies, six Highway Patrol officers, and a substantial contingent of Sedona and Flagstaff police attended it. He described the murders of Dr. Zackary Cantor and the attempted murders of Graham and me. He asked for help finding Joe Banning, our principal suspect.
Sheriff Taylor showed a series of photos of Joe Banning including one from his high school yearbook before he had a beard and a dozen snapshots retrieved from his cabin. Sheriff Taylor warned that it was possible that he had shaved his beard and head. He showed an artist’s drawing of Joe without hair or a beard at his current age. It was difficult to recognize as the same man.
It was obvious the sheriff had been up very early preparing for this presentation. He passed out copies of the photos and lists of every relative and known friend of Joe Banning designating the officer or deputy that was assigned to check with them. No blue Mazda sedans were moving anywhere in northern Arizona without being stopped and investigated.
After the general meeting, Sean, Chad, and I met in the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Taylor began by showing us the plan for helicopter surveillance of back roads. Since Joe was a hunting guide, he probably knew every jeep road, remote cabin, and game trail in the area. There were hundreds of miles of remote roads where he could be hiding, far too many to easily check on the ground. It would be expensive to keep the helicopter searching for the four days it would take to cover all of Coconino County south of the Grand Canyon. The county commissioners had agreed to use reserve funds to cover the cost.
The plan was to try and spot his car from the air, and then surround the area and begin a ground search at night. We all knew how dangerous apprehending a marksman like Joe Banning would be. If he was cornered, he was not likely to miss again— one bullet, one kill. Using night vision equipment would help to neutralize his marksmanship.
The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle Page 15
