MY AFTERNOON CALL to the US Forest Service’s office netted me the hiker’s name, which would be released on Monday. I learned from my mil-spec computer search that Trevor Sampson lived in an apartment in Tempe and leased a black Ford Raptor. He worked in Scottsdale at a nearby golf course on Hayden Road.
At five thirty, I called Trevor’s work to confirm he was still there, claiming I had neglected to tip him. I left the hotel for the golf course and was directed to where Trevor briskly cleaned carts alone. He was tall and tan, with distinctive bushy red hair.
I waved. “Hey, Trevor!”
Trevor stopped washing the cart and looked at me with apprehension as I walked toward him.
Quickly, I said, “I’m Will Sargent, a private investigator from Oregon.” I pulled out my new silver-plated ID card and flashed it at Trevor.
Glancing around, Trevor shoved back his bushy red hair. “The authorities have my report. I’m not talking to you or anyone else.”
I dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the cart’s seat. “My client believes the bones in the desert could be his missing brother. My client claims his brother never talked about his work but told him he carried a camera card with his identity. By chance, was there a camera card found with the bones in the desert?”
In a defensive mode, Trevor said, “I’ve been advised not to talk to anyone about the case.”
“Come on, Trevor. My client has been searching for his brother for years.”
“Why don’t you talk to the police?” Trevor said suspiciously, lifting his hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun.
Desperate, I continued with more blatant lies. “Well, the police informed me that it was an active investigation and that my client had to contact them. I passed the information to my client, and he immediately notified the Portland Internet Press that possibly the bones discovered in Arizona might be his brother. Also, he reported that his brother always carried an SD camera card with his identity. My client released this information before submitting his DNA or traveling to Phoenix. Afterward, my client was beaten by two men who wanted more information on the SD camera card.”
Trevor’s attitude changed. He stepped from the cart with a panicked expression.
I added, “If you know anything about the SD card, you might be in trouble too. I might be able to help you. My client gave me a description of the men who beat him. He said these guys aren’t ordinary punks; they were professional.”
Under the bright sun, Trevor’s face turned white. He flinched as a voice yelled, “Trevor, are you finished with the carts?”
Trevor wiped sweat from his forehead and yelled, “I’m almost done!” He then told me, “I can’t talk now. I need to finish washing the carts. I’ll meet you at the Herb Café at the DC Market in thirty minutes.” Without another word, he grabbed the hundred and jumped into the cart to park it with the others.
Quickly, I said, “See you at Herb Café,” confident he’d meet me. I left for the café to wait for Trevor. It was a familiar place that Melanie and I had dined at during better times. I suspected Trevor had friends there.
Sitting across from the horseshoe-shaped bar, I ordered a beer from an attractive girl attired in black shorts and a white T-shirt. She seemed carefree, while my problems weighed upon me.
The happy-hour crowd packed the bar from nearby offices and golf courses. It seemed to take forever to get a beer, and another twenty minutes passed before I saw Trevor’s sandy-red hair in the distance. I stood to get his attention. He waved at me. He continued talking to the barmaid before joining me with a bottled beer, probably advising her to watch in case he needed her help.
Trevor glanced around. “I don’t get it. How did you get my name?”
“It’s public record.”
Trevor sighed and angrily said, “The police said they wouldn’t release my name until Monday. What do you want from me?”
“My client wants closure on his missing brother. He claims the camera card would identify his brother.”
Trevor leaned in closer; I smelled alcohol on his breath, stronger than what was in the bottle in his hand. He said, “The police told me the camera card would be withheld from the public. Then, yesterday, I received a call asking if I had the camera card. And now you show up insinuating I know something. What’s going on?”
I leaned back from Trevor and noted sweat had stained his white shirt. Cautiously, I asked, “How did you discover the camera card?”
Trevor turned away and took a long swig. Obviously, he didn’t want to answer my question. I suspected he’d compromised the SD card before delivering his findings to the police, or the images were really damaged.
I pressed him again. “Did you make a copy of the SD card? If you did, I understand. I would have been curious too.”
“If I have a copy or the original, are you buying?” he asked casually.
“My client is willing to pay a hefty price for closure.”
Trevor looked around. “How much would it be worth to your client?”
“A thousand now and another thousand when I get a copy,” I said, hoping to make it easier for him to admit it. I hoped he had the original.
“I need ten thousand for the original,” Trevor said firmly.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said reactively, relieved to know he had tampered with the SD card. I couldn’t believe the police or FBI couldn’t confirm any compromise.
“I need to leave town,” Trevor said.
“I will pay two thousand dollars for the SD card, or my client will send another bulletin that the hiker has a copy of the SD card.”
“I’ll be long gone.”
Discouraged by his comment, I asked, “Did you take or find anything else at the site?”
“No,” Trevor said sarcastically.
“Trevor, you’re seriously messing with your life.”
Trevor swirled his empty beer bottle. “Not if you pay me ten thousand dollars.”
“Do you have another buyer?”
“Maybe,” he said with a smirk.
“Trevor, you are admitting you tampered with evidence and withheld it from the police. My client was beaten for mentioning the SD card.” I let my words sink in while I took a long swig from my beer, which had become warm.
Trevor snapped, “You’re offering to buy the card!”
“My final bid is a thousand now and another thousand for the original SD card.”
Trevor looked around as if he thought he was being watched. “I’ll take a thousand now and another thousand delivered at the golf course at nine o’clock this evening for a copy.”
“Trevor, you’d better be there. And if I were you, I’d be cautious. I found you, and others can too.” I unrolled a twenty to pay my tab and discreetly passed $1,000 to Trevor, discouraged he’d said he had a copy but not the original.
Trevor stuffed the roll in his pocket. “I totally get it.”
“Good,” I said.
I left the café suspecting he would renege on the deal. I’d memorized his license plates earlier. I found his black Raptor truck in the parking lot and waited for him.
Thirty minutes later, probably after another beer and possibly a phone call, Trevor walked around, searching for his truck. Maybe he suspected I’d follow him. After a few minutes, he climbed into his truck. I knew his address and waited a few minutes to follow him, hoping he maintained the speed limit with the few beers under his belt.