I drove the few blocks to Custer’s home. It was a small old one-story house with no garage, though it did have an attached carport, which was empty. I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. I tried the doorknob. Locked. I walked around to the back of the house and tried the knob leading in from the carport. Locked. I peered in through the window of that door and the small window next to it. I saw a kitchen containing a small table and two chairs, but nothing else. No food left out, no sign of a struggle, no body on the floor. There were no lights on in the house. So he really is gone, either voluntarily on a family emergency mission, or involuntarily, which I hoped was not the case. But it was eerily reminiscent of the sudden departure of Cortina Perez.
As I walked back toward the front of the house, Sheriff Tyler pulled up and got out of his patrol car. He leaned his forearms on the roof and peered across the car in my direction.
“Mr. Parker,” he said in greeting. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”
“Hi, Sheriff,” I replied, pressing my palms on the hood of his vehicle. “Who did you expect to find?”
“Got a call from one of the folks nearby. Said there was someone snooping around Joe’s place.”
“Not snooping. Just seeing if he’s home. Have you seen him?”
“You thinking of going into the newspaper business?”
“Maybe so,” I said, trying to be a bit vague. “Gotta keep my options open. Anyway, seems he left pretty suddenly. Did he say anything to you about where he was going?”
“Nope. The sign on the newspaper door said something about a family emergency. I expect he’ll be back soon enough.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I paused to consider if I should say anything further. My past efforts to involve the Sheriff had been unsuccessful. He had lived here his whole life, and seemed to already have all the answers. That accumulated knowledge might be able to help with one item.
“Sheriff. I know you and I have different opinions about the man I found on Monarch Trail.”
“Reckon so,” he offered.
“Well, I’ve done some more poking around out there.”
“Not surprised. You seem like someone who doesn’t quit easily. And it seems you’re doing more investigating than you are writing a book.”
“Reckon so,” I offered, hesitating before continuing. “Sheriff, I hiked far west from Monarch Trail, just out of curiosity, of course.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding. I sensed a bit of annoyance in his gestures. But at the same time, it was as if he had expected no less.
“Like I said, I hiked west from the cliff on Monarch Trail because that’s where the guy came from. A few miles out, I found a barbed wire fence. It was posted, something about the area recovering, from that fire last fall.”
“No surprise there. The whole town knows it’s off limits.”
“Yes, I realize that. But beyond the barbed wire was another fence, a double row of eight-foot high chain link fences. They’re topped with razor wire. It completely surrounds Spring Valley.”
“What?” he stated with disbelief.
I opened my phone to the images of the high fence and passed the phone over to him. Again, I had to admit they were not the best pictures because of the low light in the forest. But since I had personally seen the fence up close, they were clear as day to me.
After a few moments he asked, “How do you know it was the valley?” More skepticism.
“I had my GPS with me. No doubt where I was.” I held back on mentioning anything about the military guys. I was still waiting for the call from Ed Garvey on the dog tag before saying anything to anyone.
“So, Sheriff, what’s out there that requires an eight-foot high fence? Certainly no need for that just to plant some trees.”
He was silent for several long moments. He was still staring at the images on my phone and considering what to say. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you have here, but there’s probably some simple explanation.”
“Maybe so. Any ideas?” I was pushing him to come up with an answer.
“I don’t know,” he said, sounding puzzled. He was still staring at the pictures, furrowing his brow, thinking I supposed. Then he snapped the phone shut and handed it across to me. “I don’t know, but I suppose you’re going to figure it out.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I concluded.
“Have a good day, Mr. Parker.” He was done pondering the question. He climbed back into his vehicle, I pulled back from it, and he drove off.
So this was the Sheriff’s response to my latest request for help or for his involvement. Just pass it off as something that probably had a simple explanation. It clearly was not of sufficient interest for him to get involved. Then maybe that was an appropriate response to a lunatic tourist who had been at odds with him from the start. In spite of my often-impolite behavior, he had kept our interactions civil. But I was still frustrated at his inaction. He really did need to just retire, turn over the reins to someone else. As long as it wasn’t Enid Powell.