A Nose for Justice (27 page)

B
y mid-morning on Thursday, the mercury had climbed to 40°F which, given the last few weeks, felt warm. Ranchers checked their cattle, people drove to the office, all feeling relief from winter’s bite.

Having tagged along for the chores, King and Baxter became distracted by a coyote moving southward.

“Let’s chase him,”
King said gleefully.

Baxter happily complied and the two rushed after the gray animal who stayed far enough ahead of them to keep them interested. Coyotes rarely work harder than is necessary and this fellow knew he could smoke those two domesticated twits any time he wished.

He ran more or less parallel to Dry Valley Road where a creek bed also ran more or less parallel. The gently sloped banks were four to six feet high, steep in places. In a few spots the drop was precipitous, sheer on every cutback into the soil with an overhang. Once at the bottom, the creek bed was wide, water trickled along—always a welcome sight to have running water. Brush dotted the edges. Come spring, the shrubs would green up. In spots, a small ledge offered protection for varmits.

After a mile of running, Baxter, not in as good shape as King, began to trot.

The coyote dropped over the bank, ran through the creek, then
poof
, disappeared.

Piles of rocks dotted the landscape higher up, fewer marked the other side of the creek. The rock piles seemed to increase with the height almost as if they’d been laid there by giant hands. No doubt the coyote had a den in an outcropping. King loved to chase things, but he wasn’t going to confront a coyote in his den, assuming he could even find it. A clever coyote
would mark various dens to throw off an enemy. Usually more than one coyote lived in each den. Better not to find oneself outnumbered.

King stopped as Baxter caught up.
“Time to go back.”

Baxter lifted his head, sniffed deeply.
“Something’s in the creek bed.”

King followed, flared his nostrils. He’d been so intent on his coyote, he hadn’t paid too much attention to competing scents. To him, this one smelled sweet, alluring.

The dogs dipped over the bank and moved southward along the creek bed, stopping at a small overhang on the west side. Dry Valley Road was thirty yards away.

King splashed across the water to the overhang. Baxter did also, getting his tummy wet.

Transfixed, the two animals stared at the human corpse stashed there. One wouldn’t see it from the road. Coyotes had eaten some of the best parts—including the nose and lips—but since it froze at night what wasn’t chewed was well enough preserved. If the mercury rose more, the heady fragrance would announce a jackpot of carrion to the local critters. By then, even the humans would get a whiff.

“He’s not far from dinner.”
King stayed focused on his coyote.

“We never see anything like this in New York.”
Baxter was excited.
“Do people just stick their dead anywhere here in Nevada?”

“Not unless there’s a problem. They bury everything mostly so no one can get to them.”
King sniffed the corpse.
“Let’s see if we can pull an arm off and take it home.”

“Do you think they will want it?”
Baxter didn’t think humans liked this sort of thing.

“Probably not, but what a prize!”
King grabbed what was left of the hand and pulled.

Baxter did his best to help. Being short, he had to stand on his hind legs, so he couldn’t pull as hard as King. Finally, two fingers dislodged, but the wrist bones stubbornly would not yield.

Disappointed, King looked at the mangled fingers.
“Well, it’s better than nothing.”

———

O
n the phone in her office, Jeep heard Carlotta’s screams. Running to the kitchen, Jeep, like her daughter-in-law, was horrified to see two discolored human fingers on the floor. King proudly stood over them, wagging his tail frantically.

Baxter, also thrilled, stood on the other side of the treasure.

King reached down to pick them up again.

“No,” Jeep said firmly. “Carlotta, put a pan over these, will you?”

With distaste, Carlotta did just that.

The dogs guarded the pan as Jeep called the sheriff’s office. Then she called Enrique. Mags, with Enrique at the time, hurried home with him.

Once in the house, Enrique carefully picked up the overturned pot, his lips curled up. King made an attempt to grab the fingers.

“No,” Jeep again commanded.

“They’re mine!”
King protested.

“I helped.”
Baxter wasn’t to be cheated of this increasingly pungent treasure.

Within a half hour, Pete and Lonnie also viewed the grisly find. Pete put on thin rubber gloves and gingerly dropped the fingers in a bag.

“Could I have a Ziploc filled with ice? Let me put this in that.”

Carlotta quickly fixed him one. She wanted the damned fingers out of the house. “The dogs came through the door and just dropped them,” Carlotta informed them as she handed over the large bag of ice cubes.

“Lonnie, let’s go outside and look,” Pete said.

He dropped the ice bag in the back of the squad car, then called HQ. After, he and Lonnie started walking around the buildings as did Jeep, Mags, and Enrique.

“If a body was this close to the house, we’d have found it,” Enrique said.

“No doubt,” Pete replied, “but we’d still better check.”

The two agitated dogs kept barking and heading southward, then coming back.

“We should follow the dogs,” Jeep suggested.

“At last, someone with sense.”
King gloated.
“She is the smartest of the lot.”

Pete hesitated, so Mags said, “Aunt Jeep, why don’t you and I follow them on the ATVs? Pete and Lonnie can keep looking here.”

Five minutes later, the two women sped after the dogs. Swerving to
avoid isolated rocks and large sagebrush, they kept the creek bed to their right. They stopped when the dogs jumped down into the bed. Following, the grisly sight shocked Mags. Jeep didn’t much like it, either.

Mags called Pete from her cell. He showed up ten minutes later, seeing them parked on the side of Dry Valley Road.

Carefully, he and Lonnie dropped down into the creek bed.

“Think they’ll give us any of this?”
Baxter wondered.

“No,”
King replied with some regret.

“It’s Oliver Hitchens, isn’t it?” Mags asked.

“Yes,” Pete replied simply.

M
urder raises issues most people would rather not consider. The first being why, the second being that most of us have somewhere within us the capacity to kill. Some admit it, some don’t.

Best not to jump to conclusions about anything, not even identifying the body. The Sheriff’s Department scrambled to reach the next of kin before the news was blasted across TV screens. The minute Pete called in to HQ, a female officer was dispatched to Karen Hitchens, another male officer to Darryl Johnson. The Hitchens’s son, away at college, was later called by his mother. Oliver’s daughter, at high school, was picked up by her aunt, who, thank God, lived in Reno. Even with the mutilation of the corpse, Pete knew it was Oliver before he confirmed it because he found his wallet and ID inside his coat pocket.

D
arryl Johnson called a meeting of upper management the moment the police officer left his office. Those who had seen the uniformed presence suspected it had to do with Oliver Hitchens’s disappearance but still the news of his death came as a shock.

After providing some details and withholding the most gruesome ones, Darryl said to the employees gathered around the conference table, “Our first priority is Karen and the kids. George W., you know the family better than any of us, I think. We should stop by to express our condolences right after work, all of us, unless you feel otherwise.”

“No, no, that’s the right thing to do.”

“We should bring food.” Elizabeth McCormick suggested quietly.

“Lolly and I will take care of that.” Darryl folded his hands on the table.
The president, like all such leaders, had expected to solve many problems during his tenure. He’d never expected this.

For a moment, nothing was said. Outside the closed doors, phones could be heard ringing incessantly.

Elizabeth advised quietly, “Our first ad appeared in the paper today. I think we should pull the rest of them until February.”

“It’s a good ad”—Darryl inclined his head toward her—“but you’re right. SSRM is going to receive a lot of media scrutiny and I’d advise all of you to say as little as possible. Any stray comment could be misconstrued or, worse, impede the search for Oliver’s killer. Is that understood?”

All said, “Yes.”

“Good. Go back and inform people in your respective departments. Elizabeth, stay back a moment.”

Craig Locke, moving toward the conference room exit, stopped a moment, started to say something, then thought better of it.

George W. put his hand on Craig’s shoulder as they walked out the door into the hallway.

Craig asked, “Anyone know how he was killed?”

“Not yet, or if they do, they aren’t telling us.”

“This all started with Pump Nineteen.” Craig’s voice was bitter.

“Craig, at this moment I don’t know anything except that Karen and the kids will need all our support.” George W. reached the elevator bank and pushed the down button. He’d head to the warehouse now, along the way calling his crews on the road.

Back in the conference room, Darryl asked Elizabeth, “Help me prepare a statement to the press, will you?”

“Of course.”

They worked diligently as the phones reverberated throughout the building. By the time they had finished, a mobile TV crew had pulled up in front of the SSRM corporate offices, shooting the outside.

Late in the afternoon, after Oliver Hitchens’s body had finally been removed, Pete and Lonnie drove back to Jeep.

Having returned with Mags hours ago, she was already curious for an update. Seeing them coming down the long drive, she opened the door. “Come on in,” she said from the porch. “Can I get you anything?”

“No. Thank you for your help and I’m sorry you had to see that,” Pete said kindly.

Mags came down the hallway and stood behind her great-aunt. “It was awful.”

“Pete, whoever put him there was someone who knows the land out here, someone who must have walked it a time or two, and right on the southern edge of my ranch.”

“More than likely. Either that or the killer had blind luck finding that crevice. But I think you’re right.”

J
ake Tanner, out on his Bobcat, saw the swirling lights.

Unless there’s a range, one can see for miles in this part of the world. When he spotted a sheriff’s vehicle coming down Red Rock Road from the north, Jake knew something big was happening. He hopped in his old truck and cruised slowly down Red Rock Road. Then, despite wanting to know what was happening, he decided if he showed up in the middle of everything he might just be in the way. So he turned and drove up to Pump 19. From there, he’d have a good view below.

Oliver’s car sat in the parking area. You wouldn’t see it from Red Rock unless you craned your neck upward. Then you might possibly catch sight of the Explorer’s taillight.

From his cell, he immediately called the Sheriff’s Department.

Just as Pete and Lonnie were leaving Jeep’s they got the call.

Lights flashing, going fifty on the twisty road, they managed to meet Jake within twelve minutes.

“It’s Oliver’s,” Jake decreed simply. “I checked the registration.” Jake pointed inside the car to a long, smooth notebook wedged in the glove compartment.

Pete put his gloves on. “Damn! Now it has your fingerprints.” He retrieved the notebook from the car and flipped it open.

“What’s going on down there?” Jake couldn’t contain his curiosity.

“Jeep’s dog found Oliver’s body. Someone stuffed him into a crevice of the creek bed, on the road side so no one would see him as they drove by.”

Jake’s eyes grew large. “Jesus Christ.”

Pete looked around inside the Explorer. He noticed a six-inch by eight-inch notebook, covered in red ripstop cloth. The SSRM logo in blue was embroidered in the right-hand bottom corner. Opening the notebook, he saw just three words scribbled on the lined papers: “Drainage basin. Bedell.” Nothing else. Pete checked other pages, but they were blank. He returned to the glove compartment. Halls lozenges, small packets of Kleenex, and a couple of ballpoint pens filled it, along with the vehicle manual.