Murder in Mongolia

by Fritz Galt

  But Jake couldn’t stop thinking about those dumplings.

  Was Matt serious about Mongolia being such a great place, or was he overselling it?

  “Just be honest,” Jake said. “Aside from the dumplings, tell me one good thing about Mongolia.”

  “It’s sunny 250 days a year.”

  Jake looked beyond his office at the dark hallway. The motion sensors had turned off all the lights and the office was illuminated only by ambient light from the street below.

  He could use some sunshine.

  “Do you really think I can solve anything if I came over there?”

  “What do you have now?” Matt said.

  “A body.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Let’s wait for the lab results,” Jake finally said, “and then we’ll reconsider.”

  The two hung up on good terms, and his weak connection with that remote land was cut.

  He shivered. For a moment, he had almost considered a trip to one of the most distant outposts of the American government.

  Jake checked his watch. It was already 10:00 p.m.

  Time to reach his law enforcement counterpart in Mongolia, the indomitable Man of Steel.

  He punched in the international number and waited. He got a connection and a ring tone.

  “Baina uu,” came a gruff voice.

  “Is this Detective Bold?”

  “Yes.”

  He was relieved the man spoke English.

  “This is Special Agent Jake Maguire from the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. I was given your number by the American Embassy in Ulaanbaatar.”

  “Yes?” came the cautious reply.

  “Do you have a few minutes to discuss the case of the American named Bill Frost?”

  “Yes.”

  After the string of ‘yes’ replies, Jake was beginning to wonder about the man’s English. Was Boldbaatar getting anything he said?

  “You are aware of the case?”

  “Yes. Except there is no case. His death was an accident.”

  So Detective Bold could carry on a conversation in English. Along with asserting that Frost’s death wasn’t a murder.

  Jake would prefer to wait for the FBI lab to make that determination.

  “First of all, thank you for allowing us to repatriate his remains to the U.S.” Then he thought better of all the long words. “For sending his body home.”

  “Special Agent Maguire, I understand what you’re saying. I graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.”

  “Well, okay then. Sorry.”

  That changed the picture.

  “Detective, I understand you processed the scene.’”

  “I investigated the location of the natural accident.”

  “And how would you describe the cause of death?”

  “Rockslide. Bogd Khan Mountain is steep in places, and there is a lot of loose rock.”

  “Was the victim hiking alone?”

  “As far as we could tell.”

  “And were there any eyewitnesses?”

  “The local police were alerted by another hiker who was leaving the hill when he passed the American.”

  “I understand there were two witnesses.”

  “That’s correct. The eyewitness was with a female at the time.”

  “And what did he report?”

  Jake sat poised over his notebook.

  “The eyewitness was a Buddhist monk in training, and the site was a Buddhist monastery that had been damaged in the 1930s, but rebuilt in recent years.”

  “Where was the body found with respect to the monastery?”

  “Above it, on higher ground.”

  “So the monk and his girlfriend saw the avalanche?”

  “We call it a ‘rockslide.’”

  “And did you see evidence of the rockslide?”

  “Yes. We discovered the victim’s body under the rubble.”

  “Was there any evidence of foul play?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “And what caused the death?”

  “His skull was fractured, and his limbs were broken at various places.”

  “Did the coroner perform an autopsy?”

  “There was no autopsy.”

  So much for a medical examiner’s report.

  “Were you aware that the victim had expressed fear for his life before venturing out that day?”

  “I had no such knowledge.”

  “Would you know why he might express such fear?”

  “I don’t know his personal circumstances, but his death was entirely accidental.”

  “Could he have been pushed to his death?”

  “He was found under rocks. And it isn’t easy to trigger a rockslide of giant boulders.”

  “Was his body intact when you discovered it?”

  “All in one piece.”

  Jake had no reason to doubt the honest-sounding man. Except that Chad claimed that the remains had been scattered across the hillside.

  “Now, Detective, I am aware that our two countries don’t have a bilateral law enforcement agreement, but I would appreciate, and the Government of the United States of America would appreciate, if you could send copies of your official report to the American Embassy.”

  “You are correct that we have no agreement. And I would have to seek permission to release a report. Such permission might take days, if not weeks, to obtain. So Special Agent Maguire, I suggest you simply take my word as a fellow law enforcement officer to be factual and complete.”

  “I believe you. However, I’m in need of photos, reports, and witness statements.”

  The request came across as a plea, and he felt like he was spinning his wheels.

  “Is there anything I can do to accelerate the process?”

  For the first time, there was hesitation on the other end of the line. Ever so slight, the pause indicated an inclination to take him up on his offer.

  Then, “No, there isn’t. I’m sorry for the loss of your countryman.”

  And he hung up.

  That was it.

  If Jake was going to pursue this one, he was on his own.

  He shut off his computer and left the office with a single thought in mind.

  He hoped that the death was an accident, and the FBI Laboratory would prove Superman correct.

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday

  Jake awoke to the sound of the national anthem buzzing in his ear like a pesky mosquito.

  The room was barely illuminated by devices plugged in for recharging. The air smelled different. Where was he?

  Amber stirred with his movement. They were sharing a pillow.

  This was her place.

  So he had joined her after returning from work late the night before. And they had gone directly to sleep. Their relationship was beginning to fall into a rhythm.

  He banged around in the dark trying to find the way upstairs.

  “Gotta go to work,” he muttered from the doorway.

  Amber shifted in bed, not fully awake.

  He felt guilty tiptoeing upstairs. But he shouldn’t get used to sleeping with her without thinking it through completely. And in such a groggy state, he didn’t trust himself to make good decisions.

  He opened the door into his part of the house.

  In the dark, he suddenly bumped a toe into an object.

  Had he left something on the kitchen floor? It was warm, like a body.

  Meow.

  His cat scampered away, her tiny bell ringing as she left the kitchen and fled downstairs to Amber.

  Half an hour later, Jake was shaved and showered, the Folgers was brewing, and he was pouring Cornflakes when he turned on the radio.

  NPR had just begun its hourly news summary when the words struck home. “American environmental activist Bill Frost, who perished last Sunday in Mongolia, appears now to have been the victim of a homicide. It is believed that he was in Mongolia to expose damage to the envi
ronment by the mining industry.”

  “Amber!” he shouted. “Hear this?”

  “Russian news sources,” the radio went on, “have called into question the official cause of death.”

  “What is it?” Amber called upstairs.

  “NPR says Frost was murdered.”

  The story ended with a simple declarative sentence. “U.S. Government officials are looking into the matter.”

  “Who?” Jake said. “Who’s looking into the matter? I’m the only one looking into the matter, and the investigation isn’t public.”

  Amber appeared in the doorway. “I just heard the story downstairs.”

  “Why is NPR reporting that Bill Frost was the victim of a homicide? And who told them the U.S. Government is looking into it? Did you tell them?”

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’ve been asleep all night.”

  He pushed his cereal away. “Then who told them?”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m heading to work in a few minutes. I’ll find out.”

  He looked at her as someone who had just played him for a fool. “Let me know as soon as you find out how this story leaked. I need to know who NPR’s sources are.”

  His phone was ringing.

  Amber returned downstairs as he answered it.

  “Jake?” It was his boss, Whitney Baker. “What did I just hear on the news? They’re saying it’s under investigation.”

  “I just heard that, too,” he said.

  “I demand to know who their sources are.”

  “It could have been anybody,” he said. “Frost’s family, the airport receiving his remains, the embassy, the Russians…”

  “No, Jake,” she said. “Nobody knows except us. I run a tight ship with no leaks. The last thing I want to see is our work publicized in the press.” Her voice had a sexy streak when she turned threatening.

  “Ma’am, I’m looking into it already,” he said. “I’ve got a source at NPR.”

  “Yeah, I know all about that little ‘fact-check girl’ of yours,” she said. “If I find out about any pillow talk, I’m going straight to the Inspector General.” And she hung up.

  “Amber!” he cried through the house. “I’m catching flak for this!”

  “I know. I know,” came her tiny voice.

  Then Jake’s cat appeared at the top of the stairs, an inquisitive and rattled look on her face.

  In his office, Jake got off the phone with his buddies at he Virginia State Police. They had tracked down Bill Frost’s previous residence in Ballston, a neighborhood nearby Washington. Unfortunately, Bill Frost had moved out two years before, two successive tenants had lived there since, and there would be no DNA evidence to collect.

  Where did Bill Frost live most recently? Jake tried to reach Mary Talbot over at National Geographic, but she wasn’t in. And then he remembered that she worked the late shift. So he got through to National Geographic’s human resources department, identified himself, and asked that they give him George William Frost’s home address.

  Companies usually balked when asked to divulge personal information of their employees, but in Jake’s experience when the FBI came calling… They checked their files while he waited, and came back with a street address in Utah.

  Hurricane, Utah, to be exact.

  He jotted it down, thanked the helpful folks in National Geographic’s HR, and hung up.

  Then he hopped on the computer and looked up the number of the FBI field office in Salt Lake City.

  It was still early in the morning in Utah, and the receptionist at the field office connected Jake to the personal phone of Bonnie Lakewood, the Special Agent in Charge (SAC).

  “Hi, Jake.” She said it in a way that made him think she knew him, although they had never met.

  He explained the case to her as she drove in to work. It was a homicide case in Mongolia and the victim lived in Hurricane.

  “Bill Frost?” she ruminated. “Where have I heard that name before?”

  “He was world-famous. He had a show on National Geographic covering environmental issues.”

  “No. That isn’t who I’m thinking of. I never watch National Geographic.”

  “Well, take it from me, the younger generation is highly tuned in to him.”

  “I thought I was the younger generation.”

  “So did I.”

  He went on with a simple request for DNA evidence, and while they were talking, he gave her a heads-up. “No relatives seem to know that Bill lived in Hurricane. So you might want to inform the county about the house and any will you might find. You know the drill.”

  “Sure thing, Jake. I’ll take some people down there today.”

  Jake hung up and rubbed his hands together. He had cleared everything out of the way and set aside some time to think, an often-underrated aspect of his job.

  In particular, he liked to solve puzzles. Nothing got him going more than inconsistencies.

  Every case had unanswered questions that demanded shoe leather and persistent phone calls. Things he didn’t mind doing, but felt more like a journalist’s job. It was solving paradoxes that kicked his mind into high gear.

  And in the investigation before him, the contradictions were piling up.

  First was that morning’s surprise in the news. FBI investigations were meant to be secret so culprits didn’t flee and witnesses didn’t recalibrate their testimonies. So how did National Public Radio know? He had to keep his emotions in check because it already brought him and his personal life into question.

  Second were the contradictory versions of Bill Frost’s death. He had died in a rockslide. No, he had been killed by an explosion.

  Detective Bold of the Mongolian police, along with the U.S. embassy and State Department, all claimed the death was an accident. Yet RSO Chad Stubbs, science officer Matthew Justice, the Russians, and NPR claimed that it was murder.

  Why were people so sure of their conclusions?

  The answer might lie in the competing forces at work in the situation. And a highly opinionated, highly visible personality like Bill Frost often aggravated that division.

  Already the Russians were making something of the death, and NPR was amplifying their claim.

  He hoped the FBI Laboratory in Quantico would definitively resolve the question. They could determine the cause of death, be it by crushing or explosion, once and for all. And the hair from Cal Frost’s head would prove conclusively if the body was that of Bill Frost. Jake had already sent the evidence bag with Cal’s DNA to the lab, and the body should arrive at Dulles International Airport that evening and be shipped at once to Quantico.

  He could also hope that the science officer Matthew Justice had overreacted when Bill Frost had phoned in his concern that his life was in peril. And he could hope that RSO Chad Stubbs had been wrong when he asserted that the body had been destroyed in an explosion.

  The FBI lab could make the case for murder go away in an instant.

  But say the two diplomats were correct and the police and consular section were wrong. Did that reveal an attempt by the police and consular section to cover up a crime? At that point, he could foresee the need for a broader investigation.

  Or say the forensic analysis was inconclusive. An ambiguous result from Quantico could absolve the police and embassy for having simply misdiagnosed the cause of death and explain, if not justify, Chad Stubbs and Matthew Justice’s reaction. If forensic analysis proved inconclusive, Jake probably had no case.

  He could think of no other outcomes from the forensic analysis. He simply had to wait and see.

  Mid-afternoon, Jake returned from a retirement party juggling coffee and two donuts when Trisha slipped him a note.

  He had received a call from Salt Lake City’s Special Agent in Charge Bonnie Lakewood.

  He called her back at once.

  “Bad news, Jake,” Bonnie said.

  He set his food down.

  “Nobody answered the door, so
we had to pick the lock,” she reported. “Either Bill Frost was one sloppy individual, or the place had been ransacked.”

  “That’s weird. High crime area?”

  “Not Hurricane. Everybody knows everybody, and the local police said there were no break-ins in that community for over a year.”

  “Were there signs of forced entry?”

  “Several of the windows were unlocked. Anyone could have come and gone without breaking a thing.”

  Jake was confused. “Were things stolen?”

  “Not that we can tell. Banking records, a roll of twenty-dollar bills, an expensive watch were all there. By the way, Bill Frost was some world traveler.”

  “I told you he was a famous guy.”

  “The walls were covered with artifacts from around the world. He was also a genuine scientist. His file cabinets were stuffed with scientific papers and reports.”

  “What field of science?”

  “It’s hard to tell. Birds, fish, environment, climate.”

  Jake put the news about the artifacts and scientific reports aside for the moment. “Did you collect any DNA?”

  “Lots of hair samples of various colors.”

  “Bill Frost was bald.”

  “Then he must have had lots of visitors, and judging from the length of the hair, I’d say female.”

  “Any other samples?”

  “Relax, Jake. I know my job. We sent several different kinds of samples to the lab by overnight express.”

  “Right. Did you find a will?”

  “Got it. Everything goes to the World Wildlife Fund and the National Marine Sanctuary Foundation.”

  “Thanks, Bonnie. Listen, can you preserve the house as a crime scene? We might need to search for more evidence.”

  “Already done. We set up a surveillance camera in the interior to monitor further intrusions.”

  “You’re one step ahead of me.”

  “Just doing my job, Jake.”

  He hung up, grateful that the team in Utah was so responsive, but unhappy to hear about an intruder in Hurricane who ransacked the victim’s house.

  Bill Frost seemed to attract trouble.

  Jake returned home from work at dusk without having made an evening plan with Amber. Of course they couldn’t eat out every night. But they also couldn’t come home without some understanding.

  Whitney Baker had given him a hard time about the leak. He couldn’t see his boss without her mentioning it. She was spitting mad. And so was he. But what was he supposed to do about it? Maybe the truth was obvious, and Amber had leaked his investigation to NPR. In which case, the leak was really his fault. How else could NPR newscasters know that Bill Frost was murdered and it had become a federal case?