The Mormon Candidate - a Novel Read online

  “Appreciate it,” the father said. “You a Marine?”

  “My dad was,” Ben said. “He sent it to me from Kuwait, back when I was a kid.”

  The father’s eyes widened. He reached to take the Humvee from his son. “We can’t accept this—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ben said. “It’s no longer age appropriate for me.”

  “Thank you, mister,” the boy said.

  “Ride safely, buddy.”

  They rejoined the moving line of motorcycles, and the boy raised his new toy in a farewell greeting. He was smiling again.

  Ben watched Inspector Porter make his way down and start a search of the crash site. At one point, he glanced up and saw Ben snap a photo.

  A moment later, a uniformed officer approached, signaling him to move aside.

  Ben walked off to the end of the ledge and over a pile of rocks that were held together with concrete to prevent mudslides. From there, he resumed his observation, snapping an occasional photo.

  Porter glanced upward every once in a while but failed to see Ben among the bushes far to the side. He kept turning over rocks and pushing aside shrubs around the crashed stars-and-stripes Harley as if searching for something specific. Turning to the victim, he removed the man’s wallet and watch. He went through every pocket, ending with the boots, which he pulled off and felt inside with his hand before slipping each one back onto the dead feet. He even turned the body over and ran his hands on the back, buttocks, and thighs the way an officer would search a detained criminal. His efforts were rewarded with an item stashed under the victim’s belt behind his back. It was a perfect place to hide a gun, but Porter pulled out a square object that looked like a piece of cardboard, about the size of a DVD case, which he examined closely before putting it in the pocket of his jacket just as Ben took a photo.

  When Porter was done, the body was strapped to a stretcher. A group of firefighters and police officers used a fair amount of muscle work to bring the body up. They set it on the ground near the ambulance.

  An EMT pulled on latex gloves and removed the wool blanket, except for the face, which he left covered. Ben snapped a few photos discreetly and stepped closer.

  There was little blood, but when the EMT lifted the khaki undershirt, the victim’s chest had an unnatural color, as if the skin had been painted in livid purple on the inside. He was lean, with a muscular chest and a flat stomach, over six feet, about forty years old. The black boots could have been army surplus, but it was hard to tell.

  The EMT checked for a pulse in the small of the neck, listened with a stethoscope over the chest and ribs, glanced at his wrist watch, and scribbled on a writing board. Ben looked over his shoulder. Patient’s Name: Zachariah Hinckley.

  Pulling the undershirt back over the victim’s chest, the EMT tried to tuck it in as much as possible.

  Ben leaned closer and peered at the undershirt. Above each nipple was an insignia, about the size of a pinky. The one over the left breast was V-shaped and the one over the right breast was a reversed L. A third insignia marked the navel with a horizontal line that seemed almost like a silkworm embedded in the garment.

  The EMT replaced the wool blanket over the body and turned to beckon one of the officers to help him load it. Ben got his camera ready, bent over, pulled the blanket off, and photographed the undershirt.

  “What are you doing?” Porter was still panting heavily from the climb up. “This is a restricted area!”

  Ben raised the camera and snapped another photo of the stretcher. “Freedom of the press. Ever heard of it?”

  Porter covered the body and gestured at the EMT to take it away. “Interfering with the scene of an accident is a crime.”

  “Who’s interfering?” Ben looked around.

  “Hand over your camera!”

  Taking a step back, Ben said, “Do you know Fran DeLacourt in Hate Crimes? I have her on speed dial.”

  Already on the move to grab the camera, Porter paused, his hand outstretched in midair. Lt. Francine DeLacourt was the type of a woman men didn’t mess with, and Porter’s reaction revealed that he not only knew her, but wasn’t an exception to the rule.

  “Say hello to her from Ben Teller, will you?”

  After a hard glare, Porter turned and went to his Ford.

  Ben returned to his motorcycle and used the iPhone to send all the photos to himself by e-mail, followed by an update to Ray:

  Ben Teller reporting live: It’s 2:39 PM at the Camp David Scenic Overlook near Thurmond, MD. The annual Marine Corps Veterans’ Ride has resumed following a tragic interruption earlier when Z.H, a male participant, age estimated at 45, lost control of his Harley and crashed over a cliff. CPR efforts were unsuccessful, and he was confirmed dead at the scene.

  He attached photos of the stretcher, covered in a blanket, first at the bottom of the hill, then being carried up, examined by the medic, and loaded into the ambulance. He didn’t send the photos of the symbols on the undershirt. There was a story here, and he wanted to investigate further before tipping his hand to Ray.

  Before putting away the iPhone, he checked the NewZonLine.com homepage. His first report was midway down the list of Top-Ten news pieces, with his name as the source. He clicked on it, and his own photo came up—a headshot that Keera had taken on the balcony at their townhome last year, shortly after he started freelancing for Ray. It clearly wasn’t a professional portrait—his longish hair was still damp from the shower, his eyes seemed even darker against his pale face, and his cheeks were smooth shaven, which happened at most once a month. Basically he looked like a kid who wasn’t too happy about having his picture taken.

  Ben rode the twisty road downhill in complete solitude. Ten minutes later, he pulled into a Shell gas station at the intersection. The attendant, a bearded man wearing a turban, looked up from a pocket-sized religious book. “Hello,” he said in a singsong accent. “Many motorcycles today.”

  “Yes,” Ben said. “It’s the annual Marine Corps ride.”

  “Very nice.” He collected Ben’s money and turned on the pump.

  Outside, while filling up, Ben noticed the security cameras mounted high under the flat roof sheltering the pumps. One of them covered the exit from the gas station, presumably to catch the license plates of any wrongdoers.

  Picking up the receipt inside, Ben peeked over the counter. A TV monitor showed the feed from the cameras, rotating among the four. One view was of a man with longish black hair standing at the cashier, and it took Ben a second to realize it was him. He rubbed the week-old fuzz on his cheek, and the man on the TV did the same. Then the view switched to the camera pointed at the exit. It had a wide enough scope to capture a section of the road coming down from the Camp David Scenic Overlook, just before the stop sign at the intersection.

  Ben asked, “Do you record the feed from the security cameras?”

  The attendant nodded.

  Ben handed him a $20 bill. “I’m a freelance journalist for NewZonLine.com. Can I look at it?”

  “You have ID?”

  Ben handed over his press card.

  He showed him to an office. The system was old, combining a VCR and a bulky TV. He handed the remote control to Ben and returned to the counter.

  The TV screen was divided into squares, each showing the feed from an individual camera. Ben turned off the recording and rewound the tape while peering at the square that showed the exit and the section of the road.

  The camera had captured several cars, vans, and a Coke truck exiting the gas station and turning onto the main road. Finally he saw a dark sedan pass by. He stopped and rewound the tape. Playing forward, Ben watched carefully.

  The Ford sedan crossed the screen from right to left in front of the exit, heading in the direction of the overlook. The recording quality was poor, typical for a slow cycle of twenty-four hours with the same ta
pe being recorded over and over. But the driver was visible though the window with enough clarity to resemble Porter.

  For the next few minutes, with the system replaying at regular speed, several more vehicles appeared on the screen, leaving the station. Then, very briefly, something passed from right to left.

  Ben played it again. Now that he was expecting it, he could see a motorcycle at a speed much higher than anyone would expect to see on the approach to a stop sign at an intersection. The rider must have reached the intersection without stopping and taken the turn quickly.

  Watching it a third time, he paused every second or two, until he had the image on the screen. He snapped a few photos of the hazy image with his Canon. It would take some effort to improve the image, but the essentials were there—a white Ducati and a rider dressed in white leathers and a white helmet.

  As the woman back at the accident site had said, it looked like a ghost.

  Chapter 3

  The confirmation of the white Ducati’s existence changed everything. Furthermore, it had come downhill immediately after the accident, yet no other bike had passed through for nearly an hour afterwards. These facts eliminated any remaining doubts in Ben’s mind. There was a story here!

  He rode back uphill.

  Red flares still lined the road to block off the overlook area, leaving a single lane. He continued down the other side. Slowing down to a crawl, he scanned the road for clues. The hundreds of stranded riders had left surprisingly little trash—a few snack wrappings, cigarette butts, and a Ravens baseball cap. The only evidence that the road had served as a parking lot for over two hours was plenty of oil spots, a typical byproduct of aging Harleys even when well maintained.

  But what Ben really sought was evidence to support the proposition that the white Ducati had waited here earlier.

  A plausible scenario was forming in Ben’s mind: A guy with a Ducati, who’s too cheap to pay the modest entry fee to participate in the Marine Corps Veterans’ Annual Ride, instead skips the starting point near I-70 and waits somewhere along the route to join the ride midway. When the roar of engines approaches from downhill, he starts up the Ducati and gets going. But rather than a slow-moving hoard of slogging bikes, bunched together in the camaraderie of veterans, an out-of-control, stars-and-stripes hog races around a blind curve. Zachariah Hinckley, totally unprepared for the Ducati’s sudden appearance on the road, weaves to avoid a collision, struggles to regain control just as the road reaches the top of the hill and turns sharply. Failing to make the turn, he flies over the edge of the Camp David Scenic Overlook. The Ducati rider, not realizing the severity of the accident, keeps going, secure in the knowledge that other riders will help the embarrassed patriot get back in the saddle. Or maybe he does see Zachariah’s calamitous spectacle but is too scared to stop, adding himself to a long tradition of hit-and-run instigators of roadway accidents.

  It was a plausible scenario, but for it to be true, the Ducati rider must have been waiting for the rally to catch up. Where had he waited?

  Ben kept going, his eyes shifting left and right, scanning both sides of the road. The stranded riders had left too many tire tracks on the gravel shoulders, making it impossible to see any evidence of a single Ducati that might, or might not, have waited here earlier.

  Half a mile down the road, Ben gave up, twisted the throttle, and accelerated away.

  But a moment later a trailhead flew by, barely registering in his peripheral vision.

  He hit the brakes, slowed down, and made a U-turn. Back a short distance uphill, he stopped on the side of the road and dismounted the GS.

  It was an unmarked fire trail. Judging by the weeds, it was getting little use, which made it easier for Ben to notice the fresh tire marks.

  Out of habit, he used his camera to scan the ground, taking photos as he proceeded.

  A single track went in from the main road. He walked beside it to avoid disturbing the evidence. It stopped after ten feet or so, the weeds growing evenly across the trail.

  He noticed a depression where the motorcycle’s kickstand had rested on the ground. Because a kickstand was always on the left side, Ben realized that the rider had backed in off the main road and had waited here, ready to ride out easily.

  Up close, the imprint left by the kickstand—about the size of a toddler’s foot—was uneven. Ben’s own bike, like most others, had a small plate welded to the bottom of the kickstand, and it usually left a flat depression in the ground. This one was mostly flat, but with a wiggly line along the middle, which must have been sharp as it had sliced the weed stems and pushed down on the ground with the weight of the bike. He traced the line. It was about the length of a finger, but its shape resembled his favorite road sign—Sharp Turns Ahead. He figured it could be a welding line, or perhaps the plate at the bottom of the kickstand was cracked, which would be unlikely with steel but possible if the Ducati manufacturer had cut costs by using plastic plates.

  After snapping a few photos of the odd kickstand depression, he retreated toward the road slowly while searching around for additional clues. A light-colored speck in the bushes attracted his attention. He reached in and picked it out. It was a cigarette butt. Up close, the brand was unfamiliar to him: Prince. The tiny logo was some kind of a royal crest with the word Denmark.

  Was this a trace left by the Ducati rider? There was no way to know. He chucked it.

  The tire track itself provided little information because the dirt was packed and the flattened weeds had not acquired the form of the exact tire thread. Back near the road, the dirt was dug in where the Ducati’s rear wheel must have spun freely before connecting with the blacktop.

  Ben returned to the site of the accident. An oversized tow truck equipped with a massive hitch and a crane had backed up to the edge of the overlook. Long chains dangled down to the stars-and-stripes Harley at the bottom. A few police officers were watching the process, but the unmarked Ford was gone. Ben parked the GS, removed his helmet and jacket, and took photos of the Harley slowly rising through the air.

  The truck driver maneuvered the crane to position the motorcycle on the flatbed, unhooked the chains, and began to tie down his sad-looking cargo. The police officers, meanwhile, put out the flares and cleared the road.

  Ben approached the truck and snapped a few photos up close. The Harley was equipped with large stereo speakers front and back. A built-in Sony music system in the center of the dashboard had a docking bay for an iPod or another type of a player. But the bay was vacant, and as Ben walked back to his motorcycle, he recalled Stephen Cochran blaring from the Harley when it had sped by him earlier.

  He noticed the blinking light on his iPhone and found three missed calls from Keera. His girlfriend, in the midst of her fourth year in medical school, didn’t have time to follow the news. But she must have overheard the TV at the nurses’ station or in a patient’s room, reporting the fatal accident at the veterans’ ride.

  Before Ben had a chance to call Keera back, his iPhone rang and her photo popped up on the screen, her teeth glistening white against her dark-chocolate skin.

  He answered, “Hey, Beautiful.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. And you?”

  “I got worried. What happened?”

  “One of the guys was going too fast, lost control on a turn. Did you see my reports on NewZonLine?”

  “I saw the photo. It’s awful!”

  “Could have been worse,” Ben said. “Ray wanted me to un-blur the face.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s a pimp.”

  “What does it make me?”

  Keera sighed. “A cute guy with potential.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Still at the hospital. Just finished rounding in the ICU with Professor Lichtenwalt. These patients are so complicated—everything’s going wrong at the same time, all systems crashing, a
nd he’s totally calm.” She imitated him. “We’ll adjust oxygen to X, change med Y to Z, and watch for A, B, and C.”

  “Sounds simple. Child’s play.”

  “He’s such a god. I’ll never be able to handle—”

  “You will. There’s still residency and fellowship and—”

  “Board exams.”

  “Which you’ll ace. Listen, every cocky professor was once an anxious student like you.”

  “Sorry, coach.” Keera laughed. “Must’ve left my self-confidence in the locker room. Where are you?”

  “Still at the site. Poking around a little.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Probably nothing. See you later, okay?”

  The last police car drove off, and Ben was finally alone. He strapped on his camera bag and made his way downhill. His riding boots were the wrong footwear for the rocky, steep path, and he slipped a few times.

  The large boulder where Zachariah Hinckley had landed bore no physical scars. Ben gave it a thorough search, just in case. He noticed moisture in one area and bent down to sniff it.

  Urine.

  Scanning the boulder, Ben didn’t find anything else to indicate that a man had died here only a short time earlier.

  It wasn’t hard to locate the spot where the Harley had hit the ground. It was a shallow gulch where soft soil had accumulated. The dirt was imprinted with depressions left by the handlebar, foot pegs, and saddlebag. Dark blotches showed where engine oil and brake fluid had soaked in. Red and blue paint had scraped onto small rocks, and a few pieces of broken plastic dotted the area.

  Ben used rocks to mark a square of about ten steps across. He went down on all fours and began his search. Moving methodically from one end to the other, back and forth, he peered at the ground. Wherever he saw any manmade debris, he checked it carefully and put it away outside the search area. He passed dirt through his fingers, feeling for anything that could have come from the accident.