Chapter Six

Entering the CottonwoodCounty Public Library felt warm and welcoming.

Possibly some of the welcoming came thanks to it feeling warm. Even more than the temperature difference, getting inside its doors represented protection from the wind that had slapped us around up at Elk Rock Ranch.

You might think getting into the NewsMobile for the return trip would have accomplished that. You'd be wrong. By this point, the NewsMobile was the automotive equivalent of Swiss cheese.

My SUV, which I'd transferred to in the KWMT-TV parking lot while Diana went inside to work up what she'd shot for B-roll and background on Keefer Dobey's death for the Five and Ten o'clock news, offered wonderful protection, along with heated seats and steering wheel, which are requirements of civilization in my humble opinion.

The SUV began defrosting me enough that I called my next-door neighbors, Iris and Zeb Undlin, to ask if they'd be willing to feed my dog Shadow tonight.

Yes, was their unsurprising answer even before hearing it was so I could have dinner with Tom and Tamantha.

They'd also let Shadow out and give him treats and love on him. They might take him to their house so he could watch TV with them.

"Anytime," Iris said gaily.

And I knew it was truth for them as well as Shadow.

Once parked at the library, I discovered a downside to the SUV's amenities — they made the slice of wind and cold sharper in contrast before reaching the library's door.

"Hi, Elizabeth." From behind the circulation desk and wearing a bulky blue sweater, librarian Ivy Short smiled, helping shed the chill.

"Hi, Ivy. If you have a few minutes..."

She held up an it'll-be-a-second finger. "If you want to wait a little, my break is coming up."

Twist my arm. I wandered from an array of national magazines — yes, they still existed in print — to an announcement of an upcoming tax prep assistance event, to a display on St. Patrick's Day.

Another librarian in a bulky brown sweater took Ivy's spot at the desk. The bulky sweaters were de rigueur because of cold gusts pushing their way inside with each patron.

Ivy led me to the coffee pot in the staff room for cups, then settled us into a study room.

"Good coffee." With newsroom the emphasis is on caffeine, speed, and availability, and we get all that, but at the cost of taste. "How are you, Ivy?"

She answered for half a cup. Then she tipped her head to one side. "You didn't come here to chat."

"No, I didn't. Though I probably should."

She smiled back at me and waited.

"I'm hoping for background on Keefer Dobey. You know—?"

"Yes. So shocking. Absolutely shocking. If I were asked the last person I would ever think would be shot..." She sighed out between her teeth, keeping tears at bay.

"I'm told he spent a great deal of time here lately. I know you won't tell what specifically he checked out—"

"Oh, my, I couldn't possibly remember all the specifics, even if it weren't against the librarian code."

"—but to confirm a general interest, say in Wild West outlaws..."

It wasn't much of a leap, having been told he talked about them a lot and spent time at the library.

She looked relieved. She'd hated to deny me information and was happy to confirm what I already knew. "He was deeply interested in outlaws from the Wild West era. Particularly those who might have been in this area."

"Wyoming? Or—.?"

"Cottonwood County and nearby. This area didn't offer outlaws good targets because most of its development came after the heyday. The famous ones were far more active earlier and around major railroad lines and bigger banks. But they did pass through here frequently on their way to and from, say robbing the railroads across the southern parts of Wyoming and Montana.

"You really should talk to Clara Atwood at the museum. You're friends, right?" Not exactly, though the curator of the Sherman Western Frontier Life Museum and I did have a man in common. My friend, rival, and colleague Wardell Yardley, who was her... Hmm. Semi-significant other from two-thirds of the way across the continent and neither wanting to settle down? "Keefe talked about wanting to discuss things he found with her."

"Like what?"

She shook her head gently. "He didn't go into details with me, Elizabeth. He came here frequently, but he stayed focused on what he was doing. He didn't ask for a great deal of help. And whatever he did say was in passing. Very pleasant. Always. He was a sweet man. It's such a shame... Especially when he was so excited the last time he came in."

"Excited? About what?" I had a guess, but additional sources are always welcomed.

"He'd had one of those DNA tests — from that company HelixKin — and he expected to get the results at any moment."

Keefer Dobey certainly hadn't kept taking a DNA test and expecting the results soon a secret.

She raised her palms up. "Truly, that's all I know."

I was far from done fishing for details, though. "Was he interested in specific outlaws?"

"The usual ones around here. The Hole in the Wall Gang, of course, since that hideout was across the Big Horn Basin from here, down in the southern Big Horns. Though most people asking about the Hole in the Wall Gang are interested only in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

"But Keefe wasn't? Interested only in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, I mean."

"He started there, but then he headed in other directions. Less obvious ones." She seemed surprised by that insight.

"Lesser-known outlaws?"

She nodded, apparently still musing over her own words.

"Oscar and Pearl?" I asked. I was on a first-name basis with them because I wasn't a hundred percent sure my memory captured the last name correctly.

"You know about Oscar and Pearl Virtanen? He wanted every scrap we had. But we don't have many scraps. They haven't been of much interest to historians, who are generally the ones who dig up the scraps." Smiling fondly, she added, "They're like archaeologists going after bones. They value every scrap. And then they try to put the scraps together."

She leaned toward me, close enough for me to catch a whiff of coffee on her breath. "To tell the truth, I think some of what they create from the scraps is a real Frankenstein's monster. You know, they can't know which scraps they're missing and the bridges they fabricate to fill in..." She shook her head.

Not unlike some journalists building a story. Or, I suppose, investigators.

My turn to muse on an insight.

One of the things I've learned about the murders we'd investigated during my time at KWMT-TV was that the two people most involved — the murderer and the victim — crossed paths somehow.

That might seem obvious.

But it's really very wise.

Honest.

To investigate a murder, you learn about the victims and what brought them to the point where they intersected with the killer. Victimology helps you understand where and how and why the murder happened at that particular moment in the victim's life. Once you stand at that moment, then you can start to see what the cross street that represents the murderer must look like.

It's one of the reasons law enforcement has so much difficulty solving crimes that don't stem from the life of the victim, but only from the path of the murderer. Then, all law enforcement knows is one point in the murderer's path — that crime.

In this case, though, the chances of a random murderer getting to out-of-the way Elk Rock Ranch in Cottonwood County, Wyoming, and into Keefer Dobey's cabin — taking care to put his dog outside — then shooting Keefe just because, were way down there with the Super Bowl being held in Sherman next year.

In other words, we were looking for someone who'd had more intersections with Keefer Dobey than the murder.

Along with his life at the ranch, his search into Old West outlaws appeared the most likely point of connection.

"So, no historians have been interested in Oscar and Pearl Virtanen," I recapped, "but was anyone other than Keefe Dobey interested in them?"

She had to be better than that at hiding the flash of awareness in her eyes if she hoped to deny there was someone.

She didn't try to deny it.

She jumped to "I can't—"

I rushed into words to delay the it's-against-the-rules excuse. The problem with privacy protections is that the good people play by the rules, while corporations not only flout those rules, but made so much money off our personal information already that they now threw around their 600-pound-gorilla weight with abandon.

But that was another story. In fact, a 10-part Helping Out! series no one wanted to see.

"It's not for a story — even if it were, I'd need two sources for an identity."

"Well, he hasn't made a secret of it..." She was talking herself into sharing, which she'd do better without help from me. "I've seen posts on his social media and in open forums about the treasure."

"Treasure?" I probably should have let her go on at her own speed, but the word did keep popping up. "What treasure and was Keefer Dobey interested in it?"

"He was. But not solely searching for the treasure." She was saying the not-yet-named other guy's priorities tipped toward the treasure. "Of course to try to track the treasure, you need to know about Oscar and Pearl. But Keefe was more interested in them as people, with the genealogy possibilities, while Sam's more interested in them as bank robbers."

I could have pounced on the new name. And she could have backtracked.

Instead, I acted as if she hadn't given me half of what I wanted — the less valuable half, but still half. Keep her talking. That would give her more opportunities to let loose the last name.

I circled back to "What is this treasure?"

"Proceeds from a bank robbery. The money's never been found. And there was enough gold taken that it would be quite substantial today, even if the bills and such are only of historical interest."

Historical interest could translate into value, too.

"It's supposed to be hidden here? In Cottonwood County?"

"No one knows. Oscar robbed a bank down near the railroad line in the southern part of the state. He was supposed to be coming north, to join up with Pearl, but he was shot during the robbery and died enroute.

"But there was no sign of the proceeds from the robbery. The only hint was that he had mud and dirt on him like he'd been digging. Although that came from only one source, an account published decades later in a regional newspaper known for, shall we say, overdramatizing."

"Why decades later?"

"They published the memories of a member of the posse who chased Oscar."

"Do you have a copy of that article?"

"No." Her usually soft mouth went flat with the admission. "There are no copies of it that I have been able to ascertain. Both Keefe and Sam not only asked for it, starting me on extensive searches, but also searched themselves. Sam wanted to know the location of where the posse discovered Oscar's body, while Keefe was interested in a reference to the posse member remembering seeing Pearl and being moved by her grief and dignity.

"But all we have is a single secondary source referring to the article. Everything else cites that secondary source."

A dead end. When you hit those, you tried to pick up another trail. Basically, you just wanted to keep the person talking. "So Keefe signed up for a DNA test and—"

"Not. He got it as a gift. You'd think he'd've done one back at the start, but in many ways he was unfamiliar with how things worked, modern things. He didn't even have a laptop computer until this fall. He certainly didn't know about tracking historical facts or trying to connect with a family tree until he started coming here. I don't think a DNA test ever occurred to him until he received it as a gift."

"Who gave him the test?"

"He never said."

The woman in the brown sweater behind the circulation desk gestured to Ivy.

Duty — and library patrons — called.

****

Exiting the library— without Sam's last name, but with hope that a return visit might secure it — I put my hand in my pocket for my phone, but waited until I was in the SUV to pull it out. No sense giving the Arctic winds the chance to flash-freeze it and my hand.

I had routine messages, plus one from Mike to call him.

He didn't sound urgent, but we'd just talked, which made it slightly concerning.

I obeyed. After all, he was the boss — a sentiment, if I shared it, that would amuse Diana all over again.

"What's up, Mike?"

"I didn't want to burden the others with how bleak the hiring looks."

But he'd burden me.

That was fair, since I'd agreed to consult in turning KWMT into something new and interesting, offering ongoing education for young hires. It's stopped him asking me — whether in the mode of badgering or begging — to take on any or all of the empty positions.

So far.

"I'm running out of ideas of what to try next."

I had a bad feeling that asking me — again — might be included in his remaining ideas of what to try next. I wondered if I could work it into the conversation casually that if he ever did push me into one of those positions, this sort of drop-everything-and-concentrate investigation would be impossible.

Even when he didn't have a fondness for the victim, as he did now, he valued these inquiries, both for their news value and from a strong sense of justice.

As I turned on the SUV for heat, I asked, "What's the latest?"

"I talked to this great woman from Pittsburgh, Octavia Zabel. She's one of the few who hasn't quailed at the idea of a Wyoming winter. In fact, it appeals to her. Problem is, she wants to ski."

"That's—"

"As in ski all winter, every winter. She said she's put so much time into building her career and now she wants the time to ski before she gets too old."

"I don't know if you can talk Leona into anchoring all winter, especially since winter around here is most of the year."

"It's not that bad." His kneejerk response to criticism of the weather. "But... yeah, I don't know about Leona, either." He perked up suddenly. "On the other hand, if we get Octavia Zabel in soon, Leona wouldn't have to pick back up until the end of September or so."

"You hear that sound? It's the clunk of a can being kicked down the road."

"I know. But maybe by then..." Even his optimism couldn't complete that. "I really don't want to lose Octavia. She's enthusiastic about the idea of bringing along young hires, intrigued by the new challenge, and you should hear the things she says about you."

"I like her already."

"But she's adamant about having the winters to ski. Leaving us only covering part of the year..."

"Don't make a decision right now. Think about this a couple days. Try to put it out of your head and then come back to it."

"I like that. It's worked for me before, things like deciding whether to finish out my career with the Bears or try the free agent market. Sorting what I really wanted rather than the dollars and cents type stuff. Worked out well."

"Good. Something else we need to talk about — Diana and replacing the NewsMobile. There's something more going on there for her to be so resistant."

"I wonder if we could afford a mobile production truck—"

"Mike. Concentrate. We have to figure out why Diana doesn't want to replace the NewsMobile."

"You could ask her."

"If she were going to tell me, she already would have. But you are the station owner."

He expelled a breath. I waited for a crack about how he was rethinking that move. "I'll see if she'll talk to me. So, did you find anything more related to Keefe?"

Good move, ending one discussion by turning to another.

"Nothing earthshaking."

I pulled out of the library lot, heading for my next destination. By the time I finished telling him about my conversation with Ivy Short, I'd parked near the Sherman Western Frontier Life Museum.

"...I'll see about figuring out who this Sam is, but for right now, I've just arrived at the history museum to see if Clara's got anything."

"Okay." But he didn't end the call. Even when we both went to silence.

"Something else on your mind, Mike?"

"You heard what she said — they're not really dating?" He meant Jennifer. "That's because the guy's a leech. Just hanging around her for what he can get."

"You mean reflected glory from her brilliance?" I asked hopefully.

"Not entirely," he grumbled.

"You think she's serious about him? Or that he's a danger to—"

"Nah. Nothing like that. I just didn't like the guy. And she knew it and tore into me." He cursed. "Gotta go. Meeting's starting. Talk to you later."