Ripped To Shreds

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "Sure. It's horrific, and it's resulted in near distinction of the animal," I replied. "But I've heard it's questionable whether or not the substance found in the rhino horns has any actual medicinal benefit."

  "You're exactly right. But as long as people hold the belief that it does have medicinal value, the animals will continue to be slaughtered for their horns. The bear population has a similar issue to contend with. The bile from a bear's gallbladder contains high concentrates of urosdeoxycholic acid, which is thought to be effective in treating gallstones, cirrhosis and other diseases. It's also believed to help prevent colon cancer by inhibiting the growth of tumors. Its healing power has created a great demand for the substance in Asia, where it's still legal in some areas to farm bears for the bile from their gallbladders. It's a cruel, torturous process for the animal that conservationists are trying to put an end to. However, due to supply and demand, it sells for a substantial amount in countries that have made the entire industry illegal, such as Vietnam."

  As we huddled together so we could all view the images simultaneously, I thought about what Rick had said. The idea of torturing an animal for financial gain made me want to catch these poachers even more fervently, and maybe poke their eyes out with a bear claw, as well.

  As we scanned through the handful of images, the men became more and more discouraged with each photo they scrutinized. It'd become apparent the poachers had realized our "bait" was a rug, rather than a fully functioning bear, just as they had entered the camera's field of vision. Once they'd figured out it was a ruse, they hastily departed without approaching the trap.

  "Most likely, they thought the authorities had eyes on them even as they retreated," Rick pointed out. "Anticipating an ambush, they'd probably never even considered searching for something like a camera."

  One photo showed the rim of a light blue ball cap, which narrowed our field of suspects down to about a zillion and nine individuals. The next photo was of a denim-covered leg with a hard-to-distinguish white object apparently dangling from the subject's hand. None of the other six or seven images captured anything of consequence. After the images had been uploaded to the tablet I'd brought along, Rip absentmindedly put the memory card back into the camera as we all were studying the images, hoping to find more damning evidence.

  "Well, that was a foiled effort," Rip finally said. "And now that they're on to us, they'll probably leave the area and move on to another place to resume their poaching efforts. We may have blown our only chance to catch them."

  "Gosh damn it!" Rick exclaimed, for once not taking the time to apologize for his foul language. "I agree, Rip. They've probably already hightailed it out of town. I don't think there's anything we can do now to stop them."

  "Not so fast, boys. I think there might be a way to stop them," I said.

  I was hoping my suspicions could be verified. There was one question that had been bothering me. Why would Bea go for her habitual hike that fateful morning without her gun for protection? Wouldn't that be the last thing she'd forget after a close brush with death during her previous cougar encounter?

  "Just for kicks, let's fan out and scour the area within about a fifteen-foot diameter of the trap before we leave," I said.

  "Why?" Both men spoke in unison, with identical puzzled expressions.

  "Just humor me and do it. I'll explain later."

  Both men appeared hesitant about my request, but scoured the area as I'd suggested. After ten minutes or so, Rip found a gun buried in the mud about twelve feet from the trap. He was clearly puzzled as he asked, "Whose gun do you think this is?"

  "That gun belongs to our victim, and convinces me that the bear poacher is the same individual who's responsible for Bea's death. Now we can get the heck out of this quagmire and go request an audience with Sheriff Wright."

  "Huh?" Rip asked. "What are you talking about? For starters, I don't want to speak to that battleaxe again unless I can put that gun in the poacher's—and/or killer's–hands without a shadow of a doubt about who it belongs to."

  "I think we can!" Trying not to sound too smug and full of myself, I explained my hypothesis and the reasons behind it. They both agreed my deduction was most likely correct. So the three of us returned to the Jeep and headed straight for the Buffalo Police Station.

  Chapter 25

  In our excitement to take our theory to the police station, we collected Dirk's bear rug, but forgot to pick up my game camera. I was relieved when Rick told us he planned to return for the trap the following day, anyway. "I'll drop your camera off tomorrow on my way back to the office."

  When we arrived at the police station, we were directed to Sheriff Wright's office. Buffalo is the county seat of Johnson County, and her office was in the same building on Fort Street as the town's police department.

  After we arrived at the police station, we were seated in Sheriff Wright's office. She didn't appear particularly delighted to see us. I thanked her for letting us have a word with her, and said, "Your poachers are named John and Barb Harris, who use the guise of being animal activists to explain their actual objective of trapping bears to exploit. I will show you the proof in a minute. I also believe these same two individuals are responsible for killing Bea Whetstone, and I'll show you how I reached that conclusion, as well."

  I felt as if I was giving a power-point demonstration to a class of criminal law students. It was an empowering sensation. Trying not to appear overly emphatic, I continued with my explanation. "The first time I laid eyes on the couple, they were forcefully snatching a gun out of Bea's hands. She'd just killed a mama bear who had wandered into the campground with her cub. Killing that bear was completely unnecessary, I might add. Everyone's impression, including mine, was that the Harrises were upset at the idea she'd hurt a defenseless animal who was protecting her young from harm. However, I now believe they were upset that Bea brought down a bear they'd been tracking themselves and were eager to capture for their own personal gain. I have no doubt that, given the opportunity, they'd have also killed the cub."

  Sheriff Wright nodded, noted something on a pad of paper in front of her, and said, "Go on."

  I pulled a gallon-sized Ziploc bag out of my large satchel. Inside was the gun Rip had found in the mud near the trap. "This is the gun Bea used to kill the mama bear that morning. According to Boonie, she usually took a pearl-handled Colt revolver with her on her morning hikes. And, also according to Boonie, that pearl-handled handgun was still on her chest of drawers the morning following her disappearance. However, the fact this gun with the gold-plated barrel was the weapon she'd killed the mama bear with proves she occasionally used this gun as well. I had a hunch Bea took this gun with her the morning she disappeared, and that's what prompted me to ask the guys to search the boggy area around the bloody trap this afternoon."

  "Are you one-hundred percent positive that's the same gun she killed the bear with?" Sheriff Wright asked.

  "I could never be one-hundred percent certain of anything. But I'd be willing to bet my life on it. I distinctly remember the gun she used that day. The Colt revolver had a silver handle with a gold-plated barrel instead of a pearl handle. Exactly like this gun. The sun was glinting off the barrel, which is why I looked it over so carefully. I'd never seen a gun with a gold barrel like this one before." As I spoke, I handed the bagged gun to the sheriff, who appraised it intently.

  "Interesting," the sheriff said. She then turned the bagged gun over to study the other side. I waited until she was done to continue.

  "The second time I crossed paths with Barb Harris was in the laundry room at the campground owned by Bea and Boonie Whetstone. She was there when I arrived with my laundry. I remember she was wearing a light blue visor that day." I brought up one of the images and sat the iPad down in front of the sheriff before continuing. I briefly explained the ploy we'd used to bring out the poachers. "I noticed this image we captured today matches Barb's visor perfectly. Just like in this photo, the visor she wore that day in t
he laundry room had a stained area that looks like a print from a muddy, or even bloody, finger as she was adjusting the visor on her head. See?" I pointed to the image of the visor's bill on the iPad's screen.

  "Are you absolutely certain you saw this exact stain on Harris's visor that day?" Sheriff Wright appeared hopeful, but skeptical at the same time.

  "Like I said before, I can't be absolutely certain about anything. But I remember being surprised that a woman who had exhibited fastidious OCD-like mannerisms, as Barb did that day in the laundry room, would not be compelled to remove this stain on her visor by any means necessary, or wear another visor in its place. Particularly after she used nearly half a bottle of stain remover on the sleeves of one of John's shirts. Now that I think about it, the stains on his shirt were probably made by Bea's blood, and the same could well hold true for the small blood-drop sized stain on Barb's visor."

  When she made no reply, I continued. "I believe now that my husband and I also crossed paths with the pair in the forest one day while we were trying to set up a game camera. I'm convinced now that they were scoping out a location to place one of their traps. We didn't see them, but heard a few words they'd spoken from a short distance away. The male voice, John Harris's I'm sure, very clearly said, 'I don't like the location. Too close to the campground'."

  "How can you be certain it was Mr. Harris's voice?" The sheriff was obviously intent on disproving my theory, but I realized she couldn't arrest the pair without solid proof of culpability.

  "One day I stopped by their RV to see if I could question them about any involvement they might have had in Bea's death, and—"

  "You did what?" Jaclyn Wright appeared aghast, and Rip looked at me like I'd just dropped my drawers and mooned the sheriff.

  I ignored both of their reactions and forged ahead with my explanation. "And when John spoke that day, I recognized his voice but couldn't recall where I'd heard it before. It came to me this afternoon as we were viewing the images my game camera captured."

  "That's intriguing," the sheriff said with a nod. "But I need more evidence."

  Ignoring her cynicism, I kept talking as if she'd never spoken. "That morning in the woods, I also heard what sounded like the word 'jaw' as in the clamping part of the trapping apparatus, and an even harder to decipher word that sounded like 'tap'. I now believe the word she'd said was 'trap'. You see, it was a woman's voice we heard then, and high-pitched like Barb's. The only word I understood explicitly was 'valley', as in where they seemed to prefer to place their traps." I paused to let the significance of the overheard words sink in.

  "Is that it?" Sheriff Wright asked, clearly unconvinced.

  "Of course not," I replied. I'm sure I sounded irritated with the sheriff, because I was and couldn't disguise my annoyance. "In the laundry room, she and I discussed her employment as an animal activist working to prevent the extinction of various species. She was very knowledgeable about various species of wildlife and the efforts to protect them, as was evidenced by her comments on whooping cranes, which winter near our hometown in south Texas. One location she and John had recently been to, she told me, was Asia. She said their mission there was to study the decline in the black bear population in the region, which I now believe was due to the demand for bear bile."

  "Bear bile?" Sheriff Wright looked perplexed. Because I couldn't remember the exact details, I had Rick explain the powerful healing qualities of the substance before I picked up where I'd left off.

  "My guess is their income from working on behalf of wildlife everywhere, paled when compared to what they could make by trapping and selling the bears' gallbladders to the black market for the production of pharmaceutical products. I truly believe they were passionate about their work until greed reared its ugly head. I imagine they'd become frustrated too. It probably seemed to them as if they were whacking moles in their efforts to prevent others from killing bears only for their gallbladders. And that's when I think they decided to cross over to the dark side and become predators of the animal instead of their protectors. After all, from the experience they'd had tracking bears for their research, they surely felt confident they'd be able to locate many bears and obtain a lot of the valuable substance."

  "That makes sense. But it's still not enough evidence to arrest them on poaching charges, much less murder."

  "Cool your jets, sister. I'm not finished yet."

  The sheriff looked as if I'd slapped her. I knew she considered throwing us all out of her office, but her curiosity and desire to get to the bottom of both issues took precedent. "All right, Mrs. Ripple. But get to the point before my patience wears out."

  "Okay, okay," I said. I picked the iPad from her desk, brought up another image, and laid it back down in the same place. Rick had already explained the connection between bear bile and the black marketing of the substance in Asia. So, to connect the dots, I now gave a vague explanation of how I'd captured a photo of the inside of the couple's Fifth Wheel trailer. I didn't want to recite unnecessary details and give Rip's heart a jolt it might not survive.

  Then I leaned over the desk to enlarge the image on the screen with my fingers. "This small white cooler seen here in this image was inside the couple's trailer. At first I assumed it was used to carry water or other beverages as they completed their studies in the forest. But, as I close in on it, you can clearly see the label, which has Chinese characters on it. Naturally, with so many of the products we purchase in the United States having been manufactured in China, I hadn't initially considered this unusual. Ranger Rick is now convinced the cooler was intended to be used as a container in which to ship the frozen gallbladders overseas to an Asian dealer. Rip was present in the campground's office when John Harris asked where a shipping facility could be found, supposedly to ship care packages to veterans stationed overseas."

  "I see," the sheriff said.

  "Now I will show you a photo captured this morning in the field. Here you see the bear rug we arranged on the trap that we used to bait the poachers. Over in the corner of the picture is the leg of a person dressed in blue jeans, who was carrying a container that matches the one I photographed in their trailer. As I close in on the container, you can see it's a small cooler with the identical Chinese marking. Unfortunately, that's as far as they got before realizing the bear was a prop, placed on their trap to trick them. They turned and fled at that point, so we weren't able to get any more incriminating photos."

  "I'm listening," the sheriff said with a little more enthusiasm. "Now you have my attention. This is powerful evidence that the Harris couple is behind the poaching, but what makes you think they had anything to do with Bea Whetstone's death? I can't seem to connect the dots."

  "Then let me connect them for you," I replied smugly. "We heard the medical examiner determined that Bea's wrist and ankle had been injured prior to her death. Is that correct?"

  "Yes. But what does that have to do with anything?" Sheriff Wright asked.

  "Rick was telling us about he and some fellow rangers discovering this trap earlier this morning. He said it was so well-concealed that one of the rangers stepped into it, which could have caused great harm to the ranger's foot and ankle if not for the fact it'd already been tripped by an animal that had been snared and ultimately managed to escape the trap's powerful jaws. I now believe that the creature who was inadvertently snared was none other than Bea Whetstone."

  "Seriously?" The sheriff's dubious response made it obvious she was not going to be easy to convince the poaching couple were the killers of not only bears, but a human being. But I wasn't finished with my theory yet.

  "Yes. Seriously. When you and the investigating team came to the campground the day following Bea's disappearance, I overheard Boonie say that Bea always wore rubber boots when she hiked so she could meander about in the marshy valley. I actually have a video of that discussion on my phone if you'd like to review it."

  At this point, the sheriff didn't even look surprised I had taped their conver
sation. She shook her head, and said, "I remember that remark. But could you send that video to this phone number?"

  After she scribbled the number on a post-it note and handed it to me, Rick spoke up to say, "I was the one who discovered Bea's body during a search, and can verify she had boots on that day. But they were no match for the strength of the trapping apparatus."

  "Hmm." The sheriff was leaning forward in her seat now, just as anxious to hear the rest of my story as I was to tell it.

  "This made me wonder if perhaps, while out on her daily morning hike through the forest, Bea accidentally stepped into the trap, triggering it and causing the sharp, jagged jaws to clamp down on her ankle. Despite the rubber boots, those powerful jaws could easily have caused the damage to her ankle that the medical examiner determined had occurred prior to her death. While I was snapping the photo I showed you of the Styrofoam cooler inside the trailer, I took a tumble and sprained my right wrist when I tried to break my fall. That could explain Bea's wrist injury. It was also her right hand, and I don't know that Bea was right-handed, but due to the fact only four percent of people are left-handed, I'd say the odds are very good."

  I looked up as the sheriff wrote something on her notepad. She caught my eye, nodded and smiled. It was the first genuine smile I'd seen on her typically stoic face. "Yes, I'm one of those oddball lefties."

  I was hoping the sheriff was far enough away she didn't hear what I heard Rip mumble under his breath, which was, "You got the oddball part right!"

  Just in case she did have acute hearing, I quickly continued. "Unfortunately, because I was so shocked by the shooting, I really can't recall which hand she held her gun in when she killed the mama bear."

  "Not important. Go on." The sheriff appeared to be putty in my hand now.

  "So, anyway, if John and Barb found the woman snared in the trap, they had two options to choose from. One, they could free her from the trap and seek medical attention for her wounds. Or two, they could kill her, drag her body to another location in the woods, and hope no one ever put two and two together. As I did," I couldn't resist adding. "A large man like John Harris would have no trouble snapping her neck with one quick twist."