As Books listened to the radio traffic, he realized the area in question belonged to the BLM. “Ah, shit, here we go again,” he muttered to himself. He had hoped the incident had occurred on tribal lands or on land belonging to the state of Arizona so the BLM wouldn’t have jurisdiction.
Books was at least thirty minutes away. He needed to get there as quickly as possible to assume control of the crime scene. As a precaution, he instructed the dispatch center to radio the helicopter crew and tell them not to land anywhere close to the camp or excavation site. He didn’t want the chopper inadvertently blowing anything of evidentiary value into the next county. Unfortunately, it had happened before. Also, Books contacted ground units approaching the area and advised them not to enter the campsite but to establish a secure perimeter a couple of hundred yards out.
According to the chopper pilot, the site around the off-road vehicle appeared to have undergone recent excavation. Rolly Rogers’ truck, trailer, and off-road vehicle, pointed squarely to a pot hunting case. However, a disturbing question remained. Where were Rolly and Abby Rogers?
When Books arrived, he called the Kanab office and asked them to notify the regional field office in Salt Lake City. Personnel higher in the food chain than uniformed rangers typically investigated pot hunting cases. In the distance, he could see the empty campsite and the truck and trailer. The helicopter had set down well out of the way from the throng of searchers and their vehicles.
People from various agencies milled about, seemingly with nobody in charge. He observed staff from the National Park Service, the National Forest Service, Kane County Search and Rescue, as well as officers from two Arizona law enforcement agencies.
A man wearing a Mohave County sheriff’s uniform approached Books and extended a hand. “Welcome to Mohave County, J.D. I don’t know whether you remember me, but I’m Ralph Meeker, the Mohave County sheriff. We met a couple of months ago at the Arizona Sheriff’s Association meeting in Flagstaff.”
“Sure do. Nice to see you again, Sheriff.”
“Don’t mind saying, I’m pleased this little incident is unfolding on BLM land.”
“Your good fortune, I guess.”
Books regarded Meeker. The man looked to be in his late thirties with thinning black hair turned prematurely gray. His smooth, unlined face would have made him look years younger otherwise.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Books, “maybe you can establish a perimeter around this area while I go over and have a look inside the trailer and at the dig site. I don’t want a bunch of people trampling through the area just yet.”
“Glad to, but I think I can help you with something else.” Meeker motioned toward a uniformed deputy who had been standing in the background by himself. The man appeared to be in his late twenties. Books figured him to be Navajo but he wasn’t sure.
“J.D., let me introduce you to Joe Nez—best tracker in the department. I suggest you allow him to accompany you. He might just spot some things you and I would miss.” The two men shook hands.
“Glad to have the extra pair of eyes,” said Books.
Meeker established a circular perimeter some distance west of where the truck and trailer were parked while Books and Joe Nez proceeded on foot to the trailer. They had decided to make the entire area, including the dig site, one large crime scene, restricting access only to those who needed entry. Until they could figure out what happened, it made sense to treat the area as a scene involving foul play.
As they approached the trailer, Books and Nez passed the Dodge pickup. A ramp used to unload an all-terrain vehicle stretched from the tailgate to the ground. The truck’s doors had been left unlocked with the keys still in the ignition. They moved on to the pop-top trailer. The top had been raised so Books could see through the canvas covered windows. Two sleeping bags were tossed on the beds and an ice chest rested on top of a small dining table. Food, kitchen utensils, and cookware were scattered around the interior. Either the Rogers had hurriedly unpacked, or someone had tossed the trailer.
“Not very tidy,” said Books.
Nez nodded. “Notice the digging tools?”
“Yup. It’s a family with a long history of digging.”
As he checked the campsite, Books noticed Nez studying the ground as he walked slowly out of camp to the east, away from the direction of the dig site.
“It’s this way, isn’t it, Joe?”
Nez looked in the direction Books pointed and then back at the ground. “Maybe, but the ATV went this way.”
On closer examination, Books saw the faintest tire tracks leading off the pot-holed dirt road into an area devoid of any semblance of a trail. They followed the track a couple of hundred yards until it turned south, passing through a sandy wash and then around the base of a pinnacle-shaped rock formation. On the far side of the outcropping, they emerged on a flat plain, where they discovered the remnants of a crumbling stone and mud structure.
Nez stopped and studied the ground near the off-road vehicle. Even to his untrained eye, Books could see faint shoe and boot prints. “What do you make of it?”
“Not sure, but there was a group of them circled around.”
“How many?”
“Five, maybe six, counting the missing couple.”
“Looks like they ran into some unwanted company,” said Books.
“Could be.”
Books guessed the size of the L-shaped structure at ten by twelve feet. He didn’t know what the room had been used for, religious ceremonies or maybe a burial site. The room, particularly the corners, had been thoroughly excavated.
Deputy Nez remained in the background, outside the structure. As Books moved closer, he saw the skeletal remains of what appeared to have been a small child tossed casually off to one side. The scene gave Books the creeps. Even though he’d grown up in a community where pot hunting was considered socially acceptable, that hadn’t been the case in his own family. He wondered how people could desecrate gravesites and toss human remains around like so much unwanted garbage.
Books turned and started to say something but realized that Nez was no longer there. He glanced around and spotted the deputy in full retreat toward the truck and trailer.
Back at the campsite, Books found Charley Sutter engrossed in conversation with the Mohave County sheriff, Ralph Meeker. Deputy Nez was standing off to one side talking quietly to another officer.
Sutter and Books exchanged greetings. “Any sign of them, J.D.?”
Books shook his head. “It looks like a thoroughly excavated burial site, but no sign of the Rogers. It appears they had company. We saw footprints, Nez thought five, maybe six people.”
Sutter looked worried. “Any sign of a scuffle or fight?”
“Not sure, but I don’t think so. Nez didn’t mention it, but he didn’t stick around very long either—acted kind of skittish.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Meeker. “Traditionally raised Navajos, like Joe, are real superstitious when it comes to the dead. They believe it’s best to leave them alone. Some even think that if you disturb the dead, bad things will happen to you—like sickness, mental illness, that sort of thing.”
“Yeah,” said Sutter. “In fact, about the only exceptions are Navajos raised in a Christian religion, those who follow the Jesus Road as they call it.”
Sutter continued. “What about physical evidence?”
“Somebody left a trowel at the dig site—no idea who it belongs to. And there are a couple of cigarette butts on the ground.”
“They’re both nonsmokers,” observed Sutter, “so that means the cigarettes belong to somebody else. I’m not sure what to make of it, but it sure doesn’t feel right.”
Sutter told Meeker about the break-in of the Rogers’ home and the theft of their valuable antiquities collection, adding, “It might be a c
oincidence.”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” said Meeker.
“No, not likely,” said Sutter. Turning to Books, he said, “What happens now, J.D.?”
“My hands are tied, Charley. BLM procedures require me to protect the scene until I’m relieved by a special agent. We already called the Salt Lake office—haven’t heard back from them yet.”
“Think they’ll send in a forensics team to process the scene?”
“I would think so, but it’s up to the agent assigned.”
Personnel from the various agencies who had participated in the search left Books, with two Mohave County deputies, to secure the area until BLM reinforcements arrived.
Chapter Five
An hour and a half later, BLM Special Agent Randy Maldonado arrived from St. George. Books didn’t know the man personally, but his reputation was impeccable. Maldonado, a fit-looking fifty-something veteran, knew more about grave diggers and pot hunting cases than anybody in federal law enforcement. He had investigated more antiquities cases than anybody in the country. Prosecutors in the U.S. Attorney’s Office knew and respected him.
The two men exchanged greetings and shook hands. “On the drive over, I got a call from Sheriff Sutter,” said Maldonado. “I didn’t get all the details, but he seems to think this case is related to a B&E in Kanab.”
“It could be.”
“You’re not convinced.”
“I’m a skeptic by nature.”
Maldonado shrugged. “It’s the nature of the business, I guess. Anyway, Charley would like to proceed as if the two cases are related.”
“All right.”
Motioning toward the abandoned campsite, Maldonado said, “Tell me what you’ve got here.”
“The truck and trailer belong to a Kanab couple. Rolly and Abigail Rogers, both dedicated pot hunters. Near as we can tell, they left Kanab late Saturday afternoon on what the family says was supposed to be an overnight camping trip—didn’t make it back for Sunday church services, so a daughter reported them missing.”
“Camping trip, my ass,” said Maldonado. “Rolly’s been a known antiquities collector for as long as I’ve been with the agency—never have made a case against him, though. But pardon my interruption. Please go on.”
“On Sunday afternoon I checked their home and discovered the break in. Among other things, their antiquities collection was stolen.”
“Any suspects?”
Books shook his head.
“Who found this?” Maldonado pointed at the campsite.
“Chopper unit out of Flagstaff found it early this afternoon. About three hundred yards to the west, we found an ATV parked next to a recently excavated Anasazi burial site. The ATV also belongs to the Rogers couple.”
“And they’re nowhere to be found?”
“That’s right.”
“So, for the time being, you’ve got yourself mixed up in a federal pot-hunting case, a missing person investigation with possible foul play involved, and a good old fashioned B&E with no suspects.”
“That’s about it.”
“Easy enough to understand why Charley thinks the cases are connected—be one hell of a big coincidence for this couple to go missing on a pot-hunting trip at the same time somebody breaks into their house and steals their artifacts collection.”
“That’s exactly how Charley sees it.”
“But you don’t.”
“It does seem logical. It’s just that, at the moment, we don’t have a shred of evidence to support that theory. I prefer to wait until I see what the facts tell us.”
Maldonado studied him for a moment. “Seems reasonable. Here’s what we could do. If you’re interested, I can authorize you to investigate the illegal digging case. You can coordinate what you’re doing with the sheriff’s investigation. I’ll be available to answer any questions you might have, and I’ll make arrangements to have the crime scene processed. That work?”
“Let’s do it.”
***
Books remained at the crime scene long enough to show Maldonado the path from the Rogers’ campsite to the location of the excavated burial site. While Maldonado handled the crime scene, Books decided to canvass the area hoping to find somebody who might have seen something.
An hour later, Books had stopped at several dirt-scrabble ranches in the immediate area. Nobody was home at the first two stops. At a third ranch, an elderly man sitting on his front porch reported seeing nothing unusual. At the last stop, he gave up after the biggest damn dog he had ever seen chased him back to the Tahoe.
Eventually he ran across an elderly man camped by himself off a dirt road about a mile from the Rogers’ truck and trailer. The man was seated outside an old Ford pickup truck with an ancient camper mounted on top, drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and eating Fritos. The rig had more rust on it than the Titanic and the old man didn’t look much better.
“Howdy, young fella. Why all the cop cars runnin’ around here?”
“We’re searching for a missing Kanab couple,” said Books. “Found their camp site not far from here, but no sign of them. You see anything that looks suspicious?”
The old man smiled. “You mean besides all the cop cars?” He gazed off into the distance momentarily thinking the matter over. “I did see a big black SUV, Cadillac Escalade, I think, driving past here a couple of times.”
“When was that?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What made you think it was suspicious?”
“Shiny new black Cadillac Escalade—just seemed out of place, that’s all.”
“Are you from around here?”
“Nope. I live in Dove Creek—betcha don’t know where that is?”
“Bet I do. Dove Creek is in the Four Corners area just across the Utah line in Colorado.”
“It surely is.”
“Anything else you can remember about the Escalade?”
He thought some more. “Only that all the windows were tinted so you couldn’t see inside.”
Books extended a hand and introduced himself. “And you would be?”
“Hitch. Eldon Hitch.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hitch. What brings you way out here?”
“Driving to Mesquite to visit my daughter and son-in-law.”
“How long have you been camped here?”
“Got here day before yesterday. I’ll be headed out first thing in the morning.”
Books wondered, but didn’t ask, what Hitch was doing camped in this desolate place. Dove Creek was a community well known for having a significant population of diggers.
“Well, I’ll be on my way, then. You travel safe, Mr. Hitch.”
“I’ll do that, Officer Books. You take care now, hear.”
Books handed him a business card. “Appreciate the tip about the Escalade. If you remember anything else or see anything that looks suspicious, I’d sure appreciate a phone call.”
“You can count on it.”
Books returned to the Tahoe, jotted down the plate number of the truck, and ran the registration. Everything checked out. He’d run a background on Eldon Hitch later.
Chapter Six
It was dark by the time Books returned to Kanab with little to show for the time he’d spent looking for witnesses save the tip about a black Escalade that would probably turn out to be useless. He stopped at his office and found a voice message from Beth Tanner asking him to join her at the Cattle Baron. He stopped at home first and changed out of his uniform.
The Cattle Baron liked to call itself a sports bar, but Books always considered that claim a stretch. The menu consisted of mediocre sandwiches, pizza, beer, and wine. A pool table stood in one corner and a wall-mounted big screen TV hung next to the bar.
The few
times he had been in the place, the only sports he’d seen on the television were pro-rodeo events or those high-stakes poker games where most of the players wore mirrored sunglasses as they tried to play head games with their opponents. Worse, the television was often tuned to Fox News, which required him to listen to a boatload of right-wing political tripe. Books didn’t much care for politicians, and he didn’t care whether they came from the left or right. Unlike most cops, his own political leanings were definitely left of center, something he figured he’d gotten from his parents, both of whom had been active members of the Democratic Party.
As he entered, he observed Tanner shooting a game of pool with a couple of off-duty Kanab City cops he recognized but couldn’t put names to. They were sharing a half-empty pitcher of beer that they’d left on the bar along with three beer steins. Between shots, she spotted him and waved him over. Books shook his head and pointed to an empty booth across from the bar where he took a seat. He ordered a pitcher of draft beer from the waitress and waited for Tanner to finish the game.
Beth Tanner looked good in uniform and even better out of it. She filled out a pair of jeans nicely. When she finished the game, she picked up her coat and a half-empty glass of beer and joined Books.
“Not up for a game of pool, huh.”
“Not really. Never could play very well.”
“Why not?”
“Poor hand-eye coordination, I guess. I discovered the problem when I was in the police academy in Denver. I was number one in my academy class until we headed over to the firing range. I came in dead last and barely scored well enough to qualify.”
“The cop who couldn’t shoot straight,” she said, laughing at him.
“That would be me. What did you want to see me about?”
Skeleton Picnic Page 3
