“Before you ask me whatever it is you’re going to ask me, can I say one thing?” Ike said.
“Sure.”
“Thank you for being so kind to my cousin, George. I know he gives you fits with all of those temporary licenses and all.”
Joe grunted, and looked down.
“I’ve tried and tried to get him to get a yearly license,” Ike said, “but I just can’t break through to him. It’s very generous of you to ease up on him a bit, Joe. I know you don’t have to do that. His life is fly-fishing, and I figure as long as he’s fishing he’s not getting himself into any other kind of trouble.”
“Okay, Ike, gotcha.”
“But I do appreciate it, Joe. Both Dorothy and I are grateful.”
“Okay, Ike. Enough,” Joe said.
“So, what do you want from me so early in the morning?”
Joe looked up. “How do mineral rights work?”
Ike’s eyes narrowed, and he paused. “Let me get another cup of coffee. This will take a few minutes.”
Ike Easter used a legal pad to explain. He started out by writing “OG&M” on the top of the pad.
“When I say ‘OG&M,’ I’m referring to oil, gas, and mineral rights. They’re usually sold for a term on a specific piece of land, or they can be retained by the landowner. If the OG&M are sold, it usually means that the developer pays the landowner a fee for the rights or, in some cases, a percentage of the gross that is derived if the OG&M is exploited.”
Joe asked, “Are they like water rights?”
Ike shook his head. “No. Water rights go with the land. That means if you sell your land to somebody, the buyer gets your water rights. You don’t keep them and lease them back, and you can’t sell them separately to somebody else downstream or upstream.
“OG&M rights, however, can be bought and sold among companies or developers, or eventually returned to the landowner if the terms of the sale run out.”
Ike explained how the market for mineral rights in Wyoming peaked in the mid-twentieth century, during the boom years for oil, trona, coal, and uranium. Some landowners made much more from their mineral rights than they ever made from their cattle or sheep.
“Up until recently, we had almost forgotten about all of the intrigue and wheeling and dealing that gets done for mineral rights,” Ike said. “I had a clerk here who didn’t know what in the hell to do when some land man with a Texas accent walked into the office and wanted to file. But we all got back into the rhythm of it soon enough.”
“Because of CBM?” Joe asked.
“Yes, because of CBM. See, no one realized after the last oil bust that natural gas was down there in the kind of quantity it is. Suddenly, all of those fields that everyone thought were played out or useless were valuable again. Quite a few of the ranches had changed hands since their first leases or sales, and some of the new landowners didn’t even know that other people owned their OG&M rights. A lot of the squawking we all heard from ranchers bitching about the CBM companies on their land was because those ranchers discovered that the mineral rights had been sold years before.”
Joe tried to work it through. “So even if a ranch sells, the mineral rights stay with whoever had them?”
“Right.”
“The Timberline Ranch, for example, has six hundred wells planned for it. Those rights are owned by a mineral company, I assume, even though when they bought the rights they had never heard of coal-bed methane?”
“Right.”
Joe rubbed his face. He was missing something. The incentive to sell, or buy, or manipulate the land value, wasn’t there.
“Why would a company buy mineral rights to a ranch when they didn’t know what was in the ground?” Joe asked.
Ike shrugged, “It happened—and happens—all the time, Joe. Companies speculate. They lock up land, betting that somewhere down the road their investment will pay off.”
“Can I see the OG&M deed for the Timberline Ranch in the county record books?” Joe asked. “It would be interesting to know who has the mineral rights to the place. My understanding is that old man Overstreet sold the rights a long time ago.”
“Of course you can,” Ike said. “It’s a public record. But it might be a bitch to find right away.”
“Isn’t it all on computer?”
Ike laughed. “Not hardly, Joe. The most recent stuff is, of course. But anything older than ten years was indexed in deed books. Anything beyond twenty-five years is in the archives, but completely disorganized. There was a flood in the vault back then, and the deed books all got soaked. Because all of those old deeds and patents were typed on parchment paper, somebody emptied the books and put them into files after they dried out. They never were put back into new books in sequential order.”
“I’d still like to see it,” Joe said.
“May I ask why?” Ike said, lowering his voice.
Joe sighed. “It may be relevant to a sale of the place. Or a murder.”
“Really?”
“This is purely speculation on my part, Ike,” Joe said. “Please keep this confidential.”
Ike got up and opened his door. “Millie, can you please find and pull the OG&M file for the Timberline Ranch? Owned by the Overstreet sisters?”
Millie reluctantly got down from her stool, and gave Joe a look as she walked by.
“Why’d you ask her?” Joe said in a whisper.
Ike smiled sympathetically. “She’s been assigned to the archives, Joe. She’s the only one who can find any of that old stuff. We’re in the process of going through all of the old county files—which were kept off-site in file boxes for over fifty years—and bringing them in-house to recreate the old deed index books.”
“I heard something about that,” Joe said. “How the old county clerk charged the county rent for storage in his own house.”
“Um-hmmm,” Ike said, raising his eyebrows. The scandal was one of the reasons Ike Easter was elected county clerk.
“We think we’ve recovered all of the old records,” he said, “but every few months we find another box or two. The old county clerk had them in his basement, in bedrooms, and even in a couple of old locked garages in town.”
While they waited, Ike asked Joe questions about the Murder and Mutilations Task Force, and the story in the newspaper. Joe confirmed that there was very little progress, but said that some things appeared to be emerging, although he couldn’t get into them.
“Hold it,” Joe said suddenly, looking at Ike.
“What?”
“The old county clerk’s residence, where the old records were kept—that’s where Cam and Marie Logue live now, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Would Cam and Marie have had access to the boxes?”
Ike thought about it for a moment. “I suppose they would have. The boxes were sealed up with tape, but they weren’t locked up or anything. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just interesting,” Joe said.
Finally, Millie returned to Ike’s office, wiping her hands with a wet towel.
“Those old boxes are filthy,” she said, glaring at Joe.
“Did you find the file?” Ike asked, even though she wasn’t carrying anything.
She shook her head. “It must be in one of those boxes we’ve still got in storage. It hasn’t been brought up to the filing room yet.”
Ike groaned, thanked her, and waited for the door to close.
He told Joe, “We’ve got twenty or more boxes downstairs in the boiler room that still need to be brought up and gone through.”
“How quickly can you do it?”
Ike said, “Are you serious?”
“Yup.”
“Joe, I want to help you out and all, but can you at least give me a better reason so I can justify the overtime hours and feel good about it when the elite Republican Guard turns on me?”
Joe leaned forward on Ike’s desk. “As I mentioned, I think that the murders have something to do with either the potenti
al sale of the Timberline Ranch or the mineral rights. I think if we know who holds the rights, we might know who ordered—or did—the killings.”
Ike swallowed. “Even the cows?” he asked.
“Maybe not the cows, but Tuff Montegue and Stuart Tanner.”
“And you feel pretty confident about this?”
Joe sat back and rubbed his face. “Kind of,” he confessed.
Joe found Robey Hersig in his office reading the Roundup and looking very sour.
“Tell me something good, Joe.”
Joe sat down and recapped what he knew and suspected. Hersig grew increasingly interested, and began to take notes. When Joe was through, Hersig steepled his fingers and pressed them against the bridge of his nose.
“We don’t have enough to arrest anyone yet, or even bring them in for questioning,” Hersig said.
“I know.”
“So what’s your next step?”
“I’m going to go see Cam Logue.”
Hersig winced. “It might be too soon.”
“Maybe so. But it might break something loose. Or,” Joe said, “Cam may blow my whole theory out of the water.”
Robey sat for several moments, thinking things through. “What can I do to help?”
“A few things,” Joe said. “Intensify the search for Cleve Garrett. We’ve got to find him and make sure the girl’s okay. I can’t see him just blowing out of town like he did, after wanting to get so involved with the task force. Then follow up with Sheriff Harvey and Deputy Cook. They’ve already involved Portenson, so maybe we can find out more about this Eckhardt guy. I don’t know how or if Fort Bragg figures in, but Cook said he thought the army was stonewalling him when he called. Maybe if they heard from you, or the governor, we’d get some answers. Oh, and check up with Ike to see if they’ve located that Timberline Ranch file.”
“I can do all of that,” Hersig said, writing it down on the pad. “But you’re forgetting somebody. What about Barnum?”
“Keep him the hell out of it,” Joe said.
“Joe . . .”
“It’s not just about this thing between Barnum and me,” Joe said. “Barnum seems more hostile than usual. He called me at my house and all but warned me off of this thing. I think he’s involved in some way, Robey.”
Hersig slapped his desktop angrily. “Joe, do you realize what you’re saying?”
Joe nodded. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think Barnum had anything to do with the mutilations or the murders. I think he’s playing another angle, but I don’t know what it is yet. Somehow, I think he’s taking advantage of the situation.”
Hersig stared at Joe, still upset. “I can’t lie to him, Joe. He’s the sheriff.”
“But you can just sort of withhold information, can’t you? Not return his calls? Just for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow?”
Hersig shook his head. “Do you think we’re that close?”
“I think we’re close to something,” Joe said, standing and clamping on his hat. “I just don’t know what it is yet.”
Hersig gave a low moan.
As Joe opened the door, Hersig called out to him.
“Give Cam my regards,” Hersig said. “And call me the minute you know something.”
29
IT FELT ODD, Joe thought, entering the front office of Logue Country Realty. In a few hours, Marybeth would be there.
Marie wasn’t at the front desk, as she usually was. In her place was a thin, blond woman who pursed her lips, whom Joe caught reading a supermarket tabloid. She was the only person in Saddlestring, he thought with some relief, who wasn’t aware that there was NO PROGRESS IN MUTILATION DEATHS.
“Is Marie still sick?” Joe asked.
“I guess so,” the woman said. “All I know is that the temp agency called and asked me to come in again.”
“Is Cam here?”
“May I ask your name?”
“Joe Pickett.”
The temp hesitated and looked puzzled for a moment, as if she had heard the name but couldn’t place it.
“My wife, Marybeth, works here,” Joe said.
“Ah,” the temp said. “She seems nice.”
“She is nice,” Joe said, impatience creeping in. “But I’m here to see Cam.”
The temp looked at her wristwatch. “He usually comes in around nine, I think.”
Joe glanced at his own watch. Ten to nine. “I’ll wait in his office.”
The temp wasn’t sure if this was appropriate, but Joe strode by her as if he waited for Cam every day, and she said nothing.
Joe sat in a chair across from Cam’s desk, and put his hat on the chair next to him. This would be interesting, he thought. He planned to watch Cam carefully as he asked him questions, and listen even more carefully. Joe dug his microrecorder out of his front shirt pocket, checked the cassette, and pushed the record button, then buttoned his pocket. By Wyoming law, the tape would be admissible in court, even if Cam wasn’t aware he was being recorded.
Joe surveyed the office. Neat stacks of paper lined the credenza in columns. A large-scale map of Twelve Sleep County covered an entire wall in the room. Cam’s realtor and insurance licenses were framed behind his desk, as were large portraits of Marie and Jessica, and several family photos of them all. There was a Twelve Sleep County Chamber of Commerce “Businessperson of the Year” plaque, as well as a photo of a boys’ soccer team Cam obviously coached, signed by all of the players. On Cam’s desk was a coffee cup that read “World’s Greatest Dad.” There was a “Volunteer of the Year” award from the United Way. Jeez, Joe thought. What am I doing here?
Cam entered his office a few moments later, without a hint of trepidation. He asked how Joe was with concerned sincerity, and if he wanted a cup of coffee.
Joe passed on the coffee, but stood and shook Cam’s extended hand and returned a half-smile. Joe thought he detected a flash of discomfort in Cam’s eyes as he shook Joe’s hand, but wouldn’t swear to it. Then Joe thought, If I made a pass at a man’s wife and the husband showed up in my office unannounced, I might be more than a little jittery too.
Cam asked, “What can I do you for, Joe?” in a forced, too-cheerful way, and sat in his big, leather chair across the desk from Joe. “I do have a meeting in twenty minutes, so I hope . . .”
“Shouldn’t take that long,” Joe said. “How’s Marie?”
Again, the flash of discomfort, or maybe fear. Then it was gone. “Marie?” Cam said almost absently. Then: “I’m sorry, I guess Marybeth must have told you. Marie’s had some kind of a bug for over a week that just won’t go away. She has not been a happy camper.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Joe asked.
Cam seemed to be thinking about it, then he shook his head. “That’s a really nice offer, Joe. But she seems to be just about back to normal, now. I wouldn’t be surprised if she came back to work this afternoon. Tomorrow for sure, I’ll bet.”
“Well, good,” Joe said. “But don’t hesitate to ask. Marybeth thinks the world of Marie.”
“Yes, Marie and Marybeth have a great relationship, which is wonderful. Really wonderful,” Cam said, agreeing enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically, Joe thought. But was Cam’s nervousness because of what he had said to Marybeth, or something else?
“Cam, you know about the task force I’m on,” Joe said, watching Cam’s face carefully. “The investigation isn’t going quite as badly as what you might have read in the paper this morning. We’re pursuing some new leads.”
Cam’s eyebrows arced. He was interested.
“One of them involves you.”
Cam seemed to freeze in place. Even his breathing stopped. His tanned face drained of color.
“Say again?” Cam asked, his voice a whisper.
“We’re pursuing everything, even if it turns out to be a dead end,” Joe said. “I’m here to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”
Cam was clearly shaken. Joe tried to interpret it, but couldn
’t decide if Cam was displaying guilt, or shock.
“I guess I don’t mind,” Cam said. “Jesus. I can’t believe you’re even here. I can’t believe you could even think . . .”
“Why did you think I was here?” Joe asked innocently, but the implication was clear. Now you’ve done it, Joe said to himself. Whatever the Logues and the Picketts had together is now over. Marybeth and Marie. Lucy and Jessica. Maybe even Marybeth’s future career. You’ve done it now, Joe, and there’s no going back.
“Gee, I guess I thought maybe it was because Marybeth and I had a misunderstanding a while back,” Cam said, looking at his hands and not at Joe. “But I think she thought I meant something I didn’t. That was bad enough. But to have you here saying I’m being investigated . . .” he trailed off.
Joe sat in silence, letting Cam talk.
“Should I call a lawyer?” Cam asked. “Is it that bad?”
“Only you can answer that,” Joe said. Man, he felt cruel.
Cam still didn’t meet Joe’s eye, but reached for his telephone. Joe noticed that the man’s hand was shaking.
“Please cancel my 9:30,” Cam told the temp, then listened for a moment. “No, I don’t want to reschedule it right now.” When he replaced the receiver, it rattled in the cradle.
“What do you want to ask me, Joe?”
Joe thought that Cam looked just about as pathetic—or guilty—as anyone he had ever seen. He was either about to nail a killer, or make a horrible, unforgivable mistake.
“Cam, we have a theory that the murders of Tuff Montegue and Stuart Tanner were connected. We think there is a possibility that they were killed because of something they—or one of them—knew about the sale of the Timberline Ranch.”
“You’re kidding me,” Cam said. The flash in his eyes this time was of anger.
Joe plowed on: “I think Stuart Tanner was going to nix the drilling of all of the CBM wells because there was too much salinity in the water. Or maybe he found something else, like silica or something. His report would cost some people a hell of a lot of money. The company that holds the mineral rights would be out millions, and the realtor who didn’t get his commission would be out thousands. I think somebody wanted him dead, and saw the opportunity to kill him in the same method as the cattle and the moose.”