Footprints to Murder

by Marcia Talley

  ‘There you are!’ caroled Susan, waving at me from the entrance to the bar. She hustled over. ‘Sorry I’m late. Got tied up with someone who left his Lopresor at home. Had to find a pharmacy that was still open and get the guy taken care of before he blew a gasket.’

  ‘Nice talking to you,’ I said, nodding at Shannon and Colin in turn.

  Susan and I excused ourselves and tucked into a far corner of the bar where I nursed my Bloody Shame and Susan hunched over an ice-cold glass of Sauvignon blanc.

  Robin Burcell, the forensic sketch artist, a former policewoman who worked closely with local authorities and the FBI, would be first up in the morning, Susan confirmed. Just as she had done for the Feds, Robin would draw sketches of Bigfoot based on eyewitness descriptions. ‘She’s only got time to do two sketches, so we’ll have to draw numbers out of a hat or something,’ Susan said.

  ‘Or something?’

  Susan, calmer than I had seen her all day, sipped her wine. ‘You’ll figure it out.’

  I flashed forward to a late evening in my room, snuggled under the duvet, television tuned to Jimmy Fallon as I cut bits of hotel stationery into squares using cuticle scissors from my toiletry bag.

  After the morning coffee break, the forensic artist would be followed by a former navy linguist who worked with transcriptions of Bigfoot vocalizations. I’d heard about the Sierra Sounds from Leah Solat who wrote for the same newspaper as the late Al Berry, one of the two men who’d recorded the vocalizations during the early seventies, but I’d never heard the recordings and had no idea they’d been transcribed. ‘Don’t tell me that Bigfoots have a language,’ I said.

  ‘Apparently,’ Susan said. ‘This guy, Larry Mack, works with the linguist who actually invented UHPA.’

  I must have looked puzzled.

  ‘Unclassified Hominid Phonetic Alphabet,’ she explained. ‘They use it to write the sounds down.’

  As I kid, I’d always been fascinated by codes; somewhere in my jewelry box I still had the Captain Midnight Plane Decoder pin to prove it. Later, I’d studied Latin and French. What is learning a foreign language, after all, if not breaking a code? You sit in a Paris restaurant, say to the waiter, Comme plat principal, je vais prendre le bifteck à point, and a short time later, voila! A steak, medium rare, arrives at your table. It’s magic. Assuming my presence wasn’t required elsewhere, I decided to give the UHPA session high priority.

  The afternoon session, I learned from the updated schedule Susan provided, was a lecture by Monique Deschamps. ‘Zana: the Last Neanderthal?’ Zana, I remembered from a special I’d seen on television, was thought to be a female almasty, captured in 1850 by hunters in the mountains between Georgia and Russia. Caged, domesticated and kept as a slave by a local landowner, the poor creature had eventually died in 1890, but not before giving birth to several children. ‘Was she?’ I asked Susan.

  ‘Was who what?’ she said, her mind clearly elsewhere.

  ‘Zana. A Neanderthal?’

  Susan laughed. ‘You think that because I organize a conference I have intimate knowledge of the subject? I organized a heavy duty truck convention once but I still can’t tell an alternator from a flux capacitor.’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘A flux capacitor is imaginary – you know that, don’t you? It’s what turned the DeLorean from Back to the Future into a time machine.’

  Susan shrugged. ‘See? What do I know?’

  Susan and I had been leaning close, talking just loud enough so we could hear each other over the buzz of conversation and the whump-whump-whump, squeep-squeep-squeep of a basketball game showing on one of the two television screens mounted over the bar. ‘Getting back to Zana,’ I said in a normal tone that boomed into the sudden silence around us.

  I clamped my lips shut.

  All eyes seemed to be focused on the television where a KGW8 reporter had launched into the seven o’clock news.

  ‘… Radcliffe’s widow, Sonya Jovanka, a former Miss Maine, arrived late this afternoon from Los Angeles. Accompanied by family friend and attorney, Gordon Parker, she is seen here leaving the office of the Oregon state medical examiner in Clackamas where the body of her late husband has been taken for autopsy.’

  ‘Whoa, that was fast,’ I muttered.

  ‘Maybe she had to identify the body?’

  ‘Ugh,’ I said, hoping Susan was wrong. I’d seen the photographs. I wouldn’t wish seeing the real thing on my worst enemy.

  As we watched, the pair emerged from a modern glass and concrete building, then paused for a moment under one of four contemporary glass-globed post lamps. Parker’s arm snaked comfortingly around Miss Jovanka’s shoulders as she sobbed into the reporter’s microphone, ‘They don’t know what happened to Martin, they … they …’

  ‘We’re waiting to hear from the medical examiner.’ Parker took over for his stricken client. ‘It looks as if Martin may have been attacked by a bear, most likely a grizzly, but it’s early days yet.’ He took a step forward, putting an end to the interview by steering the grieving widow in the direction of the nearby parking lot.

  The reporter, a blonde ingénue wearing a purple windbreaker, faced the camera. ‘KGW has reached out to network executives at the History Channel, who expressed shock at the tragic loss of one of their most popular stars. There is no word about the future of Radcliffe’s show, Don’t You Believe It!, which had been renewed for a seventh season. New episodes had been scheduled to air in the fall. Back to you, Scott.’

  ‘Thank you, Belinda. Earlier today, Tyree Smith was on the scene at Flat Rock Lodge near Sisters, Oregon, where the tragic incident took place. Here’s what Tyree had to say.’

  Tyree, it was soon apparent, had been reporting from the foot of the drive that led to the lodge, being prevented from proceeding further up it by a Deschutes County patrol car and a long, white hearse. ‘Behind me is the custom Toyota Prius from Holloway-Johnson Funeral Home that will carry the body of Martin Radcliffe to the office of the Oregon state medical examiner, where it will be determined what caused his death. Witnesses tell us that Radcliffe was last seen at breakfast. His body was discovered in the woods several hours later by a retired policeman from Minneapolis who was walking his dog. Radcliffe was one of several hundred people who are in Sisters this weekend attending the Sasquatch Sesquicentennial. He had addressed the group just the evening before.’

  ‘No mention of a retired grandmother from Maryland, thank goodness,’ I whispered to Susan.

  ‘Yet,’ she said.

  ‘Is Jake sure it wasn’t a bear?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Positive.’

  In a voiceover, Scott said, ‘Sasquatch is taken very seriously here in Oregon, isn’t it, Tyree?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Scott. I’ve talked to several of the conference attendees and some of them are even speculating that Martin Radcliffe was attacked by a Bigfoot. I should point out that a sheriff’s officer who agreed to talk to me dismissed that scenario. It’s far more likely to have been a bear, he said, but cautioned that we needed to wait for the medical examiner’s report.’

  Scott thanked Tyree, then segued to an interview with a National Park Service employee, ranger hat tucked under his arm, who offered helpful tips on how hikers could protect themselves from bear attacks. ‘Be Bear Aware!’ proclaimed the crawl. If I had to summarize the ranger’s advice, it would be this: do not look like prey. Just to be on the safe side, I decided to pick up a spray can of EPA-approved bear repellant at the earliest opportunity, possibly from Marty in the dealers’ room. If it worked against bears it was probably good against homicidal maniacs, too.

  FIFTEEN

  Martins Ferry, Ohio, August 27, 1891. ‘The farmers near Negree, this county, have organized to hunt down the wild man or animal that has been killing and devouring sheep, hogs, chickens, etc.… The wild man … is covered with dark reddish hair, has large ears, small eyes, teeth like those of a wild boar, huge mouth and paws, measures about five feet in height, and weighs 200 pounds. I
t is said that the animal walks and runs as well on two as four legs, can climb a tree or hill very quickly, and is seen only in the morning and evening.’

  The Salem Daily News (Salem, OH), August 27, 1891

  Knowing what I did about the bloody branch, it didn’t surprise me when the police returned to the lodge early the following morning. I watched the first patrol car arrive around eight-fifteen while I was lounging on my balcony, sipping a lackluster cup of watery hotel-room coffee. The second car arrived five minutes later and Detective Lieutenant Barbara Cook stepped out.

  The evening before, I’d made sure the conference room she’d been using for interviews was good to go so I didn’t feel the need to rush downstairs. By eight forty-five I was still dilly-dallying around the coffee urns in a futile attempt to avoid the siren call of Debbie’s Donut Dugout. I failed. Carrying a Styrofoam cup, I marched over and helped myself to a little bit of heaven with white frosting and confetti sprinkles.

  In mid-bite, my phone began to chirp. It was tucked so deep down in my bag that I nearly missed the text message from Jared summoning me to the manager’s office.

  I wrapped my donut in a napkin and headed for the office.

  Susan and I arrived at his door almost simultaneously.

  ‘The police want to see you both in the conference room,’ Jared explained. ‘They have stills from the surveillance tapes and need your help identifying the people who are in them. I’ve already identified the staff members they were curious about.’

  Susan and I exchanged glances. ‘We’re just organizers,’ Susan said. ‘Except for a few people we’ve met so far, we don’t have a clue who most of the attendees are. They need to talk to the sponsor, Ron Murphy.’

  ‘Carole Pulaski should know just about everyone,’ I added. ‘She’s attended the two previous conferences and, besides, she manned the registration desk. I helped out at registration too for a while, but the people came in so fast and furious that it’s all kind of a blur.’

  While I was speaking there was a brisk shave-and-a-haircut on the office door. Before Jared could acknowledge the knock, the door opened and Detective Lieutenant Cook eased into the room. ‘Sorry to bother you, but …’ Seeing us, she paused. ‘Ah, Hannah Ives. We may need to talk to you again.’

  Susan frowned.

  I explained about Ron Murphy and Carole Pulaski. When asked to do so by the police officer, Jared had them paged.

  While we waited for Ron and Carole to arrive, Cook pulled a smart phone out of the breast pocket of her uniform and tapped a few keys. She seemed to be puzzling over something for a moment, then addressed me. ‘I know you have responsibilities here at the conference, but will you be free later this morning?’

  ‘I can make time,’ I said.

  Her smile was so disarming it made me nervous. ‘Just a few questions,’ she said. ‘Won’t take a minute. After we finish with Mr Murphy and Miss Pulaski, we’ll have you paged.’

  I smiled back. ‘As long as Susan doesn’t need me.’

  Susan, still frowning, said, ‘No, that’s fine,’ although it was clear that it wasn’t.

  Thirty minutes later, the summons came. I swore quietly, hoping that whatever was bothering Detective Cook wouldn’t make me late for that morning’s Sierra Sounds session.

  ‘You rang?’ I chirped as I entered the room.

  Detective Cook was no longer smiling. ‘Sit down, please.’

  Cook wasn’t alone. A second officer sat in a chair slightly behind her, holding a ballpoint pen and a small notebook. She introduced him as Sergeant Edwards.

  ‘I was going to suggest coffee but I see you’ve already taken care of that,’ Cook said.

  I set my coffee and donut on the tabletop, figuring it wouldn’t be polite to eat and talk at the same time. ‘How can I help?’

  She launched right into it. ‘You were less than forthcoming with us yesterday.’

  I sat back in the chair, hard. ‘I was?’

  ‘We’ve gone over all the security tapes,’ she said.

  I was still puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let me clarify it for you, then. About the time the medical examiner estimates someone was murdering Martin Radcliffe, you and Jake Cummings were seen leaving the lodge and heading in that direction.’

  My heart did a quick rat-a-tat-tat. Now it was out there. Official. No bear. No Bigfoot, for that matter. Jake and I were right. Cook believed that Martin Radcliffe had been murdered by a flesh and blood human being.

  ‘So?’ I said cautiously, drawing out the word. ‘Surely you don’t suspect me. What beef would a last-minute substitute organizer from Maryland have against Martin Radcliffe? I’d never seen the man before, except on late-night TV.’

  ‘After you left the lodge, what were you doing?’

  The answer seemed simple. ‘Walking the dog.’

  Detective Cook arched a dark, neatly-groomed eyebrow. ‘Cummings needed your help to walk his dog, did he?’

  ‘No, of course not, but he was showing me around. Like a tour guide, really.’

  I suddenly realized how stupid that sounded, as if Jake knew the Sisters area well. ‘What I mean is, I’m new to this Sasquatch business and he was filling me in on various topics, giving me pointers.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to learn that Jake Cummings has been to the lodge before? Several times, in fact.’

  ‘Not really. But, I wouldn’t know. The subject never came up.’

  Cook began playing with a ballpoint pen, twirling it between her fingers like a cheerleader’s baton. ‘There was a conference here five years ago, and another one five years before that. Jake Cummings is somewhat of a regular.’

  I shrugged. ‘He told me he’s an investigator for the Bigfoot Field Researchers something-or-other, so I don’t find that surprising. He probably attends lots of conferences.’

  ‘Lots of conferences,’ she repeated. She seemed to be doodling circles on the official lodge notepad, the one that I’d so helpfully laid out for her yesterday. The promotional pen, too. After a moment, she stopped doodling and leaned forward. ‘Do these conferences you refer to tend to invite the same speakers?’

  After I’d agreed to help Susan, one hundred years ago back in Ohio, I’d done some research on Bigfoot conventions. In the previous year alone, according to Google, there’d been confabs of like-minded Squatchers in Ohio, Oklahoma, Florida, Texas, Washington and even upstate New York. In Chautauqua, no less, at a family-run camp that rejoiced in the name We Wan Chu Cottages. None of the participants had been familiar to me at the time so I couldn’t recall a single name now, but I suspected where Cook was going with her question. ‘Are you suggesting that Jake knew Martin Radcliffe?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him. I can’t possibly say.’

  A red shirt suddenly swam into my brain. Jim Davis had been there, too. Or somebody wearing a red shirt, anyway, fiddling with Jim’s cameras. Should I mention it? Looking at her sullen face across the table, I decided not to. Why should I do the woman’s work for her? Besides, I reasoned, she probably already knew.

  In the silence that followed, waves of troubling whys and what-ifs washed over me. Why did Jake insist I walk Harley with him yesterday morning? About the time Martin Radcliffe was being beaten to death with a tree limb, we were … I took a deep breath then let it out slowly, stalling for time. Was Jake setting me up as his alibi? With Martin freshly dead, had Jake invited me out for a friendly stroll to a scenic overlook as if we were casual tourists? I only had Jake’s word that Martin had been dead for a short time when we found his body. What if …?

  Cook continued to stare.

  I knew the trick. Sit quietly, say nothing, wait the suspect out. I wasn’t playing that game. I stared back, hands tightly clasped under the table so she couldn’t see them shaking.

  Finally Cook broke the silence that lay like a wedge between us. ‘Tell me again what you did.’

  I took a deep, steadying breath. ‘We walked Harley to the overlook, waited
for him to do his business then walked back. End of story. I had to get back in time for the opening session at nine.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘If you saw the surveillance tapes, you know that I was.’

  My brain was spinning, fast and furious. Everything depended on exactly what time Martin was murdered, I thought. Until eight o’clock I’d been with Debbie. After that, with Carole. From then until nine, I’d been with Jake. But where had Jake been before he met up with me?

  A knot, cold and hard as ice, formed in my gut. Just last night Jake had said, ‘Do you think I was taking pictures of my victim like some homicidal maniac?’

  My iPhone. His pictures.

  Had Jake set me up?

  SIXTEEN

  Logansport, Indiana, October 2, 1886. ‘[T]he people in the vicinity of Kouts … are living in terror of a strange apparition … Some describe the strange being as a man covered with hair over a foot long, and when he travels he strides along at a wonderful pace. He steps or jumps … over ten feet, and with apparently no effort. He is described further … as a sort of half man and animal, having a tail which drags the ground behind him when he is on the run … [H]e has been seen at a house in the vicinity of the marsh sitting down near the barn, tearing and eating a chicken from which life had scarcely departed. His mouth and fingers were covered with the feathers and blood of the chicken, and when aroused he darted off with a low shriek.’

  Pharos – Tribune (Logansport, IN), October 2, 1886

  I checked my watch and was stunned to see that the interview – or interrogation, depending upon your point of view – had taken only fifteen minutes. By the time Detective Cook waved me out of the room I felt tired, defeated. My first impulse was to find Jake Cummings and demand an explanation. My second was to order a good, stiff shot of brandy at the Wild Horse Bar, except that it was only nine-fifteen and the bar didn’t open until eleven.