On Deadly Ground (2 page)
“Thanks, Ned. I'm not settled in yet, but it's already starting to feel like home. The last year's been tough.”
“I was sorry to hear about that. Have you found a place to live?”
“Not yet. For the time being, I'm staying with Maggie and Bobby until I find something to rent. I'm supposed to look at one place later this morning.”
“This might not interest you, but I've got an old double-wide mobile home sitting on my property. It needs a little paint, but it wouldn't take much to turn it into a cozy little place. And I guarantee you won't beat the price.”
That piqued Books' interest. “How much do you want for it?”
“How about $200 a month and utilities?”
“Done.”
“Geez, don't you want to see it first?”
“Nope. I'll take your word for it. When can I start moving in?”
“Right away if you want. I can hook up the propane tank and fire up the swamp cooler this afternoon.”
Early the next morning David Greenbriar woke from a troubled sleep to the sound of a gusty wind that blew along the ridge-line of the plateau. He emerged from the tent just before the sun peeked above the eastern horizon. Even at the height of summer, a morning chill was common on the Kaiparowits Plateau. The cold didn't fool him. By midmorning the desert cool would give way to a blistering heat that would send most living things scurrying to the cover of shade. He broke camp without delay after a breakfast of dried fruit, cereal, and instant coffee. The return hike to his Suburban would take most of the day.
If nothing else, the trip had cleared his head. Greenbriar had made two important decisions. He knew the direction he intended to take the organization, and he'd also decided what course of action to follow with his unhappy marriage.
By late afternoon Greenbriar looked down through the shimmering heat and observed the welcome sight of his Suburban. The afternoon heat had been relentless. He stopped for a moment, removed his floppy hat, and poured water over his head and neck. As the crow flies, the Suburban wasn't far away. His path, however, wouldn't take him as the crow flies. Instead, the single-track trail meandered down the mountain, traversing a maze of switchbacks and depressions, until it finally brought him out on an old dirt road about a quarter mile away. He increased his pace, eager to feel the blast of cool air that awaited him from the truck's air conditioner. When he reached the Suburban, he slipped off the backpack and began rummaging through its side pocket for the keys.
For an instant, Greenbriar had the unnerving feeling that someone or something was watching him. He stood up and looked around. Above him to the west, something reflected off the sun. He hesitated, trying to decide what he was looking at. The report of the rifle echoed throughout the canyon at the precise moment Greenbriar realized that he was staring into the barrel of a gun. The bullet struck him in the chest, ripped through his heart, exited out his back, and struck the rear passenger door of the Suburban, showering it with blood and tissue. The force of the blast slammed his body back into the side of the truck. Greenbriar's legs buckled and his head slumped forward onto his chest as though he were taking an afternoon nap. The vermilion sandstone under him turned a dark shade of crimson as he quickly bled out.
***
Books rose early Monday morning, showered, put on his new BLM uniform, and headed into town. The BLM office was located in the old junior high school. The red brick building was flanked by two side-by-side portable offices, testimony to the growing number of federal employees assigned to the Kanab field office.
He had an eight o'clock meeting with his new boss, Alexis Runyon, and then planned to head into the field for his first full day on the job. Since they had never met, he felt uneasy. She probably felt the same. He'd been hired by BLM law enforcement managers in the Salt Lake City regional office, not by Runyon.
Books arrived a few minutes ahead of his scheduled meeting. As he pulled into the gravel parking lot, he saw six sign-toting picketers marching in a small circle across the street from the BLM office. The messages on the signs struck a similar theme: eliminate mining, logging, and livestock grazing from all public lands. On another corner, a couple of hecklers watched with mild disinterest and barked an occasional insult. One of them waved a sign that read, “Eliminate tree-huggers, not cattle ranchers.”
Alexis Runyon was not what Books had expected. Her small office could only be described as austere. She sat behind an old metal desk in a decrepit chair that must have knocked around government offices for years. One wall displayed a framed aerial photograph of the Grand Canyon. Other than that, the surfaces were bare. No diplomas, training certificates, or awards. Whatever ego she might possess wasn't on display in her office.
Runyon stood, introduced herself, and invited Books to sit in one of three metal folding chairs lined up in front of her desk. Dressed in work-casual blue jeans, a red-checkered chambray shirt, and hiking boots, she looked to be in her late thirties. Short, dark hair showed flecks of gray around the temples, and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. So far she seemed a very unpretentious ladyâa good quality, thought Books.
“Hope you enjoyed the welcoming committee across the street?” She smiled.
Books smiled back. “They needn't have gone to all that trouble on my account.”
“Trust me, they didn't. They do this sort of thing on a semi-regular basis. And sometimes the local ranchers mount a counter-demonstration, the Eddins brothers and their Citizens for a Free West, the CFW. If you haven't heard of them, you will.”
“I know the Eddins family. Don't forget, I grew up here.”
“The good news is that the two groups don't often protest on the same day. More often than not, it's Dr. David Greenbriar and his Escalante Environmental Wilderness Alliance, the EEWA, doing most of the sign-toting. That's not to say your arrival has gone unnoticed.” She opened the center drawer of her desk and handed Books a newspaper article. “This appeared in the
Kane County Citizen
last week.”
Books scanned the story. The caption above the article read, âBooks Returns to Kanab as BLM's First Law Enforcement Ranger.' He folded the newspaper article and stuck it in his pants pocket. “Bedtime reading.”
“Suit yourself.” Runyon gave him a clinical once-over. “I'm going to speak candidly. It's how I do things.”
“Fair enough.”
“I want to be clear with you that I'm one hundred percent behind the notion of having a law enforcement presence here in the Kanab office. In fact, it's long overdue. That said, you should also know that there are people in the office who believe that bringing a federal ranger into an already tense area is both unnecessary and dangerous.”
Wonderful, thought Books. He expected hostility from some elements in the community, but he hadn't counted on it from his coworkers.
“I'm sure I don't have to remind you that you no longer work in a police department. Most of your fellow employees are botanists, geologists, foresters, and an occasional paleontologist. What they collectively know about law enforcement wouldn't fill a thimble. So it's going to be incumbent upon you to be patient. They'll adjust, but it's going to take some time.”
“And you're telling me this becauseâ¦?”
“I'm telling you this so you'll understand what you're getting into and because I have some concerns.”
“And those would be?”
“In reviewing your résumé, as well as reading the newspaper coverage of your exploits, I see some things I like and some things I don't. What I'm most concerned about are the two fatal shootings you've been involved in and the cloud that hung over your departure from the Denver Police Department.”
When Books didn't respond, Runyon pressed on. “The job you're about to take on requires far different skills from those in the police department. Here it's all about people skills, and I'm worried that your background doesn't lend itself well to the demands of this job.”
“You ever worked in law enforcement?”
She shook her head.
“Police work is really all about good people skills.”
“Maybe so,” said Runyon, “but make no mistake about it, the complexities here are very real. We've got environmental groups of every ilk pitted against mining and timber interests and the ATV crowd, while an angry group of ranchers watches its lifestyle disappear. It's a tinder box just waiting for a match. You'll see everything from poachers to people harvesting timber to marijuana growers to pot hunters who don't give a second thought about destroying ancient archeological sites so long as they get their trophy.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
Runyon regarded him for a moment, “Are you really that understated, Mr. Books, or are you just jerking me around?”
Books smiled and shrugged his shoulders. In the end, he left the meeting believing that he understood the job and the community a lot better than Alexis Runyon thought he did. She'd made her point though. His homicide investigation skills wouldn't be his best qualification for this job. Or so he thought.
After meeting Runyon, Books attended her Monday morning staff breakfast to meet some of his fellow BLM employees and get a feel for his place in the organization.
Most people were cordial. A few were not.
By nine-thirty, Books was driving east on Highway 89 from Kanab toward Lake Powell. He'd been asked to drop off topo maps and supplies at the BLM's new visitors' center in the controversial small town of Big Water. The hour-long drive took him past multicolored sandstone formations in colors ranging from dirty white to red, orange, and pink. The copper-colored clay-enriched soil was home to native sage, pinyon and juniper pine, as well as the invasive cheetgrass.
Big Water was located sixty miles east of Kanab near the Arizona border. The town became a magnet for people with nonconventional family values, such as the polygamist clan once headed by the late Alex Joseph. The town ended up in hot water by passing an ordinance that decriminalized both possession of marijuana and possession of drug paraphernalia. Under pressure from the state, the town council rescinded the ordinance but not before the press and Kane County residents started calling Big Water “Bong Water” and “Doobyville.”
Books had just left the Big Water office when the county dispatcher asked him to return and call Alexis Runyon.
“I just got a call from the sheriff's office,” said Runyon. “The EEWA office just filed a missing persons report on David Greenbriar. Apparently, he failed to show up this morning for an eight o'clock staff meeting. He was supposed to have spent the weekend hiking in the Monument.”
“Was he out there alone?”
“Yes.”
“Not a very good idea. Anybody checked his home?”
“The sheriff has a deputy there now. Nobody's there and both family vehicles are gone. The secretary at the EEWA office recalls Greenbriar mentioning that his wife was planning to spend the weekend out of town with friends.”
Runyon gave him a description of Greenbriar's SUV, knowing that it would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. They agreed that he would start searching the main roads on the east side of the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument.
Thirty minutes later, Runyon called again. “I just got a call from Sheriff Sutter. A group of German tourists flagged down a highway patrol trooper on State Highway 89 and led her to a dead body at the old Paria ghost town. Sutter says it's the body of David Greenbriar.”
“Foul play or accidental death?”
There was a long pause. “At the moment, he's calling it a suspicious death.”
Books hesitated, figuring that he might not like the answer to his next question. “And why is that?”
“The tourists found Greenbriar hanging from a two-by-six beam outside the barn at the old West movie set. It also looks like he's been shot. The sheriff would like you to take a look at the crime scene. It's the county's jurisdiction, but I told him I'd ask you to stop by. Help 'em if you can, but keep us out of it if possible.”
Easier said than done, thought Books.
***
When Books reached the scene forty minutes later, the corpse of David Greenbriar was a hanging silhouette against the rising Vermilion Cliffs to the east. He could see that Greenbriar's arms and ankles were secured with duct tape. A hot, gusty wind caused the body to sway gently back and forth as it dangled four feet off the ground, an eerie image reminiscent of vigilante justice in frontier times. Maybe that's what was intended, thought Books.
Two Kane County Sheriff's Department vehicles formed a loose perimeter around the area. Books recognized Sheriff Charley Sutter but didn't know the other officer. A small knot of tourists huddled off to one side, several snapping pictures. Books realized that these folks had received a stronger dose of the American Wild West than anything they'd read in their tourist brochures.
He parked behind the sheriff's vehicles and walked a short distance to the crime scene. Sutter hurried over and extended a hand, “Greetings, J.D. Welcome home. This must feel like old times, what with a murder and all.” Books nodded but didn't say anything. Sutter introduced him to his chief deputy, Brian Call. Sutter explained that Call acted as his second-in-command and also served as the department's only detective. Books guessed that Sutter intended to place Call in charge of the investigation.
One look at Brian Call didn't inspire a great deal of confidence. He looked to be several years older than Books, forty perhaps. The most distinctive thing about his appearance, aside from a pot belly that hung generously over his belt, was a waxed handlebar mustache. Dressed in period clothes, he'd have made a fine caricature of a frontier lawman in a B-grade western movie.
“Anybody gone in for a closer look?” asked Books.
“Nope,” replied Sutter. “We established the perimeter and have been waiting for help to get here. I've got a CSI unit on the way from St. George, and the state medical examiner's office has dispatched a deputy ME from their Provo office.”
“All right, let's take a look.” He and Sutter entered the crime scene and walked to the body. Sutter said, “There's a note pinned to the front of his shirt.” He squinted into the sun. “I think it says, âone less tree hugger'.”
“Yeah, I can't see it clearly, but I think you're right,” said Books. “I can see a gunshot wound near the heart, and a larger exit wound out the back.”
“That means we're looking for some type of hunting rifle,” said the sheriff.
Books agreed.
“Was he shot first and then hanged, or the other way around?” asked Sutter.
“He wasn't killed here, Charley. He was shot somewhere else, and then moved here and strung up. There's not enough blood here.”
“That means I've got another crime scene someplace else.”
They studied the ground around the body. “What do you think, Charley?”
“Looks to me like his body was dragged several feet along the ground, probably by his shoulders. See where the heels of his boots dug into the sandstone as he was pulled along?”
“Plain as day.”
“And you can see faint tire impressions that stop just short of where the poor buzzard was hanged. Those tires look pretty bigâprobably from a large truck or SUV. Your turn, Books.”
“Had he been shot here, he would have bled out. And look at the dirt and crud on his hiking boots. It doesn't match what's here. The stuff on his boots has an alkali look about it. It's much lighter than the dark, copper-colored sandstone found in this part of the monument.”
Sutter was taking notes. “Okay, anything else?”
“A couple of things. Greenbriar's body had to have come into contact with the shooter. That means that trace evidence will have been transferred from the killer to your victim and vice versa. Make sure the medical examiner handles the victim's clothing carefullyâbag each article separately. I'd also bet that you've got either multiple perps or one strong male. Greenbriar isn't a big guy, but dead weight is hard to pack around. I doubt you're looking for a female.”
“I'll pass that information along to Chief Deputy Call and make sure he follows up.”
“Be sure the CSI team photographs the tire impressions and drag marks. I don't think the tire impressions are deep enough for a mold, but if they are, get one. And take soil samples from both sites.”
The sheriff sighed. “I don't get it, J.D. Why would somebody go to all the trouble and risk of moving the body? Why not leave him at the kill site?”
“Good question. Maybe the perp brought him here for a symbolic hanging complete with the threatening note pinned to his chest.”
“What do you mean?”
“In a small percentage of homicides, the offender poses the victim in order to satisfy some kinky, perverted need. Sometimes that's true of serial killers. Somebody's posed Greenbriar like this for a reason.”
“Are you saying I've got a serial killer on my hands?”
“I don't think so. What I am saying is that if someone is intent on picking a fight, killing David Greenbriar makes for a solid first volley. Who knows if there's more to come? That might depend on how the environmental community reacts to this killing.”
Sutter gazed off into the distance with his brow furrowed, trying to digest the implications of what he'd just heard. “If you're right, I could end up with a modern day range war on my handsâlocal ranchers against the Greens.”
“I doubt it, but it's not altogether impossible. Have you notified his family?”
“Not yet. His office thinks his wife may be out of town. We keep trying their home number but nobody answers. The calls just kick into their voice messaging system.”
Glancing again at the body, Sutter said, “How long do you think he's been dead?”
“Hard to say. Calculating time of death isn't an exact science, and it's even harder when you're dealing with an outdoor crime scene. Temperature variations and weather conditions change things. The ME will help you with that, but judging from the condition of the body, I'd say he's been dead for around twenty-four hours.”
They retraced their steps as the CSI unit arrived, which Books took as his cue to leave. Driving away, he had no idea he was about to become embroiled in a murder investigation where he would be unable to distinguish friend from foeâa case in which the unfortunate death of David Greenbriar served the interests of so many.