I called Chad on his cell phone. “I found the Navigator burning at the Banjo Bill Picnic Area. There’re some footprints and tire tracks that we should imprint before the area is messed up too much. Do you have the crime scene kit with you?”
“Yes, I’ll be right there,” he said. “The Fire Station # 3 Technical Rescue Team is here trying to recover the body. The crime scene technician has taken the bike up to the police lab, and the Flagstaff deputies are working on the witnesses’ statements. Everything is under control here. See you in five minutes.”
Soon, the search parties were working both sides of the highway upstream and downstream from the fire. Within two minutes of their arrival, fire fighters from Fire Station # 2 had put out the Navigator fire by pumping water from Oak Creek over the burning SUV. Chad and I were making imprints of the foot and tire tracks. It was a busy scene. Not only did we have tire tracks that would probably connect the vehicle to the skid marks at the hit and run, I was certain that they would match the tracks we had taken up by the Pagan Point crime scene. We even had parts of the actual tires. Since they’d been half under water the Navigator’s tires were not completely destroyed in the intense fire. The footprints seemed to be the same size as the single print that we had found at Father Sean’s murder scene. They were spaced far apart and had an impact pattern from someone running.
Sheriff Taylor arrived at the Banjo Bill Picnic Area with District Judge Gordon Martin. The sheriff introduced the gray-haired middle-aged judge. Judge Martin was in a blue business suit and white shirt. On weekdays, formal looking blue suits with yellow silk ties were scarcer than elephants in Coconino County. The judge did not look comfortable here in Oak Creek Canyon.
Judge Martin said in greeting, “Detective Damson, I’m truly sorry that I can’t give you the warrant you wanted. It would be so broad that we would lose any evidence that you found on appeal. If you can discover any indication, no matter how tenuous, that connects any specific house to the crime, I’ll write you a warrant on the spot. That’s why I came down. I really do understand how important this is.”
I thanked the judge. The medical examiner’s van pulled up on the road near the campground. I made the official identification of the body of Kevin Riker. The cause of death was obvious, but there would be an autopsy in Flagstaff this afternoon because it was required in a murder investigation. I could not help but think of the horror of the long, long tumbling fall over jagged volcanic rocks into the Pumphouse Wash. I hoped Kevin was unconscious from the impact with the SUV before he went over the cliff. I was going to get the malevolent bastard who drove that Navigator. There was no place for him to hide.
CHAPTER 17
I asked for the sheriff’s OK to contact the local authorities in Honey Grove, Texas so that Kevin’s family could be notified. I called Rose, and she was able to determine that the town was in Fannin County, Texas. Rose connected me to the local sheriff. The Fannin County sheriff knew Kevin’s family. He would go by in person to notify them. The Texas sheriff also had read of the Secret Mountain Murder and knew that Kevin had found the body. When he asked if Kevin’s death was connected to the other murder case, I answered truthfully that I was fairly certain that the same group had murdered Kevin Riker. I gave him my cell phone to provide to Kevin’s family and promised to take their call at any time day or night until this crime was solved. My head throbbed with the start of a migraine.
Chad and I decided to drive up and down the canyon looking for any dirt roads that connected to 89A. We could check for tire tracks of the correct size and try to narrow the possible sources of the Navigator. We both thought the SUV must have been hidden here in the canyon between its use on Tuesday to run us off the road and the hit and run today. If we could show that a large Ford SUV had driven down a dirt road or a driveway, the judge would give us a search warrant for any houses on that road. There were two-dozen side roads that led to small clusters of vacation cabins, but most Oak Creek Canyon cabins had no garage. Many of these places were summer homes and not occupied on a Friday in November. When we found people at home, we asked if they knew anyone with a black Lincoln Navigator.
About three miles from the south end of the canyon, a dirt road crossed the creek on a low water bridge. Chad and I found tracks of the correct tire size in the soft soil where the road reached highway 89A. We investigated the side road on foot. At the end of the dirt track, we found only a single A-frame cabin. Next to it was a shed big enough for a large car. No other structures were nearby. This certainly might have been the Navigator’s hiding place. I used my cell phone to call Judge Martin and asked for a warrant. The judge was waiting with Sheriff Taylor at the Junipine Resort Restaurant. He said that he would come to the cabin immediately. I called Rose at the office and asked her to find who owned the property and to ask the crime scene technician to come to the cabin.
Once we had the warrant, Chad and I investigated the house and shed on foot, inspecting it carefully from the outside. We decided not to enter either building until the crime scene technician arrived. I wanted every opportunity to find fingerprints and DNA evidence. The shed had a padlock. Large tire tracks led from under its closed shed doors to the little dirt road.
While we waited, I called Margaret with the news of Kevin’s death. It hurt to hear her sob over the phone. There was a lump in my throat too. There had been two murders in the past week, and we knew both of the victims. In the hundreds of investigations I had conducted in LA, I had never known a murder victim before the crime. It was about 4:00. I told Margaret that I would be home late, and she should not wait for me for dinner.
It was about half an hour before the crime scene technician returned from taking the bike to Flagstaff. He took fingerprint and swabs for DNA samples from the padlock and door handle. When we forced open the shed, we found it empty. In the adjacent cabin, we found information that connected the small place to its owner at an address in Paradise Valley, a Phoenix suburb. Peter Beech, MD owned the cabin. Rose called confirming the same ownership information while we were in the cabin. There was no sign that the house had been used recently. The water and power had been turned off to winterize it and there was no food in the pantry. The level of dust in the place was deep enough to indicate that the place might not have been used this season at all.
The sheriff had remained at the Junipine Resort coordinating the search of the canyon. The odds were not good. It was getting dark quickly; the twilight’s approach was speeded by the steep walls of the canyon. Dogs had been brought into the search. It had now been hours since the fire was set, and the trail was cold.
The driver of the Navigator might have had someone waiting in another vehicle and just ridden out of the canyon right through the roadblock. He or she could have had another vehicle stashed nearby or just hiked out. While 89A was the only road in or out of Oak Creek Canyon, there were at least six hiking trails that led up to the rim. By now the driver could be having a drink in Flagstaff or Sedona.
It was after dark when Sheriff Taylor arrived at the cabin. He had given up on the search of the canyon at dusk. We had missed the driver again, and Sheriff Taylor was not happy. He started the conversation by saying, “Mike, we must get control of this damn investigation. We have two murders, and the same driver probably tried to kill you and Chad when he ran you off the road.” I nodded, and the sheriff continued, “I called Governor Garman. She’s a very savvy and politically astute lady. We are going to have some help tomorrow morning. Mike, you’ll be in charge of the search of the plateau above the West Fork.” I nodded again.
“There have been three sunny days since the last snow,” he said. “Only about five inches are still on the ground up there. We’re going to search the area in spite of the snow cover with the help of about a hundred members of the Arizona National Guard. We’ll be taking National Guard helicopters to the crime scene, and the guard units will bring some specialized equipment. They’ll have ground search sonic units that can find caves or disturbed soil
that might indicate a burial place. The Guard will also have infrared equipment and some other high tech goodies that are still classified. They’ll search the area using the infrared from the air. The equipment is being brought in from California, but the guardsmen will be from the local Flagstaff unit. We’ll have a lot of guys on foot who grew up in these woods to help us search.”
I was pleased to lead the search now. Waiting till spring was unacceptable. “With that help, we’ll find bodies if they’re anywhere near that circular grove. I had time to read many of the files you brought me yesterday. We have a group of serial killers in the county, and I think we’ll find a regular cemetery of victims up there,” I said.
“I’ll be there too at least for part of the morning; however I want you to plan and lead the search. With this many people involved, the word is likely to get out. Whether or not we find anything, the Kevin Riker hit and run will create a lot of additional press interest. His death combined with a hundred people searching the Sean Murphy murder site will have the press in a frenzy.”
I knew what was coming. “I’d like you to have another press conference tomorrow afternoon up in Flagstaff. We’ll use the briefing room at the Law Enforcement Building. Mike, you did a great job at the other press conference and you have my full confidence. I’ll set it up for 4:00. We’ll have most of the day for the search, but still give the press time to meet their afternoon TV news deadlines. You men should head home. I’ll see you both at the parking lot next to my office at 8:00 tomorrow morning.”
I drove home, sad and tired. Margaret was waiting with a good dinner. She had been cooking for hours. There was enough food for a crowd. Her German chocolate cake and lemon meringue pie were for special occasions. She explained that she had called Kevin’s parents and invited them to stay with us when they got here tomorrow. They were coming to retrieve the body of their only son. I didn’t know what I could say to them; my headache worsened.
CHAPTER 18
Long before dawn, I was up preparing to lead the search of the area Chad and I called the Pagan Point. I was sitting at the kitchen table marking grid lines in my copy of the Dutton Hill USGS map when Margaret joined me. I planned to divide the guardsmen into three-man teams and search every inch of the area. With their high tech equipment, we might get lucky, but I was expecting old-fashioned legwork to find any bodies buried up there. Margaret gave me a hug and said, “Mike, I’ve seen you solve crimes for nearly thirty years. If Kevin had been our own son, there’s no one in the world that I’d rather have looking for the murderer. You’re damn good at this.”
I smiled for the first time since Chad’s call about the hit and run. After three decades of marriage, Margaret knew exactly what to say to change my black mood. I would focus my attention on catching the evil bastards.
“Margaret,” I said, “tell me about your plans for today. I’ll need to spend the whole day on the search of Pagan Point and the 4:00 press conference in Flagstaff.”
“I understand,” she said. “I’m going to pick up Marilyn and Arthur Riker down at Phoenix Sky Harbor at 10:35. I’ll bring them here to the house to freshen up and have lunch. At 2:00, I’ll drive them up to Flagstaff to the medical examiner’s office. I plan to take the Interstate and not Highway 89A unless they ask to see the crime scene. I don’t want them to see how far Kevin fell if I can avoid it.” Tears moistened her brown eyes as she continued, “After they identify Kevin’s body, I’ll bring them to the press conference if they want to come, otherwise we’ll return to Sedona. You can answer their questions when you get home tonight.”
Margaret made a breakfast that would last all day, ham and eggs, hash browns, and oatmeal. She thought these were brain foods and would somehow help with the case. I ate every bite. I worked on the search plan until 6:30. I wanted to get to Flagstaff at least half an hour before we were due to assemble at the parking lot next to the Flagstaff Law Enforcement Building. I picked up Chad at his condo in West Sedona, so that we could discuss the case on the way.
During our drive to Flagstaff, I described my meeting with Alicia Magnus. Chad knew no more about the New Age part of Sedona than I, even though he grew up in the area. He seemed amused that there might be a witch managing the bookstore in the same strip mall as our office.
The biggest reaction from Chad came when I began to describe the founding and organization of modern Druidry. “I can’t figure out if the guys that created the modern Druids were serious. It sounds like something you’d do after a long evening of drinking,” I said, “They started this version of the ancient religion in a pub called the Apple Tree Tavern in Covent Gardens, London in 1717.”
“Mike, are you bull shitting me? The Apple Tree Tavern? No Way.” Chad said.
I pulled the Explorer over into a nearby parking place not far from the Banjo Bill Picnic Area where I’d found the Navigator. I just looked over at Chad saying, “Partner, what do you know that I don’t?”
He smiled. “Every guy who grew up in the Sedona area knows the Apple Tree Tavern. It’s the place most of us got our first beer. It’s been around for longer than anyone I know can remember. It is one of the few places in the area that never checks ID’s. Any guy with a trace of beard or a poor quality fake ID can buy a beer at the Apple Tree Tavern. They don’t serve hard liquors, just Coors on tap and long neck Buds. Old Angus Wood ran the place when I was in high school, but he was already a really old fart. I’ll bet his son Malcolm Wood runs it now. I haven’t been there in ten years; there’re too many kids in the place.”
“I’ve never seen this bar. Where is it? What’s it like?”
“You can’t see it from the road. You turn off east from 89A about two miles from Sedona when you’re headed for Flag. There is no sign; you just need to know where it’s located. You cross a low water bridge after going about a quarter of a mile on a gravel road. It’s a small rock building with the back wall pressed right against the wall of Casner Canyon, a side gorge to the main Oak Creek Canyon. It’s made of the local stone and fits into the spot like it grew there. You drive through a small group of tourist cabins that I think is owned by the same family.”
I shook my head; we could not be that lucky. “Tell me more, Partner,” I said.
“You can see a red neon Budweiser sign in the large front window, and a hand made wooden sign, ‘Apple Tree Tavern, 1939,’ hangs over the wooden front door. Inside there is a flagstone floor, a nice old dark wooden bar, and about six booths. The main attraction is the shuffleboard table that occupies the center of the single room. There is an old jukebox with every country and western song that was a hit in the 1940’s and 1950’s. A lot of Hank Williams gets played on that machine,” Chad said.
I pulled out of the parking place and headed for Flagstaff. “Were there any Druids about this old bar of yours? Tell me about the Wood family while I drive. We can’t be late for the sheriff’s hunting party.”
“I remember old Angus Wood. He was a colorful local character back before Sedona got full of tourists and Californians.” He was smiling as he made fun of us newcomers. “Angus Wood was a small man with long curly white hair and a prominent Roman nose. Angus never lost his English accent even though he had lived here most of his life. If he’s still alive, he must be ninety. His son, Malcolm, was a quiet guy unless you got too rowdy. Malcolm kept bar. He had a baseball bat that he would take out if things got difficult in the place. He was a big guy. You didn’t want to get him too upset. Old Angus often dozed in an easy chair behind the bar, but he could tell great stories when he wanted to entertain folks. I think Malcolm’s wife ran the cabins, but I don’t remember ever meeting her. Malcolm has a son who lives over in LA I think. As to being Druids, I can’t say the subject ever came up.”
This little bar and its owners seemed to be an interesting lead. The Woods had been here during the time period of the disappearances, and they ran a bar whose name was associated with Druid history. I don’t believe in coincidences.
As we drove up the switch
backs, past the place where Kevin Riker was killed, I wondered if the Wood family had ever had a black Lincoln Navigator. The Navigator had been taken to the Sheriff’s storage yard where the crime technician would complete his investigation. From the VIN number engraved on the engine block and the scorched license plate, we’d be able to trace the owner. I was guessing it was a stolen vehicle, but we might get lucky and learn something from it.
CHAPTER 19
At 7:40, we reached the parking lot where the search party was forming forming. I went in to see if Sheriff Taylor was in his office to talk about our plans for the day, especially how to handle the press conference. I found him on the phone. He waived me into the chair in front of his desk while he finished his phone call. He was talking with the governor. From the Sheriff’s side of the conversation, I could tell both of them were worried about the state’s reaction if we found dozens of bodies. I heard the sheriff say, “Yes, Governor Garman, thirty or more.” I could hear the stress in his voice as he finished the conversation.
When he hung up, he looked at me and said, “Mike, you did great with the press conference Thursday, but things could get nasty at the one this afternoon. The word about our search party is out; we couldn’t expect to keep it secret with a hundred local National Guardsmen searching the crime scene. Since we need to have a good explanation for an operation this large, we’ll disclose the pattern of missing people to explain why we were doing this search. If we do find evidence of additional bodies, every motel in town will be full of reporters before the week is out. The governor will send twenty members of a special state crime task force to help with the forensics if we do find dozens of graves. She’ll pull the team together from every county in the state by executive order. She also promised to cover the county’s expenses by requesting a special appropriation, but with the legislature completely controlled by the Republicans and Coconino County steadfastly Democrat, I’m not sure she can get that approved. If there are actually thirty murders to investigate, it might cost millions for us to do it right.”
The Dead Priest of Sedona Page 9
