The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  “And Mike, I know you don’t believe in coincidences,” he said.

  “Call me tomorrow if you have a chance. After church, I’m going to spend the rest of the day seeing what I can learn about our wrestler friend.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The fifteen minutes after Sunday mass was an awkward time. There were many kind words from friends who’d learned of my suspension, but I didn’t know how to respond to their encouragements. I’d spent the day after my suspension working on my project in the garage and not seen anyone I knew but Chad. Saturday, I was in Flagstaff and Cottonwood most of the day. This was my first real contact with our friends.

  After church, Margaret and I drove to a car rental lot in Cottonwood where I picked out the most nondescript car I could find. It was a mid-sized white Toyota. I rented the car for a week with an agreement that I could exchange it for other cars as many times as I wanted. It would be more convenient for Margaret to have her car back, and more anonymous for me if I was going to snoop around.

  I remembered Art’s conversation with his cousin on Thursday. Art had told Chris that his mother was fixing a big fried chicken lunch on Sunday. Neither Art nor Chris was listed in the Cottonwood phone book, and I didn’t know where either of them lived. Art’s father was listed, and I decided to pick up Chris Moore’s trail at his uncle’s house.

  I drove down the block looking for a place where I could observe Mr. Johnson’s residence without being noticed. It took only one pass through the neighborhood of tract homes to realize that it was going to be impossible to be unobtrusive on their street. It was a beautiful day, and there was lots of activity in the suburban neighborhood including a kids’ soccer game in the middle of the street. The area had a single exit with rock pillars standing guard and a sign that identified it as Mingus Hills Estates. Across 89A was a convenience store. I parked, purchased a coffee, and pretended to read the newspaper as I watched the entrance to the neighborhood in my rear view mirror.

  Art and his family turned into his parents’ neighborhood at 11:50. His football player sons, one with copper hair and the other light brown were in the car. The boys’ shoulders were enormous like their cousin Chris. When I was seventeen, I was one of the biggest linemen on my high school football team at 6’1” and two hundred pounds. In the eighties, we believed that too much weight training would make us slow and clumsy. Nowadays, with steroids as common as aspirins, the young players of my height often weighed two fifty. Art had the big hands, the long legs and the slender body that was common among basketball players a generation ago, but his sons had the shoulders that come from steroids and thousands of hours in the weight room.

  At 12:05, Chris turned his red Hummer onto the residential street. He would not be difficult to tail as long as he drove the outlandish vehicle. I bought another cup of coffee and read the newspaper as I waited. There was an article in the business section of the Arizona Republic that reported the $150,000,000 lawsuit that the Bank E & A had filed against Coconino and Yavapai Counties. It indicated that Moody’s and S & P had put Coconino County on “credit watch” with negative implications. The county administrator had decided to withdraw a bond issue, which was to have been underwritten in late October to finance the purchase of land for the open space initiative. Thousands of acres that were to have been maintained in their pristine condition might now be purchased for residential and commercial development instead.

  I ate an atrocious sandwich from the convenience store instead of the gourmet lunch Margaret always fixes after church on Sundays. I was back in the store buying Tums when I saw the red Hummer turn onto 89A and head towards Clarkdale. Art’s sons were in the SUV with their cousin. Two miles away, they turned onto a street that climbed the side of Mingus Mountain at a grade that made my six-cylinder protest. A long driveway led to a tile-roofed house behind a stucco wall. I continued up hill until I was on a street a hundred feet above Chris Moore’s residence. I pulled over at a lot with a for sale sign directly above his backyard. His property was at least ten acres, mostly chaparral. The backyard had an enormous swimming pool, guesthouse with patio and barbeque, tennis court, trampoline, and two acres of grass yard.

  Chris and his two cousins were soon out on the lawn throwing a football. It was a pleasant family scene. The red haired young man was as large as his famous pro wrestler cousin. I assumed he was Bridger Johnson, the center on the Mingus Union High School Team. Steven Bradley had described two huge men in Thursday’s theft from the evidence room, but surely, Chris Moore wouldn’t have involved his cousin in a murder and burglary.

  I felt too conspicuous to spend much time watching Chris from that vantage point, and I relocated to four other locations on the hill above his property while I watched. After about an hour, the three went inside. I hadn’t learned much from the observation, but I now knew where Chris lived, and what his cousins looked like.

  I called Chad on my cell phone and told him how I spent the afternoon. I asked him what he knew about Art’s sons.

  “They’ve always been a handful. I think Art spoiled them after their mother ran off to Hollywood. His boys have been in a number of scrapes with the law, including a possible date rape last year by Gordon, the younger boy. A sixteen-year-old girl reported it to the Cottonwood police, but later retracted her complaint. Art’s always gotten them out of trouble.”

  “Do you think one of them would help his uncle break into our evidence room?” I asked.

  “Because Art’s a colleague, I hate to admit it, but I wouldn’t trust his kids to mow my lawn or wash my car.”

  “Chad, you know almost everyone in the Verde Valley. Is there somebody at Mingus Union that I could talk to about Art’s kids? I wonder if they’ve been flashing extra money, or suddenly discovered several pounds of marijuana.”

  “You remember Cheri Turner. I dated her a couple of years ago, and we’re still on good terms. She’s the counselor at Mingus Union. I’ll call her and ask her to call you on your cell phone.”

  While I was talking to Chad, the Hummer pulled out of the four-car garage and headed down the hill toward Highway 89A. It was easy to follow the only red Hummer in town with its top down and three giants as the occupants. Chris and the two boys drove up the steep road to Jerome, past the dozens of candle and curio shops in the restored mining town, which clings precariously to the side of Mingus Mountain. They continued up the mountain on 89A toward Prescott. Since there weren’t many turnoffs once the road left Jerome, I waited until the Hummer was completely out of sight before I headed the rental car up the steep switchbacks. The traffic was light and occasionally, I glimpsed the Hummer on the road far above. When I reached the pass, the SUV was parked at a trailhead next to the highway. I was surprised that it was the only vehicle here on a Sunday afternoon.

  I drove past the Hummer without seeing Chris or his cousins. They’d gone for a hike. I drove for a mile down the opposite side of the mountain before turning around. I’d noticed a place where I could pull off the highway near the Hummer without being seen from the trailhead. I scrambled up an embankment and then climbed a steep hill to get above the trail the three had used.

  I rested on a rock ledge above the path where I could see a long stretch of the trail without being easily observed. From my vantage point, I smelled smoke, not the smoke of a campfire but the unmistakable odor of a marijuana cigarette. I heard voices, but I could not make out the words.

  Within a few minutes, the voices got closer and I could hear the distinct gravelly voice of Chris Moore say, “Bridge, that shit is horrible for your wind. If you want to play in college, you should give up that crap. College ball is about commitment and focus.”

  “A little dope isn’t going to kill me,” Bridger said. He coughed as he spoke.

  “Don’t sass Big C. I can still body-slam you anytime hotshot. Put that thing out,” Chris said.

  “Big C, we can take you down together,” a younger voice said.

  The three appeared along the trail jokin
g and jostling each other. A mock wrestling match began with the two young men pretending to attack their older cousin while bouncing off imaginary ropes and throwing near miss punches. Within a minute, the well-choreographed match had reached its climax. Gordon, who Chris called Gordo, was lifted an arm’s length above Chris, his tree-trunk arms holding the youngster with ease. Meanwhile Bridger became entangled in the invisible ropes unable to help his younger brother. Chris tossed the over two hundred pound Gordo at Bridger just as the older boy became untangled from the imaginary ropes. Bridger turned exactly at the right time to catch Gordo, and both boys fell to the ground. Chris charged, leaped into the air and landed on his two young cousins pinning both of them to the soft ground. The trio erupted in laughter and wrestled, rolling on the ground and feigning agony. It was clear that the boys had done this act with Chris dozens of times.

  My cell phone rang. I killed the power after the second ring. I’d forgotten to put it on vibrate, a bonehead mistake on a stakeout. I backed away from my ledge and headed for the car hoping that the phone had not been heard above the ruckus. As I reached the top of the embankment above my car, I heard Bridger say, “I’ve got him.”

  In the next instant, before I could even turn toward the sound, I was tackled and slammed face first into the needle-covered ground. A massive arm was around my neck and a heavy knee was pressed against my spine. I was bent backwards until my body protested in agony.

  “I can snap that spine Mr. Spy, and I will unless you explain why you were up on that hill watching us. Are you some limp-wrist who gets off on spying on me?” Bridger spoke softly into my left ear increasing the pressure on my back.

  “Let him go,” Chris Moore said.

  The grip around my neck tightened for a second. I noticed a tattoo on the knotted bicep next to my throat. It was the symbol of a snake wrapping around the steroid inflated muscle. The snake was swallowing its tail. The grip around my neck released slightly but the knee remained on my spine.

  “Who are you, asshole?” Bridger asked me.

  I saw Chris Moore’s head appear near ground level where my face was pressed against the pine needles “Bridger, get off that guy. He’s a cop, for God’s sake,” Chris said, as he pulled his cousin from my back.

  I lay for a moment on the ground gulping in breaths, before I pushed myself up to a sitting position.

  I heard Chris talking, but it didn’t register for a minute. “… just a kid really. He doesn’t have good judgment sometimes. Can we just forget this?”

  I stood up and said, “Assault and battery, interference with a criminal investigation, possession and use of a controlled substance…”

  “Listen detective, these are good boys. Maybe I can make it worth your while to forget all of this. How about it?” Chris said. The suggestion of a bribe pissed me off more. He looked at Bridger and said, “Apologize to Detective Damson”

  “Why were you following me?” Bridger said without a trace of an apology.

  “Bridger he was following me not you. He thinks I had something to do with a man from New York who was killed last week. I can’t seem to convince him that I don’t know a damn thing about it,” Chris said.

  “If you take on someone in my family, you take on all of us,” Bridger said as he pushed me down the steep hill toward my car. I kept my feet as I slid down the dirt embankment. I removed my pistol and said. “You’re going for a ride Bridger. You’re under arrest.”

  He dove off the embankment like some crazed mock wrestler on TV. Bridger Johnson was a seventeen-year-old boy and a fool, so I didn’t shoot him. I moved aside, and he slammed into my rental car with the force of a truck, smashing a fender and rolling on the ground in agony from a dislocated shoulder.

  Chris rushed down the embankment and grabbed Bridger’s arm, pulling and popping the shoulder back into place as if he’d done it dozens of times. He slapped Bridger hard on the back and said, “You could be dead. Lay off those steroids until you can control the rage.”

  “Mike, I’ll do anything to keep the boys out of trouble. It was stupid to suggest money, but maybe I could help you on your case. I swear to help you solve the Thatcher murder any way I can if you’ll let Bridger off. I know you and Art are friends. Do it for him if not for me,” Chris said.

  Maybe Chris wasn’t involved in the Thatcher murder, and maybe he could help solve the crime. In any case, I’d been bluffing about arresting Bridger. I didn’t want Sheriff Taylor and the Coconino County Manager to know that I’d been following Chris Moore in direct violation of the sheriff’s instructions. I said, “I want you to be completely open with me about everything you know about the Thatcher case, and I want you to take these boys home and tell their father about both the roid rage and about the marijuana.”

  “They’re really good boys. I’ll tell Art everything. I owe you one Mike.” Chris shook my hand and hustled the boys toward his Hummer before I could change my mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As I attempted to bend down to enter the car, fire shot through my spine. I eased myself into the damaged rental car and realized that my side also throbbed where Bridger’s shoulder had hit when he tackled me. I was a mess, much too old for this kind of roughhousing. It was late afternoon, and I decided the best plan was to cancel the stakeout and head directly to my hot tub for a long relaxing soak. First I turned on my cell phone and found that the inopportune call was from the counselor at Mingus Union, Cheri Turner.

  After introducing myself I got directly to the point. “Cheri, how well do you know Bridger and Gordon Johnson?”

  “Unfortunately, they’ve both been in my office far too many times. Both boys are smart, but they have impulse control problems. They lord it over their classmates, and I regularly have to deal with the fallout from their aggressiveness. They’re not just bullies; they’re the alpha males of their classes. They do whatever they want.”

  “I heard that Gordon was charged with rape, but the complaint was withdrawn,” I said.

  “I won’t mention her name, but the young girl is from a poor family. The week after she withdrew the complaint, she showed up at school in a new Mustang convertible.”

  “Cheri, have you ever met with their father?”

  “Art Johnson is a caring father who makes an effort to keep the boys out of trouble. I’ve talked to him many times, but he’s lost control of his sons, and he can’t figure out how to get it back. Our principal is considering expelling the older boy if he gets in any more trouble, but Bridger is a senior who’s a star on the football team. Expulsion would kill his college prospects. It’s a hard choice for the principal.” Cheri’s tone indicated that it wouldn’t have been a difficult choice for her.

  “Have you seen any change in their behavior in the past week? I’m especially interested in knowing if they’ve been spending an unusual amount of money.”

  “The Johnson family is middle class, and the boys don’t have as much money as some of the kids. They don’t have cars, but they’re not poor by Cottonwood standards. Maybe at Sedona High School, they’d be in the bottom tier, but they’re about average here. I haven’t noticed any change lately.”

  “Do you think either of them use drugs?” I asked.

  “No, they’re not part of the drug scene. Coach Duckworth doesn’t let any of his athletes touch drugs. Bridger and Gordon’s problems are too much testosterone and an overdose of self-confidence.”

  I knew that too much testosterone is exactly what steroid abuse produces. Was Coach Duckworth part of the problem or just looking the other way? He was judged by winning, and football was king sport at Mingus Union High. I thanked Cheri and headed back to Cottonwood, wincing every time I made a sharp turn.

  I stopped and exchanged my rental car for a light blue Chevy. They were not glad to see me return the same day with a damaged fender, but I’d taken the full coverage insurance. It took about thirty minutes to get back to Sedona, and I was hurting so much that I stopped at the Verde Valley Medical Center Emerge
ncy Room as I drove into town. They x-rayed me and determined that nothing serious was wrong with my back. I had two cracked ribs and a lot of bruises. They taped me and insisted that I stay out of the hot tub for the day and try ice instead. The doctor gave me a prescription, which I filled at Walgreens Drug’s drive-through.

  When I entered the house, Margaret could see something was wrong. She quickly got me into bed and started the ice treatment and a massage. By the time the pain pills were working strength, I was ready to tell her about my day. She listened as I recounted my observation of Chris Moore and my run-in with Bridger.

  “Chris seems to care about the boys’ welfare. It’s hard to believe that he’d get them involved in a murder. When Chris explained that you were following him because you thought he was involved in a murder, did his comment seem genuine?” Margaret said.

  “Yes, I noticed that at the time. It’s not something he would have said if they were all in it together. I’m not certain that Chris is involved. Maybe, I jumped too quickly on him as a suspect. He certainly looks like a dangerous guy.”

  “But Bridger is the one who was dangerous to you. You’re too sore for any excitement tonight, and I made a German chocolate cake this afternoon.” Margaret started doing other things with the ice and the massage oil. The pain pills were working fine by then.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  After the therapy from Margaret, I took a nap until she woke me for a phone call from Art Johnson.

  “Mike, I’m so damn sorry about how Bridger acted. Are you OK?”

  “A couple of broken ribs and some bruises, but nothing serious. But Art, your son charged me when I had my weapon out and pointed right at him. He’s lucky to be alive.”