The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  “Mrs. Thatcher, can you think of any motive for someone to kill Dr. Thatcher?”

  She considered her answer for a few seconds before saying, “He had no enemies. He was very successful and usually carried plenty of money. If he wasn’t robbed, he must have been killed out of pure viciousness.”

  I promised to keep Mrs. Thatcher informed about the progress of the case and mentioned that Saul Steinheart from Bank E & A had offered to send the corporate jet to return Dr. Thatcher’s body to New York when the medical examiner released it. I suggested she contact Mr. Steinheart about arrangements.

  I finished the call just as Chad was driving through uptown Sedona near our office. I spent a few minutes recounting the conversation with Mrs. Thatcher.

  Chad’s only comment was, “There was no robbery, and as far as we know, Quentin Thatcher knew no one in the area. Maybe Mrs. Thatcher is right about it being some racist bastard or a crazy militia group. It’s as good as any theory we’ve come up with.”

  I checked for phone messages at the office. The night duty deputy Steven Bradley was at the front desk. He’s the most junior deputy and often pulls the worst shifts. Rose had already gone home for the evening. I had one message that seemed urgent. It was from Saul Steinheart and gave his home phone. He’d asked that I call no matter how late it was.

  Mr. Steinheart seemed relieved when I contacted him. He began the conversation by asking, “Have you contacted Shannon Thatcher yet. I’ve wanted to call her, but I didn’t want to call until you’ve notified her of the death.”

  “Yes. I’ve just spoken with her. I told her about your offer to fly the body back to New York. I suggested that she call you.”

  “Good. Is there any new information about Quentin’s death?”

  I decided that it was premature to mention homicide until the medical examiner’s report was final. “Mr. Steinheart, we are still investigating the circumstances. The medical examiner will release her opinion tomorrow. However, at this time we are treating the case as a possible crime. I can’t really say more until her report is released.”

  There was a longer than normal pause. “I informed our Managing Director for North America about the tragedy soon after we spoke this afternoon. Of course, he was concerned about Quentin’s untimely death, but he also asked that I see that Quentin Thatcher’s briefcase was recovered from the retreat center as soon as possible. It might contain proprietary trading information that is very important to the bank and of a highly confidential nature. I called our caretaker, and he said you’ve taken Quentin’s personal effects. Can I impose on you to let someone pick up all of the documents that Quentin had early tomorrow morning?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll need to keep Dr. Thatcher’s personal effects for at least a few more days. I’ll give you a call when they are available. We will keep everything secure in our evidence room until it’s officially released. You can assure your boss that no competitor will get the information.”

  Mr. Steinheart said a half-hearted thanks and goodbye. I immediately asked Steven Bradley to retrieve Dr. Thatcher’s small carry-on from the evidence room.

  Chad and I spent a few minutes in my office looking through the contents. Most of the documents were incomprehensible to us. They consisted of page after page of equations and computer generated tables of numbers. All of the pages with equations were stamped in red with the word CONFIDENTIAL. A separate pocket in the case opened to reveal Dr. Thatcher’s checkbook, iPad, gold pens, and other personal effects. The checkbook indicated a checking account at Chase Bank with a balance of over sixty thousand dollars. His bimonthly paycheck was recorded along with the normal checks needed to support a New York apartment and other aspects of the good life. Dr. Thatcher’s paycheck of about twenty-three thousand dollars was credited to his account twice a month. A check for twenty thousand dollars was written to Mrs. Thatcher each month. I assume that was child support.

  Chad did the math quickly in his head, “Jesus H. Christ! This guy’s take-home-pay was over five hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year.”

  “That’s without bonuses and options,” I replied. My only son is a New York investment banker, and I wasn’t surprised that a senior officer was making that much. My son had made three times my income his first year on Wall Street when he was just a trainee. The papers hadn’t told us much, but I expected to spend more time on them. I was curious why Dr. Thatcher’s boss was so anxious to get them back.

  Chad and I agreed to meet at the Coffee Pot Restaurant at 8:30. Mostly it was just out of courtesy to a fellow law enforcement officer that I’d invited Art Johnson to breakfast. It was unlikely that he would have noticed anything at the crime scene that he hadn’t mentioned. However, Art had not realized that the case might be a homicide when he’d first investigated the body. I knew that he’d covered the body with his poncho. I wondered if there was anything else that Art might have done that hadn’t followed proper procedure for a homicide. I also wondered if there was anything suspicious in the area that Art hadn’t thought to mention to us.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Savory Southwestern odors filled the air as I entered from the garage. Margaret’s hobbies are southwestern-style cooking and hiking. Ample hiking is required to offset her excellent cooking on both of our waistlines. As Margaret lit the gas patio heater and I set the table on the deck for dinner, her questions about the case began. I knew they wouldn’t stop until I reported each detail.

  “Almost every customer at the bank mentioned the snakebite death. Several people said they wouldn’t go hiking until it got too cold for snakes, but I thought it was already.”

  “You’re right. It’s already late in the year to see one,” I said. “Honey, this is the first death in more than ten years. Snakebite risk is not that great around here.”

  “Maybe so, but a man is dead,” she said. “Your case is a big deal in town.”

  We sat on our deck watching the last light of a magnificent sunset highlight the summit of Wilson Mountain with orange fire. While we enjoyed one of Margaret’s best southwestern dishes, green chili chicken stew, I recounted my current best guess about the crime. A successful businessman was lured to the murder location with a promise to see an undisturbed Sinaguan Indian ruin. He must have traveled there with someone he trusted and who brought additional supplies of water and probably flashlights.

  The murder occurred in the evening so that other hikers would not see or overhear the crime. Once at the predetermined spot, a powerful man grabbed Dr. Thatcher from behind pinning his arms to his side while a second person used a snake stick to bring a deadly Mojave rattlesnake close enough to bite their victim on the neck. The pain would have been agonizing, but within ten minutes Dr. Thatcher was probably unconscious from the powerful nerve toxin in the venom.

  Once the victim was unconscious, he was probably left to die alone in the dark of that remote spot while the murderers hiked back to their vehicle. Before leaving, the murderers killed the snake in a manner that would indicate Dr. Thatcher had smashed its head before he succumbed to its venom. They didn’t anticipate that the snake stick would leave a pattern of crushed ribs on the snake’s underside. Since we didn’t find one at the scene, the marks prove that Dr. Thatcher didn’t kill the snake. The killers either didn’t realize that Mojave rattlesnakes are not native to Coconino County, or they thought it would be mistaken for a diamondback. Dr. Thatcher’s cell phone was left in his hand to indicate that he’d tried to call for help but not been able to get service in the deep divide of Sterling Canyon.

  Margaret listened carefully, her face occasionally showing revulsion. Several times she asked for clarification, but she reserved her comments until my hypothesis regarding the case was complete.

  “It’s difficult to believe that anyone in Sedona would kill someone for racial reasons, but we have visitors from all over the country in town every day and there are some real rednecks around parts of the Verde Valley. Mrs. Thatcher might be right about the motive, but
I think it’s something else,” she said. Margaret had been correct so many times that I valued her opinion even this early in the investigation.

  “This was a well thought out plan targeting Dr. Thatcher,” she said, “and if that’s true, the list of possible murderers is much smaller. Not many people knew he was in Sedona. He came by private plane and stayed in a company owned property. A few people at the Merchant Bank would have known he was here because they made the arrangements. If he planned to meet with someone on a business matter, that person and perhaps others from this other company would know that Quentin Thatcher was in Sedona.”

  “Of course, knowing that Dr. Thatcher would be in Sedona is a prerequisite to targeting him for murder, but the crime would have taken some time to set up. That snake must have been stowed somewhere waiting to be used in the homicide. Professor Crutchfield said the snake had not eaten in several days,” I said.

  Margaret had another point to make as we cleared the table and did the dishes. “If this was a deliberate trap, someone who knew Quentin Thatcher fairly well staged it. There were probably not many people that knew pre-Columbian Native American ruins fascinated him enough to hike two miles to see one.”

  “You’re right. Chad had never heard of that particular Sinaguan ruin. He said that it wasn’t listed in any of the guides he’s read. That means that there was some local person involved who knows the area well. Also, you can’t bring a Mojave rattlesnake from New York. Professor Crutchfield indicated that they only live in desert parts of California, Nevada, Arizona, and far western Texas.”

  “What about this wrestler who’s the caretaker at the retreat center?” she asked. “You said that someone strong grabbed Dr. Thatcher from behind.”

  Margaret had hit on the exact track that I’d been mentally following. Chris Moore had acknowledged that he knew Dr. Thatcher was coming to Sedona. He also had met him at the spring planning sessions and might have known of Thatcher’s fascination with Native American ruins.

  “Chris Moore is on the top of my list too,” I said. “Dr. Thatcher was an athletic looking man, about six feet and 180 pounds. He was a member of a squash club in New York and probably got regular exercise. He wouldn’t have been easy to hold onto, but a huge man like Chris Moore could have controlled him.”

  “Why would he want to kill a man he hardly knew? As in so many cases, it comes down to figuring out the motive. You’re great at doing that Mike. My guess is that it involves either the ex wife or some enemy at the bank.”

  “Mrs. Thatcher’s grief seemed very real, but I’ve been fooled before. I wonder if there was much insurance. Her child support was a lot of money, but the rich are often even greedier than the average person. Maybe it wasn’t enough,” I said.

  “What happens to the child support and his estate now that Dr. Thatcher is dead? You should talk to John about Bank E & A; he might have heard rumors about problems or have some explanation as to why someone at the bank might be involved.”

  John is our only son. John, his wife, Sue, and his two daughters live on the Upper East Side of Manhattan directly across Central Park from where Quentin Thatcher had his residence. John also works on Wall Street, but Dr. Thatcher was at a much higher level in his company than John was at his investment bank. They were unlikely to be acquainted, but the Wall Street rumor mill was constantly active. John was in touch with the Wall Street grapevine, and he always had interesting stories to tell about the investment business when he visited at Christmas. He could keep us entertained for hours with stories of ambition, ego, power, and avarice. “I’ll call him in the morning,” I said.

  By the time we’d finished dinner it was almost time for the 10:00 news. I was anxious to see if the snakebite was mentioned. It was covered in a ten-second report without any details. The weather report was concerning. Rain was unusual in October but a storm was expected for late tonight. We had investigated the area where Dr. Thatcher’s body was found for several hours this morning, but we had not known that we were working on a homicide. If we missed footprints or other evidence, the rain would complicate things.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A fierce rainstorm started at midnight and lasted for half an hour. The storm added drama to my restless night. Terrifying dreams haunted my sleep. In the vivid nightmares, I was held immobile in a viselike grip of huge hairy arms while some faceless person brought a hissing poisonous viper to my neck. The same nightmare repeated itself throughout that too long night. After the third screening, I moved to the couch so that at least Margaret would get some sleep. At 4:30, I made a pot of coffee and gave up on rest for that bleak night.

  The horror film dreams contributed a little to my knowledge of the Quentin Thatcher murder. Guns and knives were much easier to obtain than Mojave rattlesnakes. The snake had been used for a specific reason. The person who arranged for his death wanted Dr. Thatcher to be terrified. He or she wanted the successful young businessman to suffer an agonizing and ghastly death while making the murder appear to be an accident. Like most homicide cases, motive might be the most important fact in leading us to the killers. Who hated Quentin Thatcher enough to inflict this type of horrifying death?

  The dawn’s first light backlit Schnebly Hill as I drove into the parking lot at my office. When I unlocked the office door and let myself in, the night-bell sounded. It startled Steven Bradley, the night duty deputy. He sheepishly said. “Good morning sir,” realizing that I’d caught him napping. I made some pleasant conversation to let him know that I wasn’t concerned about his nap. This was not guard duty in a war zone. He needed to be in the office to answer the phone and deal with any emergency that occurred during the night, but otherwise there wasn’t much for him to do.

  Steven made some fresh coffee while I went into my office to make a call. I wanted to know more about what Dr. Thatcher actually did as Managing Director for Global Risk Management for Derivative and Engineered Products. Clearly it paid very well and involved many pages of incomprehensible equations like those in his carry-on bag. I called my son, John. It was 8:45 Eastern Time when I reached him. We exchanged pleasantries and after a few minutes I asked the question about the job title.

  “Dad, there are several parts to that title. Managing director is a title like vice president or senior vice president. It just signifies that the person is a senior officer with the investment bank. The rest of the title is very specific about the job. Where does the fellow work?

  “He was with the Merchant Bank of Europe and the Americas.”

  “Does the was mean he’s unemployed or dead?”

  “I’m investigating a possible homicide of a man named Quentin Thatcher.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Bank E & A is a big outfit with offices in Europe, North and South America, and Asia. They may have fifteen offices and five or six trading rooms. The global means he was in charge of the risk management function for all of them, not just the ones in the US. This man was a big shot by Wall Street standards. I’ve heard he was one of the sharpest derivative quants on the Street.”

  I had already figured out that he was fairly important with his bank, but I still was not sure what he actually did. “Son, you’re talking a jargon I don’t understand. What does a Risk Manager for Derivative and Engineered Products actually do?”

  “A quant is slang for a guy who works with complex quantitative matters. All securities firms and investment houses set limits on the total risk they will take in various markets. The Global Risk Manager is the guy who makes certain that all of these traders and trading rooms stay within the bank’s limits, in this case for derivatives and engineered products. A derivative is a product that is derived from another product. An option on a stock is a derivative of the actual stock. A futures contract on coffee is a derivative of an actual bag of coffee beans. Those are simple examples, but things get more complicated quickly from there. Engineered products are custom-made derivatives to fit specific needs. Dad, it’s not my area of expertise, and it can get impossibly complica
ted. Firms use extraordinarily complex and proprietary computer models to understand these risks. Quentin Thatcher was in charge of making certain that things didn’t get out of hand. You probably remember some of the disasters that have occurred on Wall Street from not understanding the true risks.”

  “I remember an English bank with problems in Singapore that went under and some big Connecticut hedge fund that the Federal Reserve had to help. Of course, there was that enormous mess with mortgage derivatives eight years ago that required all of those bailouts. I’ve read about one of these firms blowing up every two or three years.”

  “You understand exactly. Quentin Thatcher was the man who made certain that didn’t happen at Bank E & A.”

  I was not convinced that Dr. Thatcher’s work was connected to this murder, but I didn’t feel competent to unravel any information from the documents that Dr. Thatcher had left in his room. I barely made it through calculus in college, and that was so many years ago that it was only a vague recollection. “John, Dr. Thatcher left at least a hundred pages of information in his room. Many of the pages contain complex equations and are marked confidential. Would this information be valuable?”

  “Dad, this is truly the information age. The Bank E & A might have spent tens of millions of dollars over twenty years perfecting their derivative models. The Global head of Risk Management would probably be the only person at the firm who had access to all of the models used by the bank and the ability to fully understand how they work. I can’t even guess what they might be worth. A briefcase full of this proprietary trading information and computer models would be more valuable than one full of diamonds.”

  “At least they weren’t taken as part of the homicide. I found them in Dr. Thatcher’s room.”

  My son chuckled at my naiveté. “If I were an unscrupulous competitor, the last thing that I would want would be for the bank’s management to realize that someone had copies of this information.”