Silent Partner

By Max Cioux

LOGAN VAN HOEHN was at the peak of his profession, with the best job in the United States Navy. He was a seasoned aviator, and his mission as an adversary pilot, what the Navy commonly refers to as a "Bogey Driver," was to play the "bad guy."  As an adversary pilot, Logan trained other naval aviators to be the best pilots in the Navy.&

• Language: English
• Publisher: Concordis Publishing
• Release date: Nov 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087904344

Max Cioux

Max Cioux is pronounced "Max Q" and is a pen name. Silent Partner is prima facie evidence of the birth of a master storyteller. Max is a former Naval Aviator, and a 1993 graduate of the Naval Fighter Weapons School, more commonly known as TOP GUN. He spent thirteen years in the Navy, and during that time, Max had the good fortune of associating with real heroes. He interacted with members of both the CIA and FBI, and his experiences in the Fleet, as well as those in Fallon, Nevada, Japan, and San Diego, California, gave him rare insight into the inner workings of these entities during that time. Though Max Cioux's Naval career ended in 1998, his love for all things aviation, as well as his interest in the United States Military, remains as strong as ever. It was his love of flying-like Blixen's description of flight in her memoir Out of Africa-that first fueled his need to write. For aviation enthusiasts, the author's pen name should invoke some level of interest. It is the mathematical representation that forms one boundary of the Vn diagram-often referred to as the flight envelope-Max q is simply the maximum dynamic pressure that an airframe can withstand. In other words, it is the structural airframe limitation governing maximum speed. For a more thorough explanation, feel free to search "flight envelope diagram" in your favorite search engine. His passions are wide and disparate. They include fishing, biking, brewing beer, and scuba diving, though his chief hobbies remain reading and writing. By the way, those of you who don't consider yourselves aviation enthusiasts, more specifically military aviation enthusiasts, you will still find Silent Partner chock full of adventure, intrigue, love, honor, patriotism, scandal, greed, drugs, and espionage. It is recent historical fiction that will have you rooting for the good guys and lamenting the end. Max resides in Iowa with his wife and children.

Book preview

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

June 1995, Oakland, California

Logan’s world turned in an instant, and it was all on account of a sparrow.  Routine preflight inspection revealed a bit of blood on a stator vane of the starboard engine, and, though maintenance eventually cleared the aircraft to fly, the delay put them well behind schedule.  It had been a very long day.  Coupled with the revelation delivered earlier that morning that his business partner was most likely a criminal, the day was bound to get longer.

To this day, Southwest Airlines prides itself on its on-time arrival rate, but unfortunately, due to that suspected bird strike in San Diego, Logan’s flight landed late in Oakland, and, as a consequence, he had missed the last flight home to Reno for the evening.  That is why he now stood at the Hertz counter and listened as the clerk recited her schpiel.

Finally, would you like any additional insurance to cover the possibility of unforeseen damage to the vehicle? The woman behind the desk said.

No, thanks.  I’m good.

Very well, Mister Van Hoehn.  Hand this to the attendant in the Hertz booth, and he’ll give you the keys.  Follow the signs toward rental down the escalator and out to the Hertz shuttle.  It runs every ten minutes.  Any questions?

No. Ma’am.

Then have a great evening, and thanks for choosing Hertz.

Logan didn’t relish the idea of a six-hour drive.  Yet he did not want to miss his oldest son’s game in the morning, either.

Had he been a less committed father, he could have stayed at the crash pad in Willow Creek and caught an early morning flight.  If he did that, however, everything would have to go smoothly, or he might show up late or perhaps even miss the entire game.  No, the crash pad was a higher risk option.

He and several other Southwest pilots rented a charming home there in Willow Creek.  Typically, he bunked there only when he had reserve duty.

Tonight, however, was the end of a four-day trip.  Since he flew in the Naval Reserves as well, his family lived in Fallon, Nevada, not far from the Naval Air Station located there.

Now, as he merged into traffic on I-80 heading east, he contemplated whether to drive the rental the whole way to Fallon or stop to swap it out for his Jeep when he made Reno.  After all, the best case would put him there after 0200.

He sped along Interstate 80 and hoped that no California Highway Patrol personnel were looking for speeders.  It took him one hundred miles to figure out the intricacies of the vehicle’s cruise control.  Having made it more than halfway to the base of the Sierra Nevadas without incident, he now set the cruise control to a reasonable seven miles per hour over the posted speed limit for the remainder of the trip.  He hoped that this was a safe ticket avoidance speed, even in California.

At Donner Pass, he felt the first serious pangs of fatigue.  By Reno, he decided that returning the rental would be just the thing he needed to wake him up.  He kept finding his chin in near proximity to his chest, and he was fighting valiantly to keep his eyes open.  The cold desert air rushing by him in the open cockpit of his Jeep would be just the ticket.  Admittedly the CJ-7 would be a much less comfortable drive than this vehicle—a Ford Taurus—but that would only ensure he stayed awake.

He was pleased with his progress.  He pulled into the rental return at precisely 0152.  By his calculations, he was eight minutes ahead of schedule.

Sorry, pal, but could you take me up to the front gate of the Air National Guard Facility?  He said to the first cab in line when he got out to the street.

Sure, but you know there’s a minimum charge, right?

Yes, but it’s too darned late to walk, he said.

All right, jump in.

Logan, a world-class cheapskate, had always parked his vehicle at the Air National Guard Facility across the street because it was free for anyone with a military ID.  Unfortunately, although the facility was across the street—indeed, he could see his Jeep from where he now stood—the front gate was nearly a quarter of a mile away.

Logan pulled back onto Interstate 80 at 0210, heading east.  He figured he was five minutes behind his self-imposed schedule.  That said, as he had hoped, the switch had gotten his blood moving again, and for now, at least he was wide awake.

Unfortunately, not five minutes into the remainder of his drive, Logan Van Hoehn started to grow tired once again.  The hum of tires on pavement and the warming embrace of the heater made him sleepier than he realized.  It was not so much the warmth as warmth juxtaposed against the cold night air that enveloped the Jeep’s open cockpit.  It was like looking outdoors on a cold and rainy day and listening as the raindrops land softly on the rooftop.  It was the kind of warmth one might feel when they are completely safe.  It was the kind of warmth that could kill if left untended.  As such, Logan decided to pull over again halfway home.  The Pilot Truckstop was open 24/7.  It was on the west side of Fernley, Nevada, near the service entrance of the mini storage complex that Logan owned.  Officially he, Logan Van Hoehn III, was the General Partner.

He had been unable to wake up for the entire ride across the Sierras.  He assumed a cold drink would do the trick for his final leg.  His wake-up call turned out to be much, much more than a beverage.

Inside, Logan looked for a drink that might keep him awake.  He thought a cold drink might be preferable to coffee.  He also recognized that he could use a dose of caffeine.  He settled on a Frappuccino.

He walked up to the counter where a big trucker was chatting up the salesclerk.

So, what the hell is up the hill behind you guys?  He said.

Mini storage.  Why?

I come through here about twice a week, and there’s always a shit-ton of vehicles in and out of there at this time of night.  Motherfuckers—’scuse my French—it’s like they’re in a hurry, or drunk, or both.  One ‘o those assholes cut me off again tonight.  If I hadn’t stood on my air brakes, I woulda squashed him like a bug.  Mini storage, you say?

That’s what’s back there.

I wonder… you’d think the owner would be closin’ the thing down earlier than three in the morning.

Logan found the conversation interesting because he was the owner.  He didn’t realize the clerk behind the counter was staring at him.

She cleared her throat rather loudly and said, Will that be all for you tonight?

Reality had just been thrown askew.  In a trance, Logan gave an absent nod and handed her his purchase.  He paid his bill with cash and made his exit.

The mini storage was the one thing that had been automatic.  The business had been the only constant in his frenetic existence.  Over the last crazy half-decade, it had been the single indicator that he still retained his grip on reality.  It was the thing he could point to and say—when his wife asked questions about the madness that had enveloped their entire family—’yeah but look at our mini storage.  That’s still workin’ like a champ.’  Moreover, it was totally passive.  The money just showed up like clockwork.

Therein lies the problem, he thought.  Tonight, passivity ends.

He drove around behind the truck stop, where he could see the front gate.  He took up a spot behind a big rig where he watched and waited.  At three a.m., he saw two white vans come out and pull onto the service road.  His field of view was very narrow, and they quickly disappeared as he looked between the tractor and trailer of the rig he was behind.  A minute later, he watched the vans pull onto the interstate and head toward Reno.  He glanced back toward the facility in time to see the manager close the gate.  What in the hell?  He thought.  Fate and Frappuccino had conspired to open his eyes.  And to think it was all on account of a sparrow.  He pulled out and continued home.  He was wide awake now.

CHAPTER TWO

June 1995, Northern Nevada Desert

According to witnesses, the body was in a wash at the base of the Stillwater Mountains.  Death and the desert were often co-conspirators in nature’s saga.

Yet, Gary Wyman, Churchill County’s Sheriff, was happy to be out of the office for a change.  The azure sky stretched on and on.  It was another beautiful morning in the Dixie Valley.  He was driving his Ford Explorer at an uncharacteristically high rate of speed, even for a Nevadan.  He felt it was warranted.  After all, he needed to locate the site before the coroner and the criminal investigative division arrived.  They hadn’t bothered posting a guard due to the late hour of the discovery and because the site was so remote.  They felt it would be unlikely that anyone would disturb the evidence.  Certainly, the perpetrator would not return because it had not yet been released to the press.  That would happen today, most likely.

Wyman liked the wide-open spaces.  He had missed them sorely after leaving Utah.  He wanted to be a big city cop.  Fight crime.  After twenty years in Los Angeles, he had seen enough.  He had a family.  So, he retired and started looking for a small western town that might need a deputy.  Fallon was the spot.  They picked him up quickly at the sheriff’s insistence, Because a deputy sheriff, with L.A.  motorcycle, beat, and detective experience, doesn’t just fall into a small  town’s lap every day. Now he was the sheriff.

Animal on the side of the road, he thought, though he could not yet identify it.  Jackrabbit.  It just stood there until the Churchill County Sheriff’s Department vehicle was nearly beside it.  Then it made a mad dash for the other side, to no avail.  The vehicle shuddered as though going over a small speed bump.  In his rearview mirror, Wyman watched the carcass of the animal tumble into the sage-covered desert, creating an impressive cloud of dust as it disappeared from view.  It thoroughly amazed him that there were so many jacks in this valley.  Even more amazing was their sheer stupidity when it came to crossing roads.

Granted, Highway 121 was a dead-end road for all practical purposes, petering out into a dirt path that eventually found its way to Winnemucca.  And, granted, the rabbits living in this valley were not likely to encounter vehicles on a daily basis.  Indeed, the species was noted for big ears, big feet, prolific reproductive capabilities, and nimbleness afoot, not wit.  But why freeze when a vehicle was two miles away, only to try to run underneath it as it passed?  Perhaps it was a suicide.  Perhaps the poor bastard was having difficulty at home, Wyman thought.  He had become more cynical than most other Mormons he knew, but then most had not subjected themselves to twenty years of police duty in Los Angeles.  He regretted having run over the creature.  Truly, the loss of life for no reason was a tragedy.  But he grew up in territory much like this, and he knew the ecosystem would absorb the carcass quickly.  It would probably make a tasty morsel for a coyote, or an eagle might carry it home to the nest, he reasoned.

Near Eleven Mile Well, the highway crests a little rise as it bends to the Northeast.  From this point, Wyman could see the vast expanse of the valley sprawling before him.  The road proceeded north by northeast and then bent left back toward the north-northwest.  After the bend left, according to the map, it would only be another four or five clicks before he would shift into four-wheel drive and head west toward Slaughter Canyon.

The Dixie Valley is typical northern Nevada.  It would take days to walk across its width at its narrowest point.  It is broad and, like most in the region, contains a large dry lakebed or salt flat.  It is remote.  A human could live out here and seldom see another.  Assuming no one was looking for you, Wyman thought.

Strangely, it had been only a year earlier that this very valley had teemed with law enforcement officials searching for an escaped convict who’d shot and killed a Nevada Highway Patrolman.  They caught him because the imbecile built a fire to avoid freezing to death.  He was lucky that no law officer shot him while trying to escape.  Or, maybe he wasn’t, Wyman thought as he pulled off the road and started up the dry creek bed of Slaughter Creek.  After all, he would be on death row for eight or ten years, even for killing a cop, even in Nevada.  And what did he have to look forward to?  Lethal injection followed by eternal damnation.  Serves him right, he thought.

He turned his GPS on and slowed down a bit.  He watched as it began tracking the satellites that would pinpoint its position.  There’s one… two… three.  Three was enough to ensure that he was proceeding up the correct wash.  The only reason the remains had been discovered in the first place was that hunters, out scouting for new spots to chase chukar, turned a couple of washes too soon and were forced to hoof it a considerable distance to check Cain Spring Canyon.

Chukar are game birds.  They dwell in the mountainous terrain and foothills of the region.  Hunting them is a challenge because of the terrain in which they are found and due to their propensity to run uphill.  They are larger than quail but fly only slightly slower, which, when coupled with the physical exhaustion of the shooter, make them an exceedingly difficult quarry.  Gary Wyman hunted them as a younger man but, in middle age, preferred Cornish game hens from Safeway to climbing on the rocks.

He looked down at the GPS resting precariously on his console.  It was tracking five satellites now and had him within a mile of the spot where the party had discovered the body.  Up ahead, he could see where the wash became too narrow to continue.  Prior to that, he could see the fresh vehicle tracks where the hunters had climbed the bank and proceeded.  He followed the trail they had cut only a day earlier, moving at a slower pace, in case any large rocks were concealed beneath the sage.  He had seen many a cowboy leave his oil pan in the desert because he was in a hurry.  Being stranded here would quickly become a survival situation.  He cursed the Ford Motor Company, under his breath, because it became obvious that the Explorer, though billed as a sport utility vehicle, lacked the necessary clearance to continue.  A walk would be nice in the cool morning air, he thought.  Later in the day, when the sun was high, he might regret the decision, but at least he would be coming downhill then.

According to the GPS, he was within half a mile, and, by the looks of what lay ahead, he figured the body would be somewhere near the mouth of the canyon.  He was not mistaken.

The mental dwarf that picked the burial site was obviously unfamiliar with the concept of spring runoff, he thought as he surveyed the site.  Though bone dry for ninety percent of the year, any significant thundershower or the considerable annual snowmelt would turn the gully into a raging torrent for at least a part of any normal year.  What had been first exposed—probably a foot—had decomposed and washed out into the desert.  All that remained, sticking out from the sand, were two bones—most likely the tibia and fibula.  In addition to that, the frontal and top part of the skull lay, partially exposed, three feet upstream.  Before noticing the skull, members of the scouting party were not certain that the bones were human.  What was first noticed were the two bones and a shred of sun-faded denim.  Most likely, a part of the person’s clothing, the sheriff thought as he studied the site.

He stopped for a moment and backed away to look at the overall picture, and then it dawned on him.  He had forgotten his camera.  The coroner and the forensic investigators would each have one, but he didn’t like relying on others for his pictures.  He started back down the hill.

He had just reached the Explorer when he noticed a dust cloud slowly advancing up the wash.  It was larger than his had been, and it intrigued him to the point that he decided to wait for whatever it was to appear.  It did not take long.  Rising out of Slaughter Wash was the Nevada Department of Investigation’s forensic team.  They were driving a Ford 4 x 4 crew-cab with an oversized canopy to accommodate their gear.  Following in close proximity was the Churchill County Coroner.  The sheriff smiled at the sight of the coroner following so closely, eating the forensic team’s dust.  It was exactly what had been happening figuratively for the past several years in cases such as this.

It was an unfair comparison, however, though few people recognized it.  Dr. Temis had been a coroner two decades ago.  Now he was a teacher at the University of Nevada, Reno.  He had developed techniques for aging human remains in a desert ecosystem.  When NDI asked if he would be interested in plying his gruesome trade in Nevada, he declined to take the post.  Instead, he formed an ad-hoc team comprised of grad students from disparate disciplines such as Archeology, Medicine, Criminal Science, Photojournalism, Microbiology, and Entomology.  Most cases involved only lab work.  NDI had a number of crews trained in crime scene investigation and evidence recovery.

Despite that, Dr. Temis had negotiated with the State to allow his teams into the field a few times per year.  The teams—there were two, sometimes three—were not kept all that busy.  They might only visit two or three sites per year.  Temis considered it important that his students get out to see actual crime scenes.  The state of Nevada did not mind having extra teams that worked part-time for free.  It was cost-effective.  Most impressive, though, were the results.  The teams were good.  Temis had a way of picking his teams, almost like he could read minds.  He could put people together as though he were working a jigsaw puzzle.  The synergistic effect was evident even to casual observers.

Good morning, Sheriff.

Doctor Temis, always a pleasure, the sheriff said, shaking the man’s hand through the open window of the truck.

Any luck locating the remains yet?

Right up there at the mouth of that canyon.

The Explorer wouldn’t clear the sage, I take it? the coroner asked as he bounded up.  He, too, was in an Explorer.

Hello, Doctor Williams, Sheriff Wyman said.  Yeah, the damn thing doesn’t have any clearance, but, from the looks of the Doctor’s rig, he could probably drive us all right up there.  This thing new, Doctor?

Why yes… yes, it is.  We ordered two of them last fall.

Your budget must still be growing, Wyman said with a wry grin, glancing at the county coroner to gauge his reaction.

Load your gear in the back, Doctor, and climb aboard, Temis said, smiling.

The big Ford inched its way up the hill until the rocks were too large and frequent even for it to traverse.  At a point still more than a football field from the site, everyone piled out of the vehicle.  The students and Dr. Temis stretched and yawned and slowly began to come to life after the three-hour journey.  The coroner and his assistant, a balding middle-aged man named Harold, slid their gear onto the tailgate of the CID’s truck and then began walking up toward the site with a camera.  Initially, this went unnoticed.

Doctor Williams, DOCTOR WILLIAMS! Temis shouted.  Dr. Williams, pretending not to hear, continued his deliberate ascension toward the mouth of the canyon.  Gary Wyman did not want a botched investigation on his hands.  He had worked with both the coroner and Dr. Temis on previous occasions, and based on his experience, he knew who to trust.  He did not understand why Dr. Temis would be calling Dr. Williams, but he reasoned that it was probably of some import from the look of distress on Dr. Temis’s face.  Wyman resorted to his only means of alerting Williams, aside from discharging his weapon.  With two fingers on each side of his tightly pursed lips, he whistled as loud as he could, which was considerably louder than team members around him had suspected.  For, despite seeing his intentions, many were still visibly startled by the shrill and eerie screech it produced.  Dr. Williams took two more steps, then stopped and turned around quickly.  The effect of the reverberation bouncing off the foothills was even more impressive.  The sheriff and Temis, each with exaggerated signals, motioned Williams and his assistant back toward the truck.  Even from a distance of several hundred feet, it was apparent that Williams was disgusted at the notion of having to backtrack.  His purposeful and vaulting gait, coupled with the tone of his voice, gave it away.  At least for Wyman, it was not possible to discern what he was saying, only that the tone of his parlance was not cheerful.

What is it? he asked in a wearisome tone.

I was hoping before we descended, or I suppose in this case ascended would be more appropriate, upon the site that is, that we could all agree on how we should proceed.  I would hate to see us all up there, tramping around and poking things and quite possibly destroying evidence in the process of trying to discover it.

I’m a coroner, Doctor Temis.  I realize that Churchill County doesn’t have the volume of Las Vegas or even Washoe county, but this is not my first murder investigation.  We were just going up there to shoot a couple of rolls of film before your team starts digging around.

Doctor, I appreciate both your intrepid spirit and your experience, but we don’t even know exactly where the body is yet.  I was hoping that we could get a quick brief from Sheriff Wyman.  Then perhaps we would know what kind of gear to bring and how best to proceed.

Well, gentlemen, in that case, if I may, let me give you a synopsis of what we have, Wyman said, jumping in before the two doctors became embroiled in an argument.  The body is lying in the middle of the wash, mostly buried in sand.  It’s right up where the wash spills out from the canyon walls.  The only thing visible is the top of the skull and what appears to be part of a leg about three feet downstream.

It sounds as though this will be an archeological expedition, at least once we’ve shot some photos.  Doctor Williams, would you and your assistant be willing to lend us a hand with some of our gear? Temis asked.

Yes, we’ll help, Williams answered, with no small measure of disdain.

Okay, people.  Gather around.  We will accompany Sheriff Wyman up to the site.  He will point us in the right direction.  I would like each of you to view the site and the body.  Please remember not to get too close.  I’m initially just looking for big-picture, first impression sort of stuff.  If you have a pad and paper, you can jot down any thoughts for later reflection.  The first folks to get in will be photography.  That will be the sheriff, Doctor Williams and his assistant from the Coroner’s office, and Kara.  As for the rest of you, this is sounding like an archeological dig, so we need to listen to Shelby so we know what to bring.  Oh yes, if you’re not part of the camera crew, plan on two trips to get the necessary gear up the hill.  Where is Shelby?

Here I am, Doctor Temis.

Wyman looked up to see Shelby Smith.  Her voice was the thing that attracted his attention.  It was demure yet sultry.  To his chagrin, the woman he saw before him did not fit the heavenly voice.  She wasn’t ugly, per se.  It was simply that her appearance was disheveled.  She looked off-balance just standing there.  The Sheriff questioned whether she would make it up to the site without stumbling.

Come forward, please, Dr. Temis instructed.

The young woman did not move, but from behind her came a woman of such radiance that her wondrous voice now paled in comparison to her aesthetic prowess.  Wyman had never met an archeologist.  He had imagined a crusty chap, clad in khaki and advanced in years.  That image was now wholly neutralized by the heavenly Shelby Smith.

Shelby, are there any special considerations or instructions before we make our way to the body? Temis inquired.

Ms. Smith—in three more semesters, it would be Doctor Smith—pursed her lips and put her index finger on her cheekbone, her brown eyes rolled slowly toward the heavens.  With one hand on her hip, she crossed her feet.  She thought for a moment while every man marveled, and every woman envied.  To Wyman, she looked more like a Valley Girl in this stance, and he wondered if she would have something intelligent to say.

We need to bring packs One and Three to start, the tarp and some poles, both sifters, and a shovel or two.  We can save the rest for a second trip once we assess the site.

James, anything for entomology?  Dr. Temis said.

Nah, I’ve got everything I need right here, he said, holding up a small duffel.

Very good.  Let’s get a move on then, shall we? Temis announced.

At the site, everyone encircled the body, giving it a wide berth so as not to impede the view of others.  Some team members stood in quiet reflection, while others were jotting down notes on pad and paper.  Temis and Williams were both dictating into their tape recorders in low and inaudible tones, while Kara, Harold, and Sheriff Wyman snapped photos.  This continued for several minutes until finally, Dr. Temis, noticing that photography had ceased, cleared his throat.

Okay, people.  Initial impressions.

The person or persons who buried this body weren’t familiar with the territory.  I would doubt if they were from around here.  Pretty stupid to bury a body in a wash.

You assume that the people who did this were attempting to hide the body.  On what have you based your assumption? Dr. Temis retorted.

Well, the body is almost completely buried.  It seems logical that it was buried for a reason.

At this moment, I’m inclined to agree with you.  In which case your assertion that the murderer was not a local is very astute… for an Entomologist. The doctor’s jab garnered muffled laughter in response.

Why do we think it was a murder?  Kara, the photojournalism major, asked.

Duh! someone said sarcastically.

Ah-ha!  Kara gets the prize.  We assume foul play because the body is almost completely buried.  Isn’t it possible this poor soul died of a heart attack, and the wash simply consumed him or her?

The sheriff sat on a large rock and watched the discussion spin into a frenzy.  Each member of the team offering a point.  It was followed immediately by a counterpoint until the spiral of synergy reached an intellectual crescendo.  Dr. Temis, in the height of his glory, stood in the middle of the canyon over the body, the catalyst of a mental microburst.  No classroom could facilitate such a learning environment.  Wyman marveled.  In a few minutes, the world of academia would give way to the laboratory of practicality.  It always went this way.  At least it had the last two times Wyman had seen the volunteer NDI team in action.  Temis would brainstorm with the team for an hour and then work them like dogs for the next three days.

By mid-morning, the temperature was climbing through the ninety-degree mark, and the work had commenced in earnest.  The team had staked out the scene in a grid of ten-by-ten-foot squares.  Temis had instructed them to begin with the center square where the body lay and work outward.  An archeological expedition was underway.  The sand was scraped, an inch at a time, from the middle of the grid.  Soon, the skull was more than half exposed.  Once Dr. Temis had determined that the skull was that of an adult male, Sheriff Wyman decided that it was time to alert the media and started to saunter down the hill to his truck.  Since he would not be able to get reception for either his radio or cell phone from the remote valley, he had instructed a deputy to take post several miles to the south, at the intersection of Highway 50 and 121.  There he could act as a relay for any pertinent details or instructions concerning the case.

Churchill County Sheriff Three, this is One.  How copy?

Loud and clear, Sheriff.  How me?

Same.  This Garrett?

Affirmative.

Okay, here’s what I need.  First, I need you to give headquarters a call and have Jody do the standard press release for a newly discovered body.  Make sure you say it like that, a newly discovered body, and make sure she includes the coordinates, got that?

Ten-four.

All right.  Now once you get that called in, drive over to Middlegate.  Go to Guss and Reita’s place and borrow the biggest cooler they got and fill it with drinking water, some ice but not too much.  If Guss gives you any grief, tell him I’ll personally return the danged cooler.  And, if that’s not acceptable, ask him how old his new bartender is.  He’ll cooperate.

Ten-four.

You got a GPS?

Affirmative.

Did ya get the coordinates?

Yes, sir.

I’ll be looking for you in about an hour then.  Oh yeah, don’t drive past my truck, big rocks.  I’ll come down and help ya hump the water up to the site.  Got it?

Got it.

One out.

Three out.

Upon his return to the site, the sheriff saw that the investigation was well underway.  Two people were processing a small pile of dirt through a series of sifters.  They were about fifty feet upstream from the body and were accompanied by the lady who the Sheriff initially thought of as disheveled or off-balance or both.  She was armed with a metal detector.  The dirt they were sifting was being removed from around the body with a cement trowel and a paintbrush.  If the tools were indicative of the future pace, the outlook was bleak because Shelby, the chief excavator, had a toothbrush in her hip pocket, and periodically she was using it.  After several minutes of watching this bottleneck, Dr. Temis leaned over her shoulder and had a brief discussion with the beauty.  Shelby then called a huddle for another meeting of the minds.

Dr. Temis joined the sheriff, who was seeking a meager patch of shade provided by a small boulder near the mouth of the canyon.  He crowded uncomfortably close to him, apparently in an attempt to jump the sheriff’s claim and plunder a portion of the prized location.

We may have a problem.

I’ll say, you just stole half my shade, Doctor.

Thank you, but I really can’t stay long, he said, smiling.  The doctor and the sheriff, having worked together on previous occasions, had developed a mutual respect for one another.

This body lies in a wash.  Therefore, the standard methods of determining the age of remains in a desert environment do not apply.  We must assume that for at least a part of every year, the surrounding earth was very moist.  I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps the person or persons responsible for this were idiots or geniuses.

I’m not certain I follow your line of thought, Doctor.

The ancient Egyptians used to bury their dead in shallow graves, not unlike this one, he said, pointing at the dig and his students huddling around it.

Sometimes, fairly frequently, predators or big windstorms would uncover the corpses and, though unnerving, people began to notice that Gramps looked pretty good for having been dead for so long.  The concept of mummification and the great pyramids and all was born out of the realization that decomposition of flesh occurs more slowly in dry environments.  Indeed, the decomposition of all organic material occurs more slowly in the desert.  That’s my forte.  I’m an expert at approximating how long organic material, namely flesh and bone, has been dead after being aged in dry environments.  Beef jerky from your dehydrator is a classic example of what the desert can do to remains.  The problem is that in moist environs, things decompose at a much faster rate.  Now, we must figure out how often it was wet here and interpolate the percentage of time that this body spent decomposing in an environment—not unlike that of any rain forest—and balance that against the percentage of time it spent decomposing in a desert!

We’re screwed.

Possibly.  But I’m not giving up before we get back to the lab.  I leave you sole possession of the shade.

Good.

The division of labor ensuing from the huddle prompted by Dr. Temis was having a profound impact on the speed with which the expedition progressed.  Shelby had reluctantly acquiesced her trowel and had donned her hat as supervisor.  Others would now excavate the shallow grave.  Shelby was keeping an attentive watch over their progress as she munched on a celery stick and a Power Bar simultaneously.

The clumsy-looking lady and her cohort, Kara, at the sifting operation, were now dual-hatted.  Every fifteen or twenty minutes, they would come down for another tiny pile of dirt.  On every other trip, one of them would bring the metal detector and zip it around the dig.  Shelby was keeping notes of the results of each sweep.

At every pass over the skull, the detector yielded indications of metal, and there were smatterings of activity at the middle of the grave in two or three consistent locations.  Ironically, the strongest indications of metal were near the sifter as the detector was transported back and forth.  A secondary dig near the sifter ensued.  Dr. Temis and Harold, the County Coroner’s assistant, started scratching around, and as a result, the sifting operation multiplied.  Dr. Williams joined in the operation, much to his dismay.  Sheriff Wyman had gone down to help his deputy haul the water.

About a foot down at the secondary dig, they discovered an unusually large cartridge case.  It was so large, in fact, that no one recognized its caliber.  It had been there for some time and required a great deal of cleaning and brushing to detect some writing at the bottom of the case’s rim.  Despite a vigorous scrubbing, the writing remained illegible.

At the primary dig, the skeleton was being pulled out bone by bone and being cataloged and placed into evidence bags.  When the skull came out of the pit, the likely cause of death was revealed.  Sheriff Wyman and his deputy, doused in perspiration, were entering the mouth of the canyon lugging a mammoth jug of water when he noticed the commotion at the lower site.  There was no longer any shade any longer, so the sheriff motioned the deputy to drop the cooler.

How we doin’, Doc? the sheriff inquired as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a well-tanned forearm.

Well, we’ll have to take a closer look at the lab, but we’re pretty certain we’ve got a murder.

Whatcha got?

The body was lying in a grave that was too short.  That’s why the head and feet were exposed first.  We’ll have to go down another foot or two to get the rest of the body, and we’re not quite there yet, but we’re getting close.

Please don’t tell me you plan to finish today!

I think so.  Why?  Does that disturb you?

I just lugged a hundred and fifty pounds of agua up the hill, tripped once, and ran a piece of sage branch through my trousers!  I was hoping to have people up here long enough to drink it.

"Sorry to disappoint you.  This is loose sand, and it was fairly easy going.  I suspect that’s why the body was buried there in the first place.  We have some indications of metal, and we found something that may interest you.

What is it?

Take a look at this.  It’s a rifle cartridge of some type.  Seems larger than what you would normally see left by a hunter.  There seems to be some writing on the bottom.  Thought maybe you would recognize it.

I do.  It’s a military round.  Fifty caliber.  It was fired from an aircraft forty years ago.

You can tell all that just by looking at an expended cartridge?

"No.  There’s probably a million of those things laying around out here.

Probably says SL Forty-Three on the bottom.  That signifies that it was produced at the Saint Louis Armory in nineteen forty-three.  The Navy used to hold aerial gunnery practice over this entire valley.

So, this isn’t a clue.

Probably not, but keep it and see if it says something other than two letters and two numbers on the bottom.  If it was made somewhere other than the U.S.A, it’s most definitely a clue.

I thought we might have really had something there, the doctor said with a look of dejection on his face.

Actually, we do have something, he said, his face suddenly brightening. Take a look at the skull.  Notice the eggshell fracture here on the cranium.  This would be indicative of severe head trauma.  A blow such as this could have been enough to kill this person or at least render a severe concussion.  It’s doubtful he died from this, though.

What makes you say that?

This, he answered, turning the back of the skull towards Sheriff Wyman.

Bullet wounds?

Looks like it.  We’ll learn more back at the lab, but it’s an educated guess based on this. He set the skull on the ground and motioned for the woman operating the metal detector to come down.  With metal detector in hand, she bounded down the gulch as though it were a race and, with rapid onset and increasing velocity, was soon a prisoner of inertia, and it was evident to both Wyman and Temis that she would fall.  Without regard for physics or self-preservation, both of them attempted to stop the oncoming locomotive before she inflicted damage upon herself.  The resulting impact was truly spectacular.  Wyman, who had played football at Brigham Young, could not remember ever being hit any harder.  Temis, apparently unhurt, largely because he had taken only a glancing portion of the blow, was up trying to help the girl to her feet.  She, too, was apparently unharmed.  Wyman was in severe pain.  The metal detector had careened across his shins in the collision, and he wanted to cry, or rub it, or something.  But he was too proud.  He got up slowly and dusted himself off, grimacing slightly as he did so.

Are you okay, Celia?

Yes, Doctor.  I’m so sorry.

So, the clumsy lady has a name, Wyman thought.  He felt pangs of sympathy and guilt.  The poor lady was so embarrassed.  It was not difficult to recognize, even for a cynical man like Wyman, that she was acutely conscious of her awkwardness.

Here, Miss, he said, handing her the metal detector.  Are you sure you’re not hurt?

I’m not hurt, but thanks for asking, Sheriff, she replied with a small smile.

Oh my God, Temis said rather loudly as he looked at the remnants of the skull.

You were worried about me destroying evidence? Dr. Williams quipped sarcastically as he looked on.

The skull was mostly still intact, with the exception of the lower jaw that had been held in place by two thin leathery strips of flesh.  Additionally, the area of eggshell fracture was now in pieces in the sand.  Tears welled in Celia’s eyes.

There’s no harm done here.  We’ve got all the pieces, and we’ll just reconstruct them back at the lab.  Now, don’t cry.  I called you down here to sweep the skull… if you would be so kind.

She did so, attempting not to sob.  The skull, which had shown indications of metal, was now inexplicably clean.

I assume that you were going to show me that there was metal in the skull?

Temis nodded without looking up at the sheriff.

Well, apparently, the machine isn’t working after the wreck, Wyman added.

Okay.  Scan the fragments.

She did so again with no result.

Then, scan the lower jaw, Temis ordered, pointing at it.

Celia scanned the lower jaw, and the characteristic growl of the machine once again detected the metal.

Now, that’s what I wanted to show you, Sheriff, he said, bending down to pick up the lower jaw for closer examination.  He noticed nothing initially.  He rubbed some dirt off the inside of the left mandible and cut his finger on jagged exposed metal in the process.

Ah-ha!

Everyone stopped working, as it was evident the doctor had made an important discovery.  Dr. Williams, seemingly disinterested, wandered off to continue sifting.

Okay, people, it’s official, thanks to Celia, Dr. Temis said, giving a quick glance and a bantam smile to the young woman.  We’ve now determined with certainty that we have a murder investigation on our hands.  Here is what we have so far.  Human remains are discovered in a shallow grave in Slaughter Canyon.  Aptly named, I’m sure you would agree.  They are determined to be that of a male, not sure how old yet, but I feel certain between thirty and fifty.  We know this is a grave based on the position in which the skeleton came to rest.  It is possible that this poor soul was forced to dig his own grave.  We have here two basal entry gunshot wounds to the back of the head, fully consistent with an execution-style murder.  Here, on the left side of the mandible, is a fragment of the metal jacket from one of the bullets.  Hopefully, we will find the bullets and the rest of this casing in the grave.  Right now, we’re still detecting metal in the grave, are we not, Shelby?

Yes.  But we also have something else, Doctor.

What is that?

We have another body.  Or at least a part of one.  Here’s another patella.  That makes three.

Well… maybe we’ll need that water, after all, Sheriff.  It is most likely that we will find additional fragments, either in the grave or perhaps in a rib, or more likely the vertebrae.  Sheriff, what I suspect is that this poor fellow was whacked on the head and rendered unconscious.  He was then transported here and was executed after digging his own grave.  Obviously, it is too early to comment on the additional body.

Do you know for certain the bullet couldn’t have caused the skull fracture?

Ah, the entomologist speaks!  Excellent question.  No, not for certain, but look at what we do know.  Based on the entry wound and where we’ve already discovered fragments of a jacketed bullet, it seems implausible that the gunshot could have caused eggshell fractures on the top of this man’s head.

Silence reigned for several seconds as the members embroiled in thought contemplated the horror of the man’s last few minutes of life.

Expounding further, it seems likely that although the skull fracture was a serious wound, the man must have regained consciousness.

Why?  How do you know this guy wasn’t dead from the skull fracture? the coroner’s assistant asked.

Well, I don’t, with certainty, know that the victim ever regained consciousness.  But look at the bullet’s angle of entry.  Wholly consistent with the victim kneeling and being shot in the back of the head. He demonstrated the shooter’s stance for effect.

To achieve that sort of angle of entry, on a victim lying prostrate, the murderer would have had to have stood way up there and fired from a considerable distance to the back of the man’s head.  It’s possible, but not likely.  Yes, Shelby, go ahead, he said to the archeologist, raising her hand.

Doctor, we’ve begun to remove the skeletal remains of a second victim.  There is still some metal down in the hole.

Any number of items could be down there.  Buttons, jewelry, but we gotta keep sifting until we’ve found everything.  Once you’re convinced we’ve accounted for all the remains and clothing, we can start using shovels.

It took the rest of the day and most of the next morning to exhume the second victim.  It was not difficult to determine the cause of death.  A notched rib on the man’s chest and a fragmented scapula revealed that a single shot to the thoracic cavity, probably taking out the victim’s heart, was to blame.

After a lunch break, the process was greatly hastened by the shovels.  The method made Shelby Smith cringe.  As a future archeologist, it was near blasphemy to use such a blunt instrument for such precise work.  Nevertheless, she agreed that it profoundly improved the pace of such dealings, if not the thoroughness.  The thoroughness was quite satisfactory for the two doctors and Sheriff Wyman.

By dinnertime, the press had gotten the necessary footage and were speeding out of the valley to make it available for the eleven o’clock news.  At dusk, there were no more indications of metal at the site, and less than half of the dirt remained to be sifted.  It had topped one hundred degrees by five p.m., and the team had consumed all of their water, as well as the water the sheriff and his deputy had hauled in.  The remaining dirt reluctantly began to relinquish its secrets just before darkness consumed them.  First came additional fragments from a bullet, then a metal button on a piece of denim, most probably from one of the dead men’s trousers.  Next, another bullet, badly mangled but guessed by the sheriff to be .38, or 9mm, then a tooth with a gold filling.  This prompted Temis and Williams to take another look at the skulls.  To their dismay, several molars were missing from the second victim.  Shelby quickly pointed out that she had found no loose teeth at the site.  It was suddenly apparent that the murderer had pulled teeth in an attempt to render impossible the use of dental records as a means of identification.  Finally, at about nine p.m., as the last scoop of dirt was sifted, the final clue, a Saint Christopher medal, was discovered.  On the back was an inscription: "To David from M & D with love."

CHAPTER THREE

June 1995, NAS Fallon, Nevada

Desert Rescue is a large Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) exercise held annually at the Fallon Training Complex.  Rotary Wing units from the Air Force, Navy, Marines, and several friendly nations, along with various contingents of Special Forces, converge to conduct recoveries of downed airmen in simulated combat scenarios.  For helicopter pilots, life doesn’t get any better.  For Logan, a more boring mission had not yet been conceived.  As a bogey driver flying around in circles over simulated enemy territory, trying to find a pilot on the ground or a helicopter coming to the rescue was an exercise in futility.  He would rather spend his gas doing something more productive, but he didn’t get a choice in the matter.  His mission was to provide the bandit simulation that the customer had requested.

The exercise was hosted by the Naval Strike Warfare Center.  Their building was located down the street from Hangar Four.  Logan and his wingman, a fellow reserve aviator call sign Purple, walked briskly toward Strike’s building.  The air was fresh and clear.  It wasn’t that cold either, Logan thought to himself as he listened to Purple ramble on about Jeeps.

Purple, who had received his call sign in honor of the late Jimmy Hendrix because his last name was Hayes, was a great enthusiast of Jeep pickups.  He had built a fine off-road specimen some years earlier and, upon his arrival, became an instant hero.

They walked into the building and were checked through security.  Moments later, they entered a small conference room where the brief was about to begin.  Logan took his seat but soon caught sight of a long-lost comrade.  It was Jerry Moran, a member of Logan’s company at the Academy.  Logan got up and went across the room to shake the SEAL Lieutenant Commander’s hand.

Howdy, Jerry.

Logan Van Hoehn, you son of a bitch!  How the hell are you?

I’m doing all right.  How about yourself?

Can’t complain.  So, what… do you work here?

Nah, I’m a reservist with VFC Thirteen across the street.

No kidding?  What are you, the bad guys today? Moran said, shooting a quick glance at Purple Hayes.

That’s us.  So, what’s up with you?  You got your own platoon now, I hear, Logan continued.

Yes, sir.  Just goes to show, they’ll promote anybody around here.

Logan stopped smiling and looked down at the ground where his feet were shuffling indiscriminately as though he were leveling sand.  Well, I wish that were true, Jerry.

Huh?  What’s that?

Let’s discuss it later, over a beer, Logan said, recognizing that the brief was about to begin.

You’ll be at the club later?

I will if you will.

Okay then, Moran said as he turned to take his seat.  See you there. Logan gave his friend a thumbs-up as he, too, sat down for the brief.

✪

Post debrief, Logan walked into the Fallon Officer’s Club at precisely 1600.  It was not crowded yet, even though there were a good number of organizations in town for Desert Rescue.  Logan sat down at the near end of the bar close to the television and close to the barmaid, Ruthie.  She was leaning against the counter behind the bar, watching Oprah and pulling hard on a cigarette that hung limply from her mouth between puffs.  She was clad in a sweatshirt bearing her name, which also happened to be the name of the bar.  Logan thought it funny that she was a walking advertisement for a place that had more business than it knew what to do with.  There were other clubs on the base, but none where officers could congregate.

Aside from the sweatshirt, Ruthie did little to solicit business.  She was happy, on most days when traffic was light, but occasionally complained when she needed money.  She had raised five children as a single mother.  Her life had been tragic, and the lines across her face showed it.  She was a portly woman with bleached blonde hair intermingled among the gray.  She was quick to tell a fighter pilot when he had had enough to drink, regardless of his rank.  Despite her rather gruff exterior, Ruthie was more like a grandmother than a barmaid, especially to all the regulars.  She would remind them when it was time to call their wives or go home to see their children.  She seldom talked about her personal life.  Like most good bartenders, she was a better listener than she was a talker unless somebody did something that made her angry.  Woe unto the tenant command that forgot her birthday.  She would be extremely hard on each member of the organization until they made amends.

The Fallon O Club was a place of great nostalgia.  There were patches, stickers, and all sorts of other mementos from the various squadrons and air wings that had visited the tiny base over the last twenty years.  Stickers and patches and nametags covered nearly every inch of wall space and had to be periodically rotated so that everyone was represented equally.  Above the bar and above the television, a large camouflage F/A-18 Hornet with VFA-127 markings hung in remembrance of Logan’s former squadron.  Behind the bar, dead center, was a poster of a Bogey driver in full fighting regalia.  He was sitting in an ejection seat and looked menacingly down on the patrons.  At the bottom of the poster, the words Have a Nice Day were inscribed.  An oversized frame outlining the poster held, tacked to its backing, the nametag of every Desert Bogey that had ever been stationed in Fallon.  Logan looked to find his own nametag.  He thought of a time long ago when he had stood on the bar, two squadron wives holding on to each of his legs to steady him and placed his alongside the host of others who’d worn the red and black of Strike Fighter Squadron 127.  Those were the good old days, he thought to himself as he took a sip of his beer.

Sorry I’m late, Lieutenant Commander Moran said as he plopped down on the barstool next to Logan.

I just got here myself, Logan replied.  What’ll ya have?

Sam Adams?

Two Sam Adams, Ruthie… please, Logan added before she gave him a look of disdain.  She moved slowly to the cooler, all the while keeping her eye on the television.  Oprah was introducing a new novel to members of her book club.  Ruthie was a member.  She brought the bottles and asked if Jerry Moran needed a glass.  Ruthie was in a good mood or perhaps liked SEALs.  She had never asked Logan if he wanted a glass.  Logan put a ten on the bar and stuffed a dollar bill into a tip glass, of which there were several, all less than arm’s length from any barstool.

To the good old days, Moran said, holding his bottle high above the bar.

Rumph, rumph, Logan replied.

So, what was the long story over a beer you mentioned this morning?

Well, you remember Tailhook?

Yes.

I was there.

So, what happened?

Some chick bit me on the ass.  I bit her back.

"So, you were the guy?  I’d heard about it, but that’s nothing, right?"

Conduct unbecoming and consensual butt biting.  Those were the two charges the IG brought against me. Jerry Moran’s mouth fell open as Logan took a swig of his beer.

So?

Well, they couldn’t make it stick, I guess.  Much to her credit, after the woman that I bit and bit me found out what was going on, she refused to testify.  She changed her story—recanted, I guess you’d say—and they didn’t have a case against me anymore.

Holy shit.