Mortal Fall Page 10

  “It’s curious all right. When we get these remains to the lab, we should be able to figure out more about the time of death, see how it lines up with the other victim. Is he”—she lifted her brow—“with Pettiman in Kalispell or Wilson in Missoula?”

  “Pettiman at first,” I said. “But he’s being transferred to Missoula. I’m guessing this one should go to Missoula too?”

  “I need to take a quick look at the landing spot and then I think we should get it up and refrigerated as soon as possible.”

  I radioed Joe and told him our plan. After she got enough photos of the area he was dragged from, together we headed back to the rappelling lines carrying the remains of another human being lost to the wild. I thought of the man’s flesh being torn by the menacing jaw of a stealth lion, helping to build his or her sleek muscles. “One way or another,” I said, “I guess we all eventually get reprocessed.”

  She looked at me and shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll respond to that one.”

  I sighed. “Best not to. But what you can do for me is use whatever clout you have with Doc Wilson to expedite the autopsy.”

  She tilted her head and smiled. “That I can do.”

  12

  * * *

  TWO VICTIMS IN the same area.” Joe scratched the back of his neck.

  Joe, Ken, and I were sitting in the incident room. “Yeah, strange,” Ken agreed.

  “Coroner called me fifteen minutes ago,” I said. “He just got him on his way to Missoula. Looks like this one’s been out there for several days and that’s what Gretchen thought as well. At this point, he’s unidentified. I’ve contacted missing persons and so far nothing. The coroner thinks once he gets him to Missoula, Wilson might be able to get an ID from the tattoo on the arm. Just might take a little time.”

  “And there was no car in the lot?” Joe asked.

  “Not that we know of. We’ve considered the possibility that he parked on the east side and hiked over, so I’ve got Schaeffer checking the lots over there.” Marina Schaeffer was Park Police also and stationed on the east side in St. Mary. A twelve-mile-steep trek over the Divide could get you on the west side, but it would be a full day of strenuous hiking. “It’s also possible he took a shuttle up, hitchhiked, or got a ride up from a friend.”

  “Your thoughts on the two falls in the same area?” Joe scratched his chin.

  “I don’t know. It seems highly unlikely it could be a coincidence unless they both fell at the same time, maybe fighting or something, but since the guy I found today has been out there longer, it rules that out.”

  “Serial killer?” Ken offered.

  Joe and I looked at each other. “Doesn’t feel right,” I said. “Serial killers like to hurt their victims. I’m not saying it’s not possible. It’s just that a push would be too simple, over too quickly unless there was abuse taking place first and we’re not seeing signs of that, at least not on Sedgewick. But maybe we need more analysis on him.”

  “What about one homicide, one accident?” Joe asked.

  “I thought about that. First guy is pushed and Wolfie picks up a wolverine signal heading to the area and he, well, he falls. And that might feel right if it was anyone but a field biologist. It just doesn’t make sense given his experience in the wilderness.”

  Joe nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Either way,” I insisted, “I’d like Wolfie’s body transferred from Pettiman to Wilson as soon as possible for further analysis.”

  • • •

  The next morning was a Sunday, and there was nothing to do in the meantime but focus on Wolfie. With Wolfie, it was a process of elimination: was it suicide? Was it an accident? Was it homicide? There was no reason to believe it was a suicide, possibly an accident, but with a second body in the same area, my suspicion meter went way up. I pulled out Wolfie’s files and looked through them, hoping to find something to point me in some direction or to link Wolfie to anything questionable.

  There was file after file filled with notes on wolverine sightings, maps of where they’d been, drainages they’d been up, valleys they’d denned in, ridges and peaks they’d muscled up. There were specific classifications on the different animals, most of them titled M1, M2, M3, and up for males, and F1, F2, and F3 for females. There were personal notes in a separate folder, just scribbles of observations, mostly about his awe of the wolverine:

  I see a major self-respect, a self-reliance and a dignity in the tenacity of the creature, the way it fearlessly scales precipices and wants to rip us apart for interfering with their routines to try to implant our transmitters. Gotta love these little bastards! They do not go gentle. But, they are playful too. Saw three playing hide-and-seek on a snowfield above Avalanche Lake, hiding, peeking, chasing, somersaulting and sliding—all for fun because they would climb back up and do it several times in a row.

  He would also comment on the grizzlies he’d come across and how when he’d see one, he could practically feel its air of unfettered power descend upon him and make him feel very small and humble.

  Sadness overwhelmed me to think the love, awe, and respect emanating from Wolfie so effusively was suddenly vanquished. I sensed some deep understanding in him of the natural world he engaged with more than I’d seen in our own tribe of rangers and Park Police—some part of Wolfie’s soul, perhaps, that identified with the wild animals and their quest to keep moving and to remain ungoverned.

  Then I thought of his family, of Cathy and the kids, and how they deserved more and how I’d fleetingly considered Sam Ward might have something more going on with her. A twinge of guilt shot through me again. The Sedgewicks seemed graced with the ability to have a loving, connected family. Suddenly, I felt that strong need welling again, an urgent necessity to somehow help them and to try to make things right in whatever small ways were possible. And layered beneath that urge, from someplace dark and tangled, I sensed that such an urge stemmed from the knowledge that I would never be able to revel in a normal, warm family myself. Judging by my separation after eight years of what I considered a good marriage, ultimately, a happy home life eluded me.

  I moved on and opened another file. I read about the population of the wolverine. How the estimate for Glacier was between thirty and thirty-five, and how in Montana as a whole, there were maybe somewhere between a hundred and a hundred fifty and that there might be a handful in the Tetons, in Idaho, and in Washington in the North Cascades, a fragmented number at best. There were genealogy charts linking offspring to the parents and notes on which wolverines had died, some accidentally by violent avalanches, some at the jaws of other predators, possibly even other wolverines, and far too many by human hands.

  At the end of the file, an undated personal note written by Wolfie read: Call from DOI—high ranking official—pressure about report. Then I saw a smaller, index-card-size note tucked between some pages. It read: South Fork—Rowdy? Outlaw’s.

  I grabbed Ken and when he asked where we were going, I replied, “Down the Line.” I was referring to the canyon between the Flathead Valley and Glacier Park, which was known for gimmicky tourist spots as well as a tough population of often-lower-income and unemployed folks.

  “Where?”

  “The Outlaw’s Nest in Hungry Horse.”

  “You jones’ing for a beer?”

  “No, I want to talk to the manager of the bar, Melissa Tafford. I’m hoping she knows a local who goes by Rowdy.”

  “Rowdy?”

  “Yeah, you heard of him?”

  Ken shook his head. “Not sure I want to.”

  • • •

  We drove through the town of Hungry Horse, past the dilapidated larger-than-life cutout sign of a white horse, past the huckleberry ice cream stands selling huck pies and ice cream made from huckleberries frozen from the summer before, since the berries weren’t ripe until July at the earliest. We passed the east side turnoff to the Hungry Horse dam clogging and creating the large reservoir up the South Fork drainage and par
ked at the Outlaw’s Nest. Only a few cars sat in the lot since it was a Sunday. As we entered, the scent of bleach from either the late-night or early-morning cleaning detergents hit me. I figured they must need some heavy-duty supplies to get up all the spilt liquor from the night before.

  “I see you have a different sidekick.” Melissa lifted her chin toward Ken when we approached her at the bar. “What happened to the other one?” She was referring to Systead on the Bear Bait case. We had pressed Melissa several times for information on her meth-dealing boyfriend during the investigation.

  “Went back to Denver.”

  She shrugged, a good-riddance look on her face. “Well, whatever brings you here, don’t bother asking, ’cause I can’t help you. Stimpy and I broke up months ago.”

  “I see.” I refrained from commenting that—for her sake—it was probably for the best. “Well, this has nothing to do with him. Just need a little help.”

  She set two mugs under some taps and pulled the handles, the golden liquid filling each. When they were full, she tipped the foam, then added a little more. She looked better than she had the previous fall, her face softer and less angled. Maybe she’d stopped using if she and Stimpy were done. She grabbed a mug in each hand and walked over to a table with two middle-aged guys in jeans and T-shirts. While we waited for her to return, I read a poster that had been taped to the wall to our side describing a local band, the Woodtics, who would be performing in the Outlaw’s Nest on Thursday, the thirtieth.

  “I’m looking for a guy named Rowdy,” I said when she returned. “Know him?”

  She shrugged.

  “I guess that means you do.”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t say no either.”

  “Yeah, I know of him. Everyone around here does. He’s been around these parts longer than the mountains.” She flicked her hand in the air. “What do you want with him? He doesn’t bother anyone.”

  “Not entirely sure,” I said. “Just trying to figure out why a guy who fell in the park might have had business with him.”

  “That guy that fell? The wolverine research guy?”

  “Yeah, why would he have business with your Rowdy?”

  “I have no idea.” She looked around as if she wanted to make sure no one could hear her, wiped the counter with a dirty-looking rag, and pursed her lips.

  “Nothing? No idea at all?”

  She bit her top lip and shook her head.

  I stayed quiet and studied her, watching as she wiped the counter before her, then tossed the rag over the side of the sink. I’ve found patience works best in situations like these. Ken took a seat at the bar and made himself comfortable.

  Finally, she said, “All right”—she pointed in my face, one eye narrowed—“not because I like you, but because if I had to like one of you, I’d like you better than that Systead jerk.”

  “I appreciate the compliment.” I smiled.

  “But you didn’t hear any of this from me.” She looked around carefully again.

  I held up my hand as if under oath.

  “All I can tell you is that a few weeks ago, a group of guys got together in here and they were all riled up because that wolverine guy had made some comment in the local news that wolverines might need more protection in the backcountry. And you know, we’re sick of being told what we can and can’t do with our land. More protection for some stupid animal nobody cares about anyway means less hunting, snowmobiling, ATV’ing,” She tilted her head to the side, her eyes hard and set.

  “Which guys were in the group?”

  “Can’t say. Can’t really remember.”

  I knew she was lying, but I knew I couldn’t push her if I wanted any more information about Rowdy. “Rowdy was with this group?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, they bought him whiskey and wanted his advice about something because he used to be a game warden. They had some questions about trapping or something. About filing complaints.”

  There were a total of about seventy-five game warden personnel for Fish, Wildlife and Parks, and I since used to be one of them, I was well aware that most of us knew or had at least heard of each other no matter which region we worked.

  But Rowdy? I’d never heard of a Rowdy before. “What’s his last name?” I asked Melissa.

  “No clue. Don’t make a habit of learning everyone’s names in here.”

  “He go by another first name?”

  “Probably. Sounds like a nickname to me, but I wouldn’t know any other.”

  “So they wanted to file a complaint?”

  “Not sure. Or deal with a complaint made against them or something. But more than anything, they just wanted to talk, you know, to try to be organized.”

  “Organized?”

  “Yeah, have some kind of a strategy for how to protect the land around here from people like you who work for the state and the feds. Can’t say I blame ’em.” She picked up the dirty rag again. “Now, if you don’t mind, I gotta clean that table.” She motioned to one that had been sitting with empty beer bottles since we’d come in.

  I nodded and thanked her for her time, and Ken and I left her to her quiet Sunday in the gloom of her dingy bar.

  13

  * * *

  GRETCHEN CAME THROUGH. Wilson had both autopsies finished by the next morning, and I left at six a.m. to get to the Forensics Science Division of the Montana Department of Justice’s State Crime Lab for a nine a.m. viewing.

  Wilson greeted me in powder-blue scrubs and galoshes and took me back to the autopsy suite. He knew that I had worked with Systead on the last case from the park and sighed. “The body’s been badly eaten. Just like last fall. And, as you know, animals are hard on bodies. Often, all the fleshy meat is gone and parts get torn off, carried away, buried, or covered with dirt, leaves, and twigs. I’m surprised you found it,” he said as I followed him down the hall.

  “It was a stroke of luck.”

  “Well, when you really think about it, how often do you come across a deer carcass?”

  “Almost never, unless it’s road kill.”

  “Exactly.” He grabbed a face mask and handed it to me. “So, with as many deer as there are around here and with as many predators of deer, you’d think you’d come across one more often, but you don’t, right?”

  “Right.” He wasn’t telling me anything I wasn’t familiar with.

  “Well,” he added,“trying to find human remains in the woods is just as difficult.”

  I thought of Nathan Faraway again, and a memory of the officer talking to my parents in our small house in Columbia Falls, essentially conveying the same sentiment, flashed in my mind. As we entered the suite, the smell of disinfectant blended with the stench of the remains in the refrigerated air, and I tried to shake the feeling that the specter of Nathan seemed to be following me quite a bit lately.

  Before us, two bodies lay on the dissecting tables under long-armed lights that looked like the kind seen in a dentist’s suite. One was Paul Sedgewick, or Wolfie, the already severely torn skin peeled away from his crushed skull. His crooked body lay opened from groin to shoulders to reveal broken ribs, fat, and muscle. The other was in a feeble state of disarray on the dissecting table: bones and scant, rotting flesh that appeared blackened from the enzymes in the bacteria eating away at the leftover flesh. I figured Victor Lance from Bear Bait must have looked similar to this the previous fall—a smattering of pieces put back together, definitely like something’s leftover meal. I felt only a little queasy, and was once again grateful we’d done numerous stints in my recent classes in the autopsy units.

  “We’ll start with the victim you found first.” He gestured to Wolfie. “Entomology will clarify even more, but I can say for sure that he has been out there less time than the second one you found. This one died less than forty-eight hours before you found him at the bottom of the ravine. His manner of death is consistent with trauma from the fall. We got lucky with him that no third parties or animals got
on him. Paul Sedgewick. I think you’ve ID’d him correctly. Odontology verified that the dental records are a match.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  “His growth plates are fully fused, so I had known he was over twenty-five before we got the confirmation.”

  “Yeah, born in 1969.”

  “And time of death?”

  “Definitely within thirty-six hours of when he was last seen. In this case, I’d say he’d been out there at least twelve to seventeen hours. I’ve based that on the stage of rigor in the large muscle groups of the lower extremities and stages of lividity. And of course, I’ve taken recorded temperatures from the area for Wednesday night into consideration.”

  “His wife last saw him around six p.m. on Wednesday.”

  Wilson gave a quick nod in agreement. “That fits. The earliest would have been 6, 6:30. I’m thinking between 6:30 and 11:30 p.m. on Wednesday.”

  “We’ve got a toxicology screen taking place and other than that, it’s your basic fall. Judging by the state of his skull, you were probably correct in assuming he hit head first.”

  “Is it possible the head was hit on a second or third hit and not the first?”

  “I’m taking an educated guess that his head hit first, his ankles on a later one due to the severity of the crushed skull, but you can never say for sure with a fall like this.”

  “Any signs of foul play?

  “Not that I can determine, but it’s very difficult to conclude something like that on a specimen that is in this kind of shape. This one,” Wilson pointed to the other meager pile of remains on the second table. “Even worse shape. Male also. From the pelvis and the size and shape of the forehead on the skull.” He pointed to the narrow pelvis first, then the skull. “He was the first to die for sure. Ribs tell me he’s over twenty-five as well, but most of his ribs have been destroyed by a mountain lion.”

  “Lion for sure?”

  “The puncture wounds in the flesh that’s left on the arm and between the ribs indicate it’s a feline larger than lynx or bobcat. I know it’s strange. I’ve only seen it once before—a lion feeding on a dead carcass. Usually, they like their prey alive. They’re stalkers, hunters. This one must have been young and hungry.”