Chris Moore was waiting for us in his red Hummer at the entrance to the retreat center. Chris greeted his cousin warmly and then said to me, “Mike, you almost got me fired that last time you were here. You can look around, but if you want to remove anything, you need to talk to the lawyers. The head of security accused me of letting you take important company property. That’s something that as a lowly caretaker, I had no authority to OK. There were important bank-owned papers in one of those suitcases. I should have called the bank before letting you take anything.”
I could see the direction that the bank’s argument was taking. The bank’s lawyers would stress that these papers were not Quentin Thatcher’s property and therefore the Sheriff’s Department had no right to remove them from bank property as part of the investigation of his death. Things would really get messy when the bank found out that the documents had been stolen. Sheriff Taylor was right when he said we had big problems.
Chris unlocked the retreat center and watched us closely as we looked around. I asked a number of questions about security. I was hoping that there might be security cameras that could provide a record of who had visited the retreat center in the past week. There were no cameras in the facility. The building used a sound and motion activated security system. Chris Moore had turned it off in preparation for Quentin Thatcher’s visit.
After a few minutes of casual conversation, I asked Chris the direct question that was the real reason for my visit. “Chris, where were you last night after midnight and on Monday from about 4:00 until midnight?”
Chris Moore’s face flushed red, and his eyes narrowed to a squint. He looked like he might rip my head off. I put my hand on my pistol, unsnapping the small leather strip that held the pistol in its holster. I stared directly into Moore’s scary gray eyes. His hands had formed fists. I took a step back to be out of range of a sucker punch.
In his most reassuring tone, Art said, “Chris buddy, it’s just a routine question. Calm down and answer Detective Lieutenant Damson politely. Don’t do anything stupid.”
I could hear the huge man breathing in quick deep breaths as he stood still trying to regain his composure. After a minute, the anger drained a little from his face, and he asked, “Why am I a suspect? I hardly knew the guy. That Marauding Moor wrestling personality is just an act. I’m not like that. I’d never hurt anyone deliberately.”
The display of anger that I’d just witnessed made me doubt that claim. The medical examiner’s report would be public later today and probably reported in the local newspapers. I decided to explain some details. “Chris, the medical report indicates that a very powerful man grasped Dr. Thatcher from behind pinning his arms to his side and holding him still while someone brought a dangerous rattlesnake close to his neck so it could bite him. The grasp was so strong that it left bruises on Dr. Thatcher’s arms and chest. The assailant would have been about your height and probably someone that Dr. Thatcher knew well enough to go hiking with to explore a Sinaguan Indian ruin in a remote canyon. Where were you Monday evening Chris?”
“Detective, I don’t have anything to say without my attorney present. Are you finished here? I have an appointment in Cottonwood.”
Chris Moore’s expression was now blank except for the hardness in his steely eyes. He was even scarier as a result of his lack of expression. I thought it might be significant that Chris had said my attorney present. That implied that he already had a local attorney who could handle criminal matters. That seemed a little unusual for a man who’d never had any trouble with the law.
I said in my firm law-enforcement voice, “Mr. Moore, you and your attorney should be in my office in Sedona at 10:00 tomorrow to answer questions. If you’re not there, there will be a material witness warrant issued. Discuss this with your attorney. I’m sure he’ll advise you to cooperate.”
Chris drove us back to my Explorer without saying another word. As we left his vehicle, Art said, “See you Sunday at Mom and Dad’s house Chris. Mom is fixing her fried chicken and cream gravy. She’s making a couple of apple pies, one for each of us to take home. This thing should be all over once you give your statement. Hang loose old buddy.”
Chris smiled for the first time since I asked my direct question. He replied, “See you Sunday Art, and I’ll see you tomorrow Detective with my lawyer.”
We drove back into town and stopped at KFC for a very late lunch. Art was still absolutely certain his cousin had nothing at all to do with the Thatcher murder. “There’s nothing that ties Chris to this murder. I’m sure he’ll talk with you tomorrow and explain where he was. He lives alone, and he may not have a witness, but hell Mike, there’re all sorts of strange groups in northern Arizona, crazy militias and religious cults. Those nut-cases are more likely to kill using a snake.”
Rose called my cell phone to report that the crime scene technician had finished at our office. The staff had moved back at 1:00. After lunch, I took Art to his car so he could return to his office in Cottonwood. Soon after Art left the car, Sheriff Taylor called. His tone was more abrupt than normal. “Report to my office at 4:30.” I thought of the word report. Greg Taylor had never used it with that tone before.
“Yes sir,” I replied, and he hung up. It was certainly going to be bad. I wondered if my career could survive the wrath of the Merchant Bank of Europe and the Americas. They certainly had the resources to attack rather than merely watch the investigation proceed.
I called Margaret to tell her of my summons to Greg Taylor’s presence at 4:30 filling her in on all of the details of the disastrous day, from the discovery of the break-in to the confrontation with Chris Moore.
Margaret listened to the whole story and reached her conclusion regarding my fate quickly. “Mike, we have plenty of money to live on from your pension and from my job. Even in the worst possible case, we’ll be OK. I love you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I spent the next hour in my office reading SEC filings for Bank E & A’s US subsidiary on the Internet. I was not a business crime specialist, but I thought a search might point me in the right direction. Bank E & A was headquartered in Great Britain and operated as a registered securities dealer in the United States. I found nothing that indicated there were financial problems at the bank in either their 10K or other regulatory filings. Moody’s rated their long-term debt “A”. If there was a problem hidden somewhere at the bank, it would be a complete surprise to the markets. I did discover that more than half of the US subsidiary’s total revenue was associated with derivative and engineered products, the same activity for which Quentin Thatcher served as Risk Manager.
At 3:30 I headed for my meeting with Sheriff Taylor leaving fifteen minutes earlier than normal for the thirty-mile drive. I certainly didn’t want to be late. The route from Sedona to Flagstaff is especially gorgeous in October because of the autumn colors of the hardwood trees along Oak Creek. I hardly noticed. My mind was on the coming meeting. I felt that Bank E and A was involved in the death of Quentin Thatcher, but I had absolutely no evidence to connect them to the crime. Maybe the call from the bank intern, Heather Potter, would be the lucky break that I needed.
At 4:15, I reached the law enforcement building in Flagstaff and headed for Sheriff Taylor’s office. As I passed the large meeting room near the sheriff’s office, I saw Meg Hull standing with some Flagstaff reporters outside the door. Her expression looked grim.
“Mike, can I talk with you off the record?” she said.
“Sure Meg. I have a meeting with the sheriff in fifteen minutes, but we can probably talk in an empty conference room.”
“The sheriff is in the special joint meeting of the Yavapai and Coconino County Commissioners,” she said. “That’s what I want to talk about.” She pointed at the closed door of the large meeting room. “They asked the press to wait outside while they discussed personnel matters.”
We found an empty room, and I asked, “Meg, I guess you know what the joint meeting is about?”
She no
dded. “Both counties are being sued by the Merchant Bank of Europe and the Americas for one hundred and fifty million dollars in actual damages for the loss of proprietary trading formulas from the Sedona office of the sheriff’s department.”
I could hardly believe that the bank had moved that quickly. The sum was astronomical. I stuttered, “Did you say one hundred and fifty million dollars?”
“Both county attorneys have reviewed the filing. The bank claims that it can document the actual damages are $150,000,000. They’re not even requesting punitive damages. The Yavapai County commissioners are asking to be dismissed from the lawsuit because the documents were removed from Yavapai County without the permission or knowledge of the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. Mike, there are only about hundred and fifty thousand residents of Coconino County. That’s a thousand dollars for every man, woman, and child. The county will have to file bankruptcy if we lose this lawsuit.”
I was literally speechless. It wasn’t just my career; the whole county might be in trouble because of the robbery of the Sedona office. Meg could see that I was too shocked to carry on a conversation. She continued, “That was the most acrimonious meeting I’ve ever attended. Most of the men and women in that room, including both sheriffs, are elected officials who are looking for a scapegoat. I think they planned to sacrifice Sheriff Taylor. They wanted him to fall on his sword by resigning, but he refused.”
I managed to say, “Good for him. He was elected by a huge margin. He shouldn’t resign at the first volley from the bank. He’s got a job to do. The way to defend this lawsuit is to find those papers and arrest the people who took them.”
“Mike, you’re one of the most competent law enforcement officers I’ve ever known. If I can help you, please ask.” Her comment was intended to be comforting, but it struck me like a blow. She felt sorry for me.
It was time to meet the sheriff, and I thanked Meg and went to wait for the sheriff in his office. He came into the office about 5:30 saying, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
I’d taken my badge and ID card out and set them on his desk. My sidearm was my personal property. He noticed them sitting on his desk and nodded. The sheriff looked sad. I felt we’d become friends. I’m certain that made things more difficult for him.
Sheriff Taylor sat at his desk looking at me for a few seconds and then said, “Mike, you’re suspended without pay for thirty days for failing to notify Yavapai County authorities of your actions in removing evidence from their county. In addition, I’m reducing you from detective lieutenant to detective with the loss of one pay grade. At the end of thirty days, I will review the matter with the County Superintendent for possible reinstatement, but you should not count on a continuing relationship with the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office. I understand that this was a minor technical violation that wouldn’t have mattered if the documents hadn’t been stolen, however the county commissioners feel strongly that your presence on the force has potentially negative legal ramifications.”
“I understand sheriff. If there’s anything I can do to help find those documents, I’ll help even though I don’t work here anymore.”
“I cannot have you or anyone in the Sedona office involved in these cases. I’m reassigning the Quentin Thatcher investigation and the stolen evidence case to Captain Horn. It’s felt that Chad is too close to the investigation and much too close to you to continue to be involved. Art Johnson will continue to represent Yavapai County’s interest. Please have no contact with anyone in the Sheriff’s Department regarding the Quentin Thatcher murder. You must also totally avoid contact with anyone at that damn bank regarding these cases.”
That was more bad news. Captain Horn managed the Flagstaff region for the Sheriff’s Department and ranked second to the sheriff in the hierarchy. Harry Horn had been with the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department his whole career. He was known as a competent manager, but he was certainly not an investigator. His experience was in office management and he started on traffic duty. If Sheriff Taylor had resigned, Captain Horn would probably have been chosen as acting sheriff. I suspected that the commissioners had insisted on Horn being assigned to the case.
“Sheriff, I respect your decision. I know about the lawsuit. I just want to remind you that when you talked with Henry Griffin yesterday, you mentioned that the records would be brought to Flagstaff from the Sedona office this morning. If he wanted to stop our fingerprinting and reviewing the documents, this was certainly an effective solution.”
Sheriff Taylor nodded. “I mentioned that to the commissioners. I will personally spend time on this investigation, however I promised the commissioners not to bother anyone at the bank. The county attorneys are afraid of punitive damages if the bank’s management feels that we’re harassing them because of the lawsuit. If this was a tactic, it was very successful. My hands are tied when it comes to Bank E & A. The county commissioners are much more interested in the money than in finding the murderer of a New York tourist.”
Sheriff Taylor stood, placed my badge and ID in his desk drawer, and shook my hand.
I had known what to expect, except that instead of being fired outright I was officially on a thirty-day suspension. I assumed that was intended to be a face-saving action for me with termination at a later date. I had no doubt that my career was effectively over.
I was numb as I drove back to Sedona in the twilight. My thoughts returned to the record of my career. Life is always surprising; small details can make enormous differences in outcomes. I thought of a moment of inattention that caused a traffic accident when I was seventeen. I had joined the army right out of high school and ended up in a military police unit. That had been the start of my law enforcement career. I thought of my early years on patrol in LA and of how I’d aced my sergeant’s exam because of hours of study with Margaret helping me prepare. She’d been my rock in every difficult situation. Margaret had studied with me to support my years in night school at UCLA. She’d been a marvel, helping me in dozens of cases once I’d been promoted to detective. I remember how a small mistake had caused the injury that ended my career in LA. I’d been a fraction of a second too slow. My bullet killed a murderer, but he’d still had time to put a bullet in my leg.
I was not any good at being philosophical. I was a person of action, but the sheriff’s orders had closed off any chance of my own actions solving this problem. My best bet in saving my career from this ignominious end was to find the missing documents and to find the murderer of Quentin Thatcher, but I had direct orders not to try.
I drove to the Sedona substation. Steven Bradley was the only one in the office at 7:15. I left the keys to my Explorer and my key to the office on Chad’s desk. I would call him in the morning with the details of my meeting with the Sheriff.
I called Margaret and asked her to pick me up. She started crying when she realized I didn’t have the Explorer. She knew it meant I was unemployed. I visited with Steven for the five minutes that it took Margaret to arrive, but I never mentioned my suspension to him. It was not his fault that the evidence had been stolen. He had been right to give the burglars the key to the storage closet rather than to resist.
When Margaret arrived, she got out of the car to give me a hug and said, “I love you Mike.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I told Margaret the details of my conversation with Meg and of my meeting with Sheriff Taylor. She didn’t comment about my changed circumstances until we were sitting together at our breakfast room table having a late supper. I’m certain Margaret must have fixed a very special dinner for that painful evening, but I have no memory of what we ate or drank. I only remember our conversation.
“Mike, I know that you think you received a 30-day suspension rather than an outright termination to save you from embarrassment. I was an office manager for twenty years before we moved here, and I know a little about employee terminations. Your suspension was almost certainly at the recommendation of the county attorney. It does two things
. You’re still legally an employee of the Sheriff’s Department and bound by the sheriff’s instruction not to contact anyone at the bank. Second, it puts you on official notice of probation for cause so that you can’t claim a later termination was a surprise. It’s a tactic to keep you a little under the county’s control and to lower the risk of a successful lawsuit for unjust termination and age discrimination. In addition, they will probably want you to feel that there is a chance of reinstatement until after they take your deposition for the lawsuit. The department will probably give you an opportunity to resign at the end of the probationary period, but unless we do something your career in Arizona is over.”
“I do understand that my career is finished, I just didn’t realize why they still wanted some hold on me for awhile.”
Margaret had a very determined look. “We’ll find the men who took the documents,” she said.
“My hands are tied by the sheriff’s instructions. Even he can’t do anything to upset the bank because the lawyers are afraid of punitive damages. I’ve hurt the county already. I can’t make things worse,” I said.
Margaret smiled. “I love you, and I don’t work for Coconino County. They can’t tell me what to do.”
“They’ve reassigned the case to the Flagstaff office. I don’t think anyone up there would be willing to talk to you under the circumstances. They’d know I was still involved in the case if you ask questions.” I didn’t see how Margaret and I could solve the case without any of the resources of law enforcement.
The Victim at Vultee Arch Page 8
