“Seems that way. But when the DOJ calls me direct, I do what I’m told.”
Joe nodded and punched Coon affectionately on the shoulder.
“Don’t let them see you do that,” Coon hissed.
They turned to watch Batista and Underwood match up the faces of the bodies with photos from the personnel files they’d brought along. Batista said, loudly enough for everyone to hear: “Holy Mother of God.” Joe noted a tinge of a Hispanic accent in the phrase he hadn’t heard Batista use before.
“Where did he come from?” Joe whispered to Coon.
“Political appointee. I don’t know his history, but he seems to have a lot of juice.”
“Ah.”
Batista turned and walked deliberately over to Reed until he was uncomfortably close, Joe thought, and so he could tower above him and make the sheriff tilt his chin up to see his face.
“Those bodies over there are EPA special agents sent up here in the line of duty,” Batista said.
“That’s what we thought, and my condolences. Do they have names?” Reed asked.
Batista looked over his shoulder to Underwood, and Underwood opened his files. “Tim Singewald and Lenox Baker,” Underwood said. “Singewald worked for the agency for twelve years, and Baker for two and a half. Baker leaves a young family behind.”
Over his shoulder, Batista said to Underwood: “Make sure you call the next of kin. Give them my deepest sympathies and say it’s from my heart.”
Underwood nodded crisply. “Do you want to talk to them as well?”
“No, I’m busy here. I’ll have a letter sent.”
“We’re very sorry this happened here,” Reed said to Batista, cutting in. “We’ll do our best to bring the killer to justice.”
Batista nodded to himself as if confirming his worst suspicions, and signaled for Underwood to come over to him. Joe watched the exchange with interest. Underwood approached Reed and Batista and said, “Sheriff, we’re taking possession of this crime scene. I need you to get your men to stand down until we can get our people in place.”
Reed said evenly, “That’s not going to happen, gentlemen. I know how this works. This is my county and my jurisdiction. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and we’re gathering evidence and securing the scene. When you show me a court document signed by a judge ordering me to turn over my county to you, I might consider it.”
Batista glared down at the sheriff but seemed too surprised to speak. He looked over anxiously to Underwood, who was stone-faced.
“Until that happens,” Reed said, “I need you and your . . . assistant to move out beyond the crime scene tape and stop interfering with our work.”
Batista said, “Mr. Underwood is not an assistant, Sheriff. He’s our chief of law enforcement operations, and he brings years of experience from the FBI, the CIA, and Special Operations. There’s no one we can trust more to carry out an investigation like this.”
Joe assessed Underwood, who looked both cold and capable. Underwood showed no reaction to Batista’s praise.
Batista took a half-step back, and turned to Chuck Coon, obviously anticipating backup.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Coon shrug. Batista looked as if he’d been slapped.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Reed said, loud enough that his men could hear. “We know what we’re doing. We’ll get the bad guy, and we’ll do it right. We might even request federal law enforcement assistance from Mr. Coon here,” he said, nodding toward the agent, “but that’s our call, not yours.”
“This is a federal crime,” Batista said. “Two officers of the U.S. government were murdered in cold blood. This has never happened before in my agency—never. I can’t run the risk of turning it over to a local Barney Fife and his band of amateurs. I hope you understand. This isn’t personal, but you have a small department. I can bring in the manpower and expertise of the federal government.”
Joe saw Reed’s face flush red, but the sheriff kept his calm. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Batista, but you’re not taking over this investigation. Up here, we don’t care if a murder victim is a federal employee or a local cowpoke. We treat all crimes seriously, and we vigorously investigate and prosecute them. Besides, I’m not exactly sure the shooting of two armed men can be considered murder in cold blood.
“At this point, Mr. Batista,” Reed continued, his tone icy, “we don’t know what happened yet. We are hoping you and your agency might be able to shed some light on the situation, in fact. We don’t know if these two poor fellows showed up without warning on private land and waved their guns around in the air and got shot in self-defense, or perceived self-defense, or if they were ambushed or what. That’s why we do an investigation.”
Joe considered Julio Batista. The man looked apoplectic. His hands shook. Underwood reached out and placed his hand on Batista’s shoulder to calm him. Batista shook it off.
“I will have your job for this,” he said to Reed.
“No need for that kind of talk,” Reed said calmly. “There are elections for that. Now please take Mr. Underwood and clear the crime scene so we can get to work. We want to make sure there aren’t other bodies in that hole, and we’re gathering any physical evidence we can find.”
Again, Batista looked to Coon for assistance. Coon said calmly, “We might want to do that, Director Batista. We’re losing our light, and it might be best to let these guys do their work while they still can.”
Batista glared at Coon, obviously feeling betrayed. To Reed, Batista said, “I want you to put all of your effort and resources into finding this Butch Roberson. I want him thrown in a cage quickly for what he did to my men.”
“We’ll do our job,” Reed said through clenched teeth.
“I’ll make it known that we want this man,” Batista said. “We want an example set of what happens to people when they murder public servants. I’ll make it known that we’ll reward anyone who comes forward with information leading to his immediate arrest.”
“You’ll offer a reward?” Reed asked, incredulous. He took a deep breath, and seemed to stifle his immediate reaction. Instead, he said softly, “I’d advise against that.”
“Advise all you want,” Batista said. “We will do everything we can to bring this murderer to justice.”
Joe shook his head, confounded by Batista’s vehemence. He looked to Coon, who pointedly refused to make eye contact. Batista seemed determined to antagonize Reed for reasons Joe couldn’t fathom. Both Underwood and Coon seemed to be along for the ride.
Joe was surprised when Batista turned to him. “You’re the one that let him go, right? You’re the game warden who had a nice little chat with the suspect and just let him walk away?”
Joe said, “That would be me.”
“I’ll have your job, along with the sheriff’s,” Batista said.
“There have been many days when I’d just give it to you,” Joe said, shrugging.
He felt Coon’s admonishing glare, urging Joe to keep quiet. Behind Batista and out of his field of vision, Underwood raised his right hand and pointed his index finger at Joe like a pistol. With his thumb, he let the hammer drop.
“I saw that,” Joe said to Underwood. Underwood smiled back with malevolence.
Then, reluctantly, Batista and Underwood moved away from Sheriff Reed and stood just inside the crime scene tape. Coon joined them. Batista smoldered in silence for a moment, then retreated and pulled his cell phone and spoke heatedly to someone.
—
“OUR GENERATOR AND LIGHTS are here,” Woods called out, as two more vehicles rumbled down the mountain road through the trees.
“Good,” Reed said, turning toward his men with his back to Batista, Underwood, and Coon. “Keep digging, boys.”
—
KIM LOVE of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers arrived and got out of his sedan. There was a horrified look on his face, and he approached Joe and Reed on shaky legs.
“I could have bee
n with them,” Love said.
“Why weren’t you?” Reed asked sharply.
Love looked down at his boots. “I didn’t want any part of what they were doing. And the younger one was just too gung-ho. I’m getting too old for that kind of thing.”
Reed told Love to drive back to town and give his statement to a uniform at the sheriff’s department.
Reed said, “Make sure you leave us your contact details. We may have more questions.”
“So I’m free to go home after?” Love asked, his mood improved.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Love said. “It’s kind of crazy up here.”
—
A MOMENT LATER, Joe felt a presence behind him and turned to find Heinz Underwood.
“Yes?”
Underwood did the stare again, his eyes level with Joe’s. “You need to clear your plate, Mr. Pickett. Tomorrow I want to see exactly where you last talked to Butch Roberson so we can establish a forward operating base. He can’t get very far on foot—if he was really on foot.”
“He was when I met him,” Joe said evenly. “I can’t swear he didn’t have a truck or ATV or even a horse stashed somewhere.” Then: “The area I saw him in is National Forest. You’ll need to clear it with them if you’re going to set up some kind of camp.”
“FOB,” Underwood corrected.
“Whatever,” Joe said. Then: “You won’t be able to take vehicles into the forest very far. What few roads there were have been closed by the Forest Service. So if you plan to get into the mountains there, you’ll need to go on horseback.”
Underwood made a sour face. “Why are all the roads closed?”
“Ask them.”
Joe continued, “And in order to get to it, we need to cross the Big Stream Ranch, which is private. You need to talk to the ranch owner. His name is Frank Zeller.”
“We’ll handle it,” Underwood said. “Director Batista has already placed the call to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and they’re on board. They’re deploying a forest ranger SWAT team to meet us here in the morning.”
“A SWAT team?” Joe said, raising his eyebrows. “The EPA has armed agents and the Forest Service has a SWAT team? When did this happen?”
“In the past few years,” Underwood said dismissively, “but it’s no concern of yours. Once we find the area and establish our base, you’ll be cut loose to do whatever it is you do, and I don’t want to see you around.”
Joe felt his neck flush red. “Are you asking me or telling me? There’s a difference.”
“Either way, the result is the same. Besides, we’ve notified your governor and your new director, and they’ve pledged your full cooperation.”
Joe blinked. The governor? Twice elected as a Democrat in a seventy percent Republican state, Governor Spencer Rulon was mercurial, devious, cantankerous, glib, contradictory, and wildly popular. For several years, Rulon had manipulated the agency structure to use Joe as his personal agent and point man in the field, careful to keep it arm’s length, so if Joe screwed up, nothing would reflect back to the executive office in Cheyenne. When Joe had gotten too “hot”—according to the governor’s chief of staff—he’d been temporarily shipped off into exile in South Central Wyoming and Rulon had cut off all communication. Joe had resumed his duties in the Twelve Sleep District and hadn’t heard from Rulon since.
“I don’t even know who my new director is,” Joe said, knowing how lame it sounded.
Underwood shrugged, then leaned slightly forward so his nose was inches from Joe’s.
“I know about you, Pickett,” Underwood said.
“Have we met?”
“No, but your name is not exactly unknown to some of my friends. You’ve been around the block a few times.”
“I’m just a game warden,” Joe said.
“An irritating one, from what I understand.”
Joe shrugged.
Underwood said, “Tomorrow,” and turned and walked back to Batista.
Joe wasn’t sure what Underwood had been talking about, and he couldn’t connect the dots between him and the EPA chief of special agents. He’d been in the middle of so many situations in his career that involved clashes with other state and federal agencies and bureaus. It was unavoidable in a state half owned and administered by myriad federal agencies—the Bureau of Land Management, the U.S. Forest Service, the U.S. Park Service, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, the Bureau of Reclamation, the Interior Department, the Agriculture Department—and now, apparently, the EPA.
Joe was sure he would have remembered Heinz Underwood, though, if he’d ever encountered him before. He was a memorable presence.
—
THE COUNTY EMPLOYEES who brought the lights and the tent weren’t alone. Behind their panel van was a battered Jeep Cherokee. Joe recognized the driver and passenger as Sissy Skanlon, the twenty-six-year-old editor of the weekly Saddlestring Roundup, and Jim Parmenter, the northern Wyoming stringer for the daily Billings Gazette. Although the two were technically in competition, they pooled their limited resources so they could cover stories together.
“Here comes the media,” Woods said with derision.
—
SKANLON AND PARMENTER gravitated to where Batista, Underwood, and Coon had grouped. Joe could hear murmured conversation. Batista took Underwood aside and spoke fervently for a minute, then stepped back. Joe was surprised Batista chose not to address the reporters himself and had apparently assigned Underwood the job. It was odd, Joe thought.
Underwood approached the two reporters and cleared his throat. Both pulled out notebooks and digital recorders to catch his words. Joe saw Underwood hand them a business card and pause while they read his title. Skanlon looked from the card to Batista and mouthed, “Wow.”
“Underwood is telling them they’re going to offer a reward—big money to anyone who can help nail Butch,” Joe said to Reed. “You’ve got trouble.”
“I know I do,” Reed said, rubbing his face with his hands. Then: “Have you ever seen anything like that before? Jesus.”
“You did well,” Joe said. “Your guys are proud of you for the line you drew in the sand.”
“I hope they’ll still be proud if I get buried in it.”
Joe chuckled.
“What’s with that Batista guy?” Reed said under his breath. “He seems to have it out for me.”
“Maybe he’s just caught up in the moment,” Joe said. “This isn’t the kind of situation he’s used to, and he did lose two people.”
“And what about Underwood? He seems to have it out for you.”
Joe nodded. “I don’t have a clue. I don’t think I’ve ever met him before. He’s not familiar to me.”
“You seem to be familiar to him.”
“Yeah, and I don’t get it,” Joe said. Then, to the darkening sky, “There’s a lot going on I don’t get, Mike.”
Inside his breast pocket, Joe’s cell phone suddenly vibrated with four incoming messages, one after the other. He turned and opened the phone to see who his new boss was.
7
VEHICLES WERE COMING UP HAZELTON ROAD WITH their headlights on toward the Roberson lot as Joe drove back down the mountain, against the stream. More sheriff’s department vehicles, local cops, another highway patrolman, and pickups and SUVs from the Forest Service and BLM. Several of the units looked like rentals from Saddlestring Municipal Airport, Joe thought, and he guessed they contained EPA, FBI, and other law enforcement who had arrived on the 6:40 flight from Denver. The drivers of the rentals didn’t wave back as he passed them because, he assumed, they were unfamiliar with local custom where everybody waved at everybody simply as an acknowledgment for sharing the road. He couldn’t recall seeing such a massive assemblage of state and federal employees before on one road, even the year before, when Nate Romanowski was on the loose and the county was being littered with bodies.
He’d clapped Reed and Coon on the shoulder after he’d read hi
s messages and told them to call him if he could be of any use. The scene was crowded and getting worse, and Joe could see no reason for staying around. The tent had been put up, and portable lights flooded the small lot. No additional bodies had been discovered in the hole, although the excavators did uncover a briefcase and the wallet badges of the two murdered EPA agents. Either the killer had removed the identification and tossed it into the hole with the bodies, or the agents themselves had pulled their IDs and died with them in their hands. The wallets confirmed the identification of the bodies even further.
The first message on Joe’s phone was from Marybeth, asking him to pick up April at the western-wear store on his way home. The second and third were from Biff Burton and Bill Haley from other corners of the state.
Burton’s message read: Lisa Greene-Dempsey. Calls herself “LGD.” Don’t know a damned thing about her or where she came from.
Haley’s said: Lisa Greene-Dempsey. The Gov has really lost it this time. Twenty-two weeks to my retirement. Counting the hours.
So Bill Haley knew of her, Joe thought. He planned to give the other game warden a call later that evening.
The fourth was from Lisa Greene-Dempsey herself, although the number was listed as “unknown.” It read: LGD here, Joe. I’m on my way up w/ Gov. Rulon. I look forward to meeting one of our colorful wardens. Call me.
“Colorful?” Joe said aloud.
He hesitated, then punched CALL. He was relieved that he got her voicemail. Her phone was out of range because she was likely in the state plane with the governor, flying up from Cheyenne. He haltingly said he looked forward to meeting her as well, and closed the phone.
—
JOE PULLED into an empty space on Main in front of Welton’s Western Wear, one of the oldest retail stores in operation in Saddlestring. Because it was dark outside but all the lights were on inside despite the WE’RE CLOSED, PARTNER sign, the big display windows allowed anyone passing by to look over the jeans, boots, hats, and long-sleeved shirt display and into the store itself with the clarity of an aquarium.
He saw April right away, perched behind the counter, beaming at a couple of local boys on the other side. The boys were dressed identically in the unofficial uniform of Wyoming: T-shirts, baseball caps, faded jeans, belts with big buckles, and athletic shoes or scuffed boots. One of the boys said something, and April threw her head and hair back and laughed in what Joe thought was a provocative way. The boy who didn’t tell the joke punched the other one hard in the chest, so it wasn’t tough to figure out who the jibe had been aimed at.