Endangered Species (12 page)

“Charles Pipkin? Hang on a minute.” The voice came back.

“We don’t have anything in our files on that name, Detective Wager. Could be a summer cabin.”

“Can you get me an address?”

“You already got it—Rural Route 7. That’s up toward Steamboat Lake, but exactly how far I couldn’t tell you. Just a name on a mailbox—you’ll have to ask the post office here. That’s what we do when we’re looking. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Maybe distance was a factor in his theory. He called San Diego and was finally put through to a detective who heard what Wager wanted and said “Hold on.” Then another voice, more authoritative. It didn’t bother to identify itself but asked for Wager’s name, badge number, and office telephone number. “Someone’ll get back to you in a little while, Detective.”

So much for the distance factor contributing to harmony among the Blue Brotherhood. But at least the speaker had been businesslike.

Wager cleared his pigeonhole of the midmorning messages and found an additional report from Doc Hefley. The victim’s bone structure and teeth indicated that she was in her mid-twenties. Her internal organs showed no presence of drugs or alcohol nor any indication of long-time abuse. She was a healthy female specimen, except for being dead. One of the other messages was a request from Lieutenant Watterson, the department’s public information officer: Please call. Wager did.

“Anything we can tell the press about that arson and death over on Wyandot, Detective Wager?” Watterson took his meet-and-greet job seriously, and a good thing—it was about all the man, book smart and street dumb, was suited for.

“Who said it was arson?”

“The
Denver Post
this morning. The reporter talked to somebody in the fire department; now he wants to know what we have. What can you tell me, Detective?”

He didn’t tell Watterson the first reply that came to mind. Maybe, for a change, a little publicity could work for the cops instead of against them. “Still no identification, Lieutenant. We’re treating it as a possible homicide and arson. The victim’s a female, probably in her twenties, and if anyone knows anything about it, we’d like to hear.”

Watterson’s voice got happy, “Ah! You saying we need the public’s help on this one?” It was something he could use as a lead sentence for a press release. “Can we say, ‘The Denver police are asking the public’s assistance with …’?”

“Sounds fine.”

“All right—thanks, Detective!”

Dialing Richmond, Virginia, Wager learned from the operator there that no John Taylor at 935 Jefferson Avenue listed a telephone. Nor was there an unlisted number for that name and address. Wager wasn’t all that surprised, but it did give him something more to consider. A dope ring wasn’t ruled out, but since the victim wasn’t a user, it didn’t seem as likely now. What did seem likely was some kind of organization that wanted to escape notice. The Posse Comitatus or some other right-wing antigovernment group? The nature poster and magazine hinted at a shared interest: radical environmentalists? But what reason would they have to hide? The missing renter wasn’t Hispanic, so he wouldn’t be a member of one of the more militant La Raza offshoots. Mormon polygamists? Wager had run across those before, but so far nothing fit that life-style—no children, no “sisters” sharing the same roof. Still, there was evidence of a group of people from out of state who visited the address for a few days, kept a low profile, and tended to escape notice. It was possible that, for some reason, they valued their secrecy enough to kill for it.

When his telephone finally rang, Wager expected the authoritative San Diego voice, but it was another man, who said, “This is Special Agent Bunting of the Denver office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I understand you called San Diego to speak with William Johnson.”

“Who?”

The line hummed a moment. “Are you the officer who called the San Diego police for some help with a telephone number?”

“Yes. But they haven’t gotten back with a name yet.”

“I see. Care to tell me what your investigation’s about, Detective Wager?”

“Homicide. I’m trying to identify the victim. What’s the FBI’s interest in this?”

Another pause. “A homicide victim?”

“Happened late on the twentieth or early on the twenty-first. A female, but she’s burned too badly to get any identification. Now, what’s this have to do with the feds?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Wager was left holding an empty line and the easily stirred resentment of any cop who gave information to the FBI and was offered nothing in return.

Bulldog Doyle held an unlit cigar just off his lips. “The FBI? How the hell do they come into it?”

Wager told him about tracing the San Diego number.

Doyle pushed one of the intercom buttons. “Michelle, get Dr. Hefley for me.”

The woman’s voice came back. “Yes, sir.”

He turned to Wager. “Bring me up to date.”

That didn’t take long, and Doyle reached the same conclusion Wager had. “This Marshall was in hiding before the victim was killed.”

“Unless he planned the murder this way.”

“You believe that?”

Wager didn’t, but he knew better than to rule out anything until the evidence said otherwise. “It’s one possibility.”

“Um.” Doyle finally lit the thick cigar with a long wooden match. A cloud of gray smoke swirled in front of his face. “What about WIPP?”

The federal Witness Protection Program. Wager had considered that too. “Another possibility. But I don’t like it. Marshall had too much contact with people who aren’t local: visitors to his house with out-of-state plates, long-distance calls.”

“Yeah. Those visitors. People who stayed only a short time and didn’t mingle with the neighbors.” Another large puff. “Did Douglas run any tests for dope traces in the house?”

Wager nodded. “He didn’t find a thing. But the fire makes it tough to be sure.” He added, “No traces in the victim’s organs, either.”

“Um.” Slowly, Doyle shook out the wooden fireplace match he ritually used to light his cigars. His desk held other instruments for the ritual too—an engraved cigar cutter, a large wooden box with a nameplate on the lid and a doodad inside to hold moisture. It was a Christmas present he’d once shown off to Wager. “And now the FBI. This whole thing is starting to stink.”

Maybe it was a case for Golding. The intercom buzzed, and Wager watched Doyle press the Communicate switch.

“Dr. Hefley on line one, sir.”

“Thanks … Doctor! How are you this morning?”

Doyle always had to use preliminary bullshit before he got to the point. Wager figured it was part of the department’s new Intensive Public Relations Enhancement Program, whose memos came through headed I-PREP.

“Has anybody from the FBI contacted you yet?” Doyle paused for the answer. “Good. But they probably will. If they do, don’t release anything—it’s an ongoing case; it’s our jurisdiction. Refer all requests and inquiries to me, understood?” Another pause. “Good. … Right. You too. And don’t forget that Boulder River trip.” He hung up and smiled at Wager. “Fishing trip. Up in Montana. Get in before the snow flies.”

Wager didn’t give a damn about vacations, Doyle’s or anybody else’s. “That’s fine.”

Doyle’s smile went away. “Right. Well, the same goes for you, Wager: I don’t want any information released to the FBI without my approval. Clear all requests with me, and pass that word to Douglas as well.”

“What about our I-PREP campaign? Does that include the media?”

The Bulldog chewed on his cigar as he stared at him. “That program comes straight from Chief Sullivan. You having trouble with it, Wager?”

“I’m only asking, Chief.”

Another chew. “Refer all press inquiries to Watterson. I’ll brief him.”

Wager nodded and stood.

As usual, Doyle wasn’t through. “You need any help?”

“Not yet. Maybe after I know a little more about what we have.”

The chief studied Wager. “It’s your case, of course. But you keep me informed.”

Relations between the Denver PD and the FBI ranged from touchy to terrible. A lot depended on which agents were involved and what the case was. But like many large police departments, Denver’s was leery of getting in bed with the feds. FBI, NSA, DEA, ATF, you name it—whatever alphabet group it was, they tended to come into a local jurisdiction and stomp around until they closed out the part of the case they were interested in. Then they grabbed as many headlines as they could and ran off, leaving the locals with a pile of crap that was too compromised to bring into court. The Secret Service was that way too, even if they didn’t go by their initials.

When Special Agent Bunting called back, to get more information on the homicide, Wager asked again what the FBI’s interest was.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you, Detective Wager.”

“But you’re at liberty to ask about one of our ongoing homicide investigations, Special Agent Bunting.”

The man understood. “If it was my case, Detective, I’d be glad to give you all I have. But it’s out of the San Diego office, and in addition to not knowing a damn thing about it, I can’t speak for them.”

“Then, Special Agent, San Diego better send somebody who can. Have a nice day.”

Eighteen minutes later, Chief Doyle rang.

“Chief Sullivan called down—somebody in the San Diego office of the FBI squawked about our lack of cooperation. Sullivan wants to see us right now.”

“I’m on my way.”

Doyle and Wager rode up to the top floor. The office of the chief of police was a pair of large and quiet rooms whose windows looked toward the shiny gold dome of the state capitol and the hot glitter of traffic that circled it like hungry flies. The good-looking Chicana receptionist smiled hello and murmured something into her intercom, then she nodded at them. “Please go in, Chief Doyle.”

Wager went too.

“Doyle, Wager. Sit down, gentlemen, and tell me what the hell’s going on.”

The chief preferred civilian clothes, but he nonetheless wore them like a uniform. A set of dress blues, freshly pressed and glittering with brass, hung in a plastic bag on a coatrack behind the door. On each side of the large, neatly organized desk, standards held the flags of nation and state, city and police. Wager sat in a black leatherette chair that caressed his back with the embossed seal of the City and County of Denver. He kept his mouth shut while Doyle did the talking.

Sullivan listened and rubbed a forefinger at the baggy flesh under one gray eye. He turned to Wager. “The Denver office called you? Not San Diego?”

“An Agent Bunting. I don’t know him.”

“I do—he’s not so bad. At least it wasn’t Wilmore.”

Doyle snorted. “He should have retired years ago.”

“He did,” said Sullivan. “He just hasn’t turned in his badge. How important is this William Johnson, Wager?”

“I don’t know anything about him. Bunting let the name slip when he called me.”

“Nothing on him in our files?”

“I counted about forty William, Willy, Will, or Bill Johnsons. Fifteen or twenty have convictions or old addresses in southern California. None of them were linked to Marshall or to that address.”

“Yeah. I suppose that was too much to hope for.” Sullivan made a decision. “OK, I’m going to call San Diego. I’m going to tell them we’ll be happy to”—he stressed the next word—“exchange information with them. I’ll tell them to work through you, Wager—you’re the officer of record on this homicide. Use your own judgment about how much to let them have. But make damned sure we get something for what we give.”

In the elevator on the way back down, Doyle reminded Wager, “Sullivan wants to be a nice guy. But if you need additional horsepower, I’m on call. Just don’t forget it’s our jurisdiction. And by God a homicide.”

Homicide, even for the feds, was the ranking offense, which the next caller apparently knew. He was a Special Agent Mallory of the San Diego office, and he spoke softly as he apologized for the mixup—”Unfortunately, that can happen when a request goes through too many hands”—and explained that Bureau policy required field offices to work through each other when a case crossed territorial lines. “It’s our policy here in San Diego to work closely with local law enforcement agencies, Detective Wager, and we’ll be happy to work with you.”

It all sounded very nice and cozy, but so far Agent Mallory hadn’t told Wager a damn thing. “Who is William Johnson?”

Only a slight hesitation. “He’s a person who serves as a liaison for us. I can’t tell you more than that over the telephone. I understand you have a homicide there involving a young woman?”

Wager had told Bunting only that the victim was a female, nothing about her age. “You know who it might be?”

“Nothing definite. We have an informant who’s missed her contact. But she’s done it before.”

“Want to describe her?”

“Twenty-three years old, blond and blue, five eight, one twenty-five. A small rose tattoo on the back of her left shoulder, no other identifying marks or scars.”

“Name?”

“… Pauline Tillotson. Does this description fit your victim?”

“It fits a young woman who was seen at the house before the fire. She may or may not be the victim. The pathologist says she’s in her twenties, all right, but the only means of identification we have are the teeth.”

“Do you have a forensic dentist? I can send you Tillotson’s dental records.”

“I’d appreciate that. The house was owned by a John Marshall—possibly an alias. Have anything on him?”

Mallory was silent a moment. “No, I can’t place that name. Is he a suspect in this?”

“The fire was an arson, but the woman was dead before it started. Marshall may have been the last one to see her alive.”

“I see. …”

That was more than Wager did. “What’s going on, Agent Mallory? What was Tillotson tied up in?”

“I’d feel a lot more comfortable telling you if I knew for certain who the victim is.”

“I don’t expect a positive ID for another six or eight weeks. And then there might not be one.”

“Six or eight weeks?”

“We sent the hands and dental X-rays to the FBI lab. It takes your people a long time.”