The Body at Midgley Bridge

by Charles Williamson

  The Body at Midgley Bridge

  Book Eight of the Mike Damson Mysteries

  By Charles deMontel Williamson

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities between its characters and any real people are a coincidence. Most of these Mike Damson mysteries take place in Coconino County, Arizona. This is the eighth book in the series. All of the books are available for the Kindle app for digital readers at https://www.amazon.com/author/c.d.williamson.

  The previous volumes in order were:

  The Dead Priest of Sedona,

  The Dead Chef of Santa Fe,

  The Murders at El Tovar,

  The Victim at Vultee Arch,

  The Arson at Happy Jack,

  The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle

  The Mauling at Kinnickinick Pueblo

  Please respect the author by using this work only for your personal enjoyment.

  Midgley Bridge is a real location just outside of the Sedona city limits. The arched bridge completed in 1939 has been the scene of many tragic suicides. A few years ago, the state of Arizona erected fences on both sides of the historic bridge over Wilson Canyon, but there have been two deaths since the improvement, one accident of a two-year-old boy and one suicide.

  This work is dedicated to my home and favorite place, Sedona, Arizona and to my wife Diana. Without her help this and my other books would not be possible. It is also dedicated to the competent and committed law enforcement personnel of the City of Sedona and of Coconino County, Arizona.

  Prologue:

  Millie was at peace for the first time in weeks. The big Women’s March in Flagstaff that she’d coordinated was over, and she was now completely away from the constant barrage of bad political news. All four of her sons’ businesses were doing well, and she had decided to take time from her many social obligations and use more of her time for herself.

  Millie Riley had not even heard the word “Trump” in over fifteen hours: no CNN, MSNBC, FOX, no Facebook posts or New York Times, Washington Post, or Arizona Republic editorials, just the quiet beauty of natural sights and sounds. She had turned off her cell phone to avoid the constant notification beeps, and last night she had slept under the stars and watched a meteor shower while enjoying the quiet of her favorite place in the world.

  Millie had spent the night in this remote area near Sedona where her father had taken her camping forty-five years earlier, long before Sedona became such a busy tourist mecca with traffic jams and a hundred art and curio shops. She had parked her cattle company’s truck at the top of Schnebly Hill Road and hiked down to her father’s secret campsite. This morning was the fifteenth anniversary of her father’s death. She had camped in this same spot on the fifth and tenth anniversary of his death. High on the ridgeline above the campsite, she’d brought his ashes almost fifteen years earlier. She’d tossed them to the wind at dawn. Millie had never known her mother, who died when she was an infant, but her college professor father had been both father and mother to her. She still carried a small photo of him in her wallet.

  Chapter 1

  Captain Mike Damson, the Chief of Criminal Investigations for the Coconino County, Arizona Sheriff’s Department heard his cell phone ring as he was toweling off from his morning shower. It was the ring tone that indicated it was official business from the department.

  “Hi, this is Mike what’s up?”

  “Mike, it’s Sue Lee in Flagstaff. We have a report of a woman’s body found by a mountain biker in the wilderness south of Midgley Bridge. Since Lieutenant Archer is on his honeymoon, I thought you might want to go to the crime scene before driving up here to your office.”

  “Another suicide?” Mike admired the scenic arched bridge over Wilson Canyon; however, it had been the scene of many suicides since it was completed in 1939. Two years ago, three suicides in as many months had caused the Arizona Department of Transportation to construct fence barriers alongside the narrow bridge to prevent jumpers.

  “No sir. The mountain biker who found her, Tim Bernhardt, reported that there is a bullet hole in the back of her skull. Bernhardt is an ex Marine medic, and he’s seen enough combat injuries in Afghanistan and Iraq to be certain. He thought it was a long-range shot with a military style weapon. Small entry hole in the occipital bone and huge exit wound in the frontal bone of the forehead.”

  “Has Sedona Fire Department been notified?” Mike knew they had decades of experience in retrieving bodies from the steep canyons around Sedona.

  “No sir. You’re my first call. I’ll call Jimmy Hendrix and suggest he bring the crime scene backpack since there is no way to get a helicopter and land near that remote location. It’s a steep climb down to the victim from the Huckaby Trailhead or a very long hike along the Hangover Loop mountain bike trail. I’ll ask the Medical Examiner’s team to bring the ME van to the main Trailhead on Schnebly Hill Road, and then inform the Sedona Fire and Police.

  “You’re as efficient as always Sue Lee. Please let Sheriff Taylor know that I’ll be late getting to the office, but I’ll still try and make the two thirty meeting.”

  Mike’s wife, Margaret, came into the bedroom where Mike was sitting on the bed wrapped only in a damp towel. Her frown indicated her disapproval of his damp towel on their damask bedspread. What she also recognized was that Mike looked damn good for his age, and she smiled as she remembered the fun they had had last night involving some French maid role playing. “The Crêpes Suzettes are ready, but I see that you’re not. Was that the police alarm ringtone that I heard on your cell?”

  “Yes sweetie, an early morning mountain bike rider found the body of a woman between Midgley Bridge and Mitten Ridge. With Chad on his honeymoon, it’ll be my case. It was a gunshot and not a suicide.”

  “You have time to eat. I know you love a good homicide case, but you certainly have fifteen minutes to eat breakfast. You need to test them to determine if I’ve perfected my Crêpes.”

  Mike actually preferred scrambled eggs for breakfast, but Margaret was preparing for a three-week cooking school in Paris. They would be leaving in only eighteen days, and now, nearly everything Margaret cooked had a French flair and a lot of calories. She also practiced her French vocabulary in their home office for an hour or two every evening. Her college French had not prepared her for all the nuances of food preparation and the instruction vocabulary for the class. Margaret worked at a local bank branch and was only a home cook, but like everything she did, she strived for excellence.

  Forty-five minutes later, Mike had descended the steep trail that led into an unnamed canyon below Mitten Ridge south of Oak Creek. The pale green of new buds colored the hardwood trees along the spring-fed creek, but the area of the remains was a forest of piñon and juniper. The distant sound of the quickly moving water and the early morning birds made it seem idyllic, but sadly it was now a crime scene.

  As he descended the steep slick rock formation, Jimmy Hendrix, the county’s crime scene technician, slipped and slid down the last twenty feet on his ass. Mike walked forward to give Jimmy a hand.

  “Jimmy, my man, that was quite a Crash Landing.”

  “Maybe I was Born Under a Bad Sign. Everything happens to me, especially if you’re watching, Mike. I think you’re a jinx; maybe it’s just that scary old-man wrinkled face that disconcerts me when you’re around.”

  Mike and Margaret had a son older than Jimmy so he took no offense. “It’s Too Bad you got some road rash. Is the equipment OK?”

  Jimmy smiled. They had been playing this game with Hendrix song titles since the first day they met. “They equipment will be fine in spite of the bad Stepping Stone. I’m Mr. Bad Luck, but I did pack my gear safely.”

  Two Hendrix titles in a row ha
d Mike beat, so he just motioned for Jimmy to follow him to the crumpled form in black jogging pants, well-worn brown leather boots, and a blue down jacket. It was the early spring, a few days after Easter, and the nights and early mornings were cold while the afternoons were warm. The fact she wore a down jacket indicated she might have either been up very early or out late at night.

  As they approached, they saw that the victim was a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair bunched into a ponytail. She was lying facedown on a boulder with a large section of her forehead and front of her skull missing. Her body lay impossibly twisted, as if it were no longer supported by anything but the fractured remains of her bones.

  Mike turned to face away from the bridge and saw a three hundred foot sheer red sandstone cliff rise toward a red rock formation accessible only from Schnebly Hill Road. It was a ridge between the formations known as the Merry-Go-Round and the Mitten. He could see where a person could fall and slide and bounce from some of the higher ledges and land in this spot.

  Mike and Margaret had hiked nearly every trail in the Sedona area since they moved here from Los Angeles, and Mike knew the Hangover Loop mountain bike trail would lead to the cliff above this spot. It passed through an area of red rocks known as the Cow Pies. It was among the most difficult bike trails in the area, but at the top of the ridge, it would provide a spectacular view directly above their current location. Last night there had been a full moon. In the clear and dry Sedona air, it was not too unusual for hikers to use the light of a full moon to reach some special vantage point to watch the dawn.

  Four Sedona Firefighters were nearby waiting for the medical examiner and crime scene technician to release the body so they could carry the remains up the steep cliff to the Medical Examiner’s van.

  A rugged-looking and bearded man of about thirty, who Mike assumed was Tim Bernhardt, sat facing away from the body and talking with the firefighters. His hand motions indicated he was telling a dramatic story that the firefighters were listening to intently. His expensive mountain bike was leaning against the nearby tree. It had saddlebags attached to the rear and a sleeping bag and yellow tarp strapped to the back of bicycle’s seat. Mike suspected Mr. Bernhardt had been the first at the scene because he had been camping nearby. In general, there was no camping permitted in this area except for designated camp grounds, but Mike didn’t want to make an issue of a possible infraction of Forest Service regulations. He was grateful that he had promptly reported the body.

  While Jimmy began to photograph the crime scene, Mike walked over to the firefighters and Mr. Bernhardt. He overheard a part of the story of an attempt to stop the bleeding from a combat injury. Mr. Bernhardt stopped speaking when the firefighters turned to look at Mike and greeted him as Captain Damson or Mike depending on how well they knew him. He knew three of them from previous crime scenes and accident sites. The fourth, Herb McGuire, he knew fairly well from the local Catholic Church that they both attended. Herb had been lead tenor in the church choir for the high mass on Easter Sunday. He had the perfect pitch and sound projection of a professional opera singer, but Herb loved his career as an EMT and firefighter. Mike shook hands all around and introduced himself to Tim Bernhardt.

  Tim had a firm grip and looked Mike directly in the eyes. “Mr. Bernhardt, I’d like to ask a few questions. Let’s go sit on those boulders and discuss what you observed here.”

  “Yes Sir. I’m at your disposal for as long as you need me.”

  They sat under an ancient juniper on rounded gray basalt boulders. “Mr. Bernhardt, thank you for calling this in. It might have been hours or even days before someone hiked or biked to this off-trail area and found the remains. I assume that you spent the night nearby because no one would try and ride down the Hangover Loop Trail in the dark even with a full moon. Did you hear the gunshot?”

  “Yes sir. I heard the shot at 06:18. I also heard the body tumble down the cliff and smash into those boulders although I didn’t realize it was a human body at the time. I don’t know the hunting rules in Arizona, so I thought it might be a deer or elk. I didn’t actually see the poor woman fall. However, I saw a flash from the shot up near the bridge.”

  “I understand you were a Marine medic. Did you examine the body?”

  “Yes sir. When I got close enough to see the exit wound, I knew there was no CPR or treatment I could apply. She died almost instantly even before the fall. It’s difficult to believe this was an accidental shot. But sir, if she was a direct target, I think you’re looking for someone who used a rifle with a scope and who is an expert shot. That was a kill shot from over a kilometer away against a target silhouetted against first light of dawn. I’ve known men who could have made that shot, but not many.”

  “Mr. Bernhardt, I assume you were not planning on staying in the area long. I’d like you to make an official statement and answer questions in our office in Flagstaff. We’ll record the session, and then you can go wherever you want. Are you traveling across the country?”

  “I’m visiting some buddies I served with. I spent a week in Prescott Valley with a friend, and I plan to spend a week here in Sedona riding your famous mountain bike trails. I’m camping here because I don’t know anyone in town. After that, I plan to spend a week or so with a friend who lives in Munds Park near Flagstaff, so I expect to be in the area for a couple of weeks, maybe even a month.”

  “I have my Sheriff’s Department Explorer up at the Huckaby Trailhead. I can put your bike in the back and take you up to Flagstaff for your statement. I live here in Sedona, so I can bring you back here at the end of my workday. Does that work out OK for you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mike had a favorable impression of Tim Bernhardt, but it was not his practice to discard any suspects this early in an investigation. If the unidentified victim had been watching the sunrise facing east, she had been shot from farther west and that might have been either from the bridge or some lower location below the Mitten Ridge. He had only Tim’s word that the shot had come from up by the bridge.

  Jimmy Hendrix walked over with a red wallet in his hand. He had taken out the driver’s license and handed it Mike. The name on it was Mildred Jordan Riley.

  Mike, who almost never cussed, said only, “Holy shit.”

  Chapter 2

  He was looking at the driver’s license of the matriarch of one of the oldest and richest families in Coconino County. Mike had first met her when he was newly promoted to Chief of Criminal Investigations and invited to the Flagstaff Rotary Club to make a speech about the department. Her family owned a dozen businesses in the county as well as large tracks of ranchland northwest of Flagstaff.

  He walked over to the body to confirm that the photo in the license was one of the victim. He had no doubt.

  Mike was not especially political, but he immediately called Sheriff Taylor and insisted that he be put through to the sheriff in spite of the Sheriff being in an early morning budget meeting with one of the county commissioners. Sheriff of Coconino County was an elected office in a very Republican state: however, Coconino County was a Democratic Party stronghold thanks to Ms. Riley and other local party supporters. Sheriff Taylor was also a democrat. Mike knew that Ms. Riley was chair of the Coconino County Democratic Party, vice chair of the statewide party, and certainly one of Sheriff Taylor’s biggest financial supporters.

  “Hi Mike, what’s up?” Sheriff Taylor said in his deep bass voice with a slight old-west inflection. Sheriff Taylor not only spoke like a nineteenth century Arizona sheriff, he looked like an actor who might have been portrayed in a 1950’s movie. He always wore a white cowboy hat in public, and recently, he had added a drooping mustache to his look.

  “I’m at the location of the shooting victim south of Midgley Bridge. The victim is Mildred Riley. It looks like an expert marksman shot her from an extreme range. She has a small entry hole in the back of her skull and massive exit hole in her forehead consistent with a sniper’s shot with a military grade weapon. I can’
t completely rule out an accidental shooting, but it looks more like an assassination.”

  “Oh God, Millie’s dead. Mike, don’t transport her yet. I want to come to the scene. How do I get there?”

  “There is no place for the helicopter to land nearby. This early, there will be few cars at the Huckaby trailhead parking off of Schnebly Hill Road. I’ll have someone meet you there and guide you to the victim. It’s a steep climb down from there.” Mike mentioned the climb because he wanted the sheriff to replace his ornate cowboy boots with real hiking boots. He could tell from the grunt of acceptance, that Sheriff Taylor understood.

  Forty-five minutes later, Sheriff Taylor was at the crime scene after hiking down from the Huckaby Trailhead Parking lot. He examined the remains of his friend. Jimmy Hendrix had completed his work, and the Sedona Fire and Rescue team was ready to take the body to the waiting Medical Examiner’s van. After a few seconds, Sheriff Taylor nodded to the team to remove the body and walked over to where Mike was standing with Tim Bernhardt. Mike introduced Sheriff Taylor to Tim, and then the two law enforcement officers walked away from the others to talk.

  Sheriff Taylor offered, “I’ll take care of the notification. I know her ne’er-do-well husband Peter Barbour. Millie liked young rodeo types, and he’s a former bull rider, also a heavy drinker and womanizer. He’s half her age and her third husband. I’ll also contact her four sons from her first marriage. They run the family businesses. This is your case Mike, but keep me informed. She was my friend as well as a very important member of the Flagstaff business community.”

  Sheriff Taylor was near to tears at the loss of his friend and political mentor. Mike knew he was a stoic man who seldom showed any emotion, and he was touched by the sheriff’s concern for his friend’s death. Sheriff Taylor left the crime scene and headed up the steep trail to the waiting helicopter. Mike didn’t envy him. The duty to notify family members was the worst part of his job, and he was thankful the sheriff had taken that role himself.