Hank

By Donald L. Ball

The lives of three divergent families collide after the mutilated body of a man is found dumped beside a highway in Californias pristine backcountry. When Governor Sheldon Desalvo comes under pressure to resolve an ongoing series of murders in the remote regions of the state, he gambles on a trial project consisting of roving agents with no ties to any one county.

The first task for Senior Detective Jason Carmichael and his partner, Dena Manning, is to unravel who the man is, who would commit such a gruesome act, and why. At the outset, their only clues are a custom-made handgun and a cryptic message whispered in Spanish by a dying man.

As the momentum of their case intensifies, the agents find that drugs and greed form the catalyst for this deadly clash of principles. Remaining neutral is a test of their own consciences as the agents wrestle with the reminder that they would not be alive today had it not been for the past actions of the man who is now their prime suspecta man called simply, Hank.

Praise for Hank,

The real and unfortunate situation for many families is brought to life by this one-of-a-kind author.

Sergeant Matt Zelinsky, Tuolumne County Sheriffs Office, Sonora, California

A heart-wrenching novel interlaced with spice and solid police protocol. The author is one of the more insightful writers when it comes to getting inside the heads of cops.

Dee Dees, author of Write Your Life Story in 28 Days

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475972818

Donald L. Ball

DONALD L. BALL is a US Navy veteran, an accredited high school music teacher, and the author of several novels. He has been a member of choruses in Oakland and San Francisco, and grudgingly earned a living in California’s Silicon Valley. He now resides in rural Oregon. Visit author online at www.donball.net

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Copyright © 2013 by Donald L. Ball.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-7280-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7281-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901857

iUniverse rev. date: 02/05/2013

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to take this opportunity to express my gratitude to those who have given their time and expertise in wading through the manuscript searching for errors and protocol accuracy. My wife, Bev, loves to use a red pen. Sergeant Matt Zelinsky of the Tuolumne County Sheriff’s Office in Sonora, California, also loves to use a red pen. Come to think of it, Dee Dees, author of Write Your Life Story in 28 Days , and Alyssa Anne Radda, author of Numin-U’ia, also seem consumed with their appetite to apply copious amounts of red ink over an otherwise flawless manuscript.

In September of 2011, I was given an opportunity to spend the day and part of an evening with a K9 police unit in a city in California. Talking with the members gave me an insight into the operation, training, dedication, and techniques used to locate people, sniff out drugs, and if need be, pursue a fleeing suspect. It was an enlightening day… and the pizza was good, too.

My sincere thanks go out to everyone.

"Hearts rebuilt from hope resurrect dreams killed by hate."

Aberjhani, River of Winged Dreams.

CHAPTER 1

A twenty-foot length of rope was attached around the ankles of the male victim. Blood oozed from the neck and torso, ripped open from being dragged. A vivid color close-up revealed flies as they feasted within the gaping cavities in the skin. The palms of both hands were scraped clean of skin as if he’d probably been grasping at anything to slow or stop the ruthless, abrasive effects of being pummeled by rocks and asphalt. A white plastic cable-tie bound the man’s wrists together. Someone at the Coroner’s lab in Modesto evidently attached two yellow Post-it pads to the photo that pointed to bullet wounds just above the man’s knees. What was left of his short-sleeved shirt was in shreds, and pine needles mixed in with clumps of mud stuck out from the man’s pant legs. A wadded up rag, crammed down the throat, stuck out from under a six-inch length of duct tape placed over the gaping mouth. It, too, was coated with mud. One eye was still open as if staring into the face of someone who would do such a thing to another human being. Or maybe it had been a last agonizing plea for mercy.

This diluted, handwritten record of the scene accompanied by several graphic photographs of the condition of the body and its surroundings were neatly fanned out on the desk of Governor Sheldon Desalvo. He raised his hand calling for a few moments of silence to study the graphic pictures, then, one-by-one, pivoted them around to face Yacek Szabo, sheriff of Fresno County, and his senior detective, Jason Carmichael. Letting out a lengthy sigh, Desalvo whispered, From my perspective, we cannot afford to have any more Mexican nationals turning up dead on U.S. soil.

According to the Incident Report by a local deputy whose duty was to patrol the oft-times perilous two-lane mountain road in California’s high country, it was impossible to ascertain how far this man’s final trip had lasted. The deputy further stated the man’s body must have been dumped at the edge of the road between eight o’clock and midnight last night. He’d not seen the body on his way to the rugged pass, but it would have been impossible to overlook on his way back.

I’m a little confused, Jason said. This body was found up near Ebbetts Pass in Alpine County. Shouldn’t this fall under their jurisdiction?

Sit down, gentlemen. Desalvo slid open a drawer on the side of his imposing mahogany desk and pulled out a manila folder. While fanning his clean-shaven face with the folder, he studied the eyes of the two men across from him. It is within the scope of my power to create a special team—for now, let’s call it a Pilot Program—whose charter will be to remedy this growing number of crimes, mostly homicides, in the remote regions of California. It’s been suggested I could enlist the aid of DEA agents or the FBI, but there seems to be one major glitch in these alternatives. What I feel we need is someone who can live a lifestyle where nine-to-five doesn’t mean squat. He slid the folder across the desk to Jason.

As Jason studied the top sheet in the folder, his eyes grew focused on a title he’d yet to hear about, either in the field or in training seminars. Rover?

I know it sounds a little too casual, Desalvo said. Roving Agent is a tad more formal, but trust me, there will be nothing casual about your duties. We desperately need a team in place where jurisdiction will not be defined or constrained by county boundaries—far too restrictive. What we need is to focus on a crime, its origin, pursuit, and a legal, well-documented conclusion. What we don’t need is petty bickering over an invisible line drawn on the ground. Maps won’t exist in this job. Desalvo leaned back in his maroon leather chair and focused on Jason. Interested?

Why me?

You have a history, Detective, Desalvo continued. You work well in the high country and rural areas. You’ve demonstrated your resourcefulness to catch the bad guy, or in some cases, the bad female of the species. You’re not afraid to go out on a limb for what you believe in. You’re not too concerned with propriety… and you’re single.

Sounds more like you’re describing a disposable candidate for an expendable job, Jason shot back.

And you’re not afraid to speak your mind, Desalvo added.

Casting a curious look at his boss, Jason asked Szabo, So, you’ve been aware of this proposal all along and haven’t let me in until now?

Let me answer the question, Sheriff. Desalvo waved Szabo off. Yes. I felt I had to have his input, just as I received input from the sheriffs of other counties. We made a decision based on proven records. As the man responsible for initiating this new, rather unorthodox position, I felt I could not justifiably circumvent Sheriff Szabo’s position and just pull you out at my whim. Desalvo walked around the highly polished desk and sat on the edge facing Jason. Look. What we need is a team whose goal will be to resolve crimes that occur in regions of the state where most county LE officials seem ill-equipped to handle. It could involve over-nighting, extended backcountry trips, rugged terrain, specialized equipment, altitude conditioning, infiltration, and above all… the ability to remain relatively secretive. Governor Desalvo took the folder from Jason, slipped it back into his desk drawer, and returned to his comfy high-backed leather chair. I’ve gone out on a limb, too, Detective. It wasn’t easy to ramrod this proposal through a funding committee, all the while asking them to keep a lid on it. The state’s budget is under a lot of scrutiny by the press and the ever-increasing voice of the public. I’m under the gun to make things happen, and at the same time, spend less money. Desalvo sighed deeply. As far as my political legacy goes, I don’t wish to be memorialized as the architect of yet another bureaucracy which could wind up costing the taxpayers millions. You ought to try sitting in this chair for a day, he griped, then leaned forward and stared into Jason’s eyes. Look, my directive will furnish your team with carte blanche for air support and reconnaissance if needed, specialized equipment, and transportation. You will be allotted a new unmarked Ford Interceptor with all the latest electronics, and you will have a dedicated hotline directly to me in case something out of the ordinary happens. I have it set up so a person will just say the word, Rover. If it’s your team, stage two kicks in. If someone entered a wrong number—click.

How sophisticated are the electronics? Jason asked.

We’ve outfitted your vehicle with a Panasonic Toughbook, Desalvo said. We’ve included software that will link you to any law enforcement agency in the state—on demand. In other words, you will have a one-off design with unlimited capabilities. No matter where you are, you’ll be just one cell tower away from all the info you need.

Your vehicle will include Whelan LED light bars in the grill as well as the front and rear windows, Sheriff Szabo added. So there will be no obvious visuals to let the bad guys know you’re even around. One other feature will be the inclusion of the newest Rumbler siren—really cool. Gets the attention of the drivers who seem to think loud music and texting are more important than keeping their twenty-five hundred pound projectiles under control.

And you will work independently of DEA agents, the governor continued, but will interface with them and all county law enforcement agencies when necessary and will be afforded their complete cooperation. Another benny will be a direct line to a Forensics lab here in Sacramento. Your special shield number will be coded so any dispatch unit in the state will respond to your request for info. The implementation of this last one will be my responsibility.

Governor, you keep mentioning my team, Jason said. What do you mean by that?

If this pilot plan is successful, Szabo chimed in, we can accomplish more with fewer personnel. There will be no cumbersome bureaucracy to support. No central building to build and maintain. No administrative hierarchy. You will answer directly to the governor—at least for now. It’s a financial win/win situation.

So? You guys seem to have this already figured out, Jason said. But you still haven’t answered my question. What do you mean by team?

If this works, we can expand the program to include more operatives, Szabo added.

Team, gentlemen. Team. What do you mean? Two, three, a division? Jason continued.

Two, Desalvo whispered. For now.

Jason squeezed out a weak, Terrific.

But you can handpick this other person, Desalvo said. You can select any guy you want. We’ve compiled a list of other detectives we think would adapt well to the hypothetical situations we’ve envisioned. He slid a computer-generated listing of candidates across the desk toward Jason. This composite sketch highlights the prospects’ current titles, a synopsis of their qualifications, and personal history.

If this plan is gonna fly, Jason said after scanning the list, I know who I want… and they’re not on this list. He slid the paper back at Desalvo.

Oh, crap, Szabo grumbled. I knew this would come up.

Who do you want? Desalvo asked Jason.

Dena Manning. Either she’s in or I’m out.

Hmmph. Plain and simple, huh? the governor moaned.

Plain and simple, Jason said with an assertive nod.

There’s no way this woman could be aware of this proposal, Detective, Desalvo added, accompanied by his most persuasive smile—the one which appeared on thousands of political flyers a few months ago. What makes you think she’d even be amenable to this?

I know this woman. I trust this woman. I can’t imagine anyone else at my side.

From what I understand, the governor continued. Ms. Manning is not a detective. She is not an official member of any law enforcement organization. Has no official training. And the only credentials she’s earned is; she served under you as an evidence clerk—and that was a personal favor by the sheriff of Tuolumne County to allow her to be part of the investigation to find her brother’s killer.

First of all… Governor. Even though Dena’s brother is dead, he has a name. It is Jerry. Secondly, she did not serve under me. I resent the inference. I wouldn’t be sitting here today without this woman. Thirdly, you mentioned the need for secrecy, but I think what you really meant was, the ability to appear inconspicuous. I’ve been in this arena long enough to know the backcountry trails consist mostly of adult twosomes. So think couples, Governor. And lastly, I don’t know of too many other LE personnel who have Dena’s skill sets. You, yourself, mentioned the need for backcountry survival skills, and the ability to adapt to high altitudes, and her martial arts have been a proven attribute more than once. She’s spunky, savvy, quick on the uptake, and innately analytical. No offense to other members of law enforcement, but there is a bond that goes beyond what appears on an annual eval report. And we have that bond.

But she has no experience, Desalvo insisted.

Jason took a deep breath. No disrespect intended, Governor, but exactly how much experience did you have before you were elected into this office?

CHAPTER 2

P rior to legitimizing the arrangement between Jason and Dena, the governor urged them to agree upon a meeting place well away from any established law enforcement facility. If they were to remain in the shadows, Desalvo felt it best to avoid advertising any LE affiliation by not frequenting any particular government building on a regular basis. Cells and texting would be used for any communication not easily handled over standard police frequencies. Desalvo’s official decree was forwarded to all California counties along with an order to keep the new position on the down-low. To his surprise, the initial feedback was positive. Too often, when multi-county personnel were involved in an investigation, there had always been total cooperation, but the end result was a diminished manpower capacity to address the local problems. Hopefully, this problem would go away. Desalvo’s edict was for Jason and Dena to follow the crime… wherever.

For their meetings, Jason chose the little country style café where he’d first encountered the eccentric man he and Dena came to know only as Hank. It was quiet, and what some might describe as cozy. The paneled interior and checkered linen tablecloths of Carson’s Corner—the owners claimed to be descendants of the famous frontiersman, Kit Carson—added a traditional feel of conviviality, and it was relatively close to Dena’s house so she could be near her son, Dave—at least that was their plan.

They’d chosen a small table in the rear facing the front window because it was quiet and served as a great vantage point from which to view anyone who entered the restaurant or stood at the cashier’s counter. From Jason’s point of view, it didn’t hurt that the table was situated with a direct line-of-sight to the glass-paneled display case where all the freshest pastries were flaunted to test the will power of all who entered. His eyes always drifted to the cheese-filled Danish… but that was until Dena walked in.

True, other women could wear traditional Levi’s, but Dena had a way of making jeans look like they’d been designed as an exclusive fashion statement just for her. When she walked into the restaurant, two thoughts bubbled to the surface: she was a sworn agent of the state now and he knew her tight jeans would not accommodate concealing a small .357 Smith and Wesson Bodyguard under her pants leg for protection as he did. His other option was: they were officially partners now and he had two legs, so as far as he cared, there was nothing in the rule book that said he couldn’t carry hers for her. What a choice he had to make to sidestep this hurdle. He wore a mischievous grin as she approached.

Why are you smiling? she whispered as she slid into the seat opposite Jason.

Oh, nothing. He took a deep breath. Before we go any further, I have to ask you something.

Oka-ay? She gave him a curious look.

When you and I were sworn in yesterday by the governor, I noticed a peculiar look in your eyes. I want you to know that you don’t have to do this. I also know your son means a lot to you, as he should, and I couldn’t stand the thought of you agreeing to take on this responsibility because you felt pressured.

Dena took a deep breath and cradled her coffee cup for a few seconds as if to warm her hands. Then she dipped the stainless steel spoon—which had USN stamped on the backside—into the brownish liquid and twirled it a few times. Awhile back, I started to tell you something, but really never got a chance to finish what I wanted to say. Maybe now should be the time. When I married Clay, I thought what I needed in my life was stability, but working with you to find Jerry’s killer opened a door I never knew existed, and then another word crept into my vocabulary—worth. She twirled the spoon again and studied the tiny circles it made in the coffee. I adore my son, and I know he loves me. He’s eight years old now, Jason. And to be straight up with you, I did have reservations about accepting this position… then I had a heart-to-heart with Dave. Her eyes reddened and she bit at her lip. There was a look in his eyes I’d never seen before. He was the one who made me do a one-eighty when he asked if I was going to help catch the bad guys like Uncle Jerry did. I couldn’t say ‘No’ to those eyes.

More coffee? the waitress asked as she hovered over the two in the isolated table nestled back in the shadows. It didn’t take her but one trip to learn Jason liked full-bodied coffee while Dena preferred the anemic stuff in the orange-rimmed pot.

They both nodded at their cups. Then Jason’s eyes drifted to the pastry display.

Sporting an impish grin, Dena whispered, I believe my friend needs a cheese Danish… warmed.

Gotchya. The waitress left as quietly as she’d arrived.

Is it any of my business how things are going with your husband?

The USN relic found its way into Dena’s cup again. She twirled it around and seemed mesmerized by the clinking sounds it made against the side of the cup. In a dreamy voice, she began, Whatever else I’ve told you about him, he is a good father, plus I have a neighbor every mother in the world should be blessed with. Name’s Charlotte Donovan. She is Dave’s surrogate mom, and she and Dave have had a bond since the day he was born. When we brought him home for the first time, we hadn’t even unlocked the front door before Charlotte came over to offer her help. She couldn’t have children of her own, so Dave became her purpose in life.

Good. I guess I should avoid any more questions about Clay, huh?

There’ll come a time, Jason. There will come a time. She reached over the table and gave Jason’s hand a warm squeeze. It lingered until the waitress arrived with Jason’s second go-round at what he considered fundamental breakfast fare. Where are you staying while you’re in this area?

Lazy Z Resort, Jason managed while taking a sip of coffee hot enough to braze steel.

Great. That place has a lot of memories, doesn’t it?

Jason’s thoughts drifted back to when he’d first met Dena as they sought her brother’s killer, the gunshot wound in his shoulder, how she stayed at his side while managing an escape, Dena’s morning visits to the Lazy Z to help him struggle into his shirt, how they talked quietly while sitting on the edge of the bed, and the look in her eyes when they found out who’d betrayed them all. Jason flipped a manila envelope on the table. This makes us legal. He took a hefty bite of the creamy section of the Danish. It might be better if you sat next to me. We don’t need other customers catching a glimpse of what you’re about to see.

Dena scooted in next to Jason. I like bench seats. People can sit as close as they want. Her mischievous side came to a screeching halt when she saw the first image of the man who’d been dragged to death. Oh, my God.

Governor Desalvo said this guy was found a couple of days ago over in Alpine County and wants us to put this thing to bed real quick like. Jason watched as Dena studied each of the photographs. Her lips were pinched so tightly, they appeared almost bone white.

Where do we start on something like this, Jason?

We take a drive.

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To reach Route 4 leading to Ebbetts Pass, Jason took a few back roads frequented by local police agencies and fire control personnel. Law enforcement, in conjunction with the DEA, was constantly on the lookout for illegal drug trafficking and growth locales, whereas the Fire Marshall, working with the EPA, was concerned with the impact these pot farms had on the forests, most often stripped clean to accommodate thousands of seedlings. An adjunct to this rape of the high country was the downstream effect caused by the callous disregard for the water used to nourish these plots. Chemicals such as lime—which was used to mask the odors of other chemicals—or bat guano used as a fertilizer of sorts, were dumped into feeder streams when no longer needed. This contamination would eventually find its way into ground water supplies and wells used by anyone unfortunate to be on the receiving end of this runoff.

As they passed through the alpine resort area known as Bear Valley, Jason took note of the mile markers. The report filed by the deputy, who’d happened upon the grizzly find, dutifully recorded the site. Jason eased the Interceptor onto a shoulder and switched on his emergency flashers. With no roof mounted light-bar, the only visible lights were from the LED lamps hidden in the grill and inside the front and rear windows. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for tourists, weary after days of camping, to wander from lane to lane on their way home, but anyone who came upon this scene should find it impossible to not notice the high-intensity display.

Smells good, doesn’t it? Dena asked as she arched her back and took in a deep breath. Reminds me so much of what Jerry and I liked to do.

Yeah. Jason opened the trunk and took out a portable UV lamp, then waited for a four-door GMC pickup carrying a white camper shell to pass before he broke out the envelope. The driver waved as he drove by. The family’s two children in the back seat had their faces buried in their laps as if playing video games and never saw a thing. In the spirit of instilling a sense of adventure for their charges, Jason wondered what would happen if their parents had been so cruel as to encourage them to possibly look out the window once in awhile. The report states the body was found right about here. Jason looked to his right and left. It says the body was positioned with its feet aimed east. That means the guy was probably killed to the west of us, after Lake Alpine, but before Hermit Valley, and dragged here.

This is still part of the Stanislaus National Forest… and wilderness area, Dena said. Jerry and I used to pack here.

He and Dena strolled a few yards in each direction of the mileage marker until they found a dark stain on the blacktop. Jason knelt down to see if it looked like dried human blood or just the remnant of a more common kind of road-kill. It was hard to tell what the blotch was, what with traffic passing over it for the last couple of days. Add in the nullifying effect of natural UV light coupled with the unseasonal heat and they could be looking at animal urine. He turned on the portable UV unit and pointed it at the stain. It turned dark—a sure sign of blood. Had the stain fluoresced, the spot may have been not only urine, but possibly a mark left by various foods or drinks, or even spilt laundry detergent. Jason was glad he’d brought his fake leather carrying case that held evidence bags—both plastic and paper—as well as latex gloves and cotton swabs. He handed Dena a pair of gloves.

About fifteen feet in front of the stain, another black puddle glistened in the sunlight. Like the blood residue, the puddle straddled the edge of the road—half on the pavement, half on the graveled shoulder—just enough to prevent it from being totally obliterated by passing traffic. Jason knelt down and sniffed. Hmm. Motor oil. Fresh. That means whatever was dragging this guy has a leaky oil pan. He handed Dena a cotton swab and nodded toward the dried bloodstain.

With the practiced hand of a professional, Dena moistened a cotton swab with a small bottle of distilled water from the kit, shook it to eliminate any excess water, then rolled the tip in the stain until it was saturated with blood residue. To be sure, she repeated this process five more times and placed each in its own paper bag, making sure she labeled each bag with the date, time, and approximate location.

While Dena was collecting blood samples, Jason busied himself by taking photos of the scene. In his kit, he’d included a fifty-foot retractable tape measure. He placed one end at the bloodstain and the other at the oil leak, and locked the tape in place. In his photos, he was careful to include one shot that homed in on the distance markings on the tape for future reference.

Don’t you think someone would have seen something? Dena asked. It’s still plenty warm for people to go camping. Ebbetts Pass isn’t the most highly traveled way over the Sierras, but you’d think some die-hard packers would have happened by. She slipped her gloves off and picked up the folder containing pictures of the victim.

Depends. Jason was now busy collecting samples of the motor oil and placing them in plastic bags. This guy was found somewhere between eight and midnight. Plenty of time after dark to drag this guy from… wherever.

Seems so vicious, Dena said.

And well conceived, too. Jason removed his gloves and studied the pics again. The guy had a rag stuffed in his mouth and then duct-taped in place. What are the odds you’d find someone walking around out here with a roll of duct tape on them?

Pretty slim.

To say the least. Evidently, the dragging wasn’t what killed him. According to the autopsy report, he drowned in his own vomit.

Dena made a muted gagging sound and plopped down on a sizable chunk of granite on the road’s shoulder. I can’t think of a word that goes beyond barbaric, Jason. How much info do we have on this guy?

Jason leafed through the autopsy report, evidently performed down in Modesto. Hispanic. About thirty-five. Undocumented. Coroner unable to obtain prints… vic evidently clawed at the ground long enough to tear away most of the skin. And one other thing—what was left of this guy’s shirt showed signs of urine.

Whoa. His, or an animal?

Human, and definitely not his.

So whoever did this left us with his personal calling card.

Seems so. Not a hell of a lot to go on until we get someone in our sights.

They continued on foot down the road for another hundred yards, scanning the perimeter looking for signs of any struggle. Torn clothing, broken bushes, scuff marks, or an obscure conduit into the forest where a truck could make unnoticed deliveries of pot seedlings and paraphernalia would be a welcome find. Anything would be a plus. From past experience, Jason assumed this guy had been part of an illegal pot growing operation somewhere in the National Forest region, but this killing had a totally distinctive undertone to it. What I’d kinda like to find is some kind of skid marks, Jason said. This was a violent crime. Whoever tied this guy up had to have a temper… an uncontrollable temper. I’m sure when he got this guy attached to his bumper or tow-bar, he didn’t just ease on down the road. He was pissed—probably punched the accelerator like a dragster coming out of the chute. It’d be good if we could locate a tire pattern or width, or spacing. Anything.

Or the killer could have had a serious score to settle. Dena nodded in the direction of Bear Valley and then back to their vehicle. How far are we going to walk?

Jason glanced back at the Interceptor about a hundred yards back. Traffic was minimal. Mid-week meant the locals of the least populated county in California were probably at work, while the vacationers were hunkered down next to a fire pit at their campsites fantasizing about hot dogs, beer, and spongy marshmallows. It was quiet.

Ya’know? Second to tire tracks, what I was really hoping to find is a vehicular trail of sorts. Jason motioned for Dena to rest on another granite boulder—one of many which exemplified terminal moraine according to Hank. He was glad he’d paid attention to what little interface he had with this guy a few months ago. When we stumbled onto the illegal pot farm over on 108…

"When I stumbled onto it," Dena said.

Okay, but I can’t help but believe this victim was part of another farm. He pulled the pictures out of the envelope.

Using her fingertips as if caressing a fine fabric, Dena brushed some loose pebbles from the top of the boulder and eased down next to him.

Undocumented in this area, Jason continued, "and look at the mud and pine needles in