Joe knew he flushed red. That's exactly what he was thinking.
'Don't deny it,' she chided, letting out a bubble of laughter like a hiccup. 'If I were a snake I could have bitten you.'
Joe introduced himself. She said her name was Ginger. Joe had hoped for more than a name. He couldn't be sure whether Ginger was Jim Finotta's wife or mother. Or someone else. And he didn't know how to ask.
Jim Finotta, a small man, appeared in the foyer. Finotta wore casual pleated slacks and a short-sleeved polo shirt. Finotta was slight and dark; his full head of hair moussed back from his high forehead. His face was dour and pinched, foreshadowing the tendency of his mouth to curl downward into an expression that said 'no.' Finotta earned himself with an air of impatient self-importance.
His $800 ostrich-skin boots glided over the hardwood flooring, but he stopped at the opposite wall under what appeared to be an original Charles Russell painting and spoke without meeting Joe's eye. He nodded kindly to Ginger and asked her if she minded if he met with the 'local game warden' for a minute in his office. Ginger hummed her assent, and Finotta smiled at her. With a nod of his head he indicated for Joe to follow him.
Finotta's office was a manly classic English den with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled primarily with legal volumes. A framed fox hunting print hung behind the massive mahogany desk and a green-shaded lamp provided most of the light. A massive bull elk head was mounted on the wall in the shadows above the door. Finotta walked briskly around the desk and sat in his chair, clasped his small hands together, and looked up expectantly at Joe. He did not offer Joe a seat.
'You run cattle in the Bighorns near Hazelton Road?' Joe asked, feeling awkward and out of place in Finotta's study
'I run two thousand head practically the entire length of the Bighorns in both Twelve Sleep and Johnson County' Finotta answered crisply 'We also feed another eleven hundred on our pastures for the summer months. Now how can I help you?' Finotta made no attempt to hide the impatience that colored his voice.
'Well,' Joe said his voice sounding weak even to himself, 'there are at least ten of them dead. And there may be a human victim as well.'
Finotta showed no reaction except to arch his eyebrows in a 'tell me more' look. Joe quickly explained what they had found the evening before.
When he was done, Finotta spoke with a forced smile. 'The cows are mine but we aren't missing any employees, so I can't help you there. As for the cattle, those are--were--first generation baldy heifers worth at least $1,200 each. So I guess someone owes me $12,000. Would that be the Wyoming Game and Fish Department?'
Finotta's question caught Joe by complete surprise. He hadn't known how Finotta would react to the news that ten of his cows exploded--anger, confusion maybe--but Joe would never have guessed he'd respond this way The state did pay ranchers for damages to property and livestock if those losses were the result of wild game, such as elk herds eating haystacks meant for cattle or moose crashing through fences. But he could not see how the department would be liable for the loss of ten cows in a freak explosion.
As Joe stood there, trying to think of a way to explain this, Finotta was drumming his fingers on his desk. The sound both irritated and distracted Joe.
'Joe Pickett .. .' Finotta said, as if searching his mind for more information. 'I've heard your name. Aren't you the same fellow who arrested the governor a couple of years ago for fishing without a license?'
Joe flushed red again.
'The same warden who had his gun taken off of him by a local outfitter and was suspended for it? The same game warden who shot my good friend Vern Dunnegan in the hip with a shotgun?'
Joe glared at Finotta but said nothing. He admitted to himself that he was not handling the situation well. He was off balance and defensive.
'I came here to tell you about your cows,' Joe said, his voice cracking. 'The sheriff asked me to come here because he was busy at the crime scene. This doesn't involve me or the department.'
'Doesn't it?' Finotta asked facetiously, sitting back in his leather chair. 'It seems to me that a case could be made that because of the policies of both the U.S. Forest Service and the Wyoming Game and Fish Department we have in our state an overabundance of game animals. And because of that overabundance, there is an exaggerated sense that the 'wild' and 'natural' creatures are being crowded out of their rightful forage by cattle. Therefore, environmentalists are targeting cattle and ranchers, and poachers are targeting wild game. Which creates a state of affairs where this kind of violence can happen.
'I think we could win that one before a jury of my peers,' Finotta said, smiling. Finotta's peers would be local ranchers. This kind of jury stacking had happened before in the county 'And we would be talking about the loss of my cows plus legal expenses plus punitive damages.' He let this sink in. 'Or Game and Fish could save the taxpayers hundreds of thousands and simply pay the damage claim. That could happen very cleanly if the local warden made the argument in his report.' Joe was flummoxed, angry and completely off his stride. Joe could see himself taking three quick steps and knocking the smirk off of Finotta's face. It would give him immediate satisfaction, but would also result in termination and, given Finotta's obvious penchant for going to court, prosecution.
It was obvious that Jim Finotta enjoyed this, Joe thought. Finotta reveled in humiliating people he considered below his station. He was good at it. He knew the tricks. Finotta compensated for Joe's advantage of youth by making him stand there foolishly He addressed their height difference--Joe was at least six inches taller--by sitting behind his massive desk.
'Joe, I think you know who I am,' Finotta said, now charming. 'I know how much the state pays its employees. Your family would probably appreciate a half a beef come Christmastime. We're talking about prime steaks, roasts, and hamburger. This is good beef that will never exceed seven percent fat. I'll need to add you to our gift list.'
Rather than continue to look at Finotta in a growing rage, Joe focused on the reflection of the mounted elk head in the glass of the hunting print above the Lawyer's head. As Joe stared at it, he realized that there was something about the elk mount that bothered him.
'Do you have any questions, Warden?' Finotta asked gently
Joe nodded yes.
