Trophy Hunt

by C. J. Box

  “I never knew a bear could do that to a man,” Longbrake said.

  It took Joe a moment, then he turned toward the rancher.

  “What did you just say?”

  Longbrake shrugged. “I said I never heard of no grizzly making cuts like that.”

  “Grizzly?”

  “Didn’t Barnum tell you?”

  Joe kept his voice low so he wouldn’t be overheard. “The sheriff has told me exactly nothing.”

  “Oh. Well, when I drove up here this morning in the dark I saw a big-ass grizzly bear feeding on something. Caught him in the headlights from a long way away. He looked up with a big piece of meat in his mouth. When I drove up here I found Tuff.”

  Joe was perplexed. This explained the horrible chunks of flesh missing from Tuff’s legs, and maybe even his disembowelment. But . . .

  “But how could a grizzly bear do that to his face?” Joe asked.

  Longbrake shrugged again. “That’s what I was talking about. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Maybe that bear just peeled it off. You know, like when you’re skinning an animal.”

  Joe shivered thinking about it. For a second he imagined the two-and-a-half-inch teeth of a grizzly bear tearing back human skin, like peeling a banana. He quickly shook off the vision.

  Longbrake shook his head, then squinted. “And Jesus, to get your balls bit right off by a bear like that. Poor dumb Tuff. He was probably glad that bear finished him off after he did that.”

  Joe didn’t respond. What he had seen of the body, as quick as it had been before he got sick, didn’t seem to fit the scenario Longbrake was suggesting. Tuff’s face hadn’t been chewed off by a bear. It had been removed. Joe thought of how clean and straight the cut was. Same with his genitals, Joe thought. They weren’t ripped out. They were cut out. He felt a second wave of nausea and breathed deeply again, looking away. At least there was no more in his stomach to throw up.

  There was a shout a hundred yards up the hillside, and Joe looked up. A deputy waved at Barnum from a spot nearly in the aspen trees. Barnum sighed, tossed his cigarette aside, and started climbing. Joe fell in behind him.

  “Excuse me, Bud.”

  “Sure.”

  Halfway up the hill, away from the others, Joe noticed that Barnum had stolen a look back at him to see if he was still there. Barnum was slowing down as he climbed, and Joe slowed as well. Not because he was wheezing, like Barnum, but because he didn’t want to walk beside the man. It was that bad between them, Joe thought.

  “Why are you following me?” Barnum didn’t turn around.

  “I want to see what your deputy found. Same as you.”

  Barnum climbed several more steps. When he spoke, his voice was strained with exertion. “I want you to stay the hell away. For once.”

  Joe had been waiting for that.

  “Sorry, Sheriff, I’m involved whether you want me to be or not. That first moose is my responsibility and if Tuff’s death is connected then I need all the facts.”

  “Save your breath,” Barnum growled.

  “And Bud back there was telling me he saw a grizzly bear this morning.”

  Barnum stopped suddenly and Joe nearly ran into him. Barnum turned slowly. His face was red. Joe didn’t know if it was from the hike, or anger, or both.

  “That’s right, we’ve got a grizzly bear up here,” Barnum hissed. “Your fucking bear. I don’t need or want any goddamn bears in my county. I don’t want any goddamn wolves, either. But you people keep chasing them here. Now we’ve got what looks like an outlaw bear killing my citizens. So what are you going to do about that bear, Pickett?”

  Joe shook his head, incredulous at Barnum’s twisted reasoning. “You don’t really think a bear did that, do you?”

  “What else? Fucking aliens? That’s what my idiot deputy keeps saying.”

  Joe and Barnum stared at each other, neither speaking. Joe looked into the eyes of the old man, and it reminded him of half a dozen reasons why Barnum couldn’t be trusted.

  “Just stay the hell away, unless you want to bring me the head of that bear,” Barnum said.

  Joe paused, not breaking the stare. “I won’t be staying away, and I won’t be bringing you the head of a bear,” he said.

  Joe watched the veins on Barnum’s temples pulse.

  “Then fuck you, Pickett. You’re useless.” Barnum turned.

  Joe followed.

  The deputy was straddling a sharp rock that poked out from the ground. The rock was granite, and green in color because of the lichen on it. It was green except for the spatter of dark blood on its surface.

  “Don’t touch it,” Barnum told his deputy, a man named Reed. Joe liked Reed.

  “I haven’t,” Reed said, clearly miffed that Barnum had felt the need to tell him something so obvious. “As soon as I found it I waved down to you. It sure took you a while to get up here.”

  “The sheriff and I were visiting,” Joe said.

  Barnum glared at him.

  Deputy Reed said, “The way I figure it—based on the hoofprints up here—is that this is as far as Tuff got last night. As you can see, the prints stop right here. I figure the horse bolted and Tuff got thrown off, right on this rock.”

  Tuff’s hat was crown-down in sagebrush to the left of the rock.

  “Then how did he get all the way down there?” Barnum asked.

  “Either he walked a ways or something dragged him down there,” the deputy said.

  “Like a bear,” Barnum said.

  “Maybe.”

  “But unlikely,” Joe interrupted. “A bear would probably feed on him where he found him, or drag him into the cover up there on the mountain.” Joe pointed at the aspens, and both Barnum and the deputy followed his arm. “It wouldn’t be likely a bear would drag a body into the open and then start feeding on it.”

  Barnum didn’t even try to hide his contempt. “So what do you think happened?”

  Joe looked back. “I think the deputy’s right. Tuff got thrown right here. My guess is that he somehow got up and started walking toward the lights of the ranch down there. Then something stopped him.”

  “The bear?” the deputy asked.

  “Something,” Joe said. “I don’t think the bear came along until much later. Maybe just a few minutes before Bud Longbrake showed up this morning.”

  The deputy nodded, mulling it over. He looked to the sheriff for confirmation.

  “That’s a goddamned horseshit theory,” Barnum scoffed, shaking his head. “The bear did it.”

  Barnum turned and started to trudge down the hill.

  Joe called after him, “Did a bear kill my moose and mutilate it? Did a bear kill and mutilate a dozen cows?”

  Barnum waved his hand over his head, dismissing Joe with the gesture.

  This time, Joe didn’t follow.

  “The sheriff wants it to be a bear real bad,” the deputy whispered.

  Joe grunted.

  “Because if it isn’t a bear, we’ve got a very, very bad situation here.”

  When Joe returned to his truck, the ambulance was pulling away with the body. The deputies remained, scouring the scene. During breaks they drank coffee and speculated on what had happened. Joe overheard the word “aliens” from Deputy McLanahan. Another deputy suggested a satanic cult. A third advanced a theory involving the government.

  Joe looked around for Barnum and finally saw the sheriff sitting in his Blazer with the door closed and the windows up. Barnum looked like he was yelling at someone on his radio.

  “Did you hear?” Bud Longbrake asked, as Joe passed by him.

  “Hear what?”

  Longbrake nodded his hat brim toward Barnum’s Blazer.

  “They found another body. In Park County, about fifty miles away.”

  Joe froze. “Who was it?”

  Longbrake raised his palms. “Didn’t get a name. Some older guy. They found him by his cabin.”

  “Mutilated?” Joe asked.

  “That’s wha
t I hear.”

  PART

  TWO

  11

  GENTLEMEN,” County Attorney Robey Hersig said, “let’s convene the first-ever strategy meeting of the newly formed Northern Wyoming Murder and Mutilations Task Force.”

  Sheriff Barnum said, “Jesus, I hate that name.”

  It was 10:00 A.M. on Wednesday, four days after Tuff’s body and the body of Stuart Tanner had been found. There were seven people seated around an oval table in the Twelve Sleep County courthouse, in a room usually used for jury deliberations. The door was shut and the shades were pulled.

  Joe sat at the far end of the table from Robey Hersig, and for an instant they exchanged glances. Hersig, Joe thought, already looked slightly frustrated and the meeting had barely begun. Hersig and Joe were friends and fly-fishing partners. When the governor said he wanted a representative from the Wyoming Game and Fish Department on the task force, Hersig had fought for Joe’s inclusion, much to Joe’s, Barnum’s, and even the governor’s objections. The governor wanted a biologist on the task force, for forensic and scientific expertise, and Barnum wanted anybody but Joe—just because. Joe had told Hersig he preferred to work on his own, but a call to Joe from his district supervisor Trey Crump made it clear he would be the G&F’s representative on the task force.

  The task force itself was Governor Budd’s response to calls to his office in Cheyenne from both the statewide news media and business interests in Twelve Sleep and Park Counties, where the murders had taken place. Brian Scott, who did a statewide radio broadcast out of KTWO in Casper, had begun a tongue-in-cheek “Mutilation Moment” update on his morning show, where he breathlessly read the body count of wildlife, cattle, and humans and contrasted it with the lack of response from the governor’s office. With his reelection campaign looming in less than a year, the governor reacted to the pressure quickly, announcing the creation of the task force. He did so after his chief of staff called Robey Hersig and Hersig confessed that the Sheriff’s Department was stymied in their investigation. Knowing Barnum, Joe assumed that the sheriff viewed the formation of the task force as a personal slap in the face.

  As Hersig circulated agendas and manila folders, Joe surveyed the room. In addition to Joe, Hersig, Barnum, McLanahan, and the Park County Sheriff Dan Harvey, there were two men from the outside whom Joe had met before: Wyoming Department of Criminal Investigation (DCI) agent Bob Brazille and FBI Special Agent Tony Portenson. Seeing Portenson again made Joe’s mouth go dry.

  While Brazille was affable behind a jowly, alcoholic face, Portenson was dark, pinched, and had close-set eyes and a scar that hitched up his upper lip so that it looked like he was sneering. Portenson had already been seated when Joe entered the room, and had offered no greeting. Instead, he’d stared at Joe as if they shared a conspiracy.

  “As you all know, Governor Budd has promised a swift resolution and justice in regard to these crimes,” Hersig said by way of introduction. “It’s our job to make that happen. I’ve given you each a file of what we’ve got so far, and I hope you’ll take a moment to review it with me.”

  Joe had already begun. In the file were copies of the incident reports written by the Sheriff’s Department on the Hawkins cattle as well as on Tuff Montegue’s body. His own preliminary necropsy report on the moose was in the file as well, and Joe was a little surprised that Hersig had obtained it from headquarters without mentioning this to him. There were dozens of pages of crime-scene photos that had been printed out in color and black-and-white, as well as maps of Twelve Sleep and Park Counties with circles drawn where the crimes had occured. A preliminary autopsy report was included from Park County on the body found there, as well as the autopsy report on Tuff Montegue. Both bodies had been shipped to the FBI laboratories in Virginia for further examination. Clippings from both local and national papers on the murders and cattle mutilations were also in the file.

  It came as no surprise that the autopsy and necropsy descriptions were very similar, whether of the moose, cattle, or men. Skin had been removed from faces. Tongues, eyes, and all or part of ears had been removed. Udders were removed from female cattle. Genitals were gone, and anuses had been cored out. Cuts were described as “clean and made with surgical precision.”

  The exception, Joe noted with a start, was in the autopsy report for Tuff Montegue. In his case, the cut on Tuff’s face was described as a “notched or serrated mutilation cut similar to serrated cuts near the genitals and anus.”

  To make sure, Joe thumbed back through the reports. The notes of “serrated cuts” were unique to the Tuff Montegue autopsy. It could just be an aberration, Joe thought, or a mistake. The county coroner did not do many autopsies. He spent more time in his fly-shop than the one-room morgue. Joe planned to ask about the discrepancy once the discussion got started.

  There was something else. Or, rather, the lack of something else. There was no mention of oxindole, Joe noticed.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Hersig said, sliding Joe’s report on the moose from the file.

  Under Robey Hersig’s direction, the task force methodically reviewed the reports in the file. It was decided early on that the aspects of the investigation would be divided up among the principals; Sheriffs Barnum and Harvey would concentrate on the murders that took place within their counties, Agent Portenson would facilitate communication access between the local authorities and the FBI, Brazille would coordinate with the governor’s office and Joe would follow up on the wildlife mutilations and “anything out of the ordinary.” When Joe heard Hersig say that, he winced. Hersig smiled back.

  “Reports will be shared with my office, and we will serve as the communications center,” Hersig said, looking hard at each person at the table. “Nothing will be withheld from this office. Territory doesn’t matter, jurisdiction doesn’t matter. We’re all on the same team here.”

  FBI Special Agent Tony Portenson seemed to have an agenda of his own, and Joe couldn’t yet determine what it was. Portenson paid cursory attention to Hersig, reviewing the documents in the order Hersig referred to them, but periodically rolling his eyes and staring at the ceiling. Joe wished Portenson wasn’t there, because Portenson brought back dark memories of the death of his foster daughter the winter before, as well as the death of a federal-land manager. When Joe looked at Portenson, he imagined that the agent was there to observe him, to possibly catch him at something. Joe vowed to be careful. Trouble was, Joe actually liked Portenson.

  Sheriff Dan Harvey of Park County didn’t seem to agree that the attacks that had happened in Twelve Sleep County had any bearing on his interest, which was investigating the death and mutilation of the older man found near his cabin on the same night Tuff Montegue was killed.

  Because Joe knew only a few sketchy details about this aspect of the case, he paid special attention to the Park County report. The sixty-four-year-old victim was named Stuart Tanner. He was a married father of three grown children and CEO of a Texas-based water-engineering firm that had contracts in Wyoming doing purity assessments for the state Department of Environmental Quality and the CBM developers. Tanner’s family had owned the cabin and mountain property for over thirty years, according to people in Cody who knew him, and Tanner preferred staying at his cabin rather than at a hotel while doing work in the area. He was physically fit and enjoyed long hikes on his property in all kinds of weather. It was presumed that he was on one of his walks when he died, or was killed. His mutilated body was found in a meadow in full view of a remote county road. Someone had seen the body and reported it by calling the Park County 911 emergency number. The preliminary autopsy listed the cause of death as “unknown.”

  As Hersig moved to the case of Tuff Montegue, Joe interrupted. It was the first time he had spoken.

  “Yes, Joe?”

  He turned to Sheriff Harvey. “The report doesn’t indicate predation of any kind. Did you see any?”

  “You mean like coyotes or something eating the body?”

 
; Joe nodded.

  Harvey thought, stroked his chin. “I don’t recall any,” he said. “I wasn’t the first on the scene, but my guys didn’t mention any animals and the coroner didn’t say anything about that, either.”

  Joe nodded, sat back, and turned his attention back to Hersig.

  Tony Portenson cleared his throat. “Before we go off in too many directions, I’ve got something here that might give you all a great big headache.”

  From a briefcase near his chair, Portenson withdrew a thick sheaf of bound documents. Like a card dealer, he slid them across the table to all of the task force members.

  Portenson said, “This stuff isn’t new, cowboys.”

  Joe picked up the one-inch-thick binder and read the title: SUMMARY INVESTIGATIVE ANALYSIS OF “CATTLE MUTILATIONS” IN WYOMING, MONTANA, AND NEW MEXICO.

  The report was dated 1974.

  “I found this when the bureau was asked to assist on this investigation,” Portenson said, a little wearily. “Somebody in our office remembered seeing it back in the archives.”

  Joe flipped through the binder. The report had been typed on a typewriter. There were dark photographs of cattle, much like the newer ones he had just looked at in the file Hersig had assembled. There were pages of necropsy reports, and transcripts of interviews with law enforcement personnel and ranchers.

  “Shit,” McLanahan said, “this has all happened before.”

  “Not exactly,” Hersig said quickly. Joe guessed that Hersig didn’t like the way Portenson had taken over the meeting and surprised him with the reports. “There’s no mention of what I’ve found about wildlife or human mutilations here.”

  Portenson conceded the point with a shrug, but did it in a way that indicated that it didn’t matter.

  “So what was the conclusion of the FBI?” Barnum asked. “Or do I have to read this whole goddamned thing?”

  Portenson smiled. “A forensic investigative team at Quantico devoted three years to that report. Three years they could have been working on real crimes. But your senators and congressmen out here in the sticks insisted that the bureau devote precious time and man-hours to a bunch of dead cows instead.”