In Plain Sight

“I’m sure. I just spent too much time last night staring at a portrait of Julie’s grandmother on the wall. It’s a pretty interesting picture. I let her eyes get to me, I guess, so when I finally got to sleep that’s what I dreamed about.”

“Bill Monroe is the name of a famous bluegrass singer and bandleader,” Joe said. “Some people called him the Father of Bluegrass. Ever hear of the ‘high lonesome sound’?”

Sheridan looked at him as if he’d swallowed a bird.

“Really,” Joe said. “Dig in the glove box. I think I’ve got The Very Best of Bill Monroe in there.”

She opened it and rooted around and brought out a CD case with a black-and-white photo of a man playing a mandolin in a suit and tie with a cocked cowboy hat on his head. “This looks awful,” she said. “And it isn’t the Bill Monroe at the ranch either.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

“I wonder if they’re related in some way?” Sheridan asked, turning the case over and reading the back. The look of distaste remained on her face. Joe was pleased they had digressed somewhat from their earlier discussion. He didn’t like seeing Sheridan troubled.

“Listen to it before you decide,” he said.

“Have you been listening to the CD I made you?” she asked.

“A little, not much,” Joe confessed.

“You need to get with it,” she said. “You need to know what’s good.”

“So do you. Put that on.”

“Hmmpf.”

Joe thought it was odd Hank had hired a man with a southern accent named Bill Monroe.

“Footprints in the Snow” filled the cab.

Sheridan said, “Ew!”

WHEN THEY GOT home, Joe wrapped both the steak knife he had found stuck in his door and the knife Sheridan had brought home and sent them to the state forensic lab. He attached a note asking the staff to confirm that they were the same brand and lot number.

17

BY LATE MORNING, JOE WAS CRUISING EAST ON THE state highway that bordered the Thunderhead Ranch all the way to the Bighorn Mountains. It was one of those schizophrenic spring/summer/winter May days when storm clouds shot across the sky in fast motion dumping both slashing rain and wet snow as if ditching their payloads in a panic, then darting away leaving sunshine and confusion, only to be followed by a second and then a third wave of clouds doing the same thing. There was something wildly adolescent about days like this, Joe thought, as if the atmosphere were supercharged with hormones and just didn’t know what in the hell to do next.

There were five entrance accesses to Thunderhead Ranch from the state highway. Two were on the western half of the ranch, Arlen’s side. The other three were on the eastern half, Hank’s. The difference between the sets of entrances was Hank’s gates were closed and locked with heavy chains and multiple combination locks. To get to Hank’s lodge, one either needed permission to enter via the state highway, or went through Arlen’s side, where there were three different access roads. Joe didn’t know the status of those roads, but assumed they had locked gates as well.

After his frustrating conversation with Pope, Joe had done a quick inspection and review of the gear and paperwork he might need to search Hank Scarlett’s home. He put fresh evidence vouchers and envelopes in his briefcase, and made sure his digital camera and microcassette recorder were fully charged. He tossed two clean legal pads into his case for taking notes and making sketches, if necessary.

His plan was to call Hank and inform him that he wanted to come to his home for the purpose of doing a cursory inspection to determine if there was evidence of illegal mounted game animals. If Hank could produce documentation that the animals had been taken legally, Joe’s investigation would be over. If not, Joe would proceed with issuing citations or, if the infractions were serious enough, arresting him outright and taking him to the county jail. That would certainly raise some eyebrows in town, Joe thought.

In Joe’s experience, the only people who denied him permission to search were those who had something to hide. Simple as that. Not once had anyone refused him entrance who hadn’t violated the law. In that case, Joe had always been able to obtain a search warrant signed by Judge Pennock in Saddlestring within the day and come back.

Pulling off the highway onto the gravel two-track that led to the second of three locked gates on Hank’s side of the ranch, Joe parked, snatched his cell phone from the dashboard, and called.

The phone rang only twice before a voice answered and said, “Thunderhead East.”

The voice sounded familiar, Joe thought. Deep, southern.

“Is this Bill Monroe?”

“Who wants to know?”

“You’re answering a question with a question. Let’s stop that right off. Again, is this Bill Monroe?”

Hesitation. Joe guessed Monroe had recognized his voice.