Free Fire jp-7 Read online

  Joe winced. “Thanks, Tony.”

  “You bet,” Portenson said, satisfied.

  “Eric Layborn,” said a man in an impeccably neat park ranger’s uniform. “Special investigator, National Park Service.” Joe reached out, and Layborn gripped his hand so hard Joe winced. Layborn had a heavy brow and a lantern jaw, a close-croppedmilitary haircut, and a brass badge and nameplate that reflected the single light above the table. Even his gun belt was shiny. Layborn’s eyes were unsettling to Joe because one bored into him and the other was slightly askew, as if it were studying his ear.

  “Ranger Layborn headed up the criminal investigation,” Ashby said to Joe.

  “Whatever you want to know I can tell you,” Layborn said. “We’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Joe thought it odd that Layborn would lead with that.

  “This is Ranger Judy Demming,” Ashby said, gesturing towardthe woman at the table who had not launched herself at Joe as Layborn had. “She was first on the scene.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Joe said, flexing his fingers to get the feeling back in them before shaking hands with her.

  Demming was a few years older than Joe with medium-lengthbrown hair, wire-framed glasses, a smattering of freckles across her nose. She seemed pleasant enough, gentle, and it was clear to Joe she was ill at ease. He couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortablewith him, with others in the room, or with her role in the case. After shaking his hand she seemed to withdraw and defer to Ashby and Layborn without really moving.

  Portenson and Ashby sat back in their chairs, signaling they were ready to start the meeting. Demming saw them and sat too. So did Joe. Layborn remained standing, his eye fixed on Joe and Joe’s ear. He didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t necessary. The stare was a challenge. Joe had seen it before from local sheriffs, police chiefs, Director Randy Pope. The look said, “Don’t cross me, don’t second-guess me, don’t step on my turf. And I’m bigger and tougher than you.”

  “Eric,” Ashby said sharply, “let’s get started.”

  Layborn held the scowl for a moment longer, then eased back into his chair with the grace of a cat.

  Message delivered.

  Joe had brought the file folder the governor had given him. The letter from Rick Hoening was on the bottom of the documents,facedown. He didn’t want them to see it.

  “Before we get started,” Ashby said, “I thought you might need some background on our job here and how we work. That way, we can save some time later.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Joe noticed Portenson had immediatelydrifted away and was studying the large-scale map of the park behind Joe’s head.

  “Yellowstone National Park is a federal enclave,” Ashby said. “You are no longer in the state of Wyoming, or Montana, or anywhere else. This is literally the last vestige of Wyoming Territory, and we’re governed as such. There are two U.S. marshalsup here, just like the frontier days, and we’ve got a hundredrangers including four special investigators. Eric here is our top investigator.”

  At that, Layborn leaned forward. Joe was still stinging from the “message” and fought the urge to ignore the man. Instead he acknowledged Layborn with a quick nod.

  “Think of the park as a city of forty thousand people every given day in the summer and fifteen thousand people in the winter,” Ashby said. “But unlike a city, everyone is passing through, turning over. We’ll have over three million in the summer,a few hundred thousand in the winter. It’s a brand-new scenario every day, a whole new cast. Our job is to serve and protect these people and enforce the laws, but at the same time to protect the resources of the park itself. This place is like a church; nothing is to be disturbed. It’s a national shrine and no one wants to see harm come to it. It’s a hell of a tough job, unlikeanything else in law enforcement. Park rangers are the most assaulted federal officers of all of the branches because of the public interaction that comes with the job. No one has jurisdictionover us in the park, including your governor and the FBI,” he said, indicating Portenson.

  Portenson, Joe noticed, appeared to be counting holes in the overhead ceiling tiles in boredom.

  “Because we’re federal,” Ashby said, “we operate under two sets of laws-the Code of Federal Regulations and the Federal Criminal Code and Rules statutes-and we can pick and choose depending on the violation. Most violations are Class B misde-meanors,meaning six months in jail and/or a five-thousand-dollarfine. Half of the violations are ‘cite and release’-we give them a ticket and let them proceed. But the other half are the serious ones, and they include felonies, poaching, violations of the Lacy Act, and so on. Because of the transient nature of the population here, all sorts of scum pass through. Last year we nailed a child molester who’d brought a little girl into the park in his RV. On average, we make two hundred to two hundredfifty arrests a year and issue four thousand tickets.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. There was more action than he realized.

  Layborn broke in. “Don’t be fooled by the numbers, Mr. Pickett. We aren’t just arresting tourists. Half of the arrests are of permanent residents-meaning Zephyr Corp. employees. I spend most of my time tailing those people. Some of them act like they left the law at home when they moved out here.” He said it with a vehemence that seemed out of place after Ashby’s sober recitation of facts, Joe thought.

  Layborn continued even though Ashby admonished him with his eyes to stop.

  “There are seven thousand Zephyr people. They come from all over the world to work in the park. Too many of them come to think they’re on the same level as we are. They forget they’re here because we allow them to be. They’re contractors for the Park Service, nothing more. They work in the hotels, change the bedding, cook, unclog the sewers, wrangle horses, whatever.Some of them are renegades. We used to call ’em savages-”

  “Eric, please,” Ashby said, sitting up, cutting Layborn off. “We’re getting off track.”

  “The hell we are,” Layborn said to Ashby. “If we got rid of the bad apples in Zephyr, we’d get rid of most of our crime.”

  “That may be, but that isn’t why we’re here.”

  “The hell it isn’t. The campers who got shot were Zephyr people camping in a place they shouldn’t have been camping.” He turned back to Joe. “See what I mean about their attitude? And you can only imagine what they said to get themselves killed. I knew those people very well. I didn’t get along with ’em either. They had no respect for anyone or anything, those people. They liked to call themselves the Gopher State Five becausethey were all from Minnesota, like that made them specialsomehow.”

  Joe observed that Demming had subtly pushed her chair fartheraway from Layborn. Portenson observed Layborn as if the ranger were an amusing, exotic specimen.

  “You know,” Portenson said, “I bet you guys could really run this damned park properly if you could just get rid of all of the people in it. We feel the same way about the reservation. If we could ship all those damned Indians off somewhere, we wouldn’t hardly have any trouble at all.”

  Layborn turned his scowl on the FBI agent. Demming looked mortified by both Layborn’s and Portenson’s language. Joe felt sorry for her.

  “Maybe we can get back to the issue here,” Joe said, and receiveda grateful nod from Ashby.

  “And maybe,” Layborn said to Joe, “we can start with why you’re really here. Why we all had to show up for this damned meeting in the first place.”

  “I’m a little curious about that myself,” Portenson agreed.

  Joe felt his neck get hot. He had been expecting the question and couldn’t lie or mislead them. Not that he was any good at lying anyway. He felt it was his assignment to tell them the truth but leave a couple of things out. The specter of Governor Rulon stood in the corner, it seemed, listening closely to what Joe said.

  "Spencer Rulon was the U.S. Attorney for the District of Wyoming before he ran for governor, as you know,” Joe said. “So if he still had his old job, he would have been the one tryin
gto prosecute this case. He’s got a vested interest in it. He’d like to see Clay McCann thrown in prison because he doesn’t like the idea of a man getting away with murder in his state, despitethe weird legal circumstances of this one. So he asked me to come up here and talk to you all and write a report summarizingthe case. If he reads something that interests him, he may go to the new U.S. Attorney, or have the Wyoming AG take a look at it. He wants to help, not interfere. That’s what he told me. He asked me to come up here and poke around, see if I can figure anything out from a fresh perspective.”

  Layborn snorted, sat back, and crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you expect to find that we haven’t already gone over?”

  Joe shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “This is pointless,” Layborn said. “You’re wasting my time and everybody’s time in this room.”

  “Maybe,” Joe agreed.

  Ashby said, “I suppose it can’t hurt. Sometimes the best thing to do is start fresh.”

  Joe could tell by the way Ashby said it that he really didn’t believe what he was saying. He was playing peacemaker and he wanted to move the meeting along so he could get out of there.

  “Doubtful,” Layborn said.

  Ashby sighed and looked squarely at Joe. “The particulars of this case have been reviewed ad nauseum. We’ve never had a case with a higher profile, and frankly, we don’t appreciate the publicity that’s come from it. We saw more national press up here last summer than we’ve seen since we reintroduced the wolves, and it wasn’t very good press.”

  “Is that why the chief ranger isn’t here?” Joe asked.

  Ashby tried not to react to Joe’s question, but there was a flicker behind his glare.

  “The National Park Service is funded by federal appropriation,” Ashby said flatly. “Congressmen want to feel good about the parks. We want to be the agency everybody feels all warm and fuzzy about. They don’t like this kind of controversy, and neither do we.”

  Layborn shot his arm out and looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “I have some questions,” Joe said quickly.

  “This is stupid,” Layborn said, looking to Ashby for a nod so he could have permission to leave. “He has the files. He should read ’em.”

  Ashby wouldn’t meet Layborn’s eye to dismiss him.

  “I read over the file more than once,” Joe said, forging ahead. “I read everything in it, but I’m not sure all of the information was in there. Not that anything was withheld deliberately,but there are things I’m just unclear on. So I thought I’d start with those so I have a better picture of what happened.”

  The room was suddenly silent except for a loud sigh from Layborn.

  “The sooner we do this the sooner I’ll get out of your hair,” Joe said quickly. Ashby acquiesced and sat back in his chair. With his fingers, he signaled, Go on.

  “It looks to me like everybody involved did everything exactly right,” Joe started, hoping to relieve some of the doubt they might have. “By the book, down the line. From the initial call to throwing McCann into the Yellowstone jail. I have no questions about the procedure at all. In fact, given the crime, I was damned impressed with how restrained and professional you all were.”

  He looked up to see Layborn nodding as if to say, What did you expect?

  “The things I don’t get have nothing to do with how you handledthe arrest. They have to do with other aspects of the case.”

  Joe didn’t like talking so much. He had already used more words in this room than he had in the past month. But he had no choice but to continue. Self-doubt began to creep into his consciousness,like a black storm cloud easing over the top of the mountains. He wasn’t sure this was a job he could do well, a role he could play competently. Joe liked working the margins, keeping his mouth shut, observing from the sidelines. He did his best to block out the image of the thunderhead rolling over.

  He asked Demming, “You were the first to respond, correct?”

  For the first time, Demming sat up. Her expression changed from embarrassed to interested.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “I was actually off-duty at the time. I was coming back from Idaho Falls with my daughter, who had to see the orthodontist. I was out of uniform, but I had the cruiser and my weapon. I heard the call from dispatch and realized I was just ten to fifteen minutes away from the Bechler ranger station, so I responded.”

  Ashby cut in. “That corner of the park is by far the least visited,” he said, his voice monotone, as if he’d explained it countlesstimes, which he likely had. “You can’t even get there from the park itself. In order to get to Bechler, you’ve got to drive into Idaho or Montana and come back in. The road down there doesn’t connect with any of our internal park roads. That’s why we didn’t-and don’t-have a constant law enforcement presencethere.”

  Joe said, “I’ve read the file, Mr. Ashby. I know where Bechleris located. What I’m asking about are things that aren’t in the incident report.”

  Ashby sat back slightly chastened.

  Demming continued, “When I got to the station, McCann had turned over his weapons and was sitting on the bench waiting.He didn’t put up any kind of struggle, and he admitted to what he’d done. I took him outside, cuffed him, and waited for backup.”

  “Which was me,” Layborn said. “I was there within the hour.”

  “How did McCann act?” Joe asked Demming.

  Demming shook her head, as if trying to find the right words. “He was easy to get along with, I guess. He didn’t say all that much. He wasn’t ranting or raving, and didn’t act like he was crazy or anything. In fact, he seemed sort of stunned, like he couldn’t really believe it was happening.”

  “So he didn’t deny the murders?”

  “Not at all. He described what happened down at Robinson Lake. That he’d been hiking and the campers harassed him, so he defended himself. That’s how he put it, that he was defending himself.”

  “Asshole,” Layborn whispered. Joe ignored him.

  “So at the time you arrived, he didn’t indicate to you he knew anything about the Zone of Death?”

  “No.”

  Ashby looked pained. “We don’t like that term and we don’t use it.”

  Joe acknowledged Ashby but pressed Demming. “So he found out about it later? After he was in jail?”

  Demming shook her head. “I had the feeling he knew about it at the time,” she said. “It’s just an impression, and I can’t reallyprove it. He was just so cooperative. I got the impression he knew that he was going to walk eventually. He acted like he had a secret.”

  Joe nodded.

  “You never told me that,” Layborn said to Demming, his voice threatening.

  “I did so,” she said, looking back at him. “I told you when you arrived. But it didn’t fit with anything then, so you probably just forgot about it.”

  Layborn rolled his eyes and turned to Joe. “What difference does it make?” he asked.

  “Maybe none,” Joe said. “I’m just trying to figure out if he went trolling for targets or if there was more to it.”

  Joe asked Demming, “Did McCann check in at the ranger station before he went on his hike that morning? Did anyone see him?”

  Demming hesitated, trying to recall. “Yes,” she said, “he even signed the register, listing his destination as Robinson Lake.”

  “I didn’t see a copy of the registration page in my file,” Joe said. “That’s why I asked.”

  “Why does it matter?” Layborn cut in.

  Joe said, “Because if McCann checked in that morning he could have looked on the register to see who was already in the park before him. I assume the victims registered the day before. McCann could have seen their names on the sheet and known who was at Robinson Lake. If he knew their names and where they were camping, that might suggest some familiarity with them after all-that he didn’t just bump into complete strangers like he claimed.”

  Layborn, As
hby, and Portenson exchanged looks. Joe had hit on something. He felt a little trill in his chest.

  “What about that?” Ashby asked Layborn.

  The chief investigator started to answer but stopped. His face reddened as he looked back at Joe.

  “I’m sure the sign-in sheets are still at the station,” Demmingsaid, unsure where Joe was headed.

  “It would be interesting to take a look at them,” Joe said.

  Portenson reacted by furiously rubbing his face with his hands. “We’ve been down this road for months, Joe,” he said. “The FBI has been working on the Gopher State angle. We interviewedeveryone the victims knew in Minnesota, their parents, teachers, friends, fellow environmental activists. Environmental terrorism is high priority with us and we pursued that angle. What we found is a bunch of granola eaters who hate George Bush. No surprises there. But we couldn’t find a single thing that connected the victims with Clay McCann. Not a damned thing. We’ve gone over it a thousand times. Nada.”

  Joe said, “So none of them had ever been to West Yellowstone?”

  “Not that we could find,” Portenson said with impatient finality.“And we couldn’t find any record of McCann in the park either. Like maybe he stayed at Old Faithful and one of them spit in his food or something so he wanted revenge. Believe me, we’ve been all over this.”

  “We think they were involved in drugs,” Layborn cut in.

  Joe looked up at him. That wasn’t in the file.

  “Meth, dope,” Layborn said. “There’s a goddamned pipeline from somewhere into the park. We think half the Zephyr people are users, and we don’t think they travel to Jackson or Bozeman to get it. We think they buy it locally.”

  Ashby cleared his throat. “Half is too much, Eric.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was more than half,” Layborn said, ignoring his boss. “I’m convinced if we ever find out why those four people were murdered, if there was even a reason other than Clay McCann having target practice, it’ll have somethingto do with the drug ring.”

  Joe looked to Ashby and Portenson for clarification. Portensonrolled his eyes. Ashby looked away, said, “We don’t have any evidence that the crime had to do with drugs.”