The Walter Hobson Matter

"Marsha," I said, "I imagine that we would be good together under different circumstances. However, you should know that I am still processing the damage my late ex-wife caused to my psyche and wallet."

My words were like a Matador waving his red cape toward a charging bull. What Marsha didn't know is that this Matador had a sword ready for her assault.

"Briggs," Marsha said, "I'm sorry for being forward. I had no idea about your suffering. If you want me to..."

I cut Marsha off mid-sentence and said, "Hold on. I didn't say I wasn't interested. I merely want you to know that we need to take things slow. I'm old-school conservative and don't leap before looking. If you can be patient with me, we could take things further in a short while. I'm here for ten days, so let's explore a bit and see what happens."

"Oh, Briggs, I thought you were dumping me," Marsha said.

A Northern Pacific Giant Squid would be hard-pressed to duplicate the swift envelopment Marsha's arms had around my body. She latched onto me so fast I was nearly bowled over with her thrust. My arms hugged her in return, and we held one another for a few moments.

When we separated, we smoked another butt and decided to call it a night, with a promise to meet for breakfast in the morning. I escorted Marsha to her room and kissed her cheek goodnight. On the way back to my room, I had a conversation with myself about what was happening.

On the third day, Marsha and I were sitting in the sand below the cliffs of Torrey Pines. Hang gliders circled overhead as we sat holding hands in the Sun. I was amazed at the bravery of the people willing to risk death riding on those flimsy contraptions. The offshore wind strikes the cliffs and thrusts upward, helping to keep the hang gliders aloft. I was enjoying the moment when Marsha's phone rang.

"Hello," Marsha said. "WHAT? Are you sure?"

Marsha dropped her phone in the sand and began to bawl like a calf who was separated from its cow. I saw the phone call had not ended and picked up Marsha's phone. The call was still active, and I could hear the caller on the other end calling Marsha's name.

"Hello!" I said in a gruff voice. "I'm Marsha's friend, and she's crying her eyes out. What did you say to her?"

The male voice on the other end of the call identified himself as Marsha's father's attorney, who told me that Marsha's father was killed in an automobile accident. The attorney asked me if I was able to assist Marsha for the time being. I said I would help her as much as I was able to do so. We ended our call after I texted the attorney my contact information.

I took Marsha into my arms and held her for a few moments before encouraging her to accompany me back to the hotel. Marsha was in no shape to be left alone. When we arrived at the hotel, I escorted Marsha to her room and fixed her a bourbon and Coke from the minibar. Her hands shook as she nursed the mind-numbing elixir.

We silently sat as Marsha's mind raced. There wasn't anything appropriate for me to say, as I had only known Marsha for a few days. My phone rang, and I noticed it was Simmons calling me. What timing? I'm on vacation, the woman I'm with just found out her father's dead, and she's now an orphan, and my shithead boss is calling me. I told Marsha I needed to take the call and stepped out onto the patio.

"WHAT THE FUCK TO DO YOU WANT?" I nearly screamed into my phone. "I'm on vacation, ROBERT!"

"Briggs shut up and listen to me," Simmons said. "I need you to drop everything and come back to LA. The Pacific Assurity and Trust insurance company wants us to investigate one of their clients. It seems that their client may have been murdered, and they want someone to investigate. It's a huge payday for us, Briggs."

"Damn it, Robert," I said. "You know I'm on vacation, and you drop this shit on me?"

"I know, Briggs," Simmons said. "I'll make it up to you."

"Damn, straight you will," I cursed. "If I'm to abandon my vacation, you are going to pay me half of what you collect for this fiasco. I'm so fucking pissed at you right now, ASSHOLE!"

I told Simmons I would be back in the office in two days, as I had to get Marsha squared away before returning to work. When I went inside Marsha's room, she was still sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at nothing. I sat beside her and placed my arm around her shoulders. Marsha collapsed into me and sobbed. I stroked her back and muffled her cries. After a few minutes, Marsha sat upright, wiped her tears, and thanked me for being there for her.

"Do you need me to help you pack and get to the airport?" I asked.

Marsha declined my offer to help pack with a newfound determination. I could tell from her body language that Marsha mustered enough strength to deal with her crisis. In fact, her determination was unusual considering the circumstances. When I was with the FBI, I'd seen many women melt into a sobbing mess when confronted with the sudden and unexpected loss of a loved one. Marsha was like a steel I-beam when we hugged and said our goodbyes. I left Marsha's room, knowing I'd likely never see her again.

Chapter 3: Death by Device

I checked out of the El Coronado hotel and drove north on the Interstate 5 freeway. At my apartment, I unpacked my suitcase and headed for the shower. Throughout the three-hour drive back to LA, my mind was awash with conflicting thoughts. Some were about Marsha, well, most were, for that matter, and others were about the joy I would get in kicking Simmons' ass when I went back to work.

My sister, Connie, wasn't at her desk when I went to the office the next day. Her purse and suit coat were absent from her desk. Simmons' office door was open, and he was sitting in his chair smoking one of those dog-shit-smelling cheap cigars.

"Where's Connie?" I asked.

Simmons said, "She asked for the day off. Her son had fallen off his bicycle yesterday afternoon and broke his arm. Connie's staying home today to be with her son."

"Alright, Robert," I said. "What about this big payday you mentioned?"

Simmons told me the story of a client of Pacific Assurity and Trust insurance company who mysteriously died. The client had a $10 million double indemnity policy, and they wanted to make sure the decedent's family's insurance claim was legitimate.

"They have their in-house investigators. Why us?" I asked.

Simmons said, "Because there is a loose connection between the decedent and the insurance company beyond the normal business relationship. It seems the decedent's wife is a big wig at the insurance company's corporate office, and they want to make sure there is no preferential treatment from their in-house team."

I could tell this was going to be a cluster-fuck from the get-go. Simmons gave me what little information he had about the decedent, his wife, and the agent who sold the policy. My first stop was with the insurance agent, Mr. Langdon Whithers.

*****

"Mr. Whithers," I said, "My name is Briggs. I'm the PI assigned to your case. What can you tell me about it?"

Withers described how the decedent, Walter Hobson, had died in a crash in a small, northern California town called Weed. It sits at the base of Mt. Shasta, which is believed to be an ancient but still active volcano some 14,000 feet high. Hobson was on a winding road and plunged over the side of a cliff in the wilderness. Hobson was an avid off-road enthusiast with many years of trail experience. Withers said Hobson liked to travel to remote locations for camping and four-wheeling and most often would be found in the desert trails of Utah. Withers also said that according to Hobson's wife, he was to be in Utah and was disturbed that the accident occurred near Mt. Shasta.

Withers went on to say that the Weed police department did not suspect foul play. Although the death of Hobson was tragic, there were indications at the crash site pointing to Hobson misjudging the difficulty of the trail he was on, and he accidentally tumbled down the hillside to his death.

I asked, "Has the police inspected Hobson's vehicle?"

Withers replied, "According to the Weed police department, the vehicle is too far down in a ravine for inspection. Hobson's body was thrown clear of the vehicle when it first went over the cliff, so the rescue team and detectives ignored the vehicle."

I asked, "Is the vehicle still in the ravine?"

Withers said yes, and he gave me the GPS coordinates for the crash site. I phoned Simmons and told him I was heading north to investigate the crash. Of course, Simmons scolded me for wasting money, so I told him to eat shit and die. My next stop was my apartment for my go-bag, weapons, and clothes for the trip. I stopped by my self-storage locker and retrieved my military boots, tactical vest, and rock climbing gear. I figured that if the crash site were so inaccessible, I would need everything possible to assist with my descent and trip back up the side of the hill.

I called in a favor from a former client and rented his purpose-built Toyota FJ rock-climbing SUV. It had front and rear cable winches, an internal rollover cage system, oversized front and rear differentials, rock sliders, an abundance of off-road high-intensity lights, and tall, off-road tires for superior traction when climbing over obstacles. The drive north from LA took two days because the FJ was built for low-speed rock crawling and not freeway high-speed travel. The best the FJ could do on the freeway was 55 MPH.

On the third day, I drove the trailhead Hobson took. There were none of the usual signposts marking the name of the trail or its difficulty that would alert vehicles of what to expect when traversing the trail. Most vehicular trails that off-road enthusiasts enjoy have names and difficulty ratings to prevent the unprepared from having trouble on the trail. I drove uphill until the GPS pin told me I was at the scene of the crash.

When I arrived at the scene of the accident, I stopped several yards before the GPS pin said I had arrived. The first thing I did was look over the side toward the crumpled Jeep Cherokee two hundred feet below. There was no evidence of anything unusual at the roadside. There were trenches in the soft dirt berm alongside the trail, indicating a vehicle went over the side. Even though the accident had happened several days before, there were only a few tire tracks to speak of. Most of the tracks were dual-wheel tracks from the emergency services vehicles that came for Hobson's body recovery. The trail was basically a narrow dirt road with little evidence of frequent vehicular traffic. Most off-road four-wheeling trails have ruts and tire marks on rocks where rock crawlers spin their tires, attempting to gain traction over the obstacle. There were none at this location. This trail was not frequented by off-road vehicles as it was primarily a fire break to prevent the spread of a forest fire. The trail's flatness was about as difficult as a farm road in West Texas. Although the trail went uphill and downhill at relatively steep angles, the trail itself was rather smooth and unencumbered with obstacles.

Surveying the trail directly adjacent to the path the Cherokee took over the side, there were no skid marks indicating the Cherokee had too much speed and was trying to stop. The nearest bends in the road or switchback corners were several hundred yards in both directions. The place where Hobson's vehicle went over the side was a straightaway. The tire tracks over the edge were clear and normal. The tracks stopped at the edge of the cliff and began again about twenty feet down the slope, indicating the Jeep was traveling at a slow speed and was only airborne as it immediately left the dirt trail. This evidence would counteract any claim that Hobson was speeding on the trail and lost control. I could see further down the slope pieces of the Jeep as it disintegrated while tumbling down the hillside. The scrub brush along the slope had signs of being cleared by the emergency team to make a path for Hobson's extrication.

I opened the back of the FJ and removed my climbing gear. A large Douglas Fir tree provided the anchorage for my climbing rope. After donning my climbing harness, I put my digital camera in my backpack along with a first aid kit, spare water bottles, and an MRE pack in case something happened and I would be stranded on the hillside for the night. I double-checked to make sure the Satellite phone was charged and in my backpack. The area was so remote that there was no cellphone service.

My descent to the bottom of the ravine was rapid, and it only took a few minutes before I stopped at the upside-down Jeep Cherokee. The poor thing looked like it had been put into one of those car crushers at a junkyard. The roll cage had done its job, and the passenger compartment was relatively unmarked inside. The exterior was bent, broken, and ripped apart. When I examined the interior, I noticed that the five-point safety harness was unbuckled. If the police report were to be believed and that Hobson was thrown clear of the Jeep as it tumbled down the slope, the buckles of the safety harness would still be connected, and perhaps the web strapping would have broken apart. The harness was dangling and undamaged from the driver's seat. It looked brand new. The bolts attaching the harness to the roll cage were undamaged, too. Something wasn't right with this picture.

I crawled onto the upturned Jeep and inspected the undercarriage. There were no signs of tampering on the brake lines, and they appeared to be in working order. I also examined the drive lines, universal joints, and shock absorbers. They, too, appeared to be in working order. I took high-resolution pictures of every connection point in the brake system, driveline, and suspension components. Other than the physical body damage, the Jeep appeared to be in excellent working order. To be sure about the brake system, I crawled inside the Jeep and pressed the brake pedal with my foot. It resisted my pressure, indicating the brakes were in good working order. I looked in the back of the Jeep and noticed the absence of any off-roading gear or camping supplies. The back section of the Jeep was barren. Normally, anyone who does off-roading has everything they might need if they were to get stuck on the trail. There would usually be enough supplies for five or more days of camping. None of those things were in the back of the Jeep Cherokee.

The climb to the top of the cliff took much longer than I anticipated, and it was nearly dark when I reached the trail. The drive back to town was uneventful.

The next day, I stopped by the Weed police department and asked for a copy of the Coroner's autopsy report. The official cause of death was blunt force trauma to the base of the skull with numerous contusions, broken bones, and scrapes. The report noted that Hobson was dressed in a business suit, which is not what one would expect for someone who would be four-wheeling in the wilderness. Often, on the trail, things break on the vehicle's suspension, which requires lying on the ground to examine the damage. A serious and well-experienced off-roader like Hobson would never drive a trail in his business suit.

I made my way back to the hotel I was staying in and telephoned Simmons with my report.

"Robert," I said, "This looks like a murder to me. Hobson was found 75 feet down a hillside on a remote fire break trail in the forest, wearing a business suit. There is no way that an experienced four-wheeler like Hobson would do a thing like that unless he was forced to do so."

Simmons said one word, "Motive?"

"Unknown at the present," I said. "I'll be back in town early next week. I need to do some checking on things here first."

After my phone call with Simmons, I found a local bar and had a beer. The story of Hobson's death was still an item on the local news but was rapidly dying down as his death was ruled an accident. I was eating a burnt burger and soggy fries when I overheard two drunks discussing the case. Their obnoxious ramblings about a mob hit on Hobson was nothing more than armchair quarterbacking. Nonetheless, it sparked a thought. Hobson's murder was retribution for some egregious action on his part. I needed to speak with Mrs. Hobson muey pronto.

Upon my arrival in LA, I spoke with Mr. Whithers, the insurance agent, and got Hobson's home address and his wife's telephone number. I telephoned Mrs. Hobson and invited her to lunch. We met at Outback Steakhouse that afternoon.

"Mrs. Hobson," I said, "thank you for meeting with me. I realize this is terribly difficult for you, but I must ask you difficult questions. Do you think you are up to the task?"

"Mr. Briggs, please call me Grace," she said.

"It's just Briggs," I said. "There is no Mr. Briggs. Grace, was your husband known to make sudden or unexpected changes to his travel plans?"

"No," she said. "Walter was as predictable as knowing the next hour would be 3:00 PM."

"I understand, Mr. Hobson was an avid four-wheeler. Did he often go on unknown trails alone?" I asked.

Grace Hobson and I discussed Hobson's recent behavior. It seems he was distracted and distant but not unloving toward his wife. Walter Hobson was a government worker with a job that would take him away for a few weeks at a time every other month. Mrs. Hobson was unable to tell me who her husband worked for because he had a top-secret security clearance, and she didn't need to know. She said his pay was automatically deposited into their bank account on the first and 15th of each month. When I asked the difficult question of whether Walter or Grace was seeing anyone on the side, Grace collapsed in a fit of sobbing. When she gathered herself, she admitted to having an affair with a guy she met a few months ago. Grace believed Walter was ignorant of her dalliance. Mrs. Hobson told me she had broken off the affair last week. I asked how her paramour took the break-up. Grace said he was upset but understood and that he wished her well in the future.

"Mrs. Hobson," I said, "I'll need to speak with your lover, and frankly, I'm surprised the police have not already done so."

Mrs. Hobson cried and asked, "Must you speak with him? I mean, is it really necessary?"

"I'm afraid so," I said. "The man you were seeing is a person of interest in your husband's death."

I did not want to reveal my suspicion of Grace Hobson's lover as a potential killer. It's been done before. The lover gets rid of the husband so he can keep the wife for himself. On the other hand, Grace Hobson could have arranged for her lover to kill her husband, and the tears are a ruse to throw me off the scent.

"I can't do that," Grace said. "He's a successful businessman, and if word got out about our affair, it would harm his livelihood."

I tried to comfort Mrs. Hobson by telling her that I would not endanger his business, as I had no interest in doing so. Nonetheless, I encouraged Grace to provide her lover's contact information, as every lead, no matter how insignificant, must be investigated. Mrs. Hobson reluctantly agreed with me.

*****

I located Grace Hobson's lover and interviewed him. Jeremy Masters, a swarthy former professional soccer player from England who blew out his right knee, retired in the US and became a real estate salesman. Mrs. Hobson and Mr. Masters met by pure chance when she was stopped at a gas station to refuel her car. Masters was in the next bay fueling his bright red Ferrari SF90 Stradale. Grace Hobson virtually melted when she saw the exotic sports car and the equally exotic driver, Jeremy Masters. It took Masters exactly five minutes to convince Grace to park her Honda Accord and take a ride with Masters in the Ferrari. Masters had Grace in his hotel room within the hour of their meeting.

When I interviewed Masters, he admitted that Grace Hobson was an easy target of opportunity, and he was only seeing her because she was lonely and needed a good seeing, too. Masters said everything was going well until Grace got cold feet and broke off their relationship.