Death Canyon (11 page)

“Have you determined that the man was murdered?”

“Jake!” Terrell sighed, annoyed. “We're investigating the possibility, yeah.”

The cruiser passed over the river on a single-lane bridge. Jake gazed upstream past the boat launch to look for birds and moose. In the distance, perched near the top of a tall cottonwood tree, he saw fuzzy white-black-white vertical dots stacked like a snowman and recognized them as a bald eagle.

Investigating,
Jake thought, now looking downstream. He guessed the river was still several weeks away from being fishable. Snowmelt from the high country was still showing its influence.

If the police were investigating, Jake assumed that something had been brought to the chief's attention on the case. If not, why would Terrell go to the extra effort? Terrell was a good cop, but Jake doubted that the chief's deductive powers rivaled his own. Jake settled on the uncomfortable conclusion that there was evidence that the man was murdered and it pointed to him.

The chief pulled into the police station lot and parked the cruiser outside the front entrance. Jake reached for the interior handle of the car's door, but quickly realized there was none. This backseat was not designed for convenient exit.

The chief opened the door for Jake and helped him out of the car. As they walked toward the front door, the chief curled his right hand around Jake's left elbow—as if to lead him inside as an apprehended suspect. Jake shot the chief a steely glare. The chief let go.

Inside the police station, Jake was fingerprinted and seated in the interrogation room. He immediately questioned the chief—a role reversal that Terrell was not expecting:

“What's going on, Roger? May I ask why you dragged me down here rather than just chatting with me at the house?”

Terrell started to respond, but Jake cut him off. “And don't forget to read me my Miranda warning; you should have recited it in the cruiser.” Jake looked toward the wall over his left shoulder and smiled slightly. Very few cops knew criminal law as well as Jake Trent.

Upon Jake's insistence, Terrell now did so. Jake interrupted him and waived his rights.

“Look, Jake, you and I have a couple of problems.” The chief hesitated, not wanting to give away too much information to a suspect.

“The man you brought in yesterday didn't drown and didn't die from hypothermia or exposure. Suffocated, but there was no water in his lungs. It looks like he just had his airway cut off. Lungs stopped taking in oxygen.” Terrell paused, knowing that his next sentence would sever the now tenuous relationship between the two men. “Jake, we think he was murdered.”

“Wait, you mean he was strangled?” Jake interjected.

“No . . . not strangled necessarily. The coroner seems to think that something was held against his face to block the intake of oxygen to his lungs—a hand, a plastic bag, who knows . . . a pillow. There is some bruising around his mouth and nose, and his front teeth were loosened from his gums by a pretty considerable force.”

The chief watched Trent, as he was trained to do, to see if his body language would give him away.

“I didn't see any signs of a struggle when I found him. Did you find lacerations or bruises on his knuckles or wrists?” These were usually evidence of the self-defense instincts that kick in when a person is attacked.

“Smith didn't mention any,” Terrell responded, referring to the coroner. “But I don't know how you suffocate without struggling.”

“Inebriation,” Jake quickly replied, not intentionally aloud, “or the influence of certain drugs. Either could explain it. A large amount of alcohol or drugs can act as an anesthetic. The victim may not have even known that he was being suffocated.”

“Hold on, Jake. There's more,” he said, trying to regain control of the conversation. The chief shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We identified the body. The guy was a young lawyer working for a litigation firm in Boise. Went missing five days ago. Left work one day and never made it home.”

“You think I'm out eliminating my competition, Roger?” Jake laughed. “It's a cutthroat business, man, but not literally. I don't even practice anymore.”

The chief pressed on. “That's just it, Jake. This particular lawyer happened to be doing research for a developer working on a project here in Jackson. Finding loopholes, or whatever it is that you people do.” The slight was intentional. “The man was apparently trying to find an argument that would allow the developer to ignore a conservation easement, because it was not properly recorded or something.”

Shit. Really?

Jake thought of the argument he was to present to the council later that night. He hoped he would be released quickly and wouldn't have to explain his absence.

“Anyway,” Terrell continued, “some guys here at the station—cops, you know, also work as civil servants in other capacities . . . like you. Your name came up right away. They told me you are fighting any development of this piece of land that would violate the easement.”

“Alleged easement, according to them. And so you think I killed the developer's lawyer?” Jake asked, indignant. He was starting to wonder whether he should call a lawyer to represent him. No part of Jake wanted to spend
any
time in the county jail.

Even the most experienced trial lawyers prefer to hire counsel rather than represent themselves in criminal matters. Perhaps this point speaks to the lawyer's true opinion of himself—for only the man himself knows the real limitations of his abilities.

The chief was softening a bit. “I don't really think that, Jake. What I do think is that any cop worth his wages would consider you a suspect. You can't argue with that.”

“I'm not yet in a position to argue, Chief. Let's get on with the questioning. Oh, and I would like to make a phone call at some point.” Jake's phone, along with the rest of his belongings, had been surrendered to the authorities at the intake desk.

“Sure . . . of course. First question is whether you knew this guy, this lawyer—name is Bryan Hawlding. Twenty-eight years old, Lewis and Clark Law School graduate is what our background check says.”

Jake answered honestly, telling the chief that he knew nothing of the victim.
Lewis and Clark, though?
Jake thought. That was an unusual choice for a student who wanted to work with a real estate developer. The school had a liberal reputation and a prominent environmental law program. Jake attributed this dissonance to the ever-changing nature of the human mind—he himself had once worked in a field that he now despised.

“Next, some folks have said that this development issue has really fired you up to, uh, to an extent that they haven't seen before. What is your beef with the proposed project?”

“I don't have a
beef,
Roger. I wasn't even familiar with this
specific developer until this started. I just happen to think that a decades-old covenant should be honored when there is adequate evidence to support the document's existence. Call me crazy, but I hope I'm not alone in that view.”

“Hasn't the developer offered to spoil the town rotten if allowed to continue, though? That's my understanding.” Terrell relaxed a little more.

Jake didn't answer the question. It was clear that Terrell was uninformed. A moment of silence passed and then Jake spoke.

“How long are you planning to keep me, Rog? I'm supposed to speak to the council tonight.” Jake took this obligation seriously anytime it arose, although the council was admittedly a “small pond.”

“That's up to you. Just a couple more questions, Jake, and you can make that phone call. Can you give me a verifiable alibi that you were not with Mr. Hawlding on the days leading up to when you found him?”

“I saw a buddy at the boat launch the prior day, ask him. I was on the river overnight. I went fishing alone. Guy's nickname is Caddy. I don't know his real name.”

“How can we get ahold of Caddy?” Jake shrugged in response, so Terrell continued. “Where were you the night before your solo fishing trip?”

“I was at home the night before; J.P. can vouch for me. Shit, Roger. I was stewing over this development business. Now, would I reveal that to you if I had killed this guy?”

“Maybe not, but with no alibi, we've got to hold you for the time being. Now, since I am in charge around here, I'm going to return your cell phone to you and let you wait this out in here, rather than in the holding cell. Gotta lock the door, though, Jake. Call me or knock on the door if you need anything.”

Chief Terrell left the room, and Jake heard the click of the lock. It was the type of dead bolt that required a key on both the inside and the outside.

A few minutes later, the chief brought Jake his cell phone. He stood in the interrogation room as if he was going to supervise Jake's phone call, but Jake made no move toward the phone sitting on the steel table and Terrell left with a shrug.

Jake reached for his phone and flipped the cover open. A missed call; no voice mail. Either that or the phone hadn't yet received the message. Service delays were common in these parts.

Jake was happy to have his phone, but he didn't have anyone to call. He decided against calling a local attorney. It would only draw attention to his situation.

Surely, accusations of murder wouldn't boost his credibility in the development dispute. Besides, he felt confident that Roger knew he was not guilty and was holding him at the station only until the circumstances of the man's murder became clearer. He was being overcautious. If Jake's name had come up with his deputies, Terrell had no choice.

Jake's first call was to J.P., who offered to come over and keep Jake company at the station. J.P. promised to pick up a six-pack. It was clear that he didn't understand the gravity of the situation, but that was fine with Jake.

The locksmith had come over in the afternoon to let him into his camper, and J.P. requested that the man remove the lock entirely rather than make a key.
Smart,
Jake thought sarcastically.

J.P. had some potential guests to call back, so he excused himself from the conversation. This early in the season, Jake wondered what the guests had planned for a trip. The alpine hiking trails were still covered with snow stained pink with watermelon algae,
Chlamydomonas nivalis,
the streams and rivers high and off-color, and the ski slopes closed.

Jake briefly thought of Elspet. Perhaps if she had come with him to Wyoming, the two would be awaiting their guests at the bed-and-breakfast right now. He imagined the couple greeting the travelers: Elle engaging them in conversation after dinner about travel, local art, and music, Jake talking fishing, snow conditions, or wildlife. Her dark eyes would enthrall the male half of the visiting couple, and her furtive smile would irritate the woman.

He had a sudden, intense urge to call her, but he stopped himself. Hearing the voice mail click on and ask that he leave a message would hurt too much.

There wasn't a chance Elspet was going to answer a call from him without listening to the voice mail. Unless Jake left a message regarding a legal question or some gravely serious personal matter, she would never return his call.

His mind left the past and Jake thought about who he might call next.

Jake again thought of the unknown number that had tried to contact him while he was in the cruiser. Maybe they were involved in all this. He opened the “missed calls” directory on his phone and pressed call.

“This is Noelle,” a female voice answered pleasantly. Jake was surprised.

“Hello?” She spoke again before Jake could respond. “Is this Jake Trent?”

“It is. Uh, who am I speaking with, please?”

“Noelle Klimpton,” she repeated. “I work for the National Park Service. A friend of mine, Keith Strang, gave me your number.”

Jake remembered Keith well. They'd met years ago on Lewis
Lake, Jake fishing and Keith tracking a bear. They used to fish together in Yellowstone—a convenient, in-between meeting place—and had plenty in common. Keith, like Jake, had fled mainstream life to pursue the things he was passionate about. If Jake remembered correctly, the only things Keith was passionate about were bears and trout.

Keith sometimes gave Jake's number to fishermen who were traveling through southwestern Montana on their way to Jackson Hole and looking for a guide. Jake appreciated the referrals. He assumed that Noelle had called for that very reason.

“Regarding what?” Jake asked. There was a twinge of irritation in his voice.

“It's a bit complicated and sort of out there . . .” Noelle started. “Um, I think it would be easiest if you and I met to discuss it.”

“I would love to . . .” Jake replied honestly. He was getting frustrated at her inability to get to the point. “But I'm in police custody at the moment, so an in-person meeting wouldn't be possible.”

“Um . . . well, I'm sorry. What for?” She thought this sounded rude. Keith had apparently thought very highly of Mr. Trent's crime-solving ability.
Why in the world is he in prison?
she wondered. “Never mind . . . I . . . none of my business.”

Noelle started anew. “Okay, look, two days ago a French couple was mauled by a bear near the Gosling Lake overlook on the Death Canyon trail.”

“I'm aware,” Jake said.
Get to the point, lady
. He needed to conserve his cell phone's battery for as long as possible.

“Of course. Well, I found a bear tooth up there, at the scene of the attack. Because of a silly suspicion about the attack—you know, things just didn't add up—I took the tooth up to Keith. As you know, Keith is a bear expert.”

Noelle continued, “So, Keith looks at the tooth with his naked eye and sees something wrong . . .”

“A cavity?” he deadpanned. The woman's circuitous story wasn't going anywhere, and Jake wasn't too enthusiastic to discuss anything other than how he was going to clear his name.