Skeleton Picnic

by Michael Norman

  Tanner reached into her coat and removed a manila envelope.

  “I brought you copies of the police reports on the Rogers B&E—everything except the lab reports. Those are going to take a while.”

  “Appreciate that,” said Books. “You work fast. I’ll get you copies of mine just as soon as I can find the time to get them written.”

  “That works. I figured we might as well share information, since Charley wants the two cases worked together.”

  “That probably makes good sense. My BLM superiors have essentially delegated the pot-hunting case to me for follow up.”

  “I’m not surprised, given your reputation.”

  Books wondered what she meant by “reputation.”

  “Yeah, the way you handled that murder case last year. I was in the academy at the time. Kanab’s never seen anything like it—I mean a Las Vegas hit man in town. It doesn’t get any cooler than that.”

  “It didn’t strike me as all that cool, since I ended up getting shot.”

  “I heard. You heal up okay?”

  “Just fine, thanks.”

  For the next hour they drank beer and made small talk about policing and their lives outside of work. Elizabeth Tanner was single. She was the youngest of five children, and the only female. Family influence played a major role in Tanner’s decision to enter law enforcement. An uncle and two brothers were cops.

  She had grown up in a family that placed a premium on self-reliance and participation in all manner of outdoor sports. She was an avid hunter, backpacker, cross-country skier, and motorcycle racer, dirt bikes mostly. She also considered herself an accomplished, if out of practice, karaoke singer.

  They finished the pitcher of beer. Tanner suggested they find a restaurant for dinner. Books asked for a rain check, citing fatigue and the prospect of a long day ahead. The excuses sounded lame, even to him.

  Tanner’s invitation seemed innocent enough, but Books was wary. His own divorce had been final for less than six months. The closest he had gotten to any member of the opposite sex since his return to Kanab was local attorney Becky Eddins, and that relationship had its ups and downs.

  ***

  Books found the message light blinking on his ancient answering machine when he got home. He hit the rewind button and listened to messages from Charley Sutter and BLM Special Agent Randy Maldonado. Both men asked for a return call as soon as possible. Books glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. The calls would have to wait until morning.

  The last message was from his father, Bernie, asking him to meet the next morning at seven at a local java joint called Beans & Such. He had invited Books’ younger sister Maggie as well. That piqued his interest. He wondered what was on the old man’s agenda that required an immediate council of sorts with his two children.

  Books’ relationship with Bernie had improved marginally in the nine months since his return to Kanab, but he still hadn’t completely adjusted to the shocking revelation that Ned Hunsaker was his biological father, not Bernie. The relationship with Bernie was still awkward, distant, and lacking emotional intimacy—not something Books blamed entirely on the old man. A part of him preferred it that way. Books had kept the paternity secret to himself, not sharing it with Bernie, his sister Maggie, or anyone else.

  He had no sooner undressed and gone to bed when the telephone rang. He turned on the bedside lamp and picked up. It was Charley Sutter.

  “Sorry to bother you so late, J.D. I called earlier, but you were out.”

  “That’s okay, I wasn’t asleep. Any news?”

  “None. The family is becoming increasingly anxious, and that spells trouble for you.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re planning to organize a search party made up mostly of friends, relatives, and a few volunteers. They’re chomping at the bit to get out to the campsite and start snooping around.”

  “It’s easy to understand their anxiety.”

  “Of course it is, but you can’t have them running around out there tearing up the crime scene.”

  “I understand. I’d be happy to talk to them, but I think they’re more apt to listen to you.”

  “You’re right. I’ll try to talk some sense into them.”

  “Maldonado left me a message earlier—any idea what he wanted?”

  “I haven’t talked to him, so I’m not sure,” replied Sutter. “Maybe he wants to give you an update on how the crime scene processing went.”

  “Maybe. What about the Rogers’ home. Is it still sealed or has the family had access?”

  “We’ve kept everybody out, family included. I told them we’d let them know when we were finished. Until then, it’s a crime scene and off limits to everybody.”

  “You’d best be sure that Deputy Tanner has done everything inside that house that needs to be done—because the family will undoubtedly want access sooner rather than later.”

  “I’ll look into it, and if anything else needs to be done, I’ll send for a CSI unit.”

  “I’ll touch base with Tanner in the morning and make sure she’s on the right track.”

  “Thanks, J.D. She’s a good kid but green as grass. Let’s talk tomorrow.” They disconnected.

  Books slept badly that night. He lay awake for a long time going over every theory he could think of that might explain the disappearance of Rolly and Abigail Rogers. Was their disappearance connected to the burglary of their home? So far, there was no evidence linking the disappearance with the burglary. Books, however, doubted the two events were unrelated—too much coincidence.

  His police instincts told him that working backwards from the burglary would give him the best chance of discovering the whereabouts of the missing couple.

  The hodge-podge of tracks around the dig site made it clear that the Rogers’ had been interrupted by a number of unknown subjects. There were no obvious signs of a struggle, but that didn’t mean much. Had they been kidnapped? If so, why hadn’t the family heard from somebody demanding a ransom?

  Books didn’t want to imagine the alternative—that the Rogers were taken hostage, led to some remote part of the desert and killed, their bones left to bleach under the hot desert sun. In such expansive and remote terrain, the bodies might never be recovered, particularly if they had been hidden or buried.

  As he lay awake, he wondered what had become of the sleepy little ranch community he’d grown up in. By returning to Kanab, he had hoped to escape the grinding poverty and crime of big cities like Denver. Yet, in less than a year as a BLM ranger, he had encountered multiple murders and now the disappearance of a prominent local couple.

  ***

  Tuesday Morning—Day 5

  The phone rang just as Books climbed out of the shower. The caller was his sister, Maggie. “Morning Mags, what’s up?”

  “You got the message from dad?”

  “Sure did. I haven’t a clue what this little get-together is about. Do you?”

  “No idea. It came out of the clear blue. I’m worried about it, though.”

  “Hell, sis, maybe he’s bringing us together to announce he’s marrying a hooker and moving to Las Vegas.”

  “Not funny, J.D.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe he’s decided to move away from Kanab. You mentioned that he was spending time in Vegas. Let’s face it. Kanab isn’t a great town if you’re a single senior who enjoys female companionship. Vegas, on the other hand…”

  “Hadn’t thought about that possibility. It makes sense, though.”

  “I can’t think of what else it might be. And who knows, perhaps we’re making a big to-do about nothing. Maybe the old man just wants to have breakfast with his kids.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not like him.” She sighed. “Well, I guess we’re ab
out to find out. See you in a few minutes.”

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Books arrived at Beans & Such, he found Maggie and his father sequestered at a corner table engaged in a quiet conversation. Judging from the empty coffee cups, the meeting had begun without him. Maggie dabbed tears from her eyes with a paper napkin—not a good sign he thought.

  The two men exchanged subdued but pleasant greetings before Books turned his attention to his sister. “Mags, what’s wrong?”

  Teary eyed, she blew her nose into the napkin.

  Books turned to his father. “What’s going on, Bernie?”

  “I got colon cancer, son, stage 3, they tell me.”

  Books tried to hide his sense of alarm, not wanting it to register on his face. “I’m really sorry to hear that. Who are you seeing?”

  “The docs at the University of Utah Hospital.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “You should have told us right away, dad. Why didn’t you?” Maggie’s voice held an edge.

  “Been putting it off, I guess. I didn’t want to burden you kids with my problem. You’ve got enough to worry about in your own lives without having to fret about mine.”

  “But, Dad, that’s what families do,” Maggie said. “If we don’t worry about you, who will?”

  “She’s right, Bernie. What made you think something was wrong in the first place?”

  “I haven’t been feeling all that well for the last couple of months—not much appetite, weight loss, tired all the time. So I went in to see old Doc Petty. He listened carefully to my list of symptoms, gave me a thorough physical, including a blood test, and then referred me to the hospital for a colonoscopy. The colonoscopy revealed the tumor so Doc Petty referred me to an oncologist acquaintance of his at the Huntsman Cancer Center in Salt Lake City. I’ve been running back and forth to Salt Lake for the past couple of weeks.”

  Doc Petty had been the family physician for as long as Books could remember. He’d run a family practice in Kanab for generations. Getting referred by Petty to a specialized cancer treatment center must have scared the old man half to death, thought Books. The experience would scare anyone.

  “You mean you’ve been going to Salt Lake City to see the cancer specialists while you’ve been telling us you’re off in Las Vegas partying.” Maggie’s irritation was even more evident. Bernie nodded, head down, avoiding eye contact with her.

  Books quickly came to his rescue. “Nothing we can do about that, Mags. Best let go of it and figure out how to help D…, Bernie going forward.”

  Maggie softened. “What happens now, Dad?”

  “They got me scheduled for surgery Friday of next week. They’re going to cut out part of my colon, sew it back together, and then put me through several weeks of chemotherapy.”

  They decided Maggie would travel to Salt Lake City with their father prior to the surgery. Books would arrange home health care services after his father returned to Kanab. He would also try to be at the hospital for the surgery if his work schedule permitted. His father’s illness couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  Books left the coffee shop badly shaken and headed for his office. What was he feeling? He wasn’t sure—sadness, regret, guilt—perhaps some of each. He never anticipated having to confront a health care crisis in the life of the man who had raised him, nor had he figured to be so upset about the news. But he was.

  From his office, Books called Dr. Petty’s office where a pleasant sounding female voice asked him to leave a detailed message. He then Googled stage 3, colon cancer, and quickly found the information he sought.

  He learned the survival rate for individuals diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer varied by the location of the tumor as well as the stage it was in. There were five stages of colon cancer. The overall survival rate for people with stage 3 was 62 percent, meaning that nearly two out of three patients were still alive five years after the initial diagnosis. That was good news.

  ***

  Books turned his attention back to the dual investigations. He carefully perused Deputy Tanner’s police report to get a better handle on things she had already done, clues she might have overlooked, and leads she hadn’t had time to follow.

  Despite all the advances in forensic science, Books still believed that most serious crimes were solved the old-fashioned way, by talking to people. After reading the report, it was clear that while Tanner had interviewed some people, there were many more she hadn’t spoken to who might have pertinent information.

  He dialed the sheriff’s office and discovered that she was off-duty and unavailable. He sorted through his own file until he found her phone numbers. She didn’t pick up the home number so he left a message on her cell. Ten minutes later, Tanner stuck her head in his office.

  Books glanced up from the notes he was writing in the investigative file. “Working on your days off, huh. That’s got to make Charley happy.”

  Tanner shrugged. “Not much choice, really. The sheriff’s feeling a lot of pressure right now, and when Charley feels it, he makes sure the rest of us do as well.”

  “No rest for the wicked.”

  “I guess not. Have you had time to read my report?

  “I have, Beth, and I think you’re moving in the right direction. Keep talking to people—friends, family, coworkers, even enemies if you can find any. In the meantime I’m going to be looking at the Rogers’ bank account. I want to find out whether there have been any withdrawals in the last day or two—checks written, ATM withdrawals, that kind of thing.”

  “You’re thinking that the kidnappers might have forced them to get cash.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I’ll also pay a visit to the area pawn shops. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some of the jewelry or items from the antiquities collection. My guess is that whoever broke into the house didn’t do it because they wanted to add to their own antiquities collection. They’ll want to turn the jewelry and artifacts into quick cash.”

  “And the easiest way to do that is by selling them at pawn shops.”

  “Yup. Any idea where the Rogers do their banking?”

  Tanner shook her head.

  “That’s okay. There are only two banks in town, and it’s got to be one of them. I’ll check it out.”

  “What about the pawn shops? I’d be glad to help you there.”

  “Maybe later. For now, why don’t you stick with the interviews? We’ll touch base later in the day and see where we are.”

  ***

  On his way out of the office, Books ran into his boss, Monument Manager Alexis Runyon. She had heard about the missing couple but didn’t have many details. Books filled her in.

  “Be sure you keep me in the loop,” said Runyon, “in case we start getting calls from the regional office in Salt Lake City.”

  “Will do. I expect the case will start attracting increased media attention, particularly since they remain missing.”

  As he climbed into the Tahoe, a smiling Runyon said, “By the way, I really enjoyed taking your money Saturday night. How was your Sunday morning hangover?”

  “Substantial. And remember, Alexis, payback’s a bitch. Have a nice day.”

  At his second stop, Books learned that Rolly and Abby Rogers banked at the Kane County Regional Bank in Kanab. Delbert Adams, the bank manager, agreed to dispense with the legal niceties that would have required Books to obtain a court order before accessing bank records.

  “Abby and Rolly maintain joint savings and checking accounts here at the bank,” said Adams.

  “Can you check for recent account activity?”

  “Sure. Let me just change screens.” Moments later, Books had his answer. “No activity
in the savings account for more than two weeks,” said Adams. “Not so, I’m afraid, with the checking account. The account shows two recent ATM withdrawals. The first occurred on Saturday night, at 11:54 p.m., for $500.00. The second occurred ten minutes later on Sunday morning, at 12:05 a.m., again for $500. Five-hundred is the maximum any customer can withdraw in a twenty-four hour period.”

  “Where were these withdrawals made?”

  “The Page Community Bank in Page, Arizona,” replied Adams.

  Books was sure of one thing. Whoever made the withdrawals wanted to get the maximum amount of cash in one visit to the ATM. It wasn’t hard to imagine kidnappers forcing a PIN from the terrified couple. Given the timeline, Books concluded that Rolly and Abby Rogers were probably taken soon after their arrival at the dig site. Who abducted them, and why, remained a mystery.

  “What would it take to freeze the accounts right now?” asked Books.

  Adams made a couple of key strokes and said, “Done. The accounts are frozen. I’ll have to notify the family, Melissa since she’s local.”

  Books thanked the bank manager, jumped in the Tahoe, and made the one-hour drive to Page in just over forty-five minutes. He planned to check the pawn shops and make a stop at the Page Community Bank. He wanted to see the surveillance tapes of the ATM transactions during the time the Rogers’ withdrawals had been made.

  Page had one pawn shop, and it operated as a combination pawn and payday loan store—the type that preys on the underclass by offering small, short-term loans at exorbitant interest rates.

  Books found Page Quick Loan and Pawn in a strip mall one block off the main drag. He was greeted by a heavy-set, middle-aged woman who introduced herself as May Flagg. She looked like a woman who had seen and heard just about all there was to see and hear. The silver ring above the pierced eyebrow, coupled with the multiple body tattoos and copious amounts of makeup, made her look like a carnival performer who might handle snakes and offer tarot readings on the side.

  She gave Books the once over. “Never seen feds in here before, only a few local cops. What can I do for you, officer?”