by Rich Curtin
Rivera looked at his notes, decided he’d asked all the questions he could think of.
He turned to Lathrop. “Any more questions, Nick?”
“No. I think that about covers it.”
8
A ROAN MARE with its tail raised high galloped alongside Rivera’s vehicle as he drove the gravel entry road into the Dryden Ranch. To Rivera, the Dryden Ranch looked just like the Converse Ranch—oil wells, oil storage tanks, a few head of Hereford cattle, grayish-tan rolling hills, some sage, and an occasional dark green juniper. The two ranches were like matching bookends.
Two miles of traveling brought the ranch house into view. It was a rambling, Spanish-style, tan stucco structure with a red tile roof. Obviously not the original ranch house, the structure looked like it cost a small fortune. Rivera pulled to a stop in front of the house and glanced around the area. Just beyond the house was a large sheet-metal garage with its sliding door ajar, partially exposing a collection of antique automobiles. A man polishing one of the vehicles looked up at the arriving deputies, then turned his attention back to his work. Judging from the size of the building, Rivera estimated it could hold thirty or forty vehicles. More toys for the wealthy.
Beyond the garage were a barn and several outbuildings. Rivera noticed the beginnings of a vineyard in the distance.
A pretty Hispanic woman who appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties came out of the house. She was wearing a flowery blouse, snug-fitting jeans, and an apron. Her brunette hair was tied haphazardly on top of her head. She smiled as Rivera and Lathrop got out of their vehicle.
“Hi. I’m Alicia. Mr. Dryden’s housekeeper and secretary.” She extended her hand.
After the handshakes and introductions, Rivera asked her if Sam Dryden was at home.
“No, I’m afraid he’s gone to Monticello for the day. He said he had some business at the high school. Can I help you?”
“You’ve probably heard about the couple found dead yesterday near the airstrip. We were hoping to ask Mr. Dryden a few questions that might help in our investigation.”
She crossed herself. “Such a shame about that couple. No one should ever kill themselves. The time for dying should be left to God.” She frowned and shook her head. “Mr. Dryden won’t be back until late this evening.”
“Maybe we can catch him in town. Do you know who he’s visiting at the high school?”
“Yes, he went to see Mr. Frank Stevens, the principal. Mr. Dryden is presenting a plan for upgrading the high school football field to a small stadium. He even plans to pay for the entire construction project himself.” She laughed. “He spends more time worrying about that football team than he does about his ranch.”
“Were you here at the ranch yesterday?” asked Rivera.
“I only work part-time. Yesterday was a day off for me.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Blanding, with my mother.”
“Does Mr. Dryden have a wife?”
“No, she passed away years ago. His stepson Bobby lives here with him.”
“Is Bobby here now?”
“No, but I expect him back soon.”
Rivera had exhausted his questions but was curious about the vineyard he’d spotted. Was wine in the process of displacing cattle as a ranch staple? “Is Mr. Dryden a vintner like Mr. Converse? I noticed the new vineyard out past the barn.”
“He plans to be. Those vines aren’t mature enough yet for making wine. It’ll take a few more years. Mr. Converse and Mr. Dryden are good friends. Mr. Converse is an expert wine maker, and he convinced Mr. Dryden a couple of years ago to start a vineyard. He said it would be good for Mr. Dryden’s image.”
“His image?”
“Yes, you know, raising cattle is a dirty business, and so is pumping oil out of the ground. Mr. Converse said winemaking is more high class and sophisticated and would give Mr. Dryden an air of dignity.” She laughed. “I think Mr. Converse was just having a little fun, but Mr. Dryden took him seriously and decided to try it. Those two are always kidding each other.”
“Must be nice to own land sitting on top of all this oil,” said Lathrop.
“When Mr. Dryden was a young man, he moved here to live with his grandfather. The elder Mr. Dryden—his name was Jared—was alone and losing his eyesight due to macular degeneration, so Sam came to help him operate the ranch. The discovery of oil on the property was a pleasant surprise for both of them.”
A red Maserati came speeding down the ranch’s entry road, leaving a rooster tail of dust in its wake. It skidded to a stop about twenty feet from Rivera and the others, causing a dust cloud to engulf the group. A clean-shaven man with dark hair, sunglasses, pressed jeans, and a white shirt hopped out of the vehicle. He looked to be in his mid-thirties.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
Alicia addressed the deputies. “This is Bobby Dryden, Mr. Dryden’s stepson.” She turned to Bobby. “These deputies are investigating the shooting that took place yesterday—the older couple that was found dead.”
He frowned. “Yeah, I heard about that. I’ll handle this, Alicia. You get back to work.”
Alicia appeared unperturbed by Bobby’s rudeness, as though she were used to it and had no fear of losing her job. “Deputy Rivera, do you have any more questions for me?”
Rivera recognized what was going on. Alicia was deliberately ignoring Bobby’s disrespectful command for her to leave—a polite way of telling him he had no authority over her. It also suggested to Rivera that she and Sam Dryden were more than just employee and employer.
“No, I think that’s all. If Mr. Dryden calls, would you tell him I’ll try to catch up with him at the high school?”
“Yes, of course.” She returned to the front door of the house but didn’t go inside. She waited there and watched.
Rivera turned to Bobby Dryden. His face triggered a faint resonance in Rivera’s memory. He thought he’d seen him somewhere before, and not just in the photo in Emmett Mitchell’s file. “So you’ve heard about the couple that was found dead down by the airstrip?”
“Of course I have. Everyone’s talking about them. Why are you here at our ranch? You think we had something to do with it?”
“Were you here yesterday morning?”
“Yeah, I was. What about it?”
“See anything unusual?”
Bobby smirked. “No.”
“How about the day before?”
“Also no.”
“Okay, thanks. We’ll let you know if we have anymore questions.”
“You know the way out.”
9
RIVERA DROVE OUT of the Dryden Ranch and turned onto the gravel lane that led back to Route 347. The day had been interesting, but he’d learned nothing that suggested a sensible direction for pursuing his investigation.
“What do you think about that Bobby Dryden fellow?” asked Lathrop.
“Seems out of place on a ranch. Most ranchers I’ve met are pretty friendly people. They’re no-nonsense, hard-working folks, but interesting and fun when you get to know them. And most of them drive a pickup instead of a Maserati.” It was then that Rivera remembered where he’d first encountered Bobby Dryden. It was a couple of years ago when he was dating Amy Rousseau, a PhD plant biologist. They were having dinner on the outdoor patio of La Jacaranda Mexican Restaurant in Moab when a couple at a table on the other side of the patio began arguing. Rivera couldn’t make out their words because of the mariachi music coming over the speaker system. The woman was crying and Bobby Dryden was pointing at her and yelling about something. Then he abruptly got up and left.
“What do we do now?” asked Lathrop.
“We’ve got to find someone out here who saw something. So far we really don’t have much.”
“C’mon, Manny, we’re not going to find anyone who saw anything. We’re just wasting our time. It was a ritualistic murder-suicide. Plain and simple.”
“Is that the only explanation for th
e killings you can think of?”
“It’s the only one that makes sense to me.”
“Well, try to keep an open mind. Ask yourself questions about the crime scene details. Like, for example, what about the Masons’ camera?”
“Is that some kind of a trick question? They didn’t have a camera.”
“Right. Doesn’t that strike you as unusual?”
“No. Not everyone takes pictures.”
“People that visit national parks always take pictures.”
“Not if they’re planning to kill themselves.”
“If they were planning to kill themselves, why did they buy souvenir mugs at the parks?”
Lathrop thought for a long moment. “I don’t know.”
“And why did they get an oil change in St. George?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, give all that some thought.”
Rivera stopped the vehicle and extracted the Herman file from his briefcase. He reread its contents and studied the hand-drawn map Mitchell had made. “Emmett told me about a recluse who lives out here somewhere in a homemade dwelling. Not far from the airstrip. He’s been living here for years. Let’s pay him a visit.”
Rivera turned left on Route 347 and drove a short distance until he reached the shallow canyon depicted on the map. There he found a barely-visible two track which led south through the sagebrush, rabbit brush, and snakeweed. He turned right and bounced down the primitive road. Two hundred yards later, he pulled to a stop next to a black, 1980s-vintage Datsun pickup truck covered with dust. Three dogs came bounding out of the open door of the dwelling and ran up to Rivera’s vehicle, barking and wagging their tails.
Rivera was impressed by the structure. It was about sixteen feet wide and had been built under a large sandstone overhang in the cliff face. The front and side walls were thick and constructed of rocks and mud mortar. The door was made of recycled wood planks and there was a small glass window, also recycled, on each side of the door. The roof was constructed of cross-hatched juniper logs and mud. Blue-gray smoke rose from a stovepipe chimney in the center of the roof and a small, weathered U.S. flag hung from a staff fastened to the front wall. To Rivera’s eye, it looked like a solidly constructed home. It reminded him of some of the Ancestral Puebloan ruins he’d seen in the backcountry. He noticed a shiny black raven sitting atop the sandstone overhang watching the new arrivals with interest.
A slender man who looked to be in his sixties emerged through the doorway, smiling and waving. His brown hair, streaked with gray, was long and scraggly as was his beard. He wore faded jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, a threadbare army jacket with a 9th Infantry Division patch, a well-worn red cap, and hiking boots. Rivera noticed jagged scars on his forehead and right cheek. The deputies stepped out of the vehicle.
“Howdy, fellas. Don’t worry about them dogs, they won’t bother you none.”
“You must be Herman,” said Rivera.
Herman cupped his hand behind his ear. “I’m a little hard of hearing. Say again?”
Rivera raised his voice. “Are you Herman?”
“Yessir, that’s me.”
Rivera introduced himself and Lathrop. “This is quite a place you’ve got.”
“Yessir. Built it myself.”
“How long have you lived here?”
Herman thought for a long moment. “I’m not sure. Been a long time. Maybe thirty years.”
“We’re talking to everyone who lives in the area. An older couple was found shot dead not far from here yesterday morning. Did you know about that?”
His smile disappeared. He nodded, an expression of concern on his face. “I heard about it. I was walking with the dogs along the road yesterday evening. Felix—he drives one of them tanker trucks—stopped and told me about it. Said he was the one who found the bodies.”
“Did you hear any gunshots yesterday morning?”
He thought for a moment. Shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t hear so good anymore. Got a little too close to a grenade in Nam. Didn’t hear nothing yesterday morning but that don’t mean much. There could have been a marching band out there and I wouldn’t have heard them.”
Rivera nodded with a sympathetic expression. He wondered if Herman’s facial scars were a result of the grenade.
Herman grinned. “Being hard of hearing ain’t so bad, though. Makes the world seem like a more peaceful place.”
“Did you see anything unusual around here yesterday morning or the day before? Anything at all?”
He thought for a moment. Shook his head. “Not that I can remember. Say, what were those two doing out here anyway?”
Rivera shrugged. “That’s the big question. I have no idea. Maybe just seeing the sights.”
“Can’t blame them for that. This is beautiful country.”
“Sure is,” said Rivera. “Do you live alone?”
“Just me and the dogs. That one licking your hand is Sammy. The black and white one over there is Snoopy. The one standing back a ways like she’s not sure what’s going on—she’s only been here a month. She just walked in one day and joined us. I haven’t come up with a name for her yet.” He pointed at the raven leaning over the edge of the overhang, staring down at them. The bird let out a throaty caw. “And that’s Smokey up there. He hangs out here sometimes, waiting for me to toss him a tidbit of whatever I’m eating.”
Rivera found himself becoming more interested in Herman and his way of life. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but I’m curious. Why do you live out here?”
“I like it here. Don’t want to be anywhere else.”
“Why?” asked Lathrop. There was a look of disbelief on his face. “What do you like about it?”
“It’s peaceful here. And beautiful. I have everything I need and it costs practically nothing.
“What do you eat?” continued Lathrop.
Herman laughed. “I go to the grocery store just like everyone else. And I hunt rabbits. There are lots of rabbits in the hills around here. Sometimes I’ll shoot a deer.”
Lathrop shook his head. “Don’t you get lonely?”
“Not at all. I have the dogs. And Smokey. And I spend every evening over on Tin Cup Mesa with Abby.”
“Who’s Abby?” asked Rivera.
“She’s my true love. The only person in the world that matters to me.”
“She meets you on Tin Cup Mesa every evening?”
“She doesn’t meet me on Tin Cup Mesa. She lives there. In a homemade dwelling like mine. I visit her at her place.”
“I’d like to speak with her,” said Rivera. “Maybe she saw something useful. Can you tell us how to find her?”
Herman’s smile disappeared and now he sounded defensive. “Abby is very shy. She doesn’t like visitors. If I told you how to find her, she’d probably never speak to me again.”
Lathrop frowned. “Look, Herman, this is a police investigation,” he said. “You have to tell us.”
Herman shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t do it.”
“Okay,” said Rivera. “No problem. Does anyone else live around here or come around on a regular basis?
Herman thought for a moment. “Just that Navajo sheepherder. When I see him, he’s usually down at the spring watering his sheep. He brings them up here from the Rez every day to graze.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s medium height and lean. Looks like he’s about seventy years old. Maybe more. Brown wrinkled face. Wears a black cowboy hat and sometimes has a red bandana around his neck.”
Rivera recalled Bill Converse’s complaint about a Navajo not respecting his grazing lease. “Is he the one with the Churro sheep?”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever spoken with him?”
“I tried once, but he doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak Navajo. So we didn’t get very far.”
“Anyone el
se around here we should talk to?”
He shook his head. “Can’t think of no one else.”
On the drive back to Monticello, Lathrop probed Rivera about the interviews he’d just conducted. “The question you asked everyone seemed kind of lame. ‘Have you seen or heard anything unusual?’ Is that all you’ve got? I mean, surely a top investigator like yourself would have more probing questions than that.”
Rivera laughed. “Truth is, that is all I’ve got. For now, anyway. Anything we find that’s out of the ordinary is a potential clue.” Lathrop’s question stung a little, not so much from its rudeness, but more so because it reminded Rivera of his total lack of progress.
Lathrop brought up the question of Abby. “Can’t we force Herman to tell us how to find her?”
“First of all, Tin Cup Mesa is about two miles east of the crime scene. So it’s not likely she saw anything. And secondly, I’m pretty sure we’d never get him to reveal her location, no matter what we did.”
“We could try. I’d be happy to conduct the inquiry.”
Rivera glanced at Lathrop. “Did you see that 9th Infantry patch on his jacket? He probably saw some pretty rough action in Nam. Do you really think you’re gonna make him do something he doesn’t want to do?”
“We could go to Tin Cup Mesa and search for Abby.”
“According to my map, Tin Cup Mesa is huge. Lots of places to hide away. Might take days to find her. Right now, we’ve got more important things to do.”
“Like what?”
“See if we can find Mr. Dryden in Monticello and talk with him. Hopefully he’s still there. I’d also like to locate that retired DEA field agent down in Bluff and ask him what he knows about the airstrip. You’re welcome to join me.”
Lathrop looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. By the time we get back to Monticello, my shift will be over. And I’ve got a date tonight. A little lady is fixing me dinner.”
Rivera didn’t mind Lathrop bailing out at all. So far, he’d been more of a distraction than a help. Rivera had always preferred to conduct his investigations solo—less chit-chat and fewer interruptions meant more time for concentrated thought and analysis. However if Lathrop really wanted to become an investigator, he’d better get used to working twenty-four-seven until the job is done.
