by Mike Lawson
DeMarco made the two-and-a-half-hour drive north on a day when the sun beat down without mercy on the land. At one point he saw a dust devil, like a small tornado, whirling toward five or six cows that had their heads down eating whatever it is they ate on the sagebrush plain. If the cows noticed the dust devil, it didn’t seem to bother them as they just kept on placidly grazing. DeMarco hoped that if reincarnation was actually a possibility that he wouldn’t be reincarnated as a cow.
He arrived in Casper mid-afternoon. He figured he was probably wasting his time, but talking to the FBI was better than doing nothing. That is, it was better than doing nothing if the FBI would talk to him.
The FBI’s office was located in the Dick Cheney Federal Building on East B Street, a four-story, grayish-white concrete box with slits cut into it for windows. DeMarco started to park his car then a thought occurred to him, and he used his phone to find a place nearby where he could have copies made. He drove over to a Staples and used one of their machines to make a copy of Shannon’s journal. He also bought two brown accordion file folders and put the copy in one and the original in the other.
Back at the federal building, he told the security guards manning the metal detectors that he had information for the FBI agent handling the case of the BLM agent murdered near Waverly. He was told to plant his ass in an uncomfortable plastic chair and fifteen minutes later a woman wearing jeans and a white polo shirt, and with a Glock in a holster on her hip, approached him.
She said, “I’m Special Agent C.J. McCord. Who are you?”
McCord had short blonde hair, a pug nose, and a square jaw. She was what his mother would have called “a big-boned girl.” She wasn’t fat, just solid, about five nine, with a thick waist, substantial hips, and muscular arms and thighs. DeMarco had always gotten a kick out of female cops in movies, those size-two starlets that weigh a hundred and two pounds, karate-kicking six-foot-four bad guys into submission. But McCord . . . He could see her doing that.
DeMarco told her his name and figuring it couldn’t hurt, told her he worked for Congress. He showed her his congressional ID and his driver’s license.
“What are you doing here in Wyoming, Mr. DeMarco?” McCord asked.
DeMarco said, “Do you think we could go to your office to have this discussion.” Then he held up the accordion folder containing the copy of Shannon’s journal and added, “I have some information here that might be useful to you regarding Jeff Hunter’s murder.”
McCord hesitated briefly, then obtained a badge from the security guards that said visitor on it. She gave the badge to DeMarco, he affixed it to his shirt, and she escorted him to a windowless room on the second floor containing a small table and four wooden chairs. DeMarco suspected it was an interrogation room, which made him feel as if he was being treated like a criminal.
McCord said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t leave this room.”
McCord returned to her desk and in five minutes learned that DeMarco didn’t have a criminal record or any outstanding warrants. Then, because she was curious, she googled him.
The all-knowing Internet informed her that DeMarco had been arrested for killing a congressman named Lyle Canton, who, at the time, had been the House Majority Whip. Once she had read the article she remembered the case because the death of the congressman had been a big deal, but she hadn’t paid any attention to it as she’d been in Afghanistan at the time chasing a homegrown terrorist. She continued reading and learned that DeMarco was never tried for Canton’s murder because the FBI field office in Washington eventually learned that DeMarco had been framed for the crime and then learned who the real killer was. The other thing she learned was that according to several articles posted online, DeMarco was John Mahoney’s fixer, although exactly what he did to earn that title was never specified. McCord was absolutely certain that John Mahoney was a criminal—just one who’d been devious enough to never get caught. As for DeMarco, she wasn’t sure.
Now knowing who she was talking to, McCord returned to the interrogation room to see what DeMarco had to say.
The door to the room opened and McCord walked in and took a seat across from DeMarco.
“So,” she said. “What information do you have for me?”
“You know about the murder of the writer Shannon Doyle?
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Well, Shannon was a good friend of mine and I’m not buying the story that she was the victim of some random robbery committed by a trucker passing through Waverly, which is the theory that the Sweetwater County sheriff is currently pursuing.”
“How do you know what the sheriff is pursuing?”
“Because I’ve talked to the deputy heading up the investigation. I came to Wyoming because I wanted to learn more about Shannon’s murder.”
“Did Congress authorize your visit?” McCord asked.
“No. I’m out here on my own.”
“You’re saying that John Mahoney didn’t send you.”
“That’s right. Mahoney doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“Huh,” McCord said, seeming skeptical. But then skepticism was a trait common to most folks in law enforcement.
“So you came to Wyoming to do your own investigation? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I didn’t come here to do an investigation,” DeMarco said. “I came out here to see what the local cops were doing to find Shannon’s murderer and so far, I’m not impressed.”
“Shannon Doyle must have been a pretty good friend.”
“She was,” DeMarco said.
“Okay, but why are you talking to me? The FBI isn’t investigating Miss Doyle’s murder. And what does her death have to do with Jeff Hunter?”
DeMarco said, “I think there’s a possibility that Shannon might have learned something that posed a threat to the person who killed Hunter and maybe that’s why she was murdered.”
“What makes you think that?”
DeMarco pointed to the folder that he’d placed on the table. “That contains a copy of a journal that Shannon kept while she was in Wyoming researching her next book. The copy’s for you. In the journal, she talks about Hiram Bunt’s son, a guy named Sonny, getting into a fight with Hunter and Hunter beating the shit out of Sonny and embarrassing him in front of his friends. I didn’t know if you were aware of the confrontation between Sonny Bunt and Hunter.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of it, but only because some citizen in Waverly decided to grow a conscience.” She shook her head and said, “That goddamn Bunt—I’m talking about Hiram, not his son—has everyone in that town afraid of him. But somebody there made an anonymous phone call to the FBI and told us about the fight that Jeff had with Sonny. After I learned that, I questioned a bunch of people who were in the restaurant when it happened and they confirmed it.
“So is Sonny a suspect?”
McCord didn’t say anything. She appeared to be studying DeMarco. The look she gave was calculating.
McCord was thinking that DeMarco was abnormally motivated to find out what had happened to Shannon Doyle and that Doyle had most likely been DeMarco’s lover at one point. She’d certainly been more than just a friend. She was also thinking that if the guy worked for a political heavyweight like John Mahoney, he was probably a tricky bastard who got things done in unorthodox and maybe even underhanded ways. Fixer wasn’t a label you put on a guy who played by the book. She’d been stonewalled by practically everyone in fucking Waverly when it came to Hunter’s murder, so maybe a motivated, tricky bastard poking into things might turn out to be useful.
McCord finally said, “Of course, Sonny’s a suspect. There are a lot of people in this state who don’t like the BLM but no one’s ever killed an agent before and murder’s usually personal. The only one I’ve been able to find who had a personal reason for killing Jeff was Sonny Bunt.”
“Was Jeff killed
on Bunt’s property?”
“No. He was killed near it, but not on it. Jeff’s boss didn’t know exactly what Jeff was doing that day—the guy had a lot of latitude when it came to his job—but he might have been counting wild horses or looking at the damage caused by overgrazing, though his boss didn’t know for sure. Whatever he was doing, someone got behind him on a small hill that overlooks the place where Jeff was standing. You can drive right up to the hill if you have a four-wheel-drive vehicle, which almost everybody who lives out there does. I suspect his killer followed him that day or maybe he just saw him standing out there on the prairie, and then took up a position on the hill and sniped him. The shot would have been about three hundred yards, not a long distance for a guy with a scoped hunting rifle, which again, almost every male in Wyoming has. But we didn’t find a shell casing on the hill and if there were tire tracks or footprints, the wind erased them.”
“Do you know if Sonny owns the kind of rifle that was used.”
“Yes, he does. Jeff Hunter was killed with a .308 caliber bullet. We have the slug and we can match it to the weapon that was used if I can get my hands on it. Anyway, Sonny owns a Remington 700 that he uses for hunting deer and elk, and that model Remington is bored for a .308. I found out about the rifle from a guy who used to hunt with Sonny. The problem is, I don’t have justification to get a warrant to get his rifle and test-fire it. You see, the day Jeff was shot Sonny claims he was in Cheyenne attending a gun show at the Laramie County Fairgrounds, and this was confirmed by a pal of Sonny’s who I suspect lied to me. I tried to determine if Sonny actually attended the show but couldn’t. None of the dealers I talked to remembered him and this particular gun show doesn’t have a lot of cameras because cameras make their customers nervous. So I can’t prove he was there and I can’t prove he wasn’t, and since his pal backs up his alibi, I can’t get a warrant.”
DeMarco said, “Even if you could get a warrant, don’t you think Sonny would have gotten rid of the rifle if he killed Hunter?”
“No, I don’t think he would have done that, in part because it’s a three-thousand-dollar rifle if you include the Leupold scope. But the main reason he wouldn’t have tossed the gun is that Sonny is about a hundred percent certain that I won’t be able to touch him because of who his old man is. Hiram Bunt’s an asshole and if I had my way, he’d be rotting in a jail cell right now for that bullshit he pulled over the grazing fees. But Hiram’s a man. He’s not someone who would backshoot an enemy. Sonny, on the other hand, is exactly the kind of guy who would do that, and his daddy has been protecting him his entire life.”
McCord stopped speaking to move her Glock a bit, which appeared to be digging into her side. “Sonny’s gotten into trouble with the law before. When he was in college down in Laramie, before he flunked out, he was accused of getting a girl drunk and raping her. Hiram’s lawyer got the charges dismissed. Another time, he was accused of assaulting a man in Rock Springs. According to witnesses, some guy in the bar pissed Sonny off and Sonny came up behind the guy and hit him with a beer bottle. Once again, Daddy’s lawyer got the charges dismissed because the guy Sonny hit refused to press charges, and most likely because someone gave him a wad of cash. I’m guessing Hiram Bunt probably can’t stand his own son, but he’s not going to let him go to jail.”
DeMarco was frankly surprised that McCord was being so open with him. He suspected that she was frustrated by the whole situation with the Bunts and was just letting off steam. Or maybe she was under the illusion that DeMarco had some sort of congressional clout and could be useful to her. Whatever the case, he was grateful.
McCord said, “But what makes you think Shannon Doyle’s death could be connected to Jeff’s murder?”
“I don’t know that it is. But she knew about the bar fight and if you read her journal, you’ll see she was thinking about telling the FBI about it. Although I think if Shannon had called you, she would have given her name. She wasn’t the type to make an anonymous call. But the main thing is, Shannon was all over that town, talking to people, observing things, and maybe she stumbled onto something. And I have to tell you that I don’t have a lot of confidence in the Sweetwater County Sheriff solving her murder, particularly if Hiram Bunt’s kid is involved.”
McCord said, “The sheriff, in general, has a good reputation but you might be right about him when it comes to Bunt. I know he was on Hiram’s side of things when the standoff happened.”
“I have to know something,” DeMarco said. “How could you guys let Bunt get away with what he did?”
“Because, as the papers all said, the FBI didn’t want to get into a situation where we ended up killing a bunch of civilians to confiscate a herd of cows. And although I wasn’t the agent in charge that day, I agreed with his decision. But what I would have done is waited until Bunt was alone someplace and arrested his ass and tossed him in jail.”
“So why didn’t that happen?”
“Because there are senators and a congressman in D.C. essentially backing Bunt, arguing that the federal government is overreaching when it comes to public lands, and the big shots in the Hoover Building said to back off.”
McCord shook her head. “I just hate these goddamn people who are always bitching about the federal government until they have some kind of disaster, like a forest fire or a flood or some financial scam that wipes out their savings, after which they all start bitching because the government didn’t do enough.”
DeMarco said, “Well, I just wanted to give you a copy of Shannon’s journal. I haven’t finished reading the whole thing, but maybe there’s something in there that will be helpful. And what I’m hoping is that you’ll find a way to connect Shannon’s murder to Jeff’s and take over the case.”
McCord said, “That’s probably not going to happen but thanks for dropping by. And if you hear anything while you’re in Waverly let me know, but I’d suggest you be careful. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that more than one person could get shot in the back over there.”
14
By the time DeMarco got back to Waverly, it was almost dark and he was hungry. He decided to give Harriet a break and have dinner at the Hacienda Grill. He also wanted a place where he could get a drink before dinner.
He was surprised to find the front parking lot of the restaurant full, but then the Grill was the best of the two dining establishments in Waverly, so maybe he shouldn’t have been. He pulled over to the side of the building and found a parking space between a couple of big Dodge pickups with king cabs and oversized tires. He took Shannon’s journal into the restaurant with him.
He was seated at a table for two and ordered a vodka martini. By the look the server gave him, he guessed folks here didn’t often order martinis. Several couples were enjoying the place, the women looking as if they’d put some thought into their hair, makeup, and apparel. As for the men, well, their jeans looked clean and they weren’t wearing baseball caps. He noticed Sam Clarke sitting at a table with a young woman who appeared to be Native American. Her dark braids were almost as long as Sam’s gray ones. Then DeMarco realized the woman was the maid at the motel; he’d seen her this morning outside his room pushing a cleaning cart stacked with bedsheets and toilet paper. He remembered Sam saying his daughter was the one who cleaned the rooms, and the young woman did bear some resemblance to Sam, although she was taller and thinner.
Sam said, “You gotta be straight with me, Lola. Are you using again? I can’t have you showing up late every day. You didn’t finish cleaning the rooms yesterday until seven and a couple of the guys complained about it.”
“Is that why you asked me to dinner tonight, to give me a hard time?”
“I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I want to help you if you need help.”
“I’m going to those NA meetings in Rock Springs three times a week. What more do you want? And I don’t need help. I need money.”
He suspected she was lying about the NA meetings. That was the problem with junkies: they lied about everything. She was probably getting together with her loser friends when she was supposedly in Rock Springs at the meetings. As for the money she claimed she needed, he could understand that because he didn’t pay her a regular salary. Instead, he bought groceries for her and stocked her refrigerator. Lola lived rent-free in the house that Sam and his late wife had owned, and Sam had moved into the motel. He filled up her car with gas. He bought her a carton of cigarettes every week. He paid for her cell phone and he’d paid for her TV cable before she’d hocked the TV. He’d told her that if she needed something, all she had to do was ask, and he’d get it for her or go shopping with her if she needed clothes. Naturally, all this pissed her off, but pissing her off was better than giving her a bunch of money she’d spend on shit to snort up her nose or shoot into her arm. He also had to wonder how she was paying for the drugs if she was still using since he wasn’t paying her. She’d hocked everything hockable but her car. He wondered if she could be selling herself, something he didn’t even want to think about.
She used to be such a beautiful girl. Now she was underweight, her face haggard, her eyes haunted; she looked ten years older than she was. She also used to be a happy girl, always smiling and joking. Now she was angry all the time. But he didn’t think she was angry enough or desperate enough to kill. To steal maybe—but not to kill.
He tried to find a subtle way to broach the subject and when he couldn’t, he just spit it out.
“You still got that little popgun Cinda Whitehorse’s mom gave you?”
Cinda was a girl Lola had known since grade school, although they weren’t friendly anymore. Cinda got tired of Lola constantly begging her for money. But at one point, when Lola was having a problem with one of her shithead boyfriends, this drunk who smacked her around, Cinda’s mother had loaned her a little .22 to protect herself.
