by Rich Curtin
Five young students from the University of Maryland leave for the Summer of Love in a VW minivan, wanting to be part of the hippie counterculture movement. They bring a stash of marijuana with them on the trip. In Kansas, they pick up a younger boy who was hitchhiking to his family place in Utah. He’s wearing a Woody Woodpecker shirt, so they dub him “Woody.” One night, as the group is camping out in the Utah backcountry, Woody dies in his sleep. The group panics and decides to bury him right there. Most of the group is freaked out so Michael Bennett works alone. He removes Woody’s wallet and a letter from his pockets. The letter contains a hand-drawn map to Woody’s family place. Bennett digs a grave, places Woody’s body and his satchel into it, and covers it up. The group searches the area for flat rocks to protect the grave from animals. They cover it with buff-colored rocks and an inset purple cross.
Matthew Mason, Wilma Green, and Virginia Stolte decide to continue on to San Francisco, but Michael Bennett and Ellen Yardley say the trip was ruined for them. Bennett and Yardley drive the other three to Blanding and drop them off at the bus station so they can continue their trip west. Then Bennett decides that he and Ellen should go to Woody’s family place and tell them what happened. Bennett had Woody’s map, so he knew how to find the place. And he had Woody’s wallet, so he knew his name.
Ellen had said the family place was out in the country somewhere, and that when they arrived, an old man came out of the house, smiled broadly, and embraced Bennett. That was the key. The thing that had been bouncing around in Rivera’s subconscious. The family place must have been the Dryden Ranch and the occupant of the house was Jared Dryden. The old man was expecting his grandson Sam Dryden to arrive and must have thought Michael Bennett was Sam. An understandable mistake since Jared Dryden’s eyesight was deteriorating and he hadn’t seen his grandson since the boy was three years old. Bennett, for some reason, let the old man believe he was Sam. The real Sam Dryden, Woody as they called him, was dead and buried. Bennett returned to the van and told Ellen he was going to stay for a while and help the old man. Ellen said she wanted to return home immediately, so Bennett drove her to the bus station and dropped her off. Afterwards, he returned to the Dryden Ranch. There, he became Sam Dryden. Michael Bennett was no more. The years went by, oil was discovered on the land, and the ranch was soon worth a fortune. Jared Dryden passed away and left the property to the man he believed was his grandson.
Michael Bennett, posing as Sam Dryden, became wealthy. Then, five days ago, he must have been driving on Route 347 and spotted a couple of hippie-looking characters at the grave. Curious, he approaches them. Even after fifty years, they recognize him. He couldn’t allow his secret to become public, so he kills them. Then he has to deal with the Navajo who saw the shooting. This scenario was conjecture, but it seemed to fit the facts and the motive was plausible. Proving it all would be difficult. Maybe impossible. Maybe DNA testing could prove Sam Dryden wasn’t Jared’s grandson. That would involve exhuming Jared’s body from his grave, removing tissue samples, and comparing the DNA to that of the man who claimed to be Sam Dryden. Further confirmation of Rivera’s theory was available by exhuming Woody’s remains and comparing his DNA to his grandfather’s. But how in the world would Rivera ever get a judge to agree to all that? Or Sheriff Zilic for that matter? Sam Dryden was an important citizen of San Juan County.
Rivera headed for the Dryden Ranch. He was confident in his theory, but it was just that. A theory. He wondered how he could ever prove it. Certainly, Bobby Dryden’s fingerprints on the cartridges remaining in the revolver suggested the killer was someone from the Dryden Ranch. Bobby had loaded the gun, but anyone on the ranch could have used it. There were lots of people who would have access to the Dryden guns. The rifle used to kill Nez might be the key. Perhaps it hadn’t been disposed of. The shooter might have relaxed after the press release about the stolen corpse was issued, believing the lethal bullet had never been recovered and could therefore never be matched to the rifle.
After thinking everything through, Rivera decided he had enough information to confront Sam Dryden, arrest him, and run ballistics tests on all the rifles at the Dryden Ranch. If Rivera was wrong, it would prove embarrassing to him and the whole San Juan County Sheriff’s Department, but he decided to take the risk. An eye witness to the shooting should be enough to justify what he was about to do, despite Nez’s age. Long before Nez’s story is challenged in a courtroom, the ballistics analysis on the rifle would have been completed and Rivera would have his answer. And if the ballistics analysis found no match—Rivera shuddered and decided not to pursue that line of thought any further.
He called the dispatcher and requested a couple of deputies be sent to the Dryden Ranch to help him collect evidence and to serve as backup if needed—Dryden’s ranch hands might object to seeing their boss arrested. It was then he learned Nick Lathrop had already gone to the ranch to arrest Bobby Dryden.
“Arrest Bobby Dryden? What for?”
“When Nick learned Bobby’s fingerprints were on the cartridges, he headed straight for the ranch to make the arrest. Still want that backup?’
“Yes, I do.”
“They’re on the way.”
Rivera sped toward the Dryden Ranch, irritated with Lathrop and hoping he would get to the ranch before the young deputy did. Rivera wondered just how he was going to handle the situation when he got there. There were a million ways to screw this up.
28
RIVERA BOUNCED ACROSS the cattle guard at the entry to the Dryden Ranch and sped toward the ranch headquarters. In the distance, he saw a deputy’s vehicle parked in front of the ranch house next to Bobby Dryden’s red Maserati. Several pickups were parked nearby. As he pulled to a stop, he could see that his worst fears were realized.
Nick Lathrop was in a heated discussion with Sam Dryden, and Bobby Dryden was in handcuffs. Standing nearby watching were Alicia, the Navajo in charge of the Dryden car collection, and three burly ranch hands. Rivera jumped out of his vehicle.
“What’s going on here?”
“I’ve arrested Bobby Dryden for the murder of Matthew and Wilma Mason. What are you doing here?” demanded Nick Lathrop.
Rivera waved him over for a private conversation beyond earshot of the others. He put his arm around Lathrop and spoke in a whisper. “What the hell are you doing, Nick?”
Lathrop twisted out from under Rivera’s arm and got in his face. His words were bitter. “In case you haven’t heard, Bobby Dryden’s fingerprints were found on the cartridges in the revolver used to kill the Masons. I’ve placed him under arrest. And don’t forget, it’s my collar.”
Another police vehicle with its light bar flashing came down the ranch road and pulled to a stop next to Rivera’s pickup. Two deputies got out. One positioned himself behind the three ranch hands, the other moved closer to Rivera and Lathrop.
Rivera kept his voice low. “Nick, you’ve arrested the wrong man. Now go over there and release him.”
Lathrop made no move. Rivera raised his voice for all to hear. “Take those handcuffs off him. He’s done nothing wrong.”
Lathrop, a look of anger on his face, walked to Bobby, turned him around, and removed the cuffs.
Sam Dryden was red faced and appeared furious. “Thank God someone with some sense showed up here. How dare that deputy arrest my son? Sheriff Zilic is going to hear about this.”
“He made a mistake,” said Rivera, now facing the ranch owner.
“How could he have made a mistake like that? It’s outrageous.”
Rivera replied in a calm, deliberate tone of voice. “He made a mistake because he didn’t have all the information I have. He only worked part-time on the Mason murders, so he was missing some facts that only came to light today. I’ve since learned who killed the Masons.” Rivera was standing about five feet in front of Sam Dryden, his eyes locked on Dryden’s.
Dryden blinked. “What information is that? Can you share it with us?”
“It has to d
o with a cross-country trip five students from the University of Maryland made fifty years ago.” He named the five names, saving the name Michael Bennett for last. Dryden stood frozen as the names were ticked off. “Their freshman year was over, and they decided to drive to San Francisco to be part of the Summer of Love, a sixties happening that attracted a hundred thousand young people who wanted to be part of the hippie culture.”
The others edged closer to Rivera to hear the story. Nick Lathrop stared at Rivera with a look of disbelief on his face.
“Michael Bennett was the driver. He was driving a VW minivan with a big daisy painted on the side of it.” Rivera noticed Dryden’s left eye twitch slightly at the mention of the vehicle. “There was plenty of marijuana onboard and it wasn’t going to waste. Somewhere in Kansas, they came upon a boy who was hitchhiking and picked him up. They called him Woody because he was wearing a Woody Woodpecker T-shirt. He was kind of a sickly looking fellow, but he was fun and everyone liked him.”
Rivera told the story slowly, dragging it out, watching Dryden’s face as the facts unfolded. Dryden looked like he was trying to appear calm and interested, but his frozen stance and wary eyes were betraying him.
“Woody only wanted a lift as far as Utah,” continued Rivera. “He said he was visiting his family place. They got as far as where the airstrip is now. Of course, the airstrip didn’t exist fifty years ago. It was built later. The six teenagers camped out there. Sometime during the night, Woody passed away, probably from natural causes. The group found him the next morning and panicked. They decided to bury him right there rather than risk an investigation and possible discovery of the marijuana stashed in the van.”
The group had formed itself into a circle of attentive listeners with Rivera standing directly opposite Sam Dryden. The two deputies Rivera had requested as backup were staring with interest. So were the three ranch hands. Alicia and Bobby were wide-eyed. Nick Lathrop’s expression had morphed from disbelief to embarrassment. The Navajo hung back from the group but remained close enough to hear what was being said.
“Michael Bennett dug a grave, removed Woody’s wallet and a letter from his pockets, placed the body and Woody’s satchel into the ground, and covered them over. Then the group placed flat rocks on the grave to protect it from animals. You can still see it there. It’s on top of a small rise near the end of the runway not far from the road. It’s partially hidden by junipers. The rocks are mostly tan colored, with purple ones inset in the form of a cross.”
Rivera noticed a barely discernible sheen of perspiration forming between Sam Dryden’s nose and his upper lip. The deputy continued his story. “Because of the Woody incident, Michael Bennett and Ellen Yardley decided they no longer wanted to go to San Francisco, so Matthew Mason, Wilma Green, and Virginia Stolte continued on by bus. Matthew and Wilma married and settled in San Francisco. Virginia Stolte spent some time in San Francisco, then moved to Taos where she lives now. Ellen Yardley returned to the University of Maryland, got a law degree, and raised a family in Maryland. Nothing more was heard of Michael Bennett.” Rivera was deliberately dragging out the details, hoping the tension would maximize the pressure on Sam Dryden.
“Now to the present. I’m sure you’ve all guessed by now that the Masons had returned to Woody’s grave to pay their respects. They’d dressed in the garb of the sixties as some sort of homage to Woody. They’d brought along a few joints they planned to smoke in remembrance of those earlier days. While they were at the grave, someone came along and shot them dead. Shot Wilma in the chest, then grabbed Matthew by the wrist and shot him in the temple.”
Alicia gasped and shook her head. “How horrible,” she said.
“I’ll get to the motive for the shootings in a while. The man who shot the Masons realized, after he’d done the evil deed, that a Navajo sheepherder down by the spring some sixty yards away, had seen what he’d done and therefore had to be eliminated. The killer fired a couple of shots in the sheepherder’s direction. He was too far away for any accuracy with a hand gun. One bullet hit the ground, the other killed one of his Churro sheep.” Rivera’s eyes were still locked onto Sam Dryden’s. “That’s four shots—two, then two more. They were heard by Slim Keegan, the foreman at the Converse Ranch. The shooter wiped the gun clean and placed it in Matthew’s hand in an attempt to stage the scene as a murder-suicide. The bullets that killed the Masons were a match for the revolver found in Matthew Mason’s hand. The bullet that killed the Churro was also a match.”
Sam Dryden cleared his throat. “What’s all this got to do with my son?”
“His prints were on the two unfired cartridges remaining in the revolver’s cylinder.”
“Bobby takes care of all our guns. Cleaning and loading them. His prints would be on every cartridge in every gun. Those prints mean nothing.”
“It means the gun came from the Dryden household.”
“Anyone could have taken that gun,” protested Sam Dryden. “There are a couple of dozen people working here—we’ve got ranch hands, oilfield workers, tanker truck drivers, vineyard workers, and visitors all the time. And we never lock the house. We’ve got thirty or more rifles and handguns in there and wouldn’t even notice if one was missing.”
“Yes, that’s very true,” said Rivera. Sam Dryden seemed to relax a bit. “But that’s not the whole story. There was a second weapon involved—the rifle that was used to shoot the Navajo sheepherder three days after the Masons were killed.” Rivera turned to the backup deputies. “I want you to collect every rifle in this household including the one in Sam Dryden’s pickup. We’ll test them all for a match to the bullet that killed the Navajo.”
Dryden smirked. “Who do you think you’re kidding? News travels fast in the backcountry. We all know that the Navajo’s body was stolen before an autopsy could be performed. You don’t have the bullet that killed him.”
“But we do. It was removed by a medical examiner during a preliminary autopsy before the corpse was stolen.”
Dryden opened his mouth, started to say something, stopped and thought for a moment. “Suppose you do find a match. One of our rifles could have been borrowed at the same time the revolver was taken. That slug doesn’t prove a thing.”
“One other thing, Mr. Dryden. There was an eye-witness to the Mason murders.” He paused. “We’ve interviewed him. He saw you there.”
Alicia sucked in a loud breath, covered her mouth. She looked at Dryden with a shocked and horrified expression.
“A witness?” asked Dryden. “Who was the witness?”
“The Navajo sheepherder.”
Dryden dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “But he’s dead. How can he be a witness?”
“No, he’s not dead. You shot the wrong sheepherder. You shot his brother.”
“That’s nonsense. I didn’t shoot anyone. What reason would I have? None. I had no motive for killing the Masons or that sheepherder.”
“Then let me continue the story from fifty years ago. After dropping the others off at the bus station in Blanding, Michael Bennett and Ellen Yardley drove to the ranch to inform Woody’s family of what had happened. Michael had Woody’s wallet, so he knew the boy’s real name. And there was a map showing the location of the family place in the letter, so Michael knew how to find the family place. When they arrived there, Ellen waited in the van while Bennett went to the house. The old man saw Bennett, smiled, hugged him, and looked happy. He had bad eyesight and he hadn’t seen his grandson since the boy was three years old. You see, the old man was expecting his grandson to visit, so he assumed Bennett was his grandson. Realizing that, Bennett made the decision to stay. He took Ellen to the bus station, dropped her off so she could return to Maryland, and returned to the ranch. He continued pretending to be the grandson. That old man’s name was Jared Dryden, and this was his ranch.” Rivera pointed at Sam Dryden. “And you’re Michael Bennett. You inherited this ranch under false pretenses.”
Dryden had gone pale. The expression o
n his face had transformed itself from confident to defeated. He staggered to a post that supported the porch roof and lowered himself onto a step. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground. “For the last fifty years, I’ve been so afraid this day would come.”
Rivera pulled out his handcuffs. “Michael Bennett, you’re under arrest for murder.” He read him his rights.
29
MANNY RIVERA AND MICHAEL BENNETT were alone in Rivera’s vehicle as the deputy drove out of the ranch, rattled across the cattle guard, and turned right. The sky was a deep blue, and a lone raven in the distance rose in lazy circles on a thermal. Rivera wondered if it was Herman’s raven. Bennett was silent, handcuffed, and riding in the rear seat behind a partition cage. In his rearview mirror, Rivera saw the face of an old, bewildered, broken man.
Before leaving the ranch, Rivera had entered the garage housing the antique car collection to examine the inside of the VW minivan. An 8-track cartridge was still plugged into the player. Rivera had pulled it out and read the faded title. Up, Up, and Away by the Fifth Dimension.
He turned right onto Route 347 and headed back to the Sheriff’s Office in Monticello. As he did, Bennett glanced over his shoulder and looked back at the ranch.
“I’ll probably never see this place again,” he said in a wistful voice.
Rivera didn’t know how to respond. He said nothing.
“When I was a student at the university, I wasn’t much academically but I loved being part of the football team. Football was what got me a scholarship to the university. I loved everything about the game—the guys, the training, the games on Saturdays, the fans cheering in the stands. I wanted to spend my life in football. I wasn’t good enough for the pros—I knew that—so my goal was to become a high school football coach. That was all I ever really wanted.”
