Skeleton Picnic

by Michael Norman

“Sure. Anything wrong?”

  “Don’t know. We got a call this morning from their daughter who says they didn’t show up at church this morning. We went ahead and took a missing persons report. Melissa told one of my deputies they left Friday afternoon on a camping trip and were supposed to come back Saturday night.”

  “Maybe they decided to stay out another night.”

  “Possible,” said Sutter. “I haven’t contacted county search and rescue yet. Figured I’d give it a little more time. See if they turn up.”

  “Has anybody been by the house?”

  “Melissa’s husband drove by after church looking for Rolly’s truck and their pop-top trailer—nothing there.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around noon.”

  “I’ll head over there now and call you as soon as I have a look around.”

  Books remembered Rolly Rogers from his years growing up in Kanab. Rogers had been his U.S. history teacher during his junior year. He had also coached the girls’ and boys’ cross country teams.

  Long-revered members of the small southern Utah town of Kanab, infamous pot hunters Rolly and Abigail Rogers had been looting ancient Anasazi and Fremont Indian sites for decades, stealing artifacts, and, over time, accumulating what some people regarded as one of the most extensive and valuable antiquities collections in all of Kane County. As an elementary school student, Books remembered accompanying his classmates on a science field trip to the Rogers’ home to see their vast collection of ancient artifacts. Only later did he understand the significance of the collection and what it meant to be a digger.

  As Books dressed he had no way of knowing that a simple request for help from Charley Sutter would not only jeopardize his own life but those of his family.

  Chapter Three

  Books rolled into the Rogers’ circular gravel driveway shortly after three. Ned tagged along. The single-story brick rambler had an attached garage that, at some point, had been converted to living space. A detached garage had been added next to where the original garage once stood. A Tuff Shed sat behind the house off to one side.

  They walked to the front door and knocked. Nobody answered. The closed drapes made it impossible to see inside. Ned waited out front while Books walked to the back of the house. He climbed two steps on to a cedar deck that led to a set of French doors. The patio doors served as the home’s rear entrance.

  One look at the wood door jamb and Books reached for his snub-nose .25 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. Around the lock, he saw fresh pry marks probably made by a screwdriver. The unlocked door stood slightly ajar. Books pushed it open and listened. The house was quiet.

  “Police, anybody here?”

  Silence.

  He stepped into the home’s great room. The kitchen sat off to one side. On the kitchen floor laid a dead cat, a small pool of drying blood around the body. Shit, thought Books.

  He moved quickly from room to room, searching the entire house. Books discovered a broken jewelry case in the master bedroom. The contents had been dumped on the bed and the shattered case tossed to the floor.

  The converted garage served as an office, complete with a roll-top desk, a computer station, a printer, and file cabinets. The stuffed heads of a five-point mule deer and a pronghorn antelope were mounted on respective walls. Across the room, a glass display case had been smashed and the contents removed. This was the artifacts room, Books thought. Whoever had broken in had come primarily for the antiquities collection, he guessed, and they’d taken it all.

  He rejoined Hunsaker out front and used his cell to call the sheriff. “You got a B&E over here, Charley, and a dead cat—better send a deputy and have somebody from the family stop by.”

  “A dead cat.”

  “That’s what I said. It looks like it’s either been shot or knifed. I couldn’t tell.”

  “Was there forced entry?”

  “Yup. Somebody went in through the French doors at the back of the house. Nothing very sophisticated. It could have been the work of kids.”

  Sutter grunted. “All right. I’ll send a deputy right over and I’ll be along shortly.”

  Sutter made it to the Rogers’ home ahead of his deputy. He nodded at Books and Hunsaker. “I’m startin’ to get a bad feeling about this, J.D.”

  “Maybe the two incidents are unrelated.”

  “Could be, I suppose. Let’s hope so. After your call, I went ahead and notified search and rescue. It’ll take a couple of hours for them to mobilize, but they should be able to launch the search before dark.”

  As he looked around, Books noticed two newspapers lying in the driveway and a UPS parcel lying on the front porch. He walked to the mail box, opened it, and saw mail inside.

  “Tell you what, Charley, the Rogers might as well have hung a sign in the front yard saying, ‘on vacation—thieves welcome.’”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Look around. When you leave town and don’t have somebody pick up the mail and newspapers, it becomes a standing invitation for any thief. And the bad guys don’t have to be particularly sophisticated to notice, either.”

  A white Dodge Caravan pulled into the driveway. A plump woman with stringy brown hair in her early thirties got out. She walked up and gave Sutter a weak smile and a warm hug. She smiled at Hunsaker. “Afternoon, Ned.”

  “Melissa.”

  “J.D., this is Melissa Esplin, Rolly and Abby’s daughter,” said Sutter.

  Esplin gave him a curt nod but didn’t say anything. Books figured his BLM employment probably earned him a less than enthusiastic greeting.

  “Ranger Books checked out the house at my request and discovered the break-in. We’d like you to come in with us and take a look around. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s a dead cat lying on the kitchen floor.”

  “Oh, my gosh, that must be Einstein. Mom and dad have had that cat for over a decade. The thieves must have killed him.”

  “Afraid so,” said Sutter. “I’m going to ask that you don’t touch anything. We haven’t had time to take pictures or look for prints. I hope you can help us determine what’s been taken.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I understand your folks left on Friday afternoon,” said Books. “Would you happen to know what time?”

  “Mom didn’t get off work until four o’clock, so sometime after that.”

  “Any idea where your parents may have gone on their camping trip?”

  She regarded Books for a moment and then shook her head. “They never said.”

  “Anybody go with them?” Books asked.

  “They were alone as far as I know.”

  “Can you think of any places they preferred to go?”

  “No place in particular. What is this, Ranger Books, play twenty questions?”

  “Not at all,” said Books, “but anything you can think of might help us find them.”

  She didn’t reply.

  Sheriff Sutter broke the tension. “Well, why don’t we go inside and take a look around. We can come back to this afterward.”

  ***

  Books couldn’t tell what upset Melissa Esplin the most, the dead cat, the theft of expensive pieces of her mother’s silver and turquoise jewelry, or the discovery that the perp had cleaned out the family’s valuable antiquities collection.

  A Kane County Sheriff’s Department patrol vehicle pulled into the circular driveway. A uniformed deputy parked, got out, and came into the house. Sutter introduced his newest and only female deputy, Beth Tanner. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and had that fresh, just-out-of-the-police-academy look. Turns out she had grown up in nearby Cedar City and had taken this job as a means of returning to her southern Utah roots.

  With the arrival of Deputy Tanner, Books saw no reas
on to stay. His presence seemed to irritate Melissa Esplin and the sheriff seemed to have the matter under control.

  “I’m out of here, Charley. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “Give me a second, would you J.D.? I’ll be right along.” Sutter directed Deputy Tanner to carry on with the investigation while he followed Books outside.

  “Sorry about that little exchange, J.D. There was no reason for Melissa to become defensive with you.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Charley. I’m a Fed and she comes from a family of dedicated pot hunters—no love lost there.”

  “Still, there’s no reason for her to behave that way.”

  Books shrugged and gave Hunsaker a faint smile. The old man had remained quiet during the exchange, glancing from Sutter to Books and back again at Sutter.

  “There is something else you could do for me,” said Sutter. “Would you mind sticking around here for a few minutes and helping Tanner? She hasn’t been on the job long.”

  “Sure. Where are you going to be?”

  “I need to hook up with county search and rescue. They’re gathering at the fire station to organize the search. I’d be happy to drop Ned at home on my way in.”

  Books glanced at the sky. “Be dark soon, Charley. Your search may have to wait until daylight.

  “You’re probably right. Maybe that’s for the best. If we get lucky, they’ll show up by morning and we can skip the whole thing.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “But damned unlikely, right?”

  “I think so, Charley.”

  “I’m open for suggestions, J.D.”

  Books turned to Hunsaker. “What do think, Ned?”

  “Since Melissa was no help, it’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack. That said, here’s what I’d do if I were you. I’d concentrate the search around here.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Sutter.

  “If they didn’t leave until sometime Friday evening and planned to return Sunday morning in time for church, they haven’t gone very far. My recollection is that old Rolly prefers collecting Anasazi artifacts instead of Fremont Indian antiquities. That tells me he’s probably gone somewhere south of Kanab along the Arizona strip. The Four Corners area is too far away for such a short trip.”

  “Makes sense,” said Books.

  “Only if they’ve gone pot hunting,” countered Sutter. “What if they haven’t?”

  “It’s possible Charley, but I doubt it,” said Books. “It’s springtime. The pot hunting season is in full swing for the next several months. Then they’ll lay low until fall before going back to work. And Rolly Rogers is one of the busiest pot hunters in the county; always has been.”

  “I agree, Charley,” said Hunsaker. “I’ve known Melissa all her life and I like her just fine. But let’s be honest. She was deliberately vague when J.D. started asking specific questions concerning the whereabouts of her parents. If her folks had gone off visiting friends or family, Melissa would have said so. If they were going to some event someplace, she would have told us. I’m not saying Melissa knows where they are, but I do think she knows they’re off somewhere pot hunting.”

  Hunsaker left with the sheriff. Books re-entered the house to see if he could do anything to help Tanner. He wanted to be available to assist without making her feel threatened or incompetent. Books found Tanner and Melissa Esplin seated in the living room filling out the police report.

  “Anything I can help you with, Beth?”

  She looked up from the report. “As a matter of fact, there is. Melissa tells me that her folks had the artifacts collection and some of the jewelry appraised and insured. The insurance file contains photographs of everything in the collection. Would you mind taking a look at that while I snap some crime scene photos and dust for latent prints?”

  “Sure.”

  Tanner returned to her patrol car for the crime scene kit and camera while Books accompanied Esplin to the converted office at the back of the house. While Books waited, Esplin removed a small key from the desk and used it to unlock a four-drawer file cabinet in the corner. It took less than a minute for her to locate a file folder marked collectibles. Without speaking, she handed it to Books.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Books opened the folder and laid it on the desk. Inside was an addendum to a home owner’s insurance policy and an appraisal document from a Salt Lake City company called Gilbert Fine Art & Appraisal. An insurance policy was issued in December. 2009, following an appraisal completed in November. Several pieces of the silver and turquoise jewelry as well as the antiquities collection appraised for $250,000. All in all, it would make a significant insurance claim.

  Books turned to Esplin. “I didn’t notice, but does the house have any kind of alarm system?”

  She shook her head. “We nagged mom and dad continually about that but they never got around to it.”

  That revelation surprised Books. The antiquities collection was worth a small fortune.

  “The appraisal and insurance policy are fairly recent. Did your folks ever have the collections insured before?”

  “Not sure, but I don’t think so.”

  Books hit the mother load when he opened a manila envelope inside the folder. It contained color photographs of the jewelry and the antiquities collection.

  The Rogers’ collection contained an impressive variety of artifact types including stone hammers and knives, ornate baskets and sandals woven from native fibers such as yucca, willow, and milkweed; intricately designed clay pottery used as pitchers, ladles, jars, and storage containers, some with handles and some not, some pieces textured and some polished smooth; necklaces made of beads, often black or white, with bits of turquoise; animal hide artifacts like moccasins, breechclouts, and robes; and finally, two glass display cases filled with arrowheads and pot shards of every size, color, and configuration.

  “The photographs are going to be helpful,” said Books. “If everybody did this with their valuables, the recovery rates would be a lot higher. Can we borrow the file temporarily until we can make copies?”

  Esplin thought about it for a moment. “I guess, but don’t lose it. It’s the only record we’ve got.”

  “The insurance company and art appraiser probably have copies, but we’ll take good care of it and get it back to you sometime tomorrow. With luck, by that time, your parents will be back, and this’ll all have been for naught.”

  As they left the office, Books noticed a small framed photograph of the Rogers couple. The photo looked recent and Books asked if he could borrow it. Esplin nodded.

  Books found Tanner up to her elbows in latent print powder. She was about finished and asked Books to meet her outside. Good PR maybe, but often the attempt to find latent prints didn’t produce anything useful although it usually left the victim felling better about the police investigation.

  “You look good covered in fingerprint powder.”

  She smiled, “Romantic, isn’t it?”

  “No, but you wear it so well.”

  “Must be the CSI effect.”

  “Must be.”

  Tanner had piercing green eyes and hair the color of honey that she wore pulled back in a pony tail.

  Books handed her the insurance file containing the art appraisal and the photographs. “This ought to increase the likelihood of recovering at least some of the stolen property, and maybe it’ll lead you to the perp.”

  “That’d be nice. I appreciate your help. I’ve been out of the academy only three months, so I’m pretty new at this.”

  “Experience is a good teacher, Beth. You’ll do fine. So what are you going to do next?”

  Tanner looked around. “I thought I’d canvass the neighborhood. See if anybody saw anything.”
<
br />   “That’s a good idea, but before you leave, you might want to sit down with Melissa and find out which pieces of fine jewelry in that insurance file are actually missing. We know the entire antiquities collection was taken, but you’ll want to be sure about the jewelry.”

  “I’ll do that before I leave. What about Einstein?”

  “I’m not sure. You should probably ask Melissa,” said Books. “It must’ve been a damn smart cat.”

  Tanner suppressed a laugh. “Smart ass.”

  Books gave her his cell number and told her to call if she needed help with anything else.

  Chapter Four

  Monday Morning—Day 4

  Books rose early the next morning. He filled a travel mug with some Starbucks coffee he used as backup when he ran out of fresh roasted, wolfed down a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel, and headed out. Radio traffic confirmed that Rolly and Abby Rogers were still missing and that county search and rescue had been unable to begin the search until first light.

  He had offered to help and Sutter assigned him an area south and west of Kanab in the general vicinity of Hildale, Utah, and Colorado City, Arizona. If it turned out the missing couple was the victim of foul play on BLM land, the BLM would assume jurisdiction in the case.

  Books drove in a southwesterly direction across the state line into northern Arizona near the Paiute Indian Reservation. The flat desert landscape contained stands of juniper and scattered sage flanked by towering, copper-colored granite peaks to the north.

  He searched as far west as the two polygamist communities before turning north into the National Smithsonian Butte Backway. He stopped at a couple of remote gas stations and showed the picture of the missing couple in the hopes somebody might recall seeing them. Nobody had.

  Books backtracked to Colorado City and began searching an area southeast of the town. He periodically reported in using a radio frequency set up exclusively for the search-and-rescue effort. After nearly seven hours, nobody had a clue as to the whereabouts of the missing couple. Members of the search team sounded frustrated.

  All that changed at two-thirty in the afternoon when a National Park Service helicopter, flying out of Flagstaff, discovered the Rogers’ truck and trailer parked several miles north of the Colorado River on a remote dirt road near Mount Trumbull. The pilot and spotter reported seeing an off-road vehicle parked almost a quarter mile from the campsite. Sadly, there was no sign of Rolly or Abby Rogers at either location.