interest in geology sprung from my interest in petrified wood. When I first started working as a deputy DA, a part-time investigator named Vince Jones, who had been a special agent in the FBI for thirty years, worked in the office. Many times Vince talked about collecting petrified wood. I became intrigued.
I began to collect some pieces of the wood and when I attended my first gem and mineral show, I quickly learned that these shows were a great place to find top-quality specimens of petrified wood. Dealers from all over the world bring gems, minerals and fossils to sell and display, especially at the huge winter shows in Tucson and Quartzsite, Arizona. There, one will find dealers from all the inhabited continents. Previously unknown material shows up every year. Quartzsite would be nothing more than a hot bump on Interstate 10 in the middle of nowhere without the show, which draws hundreds of thousands of visitors annually. It is in the middle of a rocky desert wasteland and comprises a vast network of tents and recreational vehicles. It was at the Quartzsite show that I met Mr. E. P. Akin of Shreveport, Louisiana, purveyor of the world’s finest petrified Louisiana palm wood.
Mr. Akin first began setting up as a rock dealer in Quartz-site after retiring from operating a successful nursery business in Shreveport. That was thirty-five years ago. A true southern gentleman who celebrated his ninety-fourth birthday this year, he is a man with broad knowledge in a variety of subject matters, ranging from human nature to horticulture and minerals. His knowledge of gem-quality Louisiana palm wood is unparalleled. So when he wrote to me in February that a friend of his in Shreveport was selling the finest collection of fossil palm wood ever assembled, I very much wanted to see it. However, when I received Mr. Akin’s letter, I was still engrossed in the most difficult, complicated and fascinating case I had ever come across. Now that it was over, I badly needed to get away and decided to take up Akin’s kind offer.
There are a number of ways to get from Grand Junction to Shreveport. I allowed myself a week to get there and back. I thought, given my interest in adding both to my knowledge and collection of petrified wood, I could finally stop thinking about the strange death of Bruce Dodson. It has preoccupied me for the last four years. However, though this was my objective, since I have been on the road driving, thoughts of Bruce and my involvement in bringing the truth about his death to light have been flooding my consciousness. I still cannot let it all go; perhaps I never will...
= chapter 1 =
The evening before the opening day of hunting season, Janice Dodson, an experienced hunter, and her new husband, Bruce Dodson, who had never hunted before, were driving in separate vehicles along dark, dusty roads toward camp, rather frustratingly behind schedule. Periodically they caught a glimmer of lantern light through the trees ahead and as they sped past could see the silhouettes of hunters busily readying their campsites for the morning’s hunt. There were quite a few other hunters on the road in their pickups and four-wheelers. Like much of the West, the Uncompahgre Plateau in hunting season becomes something of an armed encampment.
Janice planned on finding the spot at which she had camped in years past with her ex-husband. She had visited the place just a few weeks earlier on a grouse hunting and scouting trip. Her destination was a remote location on the 1.2 million acre plateau. While prime campsites can be hard to find during hunting season, there is ample room for all and no need for campers to cluster together. Janice and Bruce finally arrived close to 9:00 P.M.
In the pitch-black night they maneuvered their vehicles through the sharp curve from the main road back toward the spot Janice had selected for their campsite. Both vehicles made a racket as they traversed the rough terrain from the road to the clearing where they would camp, a few hundred yards off Brushy Ridge Trail. As they curved around the clearing their headlights illuminated two small tents and a pickup truck with Texas plates. Janice drove past the tents and parked at a level spot about sixty yards farther along. Bruce followed. They set up their tents and settled in for a quiet evening.
It is not uncommon to run into a Texas hunter in western Colorado. Much of Colorado was once part of the Republic of Texas and many Texans still treat the area as if they owned it. As it turned out, the hunters from Texas camped near Bruce and Janice were law enforcement officers from East Texas, the same general vicinity where Janice and her first husband were born and settled. One of these Texas hunters was Brent Branchwater, thirty seven years old, six-foot-six, skinny as a rail and a mild-mannered speaker with a quick sense of humor. Branchwater was a captain with the County Sheriff’s department based in Titus, Texas.
At about seven the second morning after Bruce and Janice arrived, Branchwater heard one shot close to camp, followed by some “hoopin’ and hollerin’.” Then he heard two more shots in rapid succession “a minute or two later.” He assumed someone shot a deer and the deer got up and was shot at twice more, so he didn’t think anymore about it at the time. After Branchwater “fooled around” his camp for a while, he began to skin the deer he shot the previous afternoon. Looking up, he saw an attractive woman with long, silky hair come over a nearby hill and pass between Branchwater’s camp and the one set up next to his. She walked over to a Bronco truck, opened the tailgate and placed a rifle into a gun case. Branchwater went back to work on his deer, but a few minutes later the woman he saw earlier walked over to his camp and struck up a conversation.
“That’s a nice forky,” she said, obviously knowing hunter’s lingo for the term for a buck with two antler points on each side.
“Thanks,” Branchwater said.
The woman introduced herself. Branchwater thought she said her name was Denise. They talked for a few minutes, then Branchwater told her, “My buddy, who is still out hunting, and I are planning to go into town later to get some ice.”
When he told her that, the woman asked, “Would you bring back some water for us? We didn’t bring enough.”
“Sure, no problem. Do you go hunting often?” he asked.
“I do, but my husband hasn’t before. We’ve been married for three months and today is our anniversary.”
“Well, congratulations.”
The woman smiled and walked back to her campsite. Captain Branchwater finished skinning and butchering his deer. He was sacking the meat, the radio was on and it must have been around 9:30 when he thought he heard an elk bugling. He turned off the radio to be able to hear better and followed the sound over toward the woman’s camp. Suddenly, he realized the sound he had heard was someone screaming. He strode over to the front of the vehicles parked at the site, which were facing away from his camp. Branchwater looked around and then spotted the form of someone lying on the ground in the distance. The woman he had spoken to earlier was screaming and swinging an orange safety vest and hitting the ground with it. She then picked up a rifle which had been lying on the ground near the stricken person’s right hand and threw it across the body. When Branchwater started toward her, she saw him and came running over, screaming for help.
Quickly he followed her. Reaching the victim, Branchwater went into police officer mode and carefully surveyed the scene. He noted that the man was lying on his stomach, facing to the left with both arms raised and his hands near his head. The woman cried out, “His name is Bruce.” Standing over him Branchwater saw Bruce’s mouth contract and thought perhaps he was trying to speak.
He yelled, “Bruce, can you hear me?” There was no answer. When he touched the injured man, Branchwater felt that Bruce was cold and saw that his eyes were fixed, his skin blue. Next, Captain Branchwater checked for and found no carotid pulse. He picked up Bruce’s right hand and pulled off the brown cloth glove to feel for a radial pulse; again there was
