The first photo of Kate Danning's corpse was taken from a short distance away. The photographer had stood high on something, probably a rock. It shows a young woman lying facedown on top of several large boulders. Part of the picture shows the base of the cliff just a few feet away from her. I don't quite recognize it although it appears somewhat familiar. Which isn't surprising as it has been almost twenty years since I've spent much time at Vedauwoo.
The girl wears tight black leggings and what looks like a heavy fleece jacket. Her legs are lean and athletic but one is sprawled at an impossible angle. Her brown hair is straight, just long enough to hide her ears. I'm relieved that there is no evident gore and that her eyes face the earth. The next photos were taken closer and show just the body as it was found. I hold the pictures close to my face and can see where her hair is slightly matted with blood on the back of her head.
Then there are more photos of the entire scene, this time taken from a greater distance and facing the cliff. The first of these shows the body and the base of the rock. A second focuses higher on the cliff and shows it in its entirety. The granite looks perfectly vertical and sheer. It's also vaguely familiar, but doesn't appear to be anywhere near where I soloed yesterday. The final photo from the scene was apparently taken from over the body, looking up the wall. I instinctively look for a way to climb it and see only a fist-size crack that leads almost all the way to the top. There are no photos of the top, where the party had taken place.
I call the hotel operator, who connects me to McGee's room.
“What?” His voice is thick with sleep and his general orneriness is conveyed in just that one word.
“It's me. I want to talk to you about this Danning thing, if you ever get your gordo orto out of bed.”
“Impertinent youth. Don't speak to your betters that way. . . . Come over in fifteen minutes. Room 136 . . . And bring some goddamn coffee.”
I shower and shave, then knock on McGee's door at the appointed time. My boss answers the door wearing only an unbuckled pair of pants and with a thick cigar clenched between his teeth. His spine is bent by the small hump and the weight of his big, bald head like a branch supporting too much snow. Ash is sprinkled down his long white beard. The once-powerful torso shows the ravages of age, disease, and war. His bulging barrel of a belly displays a jagged scar caused by what I'd been told was Korean shrapnel. When he turns, I can see on his shoulder the puckered skin of where a bullet passed in and out. Beyond him in the room is a clutter of oxygen bottles. The man should definitely not be smoking.
“Frigging altitude,” he explains, out of breath from the walk across the small room to answer the door.
Oso pushes his way into the room ahead of me and McGee leaps back from the door, moving with surprising agility for a man of his age and bulk.
“Jesus Christ, what is that? A fucking bear?”
Oso ignores him and collapses on the carpet. The murder of the children's soccer ball has left him exhausted.
“His name's Oso,” I say. “But with his gray muzzle and big belly, he could be your twin.”
“How the hell did you get him into the hotel? We had a hard enough time getting these rooms for the humans.”
I slip my badge from my wallet and hang it on the dog's collar. “I told them he was a police dog. Then I got him to growl and they didn't argue. Smile, Oso.”
The beast complies by halfheartedly lifting his lips and revealing his long, yellow-stained teeth. If it weren't for his tired and complacent eyes the effect would be terrifying.
McGee doesn't know him well enough to read the eyes and says, “Goddamn!” and staggers back to the far side of the room.
When McGee goes back to dressing and while Oso pants, I explain the reports I'd read and the mention of an inconsistent head injury. I also tell him that the crowd she ran with is apparently into meth and dope. Giving me a foul-tempered look, he wonders aloud what is with drugs and climbers in this town.
Feeling defensive, I tell him that as a whole climbers are probably more law-abiding than any other class of athletes I can think of. The climbing community is largely made up of intensely devoted and responsible individuals. Their love of life and freedom, athleticism, respect for nature, and reliance on the teamwork of their partners for their very survival adds up to a sort of general social empathy.
But McGee appears to ignore my brief lecture—he growls out a litany of curses as he wrestles his bulk into a shirt then says, “If there was any hanky-panky up there . . . Karge's kid could cost him the damned election.”
As I know he will, he agrees that further investigation is warranted and gives me his official blessing by saying, “Don't just stand there with your dick in your hand . . . do it.”
At my urging, he picks up the phone and dials the Coroner's Office. The first—and possibly the only—thing I need to find out is whether there's a reasonable explanation for the injury to the back of Kate Danning's head. The coroner should be able to tell me that. But I suspect that if I were to call I would just get the runaround.
After McGee identifies himself as a Deputy Attorney General, he spars with the person on the other end. Finally he barks, “Three o'clock,” and slams down the phone while muttering about “incompetent fucking vampires.” Then McGee leaves for court to assist Nathan Karge in arguing the objections the defense had made during his closing. The judge will rule on them while the jury continues to deliberate.
I sit on the bed with the window open, skimming distractedly through the reports one more time and wondering where I should begin. Even in my room I can smell the dry dust in the air, lifted off the chaparral plains by the wind as it spins across the summer-baked earth. It reminds me again of my grandfather's ranch, where on our visits there I wrestled in the dirt with my brother over who would have the privilege of the first attempt on a new climbing problem we'd discovered around the red cliffs near the main house. Older and stronger, he always won. At that age it seemed I only got to climb where others had been before. That was something I strove to remedy in later years.
Starting an investigation is like spilling the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle onto a broad table. Or like staring up at a climb, trying to unravel the mysteries of the moves it will require to gain the summit. No matter how good you are at putting them together, you're always a little unsure where to begin. You hesitate and wonder if it's worth the risk and the trouble. The sagebrush smell and the memory make me recall my father's often-repeated advice about starting a climb. “Be prepared,” he would say, “then be creative.”
My father was once on an expedition in Pakistan when he and his partner ran out of food while waiting for the weather to clear. They were afraid to make the three-day journey to the nearest village for supplies because a team of Russian climbers had established a base camp close by and were obviously eyeballing my father's intended route. So late one afternoon, while his partner guarded the line, my father hiked down into the valley where he remembered having seen a herd of sheep.
In the midst of stalking a young ewe, he realized he was being watched. A native herder sat beneath a rock's overhang just a hundred feet away, pointing an old muzzle-loading rifle at the poacher. Dad was creative: He grinned at the herder and gestured at the sheep while he pantomimed a lewd motion with his hands and his hips. The native had smiled back in comprehension, probably thinking that this was just another of those strange, lonely foreigners. Dad ended up trading a pair of binoculars for the ewe and receiving a wink and a slap on the back from the herder. Resupplied, he and his partner finished the route ahead of the Russians. When telling Roberto and me the story out of our mother's earshot, he'd concluded it with a wink of his own. “Be creative,” he repeated.
Like climbing, the simplest way to start an investigation is from the bottom, talking to the initial witnesses. But in this case the witnesses are potential suspects, and I'm worried about how politics may have played a role in the Sheriff's Office's shoddy investigation. With the County Attorney's
and future governor's son as the boyfriend of the deceased, and the sheriff as his campaign manager, I consider that the case may have been intentionally dogged. Before I talk to the partyers who were up there that night, I want to get a better feel for what is going on.
So I need to start with the officers on the scene and see what kinds of vibes I can pick up from them, but I'm more than a little reluctant to talk to Sergeant Bender due to our history. Deputy Knight will have to be my starting point. I call the Sheriff's Office and learn that both Knight and Bender work the swing shift; they are off duty until the evening. After I explain my need to speak with Deputy Knight, I wait for ten minutes while the duty sergeant verifies my credentials with the Attorney General's Office and calls the deputy with my number at the hotel. Outside my window, more reporters and tourists are starting to gather in the deck chairs by the pool as they hopefully await word of an early verdict. Rebecca Hersh is still not among them. I imagine that she's somewhere around town, ambitiously pursuing a human interest angle. Finally the phone rings.
“This is Knight. I'm not sure what I can do for you—” He speaks quickly, his words from the start conveying a defensiveness. It is a small hint that something's not right. He also sounds somewhat educated and young, which makes me happy. I'd dared to hope he wouldn't have the old-school, country attitudes of police officers like Bender and Sheriff Willis.
“I'm a special agent with DCI, Deputy Knight,” I interrupt.
“I've heard of you.”
Between the incident in Cheyenne, his sergeant, and the sheriff, it isn't likely he's heard anything good. His tone tells me that he is not one of the cops who thinks I'm a hero.
“Okay, now as you probably know, we look into all criminal matters where there's a potential conflict of interest with local law enforcement.” I don't mention that it's generally in corruption cases. “We're taking a look at that Danning girl's death, and I just had a few questions. You were there early Sunday morning when her body was found, right?”
“Yes, sir. But excuse me—you said criminal matters. I don't understand what was criminal about it, a girl falling off a rock? The way it looked to me, she got stoned then probably tripped.”
“We're just looking into it as a matter of policy. It was requested by the girl's parents through the governor's office. By the way, who told you she was high?”
“The boyfriend, you know, the County Attorney's son.” I wonder why Bender didn't bother to put that in his report. Probably to avoid connecting the son to any embarrassing behavior. “Hey, um, do I need to clear it with the sheriff or anyone before I talk with you?”
“No, Sheriff Willis is the one who gave me the file.”
“Okay, we've just been warned to be careful talking. You know, with all these reporters in town and all.”
I try to move on quickly, not wanting him to give the sheriff a call. “Do you remember what Brad Karge said about her being wasted? What she was taking?”
“He said that she'd just been drinking. That they'd hauled a couple of bottles up there in the dark. Oh yeah, and there was a pipe in one of her jacket pockets. A metal one, you know. I found it when I was looking for her ID.”
“Was the pipe used for pot or something heavier?”
“It wasn't for pot. I smelled it. It was for the heavy stuff. Meth.”
That isn't in the report either. “Now you checked her pulse, right, and her pockets? Did you move her at all?”
“No, sir. I didn't even want to touch her in the first place, but Bender told me I had to.”
“So was she facedown when you arrived, Deputy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you ask Bradley Karge if he'd moved her at all when he found her?”
“No, but he was pretty freaked out. Wouldn't go near the body.”
“The autopsy showed that she had an injury to the back of her head, not just to her face. Any idea how she could have gotten it?”
“No, sir. The girl landed facedown, the way it looked to me. And stayed that way till the coroner's guys bagged her.”
“Did you show the pipe to the kid or ask him about it? Or did Bender talk to him about it?”
The deputy sounds a little embarrassed. “No, they don't let me investigate deaths. I'm just a rookie, you know? I was just there as backup and 'cause I'm EMT certified. I didn't hear Bender ask him much. It didn't seem necessary.”
“So I guess you didn't talk to any of the other witnesses who were supposed to have been at that party on the cliff?”
Now the deputy chuckles somewhat nervously. It's obvious not much of an investigation was conducted, and even as a rookie he knows it. “No, sir, sorry.”
“All right. Well, thanks for calling me back, Knight. Good luck handling the crowds if a verdict comes back today.”
The conversation leaves me with the feeling that either some incredibly sloppy police work had been performed or something more sinister is going on. I think about calling the duty sergeant again and having him call Bender, but I know the response I'll get from him. It will be either abusive or none at all.
Instead I get out the hotel's Laramie phone book and look for the names of the four other partyers whose names Bender had written in his report. Chris Braddock, Billy Heller, Cindy Topper, and Sierra Calloway. The only name that is listed in the White Pages with both a number and an address is Cindy Topper's. However, in the Yellow Pages I find a listing for Heller Carpentry. Construction and carpentry are the least offensive careers for full-time hard-core climbers, and I assume Billy Heller is no different. One can work a job for a few weeks, then spend a month or two traveling and climbing, living out of the back of one's truck. On a legal pad I copy down the numbers and addresses for Cindy and Heller Carpentry.
Then I make a call to DCI's main office in Cheyenne.
“DCI” is all the female voice on the other end says.
“Hi, Kristi, it's Anton.”
“Hey, buddy.” Her voice drops to a softer, concerned tone. As if she's speaking to a mourning friend or a dangerous psychotic. “How are you doing? Everyone around here's been talking about you, rooting that the case'll get settled or thrown out next Thursday.”
“Keep your fingers crossed,” I say. Then to forestall any further discussion of the wrongful death suit, I go right into the reason I called. I ask if she can run some criminal histories for me. DCI keeps the state's database and also has access to NCIC, the FBI's nationwide system. I give her all the names from Bender's report.
“Don't you have birth dates, Anton?”
“Sorry, but I can give you estimates. Heller should be in his late thirties to early forties. All the others should be between eighteen and, say, twenty-five.”
It turns out there is only one Bradley Karge, age nineteen. Kristi tells me he's clean on the Wyoming computer. That means he has never been arrested in Wyoming, which isn't surprising since his dad is the chief law enforcement officer in the only county he's ever lived in. He has, however, been arrested and charged in both California and New Mexico for possession of narcotics. No disposition of the charges is shown on the computer, meaning that they were probably dismissed. His father's influence, I'm sure.
Billy Heller, a.k.a. William Heller, Jr., is no surprise either. He has numerous Wyoming charges and some convictions. There are three convictions for misdemeanor third-degree assault, two of which were pleaded down from felonies, and a conviction for felony Possession of a Schedule II Controlled Substance, which usually means cocaine or methamphetamine. Kristi tells me that Heller is still on probation for the narcotics charge, although the charge is out of Teton County, not Laramie. She gives me the name of the probation officer and tells me she'll check around to find his number.
After a moment of further tapping of keys at her terminal, she tells me that he has just recently been charged with Possession with Intent to Manufacture and/or Distribute, but that the charge was dismissed only two days ago. But there is still an outstanding Petition to Revoke Probatio
n based upon the new charge. I ask her whose name is down as the dismissing attorney and she says Nathan Karge. That is a surprise; I would have thought he'd have been too busy with the Lee trial and the election to deal with a commonplace drug crime.
Like Heller, Chris Braddock also is on probation for Possession with Intent to Distribute out of Teton County. The DOOs, date of offenses, are the same. That means they were doing a little dealing together. Sierra Calloway, if it's the same girl, had been charged with prostitution in Boulder, Colorado, but received a deferred judgment that's basically the same as a dismissal as long as she stays out of trouble. As for Cindy Topper, Kristi can find no criminal history for anyone with a similar name and within the scope of the birth dates I've given her.
I write down what she's told me and ask for the addresses given for Chris Braddock and Billy Heller in the probation paperwork. Not available by computer are the addresses for the out-of-state charges against Bradley Karge and Sierra Calloway, but Kristi promises to send out some faxes requesting them. I ask her to print out everything she has found and courier it to me at the Holiday Inn.
“I'll do better than that—since it's so slow around here I'll drive it out. Everyone is just sitting on their butts, glued to the television, waiting for a verdict in the Lee case. And it's just an hour from the office anyway.” DCI's headquarters are in Cheyenne, Wyoming, just fifty miles over the low mountains to the east. “Besides, buddy, I haven't seen you in a while,” she adds.
I tell her it isn't at all necessary, but thank her. I'm not thrilled with the idea of her coming. I'd just barely escaped having a relationship with her when I was assigned to the main office in Cheyenne. At a party we both drank too much and she clung to me the entire evening, demonstrating her availability by lifting her shirt to show me the faint ridges of gym-earned muscles on her stomach and the lower edges of her black lace bra. Only with great difficulty had I managed to elude the temptation that night and go home alone. Now, eighteen months later and emotionally damaged, I don't know if I'll have the will to ward off a second assault.
The Edge of Justice Page 6
