"I think it's been a lot of years since she died, maybe the landscaping outside the windows has changed. Maybe there was a big bush in front of that laundry-room window back then. Maybe Welle changed the cabinetry in that other room-what did you call it, a butler's pantry? Who knows?"
It was possible. I'd go back and look at the news footage again to see if there was a bush in front of the laundry room back in 1992. "What about this, then?
You remember the television news reports said that when Brian was trying to escape from the master bedroom he leaped over the deck railing and started running toward the woods? That's when he shot at the cops the second time.
Remember that?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I was just out there, on that deck. The center section of the deck-the part closest to those woods-doesn't even have a railing. It steps right down onto the lawn. I'm wondering why Brian Sample didn't just take those two stairs down to the grass and head straight for the woods. Why did he jump the railing, run toward the cops, and fire at them first?"
Sam was silent for a moment before he responded.
"That's a decent question. I'm thinking… that… who knows? Maybe… maybe he wanted the cops to kill him. It happens sometimes. We call it suicide by cop. There's this story-happened recently-of one guy who led this cop on a high-speed chase, and after he was pulled over he got out of his car holding a handgun. He slowly raised it up and pointed it right at the cop. Wouldn't drop it. The cop Cook cover and warned him. Guy still wouldn't drop it, so the cop fired till his pistol was empty. The guy died. Turns out the handgun the guy was carrying was a toy and there was a suicide note on the front seat of his car apologizing to the cop. Guy said he was too much of a coward to kill himself."
"Psychologists have a name for that, too."
"Which is what?"
"Victim-precipitated homicide."
Sam digested the awkward phrase.
"I think I like 'suicide by cop' better. There's no homicide involved when somebody does this to himself. The guy just uses the cop as a loaded gun."
The theory that Sam was offering about the shooting was relatively cogent but didn't cover all the facts. I asked, "Then why not the front door? Why didn't Brian Sample charge the cops directly?"
"Why didn't he wear blue jeans instead of corduroys? I don't know."
Nor did he sound particularly interested.
"You're not being very helpful, Sam. I thought you would find this stuff fascinating."
"Sorry. These new inconsistencies of yours all have possible explanations.
Simple enough things. Me? I still mostly want to know why he shot Gloria Welle through the closed closet door. And I want to know how the cops knew he was going to be running off that deck and not out the front door. Those are still the most interesting parts to me."
"I don't have anything to add to those questions." "Well, then," he said, laughing.
"I gotta run. If you can believe it, I actually have some new crimes to solve."
After we hung up I hesitated for a moment while I considered Sam's theory about suicide by cop and then called Winston Mcgarrity at his insurance agency. I got past Louise, his gatekeeper, in record time.
"Winston, are you allowed to tell me if the insurance company paid death benefits on the life insurance policy that Brian Sample bought from your agency? I'm talking about the first policy, the one for two hundred and fifty thousand."
"Yes, I can tell you. That claim was settled. There was some contention at the time that Brian's acts that day were the acts of a suicidal man and that the policy shouldn't pay because his death was really suicide and the waiting period hadn't ended. But the coroner ended up ruling the death to be a homicide-that basically means death at the hands of somebody else, in this case a cop-so the company paid the death benefit."
"Do you know how the coroner came to that conclusion?"
"It was mostly, I think, because of Dr. Welle. He sent a letter certifying that the day of the shooting Brian Sample was no longer suicidal."
"Really?"
"I thought it was a gracious act on Ray's part. He could have been venomous, could've said that Brian was still suicidal even if he wasn't. Ray could've done that. I'm no fan of Ray Welle, but I thought he showed a lot of class during that time. Said in the letter, if I remember correctly, that he'd seen Brian for treatment just the day before and that he assessed his suicide potential at that time and it was negligible. I thought the gesture was especially kind to Brian's wife and to his boy."
"Kevin and his mother got a quarter of a million dollars?"
"They did."
I thanked Winston and turned my attention to the rest of my sandwich. It left a better taste in my mouth than did the story of Gloria Welle's murder.
Kimber didn't emerge from Ray Welle's study all day. Once during the morning I saw Russ go in to talk with him. The visit lasted about five minutes. Later, Flynn carried lunch into the study.
After the midday meal the search at Gloria's Silky Road moved from the big ranch house to the old frame house where Sylvie lived with her boyfriend. The routine employed by Flynn with Russ assisting her was becoming so familiar it was almost mind numbing. She photographed, measured, collected. He sketched, noted, and labeled. Phil Barrett videotaped every step without complaint.
Cecilia Daruwalla stood silently, observing.
The day dragged toward dusk. Flynn was indefatigable and pressed Russ to agree to take samples from the stable and burnt bunkhouse before they stopped for the day. Russ held up his hands in abject surrender.
"Tomorrow, Flynn. I'm so tired I'm afraid I'm going to start making mistakes."
She eyed him compassionately and agreed to finish the job the next day. Her last task of the afternoon was to assemble all the evidence they had already collected and organize it in a single large cardboard box. She sealed the box with tape, labeled it, and handed it over to Percy Smith, who signed something and turned the box over to Daruwalla.
Kimber was the last of the Locard group to get in a car to leave the ranch.
When he finally emerged from the front door, he walked quickly from the house, his head down, his hands in his pockets, and slid beside me on the front seat.
He avoided eye contact as he smiled.
"A productive day," he said, tapping his laptop case.
"Really?" I said as I began to ease the car onto the lane.
His voice filled the car.
"I've been trying for two weeks to find a data trail for the two housekeepers who were working at the ranch the day the girls disappeared. Dr. Welle terminated their employment, with a generous severance, approximately one month after the death of his wife.
Available database records permitted me to track them only through early 1996.
I've been assuming that their romantic relationship terminated at that time and they went their separate ways. Today, at last, I succeeded in finding where they have been." "Ranelle and Jane," I said.
"Very good. Yes. Ranelle Foster Smith and Jane Liebowitz. Today I think that I found them both." I said, "Congratulations." But I was confused as to why the news was important.
"When I interviewed Satoshi, she said she didn't see the housekeepers the afternoon her sister and Tami disappeared."
"True. But that is… only half the story. I would like to know if the housekeepers saw Satoshi. Or Mariko. Or anyone else."
I hadn't considered the possibility that Ranelle and Jane might have had a different perspective on the events of that day than Satoshi did. Which goes a long way toward explaining why Kimber Lister was a world-class forensic expert and I was a clinical psychologist in a college town.
We were approaching the gate at the bottom of the hill. It remained open from the previous car. I asked, "Did you reach them today? Ranelle and Jane."
"No, no, I did not. Sadly, Jane Liebowitz died in an abortion clinic bombing in North Carolina in 1997. Ranelle Foster Smith, fortunately, is still alive, and is residing in Sit
ka, Alaska. She runs a local art gallery and has apparently become quite renowned for her native basketry. It turns out that she is part Inuit."
"Will you go see her?"
He swallowed before he answered.
"Actually, I've presumed upon an old colleague of mine to do that for me. She is already on her way up from Seattle to pose a few questions to Ms. Smith on our behalf. It's apparently not a convenient trip.
Getting to Sitka, I mean. From anywhere. It involves… seaplanes." I could feel the seat shiver as Kimber Lister shuddered at the thought of being confined in a seaplane.
I pulled left onto the county road to head toward town. The shadows of the big trees close to the river provided a cool canopy.
"What about the two cowboys, Kimber? The hands who took care of Gloria's horses?"
"Actually haven't put too much energy into finding them. They were out of town the day the girls disappeared. We've already confirmed that.
But… I suppose there is something to be gained from talking with them, too.
Just in case."
I thought more about the cowboys.
"I wonder who watched the horses when the two cowboys were out of town. Maybe someone else was on the ranch that day-another possible witness."
For the first time since he joined me in the front seat, Kimber looked at me.
"I hadn't thought of that possibility. I'll have to inquire. Would Gloria have taken care of the horses herself on those days when her ranch hands were gone?
I'm afraid I'm rather ignorant about ranching and things. Would it be likely that the chores are something she might just do herself? Or would she bring someone in to help from the outside? I just don't know. That's another question that I can have my friend pose to Ranelle during their meeting."
He scribbled a note on an index card that he pulled from his breast pocket. He replaced it.
I changed the tone of my voice and asked, "How are you doing, Kimber? This has to be difficult for you. Leaving your routine like this."
"I'm doing better than I expected, thank you. So far I've been anxious, but I haven't had an actual panic attack, though I will admit that last night at your house was less than pleasant. Mostly I think I've been anxious about having a panic attack. Does that make sense?"
"Of course it does."
"The day has been long. I'm looking forward to having some time to myself at the B and B to refresh myself before tomorrow. I'm afraid it might be another grueling day. The stable and bunkhouse may turn out to be crucial sources of evidence. Need I say that I won't be joining you and Russ and Flynn for dinner this evening? I'm hoping there's a pizza place in town that delivers. I'm sure you will understand."
"Do you have energy for one more question?"
"Yes?"
"Are you confident about what we're doing here? The forensics? Will this be enough to end the investigation?"
"Once we're on someone's trail, Alan, Locard is like the big bad wolf. We'll huff and we'll puff until we blow the house down. If these forensics don't pan out, something else will." With that pronouncement he pulled his hat down over his eyes and slunk low on his seat.
Once in Steamboat, I checked in to the bed-and-breakfast for both Kimber and myself and gave him his key. Flynn and russ had already settled into their room without any apparent consternation about the sleeping arrangements.
I walked down the hall and inquired about their dinner plans. Flynn wanted to go to an early movie before she ate. Russ wanted to visit the hot springs in Strawberry Park.
I wanted to do neither.
I wanted to be home in Boulder with my pregnant wife. My presence in Steamboat, it had turned out, was superfluous. I was sorry I'd come. I was considering leaving for home first thing in the morning.
Kimber knocked on my door a few minutes after I'd settled into bed for the night. I thought it was around eleven o'clock. I was sleeping naked and the B and B didn't provide robes for its guests, so I answered the door dressed as though I were attending a toga party on a cheap cruise line.
Kimber said, "So sorry to disturb you. May I impose for just a moment? Flynn and russ haven't returned from their excursions yet." He stepped past me into the room without waiting for my assent. Kimber was someone accustomed to getting his way. He sat in a small club chair beneath the room's only window, which was a double-hung in a narrow gable. Paisley engulfed him from all directions-wallpaper, upholstery, pillows, I noticed that he hadn't changed his clothes from earlier in the day.
I sat back against the headboard of the bed and pulled the comforter over my legs.
"Sure, why not?" I said.
While he spoke I assessed him for signs of incipient panic. I didn't see any symptoms.
"My friend made it to Sitka at dinnertime in Alaska and phoned me right after speaking with Ranelle. Ranelle has no recollection of ever seeing Mariko or Satoshi at the ranch that night or any other night. Tami? She's not sure about her. Maybe, she says. Ranelle says that Mrs. Franklin was a frequent visitor of Mrs. Welle and thinks that perhaps Tami may have accompanied her once or twice." I said, "So we now have confirmation about Mrs. Franklin's visits to the ranch?"
I was wondering what about this information warranted invading my room after I had gone to bed.
"That's correct. In addition, Ranelle was able to provide my friend with some more information about the two men who took care of the horses on the ranch."
"Great," I said, without any enthusiasm. I wanted to go back to sleep. My suspicion was that Kimber had stopped by just for company.
He was trying to keep his robust voice down, but seemed physically incapable of whispering.
"Both men, Frank Jobe and Thomas Charles Charles-Ranelle said they called him Double Chuck-are living on a ranch outside Austin, Texas. I've been searching databases all evening. They continued working together after they left the Silky Road in 1992. They worked briefly at a ranch near Dallas until 1993."
I pulled the comforter all the way to my waist.
"There's more, isn't there?"
Kimber's posture was atrocious. The round-backed club chair made it appear that both his clavicles had collapsed forward.
"Yes, there's more. The man who covered for Frank Jobe and Thomas Charles when they were out of town? I located him, too. He still lives close by here. Place called Oak Creek. I found it on the map. Do you know where it is?"
"Yes. I've driven through it a few times. Stopped there once to use the bathroom at the Total station. It's not exactly a metropolis."
"How long would it take us to get there?"
I shrugged.
"Guessing? Twenty minutes. Maybe a little more."
Kimber moved toward the door.
"I'll wait for you downstairs." He grabbed the doorknob.
"I almost forgot. Ranelle said that she and Jane did some major scrubbing of one of the bunkhouse rooms the week after the girls disappeared.
Made some extra money by agreeing to paint it all themselves, too."
I tried to control my breathing.
"Whose room? Franks or Chuck's?"
"Neither. The common room, she called it. Ranelle says that there were three little bedrooms, the common room, and a kitchen in the bunkhouse. She was sorry to hear it had burned down. She and Jane and the two cowboys apparently had some good times there."
"Does she remember any blood?"
"She surely does not."
The man who lived in Oak Creek was named Robbie Talbot. Robbie Albert Talbot.
Because of the hour I half expected him to greet us with a twelve-gauge at the ready, but he invited us into his home as though he'd been expecting all along for us to show up during the appearance of Jay Leno's last guest of the evening. When Kimber called him Mr. Talbot he told us his nickname was Rat and asked us to call him Rat.
Rat lived in a log cabin a block and half from where Highway 131 knifed through what constituted downtown Oak Creek. The cabin was a solitary room, maybe twenty-five feet square, and was i
mpeccably maintained. The linoleum floor was spotless, the curtains appeared to have just been ironed, and the split oak logs next to the enameled stove were piled with great care. I assumed there must have been a Mrs. Rat around somewhere, but couldn't see any other evidence of her presence.
Rat offered us a glass of water. We declined. He offered to light the stove to warm the room. We said we were fine. Finally, he asked what brought us to his door.
Kimber said, "If you would be so kind, we would like to ask you a few questions about the work you did for Gloria Welle out at the Silky Road before she died.
Would that be all right?"
Rat shrugged as though it didn't make any difference to him. He was a small man, maybe five seven, with a narrow waist and wide shoulders. I guessed that he wasn't forced to shave very often, but his eyebrows, which grew together at the bridge of his nose, were as thick as hedgerows.
"I loved that ranch," he said, smiling broadly at memories of the Silky Road, his grin revealing that his teeth were stained brown from tobacco.
"Used to always be bugging Frank and Double Chuck, trying to get them to take me on there permanent. But there weren't ever enough horses for three hands at the Silky. Heck, there weren't even enough horses for Frank and Chuck, but those two stuck together and Miss. Welle knew that if she wanted one of those cowboys she had to take both of those cowboys.
Ain't nobody I ever met took better care of her horses or her cowboys than Miss. Gloria. Would've been a dream to work there.
"Cept for how things turned out for Miss. Gloria, of course."
Kimber asked, "You covered their jobs on the ranch when Frank and Chuck were out of town? Is that right?"
"Yep. Moved right in. Took right over. Did the routine chores and whatever else Miss. Gloria asked."
"Moved in… where?"
"Into the bunkhouse Hilton. That's what I called it. Nice place. Had a spare room I could use when I was working. Nice big porch looking down-valley toward the river. Cupboard full of food. Always some beer in the fridge. Didn't mind those days much at all. Sometimes Frank and Chuck'd be gone for a week or more buying or selling horses or whatever." He shrugged.
Cold Case Page 30
