Death Canyon (7 page)

He pulled the body several yards closer to him using the device. In the event that he lost his grip, he would have an opportunity to grab it again before it was pulled out of his reach and downstream.

Then Jake made his way to shore, pushing the loop of rope ahead of him on the tree trunk and then moving himself forward, inch by inch. In a few moments, he was standing in the shallow water at the river's edge.

In the quieter current, Jake dragged the body onto the bank and into the boat. He looked him over. Pricey fishing gear. This wasn't surprising—the Snake was a popular trout river. Jake guessed the man was probably a tourist rather than a local, as his clothing looked new.

In fact,
he thought,
this stuff is spotless.
The man wore a sky-blue button-down shirt made by a ubiquitous manufacturer and expensive, unmarred waders.

Jake unclipped the suspenders of the man's waders and checked his jeans pockets for identification. Finding nothing, Jake searched the man's vest. The pockets were mostly empty. No ID. Nothing but a limited selection of terminal tackle—a small fly box with a half dozen fly patterns, one spool of the clear leader material that fly fishermen called tippet, and a pair of nail clippers for snipping and retying line. Even Jake, who was known in the valley as a fisherman who could find success with almost any fly, thought the dead man's tackle selection was dreadfully thin.

In addition to not having a wallet, the man didn't carry a Wyoming fishing license on his person. This struck Jake as odd. The man had obviously spared no expense in outfitting himself for his fishing trip, but no license.

What is he doing out here?
Why was a tourist fishing this water alone under such dangerous conditions? No local fly shop would recommend that anyone wade in the river at this point in the season. The water was dangerously high, even in light of the overnight volume drop. It was a difficult river to wade even in low water.

The accident could have been avoided with just a
little
common sense. Then again, here Jake was, on a solo float trip, wet and cold from retrieving a dead body in a precarious spot.

Jake rowed through the deep canyon walls that defined the lateral boundaries of the river. He had taken off his waders to cover the face of the corpse and sat freezing. The wind was blowing briskly through his quick-dry pants.

At least I don't have to look at that face anymore.
He figured that was more important than staying warm.

Jake had the stern pointed downstream, rowing powerfully, so that he could reach the takeout as soon as possible and hand the body over to the cops. As he rowed, he wondered what the man's story was, why he was here, what his life was like, how his death had come to pass.

Then he busied his mind with morbid humor, playing on the joke about cemeteries his old man used to tell in the car:
Jake, look at that quiet, gated neighborhood! People are dying to get in.

He imagined Caddy: “How was your day, man?”

“Not bad, picked up a client as it turns out. He was dying to go fishing, so I let him on. Real quiet guy.”

“Shit, well, at least he wasn't rattling off boring stories of his own business prowess,” Caddy would say, unhampered by the fact that his own clients were within earshot.

Jake knew dozens of jokes aimed at river guides or their clients, and this situation begged for one more.
Tell you about my favorite client? Sure, the guy was great, never tangled his line, didn't break a rod, and didn't ask stupid questions like, “At what elevation do elk turn into moose?”

Jake felt only a slight remorse for his thoughts; they kept his mind off the cold.

When he finally arrived at the takeout, Jake was relieved to see his small SUV and trailer. His detail-obsessed nature had never allowed him to get over the nagging fear that his vehicle would not be waiting for him. Before he put in on any float, he asked himself the same few questions over and over again:
Did I call the shuttle driver to make arrangements? Did I tell the driver the correct takeout? Did I put the keys in the gas cap? Did I leave money for the driver?
Over and over again. A mild case of OCD, probably.

Jake's cell phone had died and he was anxious to get to the
police station. For the first time in several years, his nerves caused him to have some difficulty backing the trailer down the boat ramp. When he finally maneuvered the trailer into place, he pulled the parking brake hard and got out.

Then he pondered the traveling arrangements for the corpse.
Should I tether the man to the boat in some way or put him in the car?
He regretted not buying a pickup. If he had, he could put the body in the bed and avoid having to make the drive with a dead man as passenger.

Jake decided that because of the rough surface of the long dirt road between the takeout and the highway, it would be best to put the man in the SUV somewhere. The trailer had no real suspension system to speak of, and he wanted to avoid damage to the corpse—for the man's family and to preserve the body for evidence. The fact that he moved the body would irritate the police enough. He felt certain that either the police department or the man's family would request an autopsy, given the circumstances.

Too bad autopsies almost never provide the family with the answers they want
. More often than not, they simply exposed unpleasant truths about the deceased. This was particularly true with this type of mysterious death. At best, the family might discover a hidden drug or alcohol problem. At worst, they might find out that he had killed himself. Death, anyway, was like an unreviewable play in sports—it may have been wrong and unfair, but there was simply no possible way to make it right. The decision would stand.

When he slid the body into the hatchback of his vehicle, Jake noticed for the first time that the man's ankles were bruised.
Must've happened on the riverbed while trying to jam his feet into the rocks to get footing. Scary way to go.

“Tell me you have good news,” the chief said tiredly. It was midafternoon. The inside of the station had calmed considerably since the night before. Terrell ignored Jake's outstretched hand. The chief and Jake knew each other well; they were both involved in the town's tiny political community. Jake didn't totally understand the snub but assumed it was related to the Old Teton Dairy Ranch proposal. Jake knew Terrell felt that what was good for the economy was good for the town.

“Well, the best news I can offer is that I don't recognize the dead guy I found this morning in the Snake. I don't think he's a local.”

“Don't pull my chain, Jake. Do you have any flippin' idea what I have been dealing with for the last thirty-six hours?” The chief had barely avoided using profane language in front of a woman, his secretary. A cardinal rule of his.

“Sorry, Chief. He's in my truck. Looks like a drowning. What happened here—rodeo parking overflowed again?” Jake could tell immediately that Terrell was in no mood to joke. He followed the chief, who walked briskly back toward his office.

“You really haven't heard? Jesus, Jake. Two wilderness fatalities yesterday. It's been chaos. You know this town as well as anyone. People are putting those Nepalese prayer flags up everywhere. Really freaking out. One vic was a well-liked local. A lot of answers are expected from us and the park service. Answers we don't have. We've been running at full speed since the first accident.”

“What happened?” Jake asked as the chief collapsed in the chair behind his desk.

“Avalanche on Maelstrom—massive wet slide, like a cement factory overflowed. Killed one, the local guy. Before that, a European couple got friendly with a bear near the Gosling Lake overlook. One dead. Fucking insanity.” The chief shook his head. They were beyond earshot of the secretary and Terrell was talking like a city cop.

Curious, Jake ignored the matter of the body in his trunk for the time being. “They get the bear yet?”

“No, but a team from Yellowstone is up there as we speak. Haven't heard anything. Tell me your story, Trent, you're not the type to drop in for a chat.” The chief was frantically searching for something on his desk among hundreds of sheets of yellow notebook paper.

“What were his injuries—the victim, I mean? Has the coroner figured anything out?”

The chief sighed loudly. “Cause of death has not technically been determined, but the man had serious head trauma and several deep bite wounds to his chest. What does that say to you, Einstein?”

“Scalp probably bitten or punctured . . .” Jake knew this was common with bear attacks. One annoying remnant of Jake's past was that he was hopelessly curious about deaths and disappearances.

“No, scalp intact.” He looked up at Jake and sighed. “It seemed more like a blunt force injury resulting from a paw swat rather than a bite. A park ranger, Noelle Klimpton, said it looked like he had been pummeled by a boxer.”

“Was the bear still around the scene, or are you working by process of elimination?” Jake didn't intend to sound rude, but the chief stopped perusing and looked up.

“Jake, we are all happy you're here and contributing to our community,” Terrell said facetiously, “but you can leave your big-city, Mr. District Attorney suspicions at home. We can handle the investigation.”

Jake tilted his head back. He'd overstepped. It was time to move on. “You'd better follow me outside, Rog.”

“You've got to be shitting me,” he said, standing up, and the two walked out to the parking lot.

“Dammit!” the chief shouted as he peered into the back of Jake's SUV. Despite, or perhaps because of, the grave circumstances, the chief seemed to abruptly change moods, looking as if he was going to start laughing.

“Unbelievable!” Sure enough, he smiled in disbelief. “Well, looks like I've gotta take your statement. Then you can take him over to St. John's. The coroner will relieve you of your . . . err . . . cargo. No place to put him here, and I don't think people would react well if I sat him down in the waiting area.” The chief laughed. He sounded like a man on his way to having a nervous breakdown.

*  *  *

After taking Jake's statement, the chief walked him back to the parking lot.

“Be discreet,” he whispered as Jake got into his truck.

“Of course,” Jake said.

As if I'm going to take him to
Ripley's Believe It or Not!

Jake checked his mirror before he backed up and then angled it down to make sure that no part of the man's body was visible through the rear windshield of the car. He backed out of the police station's parking lot and headed toward St. John's
.

Only in Wyoming would an officer of the law ask a civilian to transport a corpse.

Jake arrived at the hospital to find a man in a long, white coat waving him down. Obviously, Chief Terrell hadn't forgotten to call. When Jake approached the garage door that the coroner pointed to, the man slid a key card through an electronic box in the cement wall. The garage door rose. Jake entered and parked in a spot near a set of double doors.

“Mr. Trent, I presume?” The coroner had a hollow and high-pitched voice, almost flutelike.

“Call me Jake. And you are?”

“Smith,” the man responded.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith,” Jake said as the man grabbed his hand and shook firmly.
No surprise, he has cold hands,
Jake thought. He wiped his palm off on his jeans.

“Just Smith, actually.” He smiled patronizingly and led Jake through the double doors. “If you don't mind, you can help me load the deceased onto a gurney.”

The two men pushed the gurney out to Jake's tailgate. Smith
pressed a lever and lowered the surface so it was level with the bumper. They slid the body out and onto the gurney. It was starting to smell. The transfer from the cold river to warmer air must have started the decomposition process. Jake followed Smith inside past two water fountains and through a single door without any windows.

This morgue was smaller than the typical city morgue—just eight large silver drawers. Most cities had ten times that capacity. No matter how often Jake had visited a morgue in the past, he never got used to it. Although he knew the aroma here was only a result of the sanitizing and preservation solutions used by the coroners, it still turned his stomach.

“Are the two bodies from yesterday here?” Jake asked, curious.

Smith looked at him as if to gauge his trustworthiness. “One is, the French guy that the bear got to. Other one is gone. The family of the guy who was killed in the avalanche had his body shipped back to Colorado for the funeral services.”

As he spoke, the coroner was looking at the dead fisherman's ankles. “What do you make of that?” Jake asked.

“Hard to say, really. Could've been irritated by the wool in his socks. This certainly isn't what killed him.” Smith chuckled.

Sweet guy
.

Jake was tempted to ask to see the body of the man who had been killed by the bear, but he refrained. He bid Smith good-bye and drove off, mulling the strange day.

If the coroner, the park, and the police said bear attack, Jake would believe them. It was strange though. Three violent deaths, two days, one small town. These were the sorts of things that got his wheels turning. Patterns. Coincidence. Things that usually led to something bigger.

Dusk nudged away the warmth and light of the sun while Jake pulled into the driveway that led to the main house on his property. He marveled at the beauty of the land in the fleeting sunlight. As always, he slowed down to appreciate the place he called home.

Chayote ran beside the SUV, jumping up and down next to the driver's side window. His stubby tail was wagging insistently, and his half-blue, half-white left eye accentuated the crazed, happy look on his face.