“Does she”—he checked a report in front of him, lifting his chin to
look down through his glasses—“Cathleen, Cathleen Sedgewick want to see him?”
“Goes by Cathy. Yes, but I told her she couldn’t.”
“Good. I’d hate to have her go through that since he’s been disfigured. But we still need an official ID. If we brought her in, there’d be a very small possibility of misidentification, right?”
“Yeah, she could be so freaked out by the face, she could definitely mis-ID him, out of strong denial. She already thinks there’s been a mistake. Thinks he’ll still come through the door on Sunday. But ID’ing him could theoretically be best for her in terms of eventually moving through the grieving process.” I knew I sounded a little like a procedural manual on dealing with family members of victims, but I couldn’t help it. I liked to deal with life’s messy curveballs exactly by the book because, let’s face it—this kind of stuff wasn’t easy and help, however we can get it, is well appreciated.
“And I suppose Ken and I could be mistaken, but the car and his ID?”
“It’s a good verification, but of course, cars can be driven by someone else.”
I chewed the side of my lip. “I just can’t see putting her through it,” an image of the smashed face and shattered skull popped into my mind. “I’m thinking odontology and DNA.” I produced a plastic baggie with Wolfie’s toothbrush. “I grabbed this just in case, but hopefully dental records will do the trick instead. I’ll get this to Gretchen though and see if we can’t get a rush to match the DNA. Save Cathy the trauma. I’ll also find out who they use for a dentist. Plus I’ll find out if the west entrance routine surveillance tapes were running. It’d be good to see if he drove in alone and if it matches the time Cathy says he left the house.”
Joe agreed, placed his knuckles under his chin, and stared at the toothbrush I had placed on his desk. “Odontology should do the trick, but if not, we should be able to get a rush on this. I’ll make some calls. But you know, if she insists on seeing him, we have no choice. Either
way, I’d like him officially ID’d as soon as possible because I’ll have to release a name to the press. The accident will already be coming out in the paper in the morning.”
“I think that’s doable.” I reconsidered the effect it might have on Cathy Sedgewick. Even though it was already Thursday evening, Wilson should have the body by the next day, and hopefully the postmortem soon to follow.
Joe leaned back into his black ergonomic chair with a high back and removed his readers. He looked frail, and I resisted the urge to ask him how he was faring, how he and Elena, his wife, were doing and if he was getting enough sleep and food these days. I knew the Lance trial had originally been set for March, but had been delayed and was set to start in two weeks. Showing for work each day was the only thing keeping him sane. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not a thing, sir.” I leaned forward and placed my elbows on my knees and looked at my notepad again. “Very normal reactions. Stunned, disbelieving, appropriately shocked. Nothing to suggest suicide or foul play. But the wildlife footage interests me.” I looked up and tapped my pad with my pen. “I’ve called Bowman to ask about the cameras. I lose track of where they place those and I wasn’t aware they had one set up in the Loop area, were you?”
Joe shook his head. “No, I wasn’t. The biologists are always moving them around—bears, wolverines, fishers, pine martins, now they’re into ducks too.” He shrugged. “Ever since the wolverine guys found harlequin duckling feathers in the wolverine’s dens, they had always assumed the ducks don’t breed in the park since they’re mainly a coastal bird. Now they’re studying migration patterns, trying to understand why they come inland to McDonald Creek to breed. But Kurt, yeah, he’d know where the camera is at the Loop if there is one, and maybe it’s got some footage of someone in the area that day and evening.”
“That would be a gift. Let’s hope it does.”
“You didn’t find any film on the victim?”
“I didn’t. Shorts were ripped on one side with the entire pocket flap
torn open. The other pocket was intact and I checked, but there was nothing in it. I’d like to take a peek at Wolfie’s vehicle, search it as well. There were no keys on the body either.”
“Yeah, I found them in the car. Didn’t bother to lock it, so it makes sense he was just going to grab the film and take off again. After finding the ID, his cell phone and his camping gear in the backseat, I didn’t search a whole lot more than that.” He picked up a plastic bag with the ID and phone inside and handed it to me. “While we had the road blocked, we had it transported to our side lot here. You can look at in the morning or even right now if you’d like.”
“I’ll do that.” I stood up and thanked Joe.
“No,” Joe said. “Thank you. Tough duty telling the family like that.” He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, said, “Been through that too many times.”
“Yes, sir, I know you have. Happy to help there.” I snapped open my briefcase and placed my notepad and the plastic bag inside. And when I clicked the case shut, I felt a sudden blast of purpose. In spite of feeling completely played out from telling the victim’s family, I had a job to do and it involved organization, details, research, calculations, and wit.
You’d be surprised. Families had questions; they often wanted more details than you could ever imagine. What we found—how far their loved one had slid, what hit first, did they die instantly, were they able to call out, how cold it was . . . Once the initial shock subsided, the Sedgewicks would want more. And, of course, if there was ever a reason to go to court, the facts needed to be meticulously recorded and relayed. I may not be able to fully comfort Wolfie’s family, but I could get the details down right for their sake, for his sake.
When I shut my briefcase, the realization clicked in my brain that this was my purpose, this was my calling and I, Monty Harris, was the right guy for the job. I knew well enough there were things in life—emotional things—that no one could take charge of, but shepherding an investigation of a bad fall—this I could do.
5
I
THANKED THE LATE
sun smoldering on the peaks as I walked to Wolfie’s old Subaru wagon parked in the lot by headquarters. A vehicle’s interior was usually a good indicator of its driver’s habits. I pulled my gloves on and opened the front door, stuck my head in and took a big whiff. This wagon was clean and did not smell of fast food, alcohol, food gone bad, cigarette smoke. . . . Not that I necessarily expected that from Wolfie. Nor was it littered with odds and ends, which I did halfway expect—maybe a bottle of sunscreen or a water bottle on the floor, but it was clean and tidy.
A polyethylene file box sat on the floor of the passenger side and a fat blue binder lay right in the middle of the passenger seat. Papers stuck out unevenly. I flipped open the title page and read: “Wolverines: A Circumpolar Species and Indicator of Global Warming.” There were a few plastic dividers, one of them labeled “Wolverine Pop Assessments/GNP,” another “RM Research Stn Progress,” another “Clim Chg Effects.” And the last, “Trap/Monitor Sites.” The box contained numerous research files with tabs holding many more documents. Wolfie’s small office contained even more files and books on all kinds of northwestern animals, habitats, and research.
I went to browse through the other files when I heard a car pull into the lot. I looked up to see Eugene Ford, the park’s super whom I used to work closely with until the Bear Bait Case. He parked, got out of his car, and strode up, his straight-backed, tall stance not betraying his age in the least. Ford was in his mid-to-late sixties, and ran the park
with an eye to the best public relations possible. I couldn’t blame him. His duties as a superintendent called for vigilance about all aspects of park management. He set local park policy based on Department of the Interior, National Park Service, and regional guidance, and interpreted enough regional and national policy to make your head spin. But he loved the place, and he could be like a cranky dog clenching a bone when it came to his desire for the park to run smoothly and efficiently—zero snags. He was a stickler for clean restrooms, efficient entrance-station operations, and friendly staff. He expected his rangers to personally greet visitors. Plus he hated anything sensational or dramatic that might scare tourists because Ford liked numbers, and each year he became obsessed with achieving a higher visitation record then the previous.
“Smith filled me in,” he said as he emerged from his Tahoe, which featured many of the same markings as my field Explorer, including the thick green stripe and dark brown NPS arrowhead emblem. “Said you’d be out here checking the accident victim’s vehicle.”
“Yeah, poor guy,” I said. “Bad deal.”
Ford’s face was stern as usual. He leveled his gaze on me. “You wrapping this up today?”
“Probably need tomorrow too,” I said. “Just to get everything recorded and investigated properly.”
“What do you think happened?” Ford asked. “What’s your impression?”
“Not sure.” I wondered if he was testing me somehow. I knew he’d not been particularly pleased with me the past year since I told him I wanted back into the field. I had been helping him with the park inholdings and mining claims in the controversial Ceded Strip, a large swath of land that makes up the majority of the eastern half of Glacier Park that was originally part of the Blackfeet Reservation that was ceded to the federal government. The Blackfeet tribal leaders claimed they never agreed to sell the lands outright and only leased the strip for a fifty-year mining agreement that expired in 1940. I was in charge of
researching and documenting to support the case that Glacier needed to stay 100 percent federally protected ad infinitum.
Ford had also relied on me to get a lot of his other busywork done that the assistant super didn’t have time for because he was busy trying to secure funding for park projects. As I told him then, it was highly unusual for a fully trained law enforcement officer to be acting as his right-hand man anyway. I just got roped into it because I was good at research, and I was meticulous.
When I moved back into the field, he’d made several snide remarks to me before I left for Georgia for my courses: “Headin’ on to bigger stuff, Harris?” “On from Boy to Eagle Scouting?” Since I’m on the clean-cut and fastidious side, it wasn’t the first time I’d been compared to some kind of a scout. Although actually, I’ve never even been in scouts: not Cub, Boy, and certainly not Eagle.
And I guess with being slight, some people like to compare me to an adolescent. Aside from the premature sprinkling of gray around my temples, I have to admit that if I put on an oversized coat, I can look almost boyish. But I’m no weakling. I may be wiry, but my muscles are corded, sinewy, and strong. And I know I’m fast because I time myself frequently. Last I checked—four days before—I ran a mile in five minutes and twenty-eight seconds. I don’t train for anything in particular; I just like to stay fit, especially in my line of work. “Not sure I trust first impressions, sir,” I answered.
“I don’t mean for you to. Just, you know, trying to get my head around it being Paul Sedgewick.” Ford would not be one to use a nickname, even though I knew he was aware of the Wolfie nickname.
“I know. That’s the odd thing considering his experience. Trying to figure it out. Was it really an accidental slip, a suicide, or a push?” I asked rhetorically.
“Push?” Ford jerked his chin in and cringed as if he smelled something foul. “Come on, Harris, just because you took a few courses on this stuff, I wouldn’t get too ahead of yourself.”
“Well, sir, you’re right.” I ignored his condescending tone. “There is
no evidence suggesting foul play, but even though the ankles are badly broken, the lacerations seem more prominent in his head as if he hit there first. Now, does that mean he was pushed? Not sure,” I answered my own question. “He could have hit leg first, then tumbled to his head for the second hit after sliding off the first ledge.”
Ford listened intently, his eyes squinting in perpetual criticism. “I would highly doubt this is anything but an accident. I mean, the guy was probably tipsy or high on something and misjudged the ledge. It happens, even to backcountry experts.”
“We’ll know more from the autopsy report,” I said.
He looked at the Subaru beside us. “This it?”
“Yeah, just checking it over.”
“All right, well, listen, let’s get this processed quickly. We need to get the Loop Trail open as soon as possible. I’d like to see it reopened by tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t do that, sir. Maybe by late afternoon.”
Ford looked across the lot in the direction of my Explorer. “Like I said”—he looked back at me—“as quickly as possible. The chalet’s one of the main attractions for hikers in this part of the park. It’s not good business in the heart of tourist season to have such a high-volume place closed to the public. Tomorrow’s Friday, which is bad enough, but I’ll give you that. But I want it open by Saturday. The weekend after solstice is usually a big one.”
“I understand, sir.” I was beginning to feel the pressure that Systead had experienced when dealing with Ford on the Bear Bait case, only he had a personal vendetta against Ford. I got along just fine with the guy even though he had a knack for making the entire area around him hum with a watchful disapproval. Right or wrong, I understood it’s the way he operated, and only the insecure let it get to them. “I’ll do my best,” I offered.
“Good enough.” He tipped his wide-brimmed hat and sauntered off.
I turned back to the Subaru and finished searching it and found nothing of interest. Besides the Subaru manual, the glove box held
ChapStick, a tire pressure gauge, a Farmers insurance card, and topographical maps of Glacier, the Bob Marshall Wilderness, Waterton Park, the Whitefish Range, and more. Tucked into the visor was a coffee punch card for a local coffee business with kiosks in all the towns located in the Flathead Valley: Whitefish, Kalispell, Columbia Falls, and Bigfork.
The back of the wagon held a faded beige heavy-duty, but lightweight backcountry pack filled with extra clothes: some polypropylene long johns, a light raincoat, a pair of khaki shorts, and a T-shirt that read:
No, I don’t want to read your blog!
A faded-green down sleeping bag was attached by straps on the top of the pack and at its base hung a small, two-man tent in a navy bag. The pack’s front pocket held freeze-dried stew, oatmeal energy bars, trail mix, and some apples. A CamelBak designed to be worn on the chest was filled with water and ready to go.