Perverted Justice

by Michael Arches

  Perverted Justice

  Book Two of the Hank Morgan Aspen Mystery-Thrillers

  By Michael Arches

  Copyright by Pyrenees Publishing 2019

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Book 3 Excerpt—Sacrifice

  91024

  Chapter 1

  Fall is the best time of year in Aspen, a quiet breath before the plunge into another insane ski season. For a couple of months, my girlfriend Willow Higgins and I’d agreed to housesit and horsesit at a mansion near the Roaring Fork River, just a short walk from my office.

  Late on Sunday, we were sitting in a hot tub and enjoying the chilly, star-filled night. Life was beautiful.

  Then, my cellphone rang. I should’ve known better than to tempt the gods with happy thoughts.

  The Caller ID said Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office. The department never called with good news after normal business hours. Muriel, my favorite dispatcher, said, “Hank, girl, we got a job for you and your mutt. Overdue elk hunter, Sherman Blatter. Search and Rescue will meet in Ashcroft at seven a.m.”

  A missing hunter? Things could’ve been a lot worse. “Who’s Blatter? I think I’ve heard that name before.”

  Muriel never held back her opinions. “He’s one of those idiots who shoots semi-tame lions in Africa. A doctor from Denver with more money than brains. Personally, I hope you never find him.”

  Classic Muriel. “We’ll try anyway. What else can you tell me?”

  “Nothing, but Linda Kingsley is interviewing his girlfriend. Linda will meet you at Ashcroft in the morning.”

  “Perfect.” Linda was one of our younger deputies and a pleasure to work with. Ashcroft was a ghost town ten miles south.

  “Should I arrange for a horse for her?” our dispatcher asked.

  “Nah, we’ll switch off riding Rambo. One of us has to walk to hold Boomer back. He’s nuts when he’s hot on a trail. He and I’ll be there by seven.”

  I hung up.

  “A serious problem?” Willow asked.

  “Doubtful. Missing hunter. The vast majority of those who get lost turn up eventually.”

  But after I said that so flippantly, I realized I shouldn’t keep tempting fate.

  -o-o-o-

  The dog, the horse, and I showed up a few minutes early in the old ghost town. Golden aspens covered the surrounding mountainsides, even though the sun hadn’t risen over the mountains to the east.

  Long ago, this silver mining community had contained thirty-five-hundred fortune seekers. Today, only a few of its buildings remained standing.

  I was hoping Blatter wouldn’t become the latest spook to take up residence here, but he still hadn’t been found.

  As a general rule, we didn’t like to lose folks, even the assholes. Bad for business.

  In any case, the word was already out about Blatter’s disappearance. I’d heard a report about him on Aspen Public Radio’s morning news show.

  Boomer, Rambo, and I said hello to the others on the search and rescue team. We’d worked together many times over the years. While we waited for everyone to show up, I took the time to catch up with friends I hadn’t seen for a while.

  They didn’t resist the temptation to tease me about the upcoming election where I was running to become the next sheriff. Although I didn’t ask any of them for their votes, I was hoping they’d support me. If these folks wouldn’t, nobody in the county would. According to my campaign manager, the word on the street was that I had a good chance to win—as long as I didn’t screw up any big cases before the election.

  Boomer was popular with the crowd gathering around us, despite his many annoying habits, like shoving his nose into someone’s crotch. His main talent was sniffing, and these folks appreciated his amazing nose. Several people even said to him, “The sooner you find our quarry, buddy, the sooner we can all go out for a beer and cheer your success.”

  Once everyone showed up, we gathered in a circle around Linda. “Sherman Blatter’s girlfriend didn’t report him missing until after eight p.m. last night. Got caught up in binge-watching Game of Thrones. Then, after she finally figured out something was wrong, she flipped from blasé to hysterical.”

  “Are they vacationing in the area?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Linda said. “Live here full-time now. His medical practice imploded when he killed that poor lion in Zimbabwe. But by then, was already rich. And his dad died. Left him a fabulous condo in town. Life can be so damned unfair, folks.”

  That produced a round of raucous laughter. Linda was right, but I felt for Blatter’s girlfriend. Like her, I’d gotten lucky in love recently. Life could be unfair in both good and bad ways, and someone’s luck could easily change from one to the other.

  -o-o-o-

  All the search teams received their assignments and headed off. Linda and I were assigned to track Blatter’s scent from his Escalade. A Forest Service ranger had spotted it yesterday in a turnout a mile up the four-wheel-drive road leading to Taylor Pass.

  We started up the rocky road to the pass. Boomer and Rambo hated riding in vehicles on rough roads, so I left my new Rubicon and the horse trailer in Ashcroft. I rode on Rambo while Linda and Boomer walked ahead.

  The dog was particularly frisky because he knew we were going to track someone through Colorado’s high country. Rambo, on the other hand, stayed dignified and steady. Linda knew my mutt’s tricks and kept a firm grip on his leash. The road was icy in many spots from water freezing overnight, but we took our time in slippery areas.

  We found the Escalade with no trouble. It was all tricked out with fancy wheels and chrome. Definitely not designed for four-wheeling. Our target was a flashy city slicker.

  I wondered why he didn’t have a horse trailer attached. If he’d shot an elk, he’d need a horse or mule to pack the carcass out. I hoped he’d also taken some emergency gear. This time of year, it often dropped below freezing at night, and storms blew through regularly.

  Linda used a key she’d received from Blatter’s girlfriend to unlock his SUV and found a Broncos cap with a sweat-stained headband. That would give the mutt plenty of the man’s scent.

  I dismounted and gave my hound a good whiff of the cap. Sure enough, he surged toward an abandoned Forest Service road leading into the high mountains. Linda rode Rambo.

  As usual, I had to hustle to keep up with the dog. He lived for these moments, straining in his harness to go faster. I also had to keep a close eye on the ground to make sure I planted my fake foot solidly with each step. Linda had seen him pull me into a face-plant before, more than once, and I didn’t want to give a repeat performance.

  After we settled into a steady pace, I said, “Tell me more about his girlfriend. I feel an affinity for a fellow gold digger.”

  My human partner snorted. “Don’t even start. Willow is incredibly lucky to have you. You proved that beyond any doubt when you shot the fucking Russian. Blatter’s girlfriend, on the other hand, is the kind of blonde who gives them all a bad name. Her
stage name is Candy Kaine. Perfect for a pole dancer, eh?”

  “Cute. One of those June-December romances?”

  “More like February-December. I ran her, just to be sure she wasn’t a grifter. Real name is Mildred Bukowski. No record. She’s twenty-four, and he’s fifty-eight. She was Miss North Dakota a few years ago. Met him at a gentlemen’s club in Denver. Shermie—that’s what she calls him—is apparently good looking and personable. Candy told me she was smitten at first sight.”

  “Me, too, with Willow!” I said with a laugh. “I love it when that happens!”

  Linda harrumphed. “The lady broke the house rules and gave him her cellphone number. And here’s the best part. Although she and I were alone when we talked, she whispered, ‘He’s very enthusiastic in the boudoir.’”

  I couldn’t fight a grin. “Sounds like they’re perfect for each other. I hope we find him so their amazing romance can continue.”

  My human partner groaned. “Okay, I know I’m being catty, and I hope we find him, too. But the romance is too creepy to think about.”

  “Back to the task at hand. Are you sure he went elk hunting alone? I’m seeing lots of horse tracks. He may have had a partner.”

  “Candy says no. Shermie wanted to enjoy the last weekend of bow season alone. Not her thing anyway, so she went shopping. He gives her a five grand-a-month allowance. Great work if you can get it.”

  The simple truth was, the rich live differently. I was learning that from Willow. She didn’t give me an allowance, but she paid for both of us to go to fancy restaurants and events. “Yeah, it’s great to be a kept woman!”

  Linda gave me a sideways glance and a frown. “You’re becoming annoying with that fake gold digger routine. Five grand is more than I make, and he treats her like a queen. You should see their condo.”

  Linda wouldn’t shut up about the lifestyles of the rich and depraved, and having lived dirt poor most of my life, I could understand her envy. Being rich was way better than being poor. Willow was incredibly generous to me, and she also gave twenty percent of her earnings to charity. A saint of a woman.

  While I ruminated on life’s inequalities, Boomer kept his nose to the ground and his legs churning. He was living his dream. He’d work for free, but he’d seen me put a bag of Ol’ Bob’s Steaky Chunks, his favorite dog treats, in my daypack. If he produced results, he’d get the bag.

  -o-o-o-

  For a couple of hours, Boomer hustled along the abandoned double-track, stopping only to relieve himself or to drink from one of the many streams we crossed. Every time Linda and I switched off, I gave him another whiff of Blatter’s cap that I’d brought along inside a sealed evidence bag. I kept seeing lots of horse prints, but there were too many to isolate any particular one.

  Around ten, we came across a base camp set up by a local outfitter. He was hosting a group of elk hunters from West Palm Beach. They’d arrived mid-afternoon yesterday and hadn’t seen Shermie. Promised to keep an eye out for him.

  One of the guys had already shot his elk. I wondered what he was going to do for the rest of the week besides drink and bullshit with his buddies. Then it hit me. He didn’t need to do anything else. Camping in the high country was the perfect way to spend a week, particularly when someone else did all the cooking and cleanup.

  Boomer, Linda, Rambo, and I went back to our work, still moving southeast. The abandoned road steadily gained elevation.

  As our route steepened, patches of snow appeared in shady spots. This area had gotten several substantial dumps of the white stuff already, but most of it had melted during our warm fall days.

  By late morning, my injured leg was getting sore. Long hikes on my fake foot tended to make my stump ache. Something was not right about it taking so long to find Shermie.

  Linda seemed to channel my thoughts. “This dog had better find the moron soon, or we need to turn back. I’m not spending the night here. More snow’s coming in this evening.”

  “Shermie has to be somewhere close now. The only question is whether he broke his fool neck.”

  We knew that the longer our quarry remained undiscovered, the higher the odds were that he was dead or badly injured. This old road that he came in on was equally easy to follow back out. Hard to get lost. Where the hell was he?

  He hadn’t been found by any of the other teams either. We used walkie-talkies to stay in regular contact with the others. Things weren’t looking good for the great white lion hunter.

  -o-o-o-

  Some parts of the road were muddy from melted snow and a hard rain that’d soaked the whole region three days ago. As I walked behind the dog, I noticed something weird about the hoofprints in front of us. “Are you seeing the same thing I am?”

  “Probably not. You’re the hunter, Hank. All I see is lots of mud up ahead. I’m glad I’m up here at the moment.” She patted Rambo’s neck.

  I stopped Boomer before we entered another section of soft ground. “Look.” I pointed at the tracks in front of us. “I thought the tracks seemed odd earlier, but there were too many overlapping hoofprints to be sure. Lucky for us, few hunters have ventured this far. What I can see is that three horses came this way since Friday’s thunderstorms. What’s weird is, they all came together.”

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  “Two horses walked side-by-side through here, and a third horse consistently followed the one on the right. That means the last set of hooves belonged to a pack animal following the horse it was tethered to.”

  I pointed out more examples of the prints ahead of us and took a couple of dozen photos. That was probably overkill, but my phone had enough memory for hundreds of pictures.

  “Why does one of the prints look different?” Linda asked.

  “The pack horse lost a shoe before it started this trip. That’s not good for the horse because his gait becomes uneven. The missing shoe may help us identify him.”

  “What else do you see?” she asked.

  “All of the horses returned. The tracks coming back are more recent and often step on the earlier footprints. Plus, even more bizarre, on the way back, all the horses walk in a line, like they were all tethered together.”

  “Shermie supposedly came alone,” Linda said. “His girlfriend told me she’d begged him to find a partner, but he told her he hunted solo all the time. Didn’t want to take anybody who might disagree about where to go.”

  “I wonder why he changed his mind. Maybe he didn’t want to admit he got help in finding the elk. All I can say for sure is all the mounts came back this way. If something happened to Shermie, why didn’t the other rider get help?”

  “Excellent question,” Linda said. “Maybe the partner left before Shermie got himself in trouble.”

  All I knew for sure was the situation was weird as hell. The only way to find out what really happened would be to keep following the hound. I took three ibuprofens to dull the pain from my stump. And, thank God, Boomer was finally running out of steam. Wasn’t pulling as hard anymore.

  -o-o-o-

  A half-hour later, we came to the end of the road. An old abandoned mine had been bored into a tall cliff face rising in front of us. On our right, thick grass grew on a flat meadow that was actually a waste rock pile a hundred feet across. But no hunter, and no gear.

  My sense of dread increased. Where the hell was he?

  A moderate slope covered with trees rose to the left.

  Boomer headed that way, hanging close to the cliff’s steep wall.

  “Not looking good,” I said. “Shermie should’ve set up camp down here before heading up that hill.”

  I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Sherman Blatter!”

  No response. Linda did the same and blew a loud whistle.

  Still nothing.

  Linda happened to be holding the dog at that moment, and she followed him up the slope. I tethered Rambo to a small tree growing in the meadow then trudged behind my partne
rs.

  Soon, my stump throbbed. It was much harder to climb on the steep, uneven ground than to walk along the overgrown road. Couldn’t be helped.

  A cold breeze kicked up as we entered a grove of bristlecone pines. The sky clouded over. The bristlecones were amazing. Some of these trees had lived a thousand years up near the timber line, but the tallest wasn’t over twenty feet high. Most were twisted and gnarled by the elements. Lots of dead branches. Living on the edge of the tundra had to be incredibly difficult.

  Up ahead, the mutt uttered a low growl. That was his signal that some large toothy critter was close. “Linda, heads up, unfriendly furries nearby.”

  I pulled my .45 caliber Glock from its holster on my belt. Linda grabbed her pistol, too. Before continuing forward, I took a long look at the cliff to the right of us. It was too steep for any lion or bear to climb. Mountain sheep and goats might manage it, but they weren’t dangerous. And Boomer knew the difference. He smelled a large carnivore.

  A dead branch lying on the slope ahead of me caught my eye. I used it as a crutch to take some of the weight off my stump. How could I have been so stupid as to have only brought one horse? I should’ve planned for this contingency.

  But it was way too late to go back. “Hold up a minute,” I said. “Let’s hang together. This whole business is starting to creep me out.”

  “Starting?” Linda asked. “My skin’s been crawling since you told me Blatter secretly took someone with him.”

  She waited until I caught up. To the north, the ground thankfully levelled off, but the steep cliff still towered over us on our right. I spotted quite a few dog holes where miners had driven short tunnels into the hillside. Now they made great dens for bears or lions. I kept glancing in that direction to make sure we didn’t get ambushed.

  The few trees on the hillside above us were short and scattered. Higher up, the tundra was strewn with large boulders, some twenty feet across. They provided good cover for deer and elk over the summer, but I suspected that the animals had dropped down lower to avoid heavy snowfalls up this high.