Authors: Sarah Andrews
Dead Dry (18 page)
As I pondered this new view of the puzzle, Raynolds stared at the top of the lectern, composing a response. “For those of you who are unfamiliar with this situation,” he said finally, “citizens have brought a landmark lawsuit against a group of people who have proposed yet another housing development in the Castle Rock area—ironically named Wildcat Estates after the small mountain that forms the apex of the Arapahoe aquifer fan. The wells for Wildcat Estates would of course tap this already over-drafted aquifer. The suit will test the rights of defendant landowners to build at certain densities if they are dependent on ground water to supply their houses, and the rights of the plaintiffs—existing homeowners—to demand that their dwindling water supplies not be further tapped. As expert witness, Afton McWain’s testimony was expected to be pivotal. I shall be watching the fate of this lawsuit with acute interest.”
Like so much boiling oatmeal, a hubbub of conversations broke out around the room. I felt an itch to stand up
and announce that someone had emptied every last shred of paper out of Afton’s log-cabin office, just to really get everyone riled, but I managed to stay in my seat.
and announce that someone had emptied every last shred of paper out of Afton’s log-cabin office, just to really get everyone riled, but I managed to stay in my seat.
The questioner asked, “But didn’t McWain have a conflict of interest in this case?”
Raynolds replied, “I assume you refer to the fact that Afton owned the adjoining ranch, which makes him a stakeholder in the outcome of the case.”
“Yes.”
“Is it a conflict of interest to tell the truth? Next question.”
Someone asked, “Why is his testimony so important?”
Raynolds said, “Because Afton McWain was, first and last, a scientist of peerless reputation. And he was unimpeachable on the witness stand. If anyone could make the claimants’ arguments stick, he could.”
Another journalist asked the next question. “Can you comment on the plaintiffs’ assertions that the money behind this proposed development has ties to organized crime? Do you think Dr. McWain’s killers were sending a message?”
Raynolds smiled sadly. “That would be a matter for a different sort of an investigator than I am. I study rocks and the modern landforms that are the keys to understanding them, while you are asking me to shed light on human interactions.” He shook his head. “I cannot comprehend murder. You’re asking the wrong man.”
I began to squirm in my chair. Perhaps the killer had sent a message. He had bashed in a face and cut off fingertips, and burying the corpse in that quarry almost guaranteed that it would be located. The West was riddled with lonely stream banks and abandoned mines where a body could rest for eternity without being found.
For an instant, I imagined my own body lying six feet underground, grown cold and damp in a place no one ever visited. The image of such loneliness seeped into my
bones, and I fought back the urge to phone Fritz and beg him to put that second arm around me and touch me again in that way that had made me feel alive. Instead, I got up from my chair, hurried to my truck, and drove down the canyon to the solitude of my apartment and the loneliness of my bed.
bones, and I fought back the urge to phone Fritz and beg him to put that second arm around me and touch me again in that way that had made me feel alive. Instead, I got up from my chair, hurried to my truck, and drove down the canyon to the solitude of my apartment and the loneliness of my bed.
RAY RAYMOND SAT ON A ROCK BESIDE THE TRAIL THAT led up City Creek, trying to decide what to do with himself. After the previous evening’s miserable trip up Little Cottonwood Canyon, he had gone to a late Al-Anon meeting and in the morning had attended church with his mother, but even these comforts had failed to set his soul at ease. Em was in danger, and he blamed himself. By fetching her Friday morning, he had done his job but had gone against some deeper principle. By bringing Gilda to her Saturday afternoon, and then through the tacit encouragement of letting her use his badge to gain information at that conference, he had abandoned her even more deeply to her fate.
Now the McWain case was all over the Denver papers, totally blowing what little cover Em had enjoyed during her rash rush to Colorado. He had to do something to warn her, to stop her, to protect her, but he knew there was nothing.
Ray shook his head ruefully. Em was her own woman, she had made that clear time and again. Why did her care
and protection hang over him like this? Each time she came into his life, everything became a sweet but terrifying chaos, and when he closed his eyes in prayer to try to bring order, Em was right there like a shard of light, ripping at his heart, telling him something he could not bear to know.
and protection hang over him like this? Each time she came into his life, everything became a sweet but terrifying chaos, and when he closed his eyes in prayer to try to bring order, Em was right there like a shard of light, ripping at his heart, telling him something he could not bear to know.
The jagged edges of the rock he was sitting on dug into the palms of Ray’s hands, but he welcomed the sensation, trying desperately to feel his own body.
Suddenly he rose to his feet. This time he would settle things with Em, with her help or without it.
MARY ANN NETTLETON’S SISTER DECANTED BOTTLED water into a pan and turned on the LP gas underneath it. “There,” she said, “a little tea is just the thing after an experience like that. It’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Don’t pour too much, Rita Mae. That bottle is all I’ve got until the delivery man comes.”
“When exactly did your well run dry?”
Mary Ann heaved a shuddering sigh that hovered on the raw edge of tears. “It never did well, but about a month after Henry died I began to run out when I was doing the laundry. Sand would come out into the machine. Then I’d have my hair all soaped in the morning, and it would go to a dribble. Now, I can run the faucet only two minutes a day at a trickle.” She sniffled a bit, daubed at her nose with a crumpled tissue. “It was so nice of you to drive down here to be with me.”
“Sisters have to stick together. Besides, it’s nice to get away from Denver for a while. So you need a new well. So you’ll get a new well, and then you’ll be fine.”
Mary Ann hung her head. “Somehow I don’t think that will be the end of it, Rita Mae.”
“Mr. Upton seemed to feel that you can get Mr. Attabury to pay for it, or at least get you a discount through his development firm.”
Mary Ann twisted her tissue into a knot. “I just couldn’t
believe what Mr. Upton had to say about Mr. Attabury! I’d always thought Mr. Attabury was such a nice man.”
believe what Mr. Upton had to say about Mr. Attabury! I’d always thought Mr. Attabury was such a nice man.”
Rita Mae patted her sister on the shoulder. It was an easy gesture, one she’d made many times in their long life, but now she noticed how frail Mary Ann had become. How old was she now? Sixty-eight? “Well, I didn’t like hearing what he had to say either, dear, but sometimes we have to take our medicine even when we didn’t ask to catch the disease. It was nice of him to see you on a Sunday. He came into his office just for you, opened it himself, just to be nice because he couldn’t attend to your message earlier. He didn’t even have a secretary there to look after him.”
“He called Mr. Attabury a ‘shady dealer.’ Imagine!”
“Well, he did say he’s known him all his life. You’ve known Mr. Attabury less than a year, and he wanted your business. Anybody can seem sweet and nice that long.”
“But to say he was cheating people clear back in high school! He called him a swindler!”
The water boiled, and Rita Mae poured it over the tea bags she had set in the two nice china cups. “I think you should sue him.”
Mary Ann said, “Mr. Upton seemed hesitant to do that.”
“His hesitancy had more to do with his conflict of interest than anything else.”
“Rita Mae, I don’t understand these things.”
“Well, dear, a conflict of interest means that Mr. Attabury is also his client. So he can’t represent one client in suing another. That’s all it means.”
“But if Mr. Attabury is a dishonorable man, why does he represent him?”
Rita Mae shook her head. “I don’t know, dear, but when you’ve known someone since high school, things get complicated. Men are difficult to understand sometimes.” She arched her eyebrows knowingly. “So we’ll just find someone competent for you up in Denver, and that will make it nice and clean.”
“Meanwhile, I don’t have any water. And how am I to afford hiring a lawyer in the first place?”
Rita Mae set the cups down on the table and got the half and half out of the refrigerator. “You need a new well. You’ll drill the well and then take the bill to Mr. Attabury. Mr. Upton says he must have known there was no water when he sold the property to you. I’m sure there’s a law about that kind of thing. Or there should be.”
Rita Mae tapped the file of notes that Henry Nettleton had made when Afton McWain came to visit him. “Meanwhile, I’ll put on my thinking cap and see if I can make heads or tails out of all this information.”
Mary Ann cuddled the hot teacup between her aging hands. She felt chilled to the bone even in the terrible heat of the day. “All right,” she said. “But if we find out that Mr. Attabury swindled my dear departed Henry, he’s going to be sorry he was ever born!”
MICHELE PHONED AS I WAS MAKING MYSELF A DINNER of cottage cheese and yogurt, a favorite when it’s hot out and I just can’t conjure anything worth eating. After I told her what I had learned at the conference, she said, “So you’re saying that McWain’s expert witness testimony was key to the upcoming lawsuit. So killing McWain is killing the star witness. That puts the spotlight on … well, each one of them had a stake in the outcome of that case. Even Gilda. I don’t believe this pap about wanting to stay on that ranch, not after the performance we saw when she couldn’t get her cart to run. She’s into this case up to her eye sockets.”
“Either that or she’s next in line to find herself two inches thick,” I said. “This case smells more and more like organized crime. Give it over to the feds, Michele. Stay alive.”
“So what are you going to do next?” she asked, ignoring any advice.
“Me? I’m going to analyze what little trace evidence we
got off that body—and there wasn’t much, Michele, so don’t pin any hopes on my results—and I’m going to write up my report and fax it to you. Then I’m going to go back to the work I was doing before Friday, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.”
got off that body—and there wasn’t much, Michele, so don’t pin any hopes on my results—and I’m going to write up my report and fax it to you. Then I’m going to go back to the work I was doing before Friday, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.”
“Sure you are. This guy’s a friend of yours. You want to know who killed him even more than I do.”
Michele was beginning to get on my nerves. “He was a colleague, not a friend. And if he had been a friend, all the more reason to bow out of the case. Give me your fax number, so I can send you my results, then find someone else to be an idiot, if you want a partner for this case.”
I wrote down her number and hurried off the phone. Focused my eyes on a book, though it would not cooperate and hold my attention. Turned out the light and tried to sleep. At length, succeeded. Got up the next morning and headed to the sheriff’s department evidence room, where I examined the following items collected at the crime scene:
1.
Reddish clay soil collected from the welts and treads of the corpse’s boots.
(I was beginning to have trouble connecting my departed colleague’s name with his remains.)
Reddish clay soil collected from the welts and treads of the corpse’s boots.
(I was beginning to have trouble connecting my departed colleague’s name with his remains.)
2.
A sack of sand and gravel taken from the quarry site immediately surrounding the corpse.
A sack of sand and gravel taken from the quarry site immediately surrounding the corpse.
3.
Residue taken from underneath the corpse’s few undisturbed fingernails.
Residue taken from underneath the corpse’s few undisturbed fingernails.
4.
A pebble found deep inside a pocket in what was left of the deceased’s pants.
A pebble found deep inside a pocket in what was left of the deceased’s pants.
The pebble was the easy part. It was a two-inch-long, sub-oval bit of chert, which is a quartz mineral, and as such very common on the face of the Earth, and I do specifically mean the face, because quartz is one of those less-dense, silica-rich minerals that “float” on certain others, as I had explained to Trevor Reed. Having a low freezing temperature, quartz is the common mineral that forms near the surface
of the Earth and has a sturdy crystal structure. It is stable and durable. Grinding by glaciers and tumbling by wind and water do little more than wear away the corners of its crystal laths. In the case of this pebble—which I held in a gloved hand as I examined it underneath a ten-power hand lens—it had traveled far enough to become delectably smooth, which was probably why it was in Afton McWain’s pocket. A Ph.D. in geology he might have had, but he would have carried this stone in his pocket simply because it was nice to touch. Now it was sealed in a plastic bag that was marked with chain-of-custody and evidence ID numbers. A pity.
of the Earth and has a sturdy crystal structure. It is stable and durable. Grinding by glaciers and tumbling by wind and water do little more than wear away the corners of its crystal laths. In the case of this pebble—which I held in a gloved hand as I examined it underneath a ten-power hand lens—it had traveled far enough to become delectably smooth, which was probably why it was in Afton McWain’s pocket. A Ph.D. in geology he might have had, but he would have carried this stone in his pocket simply because it was nice to touch. Now it was sealed in a plastic bag that was marked with chain-of-custody and evidence ID numbers. A pity.
I set the pebble back in the evidence tray and turned to the dirt from his boots. This was mostly a fine, red clay, but there were tiny bits of silt and fine sand there as well. It was markedly different from the sand and gravel from the quarry, which was monochromatically gray and totally lacking in red clays as viewed through the lens. The gunk found under McWain’s fingernails looked more animal and vegetable than mineral, but I would do my best to identify it once I got it under the far more powerful eye of the scanning electron microscope, or SEM, at the university.
After signing the chain-of-custody document in the sight of a proper witness and taking splits of the samples, I drove up to the University of Utah to log some time on that SEM. When I got there, I discovered that someone with a higher priority than mine had a gob of analyses to run, and I’d have to come back tomorrow.
Having the brakes jammed on like that hit me like a brick. I realized in a flash that Michele was right, I didn’t want to go back to other tasks. I wanted to stay on this one. So much for being able to walk away from the case.
Restless for something to do but determined to get it done, I put the various samples under a binocular microscope and picked through them with a stainless steel probe that had a wooden dowel for a handle. I selected a few representative clods of clay and prepped them for a trip
through the SEM. The SEM would unmask the minute platy structures of the clays, and I could identify the bits of grit, helping me evaluate whether or not the soils from which those samples came could be fingerprinted or at least narrowed to a state, county, or municipality. But even if that could be established, which was unlikely, it might be indicative of exactly nothing. A man as adventuresome as Afton McWain might have picked up that clay years earlier on a safari to Africa, for all I knew, and could have left the boots in the back of his yurt until the day he was murdered.
through the SEM. The SEM would unmask the minute platy structures of the clays, and I could identify the bits of grit, helping me evaluate whether or not the soils from which those samples came could be fingerprinted or at least narrowed to a state, county, or municipality. But even if that could be established, which was unlikely, it might be indicative of exactly nothing. A man as adventuresome as Afton McWain might have picked up that clay years earlier on a safari to Africa, for all I knew, and could have left the boots in the back of his yurt until the day he was murdered.
Which got me to thinking about those boots again. Hand-sewn welts were almost a thing of the past, having been largely replaced by the glued-on soles that were coming out of China. Whoever stripped the body of its identifying marks had not thought the boots unusual. That would argue for someone old enough to have worn boots like that himself. Whoever had dumped his body at the quarry—and presumably performed the murder, as well—had taken a lot of trouble to obscure the corpse’s identity. Teeth and face smashed, fingerprints gone.
But this brutal killer had not known about the tattoo. This eliminated Gilda from the list of suspects, unless she was smart enough to make the murder look like the work of someone who hadn’t ever gotten naked with the victim. And I couldn’t see someone who took such care with her own manicure cutting off her lover’s fingertips, let alone finding the strength to swing a sledge into his face.
I realized that I was skating mighty close to breaking my resolution about not getting any more involved in this case, so I jotted a few notes about what I had surmised, took the samples to lockup at the sheriff’s department, and headed back to my office to concentrate on other work.
IT WAS ONLY II A.M. I WAS SOON DRUMMING MY FINGERS on my desk, restless as a mare with a burr under her saddle, and by eleven thirty I was all but walking around on the ceiling. When the phone rang, I jumped to answer it.
It was Faye, calling from the airport. “Can you look after Sloane over your lunch hour?” she asked. “I know it’s short notice, but I’ve got a student who wants desperately to go up and shoot some touch-and-goes.”
The idea delighted me but not the venue. “Is Fritz there?”
“No,” she said. “He’s flying Mr. Reed to Reno. Why?”
“Just curious. I’ll be there in ten.”
“What a pal.”
The Utah Geological Survey is on West North Temple, about two-thirds of the way from downtown out to the airport. I stopped by the deli at the local supermarket and grabbed a turkey-and-Swiss sandwich and a big bottle of mineral water for me and a box of animal crackers for Sloane. When I arrived, Sloane ran up to the door to hug my legs, and I hoisted her up for a cheek-to-cheek nuzzle. She ferreted the cookies out of my pocket before I could ask Faye’s permission to give them to her. “Sorry,” I said. “They’re organic anyway.”
“She’ll burn it off. Hey, you’re a peach. The phones are pretty quiet today. No one wants to fly a low-horsepower trainer in this heat except old Barfie there.” She indicated the rather wan-looking young man who was waiting by one of the two-seat Katanas Faye and Fritz had on the line. “Oh, that reminds me,” she said, and pulled a half dozen barf bags out of a cupboard to take with her to the plane.
I said, “Imagine that. Your weakest stomach wants to go up on a high density altitude day.”
“That’s what he says.”
“When’s he going to make his solo flight?”
“Never, at the rate he’s going. He has almost a hundred hours already.”
“He must just have a crush on you.”
“That’s it. He has a weak stomach, so he goes after women twice his age.”
“You still have your come-hither, Faye.”
“Yeah, that’s why the kid barfs every time we go up. Okay, you know the drill: Stay awake, make notes of any
calls, and keep Sloane from making any calls to her bookie.”
calls, and keep Sloane from making any calls to her bookie.”
“Gotcha.”
Such was the tenor of our friendship. We were like an old married couple some days. I had helped her raise Sloane from birth to eighteen months, and since I’d moved out and Faye and Fritz started the business, I had still looked after the little girl once or twice a week over lunch hours and some evenings after work. Faye got the odd bit of child care, and I got pure love.
Now Sloane Renee skipped over to me where I was sitting on a stool by the phones and patted my knee, an old signal meaning that she wanted to get up. I lifted her into my arms and hugged her again. Exuding the intimate aroma of child, she sat cross-legged on my lap, her back braced against the counter, arranging the animal cookies along her legs. She had on bright red pants and wore tiny moccasins. I touched her soft cheek and drifted into a moment of peace.
Two minutes later, the phone rang. It was Fritz. “Oh, hi, Em. Where’s Faye?”
“She and Barfie are touring the pattern.”
“The Barfs? What a man. Would you give Faye a message for me?”
“Certainly.”
I could hear Trevor Reed calling to him from the background. Something about being in a hurry. Fritz said, “Please tell her that I’ll be back there by two. Mr. Reed wants home quicker than we thought.”
“Check.”
“Thanks, Em,” he said brusquely. “See ya. Oh, wait—”
“What?” A flutter of hopefulness tickled my heart.
“Mr. Reed wants to talk to you.” He passed the phone to his client.
“This is Em?”
“Yes, Mr … . Trevor.”
“I read the papers yesterday. Did your quick flight to
Colorado Friday have anything to do with that corpse the sheriff found in that gravel quarry down near Point of the Mountain?”
Colorado Friday have anything to do with that corpse the sheriff found in that gravel quarry down near Point of the Mountain?”
I considered denying this but decided against it. I wanted to hear what he had to say. “Yes, it was,” I replied.
“My contacts in the investment banking business tell me that McWain was trying to block development down in Douglas County.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Want me to look into it on my side of the fence?”
“That … would be fine. But perhaps I should introduce you to the sheriff’s detective who’s on that case.”
“If she’s as smart as you are, I’d be delighted.”
“How’d you know she was a she?”
He laughed. “I have my ways. I’m handing you back to Fritz.”
Fritz came back on the line. “Just tell Faye I’ll be back sooner,” he said again, then the connection went dead.
“Over and out,” I told the phone. To Sloane I said, “That’s us, Sloany my dear, just one big family, where we’re all single and no one’s getting hugged but you.” I sat hugging her for a while, but even during these fine moments, my mind managed to slither back to the case. I found myself contemplating Trevor Reed’s offer. So I wrote him a note.
Dear Trevor,
What can you tell me—and Michele Aldrich of the SLCo Sheriff ’s Dept—about a Realtor named Hugo Attabury and his proposed development of a ranch belonging to Bart Johnson near Sedalia? It’s called the Wildcat Estates Project or something like that. The bank of record may be Castle Rock S&L, and I think the head of that is named Entwhistle. On the QT,
por favor
… need I point out that someone who might be connected to this crew has gotten very rough? Thanks,
por favor
… need I point out that someone who might be connected to this crew has gotten very rough? Thanks,
Em Hansen
I read it back several times to gauge whether or not I had made the connections between the named parties and organizations sufficiently vague. Satisfied, I added my office phone number and Michele’s, put the note in an envelope, licked it and stuck it shut, and left it with Faye to await Trevor Reed’s return from Reno.
TUESDAY MORNING, TO MY IMMENSE RELIEF, I MANAGED to get my mind back on other work for a while. I’d been assigned to help update a database of dimensional building stones quarried from the state of Utah. So I was fiddling with a map trying to locate some of the more obscure quarries of the Navajo Sandstone when, at noon, I got a call from the SEM lab up at the university telling me that the machine was available now if I wanted to run my samples.
I dropped everything and headed back to the sheriff’s department to pick up the evidence. I signed for it and hurried back out the door. As I walked through the gathering heat of the parking lot toward my truck, I bumped into Michele, who was just walking in. “How goes the hot pursuit?” I inquired.
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