Mortal Fall

by Christine Carbo

  “Those accidents still?”

  I nodded. “With two of them, there’s just a lot more work.” I put Ellis down and he rubbed against my leg.

  “But you’ll still be coming to the reunion, right?”

  “I can’t think about that right now. But we’ll talk.”

  She looked at me and bit her lower lip. I could tell she was holding back from saying more.

  “Soon,” I repeated. “Soon.” I had my hand on the screen door and was opening it.

  Lara tilted her head and looked at me with a mixture of sadness and confusion as I said good-bye, slipped out the screen door, and softly shut it behind me.

  • • •

  That night—the moment before sleep where you’re in a cocoon of problem solving and dreaming, my mind gnawing on the case, casting and reaching to the corners of my mind for answers while simultaneously sliding to images of Lara with her chestnut hair tucked behind her ears and her large eyes the color of espresso. While she watched me pet Ellis, who was distorted and had a much longer, sleeker body—like a wolverine—I slid into a dream of Gretchen. She stood before me in my office with her soft mouth and fair skin, a drop of moisture slowly sliding down her cheek. I couldn’t tell if it was a raindrop or a tear and I felt determined to find out. I was asking her if she was sad or if she’d come in from the rain. I had my notebook because I wanted to get the answer down correctly, and I didn’t want to miss anything. Gretchen just smiled and didn’t answer. I could sense, like the smell of lilac permeating the air, that I was overlooking something about someone—Gretchen or Lara—or maybe the case, but I didn’t know what.

  I woke with a start at six a.m. to the sound of a train barreling through West Glacier. Outside I could hear the birds and ground squirrels clamoring with their morning routines. I got up, showered, shaved, dressed, and went to the office. Ken had some news. He’d found a man who drove a shuttle on the eighteenth of June who—after looking at Phillips’s picture—said he recalled driving him from the Loop to the Logan Pass visitor center at the top of Going-to-the-Sun Road.

  “From the Loop?” I asked. “You double-checked?”

  “Yes, the Loop, not from Lake McDonald or from the Transit Center. From the Loop.” Ken angled his head, his eyes wide, as if to say, You gonna trust my work or not? And before I gave him an answer, Joe came in with a cup of coffee in his hand, a vacant look in his eyes and deep, pronged worry lines between his eyebrows. I wanted to ask him how things were with his daughter, but decided not to in front of Ken.

  “How are you boys this morning?” Joe asked.

  We updated him on what we’d discovered so far, but I left out the part about visiting Glacier Academy, because I felt like I was admitting to sloppy investigation techniques if he knew I was tracking down stories of troubled teens who’d hanged themselves fifteen years before. I did tell him that Phillips used to work for the academy, and I figured that was enough for the time being.

  “So,” I said. “If it’s true that Phillips caught a ride from the Loop to the top, then he must have hiked the Highline Trail to the chalet and hiked back out to the Loop. And if so, he still needed to get from the Loop to somewhere if he didn’t have a car.”

  “Maybe he met someone at the chalet to hike the rest of the way with and had a ride from the Loop down with them?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “His truck was safe and sound in his garage. He had to have gotten a ride from someone.” In the park, there were many spectacular trips that were best done if you could start in one place and finish in another, rather than hiking in and back on the same trail.

  “And if you can find that someone,” Joe said. “You might get a lot of answers to this.”

  “Problem is”—I nodded out the window in the direction of the Loop—“we don’t have an exact date to go around asking about. I’ve put in a request for all the surveillance footage from the entrance gates—west and east sides, but that still doesn’t cover all the exits. I wish we had a more specific time of death for Phillips.”

  “But you do for Sedgewick?”

  “Yes,” I said as I slid my notebook back into my pocket. “We do, and I eventually intend to see if Martin Dorian has an alibi for the evening of June twenty-second from six p.m. to around midnight.”

  • • •

  Nick Ferron, the chef, looked surprised to see me again so soon. He closed the large stainless steel refrigerator door when I walked in and set several large Tupperware containers on the long, spotless counter. “You keep a clean kitchen.” I smiled.

  “Absolutely. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I thought that if I were a chef, I’d run a tidy one too.

  “What brings you back?” Nick asked.

  “Just something that has stirred my curiosity about Mark Phillips.”

  “What’s that?” Nick motioned for me to sit and I declined.

  “I won’t take much of your time. I’m just wondering if back when you started this job if you knew of a young woman named Diane?”

  “A student?”

  “Student, coworker, girlfriend of Phillips maybe?”

  “Hmmm.” Nick tucked his lips together, thinking. “I think, but I’m not completely positive, but I think there used to be a gal working then that he may have dated, but I don’t remember her name. Tall, pretty; long, straight hair. Yeah.” He nodded slowly as it came to him. “I think she and Phillips had something going on there, at least for a while. I have no idea for how long.”

  “But you don’t know her name?”

  “I’m afraid . . .” He paused, tilting his head to the side. I could see him trying to tap into old memories, then he shook his head, “No, I just don’t remember. But if it comes to me, I’ll call you.”

  “You have any idea how to reach the previous owners?”

  “I have no idea what became of them.”

  27

  * * *

  IT WAS A flimsy excuse and perhaps unprofessional of me, but I called Gretchen and not Ken to see if she’d go with me to the Outlaw’s Nest. It was just a hunch and I wasn’t sure anything would come of it, but I remembered the flyer that said the Woodtics were playing on Thursday evening and I figured Martin Dorian and his boys might be there since it seemed to be their hangout of choice. I decided I’d look less suspicious digging around for information with a female date than with an overmuscled, no-neck Park Police officer. Plus I didn’t want to take Ken away from his family during the evening.

  Gretchen said she needed to work at least until four thirty, but could arrive around five thirty, so we agreed to meet at a little restaurant in Columbia Falls on Nucleus Avenue before heading to the Outlaw’s Nest.

  I went home early and changed out of my uniform, showered, and put on some jeans and a decent button-up and waited for her by the small bar in the restaurant. She came in wearing khaki capris and a rusty red shirt that made the ends of her hair radiant, the color of creamed honey on the tops of her shoulders. She smiled casually, and I instantly felt glad to see her. I figured that meant I ought to watch myself, and I quickly reminded myself that I was only looking for a friend, someone with a sharp mind who understood the field of crime.

  A wood-paneled entrance led to a small room lined with oil paintings of the park: Lake McDonald on a stormy day; Two Medicine Lake and Sinopah Mountain rising behind it, bathed in a copper sunset; St. Mary Lake with its small island in the middle of its turquoise waters. The bar opened up into the restaurant, which was also lined with wilderness pictures. “Haven’t had enough of the park, huh?” she said.

  “Never.” I smiled. “Although, yeah, I have to admit it would be nice to see something different in the art department, maybe something abstract for a change. The bar or a table?” I motioned to the small room.

  “The bar’s fine,” she said, and we both grabbed a stool. A flatscreen TV hung off to our side and the bartender, a young guy no more than twenty-five, set a couple cocktail napkins before us and asked us what w
e’d like. Gretchen asked for a glass of white wine and I ordered an IPA. “So,” she said after taking a sip, getting down to business. “What’s going on?”

  I filled her in on Wolfie’s situation, that he’d been setting traps and they’d been tampered with by some guys I thought might be at the Outlaw’s Nest for the band.

  “And you think you’ll learn something?” she looked at me skeptically.

  “Yeah, I know it’s a long shot, but you never know.”

  “What exactly are you looking to find?”

  “I’m not really sure. I just know that these guys were up to no good with Wolfie. Sam Ward, as well as some guy named Rowdy from Hungry Horse, claim that some of the locals were fired up that the study would lead to restrictions on land use and were sabotaging his project by rigging his box traps with steel jaws.” I pulled out a photo that Shane from Fish and Game had emailed me earlier of Martin Dorian and showed it to her. “I just want a good peek at these guys, especially him.” I pointed to the photo. “I know Wolfie had an altercation with this one—guy named Dorian—and the rest have had meetings before to discuss Wolfie’s research. Seems they feel he was threatening their land usage rights.”

  Gretchen bit her lower lip. “So this Dorian could be a suspect?”

  “I don’t have much on him but an old DUI and some state poaching fines, but I’m definitely interested in finding out more about him.”

  “And does he have anything to do with Mark Phillips?” The sunlight coming through the street windows shone brightly and every time a car drove by and created a flicker, the light danced in her eyes. She handed me back the picture.

  “No, absolutely nothing. And so far, there’s nothing about Wolfie that has anything to do with Phillips. At this point, I’m following several different threads on each victim. And as you told me, Wilson has found nothing linking the two. No similar fibers, no—”

  “Looks like we timed this just right.” Gretchen lifted her face to the TV where a brunette with long, perfectly straight and shiny hair and a button nose announced that the second of the two men found below the Loop in Glacier National Park had been identified. I was expecting it because Joe had told me he’d be releasing the name.

  “In a strange set of circumstances, the second man that was found dead on Saturday of this previous weekend below the infamous Loop in Glacier National Park has been identified as Mark Phillips, a local cartographer,” she announced.

  There was another couple at the bar near the end and both murmured something, then looked back to the screen.

  “Phillips had not been reported missing as he lived alone, but authorities believe he had been out in the elements since sometime last week. Police have neither confirmed nor denied that the death is suspicious, although this is the second body found in the exact same area within two days of one another. Park Police are appealing to anyone with information about these victims to come forward.”

  A tip-line number scrolled across the bottom of the screen for a moment, then cut to a long-faced male reporter with a high forehead and receding hairline. He stood on the short stone barrier by the hairpin curve of the Loop, squinting in the sun and announced: “This is the Loop, where below me the first body was seen last Thursday by a tourist who spotted the body below. The first victim, a Paul Sedgewick, was a well-known biologist spearheading a wolverine project for the Rocky Mountain Research Station and Glacier Park under the federal government. The scientific community is devastated at the tragic death of one of their top researchers in the Rocky Mountain area. The second man, Mark Phillips, is an accomplished cartographer who will also be missed by another community of experts in the field of global mapping.”

  The screen cut again, this time to Joe Smith outside headquarters not far from my office window, being interviewed by the same reporter. Joe was wearing his Park Police uniform, and the badge on his chest was catching the sun and glinting distractingly on the screen. He spoke calmly and slowly, explaining that Park Police was investigating all avenues relating to both deaths and in the meantime, his deepest sympathy (and he said he spoke on behalf of the entire department and Glacier Park) went to the families of the victims.

  Gretchen lifted her brow to me. “That the coverage you were expecting?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So, tell me,” she said. “What’s the real reason I’m meeting you here?”

  “What makes you think I didn’t give you the real reason.” I felt a slight heat rise to my face.

  “You need a front? A date? Why couldn’t you just go by yourself if you thought it would look funny to go with Ken?”

  “I never said I couldn’t.”

  “Hmmm.” She took a sip of her wine.

  “Figured it would be more fun with you. So if it doesn’t suit you, why didn’t you just say no?”

  “I never said it doesn’t suit me.” She lifted her glass to toast mine. “I just like to know what I’m getting into.”

  • • •

  The parking lot of the Outlaw’s Nest was already packed. Gretchen and I found a space on the outer edge of the lot under a flimsy street lamp propped on a skinny pole. Gretchen said she wanted to drive, and I didn’t protest, figuring she felt better having her own wheels. She had followed me to my dorm to drop mine off, and we took hers from there. After she slid the keys out of the ignition, I looked at her and suddenly felt a little ridiculous for bringing her along to something I had no real strategy for.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, but you know I have no real plan in mind, right.”

  She laughed. “I wasn’t expecting any Navy seals action or anything.”

  “Good then. We’re on the same page.” I looked over to the bar. Glowing neon signs for Budweiser and Coors beckoned—or cautioned—from the windows. I could hear the Woodtics pounding away on some unidentifiable tune—a deep throb of bass, heavy and muffled—through the old, semidilapidated wood walls with brown peeling paint. The building backed up into thick pinewoods with a tin roof tilting off one side to make a carport covering a bunch of weeds.

  “I’m not sure what page you’re on, but I’m just planning on going in, listening to a little music regardless of how bad it might be. Let me see that picture again.” She held out her hand. I dug it out and gave it to her, and she studied it for a minute. Then she handed it back, opened the door, and swung her legs out of her car.

  “Like, I said: on the same page,” I offered. “We just go in and see what’s up.”

  As we walked across the lot, a couple laughing and clinging to each other tumbled out the front door, the music getting crisper and reaching a fuller spectrum, shrill and cutting. I could now hear the lead guitar and drums. “I guess they’re from around here,” I said to Gretchen, referring to the band.

  “I figured.” She smiled. “You know—name like the Woodtics.”

  I laughed. “Maybe they’ll surprise us.”

  “Maybe.” She opened the door and we stepped in.

  Inside the crowd was loud and full of energy. We made our way through it and found a small opening to the side of the bar near the wall with a jukebox. I could see Melissa working hard. She had two others helping her: a tall, thin younger guy with wavy hair that looked like he could be her brother and another overdyed, brassy blonde around the same age as Melissa, maybe late twenties.

  “You good here?” I asked Gretchen. “I’ll see if I can squeeze in and grab some beers.”

  Gretchen nodded that she was fine and pulled me closer to talk in my ear against the noise. “I’ll scan the crowd for your guy,” she said making my ear tickle from the vibration of her voice.

  I nodded and nudged my way to the bar and waited to catch Melissa’s attention. When she saw me, she shook her head in disappointment, then came over after grabbing a few beers for some guys next to me. “And—let me guess—you’re here for the music?” she said sarcastically.

  “That and a couple of beers.”

&nb
sp; “What can I getcha?”

  “Buds, please.” I held up two fingers. Melissa grabbed them and I looked around. The Woodtics were playing at the other end of the room and some people were already dancing in front of the band even though the place didn’t have a dance floor. Young, middle-aged, and elderly alike danced loose-limbed and smiling, unselfconscious and clearly at home in this decrepit but safe haven—at least to its usual patrons—that Melissa and the owners of the Outlaw’s Nest had created. I felt a certain disdain and envy simultaneously for the ease of their comfort in the place, for the way they fit in like pieces of a puzzle that effortlessly belonged together. All the booths along the edges of the room were filled and the tables too. I threw some cash on the bar to pay for the beers and tossed another twenty down. “Which one’s Dorian and his crew?”

  She picked up the twenty, shoved it in her pocket, and said: “You’re the cop. You figure it out.”

  I walked back over and handed the beer to Gretchen. The band was cranking up to a chaotic and messy finale of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Tell Me Baby,” so I just toasted Gretchen’s bottle and waited for the crescendo to fall. They were using too much bass and I could feel the beat pounding up my spine and through my sternum.

  “I think they’re over there.” She pointed with the neck of her bottle after the Woodtics struck their final, battering chord.

  I looked over and saw Dorian, his hair longer than in the picture and slicked back behind his ears. He had also grown a thin Fu Manchu that went low enough to trail down his budding double chin. He had his arm around a big-busted redhead with permed hair and tons of freckles, and his hand dangled over her shoulder and down low enough to cup her good-size right breast. Three other men sat with them. They were all smiling and laughing and numerous empty draft mugs crowded their table. “Yep,” I said. “That’s him. And guessing the others on are with him too.” I thought to myself: Joel Rieger, Pat Seamen, and Darryl DeWitt.

  The band had now moved onto Pure Prairie League’s “Amie” and Gretchen and I watched until the tide of the crowd shifted slightly and a spot opened up at the bar. We squeezed in and Gretchen took the stool. I stood by her, leaning on the thick wooden slab with my eye on Dorian’s table. The discussion seemed to have changed to something more serious, the smiles and laughter transforming to severe expressions and angled gestures. Then one of the guys from across the table from Dorian pointed to the bar and Dorian shoved the guy next to him in the ribs until he scooted out and stomped up to Melissa. He pushed some other guys standing by the bar out of the way and yelled at her to come over. He was leaning over the counter, trying to point in her face and holding his hands open to the ceiling when he wasn’t pointing, as if he wanted an explanation but wasn’t going to settle down to listen to one anyway.