It’s the break we were looking for.
It took less than a half hour to get a telephonic search warrant from a federal judge, which has to be close to a record. Diane immediately faxed the warrant to the cell phone service provider and a personal call from Jimmy explaining that at least one life was on the line helped expedite the data request.
By the time we reached the hospital in Redding, Diane was already crunching data from three months’ worth of calls from Zell’s phone. The provider also included a map of all the cell towers those calls bounced off.
When a call is made from a cell phone, it uses the nearest compatible cell tower to make the connection. If the caller is traveling down the road, the call bounces from one cell tower to the next as the caller progresses. Most of the tower data we received was as expected; they were towers near Zell’s home, around Redding, and along the main roads.
There were seventeen calls, however, that bounced off a tower north of Platina. And since that area is mostly empty land filled with sparse forests and rolling hills, it begs a closer look. The search area is massive, though, the proverbial needle in a haystack.
It doesn’t matter.
We’ve got nothing else to go on.
Walt pulls into the parking lot next to the general store and we retrieve our gear from the back of the SUV. With Zell in the hospital, there shouldn’t be any need for a vest, but Jimmy insists we bring them anyway. After my close encounter with the shotgun, I’m not going to argue.
“We’ll set up base camp for Search and Rescue right over there,” Walt says, pointing to the large empty parking area on the east side of town. “The command vehicle is on the way, so we’ll have good comms, computers, Internet access, a bathroom, even a couple bunks if someone needs rack time. Deputy Ross Greene is our SAR coordinator. He’s about ten minutes behind us. I had him swing by the shop and pick up a couple ATVs for you.”
“I appreciate that,” Jimmy replies. “I know it seems odd, but Steps and I work better alone. And the more mobile we are, the better.”
“Your call,” Walt says. “A few weeks ago I would have challenged you on it, might have even called you crazy.” He hands Jimmy a black backpack. “You’ve got nothing to prove. I don’t know how you do it, but the two of you get results. That’s all I care about right now.” Nodding toward the backpack, he says, “Bottled water, MREs, a couple thermal blankets, first-aid kit, pretty much anything you might need in a pinch.” He grabs a second pack and hands it to me.
I just nod my gratitude.
“We’ll search until we lose the light,” Walt says, “and start again first thing in the morning. Some of us will be here all night, so if you need something, just come to the command post.” He hands Jimmy a portable radio. “It’s set to TAC 3, one of our tactical channels, which has a shorter range than our normal frequency, so you don’t need to worry about interfering with dispatch.”
“I’m not sure if I remember my radio procedures,” Jimmy says, examining the Icom portable radio. “It’s been a while.”
“You don’t need to worry about procedures out here. We’ll be the only ones listening. The call sign for the command post is just command. Yours will be FBI.”
“That’s what I like about you, Walt: You keep things simple.”
Minutes later the command vehicle appears on the road to the east. It’s a large motor home on steroids. The sheriff’s office bought it with a partial federal grant three years ago as a mobile emergency command center. It has all the bells and whistles, even a large retractable awning on the passenger side so you can sit outside without getting blasted by the sun.
Behind the command vehicle is a black Suburban towing a small trailer and two Kawasaki Brute Force ATVs with matching camouflage paint. The Suburban pulls onto the gravel beside the road, kicking up a cloud of dust, and Deputy Ross Greene is out of the driver’s seat seemingly before the SUV comes to a complete stop. In less than two minutes he has the ATVs off-loaded and begins to top them off with fuel. Jimmy and I make our way over to Greene as other vehicles begin to arrive. The place is soon awash with members of the Shasta County Search and Rescue.
It’s a good feeling.
Reassuring.
Hopeful.
I’ve seen it on searches all over the country, neighbors coming out to help neighbors, even if they’re total strangers. Sometimes they work as an official Search and Rescue team, sometimes it’s just citizens stepping up. When you spend your professional life wallowing in human debris, it’s a good reminder that the honest and decent people outnumber the vile and evil by wide margins.
Jimmy and I greet Ross Greene near the ATVs, shaking hands and bantering back and forth. We haven’t officially met, but we recognize each other from Chas Lindstrom’s town house. Ross gives us a quick lesson on the quads; I haven’t ridden one in probably a year. Jimmy owns one.
“I’ve got an extra five-gallon can for each of you,” Ross says, retrieving the gas from the trailer. He proceeds to strap one down on the back rack using a snake-nest of bungee cords. Jimmy grabs the other can and does likewise on the other ATV. Then he straps down each of the black backpacks and we’re about set.
“Take care out there,” Ross says as we fire up the Kawasakis … well, Jimmy fires up his Kawasaki; somehow I manage to flood mine and can’t manage to clear it. After repeated failed attempts to start it—with plenty of input from Jimmy—I let Ross take over and it fires up immediately.
Figures.
We ride for a good fifteen minutes before reaching the edge of the thirty-six-square-mile search grid. Unlike SAR, our goal isn’t to do a methodical section-by-section search. Rather, we’re going to ride like a bat out of hell along every trail we can find, hoping for just one glimpse of Zell’s shine that will point us in the right direction.