About 3:30, I grew restless and walked out to the reception area where Sean was on duty. Being in charge of reception gave Sean an advantage in knowing what was going on in the department. He told me that Chad was currently with a Flagstaff police detective, an assistant DA, and one of Joe’s sisters, Ada Flukes. Sean assumed that the assistant DA was to give Mrs. Flukes immunity so she’d be willing to talk. They believed that she had been helping Joe. When she learned about last night’s shooting, she decided to tell us everything she knows. They’ve been interviewing her with her lawyer present for about an hour.
“If she’d told them exactly where he was hiding, the meeting wouldn’t take an hour. She probably just helped him just as most sisters would. At the time, Joe was running from a hunting violation and an assault charge,” I said.
“Captain, I’ve thought over our meeting with Joe a hundred times. I still don’t believe he killed Dr. Cantor. I swear he was sincere about being upset about losing his hunting guide career. What do you think; am I nuts?” Sean asked.
“I had the same feeling until we found that Trevor Joyce had an alibi for yesterday’s murder,” I replied. “I suspected that Trevor and Amanda wanted Dr. Cantor out of the way because their drug deal had been discovered by the DEA. Dr. Cantor was the only one who could tie them into the scam. Trevor’s alibi complicates things because the two shootings are very likely to be connected. However, there is a third man who may be involved, one of Joe’s army buddies. The accuracy of those shots and ambush MO’s of both crimes are not a coincidence.”
“Well, how firm was Trevor’s alibi?” he asked.
That got me thinking. I knew that the Scottsdale police had sent someone to Amanda’s house to see if Trevor was there, but I also knew that Trevor had no driver’s license. Did the cop just ask for his name or was there some form of positive identification? “Good question Sean. I think I’ll call the Scottsdale Police and speak with the officer who ID’ed Trevor last night.”
Back in my office, I called the Scottsdale police until I finally reached the person who had gone to Amanda’s house, Officer Rich O’Neil. I explained who I was and that the investigation concerned the murder in Coconino County.
“How did you ID Trevor Joyce yesterday evening?” I asked.
“I went to the house. An attractive woman in a bathrobe answered the door. When I asked if Mr. Joyce was there, she went into the bedroom and got him. That was really all there was to it, sir.” His tone was defensive. He now knew this was a murder case; everyone’s actions would get a lot of scrutiny.
“He showed you some kind of identification?”
“No sir.”
“Describe the man.”
“He was a lean man about six feet with very short hair. He came to the door with no shirt, just cutoff jeans that were too loose; he held them up with one hand. He had a black tribal tattoo around his right bicep but nothing else distinguishing that I recall.”
“His eye color?” I asked. Trevor had no tribal tattoo or any other visible tattoo when I saw him in Scottsdale on Saturday.
“Dark brown I think; he had a two-day beard and hairy chest, and he was sweaty like he was exercising or making love when I rang the bell.”
“Your description does not fit Trevor Joyce, Officer O’Neil. I’ll be in touch.” I have little patience with carelessness. I had a difficult time keeping the anger from my voice.
I pulled up Amanda’s web page to confirm what I suspected. Photo 73 showed Amanda in bed making love to both Trevor and his army buddy John Nordstrom in acrobatic fashion. John had a black tribal tattoo on his right bicep, and he matched Officer O’Neil’s description in every other detail.
I called Sheriff Taylor to notify him. He was furious when he heard my account of Officer O’Neil’s identification. He said he would call the Scottsdale Police Chief and tell him what he thought of their identification. The bogus ID had stopped the search for Trevor Joyce when he might have been apprehended last night with evidence still in his possession. By now, the weapon would be hidden, and Trevor’s hands would be scrubbed of any gunpowder residue.
The sheriff would ask the Scottsdale cops to bring both Trevor and John in for Officer O’Neil to identify. We didn’t have enough to hold either man, but being brought in for questioning might shake things up a little.
“Amanda Brandt went along with the fake ID. She should be questioned too,” I said.
“Good; we’ll bring her in also. I’ll set this up for tomorrow at noon, so Chad can be there to ask questions too. I can’t let you be directly involved. The DA has said it will taint any prosecution because you were a target. If you have any questions, have Chad ask them for you.”
About 4:00, Chad came by and insisted it was time to leave. He seemed surprised that I had changed my bandage, and he was visibly annoyed when he found out I had been to the hospital on my own to get it changed. He was astounded when he learned of the confrontation with June’s ex husband in the parking lot. He shook his head in dismay and dropped the subject. He knew a lecture about my personal safety would be useless.
Chad wanted us to leave early to avoid a regular schedule that a sniper might anticipate. He promised to update me on all that had happened while we drove back to Sedona.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
We left the Flagstaff Law Enforcement Building, which the Sheriff’s Department shares with the Flagstaff Police, and drove west on Butler Avenue. We were in an unmarked white Honda used by the department for surveillance.
“Have you heard any news about Graham’s condition?” I asked.
“Sorry, there’s nothing new; he’s still in a comma with no visitors allowed.”
Chad grew up in the area so I was confident that he wasn’t lost when he turned in the opposite direction from home. He wanted to show me something before we headed to Sedona. We crossed Old Highway 66 and entered a residential neighborhood near Mount Eldon, stopping in front of a modest house with a storage shed visible in back and a chain link fence surrounding the whole yard. A yapping terrier seemed annoyed at our presence in front of his house.
“That is where Joe Banning was hiding until Monday,” he said, pointing at the small aluminum building behind the frame home. “When the police came last week, his Mazda was hidden in the storage building, and Joe was in the crawl space under the house.”
“The cops were in the house when Joe was underneath it?” I asked.
Chad nodded. “Joe’s sister spent Saturday and Sunday morning shopping for him. She bought camping gear, a ton of food, five plastic seven-gallon containers for water, and six bottles of iodine tablets for water purification. From her description, he has enough food for several months. If he supplements it with game, it might hold him all winter. She also bought thirty bottles of propane for a cook stove and Coleman lamp. She loaned him a small trailer to carry all of his stuff,” he said.
“Was there a propane heater in the gear?” I asked.
“No, she didn’t mention one. Good point; nights are already below freezing around here. He’ll need some way of keeping warm.”
“He’s going to hide in the Flagstaff area. He has spent his life hunting around here; he’ll know a place to hole up. Do we have a search plan yet?” I asked.
“We assume he will put the Mazda where it can’t be spotted from any road; our plan involves looking for it from the air. We’ll also search at night and use infrared detectors looking for signs of his cook fire or lamp. We’ll send deputies to the fire lookout towers around the area to check for signs of campfires, but we know he has plenty of propane. We don’t have a quick or easy answer; it could take months to find him. You and Sean will be at risk until we bring him in, but he can’t hide forever.”
“I assume you’ll check every back country cabin. He will need more shelter than a tent when winter comes in full force. If I were Joe, I’d park the Mazda one night’s hike from my hiding place after I unloaded the gear; that could be over fifteen miles away from where he is act
ually camping. Are there many caves around here?” I asked.
“Not the common limestone type; the San Francisco Peaks are volcanic. However, there are lava tubes of considerable size. There’s one open to the public west of town that’s three quarters of a mile long. There are others near Sunset Crater. If he knows of a cave that is not on the map, the search is really going to be a long one. You may need to be careful for a long time,” Chad said.
“Maybe not,” I said. “Joe may not be the real threat. I learned that the Scottsdale police flubbed the ID of Trevor Joyce last night. He was not at home. Another man, who I think is his army buddy John Nordstrom, claimed to be Trevor. The sheriff wants you to be present for the questioning at noon tomorrow in Scottsdale. They’re picking up Trevor, John, and Amanda Brandt.”
I’d seldom seen Chad lose his temper, and his fury at learning that the Trevor Joyce identification had been erroneous was startling to me. Graham Freemont was a young man that Chad had recruited and taken a personal interest in training. His shooting had hit Chad even harder than I had realized. I’d been too focused on myself to fully recognize his pain. I knew he’d cool down before tomorrow’s interrogations.
He returned to normal within ten minutes, and we talked about possible questions for Trevor, John, and Amanda as he drove us back to Sedona. For me, it was frustrating to be excluded from the interviews in Scottsdale, but I understood the DA’s recommendation that I not be directly involved. I asked Chad to record the interviews so I could get a better sense of the tone.
When I got home, Margaret was ready with a comfort food meal of beef stew and cheese biscuits. Afterward, she joined me in the hot tub where I was soaking my sore back and bruised chest. While we aren’t as acrobatic as Trevor and Amanda, the hot water certainly makes one more limber. It was a miracle that my head wound didn’t get soaked in the excitement of our experiment.
After our hot tub experiment, Margaret gave me a massage while I updated her on the case. She continued to believe that Amanda and Trevor were responsible for both Dr. Cantor’s murder the attempted assassination of Graham and me in Oak Creek Canyon, but as of now, we had no tangible evidence to charge them. It was extremely unlikely that the icy woman would provide anything useful under questioning, and the two former Special Forces soldiers would have had extensive training in resisting interrogation.
If we were lucky, tomorrow’s interviews might shake things up, but we needed hard evidence about the drug connection. I also needed the help from someone who understood the procedures at the Scottsdale Cosmetic Surgery Clinic and might be willing to snoop around for me. Mrs. Morrow, the business manager, had been cooperative, and I had sensed that she didn’t like Amanda Brandt. I decided to take her into my confidence and explain the prescription fraud. Maybe she would know how prescriptions could be signed by Dr. Cantor and later filled out on a computer by Amanda Brandt for large dosages of Oxycodone.
“Oh, by the way, I think I worked out my strained relationship with June, the girl from the Research Department,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” Margaret replied. “You’ve always been liked by the people you work with. What happened?”
“I arrested her ex husband, a polygamist Jack Mormon old enough to be her father.”
“That’s nice dear,” she said without asking for more details.
As we were getting ready for bed, Margaret said, “Mike, after thirty years of worrying about you, I’m tired of it. It’s time for you to recognize that you’re not a hotshot young detective in the Ramparts Division. You have a whole staff of fine detectives now. You could have sent one of them to the Joe Banning interview. Someone else could have gone to Scottsdale and confronted Trevor Joyce. You just refuse to recognize that you’re a supervisor, an office guy. It is time for others to take those risks.” She started to cry.
“Sweetie, this was just a freak thing. I probably will never be shot at again in my whole life.” She finally fell asleep in my arms about midnight. It was hard for her to be married to a cop, even after thirty years.
The next morning, Chad and I discussed the Joe Banning search on the way to the Flagstaff Office. He planned to attend a search group meeting at 8:30 before heading down to Scottsdale. It would include Forest Service and BLM personnel who would also be on the lookout for Joe. Chad suggested that I come and help formulate the plan even though I had not been invited; the sheriff was unlikely to ask me to leave in front of a dozen deputies.
I sat in the back of the meeting observing. The search plan was excellent. Forty-five specific locations had been chosen for onsite inspections based on their access to water and shelter. Grids for the air search had been set, and two small planes would fly the grid over the next three days. They would cover a large section of Northern Arizona from a thousand feet. The Sheriff Department’s helicopter would follow up on possible sightings.
Chad asked my question about caves and mentioned that Joe was probably planning to spend the whole winter in the woods. Six additional locations were selected for direct inspection because they were protected caves or locations with deep protective overhangs. The consensus was that Joe would hide in a remote cabin during the worst of the winter weather, but we should not assume that he was there already. He had a sub-zero sleeping bag and plenty of warm clothes. The current nighttime temperatures would not be a problem for him.
This search was going to be damn expensive, but Joe was still a suspect in the attempted murder of both a deputy and a captain, and no one was interested in the cost at this point. Graham’s condition was still critical; he might never regain consciousness. I wondered what would happen to this elaborate plan if I could prove Trevor Joyce was the actual murderer of Dr. Cantor and the attempt to kill Graham and me.
When the meeting was over, Sheriff Taylor motioned me over and said, “Mike, if we find Joe Banning, you can come with me to the scene in spite of the DA’s instructions. Just don’t make your continued involvement too obvious. Good work on figuring out that the Scottsdale cop didn’t really identify Trevor. We need your help as long as it doesn’t compromise the prosecution.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
On my desk after the meeting was an enormous box of homemade chocolate chip cookies and a thank you note from June placed next to a list of both the incoming and outgoing long distance calls for Joe Banning’s phone. Shooting her ex husband had made June a friend. The thank you note was touching and included a photo of June with her two young children.
She had been living in fear for so long that it would take time for her to adjust to her freedom from constant terror of her abusive husband. She was willing to press charges. I called the DA and explained things; he would request bail set so high that the man would be incarcerated until the trial. We didn’t want him to jump bail and disappear into the wilderness of the Arizona Strip. The fact that he had attempted to abduct June from the parking lot of the Law Enforcement Building was a good indication of his cockiness.
I focused my attention on the list of Joe Banning’s phone calls. The last long distance call was a phone number I recognized, Joe’s cousin in LA. It must have been made when he was setting up his alibi. There were four calls from the same number from an 860 area code, Harford, Connecticut. Joe claimed he did an illegal hunt for a man named Ethan Kearns. Joe didn’t know where he was from, but his accent indicated someone from back east, maybe New England. I called the number, but it was no longer a working phone.
I e-mailed June and asked her to find out whose number it had been. I included a thank you for the cookies and an account of my discussion with the DA.
When I checked the Yahoo site; the system administrator had recovered six deleted e-mails from Joe Banning’s account, three incoming and three sent by Joe. Two incoming messages were from a man who signed as Ethan. He proposed an elk hunt in northern Arizona for a man without an elk tag. The messages directly supported Joe’s account. Two of the reply e-mails were attempts by Joe to decline the guide assignment. He had
refused twice, the second time on the same day as the first call from Hartford. The other deleted e-mail was from a woman named Naomi and was of an intimate nature. If Joe left the state, I had a good idea where to find him; Naomi wanted Joe to join her in Juneau.
A few minutes later, I received a message from June that the discontinued cell phone had belonged to Thane Naresk of Hartford, the CEO of a major insurance company. June’s e-mail included a link to the Insurance Company’s web site, which provided a profile of their President and CEO. The posed photo of Mr. Naresk showed him standing in a paneled room hung with trophies from an African Safari. June’s note included arrows rearranging Mr. Naresk’s name into his alias Ethan Kearns.
I phoned Mr. Naresk but found it impossible to get through to him. The sixth person I was transferred to claimed to be his personal assistant. I could hear the background sounds of a call center and assumed that I was getting the runaround reserved for customer complaints. I doubted that the man I was speaking to had ever met Mr. Naresk because he had the soft cadence of southern India where the call center was probably located. He assured me that he could get a message to anyone at the company by internal e-mail, so I asked that Mr. Naresk call me regarding an elk hunt in the Flagstaff area.
I took the information to Sheriff Taylor. The sheriff decided to continue today’s search flights, but we both thought it was much less likely that Joe was involved in either murder of Dr. Cantor or the attempt on Graham and me. While Joe’s assault of Sean and me was a felony, it was not one that would justify this level of expense and effort. At most, Joe would get six months in the county jail. When Chad got back from Scottsdale this afternoon, the three of us would meet to decide what to do about the search for Joe Banning.
The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle Page 17
