The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  About 9:00 my son called. “Hi Dad. We’re thrilled that you’re coming for a visit. The girls are so excited they could hardly sleep.”

  Margaret had apparently called him with the news of our Wednesday visit. I guess she’d gone ahead with the reservations as we discussed. She’d taken my conditional agreement as a firm yes. I explained how excited I was about seeing them too. I needed to go by the toy store and pick up something for each girl this afternoon. There were other arrangements I needed to make if we were to be gone for several weeks.

  “Anything new in the rumor mill about Bank E & A?” I asked after exchanging more small talk.

  “No. The jokes have died down and the traders are wise cracking about other topics now. I did hear that a new risk manager was being sent from company headquarters in Scotland to replace Quentin Thatcher, but it will be a month before he arrives in New York. There’s been no word about the proprietary documents surfacing, but I would expect that to be kept very quiet,” John said.

  “John, could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure Dad, anything,” he said without hesitation.

  “Can you find out who staffs the security operation at Bank E & A’s headquarters. I was thinking about a temporary security job to help pay the hotel bills while we’re there,” I said.

  “And Mother asked me to find out what temporary staffing outfit they use for clerical help. I swear you two will be the death of me,” he said with a note of humor and role reversal. “I don’t suppose anyone will kill you with a snake on Madison Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. I’ll find out, but you both have to promise not to get arrested or murdered while you’re in town. It might upset the girls.”

  I reviewed the Henry Griffin documents that I’d downloaded from the Internet until Chad arrived at 10:00. When we were in the car I updated him on the news from Cheri.

  “If Chris wasn’t involved in the shooting and the boys were in school, who else is there?” Chad asked. “There must be someone we don’t know about yet. Maybe it’ll be this Reggie the-Snake-Man Neely.” Chad said.

  I told Chad about our plan to go to New York and try and get on the temporary staff at Bank E & A.

  “If the sheriff finds out you and Margaret are working at that bank, you won’t need to worry about getting your job back because he’ll probably shoot you himself,” Chad said. “No kidding Mike, even if you solve this case, Sheriff Taylor will be furious.”

  “Chad, I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. Just pretend that I never brought it up. Margaret and I are going to visit our family. The suspension means there’s nothing keeping me here in Sedona right now.”

  “I can’t see how it will help to work as a security guard or clerk. You’ll never get within a mile of the big shots running the place. Sir Henry probably doesn’t even talk to anyone less than a vice president. You’re risking your career on a very long shot,” Chad said.

  “The motive is in New York at that bank,” I said. “You’re forgetting that we’ll have help from Dr. Thatcher’s intern. He probably had other friends at the bank that would be willing to help find his murderer. As things stand, no one is even asking the right questions because of the lawsuit.”

  Chad drove in silence for the next few minutes. He clearly disagreed with my strategy. I hadn’t told him the whole truth. I was not certain that I wanted my job back, but I definitely didn’t want my career with the department to end on this sour note. I’d been thinking that private detective work would give me a lot of flexibility and freedom. In the days since my suspension, I had recognized that the Sedona office was just too slow for someone used to the constant activity of the Los Angeles Homicide Squad. I had a good reputation from the favorable publicity of some past cases, thirty years of experience, and many friends in law enforcement who would recommend me. If the work came in slowly, I had the financial resources not to be concerned.

  “I talked to Steven Bradley yesterday evening as he was reporting to work,” Chad said to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “Did he have a chance to take a look at Chris or Art Johnson’s sons?” I asked.

  “Steven was a letterman at Mingus Union a few years ago. He dropped by after practice yesterday to say hello to his old coach. He got a very good look at Bridger and Gordon in the locker room. Steven now thinks that the hand that held the note had red hairs. He said it could have been Bridger, but he thought the man was even bigger than Bridger. He can’t be sure, but he didn’t rule out Art’s older boy,” Chad said.

  We both knew how flawed the reports of eyewitnesses often were. We’d sent him to take a look specifically at Bridger knowing the young man fit the description. That process is even less reliable than a normal lineup. Both Bridger and Chris had the right hair color, but Steven had not reported red hair on the hand the morning after the crime. “Did he get a look at Chris?” I asked.

  “Not yet. He planned to park near his house this morning and wait for him to go somewhere and follow him,” Chad said.

  I was concerned about someone as inexperienced as Steven Bradley trying to tail someone who might be a murderer. I also knew from personal experience that there was a sniper involved in this case.

  We drove down a dirt street in a poor part of Cottonwood looking for Reggie Neely’s house. The narrow street was overhung with giant cottonwood trees and the area smelled of the river and of the lack of good septic systems. After ten minutes, we came to the end of the road where a steel gate blocked the way. There was a dilapidated mailbox outside the gate with the faded name Neely written in blue paint. A black and white mongrel dog barked our arrival to the resident. I could see an old rust colored Bronco with a wooden trailer attached. I guessed the trailer was to transport the poacher’s snakes.

  A shirtless man with a week-old beard came into the yard. He was as hairy as an orangutan and as large as a mountain gorilla. His spare-tire midsection hung over his dirty jeans hiding his belt except for the indentation of an enormous silver buckle. He carried a shotgun in one hand and a leash for the snarling dog in the other. He leashed the dog, kicking it several times to quiet it. He walked up to the fence where we waited holding the shotgun as if he was ready to use it.

  “Mr. Neely, I’m a friend of Chris Moore. He suggested that I talk to you about snakes,” I said.

  As he approached, I could smell his odor. He bathed less frequently than he shaved. He smiled revealing a missing incisor next to a silver one. “Chris is my good buddy. If he sent you to talk about snakes, then I’d be happy to visit with you all.”

  He opened the gate and invited us in. I explained that we were with the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department, and he said, “Sure enough. Now you tell me after I invite you in. I don’t cotton to lawmen coming into my house. Let’s talk at the table.”

  He led us to a weathered picnic table under one of the giant cottonwood trees. I could hear the river nearby but not see it through the overgrown yard.

  “Chris said you were the true expert in northern Arizona when it comes to rattlesnakes,” I said.

  “Did you ever see Chris wrestle? He’s the world’s greatest. I’ve been after him to give me some lessons for nigh on a year,” Reggie said.

  “He’s a remarkable man. I’ve seen him take on two much younger men and toss them around like sacks of grain,” I said.

  “Chris was right. I do know my snakes. What can I do for you?” he said.

  “What do you know about Mojave rattlesnakes? Chad asked.

  Reggie lifted the hairy fold of flab that covered his hips revealing his belt. “This here is Mojave. See the nice green color, not all of them are this green. I kept this one because it’s the best I’ve found.” His belt was leather with a bank of green snakeskin. The silver buckle said something about a wrestling championship.

  “Has anyone bought a live Mojave from you Mr. Neely?” Chad asked.

  “No, them Mojave is dangerous, not like those sissy diamondbacks that mostly crawl away. These western snakes warn you with t
heir rattles and are mostly scared of you. They’re not sneaky like the cottonmouths and copperheads back home. Those Mojave crawl into trees. They can drop on you without much notice, and they have a real mean bite. I never sold a live one.”

  “Do you know Art Johnson and his sons Bridger and Gordon?” I asked.

  “Sure do, they’re related to Chris. I give a snake to Art Johnson one time. Art kind a looks after my interests with the sheriff’s department you know, and his boy wanted one. Teenagers are like that sometimes. They want a scary snake.”

  “Bridger has a Mojave rattlesnake?” I asked. My headache had returned in full force. I was going to suspend judgment. For now I would listen and act as if nothing extraordinary had been said.

  “No, it was Gordo that wanted a snake, but that was a long time ago, maybe two years. It was a little three-foot diamondback.” I’d been interrogating men like Reggie for thirty years, and this didn’t sound true. He continued, ”Boys outgrow the things. I’ll bet it’s long gone by now. It weren’t no account, because those are real common snakes round here,” Reggie said as if it was completely unimportant.

  “Have you ever seen a live Mojave around here?” Chad asked.

  “Mojaves like the low desert, they don’t live round here. This one came from a paloverde tree down round Wickenburg,” Reggie said pointing to his belt.

  We thanked Reggie for his assistance and made our way to the car as he held the barking dog. I was glad I hadn’t made it inside his house. I wanted to take a shower from just sitting next to the man. I still wanted to suspend judgment regarding Art and his sons.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  We were both quiet as Chad drove up the bumpy dirt road. When Chad reached the busy traffic area on 89A he made his first comment. “It’s not what you think Mike. I know Art, and he can’t be involved.”

  “Maybe so, maybe not,” I said. “Reggie claims that Gordon’s snake wasn’t a Mojave rattler, but how do we know he’s being honest? Certainly, Art has had many chances during this investigation to mention that his son has a pet rattlesnake.”

  “Art loves those boys. I’m sure he wouldn’t get them involved in something criminal. I’ve never heard a bad word about Art’s ethics. He’s a straight up guy,” Chad said.

  “I’m not much of a believer in coincidences. Dr. Thatcher knows Chris and Art. Chris knows Reggie. Reggie knows Art. Reggie sells snakes,” I said.

  Chad drove toward Sedona without making another comment until he said, “Why would Art turn the investigation over to us if he’s involved?”

  “He was first on the scene and had as much time as he wanted to make certain that there was no unwanted physical evidence present. He might have assumed that we’d treat it as an accident. That would be the end of it, and it wouldn’t be recorded as his case if there were questions about it later,” I said.

  “You think he broke into the office and then shot at you yesterday?” Chad said.

  “He’s been in our office many times. Art knows where evidence is kept, and he would have known that we only have one night duty deputy. He arrived on the scene of the shooting yesterday very quickly,” I said.

  “How in the world would he have gotten involved in this sort of thing? I think it’s a false clue, maybe a deliberate one to get us off the track,” Chad said.

  “It could be. I don’t want to think someone in law enforcement is a cold-blooded murderer. Maybe his boys were involved without his knowledge, or maybe Reggie was involved and just wants to point us in the wrong direction. I’ll reserve judgment for now,” I said. It was very difficult for me to believe that Dr. Thatcher would have gone anywhere with a red neck like Reggie. Someone he trusted must have led him to the Sinaguan ruin where he was killed.

  We stopped and had lunch at the Szechuan Restaurant. Chad had had a chance to digest the information about Art’s connection to Reggie. He was willing to consider the possibility that Art was involved. “I think Cheri can find out if Gordon really had a pet snake. That’s the kind of thing that other boys in his class are bound to know about. She may even find out if he still has it. I’ll call her after lunch,” he said.

  “Good idea. I think we should be cautious about what we say to Art at this point. If he was the sniper, I don’t want him to know anything about what I’m up to.” I had to assume that Art was involved, but I hoped I was dead wrong. I was beginning to think that Chris Moore was innocent. If he’d had a suspicion that his cousins were involved in a murder, I doubted that he would have ever mentioned Reggie Neely.

  After lunch Chad dropped me off at home and went to Flagstaff to do some errands on his day off. There was a message from Margaret to call her at work.

  “We have a red eye flight from Phoenix tomorrow night at 11:30. We’ll go to John’s for a rest when we get there. In the afternoon, we can do some shopping until we can check in at 4:00,” she said when I called.

  “Isn’t the Parker Meridian a little expensive?” I asked.

  “Not bad for New York, and it’s only a few blocks from the bank. I start work on Friday. They want me to work overtime on Saturday and half a day on Sunday,” she said.

  “How can you have a job already?” I should never underestimate my wife’s determination, but this seemed impossible.

  “Heather and I conspired. Because of Dr. Thatcher’s death, she’s been asked to work full time for the next month until the replacement arrives. She requisitioned a temp to help her. She specified all sorts of requirements to operate specialized investment computer programs and then told both me and the temp agency the programs that the bank uses.”

  “You’re pretty good with a computer, but you don’t know anything about specialized investment programs,” I said.

  “I just fibbed a little on the résumé that I faxed to the temp agency this morning. They were so excited to find a perfect match with the job request from Bank E & A. Heather will be the one who interviews me to make certain I meet those qualifications,” Margaret said without a trace of irony in her voice. “They’re also paying well for all this specialized knowledge, so the hotel will not wreck our travel budget for next year.”

  Margaret gave me the name of the security company that John had supplied and told me how to prepare my application. Getting on at that specific bank was not a sure thing but being hired by the security company looked easy. I could pass the background check, speak English, and was willing to work for poor wages in a night job with no benefits.

  I busied myself with my research on Henry Griffin. He had no criminal record, not even a driving violation. He had excellent credit and was clearly well off by normal standards, but he kept company with some really wealthy New Yorkers and seemed to spend everything he made.

  Griffin was involved in a lawsuit with several families who lived in the same cooperative apartment complex near the UN Building. He was combining two apartments into an eight thousand square foot penthouse, and the work was causing too much disruption for the other tenants. The plaintiffs included several of the city’s socialites, the sort of people that an ambitious man wouldn’t want to have as enemies. One prominent matron’s apartment had been flooded with a reported seventy thousand dollars in damages to furnishings. The idea of having seventy thousand dollars worth of furnishings in one room that could be damaged in a leak didn’t seem strange to the society reporter who covered the story. A pissed off neighbor might be a good person to ask about Henry Griffin. I made a note of the names involved in the dispute.

  Late in the afternoon Chad called. “Cheri said she’s certain that Gordon Johnson owned a rattlesnake. He got in trouble for threatening to put it into a girl’s locker when she broke up with him. Cheri had the biology teacher request that Gordon bring the snake to class for a demonstration next week. The boy claims it died recently, but he might know where he could borrow another one.”

  “The boy had a rattler, and it died recently. What’s your conclusion?” I asked.

  “I know it looks bad for Art, but I
still can’t believe it. He’s a regular guy, not a murderer. There might be an explanation.”

  “Please don’t bring up the snake to Art. I don’t want him to know I suspect him,” I said.

  “I understand, but we might be missing a simple explanation. I certainly won’t do anything to let Art know we’re suspicious,” he said.

  “Good. Chad you’re a good judge of character, and you know Art much better than I do, but the evidence is building,” I said.

  “I went by the Flagstaff office to snoop around a little,” Chad said. “There was some news about the lawsuit. When the county attorney questioned the Phoenix lawyers about the timing of the filing only a few hours after the break in, the attorney was shocked. A few hours later he called the county attorney and said his firm had resigned from the case. Another large Phoenix firm was taking over from them.”

  “Very interesting. They’d resign if they thought their client was connected to the theft and the lawsuit was to cover their tracks.” I was lucky to have Chad to keep track of the investigation.

  I made reservations on the Sedona to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport shuttle. There was no point in leaving the car in expensive airport parking when we had no idea how soon we’d return to Sedona. I busied myself with preparing to leave town and on the research into Henry Griffin’s background until Margaret arrived at 5:15. I updated her on my meeting with Reggie describing him in colorful detail.

  When I got to the part about Gordon Johnson having a pet rattlesnake, Margaret said, “Oh my God. Art is involved. That’s terrible. How in the world could he get his sons involved with murder?”

  “Chad still thinks that Reggie may have given us a false lead, but a counselor at Mingus Union confirmed that Gordon owned a rattlesnake that’s now dead,” I said.

  “I don’t know Art, but he must be a monster to try and kill a friend like you and to murder someone with a snake,” she said.