Murder on the Iditarod Trail Page 11

While Holman helped unload the supplies from the plane, Becker and Caswell climbed into the van to get out of the wind.

  “Phencyclidine,” Alex told them. “PCP. Angel dust. In the dogs, their food—and the container we collected from Schuller.”

  “Jesus,” said Becker. “I didn’t know PCP would do dogs that way.”

  “Neither did I. But here’s a note from Dave in the lab. ‘Phencyclidine was originally developed as a veterinary tranquilizer and is still infrequently used for that purpose. Even a small amount is extremely toxic, capable of causing disorientation, hallucinations, hypertension, agitation, combativeness, seizures, respiratory depression, and coma. It has a very narrow therapeutic window, meaning that a dose must be precisely measured in relation to body weight in order not to exceed its toxic limits. Most vets refuse to use it for that reason. Administration of ammonium chloride to acidify both blood and urine causes a shift of PCP out of the brain and enhances its renal excretion.’”

  “Jesus, what a list of effects,” Becker said. “That accounts for the dog that died. Difference in body weight.”

  “Yeah. More would have died if we hadn’t shot them first. Of course we don’t know exactly how much of the stuff was in that bottle to begin with, or how much dumped into the food. But the lab report indicates an extremely high dosage.”

  “What the hell is ammonium chloride?”

  Caswell answered that question. “It’s soldering flux, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I wouldn’t want to have to get it that way. It absorbs moisture, Phil. Would help the system eliminate the drug.”

  “But how the hell did the bottle get down to where Schuller says he found it?” Caswell shook his head, contemplating another round with the checkpoint reports.

  “Those scratches on the sides have something to do with it,” Alex told him.

  He upended the envelope to dump out the container, now clean of any trace of PCP, in its clear plastic evidence bag. They looked at it again, passing it around.

  Something spun through Jensen’s mind as he examined the marks, a flash too fast to catch. He stared, concentrating. Finally, he shook his head.

  “What?” asked Caswell.

  “I don’t know . . . something.”

  He held it up against the light. “Look, the marks on one side go up and down the length. The ones on the other side go more horizontal, against the curve, slightly slanted. Whatever held it ran two directions. Right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And put pressure on it, enough to mark it.”

  “Right again.”

  “What would cause that?”

  “Umm . . . could have already been on the container, caused somewhere else.”

  “I don’t think so. I think it relates. Anything else?”

  Caswell shook his head. So did Becker.

  “Okay,” said Holman, climbing into the van. “You ready to go?”

  McGrath is the communication, transportation, and supply center for a large area of interior Alaska. Two hundred and twenty miles northwest of Anchorage and 270 southwest of Fairbanks, the town lies in a looping bend of the Kuskokwim River, directly south of its confluence with the Takotna. In the width of the loop, two airstrips make a predominant north-south T, which fills the area so completely it leaves little space for the buildings of the town of over five hundred persons to nestle in under the eastern angle of the crossbar.

  Incoming passengers walk directly from their aircraft into downtown. From the air terminal it is only a step to McGuire’s Tavern. A door or two up the street (or landing strip, depending on how you use it) is a building that holds more airline offices, Beaver Sporting Goods, and the Iditarod Trail Café and checkpoint. At the eastern end of the crossbar the road bends right, around the Alaska Commercial Company store, and approximately two blocks past this bend the offices of the State Department of Fish and Game, the local law enforcement, are situated.

  Before modern memory, the Upper Kuskokwim Athabaskan Indians established the area as a meeting place for trade and social interaction. They were still there when gold discoveries in the lnnoko district to the northwest made McGrath a permanent settlement in 1906. During the next fifteen years of the gold stampede, it was the northern-most accessible point for the sternwheelers and riverboats that brought supplies and miners into the region. At that time the town was on the north side of the river, but erosion and flooding later forced a move to the opposite bank, rendering the town useless as a center for river traffic.

  In 1908 a survey was commissioned to provide a route for winter transportation and mail as far as Nome, and the Iditarod Trail was born. From 1911 to 1920, hundreds of people walked and mushed over it from Seward on their way to the gold strikes. In 1924 the first air-mail delivery in Alaska was made to McGrath.

  During the race the Iditarod Trail Café found itself busier than usual as spectators, race officials, and mushers came and went, looking for food, information, and assistance. It was the first stop for Matt Holman and the three troopers.

  Settling at a table by the window, they started on coffee and waited for hamburgers and fries.

  “How’s it going here, Matt?” Jensen asked the race marshall.

  “Pretty good. Nothing unusual or suspicious. It’s like we left all that in the pass.”

  “Hope so, but I doubt it.” Alex frowned.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s beginning to make me damn nervous.”

  The hamburgers arrived, enormous and steaming, along with a second pot of coffee. For a time there was nothing but the sounds of appreciation around the table. Phil Becker was first to finish and sit back with a satisfied sigh.

  “Either I’ve been out here too long or that was one of the best burgers I ever ate. Jesus, I was hungry.”

  Holman grinned. “Lil has run this place forever and her food is famous. Martin James says he starts the race just to get to McGrath and finishes it because of Lil . . . and McGuire’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Town watering hole that’s the fan club and rooting section. During Iditarod it never closes. Packed with fans, locals, and a few party animals who don’t care about the race but love the blowout. More than one musher has left town late, awash with goodwill from McGuire’s. You’ll see. Take you down later.”

  Jensen listened to Holman, slightly amused at his enthusiasm, but aware of the smudges of fatigue under his eyes. Responsibility for this race obviously wasn’t an honorary position. He looked weary and sounded stressed.

  We all are, Alex thought. And yet, whoever’s responsible is still out there. He wondered how Jessie and her running mates were doing.

  “Matt,” he asked, “can you give us half an hour? I want to lay out what we know so far and see if, between us, we’ve got anything.”

  “Sure, but not much more than that. Got a hop to Ophir with a vet coming up.”

  “No problem. Now, you know Koptak’s coffee was doped with secobarbital, but the head injury sustained when he hit the tree was the actual cause of death. Kline’s gang line broke where it had been cut. A broken neck was the cause of death, but she would have bled to death from the internal battering otherwise. Just between us, PCP in the dog food got Smith’s dogs.”

  “PCP?” Holman shook his head in disgust as he poured sugar into a fresh cup of coffee.

  “Was there enough dope in Kopak’s coffee to kill him without hitting the tree?” Caswell asked.

  “No. The report says it was only enough to knock him out.”

  “So whoever dumped it in didn’t mean to kill him,” Matt said. “They couldn’t have known he’d tangle with a tree.”

  “I think that’s a fair assumption.”

  “You find out anything more about the bottle?”

  “Not much. No fingerprints but Schuller’s. I’m still convinced those marks mean something.”

 
Caswell was frowning in frustration. “It’s that damn bottle getting ahead of its contents that gets me. An empty bottle doesn’t just float down the trail by itself.”

  Alex stopped dead and stared at him. “That’s right. Empty. Someone emptied it. But not necessarily into the dog food.” He turned to look at the other two. “Think about it.”

  They stared at him blankly until Caswell straightened and nodded.

  “Of course,” he said. “A red herring. Well I’ll be damned.”

  Holman cleared his throat “Hey, will someone let me in on this?”

  Alex began. “Schuller found an empty bottle ahead of the Rainy Pass bunch. So far ahead that it couldn’t possibly have been there when Smith died, right? But there were traces of PCP in the bottle, so at some point the murderer must have transferred the stuff into another container and then sent the bottle up the trail to get rid of it and throw us off.”

  “But how’d it get up the trail?” Holman asked.

  “By sled, maybe?” Becker ventured.

  “Exactly,” Alex said. He dug into the pocket of his parka, pulled out the plastic container, and dumped it out of the evidence bag onto the table in front of Holman.

  “You’re a musher, Matt. Take a look at the marks on this. See? These run up and down, the others run back and forth. If you wanted to wedge it onto a sled without packing it into the bags, where could you put it to make those marks?”

  Holman took the container and looked at it carefully. Then he looked up at Jensen and the half-smile of a new idea spread across his face. He nodded at the trooper and spoke slowly as he worked out the conclusion coming together in his mind.

  “The up and down ones are sharper than the others. More scratches than rubs on that side.”

  “Yes?” Alex pushed.

  “Probably between two different kinds of material, one harder than the other.”

  “Not harness.” Holman spoke slowly. “Not cords for tying down the sled bag. My guess? It was maybe stuck between a stanchion and a toggle on the bag, maybe a bungee cord. Working against each other as the sled moved, they’d make opposite marks. Pretty soon, when the bag shifted, it would come loose and fall off.”

  “So whoever had this could have emptied it into something more disposable and put the bottle on any sled going out of Rainy Pass ahead of Schuller.”

  “Yeah,” Matt agreed. “Or Schuller’s. Might not have seen it fall off his own sled and thought someone else dropped it.”

  “So this clears anyone who left Rainy before Smith’s dogs got him?” Holman asked, brightening.

  “Well, not unless we can prove that’s the way it was done. Even then, it’s just possible that someone ahead planted the bottle or left it on the trail. We need proof before we rule out anyone.”

  “Listen,” Caswell said. “Maybe the stuff was added to the frozen food earlier. It could be a two-person effort and the bottle was given to the partner to get rid of on the trail. We can’t completely rule out Schuller, or any of the mushers who ran ahead of him, for that matter.”

  “Then why’d he turn it in, if he’s involved?” Holman questioned.

  “Make you think he picked it up, like he said,” Caswell answered.

  “Possible,” Alex said.

  “Can you prove it?” Holman challenged.

  Jensen thought for a minute. “To dope the frozen food would mean elaborate planning. That doesn’t fit the pattern of the other two incidents. Both were accomplished as circumstances and opportunity allowed, not planned more than a short time before they were committed. And the two-person scheme just doesn’t feel right. I can’t see the motive for it. Only one person can win this race. Split winnings can’t be enough of a motive.”

  He turned to Caswell. “How many sleds were on the trail into Rohn ahead of him?” he asked.

  “Six. Five men, one woman. Seven, counting Schuller, could have brought the thing down the trail. That includes the two who are here now.”

  “If it rubbed marks on the bottle, it may have left marks on the sled. Maybe not a toggle, but there may be a wear mark on a stanchion, if that’s what it was.”

  “Going to be hard to distinguish from other normal wear marks,” Holman commented gruffly. “Lots of those on all the rigs.”

  “Look at it again, Matt.” Jensen handed him the bottle. “See where part of the serrated edge of the lid’s worn opposite the sharp scratches? That should make a pretty distinctive mark on a wooden stanchion. We’ll take a look at those sleds.”

  “Let’s go.” Becker started to stand up.

  “No. Let’s finish here first. Most of them are still on their way from Rohn. The ones in town aren’t going anywhere for a while, are they, Matt?”

  “Nope. Have to finish their layover. Those checkpoint lists help at all?”

  “Helped us narrow it down some.”

  “Ones who were there?”

  “Yeah. Cas?”

  Caswell pulled out his notes. Quickly he reviewed the names of mushers and others associated with the race who had been in Skwentna, Finger Lake, and Rainy Pass. Reaching across the table, he laid the final sixteen names in front of Holman, who scanned them with dismay.

  “My God. You really suspect all these people? I know some of these couldn’t possibly—”

  “Hold on,” Jensen interrupted. “These are just the ones who were at all three checkpoints at the right times. We’ve got a lot of other stuff to consider.

  “I think Cranshaw has a smart mouth, for instance, a chip on his shoulder. Schuller left Rohn without getting back to me. Martinson gave Phil a lot of flak, but it may have been all bluff. Hard to tell. Although I can’t prove it, I don’t think Bill Pete was involved. It was all he could do to shoot the last of Smith’s dogs.”

  “You’re a hundred percent right there,” Holman affirmed. “Besides taking it pretty personal that anyone would try to hurt his race, some of those dogs he raised from pups. Smith bought them off him two years ago.

  “Arnold and Ryan, you can cross them off this list. There isn’t that kind of violence in either one of them, or Susan Pilch, either. Can’t imagine it.”

  Alex was glad Holman had brought up Jessie’s name. He wasn’t sure how he could have defended his confidence in her.

  “Tell me about Susan Pilch. In fact, we need personal information on all these people. Who are they? What motivates them? There’s a lot more we need to know if we’re going to solve this thing.”

  Holman gave him a look of resentful misery. “You want me to set somebody up,” he said finally. “How the hell do you think I’m gonna do that?”

  “No, goddamn it,” Alex exploded. “That’s not how it is. Think about it, Matt. You gotta choose here. Either we find out enough to catch this guy, or the stuff goes on. Anything you tell us is just a piece of information, like the rest. I’ll tell you something. In Skwentna . . .” He stopped, catching his temper and realizing how close he had come to disclosing what he and Jessie knew about Koptak’s thermos. “Never mind,” he finished lamely. “But you get the picture. Now . . . what can you tell us?”

  Holman handed the list back to Caswell and sat up, straightening his back and shoulders. “You’re right. Be pretty stupid if somebody else died because I got pigheaded.”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Tell you what. Let me get that vet and his stuff to Ophir. It’ll only take an hour. Then we’ll find a better place than this, somewhere the whole damn town can’t listen in.”

  “Good enough.”

  Before they could get up from the table, a tall man with a checker’s badge put a hand on Holman’s shoulder. “Matt,” he said breathlessly, “you better come. Someone’s shooting off flares in the burn, the other side of Nikolai.”

  “Shit,” said Holman. “Someone else’ll have to get Chuck to Ophir.”

  17


  Date: Wednesday, March 6

  Race Day: Five

  Place: McGrath checkpoint

  Weather: Severe clear, moderate winds

  Temperature: High 2°F, low –8°F

  Time: Late afternoon

  On the Farewell Burn, the wind was scooping up the snow cover and hurling it defiantly in the faces of those laboring their way to Nikolai. Some sections of the trail were swept bare down to rocks and gravel. In others, snow had drifted in so heavily that it was impossible to see the stumps and broken pieces of dead trees before crashing a sled into them, crippling dogs, laming drivers.

  Alex wondered how they could possibly spot a team on the ground from Caswell’s Maule M-4. Then he saw the arch of a flare, rising out of the ground blizzard. At least they had the location. As they passed directly overhead, Jensen caught a brief glimpse of a waving figure beside the shadow of a sled and team.

  “Whoever it is, he’s not so hurt he can’t wave,” he said with relief. But a second sled-shaped shadow was visible beside the first. This one had no waving figure.

  “Damn,” swore Holman from the seat behind Alex. “Solomon and Pollitt. They’re the only ones who could be this far along. The three who left before them are somewhere between Nikolai and McGrath.”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do from up here.” Caswell banked the plane and headed north. “The Air Force is on the way to McGrath with a helicopter. Hope the wind calms down so they can land. But at least those two know help’s on the way. We better get back to meet the rescue team.”

  “Wonder which one’s in trouble?” Alex said. “And what kind of trouble.”

  “Have we got another incident here?” asked Holman.

  “No way to know. Have to wait for the fly boys.”

  By the time they returned, Tim Martinson had arrived at the checkpoint. Gail Murray came in half an hour later, forty minutes before Dale Schuller. None of them seemed aware of the problem behind them on the trail.

  “I was last for most of the day,” Murray told Alex. “I passed Dale about halfway from Nikolai when he stopped to rest his dogs, but I never even saw Mike or Rod.”