Authors: Stefanie Matteson
“Why?” came a question from the audience.
Rising from the witness chair, the medical examiner picked up the pointer and went back over to the screen. “The neatness of the entrance wound,” he replied, circling the pointer around the perimeter of the hole. “If the arrow had been dislodged in the fall, there would have been more tissue damage.”
“What do you think happened to it, then?” the chairman asked.
The medical examiner nodded to an assistant at the back of the room, who came forward with an archery target mounted on an aluminum stand, which he set up at one side of the raised platform.
“That’s another question I was waiting for someone to ask. I think the murderer rigged the crossbow like a fishing bow.” Returning to his seat and reaching into his bag again, he pulled out another weapon. “This is a pistol crossbow that’s been mounted with a drum reel”—he pointed to the reel mounted on the rear portion of the body—“which holds about a hundred feet of ordinary monofilament fishing line.”
“The line’s attached to the arrow?” asked the chairman.
Dr. Clough nodded. “In essence, it’s a retrievable bullet. The line is run through a hole at the back of the bolt, and then through a second hole near the head, where it’s secured.” Rising again, he walked over to the lectern and showed the crossbow to the board. Then he turned to face the audience. “Now, I’m going to demonstrate.” He held up an apple. “Any volunteers?”
The joke produced a hearty laugh from the audience.
“Who does this guy think he is, P. T. Barnum?” whispered Tracey, who was clearly not amused by the medical examiner’s stunt.
It struck Charlotte as more than a little tasteless, especially with the slide of Iris’ head still up on the screen.
When no one volunteered, he placed his foot in the cocking stirrup, grasped the string with both hands, and drew it back into the trigger mechanism. Then he loaded the bolt into the firing track. Holding his arm fully extended, he took aim through the rear sight, adjusted the bead of the front sight, and then pulled the trigger.
As the audience watched, the bolt whizzed across the stage, and struck the yellow bull’s-eye. For a moment, it rested in the target, its spine vibrating from the force of the impact. Then the medical examiner began to reel it in, as if it were a trout on a hook. The bolt had been shot and retrieved as quietly as a shuttlecock sailing back and forth over a badminton net.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Tracey.
Dr. Clough had delivered, as promised.
Afterward, they adjourned to Tracey’s office at the state police barracks. Tracey had called a meeting with Bill Haverty, the South District supervisor for the park, who attended with the Chimney Pond ranger, Chris Sargent. The purpose of the meeting was to divide up the responsibilities of the investigation. The task of searching for the bolt was assigned to Haverty, who would need to put together a technical team for the purpose. Haverty was also to provide Tracey with a list of drivers’ names and license plate numbers for the cars that had been in the park on the day of the murder. This wasn’t as difficult as it might have seemed. The park was accessible by road by only two entrances, a northern gate at Matagamon and a southern gate at Togue Pond, which were linked by a forty-three-mile perimeter road. As a result of the need to control access, a system had been introduced whereby rangers at the two gates filled out entrance permits for all vehicles entering the park, as well as for the occasional hiker or bicyclist. In addition to the driver’s name and the vehicle’s license plate number, the permits also included information on the number of people in the party, where the journey had originated, the length of stay, the purpose of the visit, and at what campground the party would be staying. Part of the permit was torn off and given to the driver, who was asked to deposit it in a box at the gatehouse when exiting. At the close of the day, the permits on file at the gatehouses were matched with the slips returned by the drivers, thus allowing park authorities to keep close tabs on who was in the park (and who was supposed to be gone, but wasn’t).
Once Haverty came up with the list, Pyle would get the addresses from the state motor vehicle departments, with the goal of interviewing everyone who had been in the park on the day of the murder, paying particular attention to visitors who gave their destination as Katahdin on the hikers’ registers. Perhaps one of these hikers had noticed something—or someone—unusual. Another goal of these interviews would be to look for some link to the victim. The murder was apparently premeditated, since the killer had taken along a crossbow. And although it was unlikely that anyone planning to commit murder would register at the gatehouse, criminals could sometimes be amazingly stupid, the police had noted.
On the theory that the murderer had gained access to the park via some other route, Pyle was also charged with the task of exploring the forest land along the park boundaries. He would be aided by deputies from the Piscataquis County Sheriff’s Department who were familiar with the terrain. This land, which was owned mostly by the paper companies, was honeycombed with old tote roads, relics of the days when log drives on the West Branch of the Penobscot were the means by which much of the state’s lumber made its way to market. The murderer might have parked on one of these roads and hiked into the park. Another task would be to check the guest registers at local motels and inns, as well as those at the sporting camps and campgrounds.
Their most immediate task, however, would be to clear up the mystery of the Pamola prankster. On this, the state police and the park authorities would work together. On several occasions, someone dressed as Pamola had appeared in the night to campers sleeping in lean-tos at Chimney Pond. After awakening the campers by shaking a rattle, he would slip away into the night as mysteriously as he had come. One of the lean-tos at which he had appeared was the one in which Mrs. Richards and Miss Ouellette had been staying. Though it was unlikely that the prankster had anything to do with the murder, apprehending him would eliminate a pesky problem for park authorities as well as a potential murder suspect.
Listening to these plans, Charlotte thought of her old friend, Tom Plummer, the author of
Murder at the Morosco
, who was fond of quoting a Latin proverb called Occam’s Razor (quoting Latin proverbs being the only use to which he was able to put a degree in classics from a prestigious institute of higher learning). The proverb was
Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem
, which, roughly translated, meant “All unnecessary facts in the argument being analyzed should be eliminated.” Or, as Thoreau would have said, “Simplify, simplify.” It was in the service of Occam’s Razor that Tracey had put catching Pamola at the top of his list.
“It’s been a busy month of June,” the district supervisor concluded, after telling them about the prankster. “I just hope it doesn’t keep up like this for the rest of the summer.”
“Do you have any ideas about who this mischief-maker might be?” Tracey asked.
“I’ll let Sargent answer that,” said Haverty. “He’s just been promoted to campground ranger at Chimney Pond. He moved up from the job of assistant ranger. The former ranger just took a job at Denali.”
“Congratulations,” said Tracey.
“Thanks,” said Sargent.
He was a wholesome-looking young man, with gold wire-rimmed glasses and a wide, eager smile.
“At first, I thought the prankster might be a camper who was staying at the campground at the time of the incidents earlier this month,” Sargent replied. “He was kind of a weirdo; he had some strange notions about the Indian language. But now Pamola’s back—he appeared again last night—and there’s since been a complete turnaround of campers, so that theory’s out.”
Tracey turned to Pyle. “Make a note to get this weirdo’s name from the records at park headquarters, and check him out. We want to make sure he
is
long gone, and not staying at Roaring Brook or some other campground.”
“Good idea,” said Sargent.
“I do have another thought,” said Haverty. “I don’t have any basis for it. It’s just a hunch. I was going to keep it to myself …”
“A hunch is the best thing we’ve got going at the moment,” interrupted Tracey, with an encouraging wave of his arm. “Shoot.”
“Remember the Indian land-claims business?” he asked.
“How could we forget?” said Pyle. “They claimed half the City of Old Town, to say nothing of the rest of the state.”
Haverty nodded, and went on. “As you probably recall, the Indians were given money to buy land in other parts of the state as restitution for the land they claimed was theirs in settled areas like Old Town. They used the money to buy land from the paper companies. One of the chunks they bought was in T3 R11, which abuts the park on the western boundary.”
Charlotte had been in Maine long enough to know that T3 R11 referred to Township 3, Range 11. The designation was a way of referring to northern Maine’s vast uninhabited territories, which were divided by blocks into unincorporated townships and plantations.
“I think I have a geological survey map of that quadrangle here,” said Tracey. Searching through a stack of rolled-up maps in a corner, he picked one out and spread it out on the surface of his desk.
Coming around to the other side of the desk, the district supervisor pointed out the area in question. “This is the area here,” he said. “The Penobscots have set this tract aside for ceremonial purposes. As you probably know, Katahdin is sacred to them.”
“What does ceremonial purposes mean?” asked Charlotte.
“I’m getting to that. They put up a building there, the Katahdin Retreat Center.” He pointed to a small puddle of blue. “Here, at Beaver Pond. One of the things they use it for is as the destination of the Sacred Run. Every year, the tribe makes a pilgrimage from Old Town to Katahdin. Some run; most walk or drive. They have a big potlatch supper at the end.”
Pyle nodded. “It’s coming up later on this summer.”
“That’s one of the ceremonial purposes they use it for. It doesn’t have any relevance here. I’m just mentioning it. Its other ceremonial purpose is for the vision quest. I had never heard of it either,” Haverty said in response to Tracey’s baffled expression. “It’s a rite of passage ritual; they do it at puberty, and at other times of transition in their lives.”
“The Indian equivalent of being confirmed?” asked Tracey.
“Something like that,” said Haverty as he went back around the desk to resume his seat.
“What does it consist of?” asked Charlotte.
“First they undergo a purification ceremony in a sweat lodge. Then each participant goes into the woods alone to fast for three or four days. The goal is a vision of a power animal who will be their guardian spirit. The Sioux term is ‘Crying for a vision.’ An Indian shaman, or spiritual leader, knows where each person is, and helps them interpret their vision when they return. They have another sweat lodge ceremony at the end.”
“Haverty,” said Tracey, “I don’t know where the hell you’re going with this, but I sure know you’re taking us round Robin Hood’s barn to get there.”
Haverty smiled. “Hold your horses. I’m getting there. Anyway, these vision quests have become popular among the New Agers out West. People pay hundreds of dollars to spend a week starving themselves in the wilderness of the Colorado Rockies or the Arizona desert.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” said Tracey.
Haverty raised his hands in denial. “I’m serious. Instead of a shaman, the groups are led by vision quest guides, who are usually psychotherapists. At the end, the participants get back together and trade notes. It’s sort of like a group therapy session, except that it’s in the wilderness.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Tracey.
“I read about it in a park management magazine. It caught my eye because of what the Penobscots are doing here. It’s become something of a problem out West. There have been several deaths: one guy got lost in Death Valley, another guy had a heart attack, a woman went into diabetic shock.”
“I can imagine how it might become a problem,” said Tracey. “With all those half-starved people running around in the wilderness.”
Haverty nodded. “Anyway, the Penobscots have been doing vision quests at the retreat center. At first, they were just for tribal members, but now they’ve opened the program up to outsiders. I have a photocopy of a flier for one of their courses here.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of his briefcase and passed it to Tracey.
Tracey held the flier out at arm’s length. “It’s entitled ‘The Vision Quest: Attuning to the Earth and the Self in the Wilderness,’” he announced. He then proceeded to read the copy aloud: “‘A seven-day retreat at the Katahdin Retreat Center, located on beautiful Beaver Pond in the wilderness forest of northern Maine near Mount Katahdin.’”
“Here, Chief,” said Pyle, and handed Tracey his reading glasses.
Though Tracey was now a lieutenant for the state police instead of a small town police chief, everybody here still seemed to call him Chief.
“Thanks,” Tracey said. He put on his glasses, and continued reading: “‘The goals of this intensive Native American course are to facilitate personal growth, to reconnect with the earth, and to uncover life’s deeper meanings.’” Pausing, he looked up over the tops of his glasses for their reactions.
“Sounds like a pretty tall order for only a week,” Charlotte commented.
“I’d say so,” Tracey drawled. Then he turned his attention back to the flier. “‘The vision quest should not be undertaken lightly,’” he went on. “‘It involves a four-day fast which can be both difficult and confrontational.’ How’s it confrontational if they’re all alone? I wonder. ‘You must be able to carry a forty-pound pack three or four miles. Meals will be provided. Participants should provide their own camping equipment. Course fee: Twelve hundred dollars, with a nonrefundable deposit of four hundred dollars.’”
“Twelve hundred bucks and you don’t even get to eat!” said Pyle.
Tracey was still studying the flier. “The vision quest guide is someone named Keith Samusit,” he said. “He’s described as the executive director of the Katahdin Foundation and a ceremonial leader of the Penobscot Nation.”