Dead Mountain, page 19
As the Jeep continued down the road, Sharp and Abecassis chatting in front, Corrie wondered what to say to this old man. “So, you’ve been at Kirtland a long time?”
“All my career,” he said, in a gruff voice that discouraged further questioning.
“What’s your role here?”
“Security.”
“When the Dead Mountain tragedy happened, was there much talk at the base about it?”
“There was talk all over.”
“What do you think happened?” Corrie asked.
At this, Sergeant Brickell seemed to hesitate. “I’ve no idea.”
“But everyone’s got a theory, right?”
“I think they were high.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Kids were always taking drugs back then.”
“Were there rumors at the base about the incident? Is that what people were saying—drugs?”
“There was talk about everything—ignorant talk. Like you said, everyone had their theory.”
They came to the fence corner. The land fell away steeply beyond into a horrific maze of canyons, ravines, arroyos, and knife-edged ridges.
“Whose land is that?” Corrie asked, looking down into it.
“That’s part of the Manzano Wilderness,” Brickell told her. “The colonel mentioned it. Called the Knot, because it’s so twisted up.”
“But what about that valley down there, way on the other side? I can see buildings and a road in.” Her heart leapt: maybe that was where O’Connell was headed.
“Rancho Bonito. A new luxury dude ranch.”
“How new?”
“Four, five years. Built on a private land inholding in the national forest.”
“So it wasn’t there at the time of the tragedy?”
“No.”
Corrie, disappointed, breathed deeply of the cool evergreen air. The sun glistened on the snow, the fir trees sighed in a faint wind, and the eastward plains were etched crisply against the blue sky. Beautiful—but the trip had been a bust. There was no way victim number nine would have been able to navigate those canyons or get up Lagarto Peak. It was now quite evident O’Connell hadn’t come into Kirtland at all. He must have disappeared somewhere in the mountains south of the fence.
Corrie leaned forward to speak with Abecassis. “One other thing—did you hear about the guy who got murdered down in Socorro a couple of days ago?”
The vice commander furrowed her brow. “It’s not ringing a bell.”
“There was a guy killed execution-style, and the papers said he was a longtime civilian employee of Kirtland.”
“What was his name?”
“Benjamin Cheape.”
“Cheape?” She shook her head. “Sorry, don’t know him. Did I mention we have twenty-three thousand employees?” She paused and frowned. “Is there some significance or connection I should be aware of?”
“No,” said Corrie. “I was just wondering.”
She glanced at Sharp, saw a disapproving look in his eyes.
“That particular homicide is not an FBI case,” Sharp said, as if reciting her thoughts verbatim. “It’s a matter for the local sheriff and State Police.”
There was a brief, awkward silence. “What now, Agent Swanson?” Abecassis asked. “We can drive northward along the fence, or go back?”
“We can head back,” Corrie said. “Thanks so much for your time. I’ve seen all that I needed.”
35
DRIVING SOUTH ON I-40, Corrie almost didn’t answer the call coming from a blocked number. But it was her FBI phone, so she picked it up.
“Special Agent Swanson?” came a smooth female voice.
“Speaking.”
“I have Dr. DeGregorio on the line, calling from Indonesia.”
Corrie hadn’t expected to hear back so quickly—or even at all—from the philanthropist. But in a moment another voice came on, clear and high-pitched. “Agent Swanson? This is Alex DeGregorio. Returning your call.”
Since she was driving, Corrie couldn’t take notes. But she didn’t want to call him back—she might not get him again. “Thank you. Sir, I’m an agent working on the Dead Mountain case—which I assume you’re familiar with.”
“Unfortunately, yes. I was good friends with some of the victims.”
“Since we’ve reopened the case, I was wondering if I could ask a few questions?”
“Now? Over the phone?”
“It’s voluntary and, naturally, if you’d feel more comfortable with an attorney present—”
“No need for that,” DeGregorio said. “I’m happy to assist any way I can. But how can I possibly be of help?”
“We recovered a knife with the initials ‘MHT’ on it at a place where several victims were found. We’ve connected it to Matthew H. Tanner, your former roommate at NMIT. He said what you just confirmed: that you were close to some of the victims.”
“Very much so. Especially Rod—Rodney O’Connell, the one still missing. He was about the best friend I ever had. If I may ask—any leads on finding his remains?”
“Not yet. We’re actively looking.”
“It really affected me at the time. I . . . well, I had to take a term off from my studies.”
Corrie moved into the slow lane so she could concentrate better. “Dr. Tanner wasn’t able to say how his knife ended up with one of the victims. He didn’t recall loaning or giving it to anyone. Do you have any recollection of that matter?”
A brief silence. “No. In fact, I don’t recall Matt having a knife at all, although I’m sure he must have. He was an avid outdoorsman.”
“The nine hikers appeared to be heading northward in the Manzanos, possibly toward a refuge of some kind. Do you have any idea of what that might have been?”
Another pause. “Sorry. None at all.”
Corrie decided to change tacks. “What was Rodney like? Was he an experienced mountaineer?”
“Very experienced. Adventurous, fit, ran every day.”
“And the others? Did you know them all?”
“I knew most of them, more or less. We were grad students together in the engineering department. It was pretty small—at least back then.” He laughed a little ruefully.
“What was the group studying?”
“Just about any flavor of engineering we could find—computers, civil, nuclear, aerospace, that sort of thing.”
“Nuclear?” Corrie felt a sudden twinge.
“That was Rod’s area.”
“In what way?”
“He had the hope of working up at LANL—Los Alamos—after graduation.”
“So he was going to be a nuclear bomb designer?”
“No. At least, that wasn’t his intention—things can change once you get your doctorate. But he was mostly interested in reentry systems, ballistic missile design, not actual warheads.”
This would definitely be worth looking into further, Corrie thought.
“Did you know about the hiking trip before they left?”
“Oh, sure. They talked about it nonstop.”
“Were you invited?”
“No. I enjoyed climbing mountains as much as any of the others, but I had no winter experience.”
No winter experience. A picture came unbidden into Corrie’s mind of the slope-shouldered body that went with the high-pitched voice. It hadn’t stopped him from making a fortune before he turned forty. It occurred to her that she was running out of questions. “You knew the victims—do you have any idea what might have happened?”
“I must have mulled that over a million times. Every theory I come up with always has at least one hole in it—usually several. I’m certain something terrified them, but I have no idea what, or how. And the business with the radiation contamination is really nuts.”
“Thank you for your time, Dr. DeGregorio. Before we hang up, is there anything more you’d like to tell me, or that you think I should know?”
“I can’t think of anything, but if I do, I’ll call.” He paused. “I really hope you can solve the case this time around. I mean, I’m not a relative, just a friend . . . but it’s been a real burden on me nonetheless. Not knowing, I mean.”
“Thanks again.” Corrie hung up just as she was leaving the freeway for the exit ramp to Socorro.
She arrived at Martha’s Black Dog Café early and decided to drive around the block a couple of times so she wouldn’t look too eager. As usual, she felt a little nervous whenever it came to Homer Watts, and this morning it mingled with a deep sense of unease and discouragement about the case. Eleven days had passed and they’d made no real progress. Over the past few days Sharp had seemed more quiet and sleepy than usual, which seemed to her a warning sign.
When she parked and went inside the café, she saw Sheriff Watts already seated in the back, cowboy hat on the table, coffee mug next to it. He rose as she came over, stooping to shake her hand with the usual bashful air, his deep brown eyes crinkling with a smile.
They both sat down. “Got here early,” he said. “Already ordered coffee, sorry.”
“No worries.”
The waitress arrived and filled a mug for Corrie. She dumped in three sugars and a heavy pour of half-and-half, stirred, and took a big gulp. “So,” she said, “what have you got?”
“Good stuff,” said Watts, with a grin displaying his white teeth. “Starting with this guy Cheape.”
“Lay it on me.” She leaned forward and Watts did too. She could smell his aftershave.
“Cheape was a civilian employee of Kirtland pretty much all his life, in the maintenance department. He started as a janitor, although even to do that he would have needed a security clearance. Ended up a supervisor. Totally unremarkable career, one minor commendation on his record, not much advancement. Retired at fifty-five, lived a dull, quiet life since.”
“Commendation? What’d he do?”
“Didn’t say. Maybe he shined some pilot’s shoes extra well. Have to dig out the letter, I guess.”
“Who might have killed him?”
Watts shook his head. “The hit appears to be professional, single shot to the back of the neck with a .22 no less, silencer used, no fingerprints or other evidence. You know how everyone now has video camera doorbells looking out onto the street? The State Police collected lots of it—nothing. The killer avoided all that—we’re not sure how, but it shows a level of sophistication beyond the ordinary.”
“Strange,” Corrie said.
“But there’s a twist. Cheape had recently put a down payment on—and taken delivery of—a hundred-thousand-dollar Tesla.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In cash.”
“Oh boy.”
“Yeah.”
“His bank statements?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. He was a frugal guy, divorced, two kids grown up and gone, bank accounts showing no unusual expenses or deposits. No record of money flowing through it to buy the Tesla.”
“How much was the Tesla deposit?” Corrie asked as their breakfasts arrived—eggs, bacon, and toast for him, omelet for her.
“Ten grand. Cheape had no money in the bank to pay the rest of the ninety thousand when the car was delivered. So we think he had at least a hundred grand in cash stowed away somewhere.”
“Was he robbed?”
Watts gave her a slow smile. “At first we thought the house was tossed as a cover, because a lot of valuable stuff was left behind. But this Tesla thing leads us to think the cash was taken. Because it’s not there now.”
“Any idea where the cash came from?”
“We’re looking. Cheape’s life looks dirt-free. No drugs, debts, gambling, women, family conflicts, disputes—no speeding or parking tickets even.”
“So maybe it wasn’t an execution-style killing? Maybe it was just a robbery and murder?”
“Maybe. But where did the cash come from? And how did the thieves know he had it? That’s what we’re working on now.”
Corrie fell silent, feeling vaguely disappointed. This was seeming less and less connected to Kirtland or the Dead Mountain case. It felt like Sharp had been right after all: the murder of Cheape was not an FBI matter.
“Thanks for sharing this with me,” Corrie said.
“I’ve got more. I did a little poking around on the Dead Mountain families,” said Watts. “Did you know that the missing victim’s father, Harry O’Connell, also worked at Kirtland?”
“How did I miss that? What kind of work did he do?”
“I don’t know. I was going through some old Albuquerque Journal articles about Dead Mountain, and there it was—Harry O’Connell, the father of one of the missing, lieutenant colonel, retired, Kirtland AFB.”
“Too bad he’s deceased,” said Corrie. “His widow is a piece of work. Melody Ann, the stepmother who never met her stepson. She’ll never talk to me, unfortunately—thinks we’re engaged in a cover-up.”
“The one raising hell about the investigation? I saw her on the news.”
“Don’t I know it. She disrupted the press conference the other day with demands for the truth. She’s gone down the rabbit hole, big time.” She paused. “I’m surprised we didn’t already know about the missing victim’s dad being in the military.”
“It’s probably written on some tiny note, buried in fifteen-year-old paperwork.”
Just another fact Gold had probably turned up, but that hadn’t led anywhere. “Even so, it makes me curious. I’ll see what I can find on my end—but would you mind looking into the O’Connell family from a local angle?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. I owe you one, Homer. I really do.”
“If you say so.” He leaned back with a smile and waved over the check. “You remember the Bosque del Apache, where we watched the sun rise over the river a while ago? That grove of cottonwood trees along the river?”
Corrie nodded.
“Let’s get fresh coffees and go back down there and hang out. It’s Saturday, we’re both off work—what do you think?”
“And do what? Watch the river flow?” Corrie suddenly found herself coloring, embarrassed by the dumb, unintended implication.
“We’ll think of something.” His face still held a wry, dimpled smile.
Now her heart was pounding. God, what was wrong with her? She swallowed. “Okay.”
36
SKIP PULLED INTO the parking lot of Gallina’s Peek, letting the dust settle as he sourly eyed the flickering neon sign of a nubile Indian woman peering coquettishly out from a wigwam. This pun on nearby Gallinas Peak wasn’t any more promising than the establishment itself appeared to be. But he’d already stopped at half a dozen roadhouses that afternoon—one more wouldn’t hurt.
He’d gotten a late start on the day—although not that late, considering he’d been up half the night scouring the internet for dirt on Sheriff Hawley—but he’d headed out with enthusiasm. Hawley, he believed, was enough of a natural douchebag that Skip’s own experience couldn’t be unique. There had to be others out there he’d mistreated, who hated the sheriff’s guts—and among this august group, one or maybe several would know some scuttlebutt Hawley wouldn’t want made public. In a day or two of searching, he hoped to gather enough shit on Hawley to build a cow-pie colossus bigger than Rhodes . . . and when Lightfeather dumped the damning evidence before Hawley, he’d drop the case so fast Skip could almost feel those fat lips kissing his aggrieved ass.
Except it turned out not to be that easy. He’d first tried a couple of country clubs and fraternal organizations, posing as a journalist writing a history of Torrance County; he figured coming in with a neutral approach on Hawley, the man, would be the best way to smoke out anyone willing to talk trash about him. But it hadn’t gone as expected. He’d heard through Nora that the county was Hawley’s personal fiefdom. And from the way the retired golfers and community big shots sang his praises, it was clear Hawley had spread his crooked largess far and wide. Skip would have to sink his muck rake into a lower stratum of citizenry.
So he’d tried the barbershops and diners in and around McIntosh, Estancia, and Encino. People in these establishments didn’t speak of Hawley in quite such worshipful tones—no longer was he an incarnation of the risen lord—but there was also a deep wariness, even fear, and Skip couldn’t find anybody interested in dishing dirt.
It was, at last, in bars and roadhouses that Skip began to sense he might have better luck. The farther south he went, it seemed, the more Hawley’s influence waned. He now jettisoned the journalism story for the injustice of a wronged man: Hawley had boned his sister while her boyfriend was doing a tour of duty overseas. He’d kept it on the down-low, not making a big deal about his grudge but letting it eventually bubble to the surface as he bought drinks for those around him at the bar. He was encouraged by a few knowing scowls and sympathetic grunts. He’d heard some interesting tidbits, but nobody was willing to get specific beyond vague declarations that Hawley was a shitbag.
Gallina’s Peek, though, felt like a place where he might hit pay dirt. One old geezer had rolled his eyes at the mention of Hawley, and Skip’s droit du seigneur story about the sheriff and his sister (God help him if Nora ever got wind of that) was received with a chorus of groans.
“So old One-Bally still has it in him,” the fat, balding bartender cackled as he pulled a pint of Michelob Ultra for a customer.
“One-Bally?” Skip recalled hearing this nickname being mentioned at the Isleta burial ceremony. “What’s that mean?”
The bartender laughed again. “You didn’t know? Hawley’s the biggest, baddest pistolero in all New Mexico. Broke up a bank stickup and got into a gunfight with the robber. Shot him, too—even though he got winged himself.” He slid the pint down the bar. “Oh, he’s real proud of that. Took a bullet in the line of duty.”
“Just don’t ask him where he got winged,” said somebody nearby, “unless you want to spend a night in the drunk tank!” There was general laughter.
“Another inch or two to the left,” the bartender said, “and that shot would’ve killed him.”
