“I don’t know—never told me his name.”
“Are you in the habit of buying jewelry from complete strangers?”
“He wasn’t a complete stranger. I met him at City Park in a pickup basketball game. Besides, he was selling it real cheap—what can I say?”
“You can start by telling us the truth,” countered Books. “The story you’re telling us is just so much bullshit, and you know it.”
Benally shrugged, “It’s the truth.”
“Okay, so you paid two hundred twenty-five dollars for the jewelry.”
“If you say so.”
“Since you’re unemployed, where did you get the cash?”
The question caught Benally off-guard. “Stole it from my step-dad,” he finally said.
“Bet that’ll endear you to him.” Glancing at Tanner, Books said, “Make a note to check that out with his step-father.”
Books abruptly changed the direction of the interrogation. “Are you acquainted with Rolly and Abby Rogers?”
The question hit Benally like a fist to the solar plexus. He broke eye contact with Books and stared at the floor. The silence between them grew making Benally even more uncomfortable. “Well?”
“Their names sound familiar.”
“I would hope so. You took high school classes from Rolly and you worked with Abby at the Jubilee market. Isn’t that true?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t it also true that you broke into the Rogers’ home, cleaned out their artifacts collection, stole their jewelry, and then sold the jewelry to the pawn shop in St. George?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“Sure you do. Have you ever been to the Rogers home?
“No. I don’t even know where they live.”
“That’s strange,” said Books, “because your fingerprints were found plastered all over the inside of their home. How do you explain that?”
Benally looked thoroughly defeated, but he stubbornly held his ground. “Like I said before, I don’t know nothin about any B & E.”
Books wondered if he had pushed Benally too hard. “Look, Joe, you’re not in juvenile court any longer, where you’ll end up getting an ass-chewing from the judge, a fine, and some community service. You’re looking at enough felonies to put you behind bars for a long stretch. Are you prepared to do that kind of time?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Maybe you won’t have to. Tell us the truth now, and Tanner and I will put in a good word on your behalf with the prosecutor, help get you a reduced sentence.”
Benally’s voice was barely audible when he finally spoke. “If I do cooperate, what will happen to me?”
“Ultimately, that’ll be up to the judge, but I promise you, we’ll try to help.”
“I’ll think about it, but I want to talk to my lawyer first.”
Books’ heart sank realizing the interview was over. He decided to give it one last try. “Look, Joe, the Rogerses were abducted five days ago. The best chance we have of finding them alive is if we locate them soon. There’s no more time to waste. Will you help us?”
“Like I said, I gotta think about it and talk to my lawyer first.”
“Then this interview is over, and our offer to help you is withdrawn.” Books stood and walked to the door, hoping the kid would call him back. He didn’t.
Tanner followed Books into an adjacent room where Charley Sutter had been observing the interrogation. “You lied to him, J.D.,” Tanner said. “Why did you do that?”
Books sighed, “Because I can, and I thought it might help to break him down.”
“But that’s illegal, and even if it isn’t, it’s morally wrong.”
Books was in no mood to spar with Tanner. “It’s not illegal, Beth, and frankly, even if it was, I don’t give a damn. Every hour that passes, the chances of finding the Rogerses alive decline. I’d have stood on the back of his neck if I thought it would make him talk.”
Sutter had been observing this exchange with a bemused expression on his face. “I must say, J.D., you did press the kid pretty hard. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did. I just wish you’d have gotten results.”
“Well, I think it was just awful,” sputtered Tanner.
“And I’m going home.” With that, Books got up and left the room.
Chapter Fourteen
It was nearly midnight when Books got home. He was cranky, hungry, and tired. He slapped a grilled cheese sandwich into a fry pan, pulled a bottle of Coors Lite from the refrigerator, and gulped it down while he waited for the sandwich to cook. Minutes later, he had kicked off his boots and settled into his living room recliner.
From the chair, he saw the blinking red light on his answering machine. The message was from his sister, Maggie, who reported that she and Bernie had arrived safely in Salt Lake City and that Bernie was scheduled to undergo a variety of medical tests the next day. The surgery was still scheduled for Friday, although the exact time had not been determined.
“Call me sometime tomorrow afternoon,” said Maggie. “I should be able to tell you when the surgery is scheduled. Do you think you’ll be able to make it?”
As Books polished off a second beer, he thought it very unlikely that he would be able to disconnect from the investigation in time to make his father’s surgery. But he decided to see what Thursday brought. Clear thinking, after a good night’s sleep, might change his mind. When his head hit the pillow, he was out in seconds.
***
Thursday Morning—Day 6
Books awoke the next morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and bacon waffling through the trailer. He stumbled out of bed and poked his head into the kitchen to find Ned Hunsaker standing over the gas stove, spatula in hand. “About to come and get you,” he smiled.
“Smells great, I’ll be right along.”
During breakfast, Books had a chance to pick Hunsaker’s brain about the pot hunting trade.
“You never told me that you’re considered the resident expert on the illicit artifacts trade.”
“Don’t know who told you that, but it’s really not the case.”
“Rusty Steed mentioned it.”
“Hmm. I’ve read a little about it, and God knows, I spend enough time wandering through the desert wilderness, but that hardly qualifies me as an expert. I’m a librarian by training, not an archeologist.”
“So what’s your theory on what happened to Rolly and Abby Rogers?”
Ned finished chewing a bite of omelet and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee. “Hard to know, J.D. The desert can be a cruel mother. More than a few souls have ventured out there never to be seen again—not always tenderfeet, either.”
“You really think that’s what happened to them?”
“Naw, I think they’re victims of foul play.”
“Do you think it’s possible they were waylaid by local collectors, people who know them?”
“It’s possible, but I doubt it,” said Hunsaker. “Diggers are a diverse lot. You’ve got mom-and-pop types, but you’ve also got larger and better funded commercial collectors. It’s a murky business, hard to know exactly who the bad guys are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Illicit collectors can be just about anybody. It might be your neighbor, somebody you attend church with. Museum curators, antiquities dealer, hell, even trained archeologists have been caught collecting illegally. And it’s all complicated by the fact that there is a legal antiquities trade.”
“Like collectibles that were found prior to laws being passed as well as items bought and sold from private collections.”
“Yup. Even the antiquities dealers will tell you that they have no idea whether half the stuff they take in is legal or illegal.”
&n
bsp; “Interesting information, but you didn’t answer my question, Ned. What do you think happened to the Rogers couple?”
“My guess is they had the misfortune of running into a commercial operation. These guys can be pretty sophisticated. Sometimes they use back-hoes with the teeth missing—that reduces the damage to the artifacts. They come in on ATVs, by air, or on foot, and they move quickly from site to site.
“And they’re often armed to the teeth.”
“Oh, I think you can depend on that. And in the business you’re in, J.D., never forget that meth addicts are very much a part of the pot hunting culture, and they’re a dangerous bunch. You need to be damn careful out there.”
“Sound wisdom.”
Ned paused while he buttered a piece of toast. “Was it a promising dig site?”
“I wouldn’t know a promising site from one that isn’t. The immediate area looked like it had been thoroughly excavated, though, and I saw the skeletal remains of a baby.”
Ned shook his head and sighed. “Sadly, dead babies tend to make for prime finds. Infants were often buried in cradle boards or woven blankets along with other artifacts. It wouldn’t be uncommon to pull ten grand worth of collectibles out of a single baby’s grave.”
“Sounds perverted as hell to me.”
“Maybe so, but diggers don’t see it that way.”
“So how big is the market for ancient artifacts?”
“One thing pothunters share in common is that they dig because there’s demand,” said Hunsaker. “Pots that sold in the 1960s for twenty, thirty bucks are now worth thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. An article I read recently estimated the international sale of illegal artifacts is a four- to eight-billion-dollar a year business, and it’s not going away anytime soon.”
***
Sutter had scheduled a news conference at nine o’clock to discuss the arrest of Joe Benally. The sheriff had asked Books to attend to field questions the sheriff either couldn’t or didn’t want to answer. Sutter’s goal was simple. He wanted to quiet the locals who had grown restless as the days had passed and the Rogers remained missing. Books glanced at his watch. It was eight o’clock when he parked the Tahoe at BLM headquarters, giving him just enough time to check a couple of leads.
The first order of business was the telephone number he’d found in Benally’s bedroom. It looked like a Kanab number. Books used a telephone reverse directory and made an interesting discovery. The number belonged to a local business, Red Rock Touring. He knew little about the company other than advertisements he’d seen in tourist brochures promoting guided hikes, jeep, and helicopter tours. Books wondered why Benally had a piece of paper with that number written on it.
Next, he ran the name of Eldon Hitch through NCIC and the Utah Bureau of Criminal Identification database. His record was clean despite Dove Creek, Colorado’s reputation as being a haven for pot hunters. There was another way for Books to run a background check on Hitch. He placed a call to the office of Cortez, Colorado, Police Chief, Ray Mendez.
“Your reputation precedes you, Ranger Books. I think you’ve got police agencies from all over the Southwest hunting for that missing couple.”
Books wondered what Mendez meant by the comment that “his reputation had preceded him,” but he ignored it. “We need all the help we can get.”
“What can I do for you today?”
“A couple of things, actually. Have you ever heard of a guy who lives in Dove Creek by the name of Eldon Hitch?”
“Sure have,” replied Mendez. “Eldon’s an old codger who’s a fixture around Dove Creek. He’s a pot hunter—has been all his life, but that doesn’t make him unique, since half the people in that town are collectors. What makes you ask?”
Books explained that he’d found Hitch camped in a remote area near the site of the Rogers’ kidnapping.
“Seems a little odd,” said Mendez, “but it’s probably just a coincidence. If you’re thinking Eldon is somehow involved in the abduction, I think you’re wasting your time. He’s an innocent old guy who wouldn’t have the means or the heart to get involved in anything like that.”
“Appreciate your opinion. Frankly, the old boy didn’t strike me as the type either. Are you aware of any recent cases, similar to ours, in the Four Corners area where hikers or pot hunters have simply disappeared without a trace?”
Mendez thought for a minute. “Come to think of it, yeah, I think we have had a couple of disappearances over the past two or three years that we attributed to people heading off into remote areas, getting lost, and never being found. That said, we’ve never attributed any of those cases to foul play.”
“Can you get me the files?”
Mendez ignored the question. “You think there might be a connection to your case?”
“I don’t know, but it has occurred to me that mom-and-pop operators might make for easy pickings.”
“Damn, never thought about that possibility. To answer your previous question, yeah, I can get you the case files, but I’ve got another suggestion. I’d like you to call Sergeant Dan Walker. He’s with the Durango Police Department.”
“And how can Sergeant Walker help me?”
“Dan supervises a special unit called the Four Corners Task Force. The task force is made up of police officers from various agencies in the area.”
Books had never heard of this unit. “So what exactly do they do?
“They’re an intelligence sharing group that conducts joint investigations on everything from drug trafficking to cases involving the illegal antiquities trade. Dan would be a better person to talk to than me, and he can get you the files you’re interested in.”
Books took the number, thanked Mendez for his assistance, and sprinted to the Tahoe. If he hurried, he would just make it in time for Sheriff Sutter’s news conference.
Chapter Fifteen
Books arrived moments before the press conference. He was surprised at the number of media outlets represented. There was more interest in the case than he had previously believed. Sheriff Sutter was standing in the hallway outside the training room engaged in an animated discussion with his jail commander. When Sutter spotted Books, he motioned him over. Books assumed the discussion had something to do with the impending news conference, but he was in for a surprise.
“I just learned something you’re going to find quite interesting,” said Sutter. “And, frankly, I’m not sure what to make of it.”
“And what would that be?”
“Joe Benally was just arraigned in district court and…”
“Don’t tell me the judge released him on his own recognizance,” countered Books.
“No, it wasn’t that. It seems that Mr. Benally has been assigned defense counsel.”
“Nothing unusual about that.”
“In this instance, I’m afraid there is—since his lawyer is Becky Eddins.”
The expression on Books’ face went from shock to one of disbelief. “You can’t be serious. She can’t do that—talk about a conflict of interest.”
“That’s what the DA tried to argue, but Judge Wilkins didn’t buy it. Evidently, the kid’s mother called Becky and requested that she represent the boy. Becky sat down with them before the hearing and explained the nature of her relationship with you, figuring that would be the end of it.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No, it wasn’t. They marched into court and laid the whole scenario out for Judge Wilkins. Apparently, the judge thoroughly explained the situation to Benally a second time and did everything he could to convince the kid that this wasn’t a good idea.”
“All to no avail, I suppose,” said Books. “I think Becky has represented Benally in the past during some of his juvenile court cases.”
“If there’s a history, that might explain their insis
tence on Becky representing him again,” said Sutter. “In any event, Benally and his mother reiterated their desire for Becky to defend the boy and the court went along.”
“The DA ought to appeal that decision.”
“He could, but I’m not sure he’s going to. Benally signed a written waiver indicating that he understood the nature of the relationship between you and Becky, and, despite that, he still wanted her to represent him.”
“Well, it is what it is,” said Books. “We’ll just have to deal with it. One of my former colleagues from Denver P.D. robbery/homicide found himself in a relationship with an attorney who worked for the public defender’s office.”
“What happened?”
“They’ve been together for eight years, married for seven.”
The beginnings of a slight smile played at the corners of Charley Sutter’s mouth as though an idea was beginning to take shape. “Perhaps, J.D., you can turn this into an advantage for us. Since you’re cozy with Becky, maybe you can coax her into getting Benally to talk to us—worth a try, don’t you think?”
“We need the kid’s cooperation, that’s for sure, but if you’re thinking my relationship with her will translate into an automatic offer of full cooperation, I wouldn’t bet on it. Becky Eddins takes her advocacy role very seriously. It’s going to cost us something. I’m just not sure what.”
Sutter headed off to what turned out to be a routine press conference. He answered a few questions about Joe Benally but carefully skirted all questions about the evidence gathered as well as possible motives for the crime. Afterward, as Books left the building, Lamont Christensen, the editor of the local Kane County Citizen, approached. Books moved quickly hoping he could avoid Christensen, but the man fell in step beside him. The newspaper had been openly critical of Books during the recent murder investigation of environmental activist David Greenbriar, and there was no love lost between the two men.
“What’s up, Lamont?”
“Looks like you’ve put yourself square in the middle of another controversy.”
Books glanced at Christensen but continued walking. “Afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
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