Skeleton Picnic

by Michael Norman

  From downstairs, Books and Mendez heard Walker shout, “Bingo.”

  “What have you got?” hollered Books.

  “Come down here and have a look-see.”

  Walker was standing in front of a six-foot-high walnut veneer bookshelf with two folding doors that had been padlocked using a cheap key lock. Inside, the shelves were full of every kind of Anasazi and Fremont Indian antiquity imaginable.

  “Any of this look familiar?” asked Walker.

  Books looked carefully at each artifact. “Yeah, I think several pieces came from the Rogers collection. When I get back to Kanab, we’ll compare them to the photos the family provided, but I’m pretty sure we’ve got some of it.”

  “How did you get that unlocked?” asked Mendez.

  Smiling, Walker held up a small key.

  “Some genius left it on the top shelf of the bookcase.”

  They photographed everything in the exact location where it had been found. Evidence tags and plastic bags were used to collect each item. Some of the more fragile pieces were carefully wrapped in paper and placed in cardboard boxes prior to removal.

  Like Books and Mendez, Walker had found small amounts of marijuana on the main level of the home in sufficient quantity to have kept several people pleasantly intoxicated for a considerable period of time.

  They loaded everything into Books’ F-150 and then parted company. Mendez returned to Monticello while Walker and Books drove to the Blanding Police Department, eager to interrogate Jason Buck.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Sunday Noon—Day 10

  Jason Buck was brought from a small holding cell in the basement of the police department to an office normally occupied by the police chief. Since it was Sunday, the chief was off-duty and Books had been given permission to use the office to question him

  During the intervening hours between the time he was arrested and the interrogation, the kid had regained a measure of sobriety. Perhaps the gravity of the situation he faced contributed to that. The blank expression and glazed look in his eyes were gone. For nearly a minute, Books and Walker stared at Buck without speaking. Buck cast his eyes down avoiding eye contact.

  “I wonder if you have any idea about the amount of trouble you’re in,” began Books. “The party’s over, Jason. Benally has given us a statement implicating you in numerous crimes sufficient to keep you behind bars for the rest of your life. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  He nodded, “Yeah.”

  “So here’s what we’re going to do. Sergeant Walker here is going to advise you of your constitutional rights. When he’s finished, we’d like to ask you some questions. My advice to you, and it’s the same advice I gave Joe Benally, is that you cooperate. At least we’ll be able to tell the court that despite your involvement in some horrific crimes, you at least assumed responsibility for what you did, and cooperated with us to make things right. Hopefully, the court will take that into consideration when you’re sentenced.”

  Walker read him the Miranda warnings, and asked if he was willing to waive his rights and answer questions without the presence of an attorney.

  To their relief, Buck agreed to talk. Maybe the long-winded speeches had resonated with him on some level and he realized that his cooperation was the one card he could play that would work in his favor. Or perhaps the sheer guilt of what he had done was tearing him apart like a malignant tumor eating away at his insides. In the end, the motive for Buck’s cooperation didn’t really matter anyway. What mattered to Books was getting him to help solve the puzzle.

  Books covered much of the same ground with Buck that he had the day before with Joe Benally. Buck’s statement corroborated virtually everything Benally had told them. What Books hoped for, however, was that Buck could shed additional light on the whereabouts of the Rogers couple as well as the involvement of Brett Gentry.

  “Have you ever meant a gentleman by the name of Brett Gentry?” Books asked.

  “Yeah, a time or two.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “My dad gave me stuff to take to him.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Stolen shit, mostly.”

  “Would this stuff typically include stolen pots and other artifacts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where did you meet Mr. Gentry?”

  “Different places, St. George sometimes, and Page.”

  “Did you ever meet him in Kanab?”

  Buck had to think about that for a moment before answering. “Only once that I can remember. He never wanted to meet in Kanab.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know—probably afraid somebody would see him.”

  “Did he pay you for the artifacts you brought to him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you negotiate prices with Gentry for the artifacts?”

  “Naw, my dad or Jimmy always did that. I just delivered the stuff.”

  Books decided to shift the interrogation in a new direction.

  “You participated in the kidnapping of Rolly and Abby Rogers. Correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you do with them after the kidnapping?”

  “Man, I don’t know and that’s the God’s honest truth. They were okay when me and Joey split. I mean they was tied up and everything, but they weren’t hurt.”

  “So when you and Joey left, who stayed behind with the Rogers couple?”

  “My dad and Jimmy.”

  “What about Bobby Case? Was he still there?’

  “Nope. He split before me and Joey did.”

  “And you’d like us to believe that you have no idea where your father and brother took them. Is that right?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

  “You think they’re still alive?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  “What makes you think they might be alive?”

  “Cuz Jimmy and my dad wouldn’t hurt anybody, that’s why.”

  Books thought the youngster sounded almost indignant—like he didn’t think it was possible that the Rogerses might have been killed and their bodies dumped in some God forsaken part of the desert. Buck was either lying or extremely naïve. Books wasn’t sure which.

  As the interview wound down, the one area where the statements of Benally and Buck didn’t jibe had to do with the possibility that the Bucks had preyed on other unsuspecting souls much like the Rogers. Jason Buck vehemently denied that his family had engaged in any prior kidnappings. Benally, however, had at least intimated that the Bucks were no strangers to kidnapping other pot hunters and hijacking their artifacts. Benally had even mentioned overhearing a conversation between Earl and Jimmy Buck in which a reference was made to their having taken down another digger in Chaco Canyon.

  Books arranged for Jason Buck to be transported to Kanab by the Utah Highway Patrol. He would be booked into the Kane County jail pending the filing of formal criminal charges by the DA. Walker and Books prepared to part company with promises of continued cooperation.

  “What do you think the chances really are that the Rogers kidnapping was a first for the Buck clan?” Books asked.

  “Quite small, I’m afraid,” said Walker. “If you recall, we’ve got a missing persons case from a year-and-a-half ago from Chaco Canyon.”

  “Do you have a body to go with it?”

  “We do—a known pot hunter from Shiprock. We’ll reinvestigate that case and go over everything with a fine tooth comb.”

  “You might need to exhume the body,” noted Books.

  “Very possible. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Likewise.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The return drive to Kanab b
ecame an exercise in trying to stay awake. Books had been up for more than thirty straight hours, and his increased coffee consumption had done little to keep him alert. It did, however, necessitate numerous, unscheduled stops to relieve his overstressed bladder.

  He hadn’t checked his cell for messages in several hours. When he finally did, he discovered two—one from Becky Eddins and the other from Beth Tanner. The messages were nearly identical. An FBI swat team had closed in on the Bucks early Sunday morning. Shots had been exchanged, and when the dust cleared, the body of Earl Buck was found concealed in a rocky outcropping from which he’d made his last stand. The only question remaining was whether he’d taken his own life or succumbed from the wounds Books had inflicted the day before.

  That was the good news.

  The bad news was that his son, Jimmy, had disappeared without a trace. The search would continue of course, but Books somehow doubted that it would culminate in the arrest of the last member of the of the Buck family.

  Despite his fatigue, Books was summoned to meet with Sutter and Maldonado to discuss the case against Brett Gentry. What concerned him most was that unless they could prove conspiracy on Gentry’s part, he might end up charged with only some lightweight offense like receiving stolen property. To Books, it didn’t feel like justice for the man he believed was the brain trust behind this hideous criminal enterprise.

  It was nearly two a.m. when Books reached the outskirts of Kanab. He stopped at BLM headquarters to secure the evidence seized at the Buck home. Prior to his appointment as Kanab’s first law enforcement ranger, there had been no need for a secure place to store evidence. Shortly after his arrival, he’d set up a makeshift storage room near his office where evidence could be held pending court. Only he and Monument Manager Alexis Runyon had a key. It was nothing fancy, but it served to maintain the chain of custody of evidence prior to trial. After he finished logging each item, he headed over to the sheriff’s department.

  The duty officer informed Books that Charley Sutter and Randy Maldonado were napping on cots in the sheriff’s office but had left word to awaken them immediately upon his arrival. Books was ushered into the conference room and told that Sutter and Maldonado would join him momentarily. The room looked like it had been used as a cafeteria. Empty pizza boxes, pop cans, paper plates, and napkins were scattered everywhere. The lingering smell of pizza did little to assuage Books’ hunger. To his way of thinking, nothing tasted better than cold pizza and an even colder beer, except maybe hot pizza and a cold beer.

  Books found an unopened bottle of water in the refrigerator and had about finished it when Sutter and Maldonado entered the room. Like Books, neither man had slept much during the past twenty-four hours. They were haggard-looking and unshaven, with dark circles under their eyes, the stress of the current crisis obviously weighing on them.

  “Well, J.D., we got one of the bastards,” said Sutter, trying to stifle a yawn. “How did things go in Blanding?”

  It was difficult for Books to contain his excitement. “It really couldn’t have gone much better. Besides apprehending Jason Buck, we found a stash of antiquities in the house.”

  “Any of it from the Rogers’ home?”

  “Some pieces, for sure, but lots of other stuff too. We’re exploring a possible connection between a dead pot hunter discovered in Chaco Canyon and the Buck crew. The Four Corners Task Force is working with us on that.”

  “We’ll take all the help we can get,” said Sutter.

  “How do you want to handle things with Brett Gentry?” asked Books.

  “We probably ought to consult our FBI friends,” said Maldonado, “but I recommend we place Gentry under surveillance in case he decides to hightail it. While we’re doing that, J.D. can prepare search warrants for the Gentrys’ home and office and an arrest warrant for Brett.”

  Sutter nodded in agreement. “You okay with that, J.D.?”

  “It’s a good plan,” replied Books.

  “I agree. Randy and I will sit down with the FBI and get them to buy in. I don’t see any reason why they would object.”

  The conversation waned momentarily until Maldonado broke the silence. “This is a little awkward, J.D., but we also need to discuss how to handle the situation with your brother-in-law.”

  Books had been expecting this, so it came as no surprise. “What do you suggest?”

  “Charley and I have talked it over, and we think it would be best for all concerned, if you stayed as far away as possible from the legal proceedings against Bobby,” said Maldonado.

  “Meaning what, exactly?” said Books.

  “Meaning you’re not to be involved in that part of the investigation any longer. We’ll get the arrest warrant, and we’ll pick him up,” said Maldonado.

  “We think this is for your own good,” noted Sutter. “After all, Bobby is family. You’ll have enough problems on your hands without having to deal with this.”

  Books knew it made sense, and he also realized that he didn’t have a choice in the matter. For the moment, Randy Maldonado was as much his boss as Monument Manager Alexis Runyon was, and he undoubtedly spoke for the BLM brass in Salt Lake City.

  “I understand,” replied Books, “one favor, though.”

  “If we can,” said Maldonado.

  “Can I have your permission to sit down with my sister, Maggie, and explain to her what’s going on before you come for Bobby?”

  Maldonado looked skeptical.

  “Sorry, J.D.—can’t do that,” said Sutter, without hesitation. “It’s not a good idea. I’m sure you understand why. Go on home now and get a few hours’ sleep. You won’t be any good to anybody until you do.”

  Books didn’t try to argue the point. “Fair enough. I’ll plan to be back in my office by seven. Will there be anything else?”

  Sutter and Maldonado glanced at each other. “Yeah, there is one more thing,” said Maldonado.

  Books watched as Sutter fumbled through a folder on the table in front of him. He removed a zip-lock baggie with a note scrawled on it in nearly illegible handwriting.

  “We found this on the body of Earl Buck,” said Sutter.

  The note read, “You killed my father. We have unfinished business.”

  It was not difficult to figure out who the unsigned note was from and who it was intended for. The thought gave Books the creeps. He had little doubt that Jimmy Buck was potentially the most dangerous member of the family, given his military training, combat experience, and youth. What’s more, he now had a powerful motive to seek vengeance—the death of his father.

  “Are you telling me this for any particular reason other than you thought I should know?” said Books.

  “Well,” said Sutter, “our FBI colleagues suggested we might consider, oh, how should I say this….?”

  “Using me as a tethered goat.”

  “Uh, I wouldn’t put it that way,” said Sutter, “but I suppose that’s what it comes down to.”

  “Tell ’em thanks, but I’m not interested.”

  The meeting ended and Books headed home. As exhausted as he was, he drove past the trailer twice, looking around carefully for anything that appeared out of place. In the morning he would talk to Ned Hunsaker and ask him to keep his eyes open and report anything unusual.

  At home Books lay down on the bed without bothering to undress and fell immediately to sleep. He had always been a light sleeper, and shortly before dawn, noise from outside the trailer awakened him with a start. He remained motionless on the bed, listening intently. Nothing. He was about to drift back to sleep when he heard the sound again. This time he rolled out of bed onto the cold trailer floor, and reached for the .25 caliber he’d left holstered on the nightstand next to his bed. Whatever he’d heard had come from behind the trailer in an area where Hunsaker temporarily stored anything he wanted to get r
id of. The old man was a pack rat, and whenever he had accumulated enough trash, he’d light it up using a rusty old oil drum as an incinerator.

  Books crept slowly to the trailer’s front door, carefully looking around before stepping outside. Gun in hand he stepped quickly to one end of the trailer closest to where he’d heard the noises. When he peeked around the corner, he saw the poorest excuse for a pit bull he’d ever seen. The dog was filthy and looked like it hadn’t had a meal in a long time. She was so skinny Books could count her ribs.

  It was impossible not to feel sorry for her. Books debated about what to do. She was obviously a stray. He could call animal control. The county operated a small, underfunded shelter outside town.

  Then he had another idea. He went back inside, opened his frig, and removed a take-home box of Mexican food from Escobars. It was mostly rice and beans. He put it in a plastic cereal bowl and brought it outside along with a second bowl filled with water. When the stray noticed him, she acted skittish and trotted a short distance away. She regarded him warily as he set the food and water down. He called her, but she wouldn’t come, so he left the food and water and returned to the trailer. He showered, put on his uniform, and left for work thirty minutes later. On his way out, he noticed the dog was gone, as was the food and most of the water.

  He stopped at Ned Hunsaker’s home for coffee on his way into the office. So far, Books had failed to convince him that a French press was the best way to prepare coffee, but the old man enjoyed his cup and didn’t buy cheap beans either. Books tried to keep him supplied with whatever coffee he was roasting at the time.

  “Sit yourself down, young fella. I must say you keep odd hours.”

  “You heard me come in last night. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “Not last night, this morning, and no, you didn’t disturb me. Can’t sleep worth a damn anymore, no matter what I do.”

  “That’s what I’ve got to look forward too, huh.”

  “Afraid so. What’s up?”

  “I was drawn to your doorstep by the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls—figured I’d stop by and pig out before heading in this morning.”