Dead Mountain, page 12
Now the silence went on for a good thirty seconds. Finally, Corrie spoke. “What a shit show. Nora, this is so unlike you. You’re supposed to be the steady one, the one who follows the rules. I’m the impulsive one. And yet here you are, stealing bones and getting in a tussle with a sheriff.”
“I didn’t steal anything! What I did was well within the NAGPRA law. And it was the right thing to do.”
“Of course it was the right thing to do,” said Corrie. “But, Nora, we live in the real world, where the right thing is not always the smart thing. Believe me, I’ve found that out the hard way. I thought you were savvier than this.”
“I’m not going to apologize for ethically correct behavior,” Nora said hotly. “Especially when it comes to the dignity of Native Americans and their religious rights!”
“Whoa, don’t lecture me like I’m some retrograde. I’m totally in sympathy with those views, but, for God’s sake, Nora—your brother got in a fight with a sheriff!”
Nora swallowed, trying to collect herself. “Look, I know I’ve created a problem, but I’m going to need help. Skip’s in a lot of trouble. You’re FBI—I’m hoping you’ll be able to intervene, calm the situation down, use your influence to get the charges dropped.”
“Are you kidding? The FBI can’t touch this with a ten-foot pole. I’m really sorry, but we’re going to have to disavow this rogue operation of yours—and in no uncertain terms.”
“You’re not going to help? What if the sheriff erases the video? I mean, he’s a corrupt bastard. You know that.”
“We can’t intervene in any way. I’m sorry. I really, really wish you’d come to me first. This is going to be all over the news—and I’m going to look bad for bringing you in.”
“You’re going to look bad? I’d like to remind you that if you hadn’t asked for my help to begin with, my brother wouldn’t be behind bars right now!”
There was a brief, brittle pause. “I’m sorry. You need to get Skip a good lawyer, because if Hawley follows through on that attempted murder charge . . .” She paused, and Nora heard her speak to someone in the background. “Nora, I’ve gotta go. Quantico’s about to send us the dental labwork on the two bodies.”
Nora lowered her cell phone. Her hand was shaking, and she felt sick to her stomach. She looked out at the parking lot in time to see the greasy McDonald’s wrapper come back around in a circle, scraping on the asphalt, carried by the endless wind of the Staked Plains.
She raised the phone again and called Councilman Tenorio.
23
TAKE A RIGHT at County Road 69,” Sharp said, “and follow it north for a mile or so. The entrance isn’t far past the Masonic Cemetery.”
Once again, Corrie was driving the Tahoe and her mentor was riding shotgun. It was a three-hour drive from Albuquerque up to Trinidad, Colorado, and Sharp hadn’t said more than a few dozen words over the last hour—most of those involving directions. She’d told him about Nora’s rogue disinterment and Skip getting arrested, and his reaction had been opaque to say the least. A curt nod, a vague murmured phrase about “not our problem,” and then he’d fallen silent. As the ride went on, she’d given him a few covert glances, and he appeared fast asleep—but she didn’t think that was the case. At times like this, he reminded her almost of a lizard: a wiry lizard that could stay motionless forever, only to strike abruptly and with lightning speed.
Just one more thing, Agent Sharp . . . Do I need to remind you of it? She recalled Garcia’s final words. Once again, she wondered what that had meant.
Most of the first of kin of the Dead Mountain victims lived in or around Albuquerque. Paul Tolland Sr. was one of the few who, bucking the tide, had moved farther away. He and his wife had relocated to Colorado to a condominium community about five years after their son went missing. Five years later, his wife had passed away as well.
The Wrights were also on their list to visit, but they lived closer to Santa Fe, and Sharp had thought it best to talk to them on the ride back. Meanwhile, the other lead agents, Bellamy and O’Hara, with some others Sharp had corralled, were doing the grunt work of re-interviewing everyone associated with the case—starting with the families of those whose bodies were first to be found. Corrie wasn’t sure which of these tasks she’d rather have been assigned to.
Trinidad proved a pleasant town, with a historic district and enough mesas, trails, and art galleries to satisfy day-tripping tourists. Up ahead now, she saw the well-groomed entrance to Tolland’s gated community—Piñon Canyon Estates—and she pulled up to the guardhouse. She gave her name to the woman inside, waited while she phoned ahead, and then followed the directions. She knew they could have just shown up unannounced and flashed their badges, but Sharp had vetoed that idea. “It’s better if he knows we’re coming,” her mentor had said. “He’ll know why. It’ll give him time to prepare.”
Corrie pulled into a spot reserved for visitors and they got out. Tolland’s townhouse was an end unit, tidy and understated except for the expensive-looking bow windows on two sides. It was painted in community-approved colors. As she looked it over, Corrie thought back to the question she’d asked Sharp earlier: why exactly they were here now, before the coroner had conducted his autopsy. “The FBI are servants of the people, and we need to show we care” was his response. “And the fact is, we do care. Now that we have an ironclad ID, it’s our immediate duty to inform the next of kin—in person and without delay.”
He climbed the front steps and pushed the doorbell. Corrie, following behind, saw a series of painted-over holes beneath the nearest bow window that made her think a planter had once hung there, perhaps before Tolland’s wife died.
“Agent Swanson,” Sharp said quietly, “I’m going to handle this interview myself—if you don’t mind.”
This was unexpected, and although Corrie hadn’t exactly been looking forward to delivering the news, she realized that, in fact, she did mind. Why hadn’t he told her before? She’d spent a good part of the drive running over in her head just what she’d say. But then the doorknob turned, there was a faint chuff of weatherstripping, and a tall, stooped man stood in the entryway looking out at them.
He’d been an endodontist, she recalled, and a very successful one. In middle age, he would have stood six foot one or perhaps a bit taller. But age, kyphosis, and tragedy had shrunken his frame. He wore a cardigan with a dress shirt and tie beneath, along with well-pressed wool trousers. As Sharp made the introductions, Corrie looked the man over as inconspicuously as possible. His eyes were red, and a little rheumy, but she didn’t think this was from tears. She wondered if he’d put on the tie for their benefit.
“Is there anyone else at home—a relation, perhaps—that you’d like to have as part of this conversation?” Sharp asked.
The man shook his head. Using few words—like many doctors, Tolland seemed used to speaking with brevity—he ushered them into a neat and well-appointed living room. He offered them tea and coffee, which they both declined. Glancing around, Corrie didn’t detect what she would once have called a woman’s touch.
Tolland waited until they were both seated, then sat down himself in what was obviously his favorite chair—the stand beside it held a couple of magazines and a book on Roman history, lying with its spine open.
“Dr. Tolland,” Sharp went on, “I’ll skip the small talk and get to the point, as you seem to be someone who would respect that.”
Tolland gave that a nod.
“No doubt you’re aware that two bodies were recently found in the Manzano Mountains in the general location of the Dead Mountain incident.” He paused for only a second. “We’re very sorry to inform you that one of those two has been identified as your son, Paul Jr. Agent Swanson and I extend our sincerest condolences.”
Corrie glanced at her mentor. He was sitting on the far side of the couch, legs folded—not as if he’d made himself comfortable, exactly, but neither in the hands-clasped position of attention she would have adopted. He spoke in his usual manner, a little formally but without needless filigree. The approach seemed to work: as Sharp spoke, Dr. Tolland relaxed visibly in his chair. His hands, which had grasped the armrests, lost some of their stiffness.
Sharp went silent, allowing their host to digest what, in his heart, he’d already known. This, too, surprised Corrie a little—she might have let the facts, such as they were, come tumbling out to fill an awkward gap. But Sharp allowed—or at least, appeared to allow—Tolland to direct the conversation.
After a minute, the dental surgeon cleared his throat. “It’s been five days since the bodies were found—or six, maybe, as nobody has given us a clear timeline.”
Sharp nodded.
“If my son—if Paul—was one of the two who were discovered, why am I learning about it only now?”
“Because, Dr. Tolland, it’s our policy not to inform next of kin without a positive identification. That only came last night.”
“Dental records?” Tolland asked abruptly, his hands stiffening again on the arms of the chair.
“Exactly. That’s when our lab at Quantico completed matching the dental records to the remains. You’re the first person we’ve informed, and until such time as there’s an official press release, we will tell no one else.” He paused. “Naturally, I’m willing to answer any questions you might have.”
Corrie marveled at the concise yet relaxed way Sharp presented the information. It seemed unredacted, logical, cool, and smooth as marble—but, like marble, slippery and leaving little room for questions.
Tolland slowly nodded as this sank in. “You say you didn’t make a positive identification until last night?”
“That’s correct.”
“What took you so long?”
Sharp took this blunt question in stride. “Dr. Tolland, it’s hard to describe the process we must go through in such cases without seeming—well, a little cold and robotic. Our first concern, of course, was that the remains be treated with the utmost care and dignity. That alone—removing them from the cave where they were found—took more than a day.”
“That still leaves four days.” Tolland’s voice quavered slightly as he made this statement. He’d been so composed up until now . . . Corrie hoped to God he wouldn’t fall apart.
“To be precise, three—or slightly less. Then we had to retrieve your son’s dental records from years back, which took two days, and finally have our lab compare them to the X-rays we took of the remains.”
“Surely you found some ID with the body?”
Sharp continued in the same voice, the same semi-relaxed posture. “We did, yes, but in an investigation of this nature, evidence like a driver’s license can’t be considered official or legal. You can imagine the unnecessary pain we’d cause if we made an error.”
“You didn’t ask me to identify the body,” Tolland said.
“It was not in an identifiable condition.”
Tolland was very still for a moment. Then he said, “Can you tell me how he died?”
“Not yet. That must await the autopsy. We’ll know more within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. This case is our highest priority.”
“Can’t you tell me anything more?” Tolland said.
To Corrie, he seemed increasingly agitated. She wondered if this was a normal reaction. It seemed like Tolland had something on his mind.
“Certainly.” Almost imperceptibly, Sharp quickened the pace of his speech. “Now that your son has been identified, I can give you a few more facts—although I’d ask you not to share them, since they’re preliminary and also confidential to the investigation. He and another of the hikers found shelter in a cave, which lay about two miles north of the makeshift fire circle where the first three victims were found.”
“Did they, I mean my son and the other one, freeze to death?”
“Not likely. It appears there was a struggle.”
“Struggle? What kind of struggle?”
“A knife was involved.”
“So my son was stabbed to death?”
“He was found with a fatal knife wound, yes.”
The color rose in Tolland’s face. “Who did it? The other person? Which one was he?”
“We can’t tell you the identity of the other person just yet, and we don’t know what happened. We have to wait for the autopsy. I’m unable to say more. The other victim in the cave also had knife wounds.”
“They were both attacked?”
“It seems more likely they fought each other, but that’s again speculation.”
Tolland stared in disbelief. “My son . . . He hasn’t come near a knife since . . . since what happened in eighth grade! He could hardly bear to touch one!”
At this, Sharp said quietly, without missing a beat, “What happened in eighth grade?”
Tolland was almost shouting. “He was playing mumblety-peg and put a knife through his best friend’s finger!”
“I’m so sorry,” said Sharp, and then went on as if the information were of little importance. “As I said, we won’t be able to state a cause of death or fully reconstruct what happened until the autopsies are completed, but you’ll be the first to know the results. Now, I have to ask you, Doctor: I know you were interviewed years ago, but we may—in fact we will—want to speak to you again. Would you be willing to help us?”
Tolland listened to this. Finally, he took a deep breath, then nodded again—very slowly. “Of course,” he said. And then after a hesitation, “Thank you for coming to tell me.”
The two agents got back into the Tahoe, drove out of the subdivision, through town, and onto I-25 before Sharp spoke. “Thoughts, Agent Swanson?”
“Interesting story about the knife. What’s mumblety-peg?”
“It’s an old-fashioned kids’ game in which two people compete. Kind of like jacks, but with a knife.” He smiled wryly. “You face each other, take turns throwing the knife into the ground between, trying to get it to stick. It’s not played much anymore, for pretty obvious reasons.”
“I was sorry to see how much he’s still suffering after all these years.”
“Yes. But, as I told you before: we are servants of the people, and we need to show we care. We did that just now. Hopefully, Dr. Tolland will derive some comfort, or finality, from what we were able to tell him. Also,” he said after pausing significantly, “in addition to showing our concern, valuable information can arise from such meetings. In their grief and shock, bereaved people sometimes reveal things they otherwise might not.”
“I understand, sir.”
“We might look into that knife business further. If there are criminal records, they would most likely be juvenile and sealed—but then again, possibly not. But if what Tolland said is true, his son seems hardly the type to be wielding a knife in anger.” He glanced toward her. “Were you aware of any other fresh revelations?”
Corrie frowned. She wasn’t sure what, specifically, he might be getting at. “Sorry?”
“For example, though he obviously lives alone, he used the plural: ‘nobody has given us a clear timeline.’ That ‘us’ means the Dead Mountain support group has begun to stir again. They caused quite a lot of trouble during the initial investigation. No surprise, but we’ll need to prepare ourselves.”
And with that somewhat ominous statement, he went silent.
They had passed Raton before Corrie could stand it no longer. “What about you, sir?”
Sharp bestirred himself. “What about me?”
“Did you come away with any fresh revelations?” Damned if she wasn’t going to interrogate the interrogator.
“Nothing beyond what we’ve already touched on.” He let a few miles of road go by before continuing. “Relating to the case, at least.”
“What, then?”
“Every now and then, Swanson, when I least expect it, something reminds me of my humanity. It happened again, during this conversation.”
“Sir?”
“When Dr. Tolland stiffened so abruptly in his chair.”
Corrie didn’t need reminding—the movement had been obvious enough. But so what? He was in the middle of having tragic news dumped on him. She thought a moment. “It was right after he guessed the ID was made by dental records.”
“Precisely.” When Corrie didn’t reply, he added, “I could be wrong, of course. But remember that before he retired, Tolland was an endodontist. I think at that moment, he was imagining making that dental identification of his son . . . himself.”
Jesus. Corrie took one hand from the steering wheel and wiped it on her sleeve.
Now that he’d been disturbed, Sharp took advantage of it to reach for a folder on the seat behind him. “As Job said, we humans are born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. And now we find ourselves bearers of trouble to the Wrights.” He opened the folder and perused it for a moment. “You can take the lead on this one, if you’d like.”
Corrie pressed her lips together as she drove southward, reminding herself in the future to be more careful what she wished for.
24
NORA PARKED IN the cracked asphalt lot and then entered the Torrance County Sheriff’s Office: a flimsy structure made of brown stuccoed panels, standing under gray skies. Snow was in the forecast, and Nora wanted to get Skip home before the flurries began.
Skip had spent the night in jail—there wasn’t anything she could have done to change that. The arraignment had been this morning, thank God. If it weren’t for the lawyer hired by Isleta Pueblo to represent him, Skip would still be sitting in jail.
She found Skip with his new attorney waiting in plastic chairs in the tiny lobby. When she came in, he jumped up and hugged her like a child—and she suddenly had memories of him doing exactly the same when coming home from school after sitting in the principal’s office for some infraction, hugging her for comfort.
He released her and she turned to greet his attorney. He was dramatic looking, tall and lean, with long black hair all the way down his back, dark brown skin, and a craggy face, wearing an expensive-looking suit and tie.
