by Michael Beck
"Yeah, Gains, the medical examiner said that. They find anything?"
"Yeah. They found a small piece of metal inside it."
"Shrapnel from the gas tank explosion?"
"They don't know. It had something written on it though."
"Written on it? What?"
"L645."
"Part of the serial number of the gas tank perhaps?"
"That's what they thought at first."
"But now?"
"There's no entry wound. In the heart or the chest."
"So how did it get there?"
"What do you think?"
Cupid.
CHAPTER 33
My ears had been popping like a cup full of microwave popcorn by the time I arrived in Leadville three hours later. A tourist pamphlet I had picked up at the airport told me that Leadville, at 10,152 feet, was the highest incorporated city in the States. Whatever that meant. Nestled in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, this former silver mining town's golden days were long gone and its population had gone the same way as the viewing audience of American Idol. It now stood at about 2,600. Cupped in the hand of the Sawatch Range, the town was dwarfed by the snow-covered Mount Massive, ranked third in the US for height but definitely ranked number one for the countries' least creative name.
The Leadville Public Library looked like a five-story, story-book castle. But the story I was chasing wouldn't be in any fairy tale. On the other hand, perhaps it was perfect. Three men go off into the woods. Someone gets killed. They all disappear. Little Red Riding hood? Hansel and Gretel? Though fairy tales are supposed to have happy endings, aren't they? Something told me this wasn't going to be the case.
The librarian, Susan, was a largish girl with a sweet smile and short red hair. She set me up at a computer on the fourth floor.
"Leadville's main paper is the Herald Democrat," said Susan. "You can view all their back issues here. The Herald is a real institution. Did you know it's been around since 1879?"
"I don't think I'll need to go back that far."
"I hope not. We only have about ten years of it online."
"That should do."
"Okay. Sing out if you need help."
I called up the Herald issue for the day after Thanksgiving Day 2003 and typed in, camping death mountains. Several choices popped up but one stood out. I clicked on it.
BLIZZARD KILLS GIRL
Local girl, Ashley Hunter, was killed by a blizzard that swept across the Rocky Mountains Thursday night. Ashley was staying with a group of friends in a remote cabin on Mount Massive for the Thanksgiving holiday. Police say that Ashley wandered away from the cabin late Thursday night during the height of the storm that dropped record snow falls on the Rockies. Despite a desperate search, Ashley's friends were unable to find her. Police suspect that Ashley became disorientated in the blizzard and was unable to find her way back to the cabin. Police estimate that the temperature was as low as 20 below when Ashley went missing. Search and Rescue Police recovered Ashley's body Friday afternoon. Ashley Hunter attended Lake County High School in Leadville and was sixteen years old.
One small, innocuous paragraph. That was all. No mention of who the friends were. I assumed it was Decker--aka Dyson--and his two teammates, Franklin and Maxwell. But why the mystery? If it was simply a tragic accident why had Decker gone to such great lengths to conceal his identity? Accidents happen all the time; they were part of life. If this was an accident why didn't the boys return to school after Thanksgiving?
Judging by the tone of the article, the police accepted Ashley Hunter's death as accidental. There was no mention of any ongoing investigation. If the police called it an accident, why did Decker need to hide his past? Was this even what he was hiding? Perhaps it was something else I hadn't discovered yet.
These questions troubled me, but nothing like the one that kept rolling around in my head. It always came back to this. The question was simple.
What sixteen-year-old girl goes wandering around at night time in below-zero temperatures during a record blizzard?
* * * *
The Leadville police station was a two-story monstrosity that looked like it had been thrown together by a five-year-old using brown building blocks. Square, squat and ugly, it was a testament to man's ability to put up with anything.
Sheriff Shaw was a big, hulking figure sitting behind a desk so big I had to walk around it to shake his hand. He wore black pants, black jacket and a black Stetson. Made me wonder how his men could tell him from the bad guys. A black, leather belt with a silver horse buckle struggled to hold his gut in. Hanging from his belt, I swore, was a gun holster that Wyatt Earp might have used. In the holster he carried a Smith and Wesson .500 which, at fifteen inches long and weighing five pounds, was the bazooka of handguns. A multi-purpose gun. Just as useful for hammering fence posts in as blowing holes through tanks. I wondered if he had ever had to draw the damn thing. Any criminal would be in the next County before he even cleared his holster. On the other hand he could probably still shoot them from the next County too.
Shaw threw my card onto the desk.
"So, Mr. Pinnut, you're a writer," he said. "What can I help you with today?"
"I'm doing research for a book on the Rocky Mountains. In particular, I'm doing a chapter on how dangerous they can be, so I am looking into some of the deaths that have occurred over the years."
"No shortage of them. Someone gets killed up there every year. You think people would learn, but every year somebody makes the same dumb mistakes. Every year we have to waste manpower searching for some idiot hiker that's gone off in jeans and sneakers, with no compass." He shook his head in disgust. "I'm sorry to say, Mr. Pinnut, you can't over-estimate the intelligence of the average American. But I'd rather you didn't quote me on that."
"I came across one case, Chief, that got my interest. A sixteen-year-old girl, name of Ashley Hunter, died when she got caught in a blizzard back in 2003. Do you remember her?"
The Sheriff tilted his head to the side and considered me.
"We don't forget anyone who dies in our town, Mr. Peanut. Least of all a young girl cut off before her prime."
"It's pronounced Pee-new, Sheriff. I was reading about it in an old issue of the Leadville Herald. It said she died of hyperthermia?"
"That's right. She got caught in the mother of all storms. Didn't stand a chance."
"The paper said she was with friends. Do you remember who?"
"Mister Peanut, these people have been through a lot. They don't need this all rehashed again."
"I won't use their names. I just want to talk to them to get an eye-witness account. You know, for authenticity."
"Good luck with that."
"What do you mean?"
He shrugged. "You'll see soon enough."
"So can I have their names?"
The Sheriff was silent for a moment before he said, "Ryan Franklin, Matt Maxwell and Toby Dyson."
Bingo.
"You seem to remember them well, Sheriff. Is it common for you to remember three names from a case so long ago?"
"Oh, I remember them all right."
I hesitated, not sure of the tone I heard in his voice. Anger? Dislike? Regret? "The article said Ashley wandered off from the cabin at night time during the storm. Any idea why?"
"Perhaps her friends can tell you." Shaw seemed to find this amusing.
"Surely you must have some idea? You conducted an investigation, didn't you?"
He just looked at me.
"Sorry. Of course you did. What did the three boys say?"
"They said they were having a party, drinking and what not."
"Only the four of them were there?"
"Yes."
"Three boys and one girl? That's odd, isn't it?"
"They were childhood friends. They all came from Leadville. They spent every Thanksgiving up there."
"Whose cabin was it? Was one of them rich?"
The Sheriff laughed. "Rich? They didn't ha
ve two coins to rub together between them. The cabin was owned by another of their friends."
"So they were drunk that night?"
"Off their heads."
"Ashley too?"
"Yeah. The autopsy indicated a high alcohol percentage in her bloodstream."
"What time did she disappear?"
"We're not sure. Franklin and Maxwell say they woke up at about 1:00 a.m. and she was gone. The front door was open and there was three inches of snow inside."
"Where was Dyson?"
"In bed, asleep in another room. Franklin, Maxwell and Ashley were in the living room, drinking. The boys passed out at some time and when they woke she was gone."
"Did they try to find her?"
"Yeah, one of them damn nearly killed himself trying to find her."
"Dyson?" I guessed.
"Yeah," said the Sheriff slowly. "Now how did you know that, Mr. Peanut?"
"The other boys were probably too drunk. Stands to reason."
He raised one eyebrow.
"The boys never found her?"
"No, though the Dyson boy damn near froze to death looking for her. He tied a climbing rope around his waist and the boys held the other end back at the cabin. He walked back and forth like a pendulum on a clock. Did that for thirty minutes until he passed out. Franklin and Maxwell had to carry him back in. He had to be treated for frostbite."
"Face and hands?" I guessed. That would explain the white spots on Decker's face. He grew the beard, I realized, not just to disguise his identity but to hide the frostbite damage to his skin.
"Ah huh," said the Sheriff studying me again. "You sure are good at this guessing game."
"Stands to reason. They are the most exposed parts of the body."
"A lot seems to stands to reason for you, doesn't it?"
"That sounds like a pretty courageous thing he did."
"It does, doesn't it?" he said, dead-pan.
I let the silence between us last a moment. "So she got drunk and wandered off outside? Is that the story?"
"That's what the boys said."
"It was twenty degrees below and a white-out and Ashley just walks out into it?"
"She was drunk, half asleep and got disorientated. It does happen."
"Do you think it happened here?"
"One of them nearly died trying to save her, Mr. Peanut. Is that the action of a guilty man?"
I didn't know, but I did remember the words that someone had said to me recently.
"Some things are so bad you can't take them back."
CHAPTER 34
The Maxwells lived on the outskirts of Leadville in a dilapidated house sided with shingles. The paint was peeling off the house like bark from an old tree. I walked through knee high grass, around a rusted Chevy standing on cinderblocks, to the front door.
A Doberman came charging to the screen door when I knocked. It reared up on its hind legs, snarling and biting at me. Despite the light snow falling, I took off my jacket.
"Shaq, get down you pest."
A tall, bearded man wearing dirty jeans and a stained sweater pulled the dog roughly down by its collar. It yelped and continued to growl. "What do you want?"
"I'm looking for Matt Maxwell."
He stood up and let go of the dog, which jumped up, pawing at the door. "Pa, someone's here looking for Matt," he called.
Two men came down the hallway. The older was about sixty and had a bottle of beer in one hand. The second man, with a snake tattooed on his neck, was a slightly cleaner, smaller version of Dirty-Beard.
"Who are you?" said the older man.
"I'm a writer doing--"
"Fuck off. We've had enough of you scum. Just leave us the hell alone."
"I only have a couple of questions. I--"
"Fuck your questions. I'll tell you what I told the others. I have no son named Matt. Now get off my property!"
"Mr. Maxwell, if you would--"
Dirty-Beard opened the door. The dog exploded at me. I threw my jacket over its head and kicked it hard in the stomach. It hit the wall and fell to the floor whimpering.
"Hey!" Dirty-Beard swung at my head. I grabbed his wrist, applied a lock and used his forward momentum to flip him onto the wet grass. Unfortunately for him, the snow was still light, so he hit the ground hard. The air burst out of his lungs with a whoosh and he lay there twitching, trying to draw a breath. Snake-Neck hit me on the back while I was bent over. I elbowed him in the groin and swept my right leg, around, taking his legs out. Gasping, he rolled into a ball, holding his privates.
"Hey!" I held my hands up to the old fart, who had pulled a baseball bat from behind the door and was advancing towards me. "I only want to talk."
"And I told you, I don't want to talk. Now get out of here."
I scooped up my jacket and beat a retreat. This writing schtick was fun. Perhaps I was in the wrong line of work.
CHAPTER 35
The Franklins lived deep in the Rockies on a small spread thirty miles out of town. I drove along a narrow, slippery dirt road that was hemmed in on one side by a thick forest and dropped away sixty feet on the other to a frozen lake the size of a football field. Dark, threatening clouds loomed overhead and the air felt cold enough to quick-freeze meat. Surprisingly, Sheriff Shaw hadn't minded giving me the addresses of Dyson's, aka Decker's, friends.
A man was chopping firewood in front of a red barn as I drove in. He straightened as I stopped next to him and wiped his forehead with a dirty glove. He was about thirty-five, with a lean, tanned face and a body as rough and raw-boned as the wood he was chopping.
"Wonder if you could help me," I said, "I'm looking for the Franklin place?"
"You've found it."
"Are you Ryan's brother?"
He stared at me silently for a long moment. "Uh huh."
"Is Ryan home?"
His gray eyes regarded me without expression.
"Why?"
"I want to talk to him about Ashley Hunter's death."
Nothing changed in his face but I sensed something, like a vibration miles below the cracked surface of the earth's crust prior to an earthquake.
"You best be on your way," he said.
"I won't be long. I just have a couple of questions for him."
"He won't be answering any of your questions."
"I just want to find out what happened that Thanksgiving. I don't mean any harm to Ryan."
"It doesn't matter what happened."
"A girl died. That doesn't matter?"
He spat on the ground. "Once you're dead you're dead. There's no bringing them back. We're all worm fodder in the end."
"What about justice for the living?"
I sensed he seemed to find this amusing.
"You want to talk about justice you're talking to the wrong man. Go on up to the house and ask your questions. It won't do you any good. You won't find any truth here or any other place about that damned night."
He picked up his axe and viciously swung at the next log. Our conversation was obviously over.
"Nice talking to you," I said to his back and drove up to the house.
The wooden farm-house was small but well-maintained, with a porch running around it. A woman sat in a rocking chair on the porch, peeling potatoes into a bucket. She was about sixty, with white hair and plump, red cheeks. She wore a knitted cap and a thick coat and had a blanket across her knees. Why she was sitting outside to do this I had no idea. I'd be inside under three blankets next to a roaring fire if I had a choice.
"Hi, I'm looking for Ryan Franklin," I said.
"Are you a friend of his?" she said in a soft, pleasant voice.
"No. I'm a writer and I'm doing a story about the Rocky Mountains and the dangers it poses. I wanted to ask Ryan some questions about the death of Ashley Hunter. Are you Ryan's mother?"
"Yes, but I'm afraid Ryan can't help you, Mr....?"
"Pinnut. Mark Pinnut. Is he away?"
"You could say that. Ryan died fif
teen months ago, Mr. Pinnut."
"Oh...I'm sorry. I didn't know."
So that's why the Chief was amused. He knew I wasn't going to find out anything from Ryan Franklin.
"Was he ill?"
"Ill? I suppose he was. In a way, he'd been ill for a very long time. Ever since Ashley died."
"It affected him?"
"They'd known each other all their lives. He was bound to be upset." She dropped a potato into a bowl and picked up another from a bucket and began peeling it. "Death is a terrible thing and it takes some people a long time to get over it. But Ryan...well, he never seemed to get over it."
"He didn't return to school?"
"No. He was very upset after Ashley's death and... well, young people can be cruel. They can say terrible things, can't they? There was a lot of bad talk and Ryan just couldn't face it."
"What sort of talk?"
She gazed straight at me and, though her voice was soft and pleasant, her eyes were sharp and world-weary. "I think you might know already, Mr. Pinnut."
"People blamed the boys?"
"And worse."
"Did he ever talk about it?"
"Only the once. Right after it happened."
"What did he say?"
"He said they were all drinking and he fell asleep. When he awoke Ashley was gone."
I watched her other son continue chopping. He swung again and again, with a measured, silent ferocity. But that could've been just my impression.
I didn't want to ask but I had to know. "Did you believe him?"
"He was my son," she said, simply.
I didn't know if that was a yes or no. But did it matter?
"How did he die?"
"Ryan drank. He couldn't hold down a steady job and his drinking got worse and worse. July last year, he drove thirty yards off the road you came in on, straight into a tree."
"Did he leave any personal effects behind, like a journal or diary?"
"No, Mr. Pinnut, he did not. But you don't have to believe me. Go look in his room, it's the first door on the right. I haven't touched it since his death."
"You don't mind?"
"Nothing you find can hurt me, Mr. Pinnut. I have already lost my son. Nothing else matters."
