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Saturday, June 24, 1995 10 Days Prior . . .
SHERIFF SANDY STAMOS DROVE NORTH ON HIGHWAY 67 WITH HIS FLASHERS on. He kept the sirens silent. There was no traffic at the ghostly hour of half past one in the morning, and little reason to wake the county. A couple miles north of town, he saw headlights from a semitruck off in the distance. The big rig had parked on the south-side shoulder. About a hundred yards from the truck, Sandy passed a car that was also parked on the south-side shoulder. He slowed to see the driver’s side door was open and the car was empty.
Sandy continued north until he saw the red flares glowing in the night. He pulled his sheriff’s cruiser onto the shoulder, placed the vehicle in park, but left the engine running. He grabbed the handle of the side-mounted floodlight and directed the beam at the man standing next to the truck. Thin and wiry, he looked to be somewhere in his sixties. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt and was leaning against the side of his rig with his legs crossed and hands in his pockets. The man had the sense to take his hands out of his pockets but didn’t go so far as to raise them. Sandy redirected his light to the middle of the road and the body that lay there before he climbed from his car.
“You make the call about a hit-and-run?”
“Yes, sir. Name’s Dale Pickett. I’m doing a run from Boise to Reno. Thought it was a deer ’til I got closer.”
The sheriff walked across the highway.
“Sandy Stamos.” He extended his hand. “Thanks for flaring the area off, Dale.”
“Sure thing.”
“Did you touch the body?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even to check for a pulse?”
“Figured that was your job. And there’s no doubt he’s dead, so I didn’t see the point.”
Sandy nodded. “What can you tell me about the car down the road? I’ve got a good friend who hauls for a living. He’s not the type to just hang out by his rig in this type of situation.”
Dale smiled. “No, sir. Me either. Full disclosure, I’ve got a firearm in my cab. Registered and legal and I’ve got the papers to prove it. After I flared off the body, I noticed the car down the road and took my firearm to have a look. I didn’t touch anything, didn’t want to tamper with evidence. But I wanted to see if anyone was in the vehicle.”
“And?”
“Empty. Driver’s side door was open, engine was off, and interior lights were dark, so I’m guessing the battery ran down. Front bumper is dented, and the headlight is shattered to hell.”
A hit and literal run, Sandy thought.
He took a moment to look up and down the road, then cocked his head toward the body.
“I’m gonna have a look at this poor guy.”
The spotlight from his cruiser provided plenty of light but Sandy removed the flashlight from his belt anyway. The man was in a heap, lying on his back with legs splayed, one arm pinned and hidden underneath him, and the other straight out to the side. There was a lot of blood. A circular pool around the man’s head as well as a streak on the pavement that ran for about ten yards from north to south, matching the direction the abandoned car would have been heading.
“What do you do in a case like this?” Dale asked. “Calling an ambulance seems pretty useless.”
“I’ll have to get the medical examiner up here to move the body. And we’re going to have to shut the highway down. I’ll also call Highway Patrol. They’ll want to get their accident investigation team on this. Give me a minute to make all those calls? Then I’ll take a formal statement from you before you get back on the road.”
“Sure thing.”
Cedar Creek, Nevada
Saturday, June 24, 1995 10 Days Prior . . .
BY 6:00 A.M., NEARLY FIVE HOURS AFTER THE ACCIDENT WAS CALLED in, investigators from the Nevada Highway Patrol had taken control of the scene, shutting down Highway 67 for a mile in either direction of the accident site. As they continued the tedious process of evidence collection—taking thousands of photos and hours of video that documented everything about the scene and the body—Sandy sat in his cruiser and waited for the plates to come back on the abandoned car.
“You there, boss?” the female dispatcher’s voice squawked from his shoulder-mounted radio.
“Yeah, go ahead. You have an ID on those plates?”
“Yes, sir. Car is registered to Annabelle Margolis.”
Sandy’s pulse quickened. An ugly situation had just gotten messier. Annabelle was the newly minted wife of Preston Margolis. Sandy walked a fine line when dealing with the Margolis family. For the last century, the Margolis clan had acquired such a stranglehold on Harrison County that the family believed they were above the law. There was no problem that could not be solved with influence and money. And on the rare occasion when neither worked, the family resorted to good old-fashioned intimidation or worse. But Sandy Stamos today, and his father before him, had kept the Harrison County Sheriff’s Department clear of the Margolis shadow. Having just won his fourth reelection campaign, Sandy assured that the last vestige of power in Harrison County would remain free from Margolis corruption for at least another few years. The rest of Harrison County was another story. From the state police to the prosecutor’s office, most of the public sector was firmly under the control of the Margolis family.
