She finished her run at 7:00 a.m. right on time. Driving back to her apartment she prepared herself to meet whatever came her way at the FBI. The formal and complex workings of the Bureau would hold challenges for her. She thought of her mother. Her jaw muscles tightened. Damn it, I'm going to do this
EIGHT
MONDAY MORNING STARTED out like any day in June, hot and dry. Rainfall for the first six months of the year totaled less than two inches, and the monsoon season held little promise of relief. Not happy to be outside in the god-awful heat, the BLM's Field Survey Crew cursed the air-conditioner that didn’t work in the District's only four-wheel-drive passenger van. Repairs had been put off due to budget cuts.
Alice Kabunsky, the District's archaeologist, had begged team leader Joe Halverson to start work an hour early to avoid the heat of the late morning sun. The rest of the team, composed of a realty specialist, a biologist, and a range manager, agreed to this early departure if they had lunch at the Ranchland Cafe in Tatum near the Texas border. Joe maneuvered the van out of the district's storage yard and onto Highway 380 heading east. At mile marker 48 they left the highway.
Getting around New Mexico is easy, until you leave the paved roads and cross into the great desert lands that appeared much the same mile after mile. Fanning’s oil Lease 9870 covered forty desolate acres about twenty miles south of Highway 380. To get there, the white van zigzagged around desert obstacles for over thirty rock-hard miles. Many of the team dozed off during the trip, but Alice stayed alert, not wanting to miss anything that might be of special note. They arrived on-site at 9:15, and everyone piled out of the van. There was little enthusiasm for the task ahead.
Not so for Alice. She kept detailed records of each field survey conducted so she could later transfer any useful findings into the District’s Archaeology Database. Today she felt like a squirrel about to find last winter’s cache of carefully hidden nuts. If she found nothing, that meant there were no signs of past human life or culture on that tract of land. If she discovered even a small shard of pottery or rock tool, it added another piece to the historical puzzle of the living past.
Joe instructed everyone to walk a thirty yard pattern starting from north to south, and then switch directions and walk the track again. Everyone carried a two-way radio, making communication between the team members possible.
The crew formed a line with the proper distance between each person, and began to march south. Forty acres driving a tractor is manageable, but forty acres on foot is like swimming a mile–it looks easy until you do it. At the end of the first tract, they reformed and started over, Alice called to the other members of the crew on her two-way radio. "Keep an eye open for bits of pottery or other things of a suspicious nature. Sing out if you see anything. I'll come to you and check it out."
Howard Duran, the range manager, couldn't resist a comment. "How about antelope droppings, if there're old?"
"Not funny," she answered.
By 11 o'clock they had covered half of the tract as the temperature inched up. Alice studied the ground with a trained eye. She seldom missed even the slightest clue to the past. As she approached an abrupt rise in the terrain she noticed the ground surface was different. Disturbed. The hardpan, a gray colored impervious layer of soil located inches under the surface was scattered over the surface. Two steps further she knelt down for a close inspection. Something's been digging here. Probably coyotes. She moved forward and flicked on her radio. "I'm not sure what this is, but it’s strange." Alice pulled her metal trowel out of her back pocket and began to probe the ground.
Halverson radioed back. "Did you find something, Alice? A big old chunk of pottery?" No answer. "What do you see that’s strange?" Still no answer.
Then, Alice's voice burst from everyone's pocket radios. "Damn. You better come over here. Right now. I mean everybody. Jesus Christ! I don't believe this!"
NINE
THE SECRETARY FOR THE BLM’s district manager poked her head around the edge of the doorway. "Mr. McKruger, Joe Halverson on line one. It sounds serious." Tim nodded a thank you, and reached for the phone.
"Joe, what's up?"
"Alice found a dead body. Mostly buried."
"A body? A human body?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where?"
"On the Fanning mineral lease. Just stumbled over it. She's real upset."
"Are you on the lease now?"
"I'm about ten miles south of the highway. Had to drive back to get a signal on my phone."
"Where's the crew?"
"They're with me."
"Stay where you are. I'll call you back."
"Yes, sir."
McKruger had never experienced finding a dead body on public land. Plenty of dead cows, deer, horses, and maybe a drunk cowhand, but not a buried human. He dialed 911.
"Emergency Assistance, may I have your name?"
"I've received a report from my field supervisor. They found a body."
"Your name please, and address?"
"I'm Tim McKruger. Manager of the Roswell BLM. 1010 West 2nd Street."
"Will medical assistance be required for the victim?"
"No, my supervisor said it's a dead body."
"Where is the victim located?”
"It's on an oil lease southwest of Tatum near the Texas border. I can give you a phone number of Joe Halverson. He can direct you."
"His number, please. “McKruger gave her the number. "I’ll get back to you."
DEPUTY SERGEANT Johnny Gallaher answered his phone. "Lea County Sheriff's office, Gallaher speaking."
"This is the Emergency Call Center. I have a report of a dead body southwest of Tatum. I'm connecting you with someone who has the location of the victim." Sergeant Gallaher grabbed a pencil and paper. The 911 operator continued. "I have Mr. Joe Halverson with the BLM on the line. This will be a three way conversation."
A man's voice came on. "Hello, this is Halverson. We found a dead body an hour ago."
Gallaher held his pencil at the ready. "Where are you, Mr. Halverson?"
"South of Highway 380.
"Are you with the body?"
“No, but I have the longitude and latitude. Are you ready?"
“Yes." Sergeant Gallaher noted the location. "What can you tell me about this incident?"
“We were surveying a tract of land for cultural artifacts when our archeologist found a burial site. Actually disturbed ground with a foot wrapped in white cloth sticking up. Probably a coyote uncovered it.”
"Mr. Halverson, I want you to go to where you found the body. Do you have any flares with you?"
"Yes."
"When you see a helicopter, set one off."
"Yes sir." Halverson wiped sweat from his chin. "How long do we have to stay out here? It's hot."
"Until I release you. I’ll arrange for a flight to your location. I'll get to you as fast as I can."
Johnny Gallaher held the title of Investigative Sergeant with the Lea County Sheriff's Office in Lovington, New Mexico. In a more populated county he would head a team of experts numbering six or more, but in rural Lea County the team consisted of him alone.
At this point he didn't know if it was a crime scene, but accidental death rarely wrapped itself in a white sheet. He pulled his checklist out and went to work. First he called Cisco Ortega’s Helicopter Service. Cisco owned the only available helicopter in the county. Next, he called Doc Henry, a local pediatrician who served as the county's part-time medical examiner. He left word his services might be needed. With some dread, he called the Sheriff to tell him of the dead body found in their county.
When Gallaher's call rang on Wendell Hardgrave’s desk, he dropped a copy of American Sportsman and answered the phone. "Sheriff Hardgrave, can I help ya."
"Sheriff, this is Sergeant Gallaher."
"Who?"
"Gallaher, sir. Investigative Unit."
"Right. Right. What's up?"
"I received a report a few minutes ago of a
dead body out on the prairie north of here. I talked to Mike and he's fueled and ready to fly. I'll need a couple of deputies on this one."
Gallaher knew Sheriff Hardgrave, recently elected as the Get things done Sheriff, didn't have any interest in dead bodies in the desert, because they didn't vote. He also lacked any experience in police work. Politics yes, but law enforcement, no.
"Sergeant Gallaher, we're a little short on manpower, and the Centennial Celebration is underway. I can't spare nobody right now."
"Yes sir. I understand, but this doesn't sound like an accident, I need help with this one."
He drawled. "Where is this here dead body?"
"Southwest of Tatum about twenty miles."
"Isn't that on public land?"
"Why, yes sir, I think it is. Why?'
"Public land is Federal land. The Federal Government has a hell of a lot more time and money to investigate what happens on their land than we do. Let 'em handle it."
Sergeant Gallaher didn't know how to respond to the idea of the Federal government's involvement in a local matter. They lacked jurisdiction. "Sir, I'm not sure they would bother with this case."
"Well, you won't know until you give them a chance, will you, sonny? Call 'em up."
"Who should I call?"
"Hell, I don't know. Call the CIA."
"The CIA is a spy outfit."
"Okay, call the FBI. Check in the phone book. Keep me posted."
The Sheriff hung up, and continued reading his copy of the American Sportsman.
TEN
ASHLEY KOHEN GAVE herself plenty of time to find the Albuquerque Field Office on her first day of work. Being late would not be the best way to start a Federal career. When she approached the imposing three-story red brick building on Luecking Parkway, she noticed it sat isolated in a dense network of city life, as if it were an island guarded by a perimeter of neatly trimmed shrubs. A public parking lot and a wide walkway led to large wooden doors intended for use by the public. Around back, Ashley found a fenced and guarded employee parking lot with a sign that read: Warning: Staff Only.
Showing her identification at the gate, she parked and followed other agency workers into the building. A receptionist on the first floor, with a grim expression, directed Ashley to the office of the Special Agent in Charge–the SAC, room 300, top floor.
In keeping with his importance as head of a field office, Ashley expected the outer office of Walter Kent to be large and impressive, instead she entered a small room with six hardback chairs and a gray metal desk backed by a wall of four-drawer file cabinets. All neat, functional, and ordinary. Not ordinary was the young and attractive woman standing behind the desk. Her nameplate read, Ms. Dorothy Hogan–Executive Assistant. Dressed in a tailored pants suit, much like the one Ashley wore, she made a handsome impression. "Good morning, you must be Ashley Kohen, from Quantico."
"Yes, I am. I'm reporting for duty."
Ms. Hogan presented a friendly smile. "First up, we have to get you processed and registered. It won't take long, well, only most of this morning. When finished, please come back here." She smiled again and handed Ashley a sheet of paper with directions of where to go and who to see.
Ashley spent the morning following instructions that would prepare her to become an official member of the Albuquerque Field Office. As if to prove she had joined one of the largest bureaucracies in Federal service, she had to fill out forms asking for information already on file in Washington.
At the Academy she had been issued a semi-automatic 9 mm Glock 17L handgun, and locking holster used during firearms training. Today, at the Quartermaster's Supply Depot, she picked up the rest of the gear assigned to every new agent: an Advanced M26-C Taser gun with three rechargeable cartridges, handcuffs, two leather belts, a shoulder holster, a bulletproof vest, an outer vest and coat with big yellow FBI letters on the back, a field investigators uniform, pepper spray, ammunition clip holders, and a portable two-way radio transmitter with a pin-on-mike.
The man behind the counter suggested she buy a small handgun and ankle holster and always wear it. He explained they were not Government Issue, but all the agents carried one. He gave her a black duffle bag to carry everything. She signed for each item.
At one o'clock, Ashley arrived back at the SAC's office lugging all her stuff in the black bag. Ms. Hogan greeted her with another expression of friendliness. "Be seated, Ms. Kohen, Mr. Kent will be with you shortly."
Ashley perched on the edge of a straight backed chair. There were no magazines or newspapers to read. No ashtrays or any form of office decoration. Smiling photographs of the President, Vice President and the Agency Director hung on the opposite wall. This office had all of the necessities and nothing more.
She waited. Would her associates be friendly like Ms. Hogan or sour like the downstairs receptionist? It didn't matter. I'm here to do a job. That's what this is all about. She heard voices in the SAC's office. He must have an open-door policy.
"You can go in now, Ms. Kohen. Sorry for the wait." Ashley rose, smoothed the front of her navy blue pants suit and thanked Ms. Hogan. She entered the office and was confronted by a stern looking man who motioned her inside, and introduced her to her new boss. "I'd like you to meet Special Agent in Charge, Mr. Walter Kent."
The well-groomed man behind the desk stood and offered his hand. His mouth curved upward slightly. "Good afternoon Ms. Kohen, welcome. This is my assistant, Marcos Ramirez. Have a seat."
Ashley noticed Agent Ramirez ogled her as if he were bidding on prime beef at the farmer's auction. While continuing his appraisal, he pointing to a metal chair. "Sit here, Ms. Kohen."
Kent settled into the chair. "Henry Michael at headquarters had good things to say about you. I'm pleased to have you join our team. Have you found suitable living quarters?"
"Yes, sir. Near the university. Not too far from here. Thank you."
"Well, I'm pleased to hear that. I've arranged office space for you. You will work in the bullpen on open assignment. A free agent for now"
"Free agent, sir?"
"Yes. I'm working on a staffing realignment plan. We'll get you properly placed, don't worry,” he said, “So let's get on with it. To be official, I will swear you in to our Field Office. Marcos, get Ms. Kohen the bible."
"I'm already sworn in, sir. I took my oath at the Academy."
Ramirez handed her a small leather bound book. "We do things our way here, Ms. Kohen. It not a bible. It's the FBI's Manual on Personnel Conduct. Our bible."
Ashley noticed Ramirez continued to admire her figure, his gaze fixed on her breasts. "Yes, I know what you mean. Agent Ramirez," making direct eye contact. "I'm sure you live by these rules of decent conduct all the time. Don't you?"
Walter Kent glanced back and forth between the two sensing some hostility, then began reading the oath administered to every agent new to this office. Ashley stood at attention and responded as needed. When he finished Kent walked around his desk and shook her hand. “Welcome, Agent Kohen.” She felt a wave of emotion come over her, something she didn't expect.
Dorothy Hogan knocked on the open office door, and entered. "Mr. Kent, sorry to interrupt, but you might want to take this call. It's from the Lea County's Sheriff's office in Lovington. It's about an alleged murder there. They want us to investigate. I told them it's not our jurisdiction, but he insists on speaking with you."
"That's okay, Dorothy. Thanks. I'll take it here." Kent turned to Ramirez. "Stay, Mark. I want you to hear this for the record. I'm putting it on speakerphone." He pushed the phone button. "This is Special Agent in Charge Walter Kent."
The hollow sound of the tiny speaker filled the room. "Good morning Mr. Kent, I'm Sergeant Johnny Gallaher of the Lea County Sheriff's Office. Sheriff Hargraves asked me to call. We have a situation here and need your help."
"What kind of help do you have in mind, Sergeant?"
"Well, we just got this call about a dead body wrapped in a white linen sheet buried in the mid
dle of nowhere twenty miles from Tatum. The BLM found it earlier this morning and called it in. It's on public land. I thought you ought to know. We aren't prepared to handle something like this, and would like you to investigate."
"Sergeant Gallaher, I appreciate you calling; however, local authorities handle these matters. We are restricted from interfering."
"Yes, sir. Your secretary said as much, but since it's on Federal land, I thought you might want to check it out."
In an effort to get his attention, Ashley leaned over and scratched a quick note, and tentatively pushed it forward. Her face wore an expression of urgency.
Kent peeked at the note. "Hold the phone a minute, sergeant." Switching the speakerphone to mute, he frowned at Ashley. “What’s this about?”
She hesitated, then spoke. “I apologize for this intrusion, sir. I know this is awkward, my first day and all, but I’m alarmed at what the good sergeant is telling you. I think we need to find out more. If invited we could conduct a joint effort."
Irritated, Kent asked, "What are you talking about? This isn't our business."
Ashley continued. "I understand we don't deal in local matters, but I know terrorism is our agency’s first priority."
Puzzled by her forceful response, Kent switched the speaker back on. "Sergeant Gallaher, let me call you back. I have to check something first."
The Seventh Message Page 4
