’s face was described as a “notched or serrated mutilation cut similar to serrated cuts near the genitals and anus.”
To make sure, Joe thumbed back through the reports. The notes of “serrated cuts” were unique to the Tuff Montegue autopsy. It could just be an aberration, Joe thought, or a mistake. The county coroner did not do many autopsies. He spent more time in his fly-shop than the one-room morgue. Joe planned to ask about the discrepancy once the discussion got started.
There was something else. Or, rather, the lack of something else. There was no mention of oxindole, Joe noticed.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Hersig said, sliding Joe’s report on the moose from the file.
Under Robey Hersig’s direction, the task force methodically reviewed the reports in the file. It was decided early on that the aspects of the investigation would be divided up among the principals; Sheriffs Barnum and Harvey would concentrate on the murders that took place within their counties, Agent Portenson would facilitate communication access between the local authorities and the FBI, Brazille would coordinate with the governor’s office and Joe would follow up on the wildlife mutilations and “anything out of the ordinary.” When Joe heard Hersig say that, he winced.
Hersig smiled back.
“Reports will be shared with my office, and we will serve as the communications center,” Hersig said, looking hard at each person at the table. “Nothing will be withheld from this office. Territory doesn’t matter, jurisdiction doesn’t matter. We’re all on the same team here.”
FBI Special Agent Tony Portenson seemed to have an agenda of his own, and Joe couldn’t yet determine what it was. Portenson paid cursory attention to Hersig, reviewing the documents in the order Hersig referred to them, but periodically rolling his eyes and staring at the ceiling. Joe wished Portenson wasn’t there, because Portenson brought back dark memories of the death of his foster daughter the winter before, as well as the death of a federal- land manager. When Joe looked at Portenson, he imagined that the agent was there to observe him, to possibly catch him at something. Joe vowed to be careful. Trouble was, Joe actually liked Portenson.
Sheriff Dan Harvey of Park County didn’t seem to agree that the attacks that had happened in Twelve Sleep County had any bearing on his interest, which was investigating the death and mutilation of the older man found near his cabin on the same night Tuff Montegue was killed.
Because Joe knew only a few sketchy details about this aspect of the case, he paid special attention to the Park County report. The sixty-fouryear-old victim was named Stuart Tanner. He was a married father of three grown children and CEO of a Texas-based water-engineering firm that had contracts in Wyoming doing purity assessments for the state De-partment of Environmental Quality and the CBM developers. Tanner’s family had owned the cabin and mountain property for over thirty years, according to people in Cody who knew him, and Tanner preferred staying at his cabin rather than at a hotel while doing work in the area. He was physically fit and enjoyed long hikes on his property in all kinds of weather. It was presumed that he was on one of his walks when he died, or was killed. His mutilated body was found in a meadow in full view of a remote county road. Someone had seen the body and reported it by calling the Park County 911 emergency number. The preliminary autopsy listed the cause of death as “unknown.”
As Hersig moved to the case of Tuff Montegue, Joe interrupted. It was the first time he had spoken.
“Yes, Joe?”
He turned to Sheriff Harvey. “The report doesn’t indicate predation of any kind. Did you see any?”
“You mean like coyotes or something eating the body?” Joe nodded.
Harvey thought, stroked his chin. “I don’t recall any,” he said. “I wasn’t the first on the scene, but my guys didn’t mention any animals and the coroner didn’t say anything about that, either.”
Joe nodded, sat back, and turned his attention back to Hersig.
Tony Portenson cleared his throat. “Before we go off in too many directions, I’ve got something here that might give you all a great big headache.”
From a briefcase near his chair, Portenson withdrew a thick sheaf of bound documents. Like a card dealer, he slid them across the table to all of the task force members.
Portenson said, “This stuff isn’t new, cowboys.”
Joe picked up the one-inch-thick binder and read the title: summary investigative analysis of “cattle mutilations” in wyoming, montana, and new mexico.
The report was dated 1974.
“I found this when the bureau was asked to assist on this investigation,” Portenson said, a little wearily. “Somebody in our office remembered seeing it back in the archives.”
Joe flipped through the binder. The report had been typed on a typewriter. There were dark photographs of cattle, much like the newer ones he had just looked at in the file Hersig had assembled. There were pages of necropsy reports, and transcripts of interviews with law enforcement personnel and ranchers.
“Shit,” McLanahan said, “this has all happened before.”
“Not exactly,” Hersig said quickly. Joe guessed that Hersig didn’t like the way Portenson had taken over the meeting and surprised him with the reports. “There’s no mention of what I’ve found about wildlife or human mutilations here.”
Portenson conceded the point with a shrug, but did it in a way that indicated that it didn’t matter.
“So what was the conclusion of the FBI?” Barnum asked. “Or do I have to read this whole goddamned thing?”
Portenson smiled. “A forensic investigative team at Quantico devoted three years to that report. Three years they could have been working on real crimes. But your senators and congressmen out here in the sticks insisted that the bureau devote precious time and man-hours to a bunch of dead cows instead.”
“And?” Sheriff Harvey prompted.
Portenson sighed theatrically. “Their conclusion was that this cattlemutilation stuff is a pile of horseshit. Let me
