by Ken Goddard
“Spectacular,” Bulatt agreed as he accepted the steaming mug. “I see you even have a set of distance-targets for your bow. Do you think we could try to get a photograph of you from an over-your-shoulder view, with your bow drawn back, and the target in the distance hovering just over the arrowhead?”
“I’m certainly willing to try, but we’ll have to wait until my father gets finished with his practicing first,” she said with an audible edge to her voice. “I don’t want to interfere with his… preparations.”
“That’s your father down there?” Bulatt asked. “It looks like he’s throwing spears.”
“Apparently his new approach to hunting,” Fogarty said, the chill in her voice contrasting vividly with the fire in her eyes.
“Really? That seems like an odd choice for a hunting weapon, unless you’re hunting boar,” Achara said. “And even then — ”
“More odd than you could possibly imagine.” Fogarty nodded grimly.
“I’m sure he has his reasons, but I’m much more interested in learning about your choice of weapons,” Achara said hurriedly. “Could we see your bow?”
“Yes, of course,” Fogarty said, the fire in her eyes starting to recede again, if only for the moment.
She picked up the quiver and led them into a spacious, rosewood paneled den that was filled with the trapping and paraphernalia of sports hunting. On the left side wall, the heads of three mule deer with impressive racks were prominently displayed. Below the trophy heads and to the left, a modern unstrung re-curved bow and a machine-sewn leather quiver filled with factory-made arrows hung from a set of wooden pegs. To the right, a hand-carved single-curved bow hung from an identical set of pegs.
Fogarty started to hang the hand-sewn quiver of arrows next to the crude bow when Achara stepped up next to her. “May I,” she asked, holding out her hand.
The young woman hesitated, and then handed Achara the quiver filled with what were now clearly hand-made arrows. Achara drew one of the arrows out of the quiver and began to examine it closely.
“Did you make this?” she asked.
“Yes, out of turkey feathers and obsidian,” Fogarty said with an audible sense of pride. “I scraped the shaft, and even flaked the heads myself — out of obsidian, just like the early Indians used to do. It was one of my hobbies when I was younger.”
“And the bow?”
“Hand-carved from an Ash tree branch with an obsidian knife,” Fogarty said, smiling openly now. “It took me almost a month to make it. It’s nowhere near as powerful as a re-curved fiberglass bow, of course; and my arrows don’t fly as far or as straight as my aluminum broad heads. But I can still put an arrow in the black at thirty feet, two out of three times. Watch this.”
Working quickly, Fogarty strung the hand-made bow, pulled a home-made arrow out of the quiver, spun around and sent the arrow streaking across the room; the obsidian tip burying itself into the thick, wall-mounted target just inside the outer edge of the black bulls-eye.
“That is incredible,” Achara said as they watched the young woman stride across the room and yank the arrow out of the target. “Do you actually hunt with them?” Achara asked.
“I was going to,” Fogarty said bitterly, the fire in her eyes suddenly back again. “That was always my plan, but — ”
“Those are beautiful specimens,” Bulatt said quickly, deliberately interrupting the conversation as he moved in closer and began taking close-up shots of each head. “I can’t imagine taking an animal like that with a home-made bow. Did you hunt them locally?”
“Around here? Fat chance,” Fogarty snorted. “You want to bow-hunt a deer like one of these guys, you’ve got to go to Idaho, Wyoming or Montana.”
“Let me guess, Idaho?” Bulatt offered.
“All three of them; Idaho bred and born, from just south of the Gospel Hump Wilderness Area,” Fogarty said with a fierce expression of pride on her face. “The one on the far left was two seasons ago, the one in the middle last year, and the one on the right this year. I’d like to see my father match that with one of his damned spears.” She laughed harshly.
“You can see the progression,” Bulatt said. “Each year, you’ve taken a bigger — and I can only assume a stronger — animal. I think we’ve got the central theme for the article,” he said to Achara with a meaningful tone to his voice.
“I was told that you usually bow-hunt alone. Do you ever go hunting with your father?” Achara asked, instinctively deciding to press the sensitive issue just a little bit more; and was startled to see Fogarty’s face redden from some inner fury that seemed barely under control.
“We used to go hunting together all the time,” she said bitterly, “but now he and his friends only care about themselves and their goddamned trophy rooms. The biggest hunt of an era,” she snarled, “and he won’t even take me along to watch, much less take part in the hunt; something I’ve dreamed about doing since I was a kid. Something I think I was destined to do. Can you believe that?!”
“I’m sorry,” Achara said soothingly, “I didn’t mean — ”
Some barrier in Fogarty’s mind suddenly seemed to rupture.
“Do you want to see what I have to compete against? Come on, let me show you.”
Then, before Achara and Bulatt could do or say anything, Carolyn Fogarty moved over to the wall directly across from the doorway, reached up, turned two mounted lamps to a ninety-degree angle, and then stood back as the entire wall slid apart in two receding panels.
“Oh my god,” Achara whispered as she stared disbelievingly at the dozens of endangered species mounts displayed on the cavernous walls of the hidden room, only vague aware of the flash from Bulatt’s camera.
“That’s all he cares about any more,” Fogarty said, the tears now flowing down her face. “And it’s only going to get worse if he actually manages to kill a — ”
The door burst open behind the three figures, and Sam Fogarty charged into the room with an obsidian-tipped spear clenched in his right hand.
“What the hell are you two doing here?!” he demanded, his face almost purple with rage.
“I let them in here, father!” Carolyn Fogarty yelled back. “I wanted them to see for themselves exactly what kind of man you really are!”
“You… you…” Fogarty looked as if he was going apoplectic. “Get out of my house!” he finally managed to rasp at Achara. “You have no right to be here!”
“Actually, we were invited into this house, and into this room, by your daughter, Mr. Fogarty,” Bulatt said, holding up his special agent badge-case in his left hand, and sweeping his jacket back with his right to expose his holstered Sig Sauer pistol. “My name is Gedimin Bulatt. I’m a special agent of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service; and because your daughter also invited us into this trophy room, willingly and of her own accord, I’m placing you — as the head of this household — under arrest for suspicion of numerous violations of the Endangered Species Act. Put the spear down, right now.”
“SHE… WHAT?!” Fogarty screamed in furious disbelief.
“Put the spear down, Fogarty, now!” Bulatt ordered again, swiftly drawing his pistol, but keeping it pointed at the floor.
“Ha, so much for your goddamned ‘hunt of the era’, father,” Carolyn Fogarty sneered, her eyes glistening now with the fury of vengeance delivered. “Let’s see you try to spear that baby mammoth from a prison cell!”
“You… you traitorous bitch!” Fogarty started to bring the spear up, and then screamed in surprise and agony as an obsidian-tipped arrow streaked across the room and ripped into his right shoulder. The spear clattered on the wooden floor. Fogarty started to reach for it, and Bulatt was sighting on his center of mass — prepared to put a forty-caliber hollow-point bullet in the enraged man’s heart, and a second in his head — when he sensed a figure moving quickly to his right. He spun around, saw Carolyn Fogarty pull another homemade arrow out of the quiver, and then watched her crumble to the floor under the savage impact of a s
pinning head-kick from Achara Kulawnit.
Sam Fogarty — dazed now from the combination of rage and searing pain — was still fumbling for the dropped spear when Bulatt’s right boot came down hard on the shaft; followed by his left boot that shoved Fogarty away from the ancient weapon and onto his back.
“This is Ged. Get your butts up here, and while you’re at it, roll a paramedic unit. We’ve got two suspects down who need some medical attention,” Bulatt said, speaking into his Blackberry. Then he looked over at Achara, who was on her knees, examining the unconscious figure of Carolyn Fogarty.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Achara gave him a thumbs-up sign.
“Good. If and when she comes to, keep her down and away from anything sharp,” he said as he replaced the Blackberry in his belt holder and tossed Achara a set of handcuffs. Then he turned his attention back to the bleeding man sprawled on the floor.
“Now then,” Mr. Fogarty,” Bulatt said as kicked the spear aside, holstered his pistol, and then squatted down next to the pale-faced and whimpering CEO, “while we’re waiting for medical help to arrive, and while I’m trying to make some sense out of a lot of very confusing information, why don’t you explain to me — as carefully and precisely as you can — exactly why your daughter seems to think you’re planning on going out and spearing a baby mammoth.”
An hour later, the emergency medical technician finished tying a sling around Sam Fogarty’s right arm and shoulder, stepped away from the couch where the still dazed and now mildly drugged CEO was lying, and approached Bulatt.
“I really ought to be transporting both of them,” he said with a serious expression on his face.
“Is he really that badly hurt?” Bulatt asked.
The EMT shrugged. “No, I suppose not. Looks like the arrow missed the major nerves and blood vessels. He’s got some significant tissue damage, and he definitely won’t be using that arm for a while; but he’s not in any immediate danger of anything other than infection. The wound’s dressed, and the bleeding’s stopped, so a couple of hours, one way or the other, isn’t going to make much difference. His daughter, however, took a serious blow to the head. We really do need to get her to the hospital.”
“What do you think, Fogarty?” Bulatt said, walking over to the sprawled CEO. “You want a ride to the hospital, in handcuffs, along with your daughter, so a doctor can take a look at that shoulder before we throw your ass in the can; or do you want to stay here for a couple more hours and discuss your situation?”
Fogarty blinked, and then stared at Bulatt.
“Do I have any options?”
“Everybody’s got options.” Bulatt shrugged. “Yours are just a little more complicated than most. If it helps you with your decision, I really don’t care if you end up being charged with a couple dozen ES violations, or not.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m very serious.”
“Can I have my lawyer here?”
“I advised you of your rights under Miranda, and you agreed that you understood the terms,” Bulatt reminded. “You can have your lawyer here any time you want; but the moment you make that call, we stop talking about everything — which specifically includes your options.”
“Oh.”
“Your daughter needs medical attention, Mr. Fogarty. The ambulance is leaving right now. You can go with them, or stay here with me; your choice, but make it now.”
“I’ll… stay.”
Bulatt nodded to the EMT who immediately walked out of the room.
“She’s not really my daughter, you know,” Fogarty said when the EMT was gone.
“Yeah, we kind of gathered that,” Bulatt acknowledged. “Most fathers don’t sleep with their real or adopted daughters; kind of a cultural standard in most parts of the world.”
“What I meant is, she’s not really my daughter, in a true legal sense, so she couldn’t legally invite you into my home,” Fogarty said with an edge to his voice. “My lawyers will make something of that.”
“Yes, I’m sure they will,” Bulatt agreed. “But I’m also sure our lawyers will make something of the fact that, sarcasm aside, she did address you as ‘father’ in our presence. Also, we know you registered the new truck you bought her in the name of Carolyn Fogarty, and we know you listed this home as her legal address; all of which suggests, to us, that she had every legal right to invite us into this house.”
“But — ” Fogarty tried, but Bulatt ignored him and continued on.
“And then there’s also the side issue of how old Carolyn was when your ‘adoptive’ relationship began. She looks awfully young in some of those photographs; but maybe she explains all of that in her diary. It appeared to be rather… detailed.”
“I… uh — ”
“It ought to be a fascinating trial, Mr. Fogarty. I understand Assistant U.S. Attorneys live for cases like this; especially the smart and aggressive ones who know how to use the media to their advantage. I’m sure your stockholders will be delighted with all the free publicity.”
Henry Lightstone stuck his head in the doorway to the living room. “Larry’s gone to the hospital with the girl; Mike’s making an inventory of the trophy room; Dwight’s finished upstairs; and I’m going over the war-plan with our warrior-princess, which leaves Dwight here with some free time on his hands.”
“Who are those people?” Fogarty asked.
“Special Ops agents,” Bulatt replied.
“What does that mean?”
“It means they’re very tough, smart, devious, aggressive and technically skilled special agents of the federal government who work undercover to mess with serious bad guys, and who also live for investigations like this one,” Bulatt said evenly. “That’s probably why you heard them humming cheerfully to themselves out there in your trophy room.”
“And you’re one of them, too?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Bulatt said. “They work as a team. I tend to work by myself; more of a liaison between teams, if you will.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he doesn’t play well with others; probably some kind of childhood problem,” Lightstone answered from the doorway. And then to Bulatt: “you want Dwight to take over the interrogation of this asshole? He says he’s real fond of child abusers; likes to get into their heads.”
The huge, glowering image of ex-Oakland Raider tackle Dwight Stoner filled the doorway.
“What do you think, Mr. Fogarty? Would you like to talk lawyer bullshit with Special Agent Stoner, who I believe just finished searching your and Carolyn’s upstairs bedrooms, or would you like to talk serious options with me?”
Fogarty stared at the terrifying image of Stoner — whose huge hands were slowly clenching and unclenching — and shook his head. “No, I know you’re trying to scare me; but I… I don’t want to talk with that man.”
“And I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk with you, either,” Bulatt said. He waved Lightstone and Stoner away, then pulled a chair up next to the couch and sat down facing Fogarty. “So let’s just you and I talk for a while.”
“I know you’re playing games with me,” Fogarty said. “What do you really want?”
Bulatt reached into his pocket, pulled out a small tape recorder, held it up in front of Fogarty as he turned it on, set it down on the coffee table next to the couch and chair, and then stared directly at Fogarty as he said, loudly and clearly: “The following is a continuation of my investigative notes pursuant to the consensual search of the residence of Sam Fogarty. Mr. Fogarty and I are in the living room of his home. The time is now fourteen hundred and eleven hours. Mr. Fogarty has been read his Miranda rights, he acknowledges that he understands his rights, and he has agreed to wave his right to have his attorney present during this conversation. Is all of that correct, Mr. Fogarty?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Mr. Fogarty, is it true that you are an active member of a small and very private hunting club that emphasi
zes the collection of endangered species trophies?”
“Fogarty hesitated. “I don’t think — ”
“Yes, or no?” Bulatt repeated.
Fogarty took in a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Besides you, how many members are there in this club?”
“Three others.”
“What are their names?”
Fogarty hesitated again, and then said: “Michael Hateley, Max Kingman and Stuart Caldreaux.”
“How did the three of you originally meet?”
“We’re all CEO’s of defense-supply-related corporations. We met at a conference on Government Subcontracting put on by the Defense Department, got into a discussion about our mutual interest in hunting, had dinner together that evening, decided to set up a private hunting club.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t recall exactly; approximately eight years ago.”
“And how often does your club meet?”
“We get together for dinner once a year; usually in winter, at one of our houses.”
“When and where did you last meet?”
“A few days ago, at Michael’s house.”
“Is there any specific purpose to these annual meetings?”
“We… vote on who made the most impressive kill that year, and award the boar’s head to the winner.”
“The boar’s head?”
“It’s a trophy mount,” Fogarty explained. “We went hunting together for boar, on the Kingman Ranch, right after we established our club. Stuart killed the biggest one, and almost got gored doing it; so we had it mounted and presented to him at our next dinner, calling it the Merchant of Death Trophy.”
“Since then, have you all hunted together?”
“No, tomorrow will be the first time all three of us have gotten together in the field since that boar hunt.”
“Why now?”
“We… one of our members went to Thailand a week or two ago, and apparently got into some kind of trouble that resulted in all three of us being banned from hunting in Thailand for a while. As an apology, he arranged for our hunt tomorrow.”
