Saving Cecil (14 page)

A magnifying glass wasn't even necessary in scanning the aerial. I found what I was looking for right off. Just as I'd suspected, a large clearing, probably a loading deck for a past logging operation was still visible. I smiled smugly. Time to have a little chat with the Lauderbachs.

FOURTEEN

Before I called the
Lauderbachs, I examined the last of the chip sampl
es and pebbles brought up overnight from the depths of the ancient basin as I rehearsed in my head the way I wanted our conversation to go. Informing them about Cecil prior to bringing up the bad news about the hogs and why they had to go seemed right. I was just finishing my Schmid and Medlin work when Jackie poked his head in the door and gave me a you-got-time-for-me look. “Come on in,” I said. “You've saved me a trip out to you.”

“I thought I'd let you know we made it through that diabase dike with no trouble. Apparently, our mojo is still working,” he said. He and I conducted a short, impromptu meeting regarding the drill plan and our next move should any problems arise. My motto: always have a plan, a backup plan and a backup to the backup. After he left, I cleaned up, then put in a call to the Lauderbach home. Sara answered and said now would be a good time to visit.

When I arrived, instead of taking me to the sunroom, Ruby guided me down a wide hallway lined with photos of generations of Lauderbachs to a room that at one time might have been a den.

Wall-mounted cases held trophies and ribbons for numerous cattle shows and county and state fairs. A wide-screen television, couch, and chairs had been relegated to the far end of the room. The rest was devoted to physical therapy equipment.

Annette Lauderbach sat in a folding chair, watching her husband as he took a few steps in an obviously homemade contraption the likes of which I'd never seen. It looked like two large horseshoes welded together at 90-degree angles with a harness in the middle. The seven-foot-tall device rested on John Deere lawn mower wheels.

Arthur, comfortably positioned in the harness, balanced himself with handles welded to either side of the horseshoe frame. Sara and Luther stood by, ready to offer assistance.

With deliberate determination, he slid one foot forward across the floor a few inches. Then, straining mightily, veins popping out on his neck, he shifted his weight until he balanced again so he could drag his back foot to the new position where he'd rebalance and start the process all over again. Once he completed a step, everyone clapped. Luther helped him into his wheelchair and pushed him to the sitting area.

My admiration for his amazing progress was heartfelt and I let him know, then asked, “Where in the world did you get this amazing piece of equipment? It looks—”

“Homemade?” Arthur laughed. “It is. Luther's quite handy when it comes to creative engineering. I wasn't making any progress going to the therapist once a week, so he came up with this and now that I can work every day, I've been doing much better.”

Ruby beamed. Luther grinned proudly. I was wondering how much longer they'd hang around, and if I should come back another time, when he and Ruby excused themselves.

When I gave Arthur, Annette, and Sara the grand news about Cecil, they were at first astounded. Then they were ecstatic, especially Sara. She started to cry, she was so overcome with emotion. “I just wish Clinton was here to enjoy this.”

“But that's the best part,” I said. “I believe he's the one who found it. That is, if this is his.” I pulled the Estwing pick from my tote.

Sara gasped. “I gave him that for Christmas a few years ago. He was so proud of it.”

“It appears he's been working—maybe for years—to expose enough of the fossil to show someone who could help him with a discovery of its magnitude. Do you know if he'd been spending time with any of his paleo professors lately?” The three Lauderbachs indicated that, if anything, Clinton had become withdrawn and less social after declaring his new major.

“He didn't get all weird or anything,” Sara said. “He was just very intense and focused on his studies. We still did things together, just not as often. Several times I asked him if something was up, you know, like a girlfriend occupying his time. He just said he was busy. There was one time when he was working on something important, and I pressed him on it. He only smiled and said, ‘you'll see soon enough.' Now I know what he was talking about.” Her chin trembled, but she sucked in a deep breath and continued, “I'll talk to his professors and see if he mentioned anything about the fossil to them—”

“No!” I cut her off abruptly. “Leave the paleo department out of this for the time being. I can't stress enough the importance of keeping this find a secret in these early days. Once we go public, there'll be a slew of professors and friends coming forth, all saying they'd worked on the fossil with Clinton. Documentation will prove whether they were.”

The Lauderbachs all nodded in agreement and I continued, “Meanwhile, I've already arranged to have a crack team put together to see that the fossil is properly excavated and that Clinton gets all the credit for the find and the early work on it … ” I paused and looked at them intently so as to be sure of their feelings. “ … if that meets with your approval, of course.”

“Of course,” they answered in chorus.

“Good. I just want you to know that everything about Cecil is subject to your approval, Arthur. As the landowners, you and Annette also own the fossil. It will be up to you to donate it or sell it to whomever you wish.”

“What about Clint's parents?” Sara said.

“Good question,” I said. “But, again, for the present, let's keep the number of people with knowledge of Cecil”—I explained the nickname to them too—“to a minimum. I want to be sure we can prove Clinton discovered it first, and I've done my best to document that with photos, but no sense taking chances right now.”

“Do you think someone would really try to take credit for a discovery made by a student who's now dead?” Annette asked incredulously.

“When it comes to the grant money and prestige a find like Cecil will bring, the answer is yes,” I said. “But let me worry about that.”

“Gosh,” Annette said. “Look at the time, Arthur! Luther will be here any minute to take you to the barn for your regular visit.” To me, she said, “Arthur has had to reduce his time in the barn since he came home from the hospital to Saturday mornings only.”

“I understand,” I said. “I've got to leave too. But before I do, one quick question, Arthur. Where on the farm do you keep your hogs?”

Arthur's brow furrowed. “Years ago, my father used to have some hog pens between the two barns in a sheltered area. Of course, we only kept a small number, just what we needed for our family use. Now days it's far cheaper to buy what you need at the store. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” I said quickly, hearing the squeaky clump of Luther's black gum boots in the hallway. “I'm just afraid of hogs and if you have any stashed in the woods somewhere, I'd like to know so I don't stumble upon them.”

Arthur laughed. “Aw, you don't have to worry about us having any, but feral hogs, now, that might be something to consider. I know they're becoming a problem for farmers to the east of us.”

“I'll keep my eyes open,” I said, standing. “And remember, it's important not to discuss the fossil with anyone until we've crossed all our T's and dotted all our I's.”

I
decided to make this Saturday work day a short one and was straightening my office preparing to leave when my iPhone clanged. “Dad!” I exclaimed, truly stunned. “I've been trying to reach you for weeks. Where have you been? Are you alright? How's Mozambique? Are you coming to the wedding?”

“Cleo,” my dad said in his matter-of-fact voice. “Settle down. I don't have much time. I'm in between dives but I'll try to answer your questions one at a time. First, tell me why you were having a conversation with that damn criminal, Stuckey.”

I gave him the whole story about finding the murdered body of a friend of the family whose land I was working on and Stuckey's insane insistence that I was his prime suspect.

“Tell me he isn't pursuing you like a rabid bulldog.” Dad's voice carried a hint of alarm.

“Actually, I've heard very little from him,” I said. “Probably because he doesn't have a case and because he's consumed with getting reelected right now. But back to you, Dad, I know you've been up here and I want to know why you didn't come see me and what Stuckey meant about you and your friends trying to overturn your old case.”

“Well, as I recall,” my dad drawled, “I just dropped by to see Buster on short notice. Johnny ran into us later. It was good to see him, too,
though … ”

“Dad, please!”

“You weren't in town and I didn't see any need to tell you later and make you feel guilty.”

Trying to recall where I was “back in the spring,” as Johnny had described the time he'd seen Dad and Buster at a local café, I asked, “Where was I?”

Dad snorted a laugh. “Well, honey, you'd know that better than I would.”

Frustrated, I squawked, “What about the three of you trying to overturn your old conviction? What was Stuckey talking about?”

I heard a mechanical chiming sound. “Dive manager's ready for me to go down now,” Dad said, referring to his job as an underwater welder. “We'll talk about this later.”

“Wait! Dad! What about the wedding? You are coming, aren't you?”

“Gotta go!”

“Dad? Hello?” I said into a dead line.

The house was quiet late that Saturday afternoon as I checked my email in my study. Reading a quick note from Watson, saying he'd be landing at Raleigh-Durham International on Friday, the 18th, around one thirty, brought both relief and a tightening in my gut. The relief came from knowing I was moving forward with my plans for saving Cecil. As for the concern, well, there were still a passel of hog hunters running loose on the Lauderbach's farm and one person was already dead. Whether Clinton's death and the hog hunters had anything in common, I didn't know, but I sure as hell didn't want to find out the hard way. I shut down the computer and moved into my bedroom.

Carefully shedding my muddy clothes—causalities of trying to squeeze a fat van along a narrow path—I tossed them down the laundry chute and pulled on clean jeans and a favorite, old sweater. I was just heading downstairs when I thought I heard a car in the drive and looked out the window. It was Chris. I hurried to the front door to meet him.

“What brings you here?” I said, gesturing for him to enter. Just then I heard a growl from Bud's Porsche and I knew he wasn't far away.

Chris turned at the sound and said, “Let's wait for your husband.”

“Husband-to-be,” I corrected as Bud's creamy turbo Carrera whipped into my drive and chirped to a stop beside Chris's Crown Vic.

I directed Chris into the kitchen where I offered him a beer, which he declined with a negative shake of his head.

“I'll take one,” Bud said, striding into the room. I opened the refrigerator, handed him a Bud Light and was reaching for the white wine—technically it was the cocktail hour—when he dropped the bomb. “Chris thought I should be here when he informs you that Stuckey's going to arrest you for the murder of Clinton Baker in the next few days.” I closed the door and made a beeline for the Jack Daniels.

FIFTEEN

Bud took the bottle
from my trembling fingers and poured it into a tumbler. “Well,” I said. “This blows our wedding plans all to hell. Henri and Will are going to be so disappointed.”

“What about us?” Bud said.

“You know what I mean!” I snapped back.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Chris said. “I've had several long talks with him, trying to dissuade him, get him to wait until I can fully investigate but he's hell-bent.” Chris rubbed his brow in consternation. I could tell he was torn between trying to follow orders, something he'd been doing for most of his adult life, and using his common sense. He shifted uncomfortably. I pulled a bar stool from under the overhang of the stove island. “Sit,” I said and he did, seemingly grateful to do so.

I needed to tread lightly here, but, well, if this thing was going to get really insanely nasty—and I had up close and personal knowledge of how Stuckey could take insanely nasty to unheard-of heights—then I needed to find out now which side of the fence Chris was going to graze on. “You sure you don't want to rethink that beer, or maybe something stronger. The clock says you're off duty. Is this an official call or just friendly support?”

Bud set a can of Bud Light in front of Chris. He popped the top. I took that to mean the latter was the case. “Remember what I told you about my past with Stuckey?” Chris nodded again. “And how if it weren't for Bud, my dad would probably be on death row?”

“Right,” Chris said, taking a long pull on the beer.

“Well, it seems to me, that in light of what I told you about his actions then and how he's acting now—irrational seems the most appropriate choice of words—you could at least give me the benefit of the doubt until we find the real murderer.”

“We?”

“Well, clearly you need help. I mean … ”

“How do you think the DA would take my letting the prime murder suspect in a case help me clear herself in that very case? How do you think that would stand up in court? Besides, I think I can wrap up a simple case of murder without the help of you two. I've done it many times.”

“But … ” I sputtered.

“On the other hand,” he continued. “I have to admit that Stuckey's judgment in matters concerning this case seems somewhat … ”

“Biased?” offered Bud.

“Non-existent,” I added.

“I was going to say, distracted … what with his election and all. Moreover, we're shorthanded. The bad economy has been bad in many ways for our department. We've had cutbacks in hiring, layoffs, and frankly, I don't know what happens to the department's money. Anyway, it's not your problem except that instead of the six detectives we used to have, counting me, now we only have four.”

“Well, there you go,” Bud said. “Another reason we've got to get this case wrapped up so Cleo can stay on the job. The more wells brought in successfully in this county, the more expendable funds there are available for every sector of the economy, including government hiring.”

“I see your point,” Chris said. “That's why I'm going to call an audible on this thing. From now on, Ms. Cooper, any time you run across information pertinent to the case—by accident, of course, you let me know.” He slugged down the rest of his beer, crushed the can and looked at Bud and me.

“That's it? That's your plan?” I asked.

“It's the best I can do,” he said.

“Nothing says we can't be ready with our own plan, Cleo,” Bud said.

“Yeah,” I said. “What's our plan?”

“I'll have our attorney draw up papers swearing out a warrant for Stuckey's arrest for attempted murder on the grounds that you think he was responsible for shooting out your tire,” Bud said. “He needs to know we are ready and willing to file them.”

“Now
that's
a plan that might actually get Stuckey's attention,” Chris said, rising from his bar stool. “Dueling lawsuits. Plus, he has some experience with Bud's high-powered lawyers.”

“Wait,” I said as he turned to leave. “I have information that I … accidentally came across today.”

“Oh, wow,” Chris said sarcastically. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Well, as I said, I only happened to see what I saw by accident, you understand.”

“Of course.”

“Remember that green Toyota truck I told you I first came across at the hog pe
ns?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, while I was on my way to the site this morning, I just happened to see it again.”

“Just
happened
to see it? Where was it?” Chris asked.

“On one of the farm roads a few hills and down elevation from where I was driving, but, since you weren't there to investigate, I thought I'd be a good citizen and see where he went.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Okay, tell me where he went.”

“Well, I followed from a safe distance until he turned down a logging road and, because I promised my fiancé”—I batted my lashes as Bud—“I wouldn't engage in activity best left to the law, I turned around and went to my office. I figured he might be going to check on some of the hogs. If so, more than likely they'd be in a clearing, which, if it was an old logging deck, I'd be able to spot on my aerial of the farm.”

“Good thinking. Were you able to spot it?”

“Yep.”

“You did that for me?” Bud said. “You actually turned around?”

“Certainly,” I said, poker face in place. Then to Chris: “Anyway, I have a theory about multiple remote locations and why they'd be needed. Want to hear it?”

Chris glanced at his watch. “Sure,” he said and sat back down as Bud dropped another cold one in front of him. “I just can't be late picking up your lovely daughter.” Bud raised his eyebrows.

“It's simply a matter of wind direction and what's going on at the farm at any given time,” I said. “For instance, if there's planting going on, lots of workers milling about a field near a certain patch of woods, then that patch wouldn't be a good place for a hunt. So they take the trophy hog in question, move it to a pen on the other side of the farm where nothing is going on and there's no chance of being seen. Also, if you're letting a hog loose to be hunted down, it's a good idea to do it upwind of where the hunter will be. In looking at the aerials of the farm, there are quite a few clearings where pens could be hidden.”

“Wouldn't you be able to see the pens in the photos?” Bud asked.

“Not if they're placed under the overhang of the trees at the edge of the clearing. It isn't like these are large hog farms back in the woods. The one I saw had five split-rail pens. There was also a shed, but it was one of those portable kinds. Also, if there are pens scattered around the farm, they're probably made from corral panels. They're lightweight and easy to move. In fact, I've seen quite a few stacks of them at various spots on the farm. And, since they are usually painted a rusty brown color, they'd blend right in with the scenery.”

“All of this is good information,” Chris said distractedly as he checked his watch and rose and headed for the door.

Now or never.
“There is something else,” I said dismally. I hated to utter my next words, but I had to. It was time to trust the law. Or try to, anyway. Still, when it came to a fossil as important as Cecil … well, it took everything I had to say, “I've discovered another motive for murder.”

Chris stopped and turned back to us. His expression turning from impatient to deadly serious. “What?”

“A very rare, very valuable fossil.”

I guess one look at my face told Chris this was not something I wanted to talk about. If he sat back down any faster, we would need to have the bar stool surgically removed. “Fossil? Valuable enough to commit murder for?” he asked quizzically.

“Yes,” I explained. “I'm referring to the fossil of a long-extinct reptile. Since you have Clinton's computer, you've got access to his research files. You need to see if he has started a file regarding this species … ” I stood, went to my kitchen desk, and wrote the Linnaean classification for Cecil on a piece of paper.

“What the hell is that?”

I sighed. “You might want to call Henri,” I said. “This might take more than a minute and a half to explain.”

Turned out it only took about twenty minutes to tell Chris the story of how I stumbled upon Cecil, how I knew Clinton was the one who had actually discovered him, how it would take a team of paleontologists to excavate it, and why I didn't feel safe doing that with a bunch of hot-headed hog hunters running around with bows and arrows.

I explained why it was so important to me, the Lauderbachs, and anyone who knew Clinton to be able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the one to make the discovery. I gave a quick explanation of how, in the cutthroat world of academics, it would take more than an Estwing rock pick bearing his initials to prove he was the founder. I ended by saying, “There's one other thing that you could do to add strength to our proof of who actually found Cecil.”

“Shoot,” Chris said.

“Remember the camos Clinton was wearing?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he also hid the fossil under a twenty-foot camo tarp that was purchased from G.I. Joe's Army Surplus in Durham. If you could find that the tarp was bought from the same place—hopefully at the same time—then we'd really have something. I'd do it for you, but again, I don't have access to his computer and his credit card records.”

“When do you think it was purchased?”

“Well, the tarp is very weathered, but it would be. More so than his clothes. Still I'd start looking at least three years ago.”

When I finished, Chris said, “You've done some very good work here.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “Glad I could be of help. Accidentally, of course.”

“If fossils are as big a deal in the world of academics as you say, this could be the break I need,” Chris said. “I'll have my staff go through all his emails to see if they match up with anyone at the university … ”

“Not to mention the museum world,” I said.

“Right. Suffice it to say, this opens up a whole new set of motives, don't you think?”

“Honestly, from what I've learned of that young man, I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt him, much less kill him. Here's the thing though, secrecy, at least until we can get the legalities and the extraction team firmly established, has to be the watchword. No one can know about it. Least of all that maniac, Stuckey.”

Chris held out his palm like a traffic cop. “Okay, I know how you guys feel. And I understand your desire to have the hog situation under control before you put vulnerable academic types in a situation you feel could be dangerous. Just tell me how long it's going to take you to get everything in order so that you feel comfortable going forward.”

“Watson is coming in Friday, the 18th. I'll know more then … ”

Bud's text tune chimed. “Uh-oh,” he said. “It's Henri. You forgot to call her.” Without a word of good-bye, Chris scrambled for the door.

I smiled. “Good to see the disturbance in the force is being rectified and the balance of power in the universe is returning to normal.”

“I agree. I was beginning to think Henri was losing her touch,” said Bud, noticing his beer can was empty. He checked the refrigerator. “We're out of beer in here. I'll bring some more in from the garage.”

“Good idea,” I said. I had another refrigerator and freezer out there so I never ran low on the important things in life. I was trying to remember what I had there that I could whip up for dinner when I suddenly had a bad thought and ran to catch Bud. Too late.

He was already in the garage, standing in front of the minivan, his hands on his hips. “You've wrecked another car?”

“What do you mean? It's not wrecked,” I said indignantly. “I told you, I didn't want to follow the green Toyota too far into the woods so I turned around and went back to the office where I could let my maps do the work for me.”

“Where'd you turn around … inside a cement mixer?”

“Har, har. Very funny,” I said, retrieving the beer from the fridge. Then I opened the freezer, grabbed a surefire subject changer and held it up.

Bud's eyes got big and round. “Homemade chicken pot pie?”

Sunday was a busy day at the well. Jackie was cracking the whip on the crew as they tripped the strings of drilling pipe up out of the hole. They'd pull everything up, change the bit to a directional one, and then push it all back down again. Since we'd reached our kickoff point, the beginning of the gradual turn to the horizontal, we needed a directional bit. This process could take a few days. The good news: I didn't have to feel guilty about going home once I'd caught up with last night's samples. I needed to take care of some domestic chores.

It would take about 500 vertical feet to complete the turn and hit our target horizon at the base of the Cumnock Formation. Once we were completely horizontal, we'd continue on for a quarter of a mile, about 1300 feet, and end the drilling part of this well. Casing, cementing, and perforation would take place after that, followed by a few days of fracking. All this, assuming no unforeseen problems arose, would take another week, more or less. Then, the well would become the domain of the production and reclamation people.

I was making notes regarding a chip sample when Sara bopped into the trailer with a friend in tow. She introduced me to Mia, one of Luther and Ruby's daughters. “Nice to meet you,” I said, noticing her Prada shoes and stylish Burberry sweater and muffler. “Are you in school with Sara at UNC?”

“No ma'am,” said the beautiful child with the perfect manicure. “I'm at Brown.”