The Glacier Gallows Page 12

“Blunt force trauma caused by a fall from a ledge. He hit his head on a basketball-sized boulder and was killed instantly.” Special Agent McCallum presented the information in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Who found his body?”

  “One of the S&R teams from Glacier Park.”

  “Was the area treated as a crime scene?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forensic evidence?”

  “There was none to speak of. The forensic team that was on site for the investigation into Mr. Marriott’s murder went to the scene and conducted a thorough investigation. Nothing of consequence was found.”

  “I’d like to see the report.”

  McCallum agreed.

  “You say he fell?”

  “That’s right, about twenty feet.”

  “He was a guide.”

  “I’m sure even mountain goats fall sometimes.”

  “At first we all believed that Mr. Marriott fell too.”

  “Well, as Mr. Blackwater here discovered, that wasn’t the case,” McCallum said.

  “Don’t you think it a little odd that two days before this hike in the mountains, one of the regular guides calls in sick and this Foreman guy just shows up in a café in the middle of nowhere? Then, on the morning that a man is killed, he takes it upon himself to look for ‘evidence’ and falls and hits his head on a rock?”

  “No, I don’t find it odd. I’ve consulted with Allan Doyle, the chief park ranger at Glacier, and he tells me that during S&R operations there is a very high degree of risk for the search team. We have concluded that this was a case of a young man, albeit with a lot of experience, who made a mistake that ended up killing him. It’s unfortunate timing, that’s all.”

  “So you’ve got one murder, one accidental death, and one suicide, and you don’t think that something suspicious is going on?”

  Agent McCallum was silent for almost a minute, then said, “You might choose to view all of these events as related, Mr. Gilbert, but from our standpoint, having investigated each separate incident, they are all connected, but only one death is homicide.”

  “How did Mr. Crowfoot die?” asked Walter.

  “Mr. Blackwater,” said McCallum, “I was surprised to hear that you had quit your post with the Park Service. And now to find you here, with your brother’s lawyer—”

  “How did Mr. Crowfoot die?”

  “He hung himself,” McCallum said.

  “I thought you took precautions to protect against that.”

  “He smuggled in a length of cord when he was transferred. It was threaded inside the waistband of his pants.”

  Walter looked at Perry. Did he bring it with him, or was he given it?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  OTTAWA, ONTARIO. JUNE 8.

  “WE’RE ALL SET.” BRIAN MARRIOTT walked down Wellington Street, the Parliament Buildings behind him. “I talked with the guiding company this morning, and they’re good to go. We’ve got travel arranged for all of our invitees. I’m just waiting to hear back from Rick Turcotte as the final dignitary.”

  “Not sure how dignified Rick Turcotte is,” said Cole on the other end of the phone.

  “He’ll do. We might change some minds.”

  “We might end up beating each other to death with chunks of limestone,” quipped Cole.

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  “What’s this I read the other day about your taking on the Nuclear Power Commission now?”

  Brian exhaled and glanced at the War Memorial. “The commission appeared before the Natural Resources Committee last Wednesday to argue that nuclear power should be reclassified as alternative energy. I think they have positioned themselves for a play to get into the tar sands.”

  “It’s bad enough that the tar sands have already given Canada a colossal black eye on the international stage. Now we have to worry about nukes powering the whole thing?”

  “Well, in some ways I can see why the government would be all for it. Take natural gas out of the equation, and suddenly you reduce a lot of the greenhouse gas emissions associated with the tar sands.”

  “Not much.”

  “Some. Use nuclear to refine the bitumen and it’s a cleaner product.”

  “Except that you have to use nuclear to refine the bitumen,” Cole said sarcastically.

  “That’s right. Suddenly you’ve got a nuclear power plant in the middle of the boreal forest, with no safe way to dispose of the waste.”

  “So you’re going toe-to-toe?”

  “Yeah. You sound surprised. You still don’t believe that I’ve left industry, do you?”

  “I’m coming around.”

  “Well, you better hurry up, Cole. If we get up in the mountains together and don’t look like we’re on the same side, the Globe and Mail will tweet that we’ve gone postal on one another.”

  “I’ll behave. I’m a new man these days.”

  “So I’ve heard. Listen, there’s something else I should tell you about this nuclear thing. I don’t know what to make of it. You remember when we held the presser at the Laurier a few months back? Remember I told you that someone from the Chinese Embassy was in the room?

  “Same dude was in the committee room. Just sitting there, taking notes. I ended up getting into a debate with that gadfly Charles Wendell again. When Wendell finally finished pointing his finger in my face, I couldn’t find the guy from the embassy. I’m going to poke around and see what his interest is.”

  “You want some help?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, I should go. I’ve got a meeting.”

  “Be careful.”

  “It’s just a meeting,” said Brian with a laugh.

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  They hung up. Brian put his phone in his pocket. He walked along St. Patrick Avenue for another few minutes and stopped outside the gated gray brick building. The sign on the entrance station said EMBASSY OF THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  PORCUPINE HILLS, ALBERTA. AUGUST 2.

  “LOOK AT THIS.” NANCY POINTED to the screen of her laptop.

  Cole asked, “What is it?”

  “User names and passwords. We’re in. Let’s see what Brian Marriott was up to, shall we?” Nancy called up the site where Brian routinely backed up his files and entered the user name and password. There were more than ten thousand emails backed up in the folders. “This will take some time,” she said.

  “Let’s start with the most recent and work backward. If someone wanted him dead, it stands to reason it was for something he was onto in the last year and not before he took the Alternative Energy Group job.”

  Nancy started to scroll backward. “Lots of correspondence with this Cole Blackwater character.”

  “Yeah, I bet the FBI and the RCMP had a field day with that.”

  “Oh look, here’s one where you threaten him over something he was doing with nuclear energy.”

  “I wasn’t threatening him, I was warning him. There’s a difference.”

  “And here’s another where you are telling him to watch his ass with the frackers. Nice.”

  They scrolled for more than an hour. “He didn’t make many friends,” said Cole.

  “How much did they hate him? I’m reading what appears to be a threatening email Brian received just before the hike.”

  “Let me see it,” said Cole, reaching for the computer. He read it aloud. “The mountains can be a dangerous place, Brian. Be careful you don’t trip and fall. Can you tell who this is from?”

  “No, it’s just a numeric email address.”

  “You think the RCMP has this? Clearly, someone was so pissed at the guy that they were making threats … unless … do you think the RCMP believes that I sent it? This isn’t from my email address.”

  Nancy shrugged and took her computer back. “No, but it supports their theory that you planned to kill the guy.”

  “Can’t we find out who sent that email?”

  “We likely can. It might take some
time. Anyone can sign up for a Gmail account with a phony name.”

  “It looks like in the last few weeks before the hike he got into it pretty hot and heavy with the Canadian Nuclear Power Industry lobby group. Look here.” Nancy pointed at the screen. “He’s prepared a brief that he was going to deliver to the Natural Resources Committee on hearings into the alternative-energy regulations. He’d started to work on it.”

  “Those hearings were postponed until fall. The House adjourned early for summer, but they plan on coming back early in the first week of September.”

  “Well, he didn’t finish the briefing note. It’s saved in his drafts folder. It looks as if he had some serious issues with what the Minister of Natural Resources was proposing.”

  “They wanted to include nuclear as one of the energy sources that would be considered alternative. Brian figured it was a ploy to allow the feds to pay for nuclear out of their alternative-energy fund. It was in the last budget.”

  “Look at this—he talks about a Chinese national energy company here. What’s that all about?”

  “Brian mentioned that someone from the Chinese Embassy turned up at his press conference and at the committee hearings. It’s not surprising.”

  Cole read the rest of the document and then went back and looked for a later version of the file. “That’s it. That’s as far as he got. The House adjourned and he came to Montana and we went for a hike. Maybe this is what he was alluding to when he said we’d talk after the hike was done. That would imply that before he was killed, Brian Marriott found a back door in these alternative-energy regulations that would let China circumvent Canadian regulations and outbid Canadian companies, and even the federal government, on energy-development projects.”

  “What projects would the federal government be bidding on? We don’t have a state energy company anymore. Petro-Canada was sold twenty years ago.”

  “Until last year we still had one, Atomic Energy of Canada, but it was also sold to a private company.”

  “What do they make?”

  “Nuclear reactors.”

  “HI, SARAH, IT’S Dad.”

  “Daddy! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “I’m good, but I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. Everything is going to be fine.”

  “But people say bad things about you.”

  Cole closed his eyes and pressed his knuckles into his forehead. “Well, you don’t listen to them, okay? You just ignore them.”

  “I’m trying. When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a meeting in about a week and then I should know … when I’m coming home.”

  “Are you at Grandma’s place?”

  “Yes, I am. She sends you big hugs and kisses.”

  “Maybe I could come and visit you?”

  “I’d like that. But not right now. Let me finish with this meeting and then we’ll talk with your mother.”

  “I want to come and do some riding.”

  “I’d like that a lot.”

  “Daddy … ?”

  “Yes, pumpkin?”

  “Don’t call me that. I’m eleven years old.”

  “Sorry, Miss Sarah Blackwater.”

  “That’s better. Daddy, I’m scared.”

  Cole felt tears forming at the edges of his eyes and pressed them shut harder. It didn’t work. “Don’t be, sweetheart. Daddy didn’t do anything wrong. You’ll see. Another week and this will be all over.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Call me again tomorrow.”

  “I promise. I love you, Sarah.”

  “I love you too, Daddy. So much.” She made a hugging sound over the phone.

  He hung up the phone, sat down at the table, and wept.

  TWENTY-SIX

  EAST GLACIER, MONTANA. AUGUST 2.

  AS THEY DROVE EAST FROM Browning, the peaks of the Rocky Mountain Front loomed before them. They crossed the Two Medicine River and drove into East Glacier Park.

  “Not much here,” said Perry.

  “Glacier Park Lodge is on the other side of the tracks. It’s a going concern. The rest of the town is pretty quiet. I was here two years ago on a ranger-warden exchange program. I’ve always loved this eastern-slope country.” Walter Blackwater was watching the blue peaks rise up from the foothills in the afternoon sun. “The office of East Glacier Guiding is just there, on Highway 2.”

  Perry pulled over onto the side of the road and both men got out and stretched. There was a small building tucked between a rambling motel and a gift shop that looked as if it had seen better days. The sign over the door of the false-front shop read EAST GLACIER GUIDING. Perry and Walter tried the door. It was locked. Walter pointed to a sign hanging inside. GONE 2 THE TWO MEDICINE FOR LUNCH.

  The Two Medicine Grill was an old-fashioned place with a counter that faced the open kitchen and tables in the back. At 2:00 PM it was still half full of diners. “That’s him,” said Walter, pointing to a man sitting at the counter.

  Walter stood near the man. “Mr. McGrath?”

  The man wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and looked at Walter suspiciously. “That’s right.”

  “I’m Walter Blackwater. We met up on the ridge in Glacier Park. I’m Cole’s brother. Remember?”

  “Of course. I didn’t recognize you without the warden getup.” Derek cleaned his hands on his napkin, then extended a hand. Walter shook it.

  “Yeah, well, you look different without the wool cap. And you shaved your beard.”

  “I grow it every fall. It just took me longer this year to get rid of the winter plumage.”

  “This is Perry Gilbert.” Walter looked over his shoulder, and Perry stepped forward and extended his hand. “He’s Cole’s lawyer.”

  “I simply can’t believe what happened up on that ridge,” offered Derek.

  “Neither can we. Would you mind if we sat down and asked you a few questions?”

  He and Perry joined Derek at the counter. “I thought you were reporters,” said Derek. “I’ve been overwhelmed since the incident with Brian. I’ve had fifty phone calls from press asking me to take them to where he was killed.”

  “The Park Service has the area closed, doesn’t it?”

  “People don’t seem to care. Everybody wants to see where the murder happened. What can I help you with?” asked Derek.

  “Cole didn’t kill Brian Marriott,” Perry said. “We’re putting together his legal case. There is an extradition hearing in about a week. Just before the hike that you guided, Cole tells me, you hired a guide named Blake Foreman.”

  “That’s right. I met him right here.” Derek pointed to the blue vinyl seats they were sitting on.

  “Do you eat here every day?” asked Walter.

  “Most days when I’m not in the backcountry. It’s either here or Serranos, the Mexican place.”

  “So a guide looking to find you outside of your office would know to look here?”

  “I put the note on the door. Have for years.”

  “Tell us about the day you hired Mr. Foreman,” said Walter.

  “It was two days before the Marriott trip. One of the guides who’s worked for me for the last three seasons sent me an email saying that he was sick as a dog and wouldn’t be in. I was pretty pissed. This was a big trip. I’d need all my guides. I came here around one in the afternoon to get lunch from the girls and sat down and got to talking with Foreman. He was young, strong-looking, and had on an AMGA hat—”

  “AMGA?” asked Perry.

  “American Mountain Guides Association,” said Walter. “So you got to chatting?”

  “That’s right,” continued Derek. “Turns out he was in town to do some climbing in Glacier. I asked if he had his certification or if he just had the hat, and he said he’d been guiding for a few years, since getting out of the service. Even had his card in his wallet. We talked a little more. He had the experience for a hiki
ng trip and so I asked him if he wanted a week’s work. He said sure.”

  “You said he was in the service?” asked Perry.

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Not really. This is America. Lots of guys come up through the armed forces. I was in the National Guard.”

  “You remember what unit he was in?”

  “Tenth Mountain, I believe.”

  “Did you get any references?” asked Walter.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t call any of them. There wasn’t time. They’re probably back at the office.”

  “Can we get them?” asked Perry.

  “Sure.”

  “What happened when Blake Foreman ended up dead? Did you call his next of kin, or did the FBI?”

  “I assume the FBI did. I didn’t really have any other contact info for him.”

  “Has anybody come looking for him? Asking questions?”

  “No. Just you two.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little peculiar?” asked Walter. “Every time I’ve ever taken a body off a mountain or out of the backcountry, the family inevitably shows up and wants to talk with me.”

  “I guess. But I didn’t take the body out. The FBI did—or I guess the medical examiner.”

  “So what happened to your regular guide?” asked Perry.

  “His name was Chip Prescott. He emailed me again just after Foreman and Marriott died and said he was going back to Colorado to take a job guiding cave trips.”

  “Did you actually talk with him?”

  “No. I didn’t. I’ve been scrambling. I had to hire two new guides mid-season. I haven’t really had time to check up on people who leave me high and dry.”

  “Do you have a forwarding address or phone number?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Where did Chip live?” asked Walter.

  “He had a place out by Heart Butte. He was staying in a trailer on an old-timer’s ranch right on the edge of the forest reserve.”

  “Can you give me a number?” asked Walter.

  “I don’t think there’s a phone out there. He had a cell, but there’s no reception. I think he must have disconnected it after he moved back to Colorado. I can draw you a map if you want.”