Gray Ghost Murders (9781101606070) (19 page)

“I don't know what's with you two,” Stranahan said.

“It's nothing,” Harold said.

“Then I guess it wasn't anything to start with,” Martha said. Ettinger and Little Feather seemed to be alone in the room. Then Ettinger put her face back on.

“You're right, Sean. Let's focus. Harold, you were saying . . .”

Harold shrugged. “Just a thought, but what if Wade acts as a recruiter? He travels to these retreats for the dying, looks for a likely victim, trots out his spiel. Earnest as a pallbearer. Then he sets up the arrangement and steps out of the picture, because he isn't the one holding the gun. He's setting up the confrontation for Crawford. You knock on Crawford's door asking about a gun, then any evidence that puts cuffs on him goes up in smoke. We'll never get closer to him than talking to his attorney.”

Ettinger was looking through the cabin window. Stranahan followed her gaze to the couple on the porch. Kauffeld had his head in his hands.

“Look at him,” Ettinger said. “I think it's finally sinking in.”

“Did you even hear me?” Little Feather said.

“I heard. If this was a plot in a movie I'd be more likely to buy your theory. But what you were saying about Wade being a recruiter got me thinking that maybe there's another way to look at this. All along we've been trying to find a guy who talks people into standing before the barrel of his gun, when maybe we'd get farther if we looked at who he recruits. Think about it. I don't care how earnest and believable this guy is, you have to figure that nine out of ten men he approaches are going to think he's crazy. What if someone came up to you on the street and asked if you'd like to grab a gun and play OK Corral with them? What would you do?”

“I'd contact the police,” Stranahan said.

“Maybe someone has. If we can't get an ID from the car registry, then I think the next step is to start contacting the retreats. Call this Living at Last organization and see if they had a get-together last summer in Bakersfield or Fresno, anywhere near where the Mexican guy, Gutierrez, lived. His brother told me he went to some kind of group therapy in Modesto. Doesn't have to be Living at Last, could be any group. We need to check that out. Any place our vic signed up, see if someone named Wade attended, too. Find out if a third party complained that someone who called himself Wade brought up the idea of squaring off on a mountain in Montana.”

Ettinger's cell vibrated and she stepped away to unholster it, turned her back, listened. Mouthed the word “fuck” as she clicked it shut.

“That was Judy. The phone number was from a bar phone in Ennis, the Silver Dollar. And there's no car that fits the description on the two hundred block of East Mendenhall. They checked a four-block radius.”

“We shouldn't be surprised,” Harold said. “Man's had two days to recover it. You'd think as soon as Kauffeld's a no-show, first thing Wade does is collect his vehicle.”

“Whose side are you on?” Ettinger said, but the bitter tone Stranahan had noted earlier was gone. Martha and Harold had had their moment, the strain had boiled to the surface, and they'd worked through it and were friends again, Stranahan thought, all while conducting their business.

Ettinger said, “Here's what we do. We'll take the rest of the statement, then you and I”—she cocked her hand at Stranahan—“are going to make a house call. Your objections aside, Harold, I think this is the right thing to do. If Crawford's innocent, he'll bend over to cooperate; he'll be happy to give us all he has if he thinks it will keep him out of the headlines. Maybe he lent a rifle to someone or sold it; he'll cough up the name. I'd have you come with us, too, if you'd reconsider.”

Stranahan looked puzzled.

Martha explained. “After we're finished here, Harold wants to take another look at the scene.”

“I do,” Harold said. “I didn't get the chance when we went with Katie because it was the dog's show. I haven't had my eyes on the ground there since the bear asked me to dance.”

“I'd remind you to pack your pepper spray, but then you'd accuse me of acting like your mother,” Martha said.

Harold rolled his eyes. “Dating white women is a challenge,” he said.

•   •   •

T
he rest of Melvin Kauffeld's statement revealed little. Once he'd arrived at the ranch, his story fell in line with what they'd already learned from Sam and Peachy Morris, from first cast on the river right up to, and including, his night of frustration and ultimate passion with Harriet Langhor. An emotional roller-coaster ride that had slowed long enough for Kauffeld to refill the well behind his tear ducts, but was far from over. Langhor was an odd one, Stranahan thought. According to Morris she was a green card immigrant who had left a husband and three children in Portland to attend the teachers' conference. For one week each summer she shut a door on what she claimed was a solid family life and opened one that included a sexual hookup with a fishing guide and, this year, an angel of mercy intervention with a stranger. A woman who could change lives like changing coats and who may well have saved the life of a suicidal man. But intriguing as she was, she was peripheral to Kauffeld's story and Stranahan shifted his eyes from the woman to his notes. He tapped Ettinger's forearm and pointed to his notebook.

She held up a finger to indicate she was getting to it.

At the next break in Harold's questioning, she said, “Mel, what did Wade mean when he wrote ‘remember our plan' and talked about having good days and bad days?”

Kauffeld drew his eyebrows into a single line.

“He, uh, well we, all of us who have terminal disease, it's not like we're sick all the time. There are days we feel pretty good. But then there are days when climbing to the saddle of a mountain would be out of the question. He meant if I was having one of those days, I could come back the next day and he'd come back, too. A contingency plan, if either of us didn't feel up to it the day before.”

Ettinger had caught the change of expression.

“So you could have gone back yesterday and he'd have been there?”

“He said he would.”

“Is there anything else we should know about this?”

He shook his head.

“He also mentioned a hat in his note.”

“I have it. It's just a red hat, so he could see the color from a distance and know it was me. I have the hawk call, too. They were under the rock with the envelope.”

“We'll need them. Peachy Morris said you have a rifle.”

“He has it. I gave it to him.”

“I thought Wade was going to provide one.”

“There was a gun in the car. A bolt-action rifle with a scope. Seven-millimeter Magnum. It's more powerful than my father's old deer rifle, but I was going to stick with a gun I knew. I learned that in 'Nam. I left Wade's rifle in the car.”

“I still have a hard time believing this arrangement of yours. In my whole career in law enforcement, I've never heard anything like it.”

“I can't help you there, Sheriff. It happened all right, or almost did. I'm surprised it doesn't more often. It's ironic if you think about it. You make this commitment, kill or be killed, and it takes that to give you the will to live. Wade did me a big favor.”

“Some favor,” Ettinger said. She made a cutting motion across her throat. Harold began the closing formalities of the statement, which Kauffeld seemed not to hear. He had turned to touch noses with Harriet Langhor, their profiles a reflection of the evolution of humankind since its Cro-Magnon beginnings twenty-five thousand years ago.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Worried Man, Worried Smile

“W
e need Walt here,” Ettinger said as they ascended steps made of river stones embedded in cement that led to the porch of Weldon Crawford's mansion. “Walt has the best cop knock I've ever heard. He says you can tell by the wet stain on the pants if the guy's guilty. Well, here goes . . .”

The congressman opened the door to Ettinger's
bang bang bang
with his professional smile in place, which turned by degrees from perplexity into a sour expression directed at Stranahan.

Ettinger introduced herself, said she'd like to ask him a few questions.

“Do I need to call my attorney?”

“Actually, sir, we'd like your help. You're not under suspicion of anything, but there is a possibility that a crime may have been committed by someone you've met. May we come in?”

“Not him.” Crawford would not look in Stranahan's direction.

“I understand your reluctance. You can believe it or not believe it, but he came to you honestly, thinking you might know something about a burglary in this neighborhood. He's an associate, but he was not working for the department on that occasion.”

“It's true,” Stranahan said.

“Fuck you.”

“Mr. Crawford, please. He has a better understanding of some aspects of the case we're working on than anyone else. I'd prefer him to be present. Or we can do this at the department in Bridger in his presence. It's your choice.”

Crawford hesitated. “Be my guest.”

Stranahan could feel the man's heat as he pushed by him into the spacious living room.

Ettinger said, “I understand you're a busy man. This won't take long. Mr. Stranahan says you owned a rifle, a very expensive rifle made in England.”

“I've owned a number of British firearms. What's this about?”

“You told me you once owned a .475 No. 2 Nitro Express,” Stranahan said.

“So I did. It isn't a crime as far as I know.”

“It may have been involved in a crime.”

“That's ridiculous,” Crawford said. “That rifle was made for a governor of the Kenya colony before World War I. It's a collector's item worth forty grand. I know. That's what I sold it for.”

“Who did you sell it to?” Stranahan asked.

“It wasn't a private transaction. I commissioned it to the firm of Westley Richards and was told the man who bought it is named Jeffery, he's an oil executive for Texaco. Jeffery's the same name as the maker of the firearm. No relation, but he wanted a vintage double and found one in his name. If that man's guilty of anything besides picking your pocket at the gas pump, I'd be highly surprised.”

“When did you sell the rifle?”

“A few months ago, but I commissioned it just after Christmas. Couldn't get the barrels to shoot to the same point of impact. I can't abide a double rifle that won't group. Bucky over at WR wanted me to reduce the price by ten thousand, but I stuck to my gun, you might say. My retirement will be a little softer because of it. I correct myself. Harder. I plan on using the money to hunt Africa next June, after the House recesses.”

“Would you mind showing us your gun safe?” Ettinger said.

“I would mind.”

“Mr. Crawford, we're anticipating DNA results that will match the tissue on a bullet that was shot from a .475 caliber rifle to one of the bodies found on Sphinx Mountain. At that point we will contact Mr. Jeffery and check your old rifle for a ballistic match.”

“And at that point you'll be talking to my lawyer.”

“Mr. Crawford . . .”

“Congressman to you.”

“Congressman, I think you should reconsider.” Ettinger's voice was reasonable. “The rifle you owned is likely the only one of its kind in the state, and you can see Sphinx Mountain from your picture window. You figure the odds. Wouldn't it be in your best interest to cooperate, rather than impede our investigation? You know how that would make you look.”

Crawford's shrewd eyes narrowed. He turned, showing them the lump under his ear, and led the way through the living room into a study that harkened back to colonial Africa—zebra rug, the bleached skull and horns of a sable antelope, an African elephant carved out of ironwood with warthog ivory tusks. Against one wall was a built-in bookcase. Stranahan glanced at the spines, noting a copy of Robert Ruark's
Horn of the Hunter
.

“Seeing how you have me by my Rocky Mountain oysters . . .” Crawford ran his hand along one side of the bookcase, then reached behind and swung the entire bookcase into the room, revealing a walk-in gun cabinet with a rack across the back, three rows of felt indentations to stand shotguns and rifles. At least a dozen rifles and shotguns stood at attention in the rack. In addition, several cased firearms were stacked on the floor. Kauffeld switched on a light. The blue-black barrels of the heavy rifles gleamed.

“I thought most of your collection was at your home in Kalispell,” Stranahan said.

“It is.” One by one he opened the cases. “Satisfied?”

“How many people know about this safe?” Ettinger wrinkled her nose at the scent of tung oil.

“A few. My family, of course. A couple gun nut buddies whom I'd trust with my children. I suppose someone who broke into the house could stumble onto the safe, if he knew what he was looking for. But just getting in the front door wouldn't be easy. They'd have to know the combination to the community gate and it changes every month. Then there's the key code to the house; you have to punch it after unlocking the door or the alarm would ring in your office, Sheriff. And we have year-round residents like Emmitt, and Erik Janssen now, who keep an eye out for trespassers. Besides, nothing's missing. Nothing ever has been. As I told you earlier”—he glanced at Stranahan—“the only break-in I've heard of is the one you told me about, someone stealing trout flies.” He finished restacking the cases and laughed. “I'll give you points for originality. It was a unique approach.”

Stranahan let it pass. He said, “You also talked about ‘The Most Dangerous Game.' Who else have you mentioned the story to?”

“You don't think . . .” Crawford paused as he swung the bookcase back in place and ushered them into his living room. He ran a hand up the side of his neck and scratched at the soft skin under the lump. “My word,” he said. “I've mentioned that story to a lot of people.”

“You told me you'd as soon die in a mano a mano in the mountains as any other way,” Stranahan said.

“As a hy . . . po . . . thetical.” The congressman's voice went up an octave. “You can't believe I have anything to do with what happened up there.”

“No,” Ettinger said, “but we have a witness who's stated that a man approached him with just that in mind, a duel on Sphinx Mountain. The man who approached him also mentioned ‘The Most Dangerous Game.' Can I see your copy, please?”

“It's in the bookcase under the A's for Anthologies. Now what the devil? Maybe it's under G, Charles Grayson edited the volume. The book is called
Stories for Men
. I haven't lent my copy out since last summer. It's not a first edition and the condition is fair at best, but it has sentimental value.”

He was on his knees, running his fingers across the spine of every book on the shelves. “This really puzzles me. I know it was here”—he brought a hand up and touched his fingernails to his neck again—“well a month ago, for sure. I'll be damned.” He moved his fingers to the bald spot on his crown and then drew them down the sides of his nose. “It was my favorite story when I was in high school. I've no doubt brought up the title with dozens of people over the years. Now I've heard someone has made a video game out of the story. Our leaders of tomorrow, killing each other on computer screens.” He shook his head.

“How about people in this valley?” Ettinger said.

“That I've mentioned the story to? None that spring to mind. Certainly no one who could be involved in something like you've implied.” He had turned to look through the window facing the river.

“When you see it from this angle,” he said, seeming to speak to himself, “it really doesn't look like the head of a lion.”

Stranahan and Ettinger moved to the window. They could see the deep saddle between the Sphinx and the Helmet, but not the bench of timber where the bodies had been buried.

“Do you mind?” Stranahan lifted a pair of heavy binoculars from the sill and searched the skirts of the slopes until he saw the trailhead road, a faint trace of gray. Something clicked and he said, “Do you know a man named Buster Garrett? He runs lion hounds.” He lowered the glasses.

“I sure do. He guided me to a 180-pound tom, what was it, three or four years ago I'd say.”

“Could you have brought up the story in his company?”

“Now that you mention it, I might have.” Crawford nodded to himself. “Sure. Because of the hounds.” He nodded again. “Hell, yes. I remember him asking me what kind of hounds there were in the story. Because he has Walkers, you see. Is Buster under suspicion?”

“How well do you know him?” Ettinger said.

Crawford looked thoughtful for perhaps half a minute. When he spoke all the animosity seemed to have seeped from both his expression and his voice.

“I don't know him socially at all, really. Oh, I've seen him around Ennis, in the Dollar. The most he's ever done is tip a longnecked Bud in my direction. You didn't know him, you'd think he was cold for someone you'd spent a hard week with. Usually, you hunt with a man—and this was December mind you, snow so high you don't piss ten inches to make a hole—you get to know him pretty darn well. Know how he wears his hat. That's usually. Buster Garrett isn't ‘usually.' He doesn't talk, not back and forth anyway. If you ask him a question, you'd think he didn't hear you and then maybe five minutes later he'll spit out his snoose and sketch in his thoughts on the matter. Spit out a few words that get straight to the point.” Crawford snapped his fingers.

“Was he ever in this house?”

“Sure. A couple of times.” He paused. “I think I see where you're going with this, and I'll say right now Buster Garrett never borrowed my Jeffery rifle.”

“So what do you think, Weldon?” Ettinger said, and this time Crawford didn't correct her about using his name. “One thing about those men buried up there, the autopsies said they had terminal diseases.”

“So I read.”

“Did Garrett ever talk about having any physical problems himself?”

“No. But he's the kind who wouldn't if he did.”

“What rifle did he carry?” Stranahan recalled the short-barreled gun strapped to Garrett's pack frame.

“One of those Remington 600s with the dogleg bolt. Three-fifty Magnum. He had me shoot it in camp. I think he wanted to impress me. It's got a kick like a Tennessee mule.” He scratched under the boil. “Jesus H. Christ. Buster Garrett, you say. I'd sure like to stay out of this mess, Sheriff.”

“You still might.” Ettinger turned from the window. “Would you have any photos of Garrett from when the two of you hunted?”

“Sure, on my computer.” He walked to his desk and scrolled down the list of albums in his iPhoto application to one labeled “Lion Hunt.” Pictures of the cat treed, dogs lunging at the trunk, one of Crawford holding the dead tom up in a bear hug, blood on the lion's mouth where it had exhaled its ruined lungs.

“Here,” Crawford said. The photo showed Garrett, wearing wool overalls with orange tree-marking ribbons tied around the cuffs to keep the deep snow out, cowboy hat centered and pulled down. He was sitting on a log with his right arm around the neck of a big, lean reddish brown dog. Another dog, one of the Walkers with brick saddles, sat to the other side of Garrett, looking out of the frame.

“That big hound is a Rhodesian ridgeback,” Crawford said. “Buster's kill dog. He calls him Bear.”

“Can you downsize that file and send it to my cell phone?” Ettinger gave him the number.

He tapped keys and a minute later saw them to the door. “Buster Garrett, it's hard to believe,” he said, seeming to talk to himself. And to Stranahan, “I'm sorry about earlier.”

“Thanks for your cooperation. We'll be in touch,” Ettinger said. They started walking to the Cherokee.

“You notice he didn't name Polly Sorenson when you asked him who he'd mentioned the story to, people in the valley?” Stranahan said.

“Mm-hmm. I also noticed the way he distanced himself from Buster Garrett, got that look of ‘maybe I didn't know the man after all' on his face when he realized we thought he could be a suspect. All of a sudden they weren't buds anymore.”

Crawford was framed in the doorway when they backed the Cherokee around to head out. He raised one forefinger in a tentative Montana salute.

“Worried man with a worried smile,” Stranahan said.

Ettinger grunted, submerged in thought.