Chimera

by Ken Goddard

  Bulatt saw that Achara was listening intently.

  “Did you actually understand any single part of what she just said?” Bulatt asked Achara, interrupting Reston’s summary.

  “Sure.” Achara shrugged, nodding her head. Bulatt looked around and discovered that Renwick and Hager were also nodding their heads.

  “Oh.”

  Bulatt decided that his head was definitely starting to hurt. “Uh, could we skip the technical details and go straight to the ‘oh my god’ part, assuming there is one,” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” Reston said, motioning to Hager who reached over and thumbed a remote device. A glowing Powerpoint™ slide suddenly appeared on the far white wall, showing the faces of four men, all of whom appeared to be in their mid-fifties.

  “And just who would these fellows be?” Bulatt asked.

  “Starting from upper left hand corner and working clockwise, Michael Hateley, Dr. Stuart Jackson Caldreaux, Max Kingman, and Sam Fogarty,” Reston said. “The internationally-traveling CEO hunters we’ve been looking for.”

  Bulatt blinked. “You’re joking.”

  “No, actually, I’m not,” Reston said seriously. “I hate to admit it, but the kids pulled it off. You are looking at four extremely wealthy CEOs of relatively small corporations that profit handsomely from operating as subsidiaries to the much bigger war industry conglomerates. Interestingly enough, they all own Gulfstream G-fives that have a habit of landing at the same airports on the same days with amazing regularity. They also purchase national and international hunting licenses and file for trophy-import permits on a regular basis.”

  “I assume there’s more?” Bulatt asked.

  “A great deal more,” Reston said as she reached into a cardboard box beside her chair and pulled out four stacks of paper that someone had marked HATELEY, CALDREAUX, KINGMAN and FOGARTY on the top pages with a thick black marker, and placed them down on the table. Each stack was held together with a steel spring clip at the upper left edge, and appeared to be at least a half-inch thick

  “This is what we know about them so far, in undigested form. I have a link analysis running now, but I thought you’d like to see the raw data.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Bulatt said, shaking his head in amazement as he picked up the set labeled HATELEY and began to flip through the pages. Achara, Renwick and Hager picked up the other three. “Did the kids happen to trip across any hunting violations while they were at it?”

  “I’m still running branched searches for additional information, and I haven’t had time to read most of what’s in those reports; but I do know that all four of these characters have had run-ins with state wardens, as well as with our federal agents. Mostly misdemeanor stuff, and mostly when they were a lot younger,” Reston said, glancing down at her hand-written notes. “Caldreaux was charged with a couple of Lacey Act violations nine years ago that his lawyers managed to get dismissed; but, as far as we know right now, that was the only time any of them have been charged with a felony.”

  “Learned their lessons early in life,” Bulatt commented. “What about club memberships or private hunting areas?”

  “All four have been members of several local, national and international hunt clubs; but, interestingly enough, they all cancelled their club memberships a little over eight years ago.”

  “Why would they do that? It doesn’t make sense,” Bulatt said. “The main reason guys like these hunt is to brag about their trophies. If they dropped their memberships, who would they brag to?”

  “Each other,” Achara whispered.

  “What?” Bulatt turned to stare curiously at his beautiful associate.

  “They must have set up their own club, so they could brag and compete with each other,” she said, staring at the four photographs with an expression on her face that was part loathing and part amazement. “After all, who else can they trust not to give them up at the first sign of law enforcement pressure?”

  “Their own club, to hunt things like Clouded Leopards in Thailand; which presumably means smuggling their trophies back home, so they can show off their illegal kills to each other,” Bulatt said, nodding his head thoughtfully. Then he turned to Reston.

  “You said these guys get together regularly?”

  “Yes, they do. In fact, the last time was just a few days ago: in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where Hateley has his primary residence. The timing corresponds with what appears to be a once-a-year meeting at one of their three home towns. And since none of them purchased a meal with their credit cards that night, we can reasonably assume they got together for dinner; probably at Hateley’s home.”

  “Find the rest of that Clouded Leopard at Hateley’s place, and Juliana will be able to match it to the tissue from the bullet,” Renwick reminded. “She’s working up the statistical data now.”

  “Getting hold of that two-four-three Magnum rifle would be nice too, while you’re at it,” Hager added.

  “Unfortunately, a seizure like that is going to require a search warrant, and getting together for dinner once a year is not a violation of federal law,” Bulatt reminded. “In point of fact — or at least as far as we know for sure — none of these men have ever committed a serious crime against wildlife, much less murder.”

  “But, at the moment, they are the only link we have to the men who killed our Rangers and shot my father,” Achara said.

  “Yes, that seems to be the case,” Bulatt agreed. He tossed the report set down on the table and turned to Reston. “Do you have anything else on these guys?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. It appears that all four of them are making arrangements to fly to the state of Washington the day after tomorrow.”

  “How do we know that?” Bulatt asked, now staring intently at the four faces displayed on the white wall.

  “It takes a lot of coordinated effort and behind-the-scenes work to keep four Gulfstream G-Fives in the air,” Reston explained. “The pilots of these planes like to schedule maintenance checks when they know they’re going to be laying over for a couple of days at a major airport; especially if they’ve been flying in bad weather conditions. Turns out the pilots of all four of these planes scheduled routine maintenance checks at SEA-TAC two days from now.”

  “Does that mean SEA-TAC is the probable get-together point?” Bulatt asked.

  “Not necessarily, but I’m guessing the get-together point is probably within an hour’s flight radius of SEA-TAC. The pilots could drop their passengers off at a local airport, lay over at SEA-TAC, and be available for a pick-up a couple of days later. That would fit within their previous maintenance check patterns.”

  “And now they are planning to fly to the same location again, in Washington State, only a few days later? Have they ever gotten together like that before, apart from their annual meetings?” Achara asked Reston

  “Not according to the records we have now, but they could have used different planes.”

  “So they must be going to Washington to hunt,” Achara said. “What else would bring these three together?”

  “And if they’re all getting together to hunt for the first time,” Bulatt said thoughtfully, “my guess is they’re going to want to have their guides and helpers along. These characters don’t strike me as the types who like to do all the heavy lifting themselves.”

  “So we have to be there, when the hunt takes place,” Achara said firmly. “Somehow, we have to be there.”

  “Yes, we do,” Bulatt agreed. “The question is how we manage to pull that off. We’d need a federal warrant to satellite-track those planes; and, so far, just about everything we’ve got on these characters is either inadmissible in court or based on supposition. And I doubt that we’re going to be able to talk one of them into taking us along on their hunt.”

  At that moment, Bulatt’s Blackberry began to vibrate on his hip.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” he said after checking the Blackberry’s screen, “I’ll be right back.”

&n
bsp; When Bulatt returned to the conference room, he found Achara looking over Hager’s shoulder while the latent print expert marked up one of the last pages of the report marked FOGARTY with a yellow highlighter; Reston typing away on a computer with Ferreira hovering over her shoulder in one side of the room; and Renwick talking on his cell phone over at the opposite side.

  “You folks come up with something interesting?” Bulatt asked as he closed the door and sat down at the table.

  “Could be,” Hager mumbled, still highlighting sections of the page with short sweeps of the pen. “Might have stumbled across one of those ‘good-news bad-news’ deals that could actually work in our favor.”

  “Oh, how’s that?”

  “You remember saying, just before you left, that we probably weren’t going to be able to talk one of these characters into taking us along on their hunt?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, it turns out that Sam Fogarty lives in Oregon with a twenty-four-year-old adopted daughter who apparently likes to bow-hunt deer in Idaho.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite, why is she relevant to our problems?”

  “It seems dear daughter likes to hunt with a bow; but doesn’t necessarily like to waste a lot of time trying to get close enough to her targets to make a fatal shot, or to pack her kills a couple of miles back to her truck. I’m guessing she probably takes after dear old dad in that category.”

  “So you’re going to tell me she shoots the deer with a bullet first, from a more reasonable distance, and then stuffs an arrow down the bullet hole?” Bulatt guessed.

  “Three bow seasons in a row,” Hager said. “Got caught at the check-points the first two years, pled guilty both times after the x-rays revealed the bullets up ahead of the broad heads, and daddy paid her fines. This year, when one of the wardens heard a gunshot in the range area reserved for bow hunts, went investigating on his ATV, and found her loading a buck with an arrow sticking out of its neck in the back of a old pickup, she must have decided she didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting daddy to pay up again, so she took off… and made it across the border before the warden could get the state patrols to set up a road block. The warden told the story to a local reporter who wrote a standard ‘rich girl cheats on bow-hunt and then runs from the law’ story; which is what I’m marking up right now.”

  “Did Idaho Fish and Game follow up with a warrant?” Bulatt asked.

  “No, unfortunately, they didn’t,” Renwick said as he hung up the phone. “Mostly because the warden recognized her, but didn’t get the license plate of the truck — which he assumes was borrowed from one of her friends, because she apparently gets a new truck from daddy every year. The warden and his supervisor talked it over, came to the conclusion that the fine wouldn’t be worth the cost to the State to take on dad’s legal firm and a likely mistaken-identity defense, and then decided to just wait and catch her dirty next bow season. But the warden did submit blood from the scene to our lab,” Renwick added with a smile, “and he said he’ll be happy to file for the warrant, right now, if we’re interested in following up on the Lacey Act violation.”

  “We ran a quick mass-spec on the hemoglobin, confirmed the blood was mule deer; then extracted the DNA, and put a sample in the ultra-freezer pending any further work requests,” Ferreira said, looking up from the computer.

  “Meaning you could match that DNA to a mounted mule deer head if I brought it in?”

  “Sure. Or a little piece of dried hide would work just as well; whatever’s easier at your end. It makes no difference to us.”

  “And where does Sam Fogarty and his daughter live?” Bulatt asked.

  “In Bend, Oregon,” Reston said.

  Bulatt looked over at Achara. “I think it’s time I paid Miss Fogarty a visit,” he said. “Want to go for a ride?”

  “Absolutely.” Achara started to say something else, and then hesitated.

  “Yes?” Bulatt said inquiringly.

  “You’re planning on confronting her with the Lacey Act violation, and then using that as a twist on her father to make him take us to the hunt, right?”

  “Something along those lines,” Bulatt said, nodding his head. “You have a better idea?”

  “I was just thinking that if we were to call her up and identify ourselves as outdoor writers who want to do a story on her bow hunting adventures, she might be more helpful and cooperative than her father.”

  “What, no violence? Just walk in and con her out of the information? There’s a novel approach,” Reston said sarcastically.

  “Federal agents working covert assignments have certain limitations on posing as a member of the media,” Bulatt said hesitantly. “I’d have to ask for permission from the Washington Office, and I doubt that Fred or the Chief would say yes. It’s a touchy issue.”

  “You’d have to ask permission, but I wouldn’t,” Achara said. “It just so happens that I’m an internationally published outdoor writer with two articles in print. I wouldn’t be role-playing, just engaging in one of my hobbies. And you could come along as a hired local photographer.”

  “We’d even lend you a professional-looking camera, as long as you promise not to hit anyone with it,” Renwick offered.

  “Sounds good to me,” Bulatt said with a shrug. “Do we have a phone number for the house?”

  “That we do,” Reston replied cheerfully. “Here’s her address and phone numbers — residence and cell — and a map showing the way to her house.” She handed Bulatt a brightly colored map from her printer, and a second typed page. “Take I-Five to the Crater Lake Highway, and keep on heading north. You ought to be able to make it in three and a half hours, max, if the roads are still clear.”

  “Or we could probably get Woeshack to fly us up there,” Achara suggested. “It might save some time.”

  “Let’s not,” Bulatt said, “I try not to live quite that close to the edge.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Sam Fogarty’s Ranch, Bend, Oregon

  The young woman who came to the door looked angry and frustrated and depressed; and quite possibly ready to hit someone with the hand-sewn leather quiver of arrows she held in her right hand. To Bulatt and Achara’s surprise, she also appeared to be of Southeast Asian descent.

  “Yes, may I help you?” The young woman said curtly, her mind clearly elsewhere.

  “Uh, my name is Achara, I’m here to meet with Carolyn Fogarty,” Achara said. “I called ahead and she’s expecting us.”

  The young woman blinked, first in confusion and then in surprise. “Oh, right, you’re that outdoor writer. You meant today?” She shook her head as if to trying to dislodge some dark, hovering cloud from her mind. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just… upset today.”

  “If this is an inconvenient time, we can certainly come back later,” Achara said soothingly. “But I really do want to interview you for the article. I think your interest in bow hunting is fascinating, and I’m sure my readers will feel that way also. It’s not something you find many women hunters doing these days. And now that I know you’re of Asian descent, I’m even more intrigued because I don’t think I’ve ever met an Asian women who bow-hunts. Would you mind if I asked you where you were born?”

  “I — no, I don’t mind, I just don’t know where I was born, or who my parents are,” Fogarty said hesitantly, acting as if she wanted to slam the door in Achara’s face; but, at the same time, wanted desperately to talk with someone.

  “You look as if you might be Thai, like me,” Achara said, pressing cautiously. “Were you an orphan?”

  “Yes, I was adopted by Mr. Fogarty from an orphanage in southern Thailand. Their records indicated that I’d been found on the beach after a severe storm, but nobody seemed to know where — ”

  Carolyn Fogarty shook her head again, looking more confused now than upset. “I’m sorry, please come in, I didn’t mean to leave you standing out here.” She stepped back inside the foyer and opened the door wider.

&nbs
p; “Are you sure we’re not intruding,” Achara said as she quickly stepped into the doorway.

  “No, not at all,” Fogarty said. “In fact, it would be helpful to talk with someone right now.”

  “In that case, I will be happy to listen,” Achara said. “Oh, and this is Gedimin, my photographer,” she added. “I hope you won’t mind if he takes some photographs to illustrate my article.”

  “Uh, no, of course not; he’s welcome to do so,” Fogarty said as she closed the door. “Would either of you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”

  “Coffee, please,” Bulatt said as he took the strobe-mounted digital camera he’d borrowed from the lab out of its carrier bag and thumbed the power switch to the ON position.

  “Yes, coffee would be wonderful,” Achara said as she and Bulatt followed Fogarty into the wide-windowed kitchen, and then stood at the window and looked down at the expanse of landscaped yard behind the house — a huge grassy area that butted up against a densely-forested area — while Carolyn Fogarty set the quiver aside and poured coffee into three earthen mugs. Near the trees, a man was doing something with a mounted bulls-eye target; one of three that extended out at increasing distances from the back porch.

  “Milk or cream?

  “Black will be fine,” Achara said. “What a beautiful place you have.”