Carnosaur Crimes Page 9

  When she reached Barnum Brown Road, she drove slowly, keeping an eye out for cops of any variety. She wasn’t sure how the FBI, county police or BLM officers had beefed up security. The front gate was chained and padlocked. A large, yellow NO TRESPASSING sign had been wired to the chain link. The parking lot was empty. No sign of Bieselmore either, who’d get the bum’s rush as curator if the BLM decided to close the place.

  There was a dirt service road to her right bordered on both sides by a fence line of thick chains strung between wide posts. The side road entrance was also blocked by a timber drop gate securely padlocked at one end. Ansel didn’t care about the museum compound. She was interested in the riverbed.

  Ansel switched gears and reversed the truck down Barnum Brown Road until the chain barrier ceased. Then she gunned the four-wheel drive vehicle around an end-post and made a diagonal grassland crossing to intersect with the service road.

  She was officially trespassing on BLM land but if she was quick and unobtrusive, she could get in and out without being spotted. She wanted two things: a closer look at the ground surrounding the fossil tracks and to scrutinize the damage done to her Allosaurus sculpture.

  The gravel drive stopped on the west side of the compound, but Ansel continued off road onto the grass. No one could see her from the parking lot. This was what she wanted, as had the poacher. She carefully negotiated the truck between the riverbed and the dinosaur sculpture and parked. Her destination was the rocky incline where the fossil tracks had nearly been pilfered.

  Most of the grasshoppers were gone. Some starved and listless insects remained amidst the occasional dead husks of their brethren. Birds, small mammals, and reptiles must have finished off the majority, Ansel guessed. Nourishment was at a premium right now.

  The Red Water River was as sluggish as the crawling pests. Low-level waters barely rippled as they moved southwest past the rocky riverbed to feed a fan of streams and creek evaporating as fast as they were filled. The thought that death was everywhere saddened her.

  The FBI had done an efficient job of scouring the crime scene area. Except for the trampled and tire-furrowed dirt, the grassland looked deceptively void of all signs of criminal mayhem. Nothing remained of the exploded saw debris or combusted human remains.

  Ansel walked onto the sandstone ledge with eyes scanning the Cretaceous bedrock. The footprints were from an undetermined carnosaur species, but it made them no less valuable in terms of rarity and geohistorical value.

  She stood looking down at the charred firmament surrounding the single despoiled dinosaur track and frowned. A deep, slicing gouge ran along one side of it. The diamond blade hadn’t cracked the matrix supporting the footprint, but the foot-long cut would have to be filled and patched in order to prevent irreversible destruction from edgewater erosion and weathering. Already sand, grit and pebbles were lodging into the crevice.

  A quick scan of the rest of the ledge revealed a hodge podge of scraps, dings, and pits caused by exploding saw debris. A particularly odd-looking groove caught her attention, and she bent to examine it. The narrow, two-inch long groove had left a white scar along the brown sandstone as tiny silicon crystals had been sheared off at high speed. More shrapnel, she decided.

  Moments later she was in front of the Allosaurus’ pimpled stomach skin and staring up at its jaws. Burnt and peeling rubber latex streamers hung down from the snout and looked like strips of decaying flesh. Major repairs there, Ansel thought. And the mouth cavity and teeth were completely blackened by soot damage.

  Ansel winced, not envying the firemen who pulled the corpse from those resinous, three-inch long, serrated teeth. How long and hard would any of the law enforcement agencies search to identify a faceless Indian thief who bungled a robbery attempt and got himself killed in the process? Certainly their prime motivation would be to try and outsmart one another for jurisdictional vanities and glory rather than to gain closure for the man’s family and friends.

  As she shifted position to view the dinosaur in profile, Ansel saw a flash of brilliance out of the corner of her eye. Glancing up again, she saw nothing. Then, there – sunlight glinting off silver near the beast’s lower chest. She located the source of the sunlit sparkle as eleven feet above her and within a badly charred section of rubber skin just beneath the clawed forearms. There was no way she could reach it.

  The crunch of footsteps on parched grass behind her was unmistakable. Her urge to bolt didn’t lessen when she saw BLM agent Broderick coming toward her. He carried his clip board, too.

  “Miss Phoenix.” His mouth presented a wide smirk. “Why am I not surprised to see you?”

  His vehicle was no where in sight. Ansel figured out that he must have parked in front of the museum and walked down to ambush her. She smiled gaily even as her shaking hands hung limply at her sides. “Good morning, Agent Broderick.”

  “You’re trespassing. Do you have a problem understanding this is a crime scene?”

  “No. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I thought only the museum was off limits. I’ll be glad to leave.” She took a quick step around him.

  Broderick moved sideways to block her. “Not so fast. What are you doing out here?”

  “I was looking at the sculpture. Assessing the damage. I’ll be repairing it when the museum reopens. I need to order materials before then.”

  “If it opens you mean.”

  Ansel’s eyes narrowed. “I guess I’m just an optimist at heart.”

  Broderick raised his clipboard and took the pen from beneath its clasp. “What a coincidence. Me, too. I’m hoping you’ve learned your lesson. That’s why I’m not taking you into custody, just issuing you a citation.”

  “You’re giving me a ticket?”

  “Uh, huh.” He scribbled across the pad.

  “For what?”

  “For crossing through the brush with an off-highway vehicle to get past a clearly marked and closed Land Management access road. You’ll have to go the same way out of here. Off highway vehicles such as yours can only be operated in BLM areas designated for OHV use. Unauthorized OHV use leads to serious environmental degradation, Miss Phoenix.”

  “All right. I could see you giving me a warning, but a ticket seems excessive.”

  “You are contributing to the destruction of a prehistoric site. As a paleoartist, you should know that by enforcing the proper recreational laws, permits, and citations, the BLM is safeguarding public lands for future generations.” He grinned and passed the completed form to her. “Please sign at the bottom.”

  Ansel carefully took the board with pen in her right hand. The fine was for one-hundred dollars. Silently fuming but anxious to depart, she had no choice. Her signature was an illegible scrawl.

  Broderick took the board and tore off the top copy. “The payment instructions are on the reverse. Mail it on time. The BLM appreciates your cooperation.”

  “Of course,” Ansel replied, taking the citation. “Are we through, Agent Broderick? It’s stifling out here.”

  “Almost. I see that you’ve been making close friends with the FBI.”

  Ansel tensed further. His relaxed, sarcastic demeanor had changed for the worse. His gaze was razor-sharp and his fist holding the clipboard at his side was turning white with squeezing pressure. He was angry.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Midnight jaunts in helicopters. That’s what I’m talking about. Where did you go with Outerbridge’s lackey?”

  “How do you know about that?

  “Answer me. Where did you go?”

  “Ask Outerbridge.”

  This time Ansel took several quick steps before the agent reacted to stop her. She got past him, but he was fast, too. Broderick back pedaled and thrust his face up to hers again, effectively sending her backwards in mid-stride. He was smart, Ansel assessed – wasn’t going to touch her and leave marks or risk an assault charge.

  “I will ask Outerbridge, Miss Phoenix, but you can be certain that I’m going to
know every move you make with the FBI. Count on it. This is BLM territory. Nobody’s shoveling the ground out from under us. Not the sheriff’s department, the FBI, or you.”

  “Either arrest me for trespassing or get out of my way.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “If you don’t, when I get out of jail I’m going to every newspaper, TV station, and radio show I can and talk about how you bully Native American women BLM-style. That should do wonders to screw up any relations the BLM has going with tribal authorities from Big Toe to Butte.”

  Broderick’s face went ashen, then he simply moved away from her, eyes glaring. Ansel rushed past him. Only near her truck did she dare to look over her shoulder. The mercurial agent stood in the broiling sun like a statue watching her. She jumped into the cab. Seconds later, she drove past Broderick, never glancing into the rearview mirror. The drive down the access road and through the grassland brush to Barnum Brown Road was done in another minute. She noticed the BLM truck parked by the museum gate as she sped away.

  Finally she calmed down and focused on her next mission – visiting Glendive and Sidney where the other fossils had been stolen.

  Chapter 12

  “No answer is also an answer.”

  Hopi

  Ansel opened the door leading into the Glendive Community College Library and almost got trampled by a noisy herd of students exiting en masse, their backpacks full of notebooks and their arms burdened with textbooks. It was the first week of fall term and lunch hour to boot.

  It hadn’t been difficult to locate the school where Ranger Eastover had informed her that fossils were nabbed. The small Dawson County institution, which offered limited curricula for obtaining bachelor degrees, was the only campus in Glendive that was displaying them.

  The intellectual and physical excitement generated throughout the campus was palpable in the air around Ansel. Slumbering memories of the rigors of academia life rose like a leviathan in her chest and feelings of nostalgia overwhelmed her. How hopeful these young scholars were, so sure of their dreams and their places in the world. Like salmon swimming upstream, she thought, watching their purposeful swerves and dashes.

  All of their energies were devoted to chasing a chosen goal, an undefined destiny waiting always just out of reach but forever within sight. Many would fail to ford the rough waters ahead. Others would simply grow weary of the competitive, driving tempo and choose to quit. And those who made it to the end-run waters would probably find the reward less satisfying then all the racing to get there had been. Was it worth it? Ansel had no answer to that question even for herself.

  She certainly loved what she was doing as an artist, but any career could become nothing but a breeding ground for stale successes which turned into carefully constructed death traps for the soul. Twelve years after graduating with dual degrees, had she really gotten what she needed out of life?

  She’d been one of those blessed students, surviving the trials of university life and even surpassing her career goals in the real world, but she was still unhappy and unfulfilled on other emotional levels. She had her family, but no children. She had money and possessions, but she shared them with no one. Fame certainly didn’t fill her home with happy voices. Fortune didn’t warm her bed at night.

  Ansel quelled her maudlin thoughts and allowed the cool, calm atmosphere of the brick and glass library to envelop her. She crossed a veldt of green carpeting toward the main checkout desk and skirted past the usual gaggle of study desks, carrels, computer stations, periodical stands, and towering rows of book shelves. A gorgeous panorama of the Yellowstone River Valley complete with grassland expanses and a river view was visible through large arching windows along the northeast wall of the room.

  The front counter was empty except for an elderly gray-haired lady wearing an Assistant Librarian name tag. She looked up expectantly. “Hello. How may I help you?”

  “Hello. My name is Ansel Phoenix. A woman from the administrative office sent me over here. I’d like to speak with Director Bogart, please.”

  The librarian’s eyes widened. “Not Ansel Phoenix the dinosaur artist?”

  “Why yes, I am. Don’t tell me somebody from administration called you

  “Heavens, no,” she replied with a light chuckle. “I recognize your name. We’ve got one of your prints up on the wall.” She pointed a knobby index finger behind Ansel’s shoulder.

  Ansel glanced around. A large and signed limited edition print of an adult Albertosaurus tenderly nuzzling a clutch of eggs was situated over a potted plant. She’d painted the original oil and canvas artwork for display in a Butte gallery where it quickly sold to a well known Montana celebrity and avid dinosaur fan.

  Soon after, an art publishing house had contacted her about producing the painting as a limited edition print of five-hundred. She’d always had a soft spot for that particular artistic creation. There was something almost mystical about the vision of such a fearsome, meat eater tending so lovingly to her unborn young that always tugged at her heartstrings.

  “What a nice surprise,” Ansel said.

  “It’s a wonderful picture. You wouldn’t believe how many students enjoy it. There was a red-haired young man here the other night that stared at it for quite a while. He seemed positively entranced.”

  She faced the librarian again, thinking that if the man had been an Indian with a limp, she’d really have something concrete to work with. “The truth is, dinosaurs are what I want to speak with your director about.”

  “Really? Goodness. Unfortunately she’s gone for the afternoon. Maybe I can help you.”

  “I wanted to ask her about the T-Rex foot bones that were on display. I just found out at the office that it was stolen last week, which is unfortunate. I’d planned to do some sketches of it today. Research for a drawing I’m doing. You wouldn’t believe how much preliminary sketching goes into these paintings.”

  The librarian’s face turned dark. “Yup, they stole the foot right out of this big case we had over by the front door, all right. Don’t know how they carted it away so fast. Everyone’s upset about it. Mrs. Bogart will be very disappointed that she missed you, Ms. Phoenix. And missed the opportunity to have you working here in our library. Listen, you know, Dean Knowles is here. Back in audiovisual. He could tell you all about it.”

  Pleased at her continued luck, Ansel said, “I’d like that very much. I won’t be long.”

  “Oh, he loves to talk. I’ll get him.”

  The woman left the counter and hurried into another room behind an alcove. She soon returned with a short, frizzy-haired man wearing brown pants and yellow shirt with a horseshoe bolo.

  “Ms. Phoenix this is Dean Knowles,” the assistant said.

  Ansel held out a hand. “ Nice to meet you, Dean Knowles. Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  Knowles smiled effusively, his pudgy face a green-eyed vision of delight. He grabbed her palm and pumped it several times. “It’s my pleasure, Ms. Phoenix. Absolutely. Elke tells me that you want to know what happened here last week. Very bad news. Terrible. The college is going to suffer the repercussions from this for some time. The foot wasn’t ours. It was on loan for display purposes from the Makoshika State Park. Worth about five-thousand dollars.”

  “Well, I don’t mean to pry, but I’m horrified that something like this has happened to you. A similar incident occurred in my town of Big Toe. Somebody tried to steal fossil dinosaur tracks from a museum the same night. Fortunately, they didn’t succeed.”

  “Yes, I read about that in the papers. What a coincidence. Amazing. Small world. The police here believe that the two events are related, you know.”

  “Do the police know how many people were involved in your theft?”

  “More than one. They cut the alarm system, battered down a rear security door to the library, sledge-hammered the plexiglass case apart, and grabbed the foot. Nothing subtle about them.”

  “I’m not being critical, but didn’t security guards
see or hear anything?”

  “We’re a small campus, just fifteen-hundred students even on a very busy day. In the middle of the night, we’re locked down with minimal security resources,” Knowles admitted. “It was Friday night. Most of our trouble on campus, if it happens, comes from the dormitory. By the time the guards realized the library had been breached, the robbers were long gone, unlike your situation. The poacher at the museum was killed, right?”

  Nodding, Ansel cast a glance at Elke, who still stood by them listening avidly. She needed to get the dean alone so she could talk more frankly to him. “Yes. Accidentally. Could we sit down, Dean Knowles?”

  Knowles blinked, then clucked his tongue. “Absolutely. How thoughtless of me. I’m still reeling from all this. Let’s go to a table, shall we? Elke, I won’t hold you up. I know you’ve got a thousand things to do.”

  “Not right this minute,” Elke said, grinning at Ansel.

  “We’ll be fine. You run along,” Knowles insisted gently to the woman as he turned Ansel toward a long wooden table with four empty chairs.

  “Thanks for your help,” Ansel said to the kindly librarian.

  “You need anything else, Ms. Phoenix, don’t you hesitate to ask me,” Elke responded anxiously. “I love your work.”

  Knowles pulled out a chair for Ansel and when she was comfortably seated, he yanked out another, sat down in it, and crossed his legs as if settling in for a while. “As I was saying, there’s no telling where these thieves came from. They can find you if they want to. I have a friend who stumbled upon some nice smaller dinosaur fossils on his own property and a month later his house was broken into and they were stolen. The police think that his own excitement over the fossils did him in. He discussed the find with people he knew and word of mouth got around until somebody decided they wanted them. Whoever it was used his license plate number and hacked into DMV records to get his home address. You’ve got to be very careful these days when you go someplace with fossils or go looking for them.”