Archangel of Sedona (24 page)

He apologized, but he handcuffed Larry and me after reading us the rights outlined on his plastic Miranda card. It was the first time in my life that I’d received that kind of treatment. I understood, but I hated every second of it.

Either the deputy had only two sets of handcuffs, or he gave Father Pat a break because the priest traveled to Williams unbound. Adolf curled at Pat’s feet in the foot well of the front seat. At the deputy’s insistence, we journeyed in silence.

Williams is a small Arizona town. It’s a way station and hub for AMTRAC and trains to the Grand Canyon. It has services for the hordes of tourists who come and go along I 40. It does not have a hospital.

The deputy dropped Eddie and Father Pat at the substation. He took me to an urgent care facility in town, where a doctor cleaned my wounds and sutured my face. He could do nothing for my tooth other than to provide pain medication. The deputy took possession of the pills after I swallowed the initial dose.

Still handcuffed, I fell asleep in the back of his four-wheeler. I didn’t wake up until we arrived in Flagstaff. The deputy took me to the Medical center where they called in an oral surgeon. After she pulled what was left of the tooth, I spent the night in the hospital, handcuffed to my bed with a Flagstaff police officer hovering nearby.

The next morning, I asked the police officer what the deal was.

“Are you really the chief legal counsel for a Sheriff in Florida?” asked the officer—an experienced man in his forties—as he looked me over, not quite believing the rumor that he’d heard.

“Yes,” I said.

“Look, man,” the officer began. “I have strict orders not to question you or talk to you about what you guys did.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah, but I hate treating one of our own like this.”

“Where are my friends?”

“At the operations center at Saw Mill.”

“Am I under arrest for something?” I asked.

“I don’t know. The Chief of Police believes that Dave Fleet’s been killed along with several others. This is the biggest thing since we lost those boys in that tragedy down in Yarnell.”

As I formulated another question, the officer got a call and shushed me. After he hung up, he looked at me and shook his head. “The doc is supposed to release you to my custody. I’ll transport you to the operations center. They’ll let you know how it’s going to be once you get there.”

After a quick shower, the hospital discharge, more medication, and a short drive to the Sheriff’s Office, I found myself in the conference room with a deputy posted at the door. They’d removed the handcuffs and gave me coffee. I took these as good signs.

I waited in the conference room for over an hour—working on the rosaries that Father Pat had given me—before five people came in. They walked to the opposite side of the table and took seats facing me. Two acted like lawyers. I assumed the other three were cops. They reminded me of a jury returning a verdict in a difficult case.

“Mr. Giordano, I’m Joe Ledger. I’m the managing assistant U.S. Attorney in the Flagstaff Division. This is Mary Smith. She’s the Chief of the Felony Prosecution Team in the Coconino County Attorney’s Office. Craig Scott is a senior detective with CSO; Chuck Hudson is a special agent from the ATF; Wayne Bennett’s from the DEA,” Ledger said as he gestured at each of his colleagues on the other side of the table.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “What’s the deal, here? Am I under arrest?”

“No, Tony, but you’re not free to go, either.”

“How does that compute, Joe?” I asked. “I have a little experience in criminal law. If you’re not charging me, you have to let me go.”

“Tony, we know all about you. DOJ sent your e-file. You have quite a record, but you found yourself in a real shit storm in the mountains, didn’t you? I know that you’re hurt and on pain meds, but be patient for a couple of minutes and we’ll discuss your future.”

“By all means, but where are Eddie and Pat?

“All in good time, OK?”

“Fine. Since I’m a captive audience, please continue,” I said.

“Let me summarize for everyone,” Ledger said. “A former CSO detective was brutally murdered at Schnebly Tank. CSO deputies found three bodies near him and another corpse seventy yards south. All four died of multiple gunshots. The crime scene was tainted. We found parts of automatic weapons and ammunition all through it.”

“Are you looking for comment?” I asked, when Ledger paused.

“Not yet, Mr. Giordano,” Mary Smith said. “Let Joe finish.”

“Late yesterday afternoon, deputies found eight more bodies near the coordinates that you gave us. Thanks to you, we already had a trunkful of weapons. So Chuck Hudson confirmed—through fingerprints and touch DNA—that most of the guns came from the dead men. We interviewed Mr. Grimes and Father O’Malley yesterday. Their stories are consistent, if not a little bizarre. What’s left of the evidence and the crime scenes corroborates self-defense. Your friends are witnesses under our protection.”

“So what’s the problem? Why am I in custody?”

“Tony, everybody at DOJ and your people at the SO in Tampa tell us that you’re a smart guy with a superb record of prosecution. Your Chief Deputy and your wife worry that you’ve gone off the reservation over whatever happened to you in Sedona decades ago.”

“Bullshit, Joe! There are two thousand people in Sedona that are farther over the edge than I ever could be. Do you take any of them into custody?”

“Of course not,” Ledger responded. “Who do you think those guys were? You know, the men that you and your pal, Grimes, whacked.”

“Best guess is that they were growing illegal marijuana in the national forest. Wanted to protect their operation. Pot growers on federal land have a reputation for violence. If you’ve done drug cases as an AUSA, you’d know that. I’m sure Mr. Bennett from the DEA will confirm, right Wayne?” I said, as I looked at the DEA agent.

“Tony, you’re right.” Special Agent Bennett said. “You killed drug dealers and their muscle. I’ll concede that. Turns out they were operating one of the largest illegal drug distribution centers in Arizona history. We found their operation this morning by tracking up the forest road that they tried to keep you off. We arrested another six mopes working at the site.”

“No shit?” I said.

“It was a regular cornucopia,” Bennett said. “They had twenty bales of high-quality powder cocaine, air-dropped from one of the cartels. Gotta be over five hundred kilos. We found kilos. I mean
kilos
of Cocaine Base. It’s one of the largest Crack busts in our history. We don’t ever see a commercial operation this large and complex for crack.”

“No wonder they were so well armed,” I said.

“Yeah, and that’s not all,” Craig Scott jumped in. “They had a huge hydroponic marijuana operation, too.”

“Never heard of a hydroponic operation coincidental with the hard stuff,” I said.

“Neither had we,” Ledger said. “In fact, we’re not sure that we’ve identified all the illegal drugs that are up there. The field tests on the marijuana are through the roof. It’s the highest level of THC that we’ve ever seen. The lab tests will tell us more.”

“So they attacked us and killed Fleet to protect their operation,” I said.

“It’s way more complicated than that,” Mary Smith said, looking at Ledger.

“How so?” I asked.

“Let me answer this way,” Ledger said. “These guys set up a large illegal drug distribution point to take advantage of the small population in—and the remoteness of—the Coconino National Forest, as well as its proximity to I-40. The interstate provides a straight shot into L.A. and all of Southern California. Once on I-40, there’s not a spot on the entire West Coast they couldn’t reach in fifteen hours.”

“That’s pretty bold of these guys,” I said. “I’ve never encountered anything quite so daring.”

“Neither had we,” Bennett said. “Nor had we seen the escalation to this level of violence. We haven’t identified all of the dead guys yet, but the four we’ve made were all violent felons.”

“That makes their possession of weapons in furtherance of drug operations serious separate felonies,” I said.

“We don’t dispute that, Tony. We expect that the rest of those guys will have violent criminal records too,” Ledger said.

“How does that play out?” I asked.

“We’re concerned that this distribution point, the kind of men working it, and other evidence we’ve uncovered demonstrates an effort to export the drug violence south of our border to the American Southwest by a dangerous cult,” Ledger said.

“Does that explain why the killers were so well armed and so violent?” I asked.

“Sort of.” Chuck Hudson said. “It explains the Kalashnikovs, body armor, and tracking dog. But there’s more here.”

“More than violent drug dealers trying to import massive violence into your community?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Hudson said. “In parts of South and Central America, where the violence has been the worst, a cult has arisen among the folks who cannot see an end to the danger and fear that their lives will be cut short. They call their cult Santo Diablo. It means Saint Devil.”

“What bearing does that have on the men we shot?” I asked.

“Three of the men you killed had tattoos of Santo Diablo,” Hudson said. “We found several icons and figurines of the cult figure at the drug emporium in the woods.”

“I’ve heard of these guys. As I recall, the Catholic Church has outlawed this cult. No other Christian sect recognizes it,” I said.

“I think that’s correct,” Mary Smith said. “We don’t know exactly how all of this shakes out. We do know that you and your pals knocked over a hornet’s nest and now you’re in grave danger.”

The state prosecutor’s use of the term
hornet’s nest
startled me. It’s the same phrase that Dan Ostergaard used when he warned Claire 15 years earlier.

“How do you figure that this cult impacts on Fleet’s murder?” I asked.

“The Cult of Santo Diablo celebrates homicide. Its beliefs are based on ancient myths and legends that claim that their patron suffered a stinging defeat from Michael the Archangel. The Santo Diablo followers call themselves the fallen angels,” Smith said.

“Here’s a picture of the tattoo on one of the guys you and your pal whacked,” Hudson said as he slid a photograph across the table.

I picked up the photo and examined the tattoo. The figure stunned me. It was an exact replica of a petroglyph that I saw at Schnebly Tank. It was not the Christus, but it was definitely identical to a different figure carved on that rock face.

I recalled Don Hansen’s explanation that inter-dimensional beings comprise different species and races from different universes. The implications frightened me. Eddie, Father Pat, and I had gotten caught up in the ancient war between angels and the demons. Maybe the entire drug war fiasco was a battlefield of that war.

I kept this revelation to myself. I didn’t want to give Ledger and Smith another reason to hold me.

“I’m starting to understand. You’re worried that the Santo Diablo cult has infiltrated Coconino County and poses the triple threat of illegal arms, contraband drugs, and wholesale violence,” I said. “What do you want with me?”

“Tony, nobody will charge you with a criminal offense. All of the evidence supports self-defense. We’ll need you as a material witness as we go after the rest of the Santo Diablo conspirators. The case gets complicated. We believe that the Diablos didn’t kill Fleet to protect the drug operation,” Ledger said.

“Huh?”

“We found a cell phone on the guy whose head you blew off. It was a throw down, but it had text traffic. He’s Stevie Lindstrom. Had a record as long as your arm. He realized that it was Fleet guiding you. He texted someone with an untraceable phone who confirmed that Fleet was in the woods with some clients,” Craig Scott explained.

“So the bad guys knew it was Fleet when they shot him?” I asked.

“That’s about the size of it,” Mary said. “The local dealers have wanted to take him out since he capped two of their buddies, possible Diablos, a couple of years ago.”

“It’ll take a lot more investigation, but we think the person who provided the information knew Fleet. The texts occurred after you guys ran into Stevie in the woods.”

“So where does that leave me?” I asked.

“As I explained, you’re a material witness in grave danger. If you cooperate, we’ll let you stay with Mr. Grimes at his home. Mr. Grimes suggested it. The DEA, Yavapai Sheriff, and Sedona Police will help with your security. You’ll have to stay in Arizona for a while.”

“If I don’t cooperate because I want to go home to Florida?”

“I have a material witness warrant. The Magistrate Judge has already approved it. We’ll apprehend you here and take you to the Magistrate for a hearing. He can release you with the conditions that I suggest, or send you to Phoenix where we’ll protect you in the Federal lockup. You know how this shit works, Tony. So why don’t you cooperate?”

“What about my credentials, IDs, credit cards, guns, knives, and so forth?”

“We’re keeping all the firearms and that fancy K-bar. They’re evidence. You can have your other personal stuff,” Detective Scott replied.

“What about my wife and sons?”

“The U.S. Marshals will provide security for your wife, since she’s an AUSA. They’ll assign teams to both of your sons and their families.”

“What are the conditions of release? Is this like a house arrest?”

“Not quite. You can move around Sedona, but you can’t do it unless two state or federal law enforcement officers accompany you. If you behave yourself and don’t cause the deputies any trouble, we’ll let you go home as soon as it’s safe to do so,” Mary Smith said.

“Agreed,” I said.

“By behaving, we mean that you engage in no investigation on your own.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Tony, this includes this Christus thing. Put it on hold,” Ledger directed.

“Who told you about that?”

“Father O’Malley. Your pal, Eddie, wouldn’t discuss it. He claims that you’re his lawyer and he won’t discuss that issue without you,” Hudson said.

“Why do you care about the Christus mystery?” I asked.