Beaver Creek, Western Montana
Dick Reilly was short and stocky, broad across the shoulders and, increasingly in recent years, broad in all directions around the waist, a legacy of his too-regular coffee and donut stops at the Main Street Diner. His hair was greying and getting somewhat sparse, and his face was ruddy from exposure to the sun and wind. He had been sheriff of Beaver Creek for almost nine years, and in various types of law enforcement for twenty-three years before that, but the body in the field was a first for him.
He looked carefully around the crime scene once again, as he had done at least six times since he had arrived there, cataloguing and searching.
About two hundred yards to the west lay the edge of the woods which formed a transition between Dermott’s farmland and the Helena National Forest. The open field in which Reilly was standing extended roughly four hundred yards to the north, fifty yards to the south and about fifty to the east. The gate was in the north-east corner, and beside it stood Dermott’s John Deere tractor and Reilly’s Cherokee Jeep.
As Reilly looked towards the gate, a patrol car lurched into view, tyres scrabbling for grip on the earth, roof lights flashing. The County Medical Examiner and the police photographer had arrived almost simultaneously at Dermott’s farm, and Reilly had sent the police cruiser to ferry them out to the field.
‘Good afternoon, Dick,’ Roy Walters called out cheerfully as he walked towards the sheriff. ‘What’ve we got here?’
Reilly nodded, and held out his hand. ‘Afternoon, doc. A corpse, and I only need you to confirm that officially, but I don’t want you anywhere near it yet. First we need pictures.’
He gestured towards the photographer. Joe Nyman was a police cameraman by inclination. He owned the oldest camera shop and picture studio in Beaver Creek, and had worked with the local police department for nearly twenty years. Thirty minutes earlier he had been telephoned by one of Reilly’s deputies. He had grabbed his camera box and closed the store immediately, glad of the break in his routine.
Nyman walked over to the sheriff and gazed with frank curiosity at the supine figure, now protected by half a dozen wooden stakes driven into the ground in a rough circle about fifteen feet in diameter around the body, and with yellow ‘Crime Scene – Do Not Cross’ tape wound around them. He put his camera box on the ground, opened it up and pulled out a Nikon.
‘Ready when you are, Dick.’
Reilly took Nyman by the arm and pointed towards the body.
‘No closer than the ring of stakes, Joe. I want general views of the whole field, then middle-distance pictures of the body from all sides. When you’re done with that, I want a bunch of close-up shots of the body, from every side, including the bone. Use two different data cards, same series of shots on each, just in case one gets a fault. You keep one card, and give me the other one.’
Nyman nodded and peered more closely. ‘Is that bone what I think it is?’
‘We don’t know for sure yet, but Roy will be able to tell us.’
‘So this might be two murders, not one?’
Reilly smiled for the first time since he had climbed out of his Cherokee. ‘I guess that’s one way of puttin’ it,’ he said.
Twenty minutes later Nyman stepped back from the body and replaced the Nikon in his box.
‘That’s it, Dick. I’ll print enough of the pix to set the scene as soon as I get back to the shop, and I’ll get them to your office no later than –’ he glanced at his watch ‘– oh, say, about three thirty. With the data card,’ he added.
‘Thanks,’ Reilly nodded and waved farewell as Nyman walked off towards the cruiser. Then he turned to Roy Walters. ‘OK, doc, do your stuff. Walk over to him, confirm he’s dead, and then walk back. Nothin’ else, and try not to leave any unnecessary prints on the ground.’
Walters looked slightly surprised. ‘What about the cause and approximate time of death?’ he asked.
Reilly smiled bleakly and pointed at the body. ‘You and I already know the cause, Roy, and he’s been dead at least a day. Crows won’t touch a body ’till it’s good and cold, and this guy’s got no face left. That means he’s been dead awhile.’
Walters nodded, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and a surgical mask, and walked across to the crime scene. He ducked under the tape and walked the last few feet with exaggerated care. Then he knelt beside the corpse and, out of habit not expectation, briefly felt the side of the neck. There was no pulse, and the flesh was cold but not hard.
‘Rigor mortis has faded, Dick,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘so you’re right – he’s been dead well over twenty-four hours.’
Before he straightened up, Walters looked carefully at the skull. Like Reilly, he had seen a lot of dead bodies in his career, but never before had he seen anyone killed quite like this.
The top of the skull had clearly been shattered, and the weapon that had done the damage was unmistakably a human thigh-bone, driven vertically downwards, and still protruding like a bizarre and obscene head-dress from the dead man’s greying hair. From the amount outside the body, Walters estimated that about six to eight inches of the bone had penetrated and was still lodged inside the skull. The impact would have pulverised the brain completely.
Death had obviously been instantaneous, but Walters couldn’t imagine how any assailant could have done it. The dead man was heavily-built and well over six feet tall – Walters estimated six feet three or thereabouts – and was lying on his back. That suggested that the blow had been struck from the front and downwards, and to deliver a killing blow with such a weapon an attacker would need to be both immensely strong and very tall. Real tall, Walters thought, like eight to nine feet.
He shivered suddenly and looked around nervously. Reilly and Dermott were behind him, and Dermott, the doctor noticed, was still carrying his shotgun. Walters bent again to the corpse and looked closely at what was left of the man’s face.
‘Hey,’ he called out, ‘I think I know this guy.’
‘Bingo, doc,’ Reilly said. ‘We all know him. Now, don’t touch anythin’ else. Just get the hell away from him.’
Walters stood up and walked backwards, retracing his steps as accurately as he could until he was standing outside the ring of stakes. ‘Damnedest thing I ever saw,’ he commented briefly, pulling off his mask and gloves. ‘When are you moving the body – when can I do the post?’
‘I ain’t movin’ the body,’ Reilly said, ‘and probably you won’t get to do an autopsy. I’m not gonna to mess around with somethin’ as weird as this. I’ve already called the FBI, and as soon as they get here I’m leavin’ it to them.’
Oval Office, White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.
Presidential Aide Mark Rogerson paused outside the partially-opened door of the Oval Office, looked up at the green light glowing above the doorway, and leant forward, listening intently. Standing instructions forbade him to enter the room if the President was on the telephone or in conference. The green light meant that he was able to enter, but a couple of times the President had forgotten to press the switch, hence Rogerson’s cautious double-check.
Satisfied, he straightened up, gave a brisk rap on the door with his knuckle, waited a moment for the call to enter, then pushed it open and walked inside.
The President of the United States of America was sitting at his desk, a thick report open in front of him. A short, grey-haired man whose ready smile had been rather less evident – at least in private – since he had taken office, Charles Gainey was, unlike many of his predecessors, both a consummate politician and an intellectual. He had a firm grasp of the realities of politics that had led him to the White House but, perhaps more importantly, he could talk mathematics, economics and finance with almost anyone. He read everything that crossed his desk, and seemed able to remember most of it. Rogerson found him quite unnerving, an almost frighteningly competent man, a rare description to apply to any politician.
‘James Dickson is here, Mr. Presiden
t.’
Charles Gainey nodded. ‘Good. Send him in, please.’
The Secretary of Defense, who had followed Rogerson down the corridor, nodded and walked past him into the room. The aide pulled the door closed and retreated to his own office.
‘Good afternoon, James,’ the President said. ‘Please take a seat,’ he added, gesturing towards the three leather armchairs in front of his desk. He picked up the report he’d been studying and held it up so that Dickson could read the title.
‘This report,’ Gainey began. ‘I presume you’ve read it?’
Dickson squirmed slightly. There was no right answer to that question. He’d not actually read the report, just the three page summary at the end, but he had signed off on the distribution list. Whatever he said, he guessed he was going to be in trouble.
‘Well?’
‘Yes, Mr. President, I’ve read it,’ Dickson replied, mentally crossing his fingers and hoping for the best.
‘And your conclusions were what?’
‘It’s a complex matter. What particular aspect is concerning you?’
Charles Gainey shook his head. ‘It’s not that complex. The CIA, in my experience, isn’t capable of producing anything very complicated – at least, not in writing. The aspect concerning me, as you put it, is the analysis of birth figures in Appendix Six.’
Dickson was already lost. ‘Birth figures?’
Gainey nodded patiently. ‘These conversations would take a lot less time if you just admitted you didn’t know what the hell I was talking about right from the start. This report,’ Gainey continued, tapping the dark blue cover in front of him, ‘is the CIA’s annual analysis of –’
‘I do know what the report is, Mr. President,’ Dickson interrupted. ‘What I still don’t know is what aspect of it is bothering you.’
‘What bothers me, James, is the fact that the annual statistics for births in America are showing a small but measurable anomaly.’
Dickson looked blank. ‘Birth statistics? I’m sorry, I don’t –’
‘It’s not in the summary, James, which is no doubt why you missed it,’ Gainey said, revealing his knowledge of Dickson’s professional routine with uncomfortable accuracy. ‘In fact, it’s not actually mentioned specifically in the CIA report at all. It was detailed in the AMA Annual Medical Statistics report, which I note you’ve also signed as having read.’
‘I have to read a lot of reports, Mr. President,’ Dickson said, somewhat irritably, ‘and I still don’t see what you’re driving at.’
‘What I’m driving at is that these two separate reports both refer to birth statistics, but with obviously different emphasis. The American Medical Association just gives the numbers with some simple mathematical analyses. The CIA report doesn’t cover total figures, but does contain one very interesting – or disturbing – fact. What concerns me is the conclusion you can draw if you correlate the two reports.’
Dickson had endured similar conversations with Charles Gainey over the two years he had been in office. Usually the easiest and fastest response was to play dumb and let the President work his way through the arguments and make whatever point he had in mind.
‘And what conclusion is that?’ he asked.
‘According to the AMA’s figures – and they should be right – the number of female babies born is increasing every year, with a corresponding decrease in the births of male children.’
Dickson shrugged and relaxed, though he still couldn’t see where Gainey was going.
‘I’m sure that’s just a minor statistical anomaly, Mr. President. No doubt if you looked back at the analyses from previous years you’d see similar fluctuations.’
‘I agree, James. Taken by itself, it’s totally insignificant, although the same kind of bias has been evident since about nineteen-ninety. What worries me is the other factor mentioned in the classified footnote to Appendix Six of the report from Langley.’
The President paused, looking at Dickson in silent appraisal. The Secretary of Defense shook his head.
‘I don’t think –’ Dickson stopped, comprehension suddenly dawning. ‘This hasn’t got anything to do with Roland Oliver, has it?’ he asked.
Charles Gainey nodded. ‘Yes, it has. According to the CIA report, every woman who claimed to have had any close contact with Roland Oliver has subsequently only produced female offspring.’
Beaver Creek, Western Montana
The FBI arrived in force, if two people in one car could be described as ‘force,’ some two hours later. Dermott and Reilly were sitting in the front seats of the sheriff’s Cherokee, drinking beer and eating the sandwiches that one of the deputies had brought out to them, when the grey Ford sedan nosed into the field, preceded by one of the Beaver Creek police cruisers. Reilly got out of the Jeep and walked towards the car.
The Ford stopped, and a tall, well-built man in his early forties climbed out of the driver’s seat. He had short-cropped fair hair and a craggy face that stopped just this side of being handsome. Reilly was used to sizing up people at a glance, and could tell by the way the man moved that he was very fit.
Reilly looked at him for a few moments, then switched his attention to the blonde woman who was just emerging from the other side of the car. She was twenty-eight – no older – and had the kind of face and figure that could stop traffic, just as she had stopped Reilly.
Steven Hunter grinned. He was starting to get used to the effect Christy-Lee Kaufmann had on middle-aged men.
‘I was kinda expectin’ Mulder and Scully,’ Reilly said, extending a large and horny hand.
‘They don’t work for us any more, sheriff,’ Christy-Lee Kaufmann replied politely, and walked over to Reilly. Even long after it had ended, the hugely popular ‘X-Files’ television series still seemed to entitle all US citizens to make smart remarks about the Bureau, but she smiled anyway. She shook his hand, then pulled out her identification and showed it to the sheriff.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. I’m Special Agent Kaufmann of the FBI and this is Steven Hunter. What’ve you got for us?’
Chapter Two
Tuesday
Beaver Creek, Western Montana
Christy-Lee Kaufmann put her hands behind her back and surveyed the crime scene, much as Sheriff Reilly had done earlier that day, and came to pretty much the same conclusions.
Kaufmann had joined the Bureau straight from college, and although she’d only worked in Montana, she’d been assigned to investigate over twenty murder cases already. Some had been unusual for one reason or another; a handful had been frankly bizarre, but most of them had just been boring and predictable – at least for the investigators. They had had a somewhat different effect upon the victims’ families, not least because in the vast majority of cases another family member had been the perpetrator.
But this case was a first for her, and she was entirely in agreement with Sheriff Reilly.
‘What we have here, Special Agents Hunter and Kaufmann – I get that right, miss? – is a murder that couldn’t have happened.’
Reilly had taken them to the edge of the ring of stakes, and all three of them were standing and looking down at the body.
‘Do you know the victim?’
Hunter spoke for the first time, and Reilly looked up sharply.
‘You’re British,’ he said, almost accusingly. ‘What’s a goddamn limey doin’ in the Bureau?’
Hunter just looked at him, and it was Kaufmann who replied.
‘A good question, sheriff. Mr. Hunter is British, but I didn’t actually say he was in the Bureau. He’s a policeman who’s been seconded to the FBI for a couple of years.’
‘What kind of a policeman?’
‘Does it matter?’ Hunter asked, deflecting the question and looking straight at Reilly.
The sheriff stared back at him for a few seconds, then dropped his eyes. ‘No, I guess not,’ he said, and after a moment turned back to look again at the body. ‘OK, we do know t
he deceased. Name was Billy Dole. Lived on the northern edge of town. He worked in the prison service in Texas and retired out here two or three years ago. Never married, and he kept himself pretty much to himself. Told me he’d spent almost his whole life cooped up behind concrete walls just like a convict, and aimed to enjoy his retirement in the open air – huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’.’
He looked down at the husk of the man. A 30.30 rifle with a telescopic sight lay beside the body, and he had a heavy-calibre pistol and a hunting knife on his belt.
‘Up here after deer, I guess.’
‘You ever go hunting together?’ Hunter asked, looking at the rifle with professional interest.
‘Yeah, coupla times. Why?’
Hunter ignored the question. ‘Was he a good hunter? You know, aware of what game was around, a good shot, that sort of thing?’
Reilly paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yeah, I see where you’re goin’ with that,’ he said. ‘He was good enough, I guess, so nobody could sneak up on him and punch his lights out with a goddamn human leg bone.
‘And,’ Reilly continued, ‘the doc thinks the attack was from the front, ’cause he’s lyin’ on his back, and there’s no sign of the body bein’ turned over. As far as we can see, Billy Dole died right where he fell.’
Hunter and Kaufmann looked at each other, but neither spoke.
‘There’s the height problem, too.’
‘Height problem? What height problem?’ Kaufmann asked.
‘Billy Dole here was a big guy – around six two, six three,’ Reilly said. ‘Whoever smashed that bone into his head drove it straight down through the top of the skull. He used it like a dagger, not a club. That means, according to the doc, that the attacker had to be at least two feet taller than the victim. Unless o’ course Billy Dole bent over to let him do it, and I can’t think of no good reason why a man carryin’ a rifle and pistol would let that happen to him.’
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