The Edge of Justice (14 page)

McGee is diplomatic. “This is about Kate Danning. . . . Agent Burns found some . . . inconsistent injuries. . . . Injuries that don't appear . . . to have come from a fall . . . but happened before she died. . . . And he found a weapon up there . . . on top of the cliff. . . . It's got some blood and hair on it . . . which might be Kate Danning's . . . the results aren't in yet.” He pauses for several breaths, then says, “I'm sorry, Nathan.”

The County Attorney drops his hand and stares at me. After a long while he asks softly, “What kind of weapon?”

“A bottle, Mr. Karge. A whiskey bottle,” I answer. I don't mention that I know it is Danning's blood, or at least her blood type, or that Brad's prints are on the bottle. I am afraid that if I tell him that he will never let us talk to his son.

Karge shuts his eyes again, then opens them and continues staring at me. They are red-rimmed and weary and the black smudges beneath seem to have grown twice as dark and heavy in the last few minutes. “Why would you think Brad would hurt her? She was his girlfriend. He'd even introduced her to me. That was very unusual for him, and we haven't been getting along too well lately.”

I feel some sympathy for him. He is a man who has devoted his life to the law, at least until he decided to pursue a career in politics. And now his ambitions could be ruined by his son, just as my father's ambitions to become a general were spoiled when Roberto was arrested and convicted. How painful it must be to watch your son self-destruct and at the same time ruin your own career as well.

“I don't know yet. There were others up there too. A couple of locals named Billy Heller and Chris Braddock,” I say to soften the impact and give him hope that his son is not the only suspect.

“That's right. Brad told me there were others up there that night.”

I ask, “Did he tell you who they were? I'm not sure if the list of names in the sheriff's report is complete.” I'm wondering about Lynn and if she'd told me the truth about leaving early.

“You'll have to ask him, Agent. I can't recall and I haven't even seen the report. I've been rather busy.”

I think that is a strange answer. I remember Sheriff Willis telling me that Karge had borrowed and read the report. But with the campaign and the Lee trial it's understandable that he would have a lapse in memory.

“So what are you going to do now, Agent Burns? Have you talked to my son already?”

“No, he won't talk to me. I was hoping that you could help.”

Karge looks at me sharply, then at McGee. “You're asking me to advise my son to talk to you, when you want to implicate him in a murder?”

McGee answers before I can. “There's a reason, Nathan. . . . A reason Agent Burns is asking. . . . Maybe Brad was involved . . . and maybe he wasn't. . . . But Burns found a few things . . . that may be possible links . . . to the Lee killing. . . . The exculpatory kind.”

Karge's face turns red, his tragic composure slipping, and he explodes. “That's ridiculous, Ross. What the hell are you trying to do? Is this some kind of political crap? Trying to keep me out of the governor's race?”

McGee stays calm, evidently having expected this sort of reaction. “Look, Nathan . . . we've known each other . . . a lot of years . . . I think you know I'm a straight shooter. . . . Now do you want to hear . . . what Burns—”

But Karge isn't listening. He turns to me. “And who do you think you are? I know all about you, young man, and I know you have no credibility at all! You kill three men in cold blood, then come here to implicate my son and destroy my career?”

I feel myself getting hot, but I hold up my hands and step toward his desk. I want to explain that I hate politics, that I simply investigate and act on my findings, but both pity and anger trip the words on my tongue. Before I can say much, Karge stands up abruptly and slaps his palms on the desk, leaning forward. He shouts at me, “Get out of my office!”

And that's what I do. I leave without a word. I go out to the courthouse steps, where I wait for McGee in the sunlight and breathe slow and deep to let the anger out.

It is just ten minutes later that McGee comes out, shaking his head and leaning hard on his cane. He looks like the inevitable coronary could come any minute. Karge's rage has burned off the last of his energy. It's the second time I see him unscrew the eagle's head and take a pull from the hidden flask. A good portion of the whiskey runs down his beard and onto his already stained tie. Sagging down onto the low sandstone wall, he ignores me for a few minutes while he struggles to catch his breath.

I finally say, “I can't say I feel all that sorry for that guy right now.”

“Come on, lad . . . how would you feel . . . if you learned your son . . . was being investigated for murder . . . and the case that's the fucking pinnacle . . . of your career may be . . . a bunch of horseshit. . . . Goddamn, have a little sympathy.”

I think about repeating McGee's often-quoted phrase about exactly where in the dictionary sympathy can be found, but say nothing.

“I told him . . . if he didn't get the boy to talk . . . you're going to get a warrant. . . . Then it's a matter . . . of public record. . . . The media and all that.”

“So he'll get Brad to talk to me?”

“He's going to go . . . get him . . . and bring him . . . to the hotel.”

“Don't you think it's interesting, McGee, that by doing so he's saying his career's more important than the potential consequences to his son?”

“Or maybe he's certain . . . his son will be vindicated. . . . Maybe he just wants . . . to do the right thing.”

“I don't think his son's going to convince us of his innocence.”

“Nor do I, lad . . . nor do I,” McGee says sadly.

SIXTEEN

A
N HOUR LATER
we are still waiting back at McGee's small suite at the Holiday Inn. Ross has chosen to conduct the interview in his room so that Oso cannot terrorize either of the Karges. We had argued briefly about that—I have found in the past that Oso is useful in keeping people honest. There is something about his size and yellow eyes and teeth that brings out the truth. McGee thought it would be unnecessarily coercive. But then he has never met Brad Karge and doesn't know the trouble I expect to have in getting answers from him.

While we wait I make notes on my laptop computer, then check the batteries on the microcassette recorder. I have heard about too many times where the batteries failed during an interrogation, losing that part of the interview. If a case like that ever goes to court, the defense attorney will accuse the officer of intentionally discarding it and argue to the jury that it contained evidence that would have exonerated his client.

Finally there is a knock at the door. McGee sits up on the bed and pulls off the oxygen mask he has been wearing. We haven't spoken much during our wait, as I think he hates having me see him sick and vulnerable like this. Out of the deep affection and respect I feel for him, I scarcely look his way.

After giving McGee a moment to catch his wind, I open the door and wave Bradley and Nathan Karge into the room.

Brad's face looks sullen beneath the tangle of blond dreadlocks. He tugs at the sparse goatee on his chin and glares at me. A tight tank top shows off his sun-bronzed skin and lean, youthful muscles. Other than that, he wears baggy shorts and leather sandals.

Behind him, Nathan Karge's face is neutral. He doesn't even look my way as he introduces his son. He simply says, “This is Brad,” and walks to the bar sink to pour himself a glass of water.

I ask Brad if he wants anything to drink.

“Fuck that,” he says.

“All right then. Sit down if you want,” I say, indicating the other chair at the small table. “I'm going to turn on this recorder. This is Special Agent Antonio Burns of the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation. Today is September 17, the year two thousand, at about four o'clock in the afternoon. I'm in Deputy Attorney General Ross McGee's hotel suite at the Holiday Inn in Laramie, Wyoming. Also present are Ross McGee, Nathan Karge, and Bradley Karge. Now, Brad, I'd like to ask you some questions regarding the fatal climbing fall suffered by Kate Danning. But first I want to advise you of your legal rights—”

Nathan Karge spins away from the bar and says, “What is this? What are you reading him his rights for? Is he in custody?”

“No, Mr. Karge. I'm simply doing it as a precaution. There are three law enforcement officers in the room, including yourself who brought him here, and I do this as a matter of practice even in consensual interviews such as this.”

While Karge thinks about that, McGee speaks up. “We all know he's not . . . in custody, Nathan . . . but let's entertain Agent Burns.” He intends it to sound like a reprimand but I know it is not sincere.

“I don't give a fuck anyway. I didn't do anything,” Brad says.

I explain his rights to him and at first am only able to get him to grunt noncommittally when I ask if he understands his rights. With some coaxing I get him to answer “Yeah” to each of the rights I state. Out of the corner of my eye I see the County Attorney shaking his head, angry.

I begin by asking Brad about how he met Kate, and what the nature of their relationship was. Brad states that they met when he was climbing in the Tetons and that they started dating right away. He admits that they were intimate on the first night they met. He perks up a little as he talks about that, and looks directly at his father when answering. I glance at Nathan Karge, trying to guess at why the son seems to be taking such pleasure at saying this in front of his father. His white face is streaked with red splotches beneath the tired eyes.

After ten minutes or so of outlining the nature of Brad and Kate's relationship, I move on to what they were doing the night she died.

“We partied up there sometimes. There's a cave. It's where we kick in the summer.”

“Who glued the bolts to the rock?”

Brad smirks. “You found those, huh? I don't know who put them there. Probably Billy. Dude's got a sick sense of humor,” he says admiringly.

“Who was up there that night?”

“Me, Kate, Chris, Billy, some other chicks.”

“Who were the other girls?”

Brad appears to think about it for a while. “Cindy. Sierra.” Then, after a pause, “And Lynn. You know Lynn, right?” He smirks again.

“Can you tell me their last names?”

“Cindy Topper. Sierra . . . , I don't know. Lynn White.”

“Did everyone get there at the same time?”

“Naw, dude. Me, Billy, Chris, and Kate were up there early. We'd been climbing around there all day. The other chicks came up after dark and jugged up a rope we left for them. They left early too, before Kate fell.”

“What were you doing?”

“Drinking. Smoking some pot.” Brad again looks at his dad, who turns away, back to the bar.

“Was anyone taking any other drugs?”

“Don't think so. You know, I don't remember.”

“Did you have sex with Kate up there, during this party?”

“Yeah. Me and Billy both did.” He is looking at his dad again. I wonder if the County Attorney knew this embarrassing fact—if this was why he asked the coroner not to do a rape kit on Kate Danning's corpse.

“Both of you?” What had Billy brought all these kids up there for? I remember Lynn calling him the King of Vedauwoo, and Deputies Jones and Knight telling me how those kids worshipped him. At Vedauwoo, no one could touch him. Apparently they were all his supplicants.

The father turns around to say something, then stops and goes back to the bar. The red splotches on his face are darker, the skin around them whiter.

“Where were the others while this was going on?”

“They were around, you know. Hanging out.”

“Did anyone leave before she fell?”

“Like I already said, the girls did. First Cindy and Sierra. Then Lynn. She was a little pissed, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you know what time Cindy and Sierra left?”

“No, dude. I was wasted. I wasn't wearing a watch.”

“Can you even guess?”

“It was night. It was fucking dark.”

“How long after they left did Lynn leave?”

“Don't know. Ask Billy.” His grin is almost sly when he says it. God, I think. Had Lynn been up there when Kate fell or was pushed?

“How did everyone get down?”

“We rapped off, man. There's a pretty easy climb off the back side but I won't do that when I'm shit-faced.”

I think about that for a minute. That means after Kate was smashed on the boulders at the bottom of the cliff, they rappelled down to almost on top of her. And someone pulled the rope and coiled it while standing over the body. To me that indicated no one was too upset with her death—this was quite a cavalier group of friends.

“So only you, Billy, and Chris were there when Kate fell?”

“S'right.” He is watching his father again. And I see that Karge is staring back at his son.

“Where were each of you when she fell?”

“In the cave. We had a fire going, I had a bottle. Billy and Chris had some beer. Billy doesn't touch the hard stuff, so Chris won't either.”

“What was Kate doing?”

“She was outside the cave, on the ledge. Dancing or something.”

“Did you have any music?”

“No, she was dancing to the tunes in her head, I guess.”

“How did she fall?”

“Don't know. None of us saw it. We just looked over and she was gone. When we couldn't find her, we rapped down the ropes. There she was, at the bottom. We went into town and I called the cops. That's it.”

I look at McGee before asking the next questions. McGee has been sitting on the bed, leaning with bearded chin on his cane in his usual gargoyle pose with his eyes closed. Now I see a flicker of blue beneath his shaggy white eyebrows when he opens them to determine the reason for my pause. Then he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

“Why'd you hit her with the bottle, Brad?”

“I never hit—”

Karge surges forward from the bar, toward me. “That's it! He said he didn't hit her with the bottle. That's it! He doesn't have to answer those sorts of questions anymore! Let's go, Brad.”

I don't move and ignore Karge's interruption. “Your fingerprints are on the bottle, Brad. That bottle has her blood and hair on it. Why did you hit her?”

Karge is shouting, now at McGee, as he tugs on his son's arm and pulls him up out of his chair, “This is entrapment, McGee! No one ever said anything about any prints! This is a witch-hunt!”

McGee speaks for the first time since I started asking questions. “Let him answer the question, Nathan. This is a homicide investigation.”

But Karge has the hotel door open and is trying to drag his son out through it. Brad jerks his arm from his father's grasp, turns to me and gives one final smirk, then walks out the door. Nathan is yelling, “This is not a homicide! It was an accident! What this is is politics, a political persecution, and I'll have you both out on the street! Go to hell, McGee!”

I can't help myself. I say, “You're a long ways from the governor's office right now, Mr. Karge,” as the County Attorney storms down the hallway.

“What now?” I ask McGee as I snap off the tape recorder. “I didn't even get to ask him about the ligature marks and the connections to Kimberly Lee. I was looking forward to springing that.”

I expect McGee to be wound up, but he just looks wearier and more haggard than ever. Even though he has barely moved in the last ninety minutes, he is almost gasping without the oxygen bottle. “I can either try to speak . . . with Nathan again in . . . the hope of getting some cooperation”—he sees me shaking my head at him—“or we can go the other route . . . play hardball, get warrants.”

I nod. “We need to do something soon, Ross. That sentencing is just days away now. And I don't think I have enough to pull off an arrest warrant yet. All I've got is a dead girl who the coroner says fell, a bottle and some prints, but there's no DNA match yet with the blood and hair to Kate Danning. And I need some sort of a motive to explain to a judge, to tie it all together.”

McGee doesn't want to or can't talk much anymore. “Keep digging,” he tells me. “Fast. Quietly.”

Back in my own room I make notes on the laptop about the interview with Brad Karge and a list of the things I need to do while awaiting the DNA results on the bottle's blood and hair. The first order of business is to talk to Chris Braddock and Sierra Calloway. And at some point I need to confront Billy Heller and see what he has to say. I will take Jones or another cop with me as additional muscle for that. Finding Chris is the most important. Unlike Sierra, he was still up at Vedauwoo when Kate Danning fell. Hopefully he won't be quite as hostile as Heller.

In the stack of printouts Kristi gave me I find his number and address. I think about driving over there but decide to call first. The phone is answered on the eighth ring by an adult voice that could be his father's. He's not there, the man tells me. As far as he knows, Chris is out, maybe at his friend Billy's. I am not ready to go out there yet, not until I learn more and have some backup with me. I leave my name and my office's phone number with the man.

Next I try calling the climbing shop, which is the only number I have for Lynn. The phone rings and rings until I realize it is already Sunday evening, that the shop is closed. In a way I am relieved—I'm not looking forward to talking with her after that drunken night. But I need to talk to her soon. I need to know if she was lying about having left early.

I decide to concentrate on finding Sierra Calloway. Again using the phone book, I begin to call all the hotels and motels in Laramie, identifying myself and asking if she's an employee there. I don't have much luck until my last call, when the only number I need is a “0.” The operator at the Holiday Inn transfers me to the on-duty manager, who checks the books and tells me that Sierra Calloway has worked there for the past few weeks, but that all the maids have long since gone home for the day. He doesn't have a phone number for her and doesn't think she has a phone, but he describes her for me. I tell him not to bother leaving her a message—I'll find her in the morning.

When I put down the phone I notice for the first time that the message light is blinking. Following the hotel's instructions, I retrieve the message. It's Lynn. Her voice is soft and slurred; she sounds stoned. She asks where I've been, how come I haven't been by the shop to see her. She hangs up after telling me to call her soon but I guess is too high to remember I don't have her number or address. It is not in the phone book—I will have to ask Kristi to call the phone company or the department of motor vehicles in order to get it.

Frustrated, I check the voice-mail system at my office up in Cody. Clayton Wells, my lawyer, has called again telling me we should talk settlement before Thursday's hearing. Rebecca too has called. She is all business and addresses me as Agent Burns, not Anton. She says she has some follow-up questions she would like to discuss. The fact that she called my office in Cody instead of reaching me at the hotel makes me think perhaps she is not interested in seeing me face-to-face again. Because of that, the drunken episode with Lynn, and the fact that I have really learned little else but that the fingerprints on the bottle were Brad's, I'm reluctant to return her call.

At a loss, I scratch Oso's head while I pick up the old issue of
Rock and Ice
that Lynn left in my room. Feeling somewhat vain but needing a confidence boost, I reread the article about the climb my friends and I did in Alaska and study the pictures.

Flipping through the magazine, one photo obviously from an even older era catches my eye. It is of a climber ascending a crack while wearing dated clothes—a rugby shirt and painter's pants. The lean body and face are familiar, but younger. The short article that accompanies the photo is titled “Where Are They Now?” And it's about Nathan Karge.