Under Desert Sand

by R Lawson Gamble

  Hatchett stared hard a Tav for a few seconds. "An' you got no idea what Butch Short is thinking."

  "Guess not."

  Bronc stirred. His voice was raspy. "We got to get access to this well."

  Tav put his palms in the air. "I can't authorize you to go in there until Short and Sheriff Connolly give the okay."

  Jim Hatchett studied the ground, brought his head back up slow, looked at Tav. "Seems to me bringing the FBI in here is gonna stretch things out."

  "I'm not here in an official capacity, just as a consultant. It won't be me holding anything up." Zack's voice was soft and steady.

  Bronc stared at Zack. "See that you don't."

  Hatchett reached a hand toward Bronc. "Easy, Bronc. These boys know our cattle need this water. They'll do the best they can. Right, boys?" Hatchett's smile was thin.

  "We'll do what we can," Tav said.

  "I'm sure you will." Jim Hatchett turned and walked back to the truck. After a long look at Zack, Bronc followed. The truck spun around, raised a large cloud of dust, and headed back the way it came.

  "Nice folks," Zack said.

  "Desert folk tend to be spare with their speech and maybe talk their minds more than most."

  "Is that a euphemism for rude?" Susan asked. Neither man spoke. Susan looked off at the horizon. Where the sky had been a vibrant blue, it now held clouds. Was that a metaphor? She felt a strange desire to be away from this place. .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They followed Tav back, kept on going to Interstate 40 after Tav turned off at Hole-in-the-Wall, then turned east toward Needles. The BLM office was in town just a mile south on Route 95, easy to find. The sun was still hot when they climbed out of the Jeep, despite nearly cocktail hour.

  Butch Short came to meet them at the reception desk. He fit his name, at no more than five feet six inches tall, broad shouldered and stocky. He led them back to his office and waved them into a pair of metal folding chairs, and settled in behind his desk.

  "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I didn't realize you and your wife were on holiday." He smiled at Susan.

  Susan made calf's eyes and grasped Zack's arm possessively.

  "Oh, no, Susan's not my wife. She's my colleague. We had just presented a workshop in Las Vegas together when you called. I have a wife and child back home."

  "My bad. Welcome, Ms. ––"

  "Apgar, Dr. Susan Apgar," Susan said.

  "Welcome, Dr. Apgar. Are you with the FBI as well?"

  "I'm a professor of Anthropology. I teach in the California University system."

  "She's being modest," Zack said. "She's a department chair and she is well published."

  Butch shaped his hands like a steeple under his chin. "So you met with Tav today?"

  "Yes, we did."

  "He didn't put you off too much?" Butch grinned.

  "Not so much, really," Zack said. "He's taciturn, but seems a man with his feet on the ground."

  "If not in it," Susan said.

  Butch laughed.

  Zack glanced at Susan. "We visited the crime scene. I've a few questions for you."

  "No surprise."

  "What evidence do you have those boys didn't shoot each other, beyond the improbability of it?"

  Short gave a grimace. "Good question. It goes right to the heart of the matter. Some of us had a hard time believing those boys could shoot one another with such accuracy at that distance. They sure didn't look like professionals. Later, when we got the bodies back here to the morgue, the people over there thought the entrance and exit wounds were messier than a factory produced .44-caliber bullet ought to make. It bothered them. The sheriff and I went back up to the crime scene, spent a long time searching the sand for bullets."

  Zack raised his eyebrows. "A needle in a haystack."

  Butch nodded. "Still, we actually found a bullet in the sand where one of the bodies had been, a few meters beyond it and just a couple of inches deep. The slug was deformed, of course, so we couldn't tell much right then. Buzz Connolly, the County Sheriff, brought it to the lab. The lab boys test fired the victims' revolvers, compared the bullets. They couldn't get a match. They found intrusions in the lead material, imperfections that wouldn't be in bullets from a modern manufacturer. The technician figured it might have come from a home mold, the cartridge hand packed. That began to explain why it didn't travel as far as one might expect after passing through the skull. Powder loads in home packed cartridges can vary."

  "If that particular bullet killed the victim."

  Short smiled at Zack, nodded. "Right. The lab guys tried to determine the age of the bullet, but they couldn't tell. They began to think it might have been a coincidence, finding it there, a bullet left from the days ranchers couldn't order them from Sears & Roebuck. They figured the bullets that killed the boys were still out there."

  Zack nodded. "So we don't know for sure."

  "Maybe, maybe not." Short shook a finger. "They took a long shot and made another discovery. They found microscopic bits of other stuff on the bullet, tissue residue, maybe enough to run DNA tests with mini-STRs. They sent it along with DNA samples from both boys to the Sheriff's office in LA yesterday morning. Those guys have something called a 24-locus multiplex STR kit. The full results will take a while, however they believe the tissue sample is recent. That knocks out the idea of it being some random old bullet. Unless full DNA testing reverses this, it appears that bullet killed that boy." Butch raised his palms. "Now you see why you're here?"

  Zack shot a glance at Susan, looked back at Short. "What do you make of it?"

  Butch Short slowly shook his head. "I don't know what to make of it. The boys packed .44s, alright, but no match to this bullet with the recent tissue stuck to it." He shrugged.

  "You think there was a third person?"

  Short stared back at Zack. "It's a very real possibility."

  Susan glanced at both men. "How does that work? The guys walk together to the clearing after tying off their horses, split and walk in opposite directions, turn and face each other. They fire at each other and miss, then a third person shoots each of them in the forehead with an ancient .44 caliber pistol and walks away without leaving any footprints?"

  Zack looked at Susan, his lips slightly upturned with amusement. "That works for me. Let's go home."

  Susan ignored him, her eyes on Short. "Could that .44 bullet have been shot from a rifle?"

  Butch gave her a long look, nodded slowly. "Interesting you should think of that––my thought as well. My firearm expert tells me the .44 caliber revolver was popular back in the day in part because the .44-.40 cartridges were interchangeable with the Remington repeating rifle. You could carry a pistol and a rifle and just one belt of cartridges."

  "But wouldn't the longer barrel of the rifle increase the velocity?" Susan asked. "We're talking about a situation where velocity had to have decreased."

  Short shook his head. "The barrel increases the accuracy, I don't know if that's true about the velocity. And there are a lot of possible variables, like the size of the powder load or the age of the powder."

  Zack stood. "We've got to go find a motel room for the night, get some dinner. I'll make this easy for you. You've got an interesting situation here. We don't need to sign a contract, I'll agree to assist you for my costs and whatever donation you think I deserve at the end of the investigation. That way, since this is not yet an official FBI investigation, I won't be seen to be double dipping. If it does come to involve the FBI, I guess you won't need to pay me at all." Zack smiled at Short. "Win, win."

  "And Dr. Apgar...?"

  "I'll take responsibility for her costs, for as long as she remains involved." Zack looked at Susan. "That work for you?"

  Susan nodded.

  Butch showed them out. "Any idea where you'll start?"

  "Not a clue. I'll need to revisit the crime scene and think some more about it. I'll be in touch."

  They all shook hands.

  Z
ack and Susan found neighboring rooms in a small motel, just steps from the highway, near a McDonalds. The motel manager put them on to an excellent Mexican cafe. After dropping off their things, they located the restaurant and began with a round of house margaritas.

  Zack raised his glass to Susan. "You sure you have time to get involved in this?"

  "What's the matter, you don't want me hanging around?"

  "Hardly that."

  "My next engagement is a week away, as it happens. It's good to be on sabbatical, set my own schedule. So, yes, I have the time." She arched her eyebrows. "For as long as it holds my interest, of course."

  "What are your deductive powers telling you?"

  "Not much. I require more data. For instance, the evidence we have so far strongly suggests to me someone else fired the fatal shots. Yet they found no shell casings, no other evidence other than the bullet to support that. Then there's the angle of fire. To kill both boys the murderer would have to stand directly between them, but you found nothing to support that, did you?"

  Zack shook his head.

  "So we need to resolve that. I'm also interested in the bullet they found. Mr. Short said they found just the one. If it was fired by a third person, where are the bullets from the victims' guns? When, why, and at what were they firing? Did they really shoot at each other and miss?"

  Zack licked salt off the rim of his margarita. "I thought of that. To be honest, I find it amazing they found anything at all in that sand."

  "I would think a thorough search with metal detectors set at the right depth might eventually meet with success," Susan countered. "It's a matter of diligence. How much effort did they put into it?"

  Zack gave her a pensive look. "You may be right, although the bullets from the victims' guns, assuming they were wide of the mark, could have traveled a long way." He thought a moment. "Then there's the second victim. Where is the bullet that killed him? If I remember correctly, the ground behind the victim nearest the windmill sloped up. If the shot meant for him didn't go too wild, it might be buried there somewhere. A .45 caliber bullet shot directly into packed sand will penetrate about 6 inches. A bullet having lost much of its velocity shouldn't be that deep." He cocked an eye at Susan. "What do you know about using a metal detector?"

  She laughed. "I'm not sure I know what one looks like."

  "We'll be evenly matched, in that case," Zack said.

  After dinner, as they walked slowly across the parking lot to the Jeep, they paused to experience the evening. The pavement was still warm, the air cool. The moon was bright overhead, almost full. There was the smell of sage in the air. Susan breathed deeply, impulsively grabbed Zack's arm. "It's perfect, isn't it?"

  Zack stared into the distance. "It's a beautiful night. I'm going to call Eagle Feather. Maybe he can find something I didn't at the crime scene. A lot hinges on that."

  Susan rolled her eyes. "You sure know how to blow a mood."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Colter Budster had no patience for musty lecture halls and bald professors who clearly wished they were elsewhere almost as much as he did. His ambiguity of purpose didn't help matters, either. He'd heard his parents argue the first year of college was often like this, generalized, repetitive, a rehash of his last year of high school. The focus will sharpen, they said. Your path will become clear to you.

  Well, it hadn't. Part way through his second term nothing had changed, no stir of motivation lifted him beyond this miasma; no epiphany set him upon a life road.

  Col––no one ever used his full name––did notice a change, not in himself, but beyond the school walls all around him. It was spring in Madison, Wisconsin. The smell of it was in the air, sweet and seductive. The world beckoned and Col listened. One morning he wrote a brief note to his parents, thanked them for all they had tried to do, and headed west.

  Col had a few hundred dollars; it saw him as far as Colorado. There he found work as a carpenter's helper. Tall, rangy and strong, he could easily do the grunt work. Brighter than most, he quickly learned the trade. When jobs disappeared in one town, he moved to the next. The summer solstice came and went, the days shortened, he reflexively followed the sun as he moved from job to job. By September, he was in Las Cruces, New Mexico.

  In this town he found the classroom that had eluded him at the University of Wisconsin. The area's rich history, from Spanish miners and travelers along El Camino Real to Billy the Kid and Geronimo; the art galleries, museums and performing arts; the breweries and authentic Mexican food all called to him. He found kindred spirits among the diverse young people he met at performances and in coffee shops, restaurants and pubs, in his classes at New Mexico State University. Las Cruces was growing, and presented more than enough jobs for a talented carpenter. Col settled in for the winter, content with his life and 350 days of sunshine.

  He met Julio while hiking in the Organ Mountains, dramatic needle-like peaks just beyond the city, on the trail to the Needle summit. Not a climber, Col did not expect the class-4 scramble up the last bit to the summit. Julio, resting from a solo climb, offered to set a top rope on the pitch as security and Col accepted, not at all content to turn back so close to his goal. The two rested together on the summit, marveled at the view, enjoyed the beauty of the day, and experienced all those qualities of youth and spirit imbued upon them by the moment, a moment that initiated a strong friendship.

  Julio offered to teach Col to climb, who eagerly accepted. They spent the remainder of that winter on the crags, as work allowed. Col learned quickly, and as he did, more routes opened up for the team. Julio left his YMCA quarters and moved in with his friend in a small rented house. Col's sporadic carpentry contracts more than supported their lifestyle. The odd jobs Julio worked to support his climbing habit now became a luxury rather than a necessity.

  With late spring came an influx of tourists, and warmer weather. The mountain peaks, comfortable in the 50's in the winter, became uncomfortably hot in the 80's and 90's. Discouraged by crowds and the heat, the young men discussed their options. It seemed serendipitous when a letter arrived from Julio's uncle in Mexico City offering a summer job. His uncle owned sheep in a remote area of southern California, in the Mojave Desert. The sheep needed to pasture in the high country for the summer. The shepherd who normally cared for the herd quit suddenly; the uncle would pay a good wage if Julio would take over.

  "What do you know of tending sheep?" Col asked.

  "I helped my uncle with his herds in Mexico as a child. I know all I need to know. I will ask him if he will hire you as well. In the high pasture with the sheep all summer there is nowhere to spend our money, and so we will have plenty for climbing in the fall. "

  Julio's uncle agreed to pay two salaries, so long as the boys took possession of the herd immediately. Col and Julio left the very next day for Kelso Depot in California to collect the herd.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Zack didn't sleep well, something about the texture of the sheets. By six am he was at the desk in his small room inhaling the steamy aroma of the motel coffee, not daring to drink it. His phone on the desk vibrated. He glanced at it: Butch Short.

  "Wake you?" Butch asked.

  "Hardly."

  "Like to join me for breakfast?"

  "As long as you promise me some decent coffee."

  "I can do that."

  The pavement was still cool from the night before, the dry grass and damp sand smell of the morning desert fresh and pleasant. Zack decided to let Susan sleep in, climbed in the Jeep and followed Short's directions to the Wagon Wheel Restaurant.

  The moment he stepped through the door bacon and coffee aromas surrounded him in a delicious cloud. He spotted Butch several tables away. A stranger was with him. Zack walked along between the rustic log chairs and the shiny pine-hewn tables to where they sat, coffee cups in their hands.

  Short looked up. "Morning, Zack. Sorry to roust you out so early. Allow me to introduce Dan Singletree."

  Singletree stood. He wa
s tall, had the look of an Indian, high cheekbones and a broad face, brown eyes. Zack grasped the man's hand, got a firm grip in return. When Singletree resumed his seat, Zack dropped into an empty log chair, its seat carved from a single chunk of thick wood.

  "Dan is a Chief of the band of Chemehuevi Indians living in the Colorado River Reservation, down near Havasu. He came to Needles to make inquiries about our investigation. I told him his timing couldn't be better."

  "What is your interest in the crime, sir?" Zack asked.

  "Call me Dan." Singletree paused when the waitress arrived, waited for Zack to order coffee, watched her bustle away, turned back to him. "To answer your question, it's not the crime that interests me, it's the location of the crime."

  "Oh?" Zack was surprised.

  Short spooned more sugar into his coffee. "The Chemehuevi people live down on the reservation south of here now, but before that they lived up in the high Mojave." He glanced at Dan.

  Dan nodded. "I'll give you a little background."

  The waitress was back, placed coffee in front of Zack. "I'll be right back to take your order," she said.

  Zack reached for the milk, nodded to Singletree he was ready to listen.

  "My ancestors came from desert tribes. The Chemehuevi are the southernmost branch of the Southern Paiute. They separated from the rest of the Southern Paiute way back. After that, they divided into the north and south Chemehuevi. My people were the southernmost tribe. Our land was the entire area of what today is the Mojave Preserve. The Mojave Indians were our neighbors on the Colorado River, but there was bad blood between us. So bad, each tribe had its own trails to the same places just to avoid each other." Dan gave a wry smile. "Sometimes the trails were just a few hundred feet apart, running parallel. My people and the Mojave traveled far across the desert to the Mojave River and beyond to trade, sometimes walking all the way to Cajon Pass and on to the Pacific Coast. There is very little water along the trails between the Colorado River and the Mojave River. It was necessary for the Chemehuevi and Mojave to use the same watering places. That did not work well."