Kimber and I drove up to Steamboat in my car, with Flynn and Russ following in the rented Taurus. Kimber donned dark sunglasses and stretched out in the backseat with headphones from a CD player over his ears and a big felt hat resting on his face. Every twenty minutes or so he said something reassuring like, "I know you're worried about me and I'm fine." I was worried and I appreciated the reassurance, but the three-hour-plus drive passed slowly. With him in back acting dead, I thought it was kind of like driving a hearse.
Kimber had been dreading checking into a big hotel in Steamboat, and when I described the B and B Lauren and I had stayed at near Howelsen Hill he seemed enamored of it. I used my portable phone to call Libby, the owner of the bed-and-breakfast, and reserved the last three rooms she had available. Once again, it appeared that Flynn and Russ were going to need to come to some sleeping accommodation. I told Libby not to expect any of us until midafternoon.
She wouldn't let me off the phone until she had told me everything she knew about the fire at Glorias Silky Road. The whole town was apparently already talking about the arson. She said word was that the accelerant had been gasoline. Everyone was still working to come up with a satisfactory motive. She was pretty certain she'd hear something good by the afternoon.
The midday sun burned through a cloudless sky. Tourists packed the sidewalks along Lincoln Avenue in Steamboat Springs, wandering aimlessly from shop to shop. Traffic crawled stoplight to stoplight behind an endless parade of construction trucks. The combination of the heat and the mindless tourism was discouraging to me. I was grateful to make it the entire way through town and begin the gentle climb up into the valley that ran along the banks of the Elk River.
I told Kimber we were entering some beautiful country that he might want to see.
I had to yell to be heard above his music. He groaned back, equally loudly, "Don't worry about me, I'm fine." He remained supine on the seat with the hat still planted over his face. I knew at that moment that if my clinical practice fell apart I wasn't likely to make it as a chauffeur.
Russ and Flynn had passed us at a light in town and were waiting at the closed gate of the Silky Road.
"We haven't buzzed anyone yet," Russ said.
"Figured you would be along soon. Where's Kimber? In the trunk?"
"Kimber's right here," Kimber said, raising himself to a sitting position in the backseat. He fumbled with his headphones.
"Of course there is no way that Beethoven could have imagined it, but his symphonies provide a remarkable accompaniment to a long automobile ride. I wonder why that is."
Flynn pressed a button on the stainless-steel panel that was recessed in the stone pillar supporting the gate. Nothing happened. To no one in particular she said, "Percy said he'd meet us here. I hope he wasn't kidding" A voice projected loudly from the speaker. Someone wanted Flynn to identify herself.
She did. The gates began to swing open as though they didn't know a thing about hurrying.
Kimber stuck his hands on his hips, spun on his heels, gazed to the north and then to the east, smiled broadly, and said, "This is an incredibly pleasant valley."
I bit my tongue.
We climbed back into the cars. Kimber once again chose the backseat. But this time he didn't lie down.
I preceded Russ and Flynn through the gate. Near the ridge that climbs up from the creek bed toward the house I turned right onto a dirt track that I guessed would lead across the meadow to the stable and bunkhouse. Russ followed right behind me.
As soon as we cleared the ridge it was apparent that the bunkhouse was a total loss. The structure was little more than a blackened framework of toasted timbers. The glass had burst from the window frames. Waves of sticky ash had oozed through the busted-out doorways, carried along by rivers of water from the firefighters' hoses. A three-foot-high stone wall that supported the exterior walls acted like a dike, containing the rest of the muck inside. The adjacent stable stood intact, mocking the ruined bunkhouse like a prizefighter who has just vanquished an opponent.
Flynn jumped out of the car and took long strides toward the ruins. Without hesitation she dropped into a catcher's crouch and began to finger the sooty stone knee wall that had once supported the post-and-beam walls of the cowboys' living quarters.
Kimber, Russ, and I congregated around her. She said, "I need to get some of the samples of this stone and mortar to the petrologist so she can put them under a microscope, but I would guess that this rock wall might be what we're looking for. Although I'm no expert, I think this is limestone, and the petrologist said we're looking for limestone. For now we certainly can't rule it out."
I gazed inside the building. A section of the floor structure had collapsed into the crawl space below. The top of an incinerated refrigerator poked back up into what had been a kitchen. The beam structure was blackened and blistered into huge reptilian scales. I asked, "But what about the wood we're trying to find-the ebony? Maybe someone knew about the splinter and they were trying to hide evidence of the ebony by doing this." Flynn said, "Whatever it was they were hoping to destroy might still be here.
We'll get plenty of wood samples. Fire doesn't destroy evidence as well as most people think."
Kimber spoke, his voice suddenly rich enough to fill the horseshoe canyon.
"We need to remain cautious. The fire may indeed have been intended to destroy evidence. It may also have been intended to mislead us into believing that this was the site where we should be focusing our attention. We must proceed with our search as originally planned.
Agreed? Sheriff Smith is waiting for us at Dr. Welle's home, correct? Why don't we join him there now?"
Percy Smith was waiting on the front porch. He was perched on the arm of one of the two Adirondack chairs. Pork chop Phil Barrett completely filled the other chair. As we got out of the cars Flynn whispered to Russ, "Look. They used the exact same stone to build the knee walls and chimney trim for the house up here.
Damn-that will make our job more complicated." Phil said, "Hi, Alan. See you already stopped to check on last night's fire.
When I first saw it, it reminded me a little of the hash browns I made the last time I tried to cook myself breakfast." He laughed at his own joke. No one else thought he was funny.
I nodded.
"Hello, Phil. Percy. Yeah, we just saw the ruins-I'm learning my way around the ranch pretty well. Surprised to see you here so early, Phil-I got the impression from Percy that no one was at the house last night."
"I sure wasn't. I've been visiting with my mama at the old folks' home she lives in down in Hay den. Drove up to the ranch with Percy this morning after I heard about the fire." He smiled at Flynn.
"Want to introduce me around?"
I didn't like the fact that Phil and Percy seemed so chummy. But I proceeded with the introductions. Phil was definitely distracted by Flynn and her eye patch du your. This one was hand painted to look exactly like her other eyeball.
It was my favorite one of her patches so far. Phil sneaked his attention away from Flynn long enough to acknowledge Russ and to pander to Kimber.
"The famous Mr. Lister. It's a pleasure. My friends on the Hill speak highly of you, sir.
I'm sure you know that Congressman Welle sits on the committee that oversees the FBI. You are quite a legend in those halls, sir. Quite a legend."
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Barrett. We at Locard are grateful for your assistance with our work. I'm sure it was an inconvenience to fly here from Washington just to supervise our search. We are also appreciative of all that the congressman has done to help us to keep this inquiry from the eyes of the press."
Kimber was warning Phil about the stakes that had already been anted up in the investigation.
Phil hesitated long enough to capture everyone's attention.
"One thing I've learned over the years is that Ray Welle protects those who promote justice the way a mama bear protects her cubs. Which is to say, wholeheartedly."
Phil w
as saying, Don't screw around with me.
So far I was enjoying myself. I wished Lauren had come along. She would have enjoyed this, too.
Kimber asked, "Is it possible that we could move this meeting inside?" His voice wavered a little, and I noticed that a couple of dozen tiny beads of sweat were dotting his upper lip.
Flynn noticed, too.
"Yes, let's go in," she said.
Phil said, "Doesn't get any prettier than this porch. I'll get us some more chairs and have the girl bring us all some iced tea. Maybe some sandwiches."
The girl? I wondered whether Phil had learned about Kimber's discomfort in wide-open spaces and was trying to take advantage of it.
Flynn pressed.
"You know, Phil, this light-it's so bright-it's kind of hard on my eye.
Sunglasses aren't really an option with the patch. I'd be grateful if we could meet indoors."
Phil stared at Kimber and pulled himself from the confines of the Adirondack chair.
"Done," he said. I thought I saw him swallow a chuckle.
We moved into the massive living room with its post-and-beam framing. I grabbed a leather side chair close to a sofa that was as big as a car and wondered if I was sitting precisely where Brian Sample had sat as he sipped tea with Gloria Welle. I said a silent prayer that Sylvie didn't serve Girl Scout Cookies.
A knock on the front door brought a plainclothes investigator from the Routt County sheriffs office into the mix. Her name was Cecilia Daruwalla-I guessed that she was of Pakistani or Indian heritage-and I assumed she was there to ensure the chain of evidence of everything that would be collected. Kimber and Phil Barrett retreated with her to the dining room to review the written agreement that authorized the search of Glorias Silky Road Ranch and stipulated the ground rules under which the search would be conducted. The search would not include the right for Locard to view or retrieve any documents or personal belongings other than those in plain view. The agreement was intended to allow Flynn to retrieve samples of soil, rock, brick, mortar, paint, lumber, carpet, flooring, cabinetry, countertops, and other materials used in the construction and maintenance of the primary and secondary structures of the ranch. The details of the agreement had already been hammered out via fax and E-mail. The jousting at the big dining-room table was proforma.
As Kimber preceded Phil back into the living room, he said, "Alan, remember, you're here only as an observer. Russ will assist Flynn with the collection of samples. Flynn, where would you like to begin?"
"Right here is a great place to start, Kimber. I need to collect my evidence kit from the car and then I'll get started." Kimber said, "I have some work to do, Phil. Is there a room with a phone I might use? Someplace private, perhaps?" And dark, and small, I thought.
"How about Ray's study?"
"I'm certain that would do quite nicely. If you would be so kind as to show me the way." He displayed the case that held his laptop computer.
"I'll be on-line much of the time. That won't cause any inconvenience, I hope."
Phil Barrett said, "Shouldn't. The house has plenty of phone lines. Before I help get Mr. Lister settled, just a word for you, Ms. Coe. Per the agreement between Dr. Welle and Mr. Lister, I'll be videotaping everything you do."
She cocked her head and smiled coquettishly right at him. The expression of her painted eye refused to flirt along with the rest of her. The effect was totally disconcerting.
"The camera loves me, Phil. Please go right ahead."
I spent the next ninety minutes with my hands in my pockets doing what the sheriff's investigator was doing: following Flynn Coe as she methodically collected samples of the various materials that had been used to construct the house. Flynn began by photographing each room and then plotting the dimensions.
Russ charted the progression of the photographs and sketched the rooms while Flynn proceeded to collect the approved samples. Russ assumed the role of forensic assistant with remarkable aplomb. Phil Barrett hung back, his tripod-mounted video camera recording Flynn's every move.
I quickly grew bored and found myself using my time in Raymond Welle's home to familiarize myself with the key places in the drama that had occurred between Brian Sample and Gloria Welle in 1992. I imagined Gloria greeting Brian at the front door and I made a guess as to which telephone Gloria might have used to call her husband and warn him that one of his patients had invaded their home.
I guessed she would have used the kitchen phone.
I examined the small window that Brian had busted out with the butt of his gun so that he could shoot at the assembled sheriff's vehicles. The window was an eighteen-inch square mounted above pecan cabinets in the butlers pantry. In order to reach it to shoot out the window Brian would have had to kneel on the countertop. I considered the selection of that particular window an odd choice in a house that had enough glass to construct a commercial greenhouse. I also thought that I recalled reading news reports that Brian had broken out the laundry-room window. I walked from the butler's pantry to the adjacent laundry room to check it out. Sure enough, Brian would have had a much easier shot from there. But the window in the laundry room was a narrow double-hung. It was not the one that Brian had chosen to bust out.
I couldn't resist a ghoulish peek into the guest-room closet where Gloria had been murdered, so I followed Flynn and Russ into that room with interest. The guest suite was decorated in the ruggedly stylish manner that Ralph Lauren and Robert Redford were eager for the world to accept as the authentic portrayal of American western design. Tasteful?
I wasn't sure, but probably. Expensive?
Without a doubt.
Flynn photographed and measured the room, and I waited impatiently until she finally got around to opening the closet door to take photographs in there. I peered over her shoulder into a closet that was quite a bit larger than the one that Kimber was using downstairs in the guest room of our house in Boulder. The closet at the Silky Road was a U-shaped walk-in with shelves outfitted like a fine haberdashers display cases. The open center area of the closet was only about three feet square-just enough room for the chair that Brian carried in for Gloria to sit on. The day of the Locard search there was no wine stored on the closet shelves. I checked. Nor was there evidence of Gloria Welle's blood or Robert Mondavi's red wine on the floor. I checked for those, too.
Besides the master and guest suites, the house had two other bedrooms. One, apparently, was set aside for Phil Barrett's occasional stays at the ranch. Although the bed in that room was made-I assumed by Sylvie-it was clear that Phil was a slob. Although he'd only arrived at the ranch that morning, his suitcase spilled clothes as though an inconsiderate thief had ransacked it after breakfast.
The second of the spare bedrooms had never been decorated. The windows lacked coverings and the floor space was used for file storage. I saw one box marked "Demo Tapes." At least a dozen boxes held copies of Toward Healing America:
America's Therapist's Prescription/or a Better Future.
The architectural layout convinced me that when Gloria Welle was designing this house she was planning for a family with at least two children. The knowledge saddened me.
The master bedroom was at the eastern end of the house at the end of a long hallway that was lit with a clerestory. By the time Brian Sample had walked this hall, I thought, Gloria Welle was already dead or dying in the closet in the guest suite. The master bedroom at the end of the hall was vast, with a sitting area as large as most people's living rooms and a four-poster bed the size of an uninhabited island. An alcove near the bathroom contained a compact desk topped with a laptop computer. The far wall, the one that would catch the morning sun after it had cleared the Continental Divide and then lifted itself over the tops of the fir and aspen groves, was nothing but a series of wide glass doors. I counted six of them.
The deck outside the bedroom windows stepped down twice from the house until it ended above two final stairs that led down to a narrow lawn that abutted the forest. A red
wood railing, alternately carved and straight in two-foot sections, lined the north and south sides of the deck.
By all reports I'd read and seen, Brian Sample had leapt that rail on the way to his death.
I wondered why he hadn't just taken the stairs.
Sylvie showed up around two o'clock with a couple of six-packs of soft drinks and a big bag of deli sandwiches from the general store up the hill in Clark.
She was dressed in tennis clothes. Flynn and Russ immediately cornered her to question her about the fire in the bunkhouse. I was ready for a break, so I carried a pretty good ham sandwich on sourdough outside to my car and used the cell phone to call Sam Purdy in Boulder. I wanted to talk about Gloria Welle's murder, and he was the only one I could think of who I thought would share my interest in the subject. I found him at his desk at the police department.
I told him why I was at the Silky Road Ranch. He listened patiently to my explanation before he said, "Raymond Welle's no fool, Alan. If he was guilty of something he certainly wouldn't give a world-class forensic investigator the run of his place. Your search is going to be a dead end. Nice try, though."
"Flynn already seems confident that she has reason to hope for a match."
"We'll see. If you're right, I'll buy you a beer. Hell, if you're wrong I'll buy you a beer. But don't get your hopes up."
"Sam, the reason I called isn't because of the two dead girls. While the Locard forensic people have been doing their things here, I've spent my time walking through the house trying to re-create exactly what happened the day that Gloria Welle was murdered. You remember that you thought that the whole story was goofy, at least the way the police presented it?"
"Yeah, I remember I thought that. It was goofy. Still is goofy."
"Well, I have two more goofy things for you." I reminded him about the window Brian had busted out to shoot at the sheriff's vehicles and explained what an odd choice of windows it had been. That earned me a bored "hmm" from Sam. I said, "Well? What do you think?"
Cold Case Page 29
