Chapter 25
As I walked the short distance to the newspaper office, I considered a point that Allison had made. Ranger Andrew Pine’s wife Edith had left him, and no one had heard from her since.
Cortina Perez disappeared. The body of the dead man I found in the forest disappeared. And the Hispanic tackled and captured by Enid Powell last year was quickly picked up by INS. That occurred the same day he was captured. Would something like that happen so quickly? Would an INS agent make the run from wherever in Montana, on very short notice, all the way to little Willow Run to pick up just one guy?
It bothered me that this cluster of unusual events had occurred in a short span of time in one small place. And all of these disappearances seemed to be tied somehow to the burned-out valley in the National Forest. Ranger Pine was putting in much longer hours at work. Maybe it was just to keep himself occupied now that his wife was gone. Maybe it was the increased workload brought on by the manpower reductions forced by the recession. But what if it was his choice so that he could more closely monitor and guard the valley and whatever its secret is? I had to learn what secret was hidden in there.
I reached for the door handle of the Teton County Observer newspaper office. I was surprised that such a small paper, with likely very limited circulation, was still in business. The Internet was making printed newspapers less popular sources of information. Computers and hand-held devices had become the news medium of the times. Many big papers were folding, and even the survivors undertook massive cost-cutting efforts.
Inside the building was a small room with one desk and two chairs. Beyond it stood a wall with a single door in it. That presumably was the printing area in back. Behind the desk sat a thin, slightly stooped, clean-shaven, balding man who looked to be in his fifties, busily tapping on a keyboard. He glanced up when I entered.
“Hi. I’m Joseph Custer.” He stood and stuck out his right hand, which I shook. “You must be the tourist Nathan Parker,” he stated with certainty.
“How did you know that?” As soon as the question left my mouth, I realized it was a stupid thing to ask. Everyone in town seemed to know who I was.
“I’m a reporter. I’m naturally nosey and keep my ear to the gossip mill. I’m glad you stopped in. Saves me another trip to find you.”
“You left some messages,” I said.
“Yes indeed. Deputy Powell may mock your story about finding a body, but to me there’s news in there. Can I interview you about what you found?”
He didn’t waste any time with introductions or pleasantries, instead getting right down to business. That was fine. He wanted to exploit me as news. I wanted to pick his brain as a resource. It seemed a fair trade.
I really didn’t want to keep the gossip alive about the body, but I guessed it didn’t really matter. Most people in Willow Run had probably already heard about it. Might as well inform the few remaining uninformed and make it unanimous for the town. I didn’t know how many specific details Enid had shared, but at least my telling would provide the real story and give me a voice.
While I did not know Joseph Custer except for this brief encounter, I got a good vibe from him. I was trying to solve a puzzle. I was trying to get some information to help sort out what I had seen and maybe get a jump on writing my book, which I hoped to base on lots of facts. So what was the real risk of telling him what I thought? He was a more receptive ear than most of the rest of this town.
So I said, “Tell you what. If you answer some questions for me, you can get your interview.”
He gestured for me to sit in the second chair, and he sat back down behind the desk.
“What questions?” he inquired a bit suspiciously.
“I’m not done looking into this. Perhaps we can help each other. I can tell you about what really happened on Monarch Trail on Sunday, and you can write that up. In return, you can help me as I investigate it further. When it’s done, and only when it’s done, then we can share the whole story. I think you might end up with several stories out of this.”
While his was a small paper in a small town, I could see a glint in his eyes. If there was more than just a one-time story, there might be something big in it for him. It might be something that could put him in a bigger spot light than Willow Run could offer. A good story might propel him out of a dying small-town newspaper and into something in one of Montana’s bigger cities. While he might be reaching the end of a career at his age, he probably still wanted more. As Allison said, I think we’re all looking for more in some way.
“What do you mean by share?” he asked.
“We share authorship of the complete story. I’m not looking to be a reporter. I just want the exposure of having my name clearly tied to any news stories related to this.” I felt a need for that kind of exposure to pull me out of my jobless obscurity. And if writing is where my life was leading, that exposure could propel me out of my drifter status.
He eyed me for a few seconds before responding. “I heard you might be writing a novel. So it will be based on this dead guy?”
I wasn’t surprised that he knew that fact. The gossip wire again had spread the word. “Yes,” I said firmly. “But that will be fiction, inspired by the facts. That won’t happen for a while. In the meantime, if the facts turn into anything substantial, I suspect there will be news that could be helpful in getting your name and mine in the public eye.” I paused in case he might have something to ask, but he sat passively. Was that a good sign he was listening? Or a signal that he thought I was nuts? Regardless, I continued. “Any publicity is good publicity if I want someone to actually buy my book.”
He nodded, not necessarily in agreement, but perhaps just to acknowledge he understood what I was saying.
“So, what makes you think there is such news potential in all this?” he finally asked.
“There are some unusual things I’ve found. It seems to me like there’s more going on than just the body I found in the forest. The Sheriff doesn’t even want to look into it. He thinks I’m wrong and has dismissed me. So I’ve come to you. If you are willing to work with me, I’ll tell you all of it, confidentially, of course. I can’t tell you every detail now since there are some things that need to be checked and confirmed. But I’ll start with the things I know for certain. Then we’ll go from there. You must have contacts in the area that can help with investigating these. I don’t have any connections here.”
He considered what he’d just heard. He worked it over in his mind, the index fingers of his folded hands extended upward and tapping rhythmically against his tightly pursed lips, eyes looking straight ahead.
“So you suspect there is something big going on here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
After another pause, he firmly said, “Agreed.” He stuck out his hand so we could shake and seal the deal. Even though I did not know this man, I was certain that this handshake agreement would be as binding as any written contract.
I then told him my account of the events on Monarch Trail on Sunday morning. I told him what I told the Sheriff and Deputy Powell. Finding the body, calling 9-1-1, the call being transferred to Ranger Pine and then to the Deputy, the boot prints, the disappearance of the body. I told him everything, including my climb up the slope, the man who was pointing a rifle at me, and the details of my subsequent encounter with Deputy Powell. At this point, I was not concerned if it might differ in content from what I already told the Willow Run police.
Throughout my monologue, Joseph Custer tapped on his keyboard, typing all that I said. Certainly he would rewrite it later in his own style, inserting quotes from me and perhaps ones he had already heard elsewhere. But for now, he was just recording information. He then asked several questions, typing my responses into his document. When he was done, he let out a satisfied sigh and grinned.
“This will make an interesting story, a very different spin from what Enid Pow
ell has been saying.”
I was certain this story would really aggravate the Sheriff, but I didn’t care. He was ignoring me. This might get his attention and force him to reconsider. Or prod him to run me out of town on a rail. At least there would be a reaction.
“Is he always so publicly talkative about police business?” I asked.
“Enid? Not usually this much, but he does say a lot more than he probably should. Sorry to say, I think he has a particular dislike for you.”
“Yes, I got that impression,” I said, realizing that at least part of that dislike was my own fault for giving Enid such a hard time. But I had so enjoyed it.
“OK, Mr. Parker. Now I’ve got your story. So what do you want from me?”
“Let me tell you about a coincidence that I think isn’t.”
That got his attention at least a little since he sat up straighter in his chair, leaning slightly forward.
“I think there’s a connection between the dead man, the Hispanic car thief who was caught last fall right here in town, and the big fire last year in Spring Valley.”
He didn’t say anything right away. It was as if the three items I had just mentioned were bouncing around in his head, colliding and ricocheting as he considered how they might fit. He finally said, “Tell me more.”
“First, tell me a little bit about the fire. I read several stories in some old papers at the library, but give me some of the facts and the unknowns.”
“Well, it was a doozie. Biggest fire around here in a long time. It had been hot and dry all summer, so once it got started, there wasn’t much to stop it.”
“I heard it was big. Any cause determined?” I asked.
“The National Forest guys said it was a camp fire out of control. With the dry conditions, campfires were banned. But a lot of hikers never pay any attention to that. No one was ever tied to the fire. The guy apparently just walked away.”
“Who fought the fire? Any outside people join in?”
“The National Forest guys, but there’s only a few of them. Our volunteer fire department and a lot of people from town went up there to fight it. Some other fire departments in the area, local farmers. There was some word that National Guard guys came over.”
Here finally was a connection to military. I had chosen to believe Jake Monroe regarding the military presence. But I hadn’t considered the National Guard when I did my searching for military bases. That was an important oversight.
“I don’t recall any mention of the National Guard in the newspaper articles. Where were they from?” I asked.
“It wasn’t in the stories?” he asked.
I shook my head no.
“Missed that. Must have been too focused on the fire itself. I don’t think I ever looked into where they came from. The nearest unit is in Great Falls. That’s about 90 minutes east of here. Just out of curiosity, I will ask around.” He paused. “Why is that important?”
I hesitated, wondering what entangled web I might be stepping into. But the commitment had already been made to work with Joseph Custer. We already shook on it. So I dove in.
“You may already know that I was a cop.”
He nodded. “An ex-cop from Cincinnati, from what I hear.”
“Even though I’m an ex-cop, I still get curious when I find a body in the woods that then disappears. This started as my attempt to figure out what happened to the guy and how he ended up dead out there.” I paused to consider how to proceed next. “But along the way I also learned about the Hispanic car thief in your town last year. That makes two Hispanic guys running, one goes to jail while the other one dies. How often does that happen around here?”
Joseph Custer flashed a humorless grin, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “Only once.”
“Right. An unusual thing. One dies and disappears. The other one is in jail and disappears into the hands of INS on the same day he’s brought in.” I paused to take a breath for effect. “But where is the nearest INS office and why would they come here so quickly just to pick up this one guy? Excuse me if this sounds insulting, but this small town would not seem to warrant that kind of instant service for just one guy.”
He sat quietly for several seconds, gazing beyond me as he considered this. “You’re right. Enid said INS came to get him, and I left it at that.” It was said almost as a confession, as if realizing that he had not done the due diligence as a reporter to dig deep enough to connect all the dots, or even to find all the dots. Maybe he had been too long in a small town where, as the Sheriff said, nothing big happens. Joseph Custer may have lost his inquisitive edge. That might have been too harsh an assessment, but that is what I sensed. Perhaps he was rusty in his job, just as I had felt about my capability since being forced out as a cop. I hoped my eroded skills were returning. There was the glimmer of a spark in his eyes, so I was hopeful he still had the fire in his belly to be a better reporter.
“But here is the most solid thing to consider,” I continued. “I’m certain those two Hispanics are in some way connected to something in Spring Valley. I don’t know what it is, but I’m working on it. What I can tell you is I took a long hike in the National Forest to take a look inside Spring Valley. I ran into a fence out there.”
“Yeah,” he said, recovering his composure. “Everyone knows about the fence to keep people out while the valley recovers from the fire. That was in the stories in the papers.”
“I’m not referring to the simple barbed wire fence. I saw that one even behind the ranger station.” I paused to give separation between what I had just said and what I was about to say. “I walked over that barbed wire and up the slope surrounding the valley. I found something else. It was a huge chain-link fence, two parallel rows of it, eight feet high, several feet apart, with razor wire across the top. It completely encloses Spring Valley.”
“What?” he said in disbelief.
I flipped open my phone, pulled up the images, leaned over the desk, and showed him.
He took the phone and stared at the pictures, scrolling through them. “Are you sure?” he inquired, still not believing.
“I took the coordinates for the valley off a map I picked up at the ranger station. I used my GPS to take me right to the spot. Yes, I’m sure.”
He continued looking at the pictures, not ready to release the phone back into my hand.
“What’s inside the fence?” I said.
“They’re replanting trees, you know, those little evergreen seedlings. With the size of the valley, they’ll have to plant thousands of them. It’s going to take a while.” But his response lacked conviction, as if he was robotically repeating the party line.
“That’s the story that Ranger Andrew Pine fed me,” I said. “And I believed it, until running into this fence. What’s inside?” I pressed. “What’s so important that this kind of protection is needed?”
He had no answer, but he did release his grip on my cell phone.
“No one builds a fence like this to protect seedlings. This is about more than just trees.”
“There has to be a simple answer,” he said defensively, but his words trailed off, lacking confidence.
“When I was there, there were men patrolling the fence line. I can’t be sure, but they were probably military of some kind. I think the two Hispanic guys were being held in there and somehow managed to escape.”
“Maybe so. But how could such a fence go unnoticed for so long?” he asked.
“You tell me. It’s pretty remote back there, and the terrain is steep. It was a very difficult climb up that slope, and I’m in good shape. Maybe that steep slope was all it took.” I did not tell him about Jake Monroe and his hobby of scaring people away. We could get to that some other time.
He was still contemplating the unknowns I had planted with him. The big question for me was still what’s inside the fence? I contemplated hiring someone to fly me over the valley at lo
w altitude to look in there. That might be the direction to go, though it sounded expensive. I didn’t have any money for that.
Joseph Custer had stopped entering thoughts into his computer, but had continued taking notes on a pad of paper throughout our discussion.
“So, what do you think?” I asked.
“I think I have some work to do. Thanks for bringing this to me.”
“Sure. When might you start on this?”
“Right away. Right now. I still have to get out tomorrow’s paper, but I’m almost done with that.”
“Great!” I said enthusiastically. “One more thing maybe you can do?”
“What’s that?” he inquired.
“I’d like to talk with Megan White and Roland Barnes, the two who saw the car thief last fall. Just want to ask them a few questions. Could you arrange that? You’re welcome to be there when I talk to them, of course.”
“No problem. I’ll call them today and set up something for tomorrow. They both live in town, so it should be easy.”
Since we already had each other’s cell phone numbers and he knew where I was staying, there was no need to exchange information. I left the newspaper office feeling comfortably unburdened. He had listened without criticism, something that the Sheriff had not done. It was good to have someone listen and accept that just maybe I wasn’t a crazy tourist.