He checked his notes and did another count before proceeding.
“Right,” he said. “Anyway, I’m no lawyer or prosecutor, but by tomorrow afternoon I think I’ll have enough hard evidence of a criminal conspiracy for you to get some subpoenas and indictments going. I’m meeting with a confidential informant later this afternoon, so I can get the statement on tape, and another CI tomorrow morning who is on the inside. Both have given me enough to go on, but I need to do this formally for the report. Are we okay proceeding without me putting their actual names into the document?”
Joe looked over at Daisy, who was sitting on her haunches, watching the phantom conversation take place with great interest. He waggled his eyebrows at her, and in response her tail swept back and forth across the floor.
“Okay, good,” he said, turning back to his notebook. “They don’t want their names out there for fear of reprisals. And up here, that’s something that I wouldn’t put past them. Everybody up here seems to be in communication.
“So as long as I have your word the CIs will be protected for now, I can assure them they can talk. But from what I’m getting so far, at the very least you’ll have a RICO case to start that will probably include a bunch of other charges once you force them to testify in front of the grand jury.
“Okay, you said you wanted some names so you could get the paperwork started. I’ll spell them when we’re done. Ready?”
Joe gave it half a minute. “The first is William ‘Bill’ Critchfield. He’s a local thug with a long rap sheet that ended five years ago.
“Eugene ‘Gene’ Smith is an associate of Critchfield’s. Same deal with him. Both of them, I believe, are employed by Sand Creek Ranch to keep the locals quiet and pacified. They do it through intimidation. In addition to my two CIs, I think we’ll find plenty of people around here who will testify to what Critchfield and Smith have been up to the last five years. Once you’ve got them in custody where they can’t hurt or threaten anyone, I’m guessing we’ll have some more folks come forward.
“Okay, next there’s County Sheriff R. C. Mead. He seems to know everything that’s going on around here, except he shows a blind eye when it comes to Critchfield and Smith. I’d suggest getting a subpoena going so you can look at his bank records. I wouldn’t be surprised to find some payments coming in other than his salary. He’s a slick old coot and he knows how the game is played, so he’ll be slippery. But I think he’ll wise up if he’s actually facing jail time. No former sheriff wants to wind up in Rawlins with inmates they may have put there.
“Judge Ethan Bartholomew is next. Oh, you already know how to spell his name? Good. The judge is in cahoots with Mead. They work together to make sure connected guys like Critchfield and Smith are allowed to operate without any interference from other law enforcement who might not be in on the take. Yes, a judge. That’s how deep it goes. Check his bank records also, as well as his court docket. It will be interesting to find out what cases weren’t brought before him, or were brought and dismissed outright.
“Sheriff Mead may turn on Bartholomew, or the other way around, in exchange for some kind of deal. But that’s up to you.”
Joe took a sip of water — too much talking — before continuing.
“Two more,” he said, rolling his eyes to himself but cognizant of the importance to continue to play it straight. He only had one take, and it had to be credible. “James ‘Jim’ Latta. He’s the local game warden, it pains me to say. I don’t know about payments, but there is definitely some quid pro quo going on that may raise to the level of bribery.
“There’s another guy,” Joe said, letting his voice rise with speculation, “a guest of the Sand Creek Ranch. He’s a southern gentleman who comes across as snooty and out of place. I don’t know what his role is, but he’s obviously close to the big guy. He fishes with a cane rod, and you know how expensive those things are. He goes by the name Whip, which might be short for something. I don’t have his full name yet, but I’ll have it by tonight or tomorrow. It’s just my gut saying this, but I think once we look into him we might find some surprising things. You should run that aka through your databases and see if he turns up. Can’t be that many guys named Whip.
“Yeah, that’s a lot,” Joe said. “And it’s possible I might add to that list or need to revise it. I think we both know how high it might go.
“In fact,” Joe said, “I met the man himself today. You couldn’t meet a nicer guy. But I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that when the indictments start coming down on their heads, one or more of these guys will crack when you start squeezing them individually. They’ll deal and point the finger higher up.
“So that’s it for now,” Joe said.
Then, after a beat: “Thank you, Don. I appreciate that. Just keep an eye on your email inbox, and happy reading.”
Joe discontinued the call. He realized he was covered with a thin film of sweat, even though the room was cool. He closed his eyes and replayed his words, hoping he hadn’t tripped himself up, but realized — and feared — there wasn’t much he could do if he had.
After changing out of his uniform into a worn snap-button cowboy shirt and black fleece vest, he threw all of his clothes and possessions into the duffel bag on the bed. He left his shaving kit in the bathroom, though, so it would look like he was staying the night. All he’d have to do was snatch it and toss it into the duffel if he had to make a quick exit. While he glanced around to make sure he’d gotten everything, he found it hard not to look up at the ceiling.
Joe called Daisy and went outside to his pickup and let her bound into the cab. As he left the Whispering Pines for the afternoon, he noted Anna watching him from the office window.
17
An hour and a half later in Sundance, after parking his very identifiable green Ford pickup underground in an unused outdoor bay two blocks away behind a closed auto repair shop, Joe strolled through a row of used three- and four-wheel ATVs at a ranch implement store on the outskirts of town. The business seemed to sell just about anything as long as it had an engine and was used — tractors, backhoes, utility vehicles, riding lawn mowers, and haying equipment. The gravel lot was stained with oil and the air smelled of hydraulic fluid.
In a small office a woman with a bouffant watched him carefully while she talked on the telephone, her cigarette bouncing up and down while she spoke. He waved hello to her and gestured to the row of ATVs, and she responded with an I’ll-be-there-in-a-minute-so-please-don’t-leave dance of her free hand. He nodded that he understood.
A sign above her office read: NO RETURNS, NO EXCHANGES, ALL SALES FINAL.
Joe’s phone vibrated in his pocket — a text message — and he pulled it out and checked the screen. It was from Chuck Coon’s private cell phone: Heard your message. What the f*ck was that?
Joe smiled and texted back: Stand by for call.
He was pocketing the phone when the woman in the small office emerged, shaking her head.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “I seen you out here, but I couldn’t get that banker off the phone. See, I’m trying to get a revolving credit line to keep this place alive, and the crap they keep asking me is ridiculous. It’s like they want my firstborn son, but I told them he was twenty-eight. They blame the Feds, but I blame them. It would just be easier to close up shop and go on welfare like the rest of ’em around here.”