The Prince of Prescott: The Case of the Missing Guest

By Irene Riley

Sergeant Anya Jones of the Prescott, Arizona Police Department has her hands full, again. This Saturday morning in late February, she is finishing a difficult domestic violence report while trying to understand what it is exactly that the ninety-three-year-old Miss Madeline sitting in front of her is asking, when her latest recruit bursts into her office informing her of a crime in progress. Bikers are terrorizing shoppers at Gateway Mall. Then comes a call about a missing person from the Hassayampa Hotel.

Added to that is the Mayor’s insistence on sweeping the town clean, in spite of the snow and continued snow forecast, and ridding the streets of the noisy motorcycles that are terrifying the residents in order to ready the town for his ‘Big Event’ on the upcoming Friday. The ‘Big Event’ is a secret. Not even his Acting Chief of Police, Max Steele, knows what’s up.

Then there is Miss Madeline, one of the two surviving Forty-Fives, (three were killed; two murders and one suicide) the prior October. Miss Madeline has her own personal problems which she expects Sergeant Jones solve for her.

Events escalate. The bikers multiply and are considered a menace. A rookie detective half-listens to his superiors and the missing person stays missing. Miss Madeline, on the other hand, discovers what she considers to be a treasure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Sep 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781621835431

Irene Riley

Irene Riley worked for Los Angeles County her entire career, primarily in Health Services. She traveled frequently to Sacramento and Washington D.C. testifying on governmental relations and financial issues. She attended law school, became an attorney and worked for County Counsel. Ms. Riley is retired and resides with her husband in Southern California. She has three children and four grandsons.

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Prologue

Arizona

The Yavapai-Apache Nation of the Camp Verde Indian Reservation had its own Trail of Tears.

Not to be confused with the Trail of Tears resulting from passage of President Andrew Jackson’s 1830 Indian Removal Act requiring all Five Civilized Tribes to move from east of the mighty Mississippi River to west of the river. That trek began in 1831 with the Choctaw and ended eight years later in 1839 with the Cherokee Nation, a trail covering 1,000 miles from the Southeastern United States to Oklahoma.

It is said the Cherokee Nation alone lost between 4,000-6,000 tribal members of the original 15,000 to 16,000 members that started the six-month odyssey.

The Yavapai-Apache Nation Trail of Tears began on a day in late February in 1875, most probably the 27th, from Camp Verde Reservation to San Carlos Apache Reservation, about 180 miles.

It is said the Yavapai-Apache Nation lost between 100-200 tribal members of the original 1,400 to 1,500 members over their two to three week march.

***

The Yavapai got to San Carlos in a roundabout way. They were first moved from the land around Prescott, Arizona and sent to Fort McDowell. Then, in 1871 after the passage of the Indian Appropriation Act, the Yavapai were relocated to Camp Verde and intermingled with the Apache.

The Indian Appropriation Act: (1) removed independent sovereign nation recognition, and therefore protection, for tribes, (2) prohibited future treaties, and (3) required tribes to be governed by Congress and statutes rather than treaties.

The Camp Verde Reservation was established in the Arizona Territory by President U. S. Grant’s October 3, 1871 Executive Order for the Apache Mohave Indians. (Mohave in this case meaning Yavapai). Those Yavapai Indians who refused to present themselves at the Reservation were hunted down by the Army and eventually surrendered after a gruesome massacre in a cave that left seventy-five tribal members of all ages and sexes, dead. After which, the Camp Verde Reservation tribes of Yavapai-Apache were promised they could live forever in peace—forever lasted three years.

On December 14, 1872, the San Carlos Apache Reservation was established by President U. S. Grant through another Executive Order.

From the time gold was discovered in Prescott, Arizona Territory in 1863 to a mere twelve years later, the Yavapai had gone from a free roaming people to persona non grata. The Yavapai were a fairly small tribe, easily lost in the shuffle. Not nearly as robust as the Apache or Navajo, the Yavapai were often mistaken for and called Apache. Perhaps that is why in 1875, President U. S. Grant, by yet another Executive Order, sent the Yavapai from Camp Verde to the Apache Reservation of San Carlos. Others say the reason the Yavapai were sent to San Carlos was so the two tribes, on again, off again enemies, would kill each other off for good. The real reason was most likely money. Profits the ‘Tucson Ring’ contractors counted on from selling goods to military posts, profits they were losing because the Indian farmers on the Camp Verde Reservation successfully fended for themselves leaving enough left over to sell. Then there was the copper.

The Indians were forcibly marched under unnecessarily cruel and inhumane circumstances, on foot, in the icy rain and snow, across a mountain range with few provisions, prodded forward by a small troop of approximately fifteen Calvary. Tribal people who died along the trail were left unburied, newborn babies were left behind or choked to death. Only one child of the twenty or so born on the Trail survived.

The retelling of the Trail of Tears is embedded in Yavapai history, repeated over and over again down through each generation. Yavapai consider it a proud story, a story of courage and perseverance—certainly one of survival. The Yavapai say their Trail of Tears got its name because, on the trail, the tears the women shed for their dead children turned to stone.

Camp Verde Reservation was closed down immediately after the Indian were removed. On April 23, 1875, less than two months after the Trail of Tears, President U. S. Grant revoked the Executive Order that had established the Camp Verde Reservation. Camp Verde became Public Domain. The Indians were gone and good riddance.

From 1875 to the 1900s the Yavapai lived, endured and died at San Carlos. By the early 1900s tribal members were walking off all reservations, including the Apache and Yavapai at San Carlos. Some returned to Camp Verde to find their land usurped by settlers. What else could they expect to find after twenty-five years? Their land was up for grabs and grab is what happened.

***

The Roosevelt Presidents, both Teddy and Franklin, rescued the Yavapai and returned Indian lands.

By Executive Order on September 15, 1903, President Teddy Roosevelt established the Fort McDowell Reservation for the Yavapai. The same year, 1903, the one survivor born on the Trail of Tears march had reached his twenty-eighth year. He was married and on his way off the San Carlos Reservation to follow the rest of his tribe under the leadership of Sam ‘Red Ants’ Jumilla, just as soon as his wife had their third child. She did, a girl. The family moved out and lived on the outskirts of Prescott, Arizona Territory.

In 1934 President Franklin Delano Roosevelt established the Indian Reorganization Act, the New Deal for Indians. The Act provided for tribal self-governing which essentially restored Indian sovereignty, revoked the ability for individual tribal members to own and sell parcels of tribal land thereby halting the piecemeal breakup of reservation lands, and allocated monies for the federal government to buy back and return previously held Indian land to the Indians, land then currently occupied by non-Indians.

On June 7, 1935, in accordance with the New Deal for Indians, Congress passed Public Law 117 transferring seventy-five acres from the Army (formally Fort Whipple Military Reserve) to the Bureau of Indian Affairs for the establishment of the Yavapai Prescott Reservation. An additional 1,320 contiguous acres were transferred to the Yavapai Prescott tribe under Public Law 525 on May 16, 1956.

Chapter One

Prescott

The Last Week in February

Saturday Morning

Why is it, when people think of Arizona (if they think of Arizona at all, it’s merely as an afterthought, Arizona being the last of the lower forty-eight states to enter the Union), they invariably think of sun, sand, spiders, scorpions, snakes, and saguaros? Of course, Arizona is all those things. It is also Prescott.

On this particular Prescott Saturday morning late in February there was no sun, no sand, no spiders, no scorpions, no snakes, and the saguaros were unrecognizable, covered in white. It was snowing. Steadily.

Anya Jones, Sergeant, in charge of the Criminal Investigation Division, Prescott City Police Department, allowed herself a respite from the report she was writing and stared through the large corner windows of her almost pretentious office as the snowflakes continued to softly fall.

The report wasn’t going well with the subject matter being all too familiar. A domestic disturbance. They did it all for love.

A man and a woman fighting over who knows what. First yelling and screaming, then a few punches, then a flying frying pan. Neither was talking to each other, or to her. Were they ever in love or was it the anger that had brought them together? Since she didn’t have an answer, she didn’t put that in her report.

She’d heard it all before with innumerable variations on a theme. The story’s foundation was always the same. He. She. I did not. I saw you. You never loved me. I hate you. Get out and don’t come back. Okay, I will.

Now, looking out at the soft, white, pure snow, Anya thought there was a slim chance such a thing as love forever existed. Probably not. Certainly not for the two in her report—and not for her either.

They did it all for love, the woman had said.

Her two minutes were up. Anya turned back to her computer and typed a row of questions marks.

There was a knock on her office door which immediately opened a crack, wide enough for Detective Harrison to peek into her space. Detective Harrison was brand spanking new to her team, taking the place of Harry Morgan who was on a different assignment, somewhere. No one on her team knew where for certain.

"There’s someone to see you, Ma’am. Two someones, actually. Sorry. I know it’s Saturday but they...

…won’t take ‘no’ for an answer and with that pronouncement, Madeline Thompson pushed open the door completely accompanied by Louise Westfall and made what could only be called an entrance into Anya’s office. They made a beeline for the visitors’ chairs, without so much as a howdoyoudo. Together they comprised the last surviving members of Prescott’s renowned 45's, an activist women’s group of five elderly ladies now dwindled down to two. The three missing ladies were dead. From unnatural causes.

Sitting regally, they both started to peel off the layers of clothing that had protected them from the cold. Madeline was neat and tidy. Louise seemed to get more entangled with each layer she removed. Hat, scarves, gloves, overcoat—all in a heap.

Anya jumped to her feet as soon as she heard Miss Madeline’s voice. She smiled at the two elderly ladies surprised, to say the least, that they would make the trip, albeit a few blocks, on such an inclement morning.

Miss Madeline, Anya said. She always called the older ladies Miss. You shouldn’t be out in this weather. Madeline was the elder of the two at age ninety-three with Miss Louise not far behind at eighty-eight.

Being a detective Sergeant, Anya, spotting their dry boots, deduced they hadn’t walked to the police station. How did you get here?

I called Wilbur, of course. Miss Madeline spoke as if Anya were in the third grade.

In a taxi, Anya. That’s how we get anywhere nowadays, Miss Louise volunteered. She was the ditzy one of the original 45’s. She had to be watched. We never ride in the Rolls anymore.

It’s a Cadillac, Louise. And you know why we don’t ride in it.

I always liked that car. I never got to ride in the front with Hortense. You did, Madeline. I had to sit in the back, with Rosamund and Victoria. In the middle. Louise started to cry at the thought.

Madeline Thompson took a deep breath, handed Louise a lace handkerchief and patted Louise on her knee with a tsk, tsk. It’s over, Louise. We ride in the taxi now. We have Wilbur.

I know. I know.

Who is Wilbur exactly? Anya asked, completely in the dark.

Who’s Wilbur? Madeline was shocked Anya would ask such a question. Wilbur’s the taxi driver, remember. I’ve commissioned him. He’s on call for me. But that’s not why we’re here—to talk about Wilbur. The reason I’m here, I mean we’re here, is someone has died. Louise says so. Isn’t that right, Louise?

At this point Madeline came to a full stop and sat back in her chair satisfied she had fulfilled her mission. The message had been delivered.

Oh–Kay, Anya said.

Both ladies sat quietly.

Is that all? Anya asked.

Isn’t that enough? Miss Madeline asked back.

What would you like me to do, Miss Madeline? People die every day.

This is different or I wouldn’t be here and you know it. Tell her, Louise.

Last night, I heard her plain as day. I distinctly heard a woman say she was killed. She told me who killed her, but I forget that part. She’s close by here. She has to be, to be able to talk to me. I’m here so she has to be here, even if she’s dead.

I called Maddy and she agreed I had heard something.

Louise has the ‘gift,’ you know. You should listen to her. So? Madeline stated as a preamble to her all-important question. When are you going to do something about it?

Anya was saved from telling the elderly ladies they should go home and have some tea so she could finish her report and go home herself and have some tea, by an interruption. Without knocking, a first for him, Detective Harrison opened the office door and waved frantically. Anya signaled to her detective to wait there for her and told the Misses Madeline and Louise she’d be back.

Shutting the office door behind her, she looked around for Harrison in the large anteroom filled with desks and assorted cabinets. He was standing by his computer, pointing at an e-mail, shifting from foot to foot, dying to tell her the news.

What’s up? she ask him.

Ma’am. They’re at it again. At the mall this time. There're three of them, not just two. And they’re riding those bikes into the stores. And they’re herding people like sheepdogs.

By ‘bikes’, Detective Harrison meant small motorcycles, specifically the Honda Grom. A dream of a machine to maneuver in small places, like alleyways and between cars, but still hardy in the canyons. The bikes had been ridden around town before, always outdoors. There was no attempt to hide the cycles, just the cycle riders. The license plates were muddied over.

We better get going. Tell me the rest in the car. I’ll meet you out front.

Ma’am.

Anya was trying to think how she could get rid of her two visitors when the ladies themselves saved her the trouble by emerging from her office, fully decked out for the weather. The only skin exposed was below the eyebrows down to their chinny chin-chins. Everything else was covered.

I will be stopping by your house later this afternoon, Anya. We have to talk about staging the play.

The what? Would Miss Madeline ever come to her senses? Anya was more than confused. She was at sea.

The play. The real estate woman said my home is cluttered. I fired her and got a man. Realtor, I mean. He’s very nice and told me about how people stage a play.

I’ve never heard of that. Anya was half-listening to Miss Madeline, antsy to get going.

I’m selling the place.

With her final statement, Miss Madeline Thompson gallantly flipped her wool scarf around her neck signaling to Miss Louise it was time to move on and together they made their way out, with Anya holding the door open. Their eyes spoke volumes as they majestically left her office waddling like two Emperor penguins and walked down the hall to the exit.

***

Now don’t drive like a maniac, Harrison. Remember the weather.

He reduced his speed by a good five miles per hour. They’ll get away again. I just know it.

Taking about fourteen minutes instead of the usual eight, even with sirens on and lights flashing, Harrison skidded twice onto the right shoulder of Route 69, did a three sixty after braking for a stopped SUV, and somehow still managed to arrive at the Gateway Mall entrance without incident.

The mall itself was open to the sky, the only shelters were scattered overhead covered walkways and inside the individual stores. Originally shaped as one big circle around the perimeter, the main drive was an uphill circle surrounding the rear of the stores and other businesses. Smallish parking lots and shorter drives, ending abruptly or merging into other drives without warning, were added throughout the circle’s interior. A large fountain now containing frozen water, with its own cement benches, occupied Gateway Mall’s center.

With the addition of shops over time and the availability of vacant land, the circle had morphed into a confusing polygon, with outliers. Adding to the muddle, the recent economic downturn had overpowered a large percentage of businesses and nearly one-half of the storefronts had ‘For Lease’ signs on their windows. The circle fountain looked out of place and jarred with the angular shapes the mall had turned into. People rarely sat there.

Harrison skidded the patrol car to a stop at the top of the inside circle in front of one of the four ‘cornerstone’ stores underpinning the mall’s continued precarious survival. They both jumped out of the vehicle. He left the lights flashing. Anya and Harrison decided to make as much a show of officialdom as possible to 1) alert the citizens that help had arrived, and 2) warn the motorcyclists that the police were hot on their trail.

Better to make a display of force than hide the ball and have the perpetrators dig themselves into a bigger hole than they ever intended, Anya told Harrison. From their vantage point at the top of the circle, Anya and Harrison could see the whole mall. They didn’t spot any unusual activity, whatsoever. There were only a few unperturbed shoppers around, but there would only be a few on a day like today.

Anya gave Harrison a what’s going on here? look to which Harrison responded by turning this way and that. She sent Harrison down the left side of the mall and she took the right. They met halfway around the circle, at the frozen fountain, staring at each other.

Behind them, a high-pitched howl, like a coyote, sounded from a narrow alleyway between two stores, then a yip, yip, yip, and one-two-three motors sent out a harmonic revved roar, motorcycles, that screamed up the road behind the stores, above the drive and onto the wide open spaces and the snowy hills.

At the mouth of the alleyway Harrison looked to Anya who nodded her okay, then he took off running. He had no hope of actually catching them, but he did expect more than a glimpse of the three bikes, each on its own trail, fading fast, up and away, then totally out of sight. That glimpse was all he got.

Chapter Two

Prescott

The Last Week in February

Saturday Morning—Later

Some five customers straggled slowly, then stepped up speed to a trotting pace out of the large sporting goods store across from the frozen outdoor fountain. The four clerks on duty followed behind.

Anyone here hurt? Is everyone all right? Hearing no negative responses Anya continued, We’re all going back into the store.

Oh, no. I just can’t go back in there, a teenager wailed. She was a multi-tasker, wailing and texting at the same time. I couldn’t.

Back into the store. I need information from all of you and it’s freezing out here.

Anya was shooing the last clerk through the doors when Harrison tore around the corner of the sporting goods store, face red, breathing hard, gun drawn. He skidded to a stop at Anya’s side.

What’re you doing with that gun out? You’re gonna scare these people to death.

We can’t let them get away, Sir, Ma’am. They’re terrorizing the town.

Did they get away, Harrison?

They headed across the Reservation, toward Bucky’s.

Did they get away, Harrison?

I could follow them.

Did they get away, Harrison?

Well, yes. I guess they did.

Put the gun away. Try and get some useful information from these witnesses, will you?

Still outside, Anya called her Chief, the Acting Chief that is, better known as ‘AC’, and gave him a rundown of the mall events and told him she needed a couple of officers to help take statements. Her division was budgeted for eight detectives and a half-time Crime Scene Investigator. She was stretched thin at the moment with two detectives and the half-time CSI positions vacant, which she figured would never get filled. That left her with six live bodies. Harrison was with her, Reynoso was at the Hassayampa investigating a missing person report, Evans was at home after wrapping up the domestic violence incident, Endicott was on medical leave nursing a sprained ankle, Daniels was out of town (she suspected he was looking for another job), and the last detective was permanently assigned to Prescott High School duty. The AC knew all that. She didn’t have to explain her request. He also knew she had two unfilled vacancies, and a half.

And Sergeant... the AC continued after hearing her request.

Sir?

Fill those vacancies.

Yes, Sir.

I mean it, Anya.

I know, Sir.

Just as she got a warm blast of air upon entering the sporting goods store doors, her cell rang. Anya backed out. The call was Reynoso’s number. Yes?

Not taken aback by his boss’s curtness, Reynoso figured she was busy, not hostile. He made it quick.

Ma’am. We’ve got a situation down here at the Hassayampa. Missing person, but very strange. She disappeared completely. Seems to have walked out last night with the clothes on her back and very little else. No purse. Just her phone.

What do you want me to do, Detective? She only called him Detective, with a capital ‘D’ when she was losing patience. I think you should come down here, Ma’am. It’s just too strange and it doesn’t figure. I think you could find out more than I did.

Anya laughed, relieving her tension and Reynoso’s.

You flatter me, Reynoso. Write up the report and I’ll meet you at HQ later. I’m hung up at the mall right now.

Yes, Ma’am. Over.

Over to you, too.

***

This time Anya made it into the sporting goods establishment for keeps.

Anything? she asked Harrison. The two were standing away from the customers and clerks who were sitting in a semi-circle around a piled up display of baseball and football equipment. One of the clerks had thoughtfully arranged multicolored canvas chairs around the perimeter and was handing out coffee.

No, Ma’am. They had on helmets with face protectors. No hair showing. They were completely covered up. Hands had on gloves. Scarves covered the lower face, over the nose as well.

The bikes?

"They all