by Rich Curtin
“Okay, I’ll talk to him. Maybe he saw something useful. Anyone else live out that way?”
“No, not unless you go all the way down to the Navajo Reservation. The northern edge of the Rez is about five miles south of the crime scene. I understand there are several sheepherding families scratching out a living down there. That part of the Rez is pretty sparsely populated.”
“What can you tell me about that old airstrip?”
“It was originally used by oil exploration people until gravel roads were constructed throughout the area. Now it’s rarely used. Drug runners used it for a while, but the DEA shut all that down a couple of years ago. If you want more info on that, talk to Nathan White down in Bluff. He was one of the field agents working the case. He retired last year. He can give you the history.”
“All right, Emmett, thanks. Before I go, tell me about Nick Lathrop. Sheriff Zilic assigned him to help me on the case.”
Mitchell’s eyebrows went up. “Nick? Well, he’s young and ambitious. He wants to become a criminal investigator.” He paused, as if trying to decide how much more to say. “And since San Juan County only needs one investigator, I suppose he’s after my job. What did Sheriff Zilic tell you about him?”
“Just that he wanted him to get some experience doing investigative work. He’ll be working with me part time.”
“That’s all he told you?”
“Yeah.”
A hint of a smile came to Mitchell’s face.
Rivera waited. Mitchell didn’t elaborate. “All right, Emmett, out with it. What didn’t the sheriff tell me?”
“He didn’t mention that Nick Lathrop was his nephew?”
That took Rivera by surprise. He slowly shook his head. “He neglected to share that fact with me.”
“Sheriff Zilic comes from a close-knit family. His sister is Nick’s mother. Nick’s father passed away while Nick was a youngster and his mother has always been concerned about Nick’s future welfare. He’s a very intelligent guy—he was a straight-A student in school—but his social skills need work. A lot of work. He has little patience in dealing with people. The sheriff is trying to help his sister by helping Nick. He encouraged him to pursue a career in law enforcement and mentored him through college and the academy, then gave him a job as deputy. Part of Nick’s problem is that he thinks he’s qualified to do things he’s never been trained to do. It’s as if he believes his intelligence will overcome his lack of training and experience.”
“Well, maybe I can help him some in the experience department.” Rivera looked at his watch. “I’d better get going, Emmett. Get some rest. I’ll check back with you tomorrow.”
Rivera reflected on his meeting with Sheriff Zilic as he drove back to the office. It bothered him that the sheriff hadn’t been forthcoming about Lathrop but having the young deputy tag along during the investigation might be helpful. Rivera recognized that Lathrop believed he should have been the one assigned to investigate the Mason case. The young deputy was clearly disappointed that his uncle had not selected him. He seemed smart but he had a tendency to jump to conclusions, and his manner of dealing with civilians was not to Rivera’s liking. Rivera decided he would do his best to teach Lathrop what he could.
Later that afternoon, Rivera hopped into his personal vehicle and drove back to his home in Moab for the night. Tomorrow, he would return to Monticello, properly dressed in his deputy’s uniform, ready to get to work.
5
THE NEXT MORNING, Linda Mason Hart sat across from Rivera in Emmett Mitchell’s office, her slender fingers folded around a wad of tissues, her eye makeup smudged from wiping tears away. At age forty-nine, she was a small, attractive woman with freckles, hazel eyes, and shoulder-length auburn hair. She had just returned from the mortuary to view her parents.
Nick Lathrop sat straddling a chair in the corner, his forearms resting on the back of the chair, and his chin resting on his arms. He seemed only mildly interested.
“Mr. Jensen at the mortuary told me their bodies would have to be sent to Salt Lake City so the State Medical Examiner could perform a final autopsy and establish cause of death,” she said. “He couldn’t tell me when all that would happen. I don’t know what to do.”
“It takes longer when foul play is involved,” Rivera told her. “Couple of weeks or more. Everything has to be done by the book since, if it turns out to be a capital crime, a trial will follow and the evidence has to be incontrovertible. Most funeral homes can help with the arrangements—transportation, scheduling, and so forth. If your parents are to be buried in San Francisco, you can start by contacting a funeral home there. They’ll handle everything including coordinating with the State Medical Examiner’s office.”
“Mr. Jensen told me what happened. He said it looked like a murder-suicide. I just can’t believe that. They were so happy together—their lives were fun and adventuresome. They acted so much younger than their years. There’s no way they would want to kill themselves.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” asked Rivera.
“No. I’m an only child.”
“Do you know anything about this trip they were on?”
She nodded. “They told me about it. They’ve been planning it for a year. It was to be a special trip for them.”
“Special in what way?”
“They’d always wanted to visit the national parks. My father retired about a year ago, so it was finally possible for them to take the trip. They planned a long, leisurely drive to see the sights. Besides exploring the national parks, they were also excited about reliving part of a cross-country journey they made when they were eighteen—about fifty years ago. They said it had been an unforgettable time for them.”
“What happened fifty years ago?”
“They were headed to San Francisco in an old Volkswagen minivan with some friends. They had all just finished their freshman year at the University of Maryland. There was some big happening going on in San Francisco, and they wanted to be part of it. They said kids from all over the country were going.” She smiled. “It had something to do with that rebellious sixties era. You know, the hippie generation.”
“You said they wanted to relive part of that trip. Did they elaborate?”
“No. They were always kind of secretive about it. They did say they fell in love on that journey.” She dabbed her eyes again, her lower lip quivering. “My mother told me I was conceived on that trip. They liked to call me their ‘love child.’”
“I’ve been trying to make some sense of why they were at the place where we found them. It’s very remote—an unpaved back road way off the beaten path.”
“It was probably part of the route they took on that cross-country trip when they were young. They did mention they explored some of the back roads from coast to coast on the trip, although they never would go into details. I think it was because they didn’t want me to know they were into dope when they were young. But who wasn’t back then? It was the sixties. Anyway, whenever the subject of that trip came up, they kind of clammed up, even when I asked direct questions about it. It was as if those memories were their own private domain, not to be shared with anyone.”
“How was their health?”
“Very good, except for the usual amount of arthritis you’d expect in a couple of sixty-eight-year olds. They were trim and walked several miles about three times a week. No heart problems and no money problems.”
Lathrop raised his head off his arms and looked like he wanted to say something.
“Nick, do you have a question?”
“Yes I do. Ms. Hart, we found a half-dozen marijuana joints in your mother’s purse. Were your parents still dopers?”
Rivera couldn’t believe Lathrop’s insensitivity but said nothing.
Linda looked at the young deputy like he was from another planet. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they were. What does it matter?”
Lathrop made a palms-up gesture. “Possession of marijuana is illegal in Utah.
”
She stared him down. “Then why don’t you go arrest them?”
Lathrop appeared stunned. He slumped slightly and fell silent.
“What else can you tell me about the trip they were on?” asked Rivera. “I mean the present trip.”
“Nothing really. After Utah, they were headed to Monument Valley. Then a detour from the national parks to visit an old friend in Taos—Virginia Stolte. Then over to Grand Canyon, then to some of the national parks in California, then back to San Francisco.”
“Who’s Virginia Stolte?”
“A friend from their past. They were all in college together. In fact, she was with them fifty years ago on that cross-country trip. My parents lost touch with Virginia back in the sixties. Then, a couple of months ago, my mother was using Facebook to see if she could locate long-lost friends. She found Virginia and contacted her. They planned to reunite in Taos during this trip. Mom and Dad couldn’t wait to see her again and relive the old days.”
“Do you have a phone number for her?”
“Yes. It’s in my computer out in the car. I’ll get it for you.” She left the office.
Rivera looked at Lathrop. “She just lost her parents. Why badger her?”
“Sorry. Sometimes I just blurt out what’s on my mind.”
“People will tell you a lot more if you treat them with respect. Despite what you see on the TV cop shows, aggressive questioning is almost always self-defeating. Remember that.”
Lathrop nodded with a rueful expression. “I’ll try. Maybe the rest of this interview would go better without me.” He stood up.
“I think you should stay. You need to hear everything she has to say.”
Lathrop looked surprised. He lowered himself back into his chair.
Linda returned to the office with a laptop computer under her arm. She sat down, opened it, and hit a few keystrokes. “Here it is.” She read out Virginia Stolte’s telephone number and Rivera jotted it into his notepad.
“I’ll call Virginia with the bad news,” said Linda. “She’ll be heartbroken when she hears what happened. My mother told me Virginia couldn’t wait for them to be reunited so they could talk about that trip they took in the VW van. Oh dear, that reminds me. I scanned a photo my parents had from that 1967 trip. I’ve got it stored in my laptop. Would you like to see it? It’s a hoot.”
“Yes, I would,” said Rivera.
She tapped on the keyboard, guided the cursor with her fingertip, and smiled. Here they are.” She set the computer on the desk and rotated it so Rivera could see the screen. Lathrop got out of his chair and stood behind Rivera, looking over his shoulder.
“Look at them,” she said. “Isn’t that funny? I love this picture of my parents.”
Rivera saw a color image of six grinning teenagers—three boys and three girls—standing in front of a light gray Volkswagen minivan. The vehicle had a large daisy painted on its side, each petal of the flower a different color. The teenagers were wearing the clothing of the day—bell-bottom jeans, tie-dye shirts, beads, medallions, sandals, and headbands. Each of the girls had flowers in her hair. The boys had shoulder-length hair and each wore an earring.
Rivera smiled. “You know, your parents were dressed kind of like that when they were found yesterday morning.”
“Yes, they told me at the mortuary. I’m guessing they chose that particular day to celebrate the trip they made fifty years ago and decided to dress for the occasion. I expect that back road was part of the route they took. That trip was when they started their life’s journey together.” She pointed at the screen. “Those are my parents on the left. Dad’s got his arm around Mom. Gosh, they looked so young back then.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and her eyes welled up with tears.
Rivera pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “My email address is on this card. Would you forward me a copy of this photo?”
“Sure will. Now, if there are no more questions, I’m going back to the motel.” She gathered up her laptop and purse and stood up. “I need to call their friends and then begin making some arrangements for the funeral.”
After Linda left the room, Lathrop spoke up. “Why are you interested in a trip that took place fifty years ago?”
“I’ve been wondering why the Masons were at that particular place. I mean out there in the middle of nowhere. I guess it’s my curious nature. It probably has nothing to do with what happened to them, but I like to get all the facts, even the smallest details, when I’m conducting an investigation. Besides, I find the sixties a fascinating era. I watched a documentary series on CNN about the decade of the sixties a couple of years ago. To me, it was a fascinating period of rebellion and revolution by young people. Demonstrations against the war in Vietnam were a near-daily occurrence. The assassinations of John Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy added to the intensity. Cities were being set on fire and battles were taking place between demonstrators and the police. The use of dope was widespread and growing. The country was coming unglued.” He thought for a moment, then chuckled. “Those young rebels are the very same people who are now governing the country and managing our corporations. Interesting what the passage of time does.”
“History lessons are all well and good, but I still think the Mason case is a murder-suicide, pure and simple.”
The more Rivera was exposed to Lathrop, the more he was taken aback by his offensive attitude. Perhaps being the sheriff’s nephew had given Lathrop a sense of invincibility and allowed him to forget his manners. Rivera wasn’t sure if his budding resentment of Lathrop was a product of the young deputy’s rudeness or the failure of Sheriff Zilic to mention in the first place that Lathrop was his nephew. He tried to be patient.
“If your goal is to become an investigator, you need to quit jumping to conclusions. Just gather the facts and try to assemble a picture of what happened. It’s important.”
Lathrop produced a smirk. “Okay, Amigo, whatever you say.”
6
RIVERA SAT ALONE in the office, sipping on a mug of coffee and washing down the remains of a chocolate-covered donut he’d extracted from a box in the break room. He wiped his hands on a napkin, opened the file drawer in Mitchell’s desk, and thumbed through the four dozen or so manila folders it contained. He removed the ones titled Converse Ranch, Dryden Ranch, and Herman, and spread them out across the desktop.
He sat there, staring at the folders, wishing he hadn’t agreed to let Nick Lathrop tag along during his investigation. He couldn’t tell if Lathrop honestly disagreed with the way Rivera was handling the case or was just being a smart ass. Either way, Rivera knew he was stuck with his ill-mannered understudy. There was no getting out of it now—he’d given his word to Sheriff Zilic.
He shook his head and picked up the Converse Ranch file folder. He hoisted his feet onto the desk, leaned back, and flipped open the file. It contained two newspaper articles from the San Juan Record, a magazine article from the Oil and Gas Journal, three stapled pages of handwritten notes about the informal complaint Mr. Converse had lodged against the Navajo sheepherder, and a single sheet of paper with a list of dates and events, also in Mitchell’s handwriting.
The first San Juan Record article was dated five years ago. It was a story about Bill Converse, wealthy owner of the Converse Ranch and an important citizen of San Juan County. It provided a brief history of the ranch, how it was established as a cattle operation, and how oil was discovered on the property years later. It mentioned that Bill Converse had established a vineyard on the property and planned to become a vintner. The article included a photo of him standing next to some young vines. It also made reference to the oil wells on his property and included a picture of one of the pump jacks.
The second San Juan Record article was a piece on the new library in Monticello and the major donors who had made it possible. The article included a photograph of the county council members and the donors standing in front of the courthouse
. Bill Converse’s face was circled with a red pencil.
The Oil and Gas Journal article was a general piece on the San Juan Basin oil play and its history. It described how the discovery of oil and gas in the early twentieth century had produced scores of millionaires in the Four Corners area, a region where poverty had been the norm. Ralph Converse, Bill’s father, was mentioned in passing as one of the area’s cattle ranching pioneers.
Rivera placed the articles back in the folder and picked up the complaint summary. Converse had made an informal complaint against an unnamed Navajo sheepherder who was regularly bringing his flock onto the BLM grazing lease Converse shared with the Dryden Ranch. Several days later, Converse had withdrawn his objection. A note was scribbled in the margin to the effect that Converse had regretted taking the action in the first place.
The single sheet of paper was a chronology of Mitchell’s encounters with Bill Converse and his impressions of the rancher. There were about two dozen entries, each with a date and a line or two about what Mitchell had learned about the man. Most were random meetings in town or on one of the back roads near the ranch. Several times they’d met in church or in the courthouse. Mitchell’s general impression was that Bill Converse was a good and generous man. He treated his employees fairly and he enjoyed spending his money on expensive toys like a private helicopter and top of the line vehicles, tractors, and machinery.
The file titled Dryden Ranch had similar information. It included a one-page article from the San Juan Record featuring the Dryden Ranch, its herd of Herefords and prize-winning Longhorn cattle, and the owner’s collection of antique vehicles. Like the Converse Ranch, pump jacks across the land produced a large revenue stream for the owner. At the top of the article were photographs of Sam Dryden, the owner, his now-deceased grandfather Jared who had established the ranch, and Bobby Dryden, Sam’s stepson. All three were smiling and wearing cowboy hats.
