The Victim at Vultee Arch

by Charles Williamson

  I went back to the monitor room after my 6:00 rounds in case there were some very early workers to arrive on a Saturday morning. When my relief arrived at 7:00, I went back to the hotel to take Margaret to breakfast. I explained about the documents that I’d found and wanted her to copy. I finished by saying, “I decided not to break into any locked drawers, and so I didn’t have a chance to see any of Henry Griffin’s personal records.”

  “I never thought you’d really break into anything Mike,” Margaret said with a smile. “We’ll find what we need without any forced entry. We’re spies not burglars.”

  “Today, I plan to find the man who signed for fuel for the company plane at the Sedona airport the Saturday before Quentin’s murder. His name is J P Cameron, and he’s not the regular company pilot,” I said. “What time should I meet you this afternoon?”

  “I’ll meet you in front of the bank at 5:00. We can shop along Fifth Avenue before we go to John and Sue’s for dinner.”

  “Neither of us will be working tomorrow unless something extraordinary comes up,” I said. “We should have some fun while we’re here in New York. I’ll see if I can get tickets for a Broadway matinee for tomorrow. Afterwards, we can take the girls to the park and have dinner at your favorite Italian place on Fiftieth Street.”

  As I walked back to the hotel to get some rest, I thought about our next step. If Margaret made progress on the motive today, I wanted to return to Sedona, maybe as early as Monday evening. I love New York, but only for a few days at a time. I didn’t expect more snooping to add much to my investigation, and the bank’s trading night shift would be present when I returned to work Sunday at midnight because the markets would already be open in Asia. It would be another week before I had the office to myself for the whole night, and I’d already looked in every file cabinet and desk that wasn’t locked. In Sedona, I’d have a chance to keep up with what was happening in the Reggie Neely murder. I wanted to talk to the people who supplied fuel to the Bank E & A’s corporate jet, and I wanted to figure out if there was a connection between Sheriff Taylor and Henry Griffin. I hoped their contact was innocent.

  My attempt at getting four or five hours of sleep was interrupted by a phone call at 10:15. Chad was calling from the North Kaibab Lodge because there were no cell phone towers in that remote portion of the state.

  “Mike, I found the sheriff’s camp early this morning. He was shocked at the massive action that Captain Horn was planning for this afternoon. He broke camp and headed for the Page Substation to coordinate things. He told me to find a room and get some sleep before I headed back to Sedona.”

  “That’s good news Chad. What was his reaction when you told him?” I asked.

  “He was certainly surprised and pissed off. He called Captain Horn an idiot and said he’d take care of things. He didn’t tell me how he’d handle the situation.”

  “Have you heard from Rose?” I asked.

  “No, I’ve been out of touch all night.”

  “She called yesterday and said that Reggie Neely was murdered. His body was found after you’d left for the Kaibab,” I said.

  “That’s got be connected to the Thatcher case. How was he killed?” Chad asked.

  “His body was found in a snake pen on the back porch of that house, but Rose said the local officers thought he’d been strangled, maybe with a wire. When you get back to Sedona check on it with the Cottonwood police,” I said.

  “I have a couple of high school buddies on the force. I’ll call them and get an update on their investigation for us. I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything,” he said.

  I fell back asleep greatly relieved that the sheriff was taking charge of Captain Horn’s raid.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I was rested and dressed by 1:00 pm. I walked to an Internet Café that I’d noticed near the hotel. I ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and logged on. As a law enforcement officer, I had access to several government databases that were not available to the general public. In addition, I made use of a paid research site. Chad was a real expert on Internet research; however, I’d gradually learned how to use it for this simple research.

  Within an hour, I’d found the address of a freelance pilot named Rick Callahan of Queens. I also found the registration of the Bank E & A’s corporate Learjet and knew where it was based. I’d researched its range and expected fuel consumption. The corporate jet was capable of flying non-stop from its base on Long Island to Sedona, and its fuel consumption would have been in the general range of the amount purchased at the Sedona airport. I called the phone number listed for Rick Callahan at the address in Queens, and he agreed to see me when I explained that I was with the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department and that I wanted to discuss his trip to Sedona the previous Saturday.

  It was a neighborhood of sixty-year-old multifamily homes that probably wasn’t nice even when new. The cab dropped me at an unattractive apartment house near LaGuardia. The takeoff pattern seemed to doom any chance of sleeping on that block, and the local buildings reflected the poor prospects for gentrification of the neighborhood. The graffiti, that was now much less common in Manhattan, tagged each building. Surly looking young men lounged on the street corner. I wondered why a pilot would live in such a neighborhood. The cab driver refused to wait. He rushed away as if intimidated by the corner local thugs.

  Rick Callahan was a rail thin man in his thirties, probably less than 140 pounds. His sandy hair was short and his skin was sallow and unhealthy. I briefly wondered if he had some serious wasting disease. He chain-smoked unfiltered Camels, lighting a new cigarette with the stub of the old one before jamming the smoldering stub into an overflowing ashtray. After the introductions in his small first floor apartment, I suggested we talk on the porch. I was relieved when he guided me to a back porch with moldy wicker chairs but ample fresh air.

  Callahan explained that he was an unemployed former air force pilot. He substituted for other pilots on corporate jets in the hopes of finding permanent employment for his skills with one of the charter companies. He never knew when he might be called for work. He had to be ready to leave town immediately any time one of the regular corporate pilots was unavailable. It was a poor living, but he wasn’t ready to give up his dream of being a pilot.

  “Tell me about your trip to Sedona,” I said. I was wondering why his hand was shaking as it held the Camel to his mouth.

  “I got a call about 3:00 on the Friday afternoon before last. I was asked to fly the Bank E & A Learjet out west and back. I’d substituted on their airplane twice in the past year so it was nothing unusual except that it was a night flight.” He fidgeted in his chair and released smoke through his nose as he answered. He was too nervous. There was something he didn’t want to tell me.

  “Who else was on the airplane?” I asked.

  “Well, the woman who arranged for the flight said it was a confidential business trip that I couldn’t discuss with anyone.” The hesitancy in his voice indicated that he was debating how much to tell me. “I don’t actually know the name of the only passenger. He just said hello when he got on and went to sleep. We left for Arizona after midnight, and I didn’t hear anything from him until we landed about dawn.”

  “What happened when you landed?” I asked.

  “Nothing much,” he said. “The dude said fuel up and wait for me, and walked off. That was the only conversation. In about two hours he returned and said take me home Rick.”

  “You know something you’re not telling me,” I said, fishing for more information.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. You got no call to badger me about that flight. It was a normal flight. I’m just trying to earn an honest living,” he said. My calm question had been a very long way from badgering a witness. I was surprised at the reaction.

  “When I check your flight plan, will everything be in order?”

  “Goddamn it man, you got no call to get me in trouble. I’m cooperating. I’ll answer anything if you
forget about the flight plan,” he said.

  I’d guessed right. Either he hadn’t filed a flight plan or he’d filed an incorrect one. There was no control tower at the Sedona airport. If the pilot had picked another airstrip with no control tower as a destination, there would be no record of the true trip. I’d had a lucky break in finding Callahan’s name in the accounts payable files of the bank. If they’d flown to another destination to refuel, I’d have had nothing to connect them to Sedona.

  “I’m investigating a homicide,” I said. I was using my serious interrogation expression. People tell me it can be intimidating. “I’d advise you to cooperate fully. I see no reason to contact the FAA unless I think you’re holding back.”

  “Homicide? Holy shit, I’d flown the same guy on anther trip this summer,” he said. “He has an English accent, and the other passengers called him Sir Henry on that summer trip. They went to Alaska to fish, but they spent most of the flight drinking scotch. I doubt if they were in much shape to fish the next morning. They stayed a week, and the regular pilot picked them up.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled and tried to look affable. “That was what I wanted to know. Was Henry Griffin carrying anything when he got out of the plane in Sedona?”

  “He had a black leather briefcase. Come to think of it, he didn’t have it with him when he came back to the plane. Is that significant?” he said, lighting another cigarette from his stub. That process saved on matches, but I wondered what three packs a day would cost in New York State. It was an expensive habit for someone of limited resources.

  “There’s still something you’re not telling me. I can only be patient for so long. You’d best tell me everything you know.” I was still fishing, but Rich Callahan’s manner still told me he was holding back.

  “You didn’t ask about yesterday,” he said.

  “What about yesterday Rick? I am losing patience.”

  “We went back to Sedona yesterday. We left at seven in the morning and returned last night a little after midnight. Is that enough information to keep you from asking about flight plans?”

  A light went on in my thick skull. It hadn’t occurred to me that Henry Griffin might have been in Sedona yesterday when Reggie Neely was murdered.

  “Maybe so Rick,” I said. “Exactly how long were you on the ground in Sedona and what happened with Henry Griffin?”

  “We were in Sedona bout three hours. Griffin left in that SUV that the bank keeps at the airport. He had a small suitcase with him, but I don’t know why since he didn’t plan to stay overnight,” he said.

  “Was there any indication the he might have been in a struggle when he returned?” I asked hoping for a lucky break.

  “No,” he said. “Except that he had on a different shirt when he got back to the airplane. I remember the second shirt because he wore one like a shirt I have. Maybe that was what was in his suitcase. Originally, he dressed in nice casual clothing like a businessman, you know, an ironed button down shirt. So I was surprised when he returned in a flannel shirt that probably came from Wal-Mart or Target. The dude looked cool and unruffled and just told me to fly back to New York.”

  “I don’t want you to mention our discussion to anyone. If I learn you’re a blabbermouth, I’ll need to call the FAA. I’ll be a blabbermouth in return. I expect that filing a false flight plan as part of a murder conspiracy could cost a man his pilot’s license and maybe some jail time. Did some extra money change hands on this flight?”

  He looked guilty and angry at the same time. I let the question go without an answer and said goodbye. I walked down to the corner of a nearly busy street while I waited for a cab. The neighborhood thugs watched me, whispering among themselves. They probably assumed that I was a cop of some kind.

  CHAPTER THIRYT-TWO

  It took about an hour to catch a cab and return to my hotel. It was about 4:30 when I turned on FOX News. The desolate tract of sagebrush and prickly pear could have been many locations in the southwestern US, but the caption read Siege of Freedom First Ranch.

  The young woman reporter was dressed in fatigues and acting as if she were in a war zone. She said, “With Sheriff Taylor as a hostage, the law enforcement officers have stopped returning fire. They’re hunkered down behind their bullet-riddled vehicles or in hastily dug foxholes waiting for reinforcements from the Arizona National Guard and the FBI. To repeat the top news, here in northern Arizona, two Coconino County sheriff’s deputies are known dead and six others have been taken to hospitals. Three of those are listed in critical condition. The county sheriff, Greg Taylor, was taken hostage when he entered the compound to negotiate with the militiamen. There have been conflicting reports about how the standoff began, but we believe that the casualties occurred before the sheriff arrived on the scene in this very remote section of Arizona north of the Grand Canyon. We were told that the radical Freedom First militia members opened fire using military style machine guns from concrete bunkers about six hours ago when the deputies refused to leave the property. See it first live on FOX News. Now back to the studio.”

  I flipped around to find other accounts of the standoff in Arizona, and I finally found a familiar face on the screen when I reached CNBC. She was the anchor of the six o’clock news on Channel 15 in Phoenix and this was her chance for national coverage.

  “… when Captain Robert Horn attempted to serve a search warrant at this remote ranch. Residents of the ranch had been implicated in the destruction of a Sheriff’s Department vehicle and assault on a law enforcement officer. Sheriff Taylor had been hunting and was not present for the original action. He arrived a few hours after the first gunfire. I now hear additional helicopters arriving. They may be the reinforcements that have been requested. I’ll report on any new action immediately. Right now the situation is tense, but the gunfire has died down. Reporting live from the Arizona Strip this is Heidi Maunchen.”

  The scene was replaced with a commentator in the studio who said, “Thank you Heidi for that on-the-scene report.” He switched to a report on the most recent terrorist bombing on a bus in Israel.

  I kept switching the channel, but found no further reports. I called Rose in Sedona. “Mike, I’m glad you called. It’s horrible, four deputies dead and one other is not expected to live. I wish you were here.”

  “Anyone from our office injured?” I said. My voice sounded strangely choked as I asked.

  “Steven Bradley is in serious but stable condition at the Flagstaff Medical Center. He may lose the use of his left arm.” She explained who had been killed and injured. Three of the dead were from the Flagstaff office and the most recent death was of a man from the Page Substation. I knew all four of the dead. She explained who was present at the standoff from our office. It was everyone except for a duty officer and Rose. I’d have been there in spite of my suspension if I’d been in Arizona when it started. Chad had reached the scene after the sheriff became a hostage and after the injured had been evacuated.

  “Chad has the satellite phone if you want to call. I’m sure he’d be glad to hear from you,” she said.

  I thanked Rose and mentally debated whether to call Chad. A call from a suspended officer was unlikely to help the situation. What was the justification for me to call in the middle of armed confrontation with the sheriff held hostage and four brother officers dead? I called anyway.

  “Partner, I saw it on TV and called Rose,” I said. “Steven is in the Flagstaff hospital, but he’ll be OK, maybe a long-term problem with his left arm. They listed him as serious but stable. How are you Chad?”

  “I’m damn glad you called Mike.” His voice sounded like he meant it. “This is a disaster just like you thought it would be. Those militia bastards have military equipment, and they’re not shy about using it. We can’t get within half a mile of the ranch house without taking heavy machine gun fire. Horn positioned his people much too close before the confrontation. The men couldn’t get out of range fast enough when the M-50’s started to blast them. Christ,
most of them had shotguns and side arms. We have nothing that can knock out a concrete bunker. It’ll take tanks or fighters to blast them out of there.”

  “What about Sheriff Taylor?” I asked.

  “Captain Horn tried to serve his warrant before the sheriff arrived. That’s when the shooting started. There are different accounts of who started it. The sheriff got here about an hour after the main gunfire and went in with a white flag to negotiate a surrender of the ranch. We haven’t seen him since. I got here about three hours after Sheriff Taylor. I’m up to my neck in the brown smelly stuff. If Captain Horn could, he’d have shot me for desertion. The sheriff told me to get some sleep because I’d been looking for him all night, but he neglected to explain that to Captain Horn before he went into the ranch house. The Captain called me a yellow AWOL chicken shit and sent me to keep the reporters from getting closer to the action.”

  “Chad you did your best. It’s unfortunate that the sheriff arrived after the confrontation. He might have averted it. What’s the talk? Will it be a long siege?” I asked. I wanted to be there. I wanted to help anyway I could.

  “I think Captain Horn would be happy to see you,” he said. “You’ve got military experience that no one else here has. You’ve also got a cool analytical approach and the patience we may need. I think the Captain knows he’s screwed in any case. He’ll be looking for help now.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can partner,” I said.

  Margaret came into the room as I was calling to find a flight back to Arizona. She’d already heard of the siege.