by Rich Curtin
Rivera nodded. Sat down.
Zilic appeared a bit nervous. He pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the window. He stared outside for a long moment, hands clasped behind his back, as if in deep thought. “I’d like to ask a favor of you. And feel free to say no if you’re not comfortable with it.”
“Sure, Sheriff. What is it?”
“You’ve met my deputy, Nick Lathrop. He’s fairly new on my staff. Been working for me about two years. He’s a smart young man and I’m hoping some day he’ll make a good investigator. But right now he needs some training. Make that lots of training. Would you mind if I assigned him to help you with your investigation? It would only be on a part-time basis as his schedule permits.”
“Sure, Sheriff, that’d be fine. I could probably use some help, especially from someone who’s familiar with the county.”
Zilic appeared relieved. He returned to his desk with a smile and sat down. “Are you sure it won’t be a problem?”
Rivera was used to working alone but saw no reason not to work with a fellow deputy. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Manny, I appreciate it. Hopefully some of your investigative skills will rub off on him.” Zilic pressed a button on his intercom and his administrative assistant appeared at the door.
She was a slim woman with her silver hair pulled straight back. She carried herself with an aura of competence and efficiency. Rivera guessed she was in her mid-sixties. One look at her told Rivera she was the go-to person in the office, the one who knew where to find anything or anyone, knew all the regulations, knew the propensities and idiosyncrasies of each deputy, and knew where all the skeletons were buried. He stood up.
“Hilda, this here is Deputy Sheriff Manny Rivera from Grand County. He’ll be handling the Mason case for us. And he’ll be using Emmett’s office until we can get Emmett back. Please give him whatever help he needs.”
“I’ll be happy to, Sheriff.” She smiled and shook Rivera’s hand. “My desk is just outside the Sheriff’s office, Deputy Rivera. Let me know whenever you need anything.”
Rivera smiled and bowed his head slightly. “I will, thank you.”
“And Hilda, please ask Nick Lathrop to step into my office.”
“Yes, Sheriff.” She left the office.
“Hilda’s a great admin assistant. Been here way longer than I have. She keeps things running smoothly. Handles all the paperwork. Everything gets done on time. With her on the job, nothing falls through the cracks.” He laughed. “She even let’s me believe I’m running the place.”
Zilic spent a few minutes briefing Rivera on the makeup of the Sheriff’s Department and how it functioned. The operation didn’t seem much different from what Rivera was used to in Grand County.
Zilic looked at his watch. He was about to punch the intercom button again when Lathrop sauntered into the office.
Zilic forced a smile. “What took you so long, Nick?’
“I was on the internet doing a search on murder-suicides and found some good stuff. A common motive in older people is that one of them has a terminal disease like cancer and the other one doesn’t want the sick spouse to suffer. Also doesn’t want to live without the spouse. So they plan a murder-suicide. In some cases it’s done ritualistically, like the two we found this morning.”
Now Zilic appeared embarrassed. “All right Nick, I’m assigning you part time to assist Manny on the Mason case. I’d like for you to help him as much as your schedule permits.”
Lathrop nodded. “Sure.” His response was less than enthusiastic.
Zilic turned to Rivera. “Manny, Nick hasn’t had much training in conducting investigations, so I’d like him to get the benefit of your experience.”
Lathrop stiffened up and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, that’s not exactly true, Sheriff. I’ve been taking online courses for the past four months and I feel I’ve learned quite a bit.”
“Oh, right, Nick. I forgot about that. Anyway, this is an opportunity for some real-world investigative experience. It’ll be a good supplement to your online coursework.”
Rivera found Mitchell’s office, closed the door, and sat down at the desk. He felt a bit disoriented. When he’d awakened this morning, the only thing on his mind was driving to Abiquiu and spending a few days with the woman he loved. Now he found himself in Monticello, sitting in an unfamiliar office, pondering a new murder case, and not knowing when he’d be able to see Gloria again.
Rivera was glad to have a moment of solitude. The office looked pretty much like his own in Moab, with one glaring exception—there was no window, no connection whatsoever with the outside world. Back in his own office, he’d done some of his best thinking while leaning back in his chair with his feet on his desk and staring out the window at the LaSal Mountains. Oh well, he thought, hopefully he’d be able to wrap this case up in a couple of days. Then he could resume his trip to Abiquiu.
The chair was comfortable. It swiveled and tilted like the one in his office. He hoisted his feet onto the desk, leaned back, and clasped his hands behind his head. He stared at a blank wall and tried to organize his thoughts but images of Gloria—her large brown eyes, her striking face, her long dark hair, her shapely figure, and the sound of her infectious laugh—kept intruding. He had a hunger for her and wanted to get to Abiquiu and hold her in his arms as soon as he could.
Concentrate on the Mason case, he told himself, but he couldn’t. He heard the sound of an eighteen-wheeler rumbling by on Main Street. Some laughter from down the hall. A telephone ringing in the adjacent office. Soon he heard a soft knock on the door. The door opened and Hilda walked in carrying a mug of coffee. Rivera removed his feet from the desk.
“I thought you might like one of these.” She placed the mug on the desk in front of him. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it. Most of the staff here drink decaf if they drink coffee at all. I called your office in Moab and they said you liked it caffeinated, black, and continuous.” She grinned. “When you’re ready for more, the break room is across the hallway, three doors down.”
“Thank you, Hilda.” He inhaled the aroma of the coffee and took his first sip since early this morning. Then another. Coffee was just what he needed. He smiled. No wonder he’d been having trouble concentrating. He’d been suffering from what he liked to call CDS—caffeine deficiency syndrome.
She handed him a key and a folded piece of paper. “Here’s a key to Emmett’s desk and the passcode for his computer. Sheriff wants you to make yourself at home.”
Hilda closed the door as she left, and Rivera got to work. He started by assembling a mental list of questions that needed answers. Who were the Masons? What was their history? What kind of people were they? Why did they leave the pavement and drive to the place where their bodies were found? What motive might the killer have had? Was it personal or were the Mason’s in the wrong place at the wrong time? Was the airstrip still active? Who owned the nearby ranches? Did the ranchers see any recent aircraft activity at the airstrip? Why were the Masons dressed like hippies? Were they involved somehow in transporting and selling narcotics? Was Felix, the tanker truck driver, involved in the shooting? And what about Nick Lathrop? Why was he so eager to convince the world it was a murder-suicide?
Rivera had a lot of questions and no answers. He knew he needed to gather more facts. He spent the next hour going through the personal effects of the two victims. The suitcases contained the usual toiletries and items of clothing. Unlike the clothing the victims were wearing, the items in the suitcases looked like present-day styles. So why had they chosen this day and that place to wear their hippie outfits? Did the choice of clothing have any meaning, or was it something they’d done on a lark? Did the clothing have anything to do with why they were shot? He logged in all the items and stored them in an evidence locker.
The only unusual item he’d found was the sandwich baggie in the woman’s purse containing a half dozen marijuana joints. One thing he did not find was a camera, which
struck him as odd. No one visits national parks without bringing along a camera and taking photographs of the scenery. The old-style, flip cell phone he’d found in the glove compartment had no built-in camera. Assuming the Masons had brought a camera, the shooter must have made off with it. Could the Masons have been seen taking photographs of a small plane as it was landing on the airstrip?
Rivera studied his map atlas to get a sense of the geography in the general vicinity of the crime scene. To enhance his mental picture of the terrain, he used Mitchell’s computer to access Google Maps and studied satellite images of the area. He could barely make out the margins of the airstrip, but they were there, marking the location of the crime scene.
He sent the revolver to the Utah State Crime Lab to extract any fingerprints on the weapon and run them through the FBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Accompanying the weapon was a fingerprint card for each victim. He also requested a ballistics test to determine if the bullets which had killed the Masons were fired from the revolver. Lastly, he used Mitchell’s word processor to type up an interim report while the details were fresh in his mind. Then he headed to the hospital in his loaner vehicle to visit his friend.
4
RIVERA WAS PREOCCUPIED with thoughts of Gloria Valdez as he pulled into the parking lot of the San Juan Hospital in Monticello. Would she accept his proposal? Where would they live? What about children? He thought about his parents in Las Cruces and the family they raised. That was the kind of family he wanted—close knit, respectful, loving, fun, and neighborly. But he was getting ahead of himself—first, he would have to make it to Abiquiu to propose marriage. And before he could do that, he would have to wrap up this case.
He located Emmett Mitchell’s room on the second floor and entered carrying a map atlas under his arm. He had several barbs in mind with which to needle his buddy about his careless driving, but when he saw Mitchell’s swollen and bruised face, the cast on his leg, the tape around his torso, and his pained expression, he couldn’t bring himself to rib his old friend.
“Emmett, how are you feeling?” he said in a soft voice.
Mitchell’s squinted eyes opened partway. “Hey, Manny. About the way I look, I guess.” His voice sounded weak and strained. “I still can’t believe what happened. You know, you get up one morning, kiss the wife goodbye, get in your pickup, and begin the drive to the office just like every workday. You have a green light, you enter the intersection, and before you get through it, you get slammed. And the next thing you know you wake up in the hospital. Not the way I had the day planned.”
“How’s Jenny taking all this?”
“She was pretty shook up when she first saw me, but she’s okay now.” He shifted his position in the bed, grimaced. “She left a little while ago to pick up the kids at school. Sheriff Zilic stopped by earlier and told me a little about the Mason case. He said you agreed to handle the investigation.”
“Yeah, it’s an odd situation. If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to discuss it with you.”
“Sure. Lay it out for me.”
“An elderly couple from San Francisco was found shot to death on that mesa land east of Montezuma Canyon. It looks like a murder-suicide, but I’m not so sure.” Rivera described the position of the bodies, the wounds, the handgun, and the man’s bruised wrist. Then he covered the absence of a camera, the souvenir mugs the couple bought, and the recent oil change. “The scene could easily have been staged and I’m guessing it was. They were on a trip visiting the national parks, but for some reason they detoured off their planned route to the place where they were found. It’s on a gravel road near an old grass airstrip. Looks to me like there’s no sensible reason for them to be there. It’s beautiful country but not exactly a tourist destination.”
“The sheriff said they were dressed like hippies.”
Rivera nodded. “Yeah, right out of the sixties. The rest of their clothing was pretty standard.” He opened the map atlas and marked an X where the bodies were found. He held it up for Mitchell to see. “That’s where the bodies were found. That place mean anything to you?”
Mitchell studied the map. “That’s a pretty remote part of the county. There’s very little traffic on those roads. Not much happens out there—just some cattle ranching and, of course, the San Juan Basin oil and gas play extends that far north.”
“Does anyone live out there?”
“There are a couple of ranches near there. It’s a quiet, unpopulated part of the county which is one of the things I like about it. When you live in a house with a wife and four high-energy kids, it’s nice to get out in the backcountry now and then for some silence and solitude. Speaking of family, how’s Gloria doing?”
Rivera grinned. He knew what was coming next. “She’s fine.”
“You know, Manny, you should marry that girl. Or try to. Trouble is, she’d never agree to it.”
Rivera produced a wry smile. “Yeah? Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s too good for you. And another, she’s smarter than you are. And another, she’s way better looking than you. And you’re getting kind of long in the tooth. Need any more reasons?”
“I’m only thirty-eight.”
“You’d never get her to say yes.”
Against his better judgment, Rivera reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet-covered box. “I was on my way to Abiquiu to find out, but you derailed my plans with your reckless driving.” He flipped open the lid and displayed the ring.
Mitchell’s eyes widened. He grinned. “Well, it’s about damn time. Congratulations, Manny. I think that’s wonderful. Have you set a date?”
“Hold on Emmett, I haven’t even asked her yet.”
“What? You bought the ring without discussing marriage with her?”
“I was going to ask her tonight.”
Mitchell started to laugh, then grimaced from the pain. “Well, good luck. Sorry I messed up your plans.”
“I’ll ask her as soon as I can get down there. Meanwhile, that information about the ring is for your ears only. Not a word to anyone. Not even Jenny.”
“Okay, okay. My lips are sealed.”
“Now tell me about those ranches you mentioned.”
“That gravel road you were on is marked BLM Route 347 on most maps. It’s also called the Bug Point Road. There are two ranches on the north side of 347. A smaller gravel road heading north from 347 leads to both ranch entrances. Locals just call it the Ranch Road. The Dryden Ranch is on the west side of Ranch Road and the Converse place is on the east side. Besides the acreage they own, which is substantial, the two ranches share a large Bureau of Land Management grazing lease on the south side of 347. The lease extends five miles south all the way to the Navajo Reservation. So those bodies were found on that grazing lease. There are oil wells scattered all over that part of the county, so you’ll see maintenance and tanker trucks on 347 from time to time.”
“Yeah, a tanker truck driver was the one who spotted the bodies. What can you tell me about Converse and Dryden? I saw a few head of cattle out there but not many.”
“Oh, they still run some cattle. Not as many head as they used to, since oil was discovered on their land twenty years ago and made them wealthy. But you still see a few head grazing here and there. Their brands are the Circle D and the Star C. You’ll sometimes see them mixed together on their shared grazing lease.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a shared lease.”
“As I understand it, it’s been that way for a long time. Maybe seventy years. The original ranch owners were friends who had both applied for the lease. Instead of competing for it, they agreed to share it. After they passed away, their heirs decided there was no reason to change the arrangement. The BLM agreed to it and it’s been that way ever since. Look in the file drawer of my desk and you’ll find a folder on each ranch in that part of the county. There’s a lot of background info in those files. When I was first assigned to patrol that corner of
the county, I knew nothing about the people living out there. So I created a file on each resident and began keeping notes whenever I learned something about them. They’re not official police files, only some mental crutches to help me do my job. Sometimes the information came from newspaper articles, sometimes from encountering the individuals. There are files on Dryden and Converse in there.”
“Has either one ever been involved in any trouble?”
“No. They’re both good citizens. Bill Converse complained to me once about a Navajo sheepherder crossing the reservation boundary with his flock and grazing his sheep on the shared grazing lease. Not a formal complaint—just a request that I talk to the sheepherder and explain the law to him. I borrowed one of Dryden’s hands who was Navajo and could speak the language and waited for the sheepherder at the spring where he watered his animals. I told him through the translator that he was breaking the law and explained why. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was angry. He just grunted and left. I never learned his name. Anyway, a few weeks later, Converse told me to forget the whole thing. He said he had more than enough money coming in from his oil wells and all that Navajo had was his sheep. Besides, the Rez was suffering from overgrazing and insufficient rainfall. Still is. I think Mr. Converse was embarrassed he’d said anything in the first place.”
“Anyone else live out that way?”
“Just Herman. He dropped out of the civilized world many years ago and lives on that BLM land in a hut he made from rocks, juniper logs, and mud. Just him and his dogs. He drives to Bluff or Aneth in an old Ford pickup every couple of days for supplies. He lives off his Army medical pension. His place is down in a shallow canyon, just east of the old airstrip. One of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. You might see him walking with his dogs out there on the road sometime. You’ll like him.”
“Herman got a last name?”
“If he does, I’ve never heard it. There’s a file in my desk on him too. And a map in the file on how to find his place.”
