Murder on the Iditarod Trail

by Sue Henry

  When the troopers all got together for lunch at the campsite, he shook his head at Caswell’s questioning look.

  “We’ll get to it in a minute. What have you guys got from this morning? How about Tim Martinson, Phil? What did he have to say after you masterfully defused his temper?”

  Becker grinned at the praise and pulled a notebook from his parka pocket. “He really didn’t seem to know much,” he said, summing up his scribbles. “He’s totally involved in the race. But, after some encouragement, he remembered Koptak and three or four other mushers around the same fire in Skwentna. He says they all came in about three in the morning. He thinks they camped together until whenever they took off the next day, because when he drove past them on his way out at five, they were all in their bags. Turner was one of them, and there were two others, Paul Banks and Bill Pete. Couldn’t remember the fourth, or if there really was one.”

  “Banks—Jessie Arnold said he’s from Bethel.”

  “You spent a lot of time with her yesterday, Alex. Anything we should know?” Becker teased.

  Jensen felt his face grow warm and took a long swallow of his coffee, burning his tongue in the process. “She knew Ginny Kline,” he said, feeling defensive and disliking it. “Also suggested the Humane Society crowd might have something to do with this. I sent word to Anchorage to check it out. What else’d you get, Phil?”

  “Nothing I could pin down, but I’ll go through the notes again. It’s not real easy getting these people to talk. Some are scared. Some don’t like to say anything about other mushers. Others are concentrating so hard on the race and their teams that they wouldn’t notice a train if it ran through here. What’ve you got, Cas?”

  “Well . . . I asked about that bottle Schuller picked up, but nobody knew anything about it. Of course, if it’s related, whoever dropped it isn’t going to say so.”

  “There’s something about the marks on the sides of that thing that really intrigues me,” Alex said. “They were caused by something rubbing on it. If the lab finds it fits into place, I want to know what caused those marks. I think it all goes together somehow. Any amount of money says that stuff went into Smith’s dog food.”

  “You narrow it down any from those times?” Caswell asked.

  Alex pulled out the lists and reviewed them in chronological order. “Skwentna was damn crowded,” he told them. “It’s so near the start they’re still running close together. Twenty-six mushers, a vet, two checkers, and a radio operator were there between the times Koptak checked in and out. Two mushers dropped out there, and four others didn’t make it to the next two checkpoints in time to be responsible for the other deaths.”

  “Of course, there’s everyone in Skwentna, if we want to include them. Maybe twenty-five residents and all the fans who fly in to watch the race go through,” Caswell mused.

  “Right,” said Alex, and we don’t have any idea when that thermos was doctored.”

  “But they couldn’t have been in Finger Lake to cut Kline’s gang line,” Becker broke in. “Who was there between the time they say she checked her lines and the time she left in the morning?”

  “Who saw her check her lines?” Cas asked.

  Alex checked his interview notes. “Talburgen, the Swedish musher who caught Kline’s dogs after her line broke. He says he saw her going over her whole rig after midnight, before she went to get some sleep. He left early the next morning, thirty-five minutes before she did, with Cranshaw between them.”

  “Okay,” Becker nodded enthusiastically. “Now, who else was in Finger Lake and Rainy Pass?”

  “One at a time, Phil,” Jensen grinned. “And it’s not that easy. There weren’t as many in Finger Lake. Bill Pete, Dale Schuller, Paul Banks, Bill Turner, Bomber Cranshaw, Jessie Arnold, Tim Martinson, Jim Ryan, Ron Cross, Rex Johnson, Jules Talburgen, Steve Smith, Wilbur Close, and a few others were there at the right time. Again we had a vet, a checker, and a radio operator, but none of them had been at Skwentna or were in Rainy Pass later.

  “I think we can eliminate race officials for lack of opportunity. All of them were only at one location, like Harv here in Rohn and the staff at Rainy Pass.”

  Caswell considered the idea, then frowned. “That’s true on the officials, as long as one person is responsible. Could it be more than one?”

  “I don’t think so, Cas. It doesn’t feel like that, but it might be possible, barely. Let’s assume it’s only one for now. If you find something that says otherwise, let me know.”

  Caswell nodded, still frowning.

  “Okay,” Becker galloped on. “Now, can we eliminate anyone who left before Smith arrived in Rainy Pass? We can’t, can we. Not until we hear whether the stuff in the bottle was the same as whatever killed the dogs. And if it is, doesn’t that mean we have to consider everyone at the front of the race too? If it is . . .”

  “Whoa. You can’t build a fence without posts,” Alex cautioned him. “I know what you’re getting at, but we don’t have the report yet. For now we’ll put them all on the tentative list.”

  As he shuffled the papers to find the one for Rainy Pass, he considered Becker’s predictability with amusement. The younger man thought with his mouth. How do I know what I think till I say it? His talent lay in his people skills; easy laughter, interest, and enthusiasm. It was hard not to like Phil Becker. People instinctively trusted him, often said things they didn’t mean to. Under that bright, greedy-for-facts exterior, however, lay an increasingly efficient detection unit, capable of handling problems like Martinson. Gulping information as fast as he could and wanting more, he could still be counted on not to let a crumb of it get away.

  In contrast, Caswell, sparing of words, worked things out carefully in his head before testing his ideas. Let me kick it around a little. Mentally, he seemed to walk through the facts of a case like a flea market, picking up treasures others might miss. There was something of the bulldog to him. Alex knew he hadn’t heard the last of the more-than-one theory and, also, that he could depend on Cas to keep him straight on details.

  “Martinson, Schuller, and five others—Gail Murray, T. J. Harvey, Rick Ellis, John Grasle, and Rod Pollitt—left Rainy before Smith arrived. Now here’s the kicker list. Not counting the ones I just mentioned, there are nine who were at all three locations: Bill Pete, Paul Banks, Bomber Cranshaw, Jessie Arnold, Jim Ryan, Rex Johnson, Jules Talburgen, Mike Solomon, and Susan Pilch. I’ve eliminated Close since he dropped out in the pass.”

  They all contemplated the names in silence for a while.

  “You know,” Cas said slowly, “it’s interesting. Not one of these deaths has been caused by personal force, like shooting or stabbing. No direct contact. Each has died but could just as easily have only been injured and come out alive. Koptak could have fallen from his sled into the snow and slept it off. Kline’s gang line might have broken somewhere besides the gorge and simply let her dogs get away from her. Smith could have noticed the change in his dogs and kept out of their way, or only have been bitten.

  “The other interesting things are that none of the methods was used more than once and that the perp could have been male or female, large or small. In fact, poison’s more a woman’s method.”

  “Drugs,” Becker corrected.

  Caswell nodded but pursued his organized line of thought.

  “The drugs indicate premeditation. It doesn’t seem likely they would have turned up out here if someone hadn’t planned in advance to use them. But the cuts in the line could have been done by anyone on the spur of the moment.

  “Does that tell us anything? It might support the two-­person theory. You got any idea on motive, Alex?”

  “Nothing specific,” Jensen answered, “except that even without the deaths each incident would probably still have put the musher out of the race. Anchorage is looking into gambling and animal-activist possibilities. A few of these guys would like
to see it be an all-men’s race, but it isn’t just women getting killed. It’s too soon to pull anything together. We need more information. We got to talk to the rest as they come in tonight. Harvey and Ellis are on the way to McGrath, so we’ll have to catch them there.”

  He stood up and stretched. “Becker, you’re doing great with the interviews. People respond well to your style of questioning. Why don’t you start catching the ones coming in from Rainy. They should be here midafternoon, according to Harv.

  “Cas, you can help me go over these lists again. Maybe two of us can spot something.”

  “You want to stay here tonight or go to McGrath? I should do a better tie-down on this bird if we stay.” Caswell was already moving toward the plane.

  “I want to get hold of Holman before I decide, but we’ll probably stay here. I like the idea of having him on one side of the burn and us on the other. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can raise him on the radio, okay?”

  Becker, collecting trash, glanced at Alex with innocently widened eyes. “When’s Miss Arnold getting in?” he asked.

  “Stuff it, Becker. I’m too busy to take you on. Your ability to deal with the Martinsons of this world doesn’t earn you complete immunity. Don’t push it”

  The guffaw from Caswell was muffled by the door of the plane. He stepped out with a serious face, but his eyes danced.

  “I’ll find you at the cabin in a few, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Alex. He started for the checkpoint, after pausing to get his pipe drawing well.

  He knew that as soon as he was far enough away, they would talk about his interest in Jessie Arnold. Although he was jealous of his privacy, he really didn’t much mind the teasing. Then it occurred to him that he was daydreaming about a woman he had talked to twice. No, three times, if he counted that brief exchange at Finger Lake. Good God. He didn’t know her at all. She might, as far as he knew, be seeing someone. Besides, he didn’t want to get involved, did he?

  He stomped up to the cabin and threw open the door, only to find Dale Schuller talking to Harv over a cup of hot chocolate.

  Harv, the gnome, reported that there was nothing out of the ordinary on the trail and set about trying to reach Holman. Alex managed a civil word of greeting for Schuller and didn’t even ask about the mushers on their way from the pass.

  14

  Date: Tuesday, March 5

  Race Day: Four

  Place: Rohn Roadhouse checkpoint

  Weather: Clear, light wind

  Temperature: High 1°F, low –9°F

  Time: Late afternoon

  By the time Jessie, Ryan, and Bomber arrived in Rohn late that afternoon, Jensen and Caswell were satisfied with their final list of potential suspects, but were no more enlightened.

  “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours,” Alex remarked. “Let’s set up camp in the trees by the plane.”

  Between them they had the tent up in half an hour, with sleeping bags on cots to keep them off the frozen ground. Jensen zipped the flap and looked up to see Becker heading toward them through the trees.

  “Guess who got in thirty minutes ago,” he said casually to Caswell, ignoring Alex.

  “Becker!”

  “Oh sorry, boss.” He grinned irrepressibly. “Bomber Cranshaw and friends. Just thought you wanted me to keep close track of who was coming and going.”

  Jensen tossed a piece of firewood at him. “Here, make yourself useful.”

  Much later, when they had finished dinner and Becker had gone off to the checkpoint cabin, Alex, his pipe clenched in his teeth, headed through the trees to find Jessie. Holman had radioed that he had seen nothing unusual from his spotter plane. Caswell was reviewing Becker’s interview notes by the light of a Coleman lantern when Jensen left the campsite.

  He found Jessie alone by a fire, around which three teams of dogs slept soundly next to empty bowls. She was scraping macaroni and cheese residue from the sides of a plastic cooking bag. There was a satisfied look on her tired face as she licked the spoon.

  “Hi,” he said as she looked up. “Glad to see you made it.”

  He was also glad not to see Schuller around, then remembered that, his twenty-four completed, the musher should now be on the trail for Nikolai. This didn’t disappoint him, but he wondered why Schuller hadn’t checked with him before leaving.

  Jessie had known he was coming before he arrived. The scent of his pipe tobacco had preceded him on the light breeze blowing from the airstrip. She smiled up at him and smoothed a strand of hair back from her face. “Hi, yourself.”

  Pulling his hand from his pocket, Jensen held out a foil-wrapped package. “Carrot cake. Caswell’s wife sent it with a supply plane. We had more than enough for three.”

  “Hey, thanks.” She unwrapped it and scooped up a fingerful of cream-cheese icing. “Mmmmm.”

  He watched as she ate the cake with obvious relish. Then he sat down on a log to one side of the fire, and accepted her offer of a cup of peppermint tea.

  “We waved at a plane this afternoon. Was it you?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Caught you sitting down on the trail, didn’t we?”

  “You’ve got to rest sometime. As Bomber so theatrically puts it, we had just survived ‘the gorge from hell.’”

  “It looked like a screamer from the air. I was glad to fly over it.”

  “It wasn’t so bad this year because there’s lots of snow. But it’s some of the worst.”

  “You look tired. Will you take your twenty-four here?” Alex was proud of himself for the bit of Iditarod jargon.

  “I’m pooped and, yes, we’ll stay till tomorrow afternoon. I want the pups really rested before we tackle the burn. Even with good snow cover, it can be nasty. Two of them have sore feet from ice between the pads and can use the time.”

  The conversation felt forced to Jensen, and he struggled to be casual. Self-conscious from Becker’s teasing and his own thoughts, he didn’t know quite how to change the mood. He looked at Jessie and considered her weary look, knowing she felt it too. She was looking into the fire. Her hair was tousled and needed combing, and there was a charcoal smudge across her right cheek. Still, the lines of her face and the graceful angle of her hand holding the cup were attractive, tired or not. She wasn’t beautiful in the ordinary sense, but in the sum of herself she was arresting.

  As he studied her in silence, she glanced up and met his gaze, held it for a long moment, then smiled easily. Something warm and slightly electric passed between them, and the tension was gone. He smiled back.

  “Jessie,” he found himself asking, “do you . . . ?”

  “No. I live alone out on the Knik Flats in a two­room log cabin with forty-three dogs—and maybe half a dozen new puppies by the time I get home.”

  Alex burst into laughter. “Alone? Forty-three dogs, and she says she lives alone?”

  She sat back, arms around her knees, and grinned at his mirth. “Well, it’s all relative, I guess. Where do you live, Anchorage?”

  “Nope. Palmer. Right next door to you, sort of.”

  “Alone?”

  She was direct, and he liked the honesty it implied. He paused, feeling the weight of his simple answer.

  “Yes.”

  They both smiled, comfortably pleased with themselves, then she nodded. “It’ll keep,” she said. “I’ve got a race to run and you have . . . all you have to do.”

  “Right. Would you like me to get out of here so you can get some rest?”

  “Mmmmm . . . pretty soon. First tell me what’s going on. Did you get anywhere today?”

  For the next half-hour he related the activity and revelations of the day while she listened and asked questions. She didn’t think that any of the mushers mentioned would have doped Koptak’s coffee.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense. Every one of those
guys liked George. They all ran together at one time or another. They traded and loaned dogs to each other. He and Pete go back years.”

  She laid her chin on her knees and looked thoughtfully into the flames. “You know,” she said, “I really can’t understand why anyone would want to kill George. He was such a sweet man, quiet, kind.”

  “Well, they may not have meant to kill him, you know. Maybe just put him out of the race. But the stuff in his coffee was no mistake. The thermos had his initials painted on it, G.K.”

  “What?” She straightened up suddenly and swung around to face him. “But I saw Ginny filling that thermos. I thought it was hers.”

  They stared at each other as the implication sank in. G.K. George Koptak. Ginny Kline.

  “God,” said Alex. “I never saw it, and we’ve gone over the list of mushers three or four times.”

  “You wouldn’t have. It’s always listed as Virginia Kline.”

  “And you saw this in Skwentna?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I went through her sled in Happy Valley, the thermos I found was red and didn’t have any initials.”

  “She had a red one, too. She filled both. I was standing right next to her and she poured a cup for me before she put the pot down.”

  “Where was this?”

  “In the checkpoint cabin. They had a big pot going all the time for everybody.”

  “So . . . she must have filled Koptak’s for him when she filled her own.”

  “That’s possible. They were friends, and from where she was camped she would have walked by his team on her way to the cabin. They must have thought the thermos belonged to Ginny, not George.”

  “And when the wrong person died, they had another try at Ginny in Finger Lake.” Alex paused, thinking hard. “Think, Jessie. Who else was in that cabin? Can you remember?”

  She shut her eyes and tried. “The ham operator, the checker, Bill Turner . . . Tim, Ron Cross . . . Bill Pete, telling moose stories. No, damn it, that was later. Ryan, I think. Oh, Bomber and Paul . . . or was that before?” She opened her eyes, shaking her head. “Sorry, Alex. I can’t swear to anyone but the officials, Ginny, me, and Bill. It was busy—everybody coming and going—and I wasn’t paying attention. It could’ve been anyone.”