“Dumb luck.”
“Yeah. He could have been here forever. You can hunt ten yards away and still not see him. If they hadn’t been searching for the dead quail they’d never have found him.”
“Awful lot of work for such a small bird,” I said.
“They don’t have quail around Prescott?” Eddie said.
Joe smiled. “Quail hunters,” he said, as if that explained it all.
Eddie was studying the ground.
“They trampled this place up pretty bad.”
He was right; the brush and grass were crushed down and the ground was scuffed and torn.
“The chief had me bring you out here because he knows I know the area,” Joe said. “But it’s not our jurisdiction. This is the Yavapai sheriff’s scene. In fact I’m surprised someone isn’t out here.”
“I’m going to look around,” I said.
“I’ll come with you,” Eddie said.
“They’ve already searched the area,” Joe said. “But knock yourself out. I’ll wait here.”
With Eddie following I went back to the wash. We began to work our way methodically along the bank. I didn’t know for sure what I was looking for, but it was an odd place to leave a body. With the amount of blood sign, poor old Wambaugh had to have come out here on his own power. Then for some reason, somebody whacked his hand off, and left him here to bleed out. Why here?
We carefully picked our way for about two or three hundred feet, following the wash. When I thought we had gone far enough we turned east, putting our backs to the wash. Tracking is simply paying attention. If there is no track you draw a large mental circle, and follow it meticulously, searching for sign of anything that has crossed it. Anything that doesn’t ordinarily belong. A print, a broken twig, a thread or hair in the brush, anything.
The further we went, the higher we climbed. After another hundred yards I stopped, and turned. We were much higher. The wash below us meandered until the trees obscured it. Below, I could see flashes of Joe’s blue uniform as he moved around. Joe’s vehicle was easy to spot back by the water tank.
I wanted to climb a little higher. Eddie followed. Now it was cholla and Joshua trees that sprung from the hard, tan dirt. At the top we were with a stand of saguaros. One was huge, a good thirty feet high. Next to it was a strange one. It was bent forward, one arm turned toward the sky and the other bent across its middle, like a man bowing. Next to it was a huge ocotillo tipped with orange blossoms. We turned north and resumed picking our way through the desert.
“Dammit!” Eddie said. I turned to look and he had gotten too close to a cholla. They aren’t called jumping cactus for nothing. A ball of barbed spines had snagged his pant leg.
He started to reach for it.
“Don’t!” I said. “Don’t touch it. Those spines are barbed: you get one in your skin, you have a problem. Do you have a comb?”
He pulled a comb from his back pocket. I took it and carefully slid the teeth of the comb between the cactus and his pant leg and pulled it loose.
“Thanks,” he said. “That’s a good trick, with the comb.”
“You didn’t learn about jumping cholla in Chicago?”
He didn’t bother to answer. I started off again, searching for any sign.
Twenty minutes later we were back with Joe, and we had found nothing. No sign at all. Just a walk in the park. Whoever had whacked the guy’s hand off had come and gone the same way as the police. The same way as us. We made our way back to the car.
The ride back to the station seemed quicker, and was mostly in silence. I don’t know what I expected to find, but we sure as hell succeeded in not finding it. I was disappointed. If we could tie Dick Mooney’s head with Frankie Wambaugh’s hand, the timing would take Billy off the hook.
Joe Whitney dropped us at the Mustang and we drove back to the motel. I went to get some ice, and when I got back to the room Eddie had the television on and was studying it intently.
“You need to look at this,” he said.
17
A bomb had exploded in Sedona at a shopping area crowded with tourists.
It looked like chaos. It had happened within the hour and they already had camera crews there. The pictures showed bloodied survivors being loaded into ambulances. The on-camera talking heads said there were fatalities, but didn’t know how many. I dialed Boyce’s number. It went to voicemail. I asked her to call me.
They were already speculating it was a terrorist attack. I told Eddie about my conversation with Boyce.
“Radical Islam in Sedona?” Eddie said. “I thought Sedona was for crunchy, bark-eating tree- huggers that sat around holding hands in the vortex waiting to be beamed up.”
“All it takes is one whack job.”
He looked at me. “What do you want to do?”
“Let’s go to Sedona,” I said.
Fifteen minutes later we were checked out and on the road. The shopping center where the bomb exploded was named Tlaquepaque - pronounced too-lockee-pockee – and was a very popular shopping area with galleries and small artist boutiques. I pushed the Mustang and it took no time to get there. We came in from the west side of the town, and as we got closer to the site the traffic was jammed up. We had to find parking three blocks away. The place was swarming with police, state police and first responders. Tourists were milling around, with shocked frightened faces.
I locked up the car. We walked toward the hastily erected barricades; most of the people were heading the other way. I said, “Sometimes there are two bombs. One for maximum damage, and the second to take out the first responders.”
“Hell of a time to bring it up,” Eddie said. He looked around. There was still the inevitable small curious crowd gathered at the barricades, straining to see something. “These people, obviously, hadn’t thought of that.”
I thumbed my phone out and tried Boyce again. This time she answered.
“Boyce.”
“It’s me. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m busy.”
“Just checking on you. I’m in Sedona. I’m at the north end of the center, at the barricades, if I can help.”
“Gotta go,” she said and hung up.
I put the phone away and Eddie looked at me. I shrugged. “She’s busy.”
“Hell yes, she’s busy,” he said.
Twice the local patrolman moved us out of the way to let ambulances out. I was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea when I spotted Boyce making her way through the crowd. She came up and moved one of the barricades and waved me through.
“He’s with me,” she told the cop.
“I’ll wait here,” Eddie said but she had already put the barricade back in place. She turned without a word and I followed her.
The place had been built to look like an old-fashion Mexican plaza. The bomb had exploded in the open courtyard, located at the center. I could still smell the faint odor of the explosion in the air. It brought back memories I would just as soon not have. Most of the parking was on an outer rim around the center. Vehicle damage was minimal. Walking in, I had noticed a lot of the license plates were from out of state. This time of year a lot of people came to Arizona to escape the snow and cold back east. It was a beautiful area.
I followed Boyce as she worked her way into the center of the complex. The injured had been removed to the local hospital. Two bodies, obvious fatalities, were left, covered with blankets. The investigators had not released them yet. A dazed old man sat on the bumper of a fire truck, a blanket across his thin shoulders. A paramedic was sitting next to him, her hand covering his. His haunted eyes were fixed on one of the covered bodies. I looked around. There wasn’t as much devastation as there could have been.
Boyce led me to a corner of the courtyard.
“What do you see?” she said.
I nodded at the bodies. “Where were the bodies?”
“When I got here, they were lying where they are now.”
As she said this
, a large, balding man and his sunglasses came up to us. His suit was stained with dust and he carried a little paunch but he carried it well. He looked like he had played football a long time ago. I had noticed him standing with a group of suits. The way they had been hanging on his every word, he must be in charge. He looked at me with disapproval.
“Detective Boyce,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”
“Mr. Renfro,” she said. “This is Mr. Jackson. Mr. Jackson is a special consultant for Phoenix P.D. Mr. Jackson, this is Evan Renfro; he is with the National Security Team. He is in charge of the site. I have been assigned to him.”
I offered my hand and he briefly took it.
“Just exactly what is it you do for Phoenix P.D., Mr. Jackson?” His face was smiling, but his eyes were not.
“I just happened to be close by when I heard of this, Mr. Renfro,” I said. “I have had experience with bombing sites. I thought I would come and offer my assistance. Detective Boyce happened to see me and brought me in.”
“What kind of experience?”
“Experience with bombs and bomb sites. I have disarmed bombs, placed and detonated bombs, and have seen and investigated many sites where bombs have exploded,” I said.
“Where was this?”
“Mostly in the Mid-East.”
“You were in the service, Mr. Jackson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which branch?”
“The Navy.”
“Seals?”
I thought about how to answer that, then finally just nodded. I could sense Boyce watching me.
He looked around. “So what do you see here, Mr. Jackson.”
“The same thing you do, Mr. Renfro. Usually, when something like this happens, the first thought is a natural gas explosion, but this was a satchel bomb.”
“How do you know?”
I looked at him. “I know because of the location of the explosion. If there were gas lines in the center of the courtyard and they exploded, it would be obvious.”
“What else?”
I looked around. “I’m a little puzzled.”
“Puzzled?”
“I don’t know what the motive is here but devastation isn’t it. A different type bomb could have caused a lot more damage.”
“What do you think the motivation is?”
I thought of the medical examiner in Cottonwood and how he doesn’t speculate. I didn’t mind speculating because this guy wouldn’t listen anyway.
“This seems more like a statement to me.”
“What kind of statement?” Renfro said.
“Someone is telling us they are here, and no one is safe.”
“Anything else?”
“Two things strike me. I have seen satchel bombs that could take down large buildings. This one was small. And there was no shrapnel. Usually, if the goal is to kill as many as possible, these things are packed with nuts and bolts and ball bearings and anything else that would tear people apart.”
He looked around. “You are right. The two we lost were just unlucky. They were standing close to the explosion. If there had been shrapnel, there is no knowing how many we would have lost. Lucky for us, I suppose.”
“Yes,” I said. “Lucky. Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?”
He shook his head.
“They will. Are there surveillance tapes?”
“We are processing them. I’m told that they were mostly pointed at the parking. Not much crime here; they were expecting vandalism, not terrorism.”
He looked at Boyce. “Speaking of which, Detective, I’d like for you to go find Agent Murray and look at the tapes. Get copies. See if we can put a timeline on anyone coming in just before the explosion. And look at who left right afterwards.”
“Everyone left right afterwards,” I said. “As quickly as they could.”
He looked at me. I had been dismissed.
“I know what to do,” Boyce said. She turned so Renfro couldn’t see her face and stuck her tongue out at me. She walked away.
“Mr. Jackson,” Renfro said. “You have no clearance here so I would appreciate it if you would leave the rest of this to us.”
“Sure,” I said. “I understand completely.”
He turned and walked away. I watched him walk away and wondered again why I had always had so much trouble with authority. I had picked a funny life to have an attitude like that. I thought about the Colonel.
“Some people earn respect,” I said aloud. I shook my head, thinking that I just met this guy, how could I know to respect him or not. His dismissive attitude, I suppose. I turned and took a long moment, taking everything in. I looked at the old man, sitting in his pain, and I knew it wouldn’t ever go away. I headed back to Eddie.
He wasn’t at the barricades. I stepped over them and walked back to the car. He wasn’t there either.
18
I stood beside the car for a moment, looking around. I got in and drove, slowly looking for him. Up the hill was an old school saloon. I took a chance and grabbed an open parking spot. I went inside. The saloon had a long bar, pool tables, a stuffed grizzly bear, and Eddie. The stool next to him was empty. I slid up on it.
“Got thirsty,” he said. “Thought you’d be a while.”
The bartender slid up and I pointed at the PBR in front of Eddie. “Same thing for me, and get him another.”
He nodded and moved away. He was back in a second, setting the two longnecks on the mahogany bar in front of us. I set a twenty on the bar and he palmed it, made the change and placed the change in front of me. There were three televisions up high behind the bar. One was in front of us and they were showing the same images we had seen earlier.
“Find anything?” Eddie asked, watching the screen.
I shook my head. I told him about Renfro.
“Assholes,” he said. I was pretty sure he meant the bombers, not Renfro. I sipped the beer and watched the screen. Suddenly a Breaking News banner scrolled across the screen. The bartender reached up and turned the volume up.
“…CBS affiliate in Phoenix is sharing what is a purported to be an exclusive video of a group that is calling itself Khorasan America and is taking credit for today’s horrific bombing in Sedona, Arizona. We are going to show the video and please note that parental discretion is advised. This may not be suitable for younger children.”
The screen went blank then opened again to a shaky image that swam around before it steadied. I recognized the inner courtyard of Tlaquepaque. The fuzzy image of an older couple came into view. They stopped and the man turned and went back out of the picture. I recognized him as the old man I had seen at the scene. The woman stood looking back at where he had gone out of the picture, then the screen erupted in a white flash. The station cut the video at the flash.
“That explains it,” I said.
“Explains what?”
“The type of explosion. Minimum effect and no shrapnel so they could stay close enough to film it. The courtyard is enclosed. If they could have filmed it from further away, they might have used a different device.”
The bartender turned the volume back down and the news station played the film again and again. Maybe they were expecting different results.
“You think this has anything to do with Billy?” Eddie asked.
I shrugged. “Could be. Somebody took off Mooney’s head, and the other guy’s hand. Something assholes like this would do without blinking. And we both know Billy didn’t do it.”
Eddie looked at me, “You do believe that.”
I nodded, “Yes, I do.”
“What do you think this militia shit is all about?”
I shook my head. “I honestly don’t know. My gut says it’s involved somehow but damned if I know how. None of the guys we know were involved with the militia seemed dangerous enough to do this. Let alone smart enough.”
“You’re giving them too much credit. Any coward can plant a bomb.”
“True. But to make a bomb as speci
fic as this takes knowledge.”
“What do we do now?” he said, then his eyes shifted past me. I turned to look and there was Dahlia coming in the door. She was followed by a young girl with a strong family resemblance. The girl looked to be fourteen or fifteen.
They came up to us. “Hey, you two.”
Eddie and I slid off our stools.
“Ma’am,” Eddie said.
“Why, hi there,” I said.
“I saw your car outside. I’m parked up the street so we were walking by, thought we’d say hi,” Dahlia said. She turned to the girl. “This is my one and only, Megan. Megan, say hi to Mr. Bragg and Mr. Jackson.”
“Hi,” the girl said shyly. She had her mom’s dark hair.
“Just Jackson,” I said. “Can you join us?”
“Just for a second. When we saw the news reports on the bomb we had to come check on Aunt Betty.”
“Your aunt lives here?” Eddie asked.
“She has a dress shop at Tlaquepaque.”
“She okay?” I asked.
“Yes, thank you. She was at the bank when the bomb went off. She is cell phone challenged, and I couldn’t get her to answer, so we drove up.”
“I’m glad she’s okay,” I indicated the bar stool, “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, we can’t stay, just saw your car and wanted to say hi. We have to get back. It’s a school night and Megan has homework.”
The girl was studying me.
“Mom says you have a cop girlfriend,” she said.
Eddie smiled.
Dahlia looked at her daughter. “Megan!”
“Well, you did.”
I laughed. “Your Mom is almost right. Detective Boyce is a policewoman, and she is my friend.” I looked at Dahlia. “But we are just good friends.”
“She walked out on him,” Eddie grinned. I just looked at him.
“Regardless of what my comical friend here says, it was a mutual parting. We are still fond of each other.”
The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head Page 8
