Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (13 page)

My hand was lost in his. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

“I thought we might grab a few minutes together while your friend is being treated.”

“All right.”

“Mind if I tag along?” the reporter, Nancy O’Keefe, asked.

“Prefer that you didn’t, Nancy,” Sheriff Murdie said, pleasantly. “But stay around. Happy to talk with you when we’re finished.”

If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. She said she’d be in the waiting room, then walked away.

“Nancy’s a good gal and a hell of a reporter,” Pitura said as we followed Dr. Scudari to his office. “She came out here to Gunnison after working for some big-time papers back east. We all trust her. She’s never betrayed a confidence.”

The ME’s office was small and spartan. The only chair was his, behind a gray metal desk. He dragged in three wooden folding chairs, and we managed to squeeze into the confined space.

“I understand from the sheriff that you’ve been helpful in his investigation of the Molloy murder, Mrs. Fletcher,” Scudari said.

“I’d like to be, but I’m afraid I haven’t produced much.”

“Modesty is always an appealing trait. Bob tells me you discovered the possible weapon.”

“By sheer chance.”

“It doesn’t matter how the discovery came about. I’ve examined the rasp closely and subjected it to a number of tests.”

“And?”

“Mr. Molloy’s fatal wound was certainly caused by a rasp of precisely the dimensions and characteristics of the one you found.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“But it didn’t kill Mr. Molloy.”

“It didn’t?”

“No. I could find no trace of blood or other bodily fluids on it.”

“None?”

“None.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Impossible on its rough surface.”

“So, Mr. Molloy was killed by such a rasp, but not that particular one.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Well, a lack of evidence is never as definitive as actually finding some. Always tough to prove a negative. But I would say that the absence of blood on the rasp clearly rules it out as the murder weapon. If it were a smooth metal object, ridding it of blood would be relatively easy. But a rasp has a thousand crevices in which blood can collect. Cleaning it would be virtually impossible. And with today’s modem electronic equipment, we can detect even the smallest traces of blood or other fluids.”

“I appreciate being told this,” I said. “In a sense, I’m pleased with the result. If it
had
been the murder weapon, it would have made it even more remarkable that it suddenly showed up in broad daylight on the grass.”

“I agree with that,” Sheriff Murdie said.

Dr. Scudari added, “Because I’m convinced the murder weapon was a rasp of the same dimensions and configuration as the one you found, Mrs. Fletcher, it’s my opinion that it took someone with considerable strength to drive it into Mr. Molloy’s chest. If the weapon had been smooth, say a knife, it would not take excessive strength. But the rasp’s rough surface is another matter.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “But the question then becomes why the rasp I found was placed where it was.”

“Could be that somebody believed it was the weapon,” Pitura offered, “maybe found it in some obscure location and put it where it would be easily spotted.”

“But why do that?” I asked. “Why not just turn it over to you?”

The large homicide investigator shrugged. “Perhaps didn’t want to become involved. I’ve seen that happen before.”

I turned to Dr. Scudari. “Are you saying it would take an extraordinary amount of strength to plunge the rasp into Mr. Molloy’s chest?”

“Extraordinary? Super-human? No. But it wouldn’t have been a matter of just poking it at Molloy, as you could with a knife. It had to be rammed into his chest, and that would take some force.”

“How far did it enter his body?” I asked.

“Far enough to reach his heart and kill him.”

The sheriff said, “If you’re thinking, Mrs. Fletcher, that it had to be a man, I disagree. It could have been a woman, or a teenager, acting out of rage.”

Scudari nodded in agreement. “People are capable of remarkable feats of strength when provoked. An extremely angry person, man or woman, can go into almost a trancelike state. The medical literature is filled with such instances.”

The door to Scudari’s office opened, and one of the physicians who’d examined Seth poked his head through. “Nothing broken,” he said, smiling. “His right shoulder was dislocated, but we popped it back into place.”

I winced at the pain Seth must have felt.

“Doesn’t appear to have any internal injuries either. He’s just banged up pretty good. He’ll have trouble getting out of bed the next few days.”

“I’m glad it’s nothing worse than that,” I said. “Do you think we should leave for home?”

“No,” the doctor said. “I’d just as soon not see him fly for a while. My suggestion is to have him take it easy at the ranch. No horses, of course. I’ll prescribe painkillers. He should be fine.”

The treating physician left, closing the door behind him.

“Anything suspicious about his fall from the horse?” Pitura asked.

I shook my head. “His horse was frightened by the sound of a camera with an automatic rewind feature. One of the teens on the ride took the last photo on his roll. We were warned about that. I guess he didn’t hear, or didn’t care.” I recalled Godfrey Morrison’s smile after his irresponsible action had sent Seth flying down the slope. Not an especially winning kid, I thought. None of the family was destined to warm the cockles of anyone’s heart, for that matter.

Dr. Scudari stood. “Looks like your friend will be ready to leave in a few minutes, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Thanks for your help.”

Sheriff Murdie excused himself, saying he was due at a family event. “I’ll be out to the ranch in the morning,” he said. “Tell your doctor friend to take it easy for the rest of the week.”

Pitura and I went to the waiting room, where Nancy O’Keefe sat reading a magazine.

“Is your friend all right?” she asked.

“Yes, thank goodness,” I said.

“I’ll drive you and the good doctor back to the Powderhorn,” Pitura said, “unless he needs the ambulance.”

“That’s very kind of you. We’ll see how he feels.”

“Before you leave, Mrs. Fletcher, could I have a few minutes with you?” Ms. O’Keefe asked.

“Of course.”

“I have some calls to make,” Pitura said. “I’ll see you back here in ten, fifteen minutes.”

“What can you tell me about the murder?” Ms. O’Keefe asked, taking a slender reporter’s notebook and pen from her purse.

“Nothing you don’t already know.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You found the body.”

“No.” I recounted for her how Crystal had come upon Molloy’s corpse.

“I understand you found the murder weapon.” She consulted notes in her pad. “A rasp.”

I’d decided before we started talking to not reveal anything confided to me by Sheriff Murdie or Investigator Pitura. If she already knew about the rasp, that was fine. But she’d have to get the word that the rasp wasn’t the murder weapon from someone else, someone in authority, not from me. “You’re right,” I said. “I did find the rasp.”

“Has the ME confirmed it was the weapon that killed Mr. Molloy?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“I’ve been told that everyone at the Powderhorn. Ranch is a suspect.”

“No surprise. Anyone who happened to be there at the time of the murder would naturally be subject to questioning.”

“Including one of the world’s best-loved murder mystery writers?”

I laughed. “Yes. Including her.
Especially
her.”

“What can you tell me about Mrs. Molloy?”

“Mrs. Molloy? I—” I realized that I hadn’t told Sheriff Murdie or Bob Pitura that Geraldine Molloy was missing. Perhaps she’d decided to snap out of her grief-driven solitude and taken a walk, a long one.

“The deceased’s widow is naturally distraught. She’s in ... she’s in seclusion.”

“I made a call about Paul Molloy,” O’Keefe said.

“A call to whom?”

“A contact in Washington.”

“Washington? I thought he was from Las Vegas.”

“He is. But his name rang a bell with me. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I dug through some old clips. There it was.”

“There
what
was?”

“A story a colleague of mine had done on Paul Molloy. My friend’s a journalist in Washington, was with the
Post,
has been free-lance for a number of years. At any rate, Mr. Paul Molloy was once investigated by a Senate committee—two committees, actually, foreign relations and commerce—about allegations that he was trying to sell weapons to some Middle Eastern countries.”

“Sure it’s the same Paul Molloy?”

“Quite sure. As it turned out, the investigation never amounted to much. Scheduled hearings were called off.”

“No truth to the allegations, I take it.”

“No compelling evidence to take it further. But my friend says as far as he’s concerned, Molloy was attempting to run weapons, and pretty destructive ones at that, to a couple of nations we aren’t exactly friends with.”

“Interesting, Ms. O’Keefe, but I fail to see what bearing that would have on his being killed on a dude ranch in Colorado.”

She laughed. “And I can’t tell you why because I haven’t the slightest idea. But, as you say, it’s interesting. My friend is going to do some additional checking into Molloy’s more recent activities.”

“I’d be curious to hear what he comes up with. Let me ask you something. There’s the possibility that Mr. Molloy was killed by someone passing through, a drifter, a random killing. What have you heard on that score?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I mean, Bob tells me he’s ruled that out.”

“Bob Pitura?”

“Yes. He’s pretty open because he knows he can trust me.”

“An enviable position to be in. What sort of paper is the
Gunnison Country Times?”

“A small town paper, lots of local news. But we go after bigger stories, too.”

“Like murder.”

“Like murder. Especially murder on a local dude ranch of an international arms dealer.”

“Alleged
arms dealer.”

“Of course.”

Pitura reappeared. “Ready?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen Seth yet.”

“I did. He’s waiting for his painkillers. Funny guy, your friend. He says he won’t take any medication for pain, but judging from the way he looks—he winces every time he moves—he’ll be happy to have them tonight.” He turned to O’Keefe. “Have a pleasant chat with Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“Come up with any scoops?”

She gave him a sly smile. “Read all about it in the paper. Thanks for the time, Mrs. Fletcher. Mind if I keep in touch while you’re here?”

“Not at all.”

Pitura had been right. Seth looked even worse than when we’d arrived at the hospital. “Sure you don’t want the ambulance to take you back?” I asked.

“I am quite sure, Jessica. Mr. Pitura’s vehicle will do just fine.”

We drove back to the Powderhorn in the homicide investigator’s large four-wheel drive sports utility vehicle. Although he drove slowly to avoid unduly punishing Seth, the dirt road leading from the highway to the ranch was sufficiently rutted to cause him considerable discomfort.

Bonnie and Jim were at the main lodge when we arrived. “We kept dinner for you,” Bonnie said. “Hamburgers from the cookout. We can cook them in the kitchen.”

“Not hungry,” Seth said.

“I’m not either,” I said.

“How are you feeling, Seth?” Jim asked.

“Not too good, but happy nothing was broken. Dislocated shoulder. Fine young doctor popped it right back in place.”

“Ouch,” Jim said.

“Exactly,” Seth said. “I think I’d like to get to bed.”

“I’ll get you settled in,” I said.

“Much obliged.”

“Before you do, Mrs. Fletcher, could we talk for a few minutes?” Pitura asked.

“You go ahead,” Jim said. “I’ll see that Doc’s tucked in and has what he needs.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.

Bonnie disappeared into the kitchen, where the chef, Joel Louden, was cleaning up. Pitura and I went into the large room and sat on facing chairs near the projection TV.

“Yes?” I said.

“I wanted to show you something.”

“What?”

“This.”

He pulled a number-ten envelope from his inside pocket, removed a wallet-sized photo from it, and handed it to me. Most of the lamps in the room had been turned off, and I had trouble seeing the photo. Pitura turned on a light next to me, returned to his seat, and waited for my reaction.

I squinted to bring the picture into focus, holding it this way and that way to gain the best possible view. It was an old color photograph, wrinkled, crinkled, torn, and faded, the colors rendered almost sepia.

“Recognize the person in the picture?” he asked.

“I don’t know. The child can’t be more than seven or eight years old. She looks familiar. It could be ... it could be Pauline Morrison, Mr. Morrison’s teenage daughter.”

“Looks that way to me.”

I looked at him. “Where did you get this? Why are you showing it to me?”

“I got it from Mr. Molloy’s wallet. Naturally, we went through everything in his possession. Nothing especially interesting in his wallet. Credit cards, some cash, things you’d find in most every wallet. And, this picture.”

“This was in
his
wallet?”

“Yes.”

“Why would Paul Molloy be carrying a picture of Pauline Morrison?”

“Good question. Any ideas?”

“No.”

“But you’ll think about it?”

“I have a feeling that’s
all
I’ll think about tonight.”