On Deadly Ground Page 9

  “In this heat, a beer sounds awful good.”

  He smiled. “Good choice.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later with two cans of Guinness. He handed one to Books and took a seat on a leather sofa directly opposite.

  “Now,” he said, “about those questions.”

  They exchanged polite niceties over the tragic murder of David Greenbriar. Clayburn’s demeanor suggested genuine sorrow over the death. Books asked Clayburn where he was from and how long he had lived in the Kanab area.

  “I’m originally from New Hampshire; at least that’s where my family is from. I discovered Southern Utah ten years ago, when some of my Princeton University frat brothers and I came out to Moab during spring break for some mountain biking. I fell in love with the place. After I graduated, I moved to Moab, but it was a bit touristy for my taste. I settled permanently in Kanab.”

  It was true that much of southern Utah was undergoing a transformation with tourism driving the economic engine.

  “And your family in New Hampshire, are they pleased you’ve settled here?”

  He grunted. “Hardly. Look Ranger Books….”

  Books interrupted. “Why don’t you call me, J.D, most people do.”

  “Okay, J.D. As I was saying, I come from a long line of blue-blood Clayburns from New England. My family made its fortune in the financial services industry, and they’ve got more money than God. My father, Reginald Clayburn, is so conservative that he makes Rush Limbaugh look like a flaming liberal. He hates my lifestyle and what it represents.”

  Books shrugged. “Well, the money can’t be all bad.”

  “Damn straight, it’s not. It gives me a luxury most people don’t have.”

  “And that would be….?”

  “Time and freedom, J.D.—freedom to dedicate myself to the kinds of political and social issues that are important to me, and the time to engage those passions fully.”

  “That would explain your environmental activism and your involvement with the EEWA.”

  “Right.”

  Books shifted gears. “The EEWA office told me you called Friday afternoon inquiring about the whereabouts of David Greenbriar. Is that true?”

  “It is. I chair a committee for the EEWA that’s in charge of fundraising activity. I was trying to reach David to schedule a meeting with him.”

  “A meeting concerning fundraising activities?”

  “Exactly. There’s some grant money coming available in the next few months that I thought we should discuss.”

  “And are you also the organization’s grant writer?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Clayburn. “I could, but it’s not necessary. We are fortunate to have a member who once managed a nonprofit, and she’s a good grant writer.”

  “Please don’t be offended at my next question, but I’ll need you to account for your time this past weekend.”

  “Not a problem. I was home most of Friday working around the house. On Saturday morning, I got up early and drove to Vegas to do some shopping. Don’t get me wrong, I love Kanab but if you’re in the market for some new clothes, this isn’t the place.”

  “You’re right about that. Anybody go with you?”

  “No, I went by myself.”

  “Did you happen to see anybody in Las Vegas you knew—somebody who could verify your presence?” Someone like Darby Greenbriar?

  Clayburn waited, maintaining eye contact and trying to figure out whether Books knew something he wasn’t saying. “You got me. Afraid I don’t have an alibi. Are you going to arrest me?”

  Books smiled. “Not today, I’m afraid. How about receipts for items you purchased? You must have some of those lying around.”

  “Now those I’ve got.” He got up and walked over to a large rectangular dining room table, where he rummaged through a stack of mail and assorted papers. He returned with several receipts.

  Books thanked him. “Can I hang onto these for a while?”

  “Sure. Keep them. I won’t need them back.”

  “So what did you do the rest of the weekend?”

  “I drove back to Kanab late Saturday night—got in just before midnight. I slept in on Sunday and then grabbed a late lunch at Escobar’s. I picked up a few groceries at the Jubilee and then came home. I was here until late Monday morning, when I went into town to run some errands. That’s when I heard about David.”

  “What time did you have lunch at Escobar’s?”

  “Around two o’clock or thereabouts.”

  “Were you alone from the time you arrived home Saturday night until you came into town Monday afternoon?”

  “Afraid so. Wish I had somebody who could verify that for you.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I think we can work around it.”

  “Hope so.”

  “Any ideas about who might have killed David?”

  Clayburn shook his head. “Sorry, I wish I did. David was a polarizing kind of figure. People either liked him or they didn’t. At times his style came across as abrasive, even to people in the movement.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think it was just his personality. David knew what he wanted to accomplish, and he didn’t always listen attentively to others, particularly if their views were contrary to his own. I don’t think he intended to, but sometimes he projected an attitude that said ‘I’m a hell of a lot smarter than you’ll ever be.’ And some people resented him for it.”

  Books listened without interruption until Clayburn finished. “You know, Lance, you seem to be making a pretty good case that David might have been killed by somebody inside the environmental movement.”

  “As opposed to…”

  “As opposed to some angry rancher who hates environmental groups like the EEWA.”

  “That’s not what I meant. David could just be hard to get along with. I didn’t mean to imply that one of our own would’ve killed him. I don’t believe that.”

  Books had one last question. “Which issue or issues was the EEWA focused on at the time of David’s murder?”

  Clayburn had to think about that for a moment. “I’d have to say grazing. That’s the one issue that never seems to go away. That’s because we live in the West where cattle grazing is king. The local welfare ranchers with their federal grazing permits cause many of the problems. Their filthy cattle erode the soil, destroy plant life, and pollute the water. The miserable critters piss and shit everywhere.”

  Clayburn sounded downright angry, thought Books. “Anything else?”

  Clayburn sighed. “Yeah, roads, I guess would be the other issue. The local crackpots are trying to claim that every game trail or cow path is a navigable road that belongs to the state of Utah. It’s just another attempt to open the back country to more kinds of economic exploitation. Anything to make a buck, you know, and to hell with the land and the creatures that live on it.”

  Books liked Lance Clayburn. He seemed genuine, dedicated to the things he believed in. He struck Books as a guy who was willing to walk the walk. On the other hand, Books felt certain that Clayburn was lying about not seeing Darby Greenbriar in Las Vegas. And then there was the matter of the Guinness beer. Two empty Guinness beer cans had been found at the kill site. Would the prints from those cans match the prints Books planned to have lifted from the beer can he just took from Lance Clayburn’s home?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Back in the Yukon, Books placed the empty can of Guinness into an evidence bag and tagged it. He glanced at his watch and then tried to raise Brian Call on the radio and then on his cell phone. Call answered his cell.

  “This is Call.”

  “Brian, it’s J.D. Are you still in St. George?”

  “That’s affirmative—just getting ready to head back.” The call was breaking up.

  “What did you find out from the crime lab?”

  “We got some good news. The fingerprint technician reporte
d finding a comparable thumb print on the plastic sandwich baggie and prints galore on the two beer cans. Nothing on the shell casing or the note, though. They ran the prints locally and through the state system—no hits.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “They submitted them to the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System earlier this morning and haven’t received a response.”

  Books told Call about his interview with Lance Clayburn and about the Guinness beer can from Clayburn’s home. “I’ll meet you part way between Kanab and St. George. I’d like you to take the beer can back to the lab and see if Clayburn’s prints are on it. If they are, let’s see if we got a match with the prints on the sandwich baggie and the beer cans recovered from the crime scene.”

  “How did you manage to get an empty beer can out of Clayburn’s house?”

  “The old fashioned way. I told him I was thirsty. He offered me a choice of beverages. I chose beer, and he handed me a can of Guinness. Simple.”

  “You sneaky bastard.” Call was obviously pleased.

  “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Hear anything from ballistics?”

  “Not yet. The slug they removed from Greenbriar’s Suburban was pretty badly damaged. The rifling grooves may not be comparable even if we do come up with the murder weapon.”

  “We’ve got a shell casing. At least that gives us the manufacturer of the ammo and the caliber of the bullet.”

  ***

  Books returned to his office. He placed a call to the sheriff. Sutter’s secretary told him the sheriff was out. Books asked her to raise him on the radio and have him stop by.

  His secretary handed him telephone messages from Doug Case and Neil Eddins, as well as an envelope addressed to him. The flower-covered envelope had the distinct smell of lavender. He opened it and found a note from Rebecca Eddins inviting him to a barbeque in his honor at the home of her parents on Wednesday evening. She indicated that his sister and brother-in-law, as well as his father, had accepted invitations. That stopped him cold. Since his return he’d managed to avoid having any contact with his father. Becky wrote her home phone number and asked him to RSVP.

  Ordinarily, Books would never have attended a social event like this one while in the throes of a murder investigation. In this case, he decided to make an exception. Dinner at the home of the leader of the CFW might prove interesting. Perhaps David Greenbriar’s killer would be there.

  His phone rang. It was Grant Weatherby. “Afternoon, Grant. What’s up?”

  “Hey, J.D. I just got a call from a contact who works in security for the Hard Rock Resort and Casino. The security tapes reveal that Darby Greenbriar’s mystery guest spent about three hours prior to dinner on Saturday afternoon at the black jack and craps tables. I guess he dropped some serious cash, too.”

  “Huh. Did they happen to show the security tape to the room service staff?”

  “Sure did,” said Weatherby. “The waiter made a positive identification. He says it’s the same guy who answered the door to Darby’s suite when he delivered dinner. Do you want the tape?”

  “Maybe, but just have them hold on to it for now. I’ll let you know.”

  Books left a message for Becky Eddins accepting her invitation to the barbeque. Reluctantly he returned phone calls to Neil Eddins and Doug Case. Both men objected to the tenor of the previous day’s press conference, but for different reasons.

  Eddins complained vehemently that Books left the media with the impression that David Greenbriar’s killer, in all likelihood, would turn out to be a local, someone with a strong anti-environment point of view. Eddins didn’t mention the CFW by name, but he didn’t have to. However, he ended the call on a conciliatory note. He welcomed J.D. back to Kanab and wished him well in his newfound career. He made it clear that he was looking forward to continuing their discussion at Wednesday night’s barbeque.

  Doug Case took a different but still critical approach. As Chairman of the Kane County Commission, Case was concerned that the press conference had created the false impression that there was a conspiracy in the community to hide the identity of the killer until the case became old news and simply disappeared off the media’s radar screen.

  While Books didn’t disagree with either man, he tried harder to mollify Doug Case, because Case was his sister Maggie’s father-in-law. Mostly he kept his mouth shut, assumed an apologetic tone, and allowed them to vent. The press conference had accomplished what he intended. His comments had stirred the community pot and provided new information that helped advance the investigation.

  While he waited for word from Brian Call in St. George, Books ran criminal history checks on Lance Clayburn and Barry Struthers. Neither man had a record, not in Utah and not nationally. From his conversation with Clayburn, Books doubted that he had served in the military. That would make a latent print match from IAFIS impossible. If Clayburn was mixed up in Greenbriar’s murder, the best bet for linking him to the murder was a print match from the beer can taken from his home.

  Books knew even less about Barry Struthers. While his criminal record was clean, the physical skirmish he’d had with Greenbriar and the generally testy nature of their relationship had piqued Books’ interest. He wanted to get better acquainted with Struthers, and the best way to do that would be a face-to-face sit-down.

  He was about to dial Struthers’ home phone number when Charley Sutter waltzed into his office as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Afternoon, Charley. You look like a happy man. What’s the occasion?”

  “A discussion I just had with Chief Deputy Call.” Sutter sounded downright pleased with himself.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. What’d he have to say?”

  “He called from the crime lab in St. George. They just matched the latent prints off the beer can you took out of Clayburn’s house to the sandwich baggie and empty beer cans found at the murder scene.”

  Books leaned back in his chair as Sutter paced back-and-forth. “That is good news, Charley.”

  “Damned straight it is. The spoiled-ass rich boy is about to take a fall on a murder beef. Isn’t it ironic that Greenbriar’s killer turns out to be somebody inside his own organization?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” cautioned Books.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. The print match is a nice start, but we’ve still got plenty of work to do. I’ve seen homicide cases taken to trial with this kind of evidence, but I’ve never met a prosecutor yet who didn’t want a lot more.”

  “So what is it you think we should do now?”

  “For starters, I’d like to talk with Clayburn again—give him the opportunity to explain how those beer cans with his prints on them ended up at the murder scene. I also think he lied about his trip to Las Vegas last weekend.”

  “You think he hooked up with Darby Greenbriar?”

  “Yup.”

  “Seems to me that might be a pretty strong motive for murder,” said Sutter.

  “Could be. I want to get a search warrant for Clayburn’s home. We’ve got more than enough probable cause for me to go to work on the affidavit.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  Brian Call poked his head through the office door. “Okay if I come in?”

  Before Books could answer, Sutter said, “Absolutely. Get your sorry ass in here, Brian.” The sheriff slapped his chief deputy on the back. Sutter was acting giddy. What a relief for him if Lance Clayburn turned out to be the killer. And to have the whole thing wrapped up in a couple of days couldn’t have turned out any better.

  Books was about to place a damper on his giddy celebration.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Sutter and Call had finished their self-congratulations, Books invited them to sit. “We’ve got a lot of work left to do, so let’s get to it. Charley, you asked if there was anything you could do, and, as a matter of fact, t
here is.”

  Sutter looked slightly less giddy now.

  “Clayburn told me that he ate lunch around two o’clock at Escobar’s Sunday afternoon. Would you drop over there and find out if anybody remembers seeing him.”

  “Sure, but I don’t see the point.”

  “I’m trying to establish a timeline for Clayburn’s whereabouts the weekend leading up to the murder. We know he called the EEWA office Friday evening trying to locate our vic. We can place him in Las Vegas on Saturday by his own admission as well as through receipts and witnesses….”

  “Including Darby Greenbriar, right?” said Sutter.

  “Possibly, yes. More likely, though, from surveillance tape shot of him at the gaming tables in the Hard Rock Saturday afternoon. A waiter from the casino’s room service staff also saw him in Darby’s hotel suite that evening.”

  “We need to interview Darby again,” said Call, “see if she’s ready to fess up to having an affair with Clayburn.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Books. “In the meantime, Brian, I’m going to give you a list of David Greenbriar’s colleagues from Berkeley. I’d like you to call them and find out if anybody called the EEWA office Friday afternoon trying to locate David. The secretary remembers a call from someone who identified himself as an old colleague of David’s. The caller said he was coming through Kanab and wanted to stop and see him. Maybe that caller was our killer.”

  “Afraid I don’t get it,” said Sutter. “That call was made by Lance Clayburn. We already know that.”

  “Clayburn did call Friday afternoon,” said Books, “but the secretary says this was a different call, and whoever made it didn’t want to leave a name or a phone number.”

  “And she’s sure it wasn’t Clayburn,” said Sutter.

  “She insisted it was somebody else—a different voice.”

  “All right, I’ll check it out. You got the list?” Books rummaged through the case file until he found the names Lillian Greenbriar had provided. He passed them to Call.

  “You want to hear about the autopsy?”

  “No need, not unless the ME came up with some unusual finding that might alter the direction of our investigation.”