“A pinecone?”
“A bristlecone, from the tree Adams’s body was found under.”
“How do they know it was from that particular tree?”
“Ah, my friend, that’s where it gets interesting. Human beings, as you know, can be identified by their DNA. Animals, too. But are you aware that plants also have DNA?”
“No.”
“Well, they do, and, as with humans, the DNA of one plant is unlike the DNA of any other.”
“Wait a minute…you’re saying they ran a DNA test on a pinecone?”
“They did, and it came up a match for those on the tree.”
I paused for a moment, letting that sink in. “So what do you expect me to do with this? DNA is a conclusive test.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt the cone in Tom Worthington’s truck came from the place where Darya Adams was found. No doubt it was his key ring near the body. But he insists he’s innocent, that she was alive when he left for home the morning of July thirty-first. Says he’d misplaced the key ring at the cabin during a previous visit. Says he doesn’t know how the cone came to be in the truck.”
“I can see someone planting the keys, but it seems far-fetched that someone would be knowledgeable and clever enough to plant that pinecone.”
“Not really. D’you watch any of those true-crime shows on TV?”
“No. They resemble my real life too closely.”
“Well, I watch them, and so do millions of others. On July fifteenth, just two weeks before Darya Adams’s murder, Case Closed did a segment in which a murder conviction hinged on DNA testing of seed pods.”
“So someone could’ve gotten the idea of planting the pinecone from the show?”
“Right.”
“And you believe Tom Worthington’s being truthful with you?”
“I do. My instincts don’t lie.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“Then what I expect you to do, my friend, should be clear. Find out who left that key ring near the body, and the cone in Worthington’s truck. When you do, we’ll have our line of defense…Darya Adams’s real murderer.”
As full dark settled in, I returned to my motel room and again looked over the files Mick had sent me. Background on Tom Worthington and Darya Adams. Background on friends and associates, scattered throughout Inyo and Fresno counties. Tomorrow I’d begin interviewing them, starting with those in the Big Pine area, and then visit Worthington at the county jail in Independence.
Finding a lead to Darya Adams’s killer wasn’t going to be easy. Inyo is California’s third largest county-over 10,000 square miles, encompassing mountains, volcanic wasteland, timber, and desert. Its relatively small communities are scattered far and wide. In addition to its size, the county has a reputation for harboring a strange and often violent population. People vanish into the desert; bodies turn up in old mine shafts; bars are shot up by disgruntled customers. It’s not uncommon for planes carrying drugs from south of the border to land at isolated airstrips; desert rats and prospectors and cults with bizarre beliefs hole up in nearly inaccessible cañons. I’d have no shortage of potential suspects here.
Too bad my visit to the bristlecone pine under which Darya Adams died hadn’t offered a blinding flash of inspiration.
The red sun over the mountains told me the day was going to be hot. I dressed accordingly, in shorts and a tank top, with a loose-weave shirt for protection against the sun. After a big breakfast at a nearby café-best to fortify myself since I didn’t know when the next opportunity to eat would present itself-I set off for the offices of Ace Realty, a block off the main street.
According to my background checks, Jeb Barkley, the agent who had handled the sale of the cabin near Chelsea last year, was an old friend of Tom Worthington’s, had played football with him at Fresno State. A big man with a round, balding head that looked too small for his body, he was at his desk when I arrived. The other desks were unoccupied and dust-covered; business must not be good.
Barkley greeted me, brought coffee, then sat in his chair, leaning forward, hands clasped on the desktop, a frown furrowing his otherwise baby-smooth brow. “I sure hope you can do something to help Tom, Miz McCone,” he said.
“I’m going to try. Did you see him on his last visit?”
“Oh, no. He and Darya…they liked their privacy.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Couple of months ago. He came alone, to go fishing, and, when he got to the cabin, he discovered he didn’t have his keys. So he called me and I drove out to let him in with the spare we keep on file here.”
That would support Worthington’s claim that he’d misplaced the keys that had been found near Adams’s body. “How did he seem?”
“Seem? Oh…” Barkley considered, the furrows in his brow deepening. “I’d say he was just Tom. Cheerful. Glad to be there. He asked if I’d like to go fishing with him, but I couldn’t get away.”
“Mister Barkley, when Tom Worthington bought the cabin, was it clear to you that he was buying it for Darya Adams?”
“From the beginning. I mean, they looked at a number of properties together. And the offer and final papers were drawn up in her name, as a single woman.”
“As an old friend of Tom’s, how did you feel about the transaction?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Tom Worthington was cheating on his wife. Buying property for another woman. How did that make you feel?”
He hesitated, looking down at his clasped hands. “Miz McCone,” he said after a moment, “Tom has had a lot of trouble with his wife. A lot of trouble with those kids of his, too. Darya was a nice woman, and I figured he deserved a little happiness in his life. It wasn’t as if he was just fooling around, either. They were serious about each other.”
“Serious enough that he would leave his family for her?”
“He said he was thinking of it.”
“But so far he hadn’t taken any steps toward a divorce?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Let me ask you this, Mister Barkley. Are you convinced of Tom Worthington’s innocence?”
“I am.”
“Any ideas about who might have killed Darya Adams?”
“I’ve given that some thought. There’re a lot of weird characters hanging out in the hills around Chelsea. Screamin’ Mike, for one.”
“Who’s he?”
“Head case, kind of a hermit. Has a shack not too far from Tom and Darya’s cabin. Comes to town once a month when his disability check arrives at general delivery. Cashes it at Gilley’s Saloon, gets drunk, and then he starts screaming nonsense at the top of his voice. How he got his name.”
“Is he dangerous to others?”
“Not so far. Ed Gilley runs him off. He goes back to his shack and sobers up. But you never know.”
I made a note about Screamin’ Mike. “Anyone else you can think of?”
“There’s a cult up one of the cañons…Children of the Perpetual Life. Some of their members’ve had run-ins with the sheriff, and a couple of years ago one of their women disappeared, was never found. Maybe Ed Gilley could help you. Running a saloon, he’s hooked in with the local gossip.”
I noted the cult’s and Gilley’s names. “Well, thank you, Mister Barkley,” I said. “When I spoke with your local sheriff’s deputy yesterday, he told me they have no objection to my examining the cabin, and I have Mister Worthington’s permission as well. Has he contacted you about giving me the keys?”
“Yes. But why do you want to go there? If the sheriff’s department didn’t find anything…”
“Even so, there may be something that will give me a lead.”
He rose, then hesitated. “The cabin…it’s kind of hard to find. How about I drive you there, let you in myself?”