Blood Trail jp-8

by C. J. Box

  8

  THE MORNING FLIGHT from Denver with master tracker Buck Lothar on board was late arriving at Saddlestring Regional Airport, and Joe spent the time reviewing the files Robey had copied the night before, noting the ever-growing crowd assembling in the lobby, and wondering when exactly it had happened that white-clad federal TSA employees had come to outnumber passengers and airline personnel in the little airport. Or at least it seemed that way.

  The airport was humble, with two counters for regional commuter airlines, a single luggage carousel, a fast-food restaurant that was always closed, and several rows of orange plastic chairs bolted to the floor facing the tarmac through plate-glass windows. The painted cinder-block wall across from the airline counters was covered with crooked and yellowing black-and-white photos of passengers in the fifties and sixties boarding subsidized jets that used to serve the area. In the photos, the men were in suits and the women in hats. Local economic development types had created a display case to showcase local products, which consisted of . . . a package of jerky. Outside, a resident herd of six pronghorn antelope grazed between runways, the morning sun on their backs. When Joe was district game warden, he received calls from the county airport authorities every few weeks to come and try to scare the antelope away because the herd tended to spook and scatter when airplanes landed, and at least one private aircraft had hit one. Despite the use of cracker shells and rubber bullets fired into their haunches that dispersed the animals for a few days, they always returned.

  Robey sat a few seats down from Joe, reading his copies of the same files. He was dressed in full-regalia Cabela’s and Eddie Bauer outdoor clothing for his first day on the crime team, and Joe had stifled a smile when he picked him up that morning. Robey’s boots were so new they squeaked when he got up to get another cup of coffee so weak the only taste was of aluminum from the pot itself. Randy Pope paced through the airport, working his cell phone. From snippets Joe could hear whenever Pope neared, his boss was dealing with personnel and legislative issues back in Cheyenne. Pope was a bureaucratic marvel, firing orders, interrupting calls he was on to take more important ones, keeping several people on hold at once, and jockeying between them as he paced.

  As the arrival time came and went and an announcement was made by a spike-haired blonde with a tongue stud that the United Express flight from Denver would be at least twenty minutes late, Joe tried to discern the makeup of the people in and around the airport waiting for the aircraft to arrive. It was difficult to count them because they didn’t gather in one place so much as flow through the airport and back to their cars—many of which were campers and vans—in the parking lot. He didn’t recognize any of them, which was unusual in itself. They didn’t fit the profile of those usually found in the Saddlestring Regional Aiport: ranchers waiting for a new employee, usually one who spoke Spanish; a coal bed methane company executive greeting a contractor; or various local families picking up loved ones who had ventured out. Instead, the people waiting had an earthy, outdoor look. There was a wide-eyed, anxious, purposeful attitude about them Joe—at first—couldn’t quite put his finger on. A very attractive olive-skinned, black-haired woman struck him in particular. She seemed to be removed from the throng but with them at the same time, caring for her baby in a stroller and thanking those who approached her and complimented her on the child. Joe noted her dark eyes, high cheekbones, and pegged her for Shoshone. She had a dazzling smile and seemed to exist in a kind of bubble of serenity that he found mesmerizing.

  “I wonder who she is?” Joe asked aloud.

  Robey shook his head, distracted. “We heard from the sheriff of Sheridan County this morning,” he said to Joe, sitting back down with his coffee, “following up on Frank Urman. They’re trying to determine if he had any known enemies, business problems, wife problems, threats, the usual.”

  Joe tore his eyes away from the woman and child and looked at Robey.

  “They’ve found nothing to go on so far. Urman was fairly active in city and county government, belonged to a couple of groups—Elks and the American Legion—but kept a pretty low profile. He was well liked and respected, from what they say. He spent a lot of his time hunting and fishing, but that describes just about everybody in Wyoming.”

  Joe nodded, and tapped the files on his lap. “It describes John Garrett and Warren Tucker too,” he said. “I was hoping when I read the files something would jump out at me. Or better yet, that there would be some kind of connection between the victims. Tucker and Garrett were around the same age, fifty-four and fifty-two, I think. That got me going for a few minutes until I saw that Urman was sixty-two.”

  Robey said, “What, you thought they might be members of the same group?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “The only similarity I could find is that all three are white, middle-aged or older, hunters—and dead,” Robey said.

  Joe grunted, and looked back at his files.

  JOHN GARRETT was a CPA from Lander, Wyoming. Three weeks before, his body was found with a single gunshot wound to the head in the back of his pickup on a side road in the Wind River Mountains a few miles out of Ethete. He’d told his wife he was going deer hunting by himself after work, like he did every year since they’d been married, but this time he didn’t come home. She reported his disappearance that night, saying she was worried because he was not answering his cell phone. The sheriff’s deputy who found Garrett’s vehicle said Garrett’s body was laid out next to a four-point buck deer in the bed of his pickup. The buck had apparently been shot and dragged to the truck. Garrett’s rifle was found on the open tailgate. Ballistics confirmed it had recently been fired. Judging by the way Garrett’s body was found with his head near the cab of the truck, the deputy and others soon on the scene speculated that the accountant had somehow accidentally shot himself with his own rifle in the act of pulling the body of the deer into the back. Imagining a scenario where the accountant accidentally discharged his loaded rifle—which he may have leaned against the tailgate while he struggled to pull a two-hundred-pound carcass into his vehicle—was not that crazy. Although forensic technicians couldn’t determine the exact sequence of events that led to the accident, enough disparate factors—his discharged rifle, the dead deer, the fact that his body was found in his own pickup—led to the conclusion that it was a bizarre hunting accident with no witnesses. Death had been instant. The slit across Garrett’s throat was attributed to him falling on the point of the buck’s antler after he’d been shot.

  WARREN TUCKER, the second victim, was a former Wyoming resident who owned a construction company in Windsor, Colorado, but still hunted every year in his former state with his son, Warren Junior, a high-school football coach in Laramie. Tucker Senior’s body was found the week before in the Snowy Range Mountains near Centennial. According to Tucker Junior’s affidavit, father and son were hunting elk from a camp they’d used for twenty years when the incident occurred. Senior took the top of a ridge while Junior positioned himself at the bottom, a thick forest between them. This was a strategy they’d used for years, and it had proved to be very successful. Elk in the area tended to stay in the black timber on the mountainside during the daytime but ventured out in the evening to graze and drink. Therefore, the herd would exit either over the top of the treeless bare ridge where Senior would get a shot at them or down through the bottom meadow where Junior was set up. Which was why he thought it was so strange, Junior testified, when he heard a single shot in the distance near the top of the ridge in the midafternoon because usually there was no action going on that time of day. He’d tried to contact his father by radio for several hours after he heard the shot, but there was no response. That in itself wasn’t cause for alarm, Junior said, because if Senior was stalking a big bull he might have turned his radio off to maintain silence. Senior was also getting more forgetful as he aged, and sometimes didn’t turn his radio on at all, which drove Junior crazy. But Senior had always shown up before, often with blood on his h
ands from harvesting his elk for the year. This time, though, when dusk came and went and he’d not heard anything from his father, Junior became alarmed. Junior was an experienced outdoorsman and knew not to set off into the timber in the dark to try to find his father. Instead, he wisely went the short distance back to camp and built a huge fire he hoped his father would see or smell, and kept trying to raise him on his radio. After a few hours, Junior started firing rifle shots in the air, three at a time, and waiting in vain for the sound of answering shots in the distance. None came. It was a very long night.

  Junior contacted Albany County Search and Rescue. The county responded with a team at dawn, and with Junior they fanned out and scoured the black timber and the ridge. Unfortunately, it was Warren Tucker Jr. who found his father’s battered, naked, upside-down, eviscerated body on the bottom of an old rockslide.

  According to the report written by the head of the search-and-rescue team, it was assumed at first that Warren Tucker Sr. had lost his footing at the top of the ridge, perhaps firing his rifle as he lost his balance, and cartwheeled 350 feet down the length of the old slide to his death. The sharp and abrasive nature of the scree on the slide had not only stripped the victim’s clothes away, but sliced through his soft belly. Somehow, a broken branch had been thrust into the victim’s body in the fall as well, exposing his body cavity.

  It was only when the Albany County coroner determined that Warren Tucker had a bullet hole from a high-powered rifle beneath his left nipple that the incident changed from a horrifying accident to a possible murder.

  Joe had now read the files, including the burgeoning Frank Urman file, three times. He could see how both the Garrett incident and the Tucker death could initially be classified as accidents. Only when the two were considered together was there a linkage, and it was still not a definitive one.

  Joe felt an uneasy rumble in his stomach and looked up at the ceiling of the airport.

  “Are you okay?” Robey asked.

  “Yup.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing good,” Joe said. He slid closer to Robey so they could talk without anyone hearing them. “So, let’s assume it’s the same killer.”

  “We don’t know that yet,” Robey said.

  “No, we don’t. But let’s assume. With Garrett, the killer places the body next to a dead deer in the back of a pickup. He also slits Garrett’s throat—just like the deer—to send a message that wasn’t noticed. With Tucker, the killer ramps up his sociology lesson by gutting the victim the same way a hunter field-dresses a game animal. Again, the message doesn’t get through because nobody is thinking of the deaths as murders, or linked in any way at this point.”

  Robey nodded. “Go on.”

  “Which must have frustrated the hell out of the killer, to spend all that time and energy making statements nobody gets. With Frank Urman, he doesn’t want to leave any doubt at all what he’s doing, what he’s trying to say. He not only shoots the poor guy, he guts him and hangs him from a tree like a deer or an elk.”

  “So you’re saying we’ve got a socially conscious serial killer on our hands,” Robey whispered, looking over his shoulder to make sure none of the people wandering through the airport were directly behind him. “A guy who is so anti-hunting he’s killing hunters and treating their bodies the way a hunter treats big game.”

  “Maybe,” Joe said.

  “Which is why Klamath Moore is coming to Wyoming. Not just to protest hunting in general, but to support whoever is doing this.”

  “Look around you,” Joe said. “Who do you suppose these people are here to greet?”

  The blood drained from Robey’s face. “Oh no,” he said weakly.

  “HAVE YOU ever fantasized about being hunted?” Joe asked Robey as the two of them stood outside so Robey could smoke a cigar. The United Express flight was minutes from landing, according to the last announcement. Joe could hear the faint buzzing of an airplane in the big cloudless sky, but he couldn’t yet see it.

  “Say again?” Robey had taken up cigar smoking after going on a fly-fishing excursion to Patagonia, a fiftieth-birthday gift from his wife. Apparently, all the well-heeled fishermen down there ended the day with a cigar and Robey had followed suit. Now, he smoked not only after a day of fishing but whenever he was nervous.

  “I think every hunter thinks about it,” Joe said. “I have. I don’t think there’s any way you can be out in the field with a gun or a bow and not at some point let your mind wander and fantasize about somebody hunting you the way you’re hunting the animal. I think it’s natural, just not something anyone really talks about.”

  Robey took a short draw, then removed the cigar from his mouth and studied it.

  “And I don’t think the fantasy is restricted to hunters,” Joe said. “I think every fisherman, hiker, camper, and bird-watcher has it at some time or other. Don’t tell me you’ve never had it.”

  “Okay, I’ve had it,” Robey said reluctantly. “I remember getting that feeling recently in Patagonia. Sort of a chill that went all the way through me for no good reason. I looked all around and couldn’t see anyone except a couple of fishermen who’d become my friends. But I couldn’t shake it for hours.”

  Joe said, “Maybe it’s come to pass.”

  Robey made a sour expression. “Pope and the governor may really have something to worry about after all. If what we’re talking about turns out to be true, it’ll destroy the hunting and fishing economy in Wyoming and maybe all up and down the Rockies. Hunters will just stay home.”

  Joe nodded. “To be honest with you, Robey, it’s not the hunters who stay home I’m worried about. It’s the hunters who don’t.”

  Robey looked up.

  “I’m worried about the guys who want to take this killer on. And believe me, there will be some.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “You’ve never driven up to a hunting camp and looked into the eyes of some of these men,” Joe said. “They live for it, and they’ll die for it too. And don’t assume we’re talking about roughnecks and outlaws. There is a certain percentage of men in the world who would feel neutered if they couldn’t hunt. The way they see it, it’s all they have these days to prove to themselves they’re still men. It’s a one- or two-week validation of who they really are, or who they think they are. They’ll look on this situation as a personal challenge.”

  Robey shook his head. “Joe, we don’t even have proof that the killings are related yet.”

  “We will,” Joe said.

  “How?”

  “Let’s start by finding out if the three of them were killed with the same weapon. I’ll ask the head necropsy guy at the game and fish lab in Laramie to take a look at all three autopsies.”

  “The game and fish guy? Why not state forensics?”

  “Our guys are better,” Joe said. “We have a lot more game violations than the state has murders.”

  “Oh.”

  “Another thing—the poker chip we found by Frank Urman.”

  “What about it?”

  “I didn’t read anything about poker chips in the files on Tucker or Garrett. But those cases were investigated as accidents at the time, not murders. There are no listings of items found around the victims, the contents of pockets, or personal possessions gathered up or impounded. The possessions and clothing of the victims could have been returned to the families or they might be in a box at the county sheriff’s or coroner’s because no one’s dealt with them yet.”

  Robey made a note. “I can ask my staff to follow up on the poker chips, or lack thereof,” he said, his cigar bobbing as he talked.

  “The more we know about the Garrett and Tucker killings, the more we can help out Lothar the Master Tracker,” Joe said. “Those crime scenes are cold as ice, and he won’t have any interest in them. So we should try and learn as much as we can.”

  Robey chuckled as he repeated, “Lothar the Master Tracker . . .”

  WHEN
AN aircraft emerged from the sky, the restless crowd in the airport murmured and began to knot together near the cordoned-off passenger ramp, and the dozen TSA employees grouped near the metal detector eyed them and raised their walkie-talkies to their mouths in alarm.

  Pope approached Joe and Robey. He closed his phone for the first time that morning and fixed it in a phone holster on his belt.

  “Finally, eh?” Pope said.

  “Lothar the Master Tracker,” Robey growled melodramatically. Pope glared at him. Joe looked away to hide his smile.

  A collective groan came from the crowd as the spiky-haired airline agent announced that the approaching plane was a private jet, not United Express, but that United Express would be landing within five minutes.

  “A private jet?” Pope asked, raising his eyebrows. “Saddlestring has private jets?”

  “We have a lot of ’em,” Robey said. “The Eagle Mountain Club up on the hill has lots of wealthy folks.”

  As he spoke, the jet touched down on the farthest runway, scattering the herd of antelope. Joe watched it brake and taxi to the far end of the tarmac to the private fixed base operator, FBO—which was larger and better appointed than the public airport—and turn with an ice skater’s dramatic flair and stop.

  “Who is it?” Pope asked.

  “His name is Earl Alden,” Joe said, observing as a black Suburban with smoked windows drove out onto the tarmac to greet the jet. A petite and attractive older woman got out of the Suburban and walked up to the unfolding airplane stairs to greet the lone passenger, a tall man with silver hair and a pencil-thin mustache.

  “I’ve heard of him, who hasn’t?” Pope said. “Who’s the woman?”

  Joe sighed. “Her official name is Missy Vankueren-Longbrake.”

  “She’s a babe.”

  “She’s my mother-in-law,” Joe said.

  He looked at Robey and shook his head with disgust. “Why can’t people just get old and sweet anymore?” Joe said, thinking not only about Missy but about his own father, who was suffering from dementia brought on by years of alcoholism. His father was in a facility in Billings. The last time he’d gone to see his father he had to introduce himself as his son. His father had said, “Joe? Joe Schmoe? Go get me a flask, Joe Schmoe.”