“Grandma and Grandpa, it’s me, Homer!” the sheriff called out.
A plump woman in a gingham dress appeared in the kitchen doorway, threw open her arms, and gave Watts a big hug. He wriggled in her grasp, embarrassed, and she let him go. “And who’s this?”
“This is the FBI agent I was telling you about, Corinne Swanson.”
The woman was clearly surprised to hear this, but she covered it up quickly. “So good to meet you, Agent Swanson.”
“Good to meet you, too, Mrs. Watts.”
“Oh, and Mr. Fountain!” the woman said as she saw the lawyer enter the kitchen. “You all come into the den, where Mr. Watts is resting.”
Corrie followed her into a cozy room with a stone fireplace, with plaques and trophies adorning the walls and mantelpiece. An old man was sitting in a BarcaLounger, wearing suspenders over a checked shirt. He pulled a lever, and the chair went into the upright position.
“Please don’t get up,” Corrie said, but he was already on his feet and shaking her hand.
“Edna, our guests need some cookies and coffee. Or milk, perhaps?”
“I don’t need anything, thanks,” said Corrie.
“I never say no to homemade cookies,” Fountain replied with a smile.
“Good. Bring in the pot, please, Edna. And a few extra cookies, anyway.” The sheriff’s grandfather eased himself back down in the chair with the help of a nearby cane. “Have a seat over there, young Agent Swanson.” Then he pointed to an overstuffed love seat. “And you, Mr. Fountain, take the place of honor.”
“Thank you,” Fountain said, blue eyes sparkling from behind his round glasses. “And I’ve told you: when we’re outside of the courtroom, it’s Charles.”
“Speaking of courtrooms, I never did pay you for your time on that damn eminent domain business.”
Fountain waved this off. “Anything for your family.”
Corrie sat down, propping her accordion folder next to her chair. The sheriff took a chair on the far side as Mrs. Watts returned holding a tray laden with a coffeepot, cream, sugar, cups, and cookies.
“Maybe I will have a cup,” Corrie said. She had been dying for more coffee all morning and it smelled heavenly, strong and black, not the weak-ass stuff you got in Albuquerque.
“I knew it,” said the old man, pouring her a mug. “I took you for a coffee drinker the moment I saw you.”
Mrs. Watts also sat down. “How’s your ear?” she asked Homer.
“Fine. Just took off enough to leave a bit of a battle scar. Something to brag about when I’m sitting in that recliner someday.”
“I still think you should have shot that no-good Rivers’s head clean off,” the old man said.
The sheriff laughed. “Federal prison will take good care of him.”
There was a moment of silence. Corrie, making conversation, said, “That’s quite an impressive collection of awards you’ve got. Were you a sporting champion in your youth? Football or something?”
Fountain chuckled to himself, while the old man guffawed loudly.
“Those ain’t mine,” he said. “Those are marksmanship awards, and they belong to Homer, here.”
Corrie looked over at the sheriff to see, with surprise, that his face had gone a little red.
“You didn’t know?” the old man asked. “Homer’s a dead shot. Hell, he has three High Master awards from the NRA National Championships alone.”
“Knock it off, Grandpa,” Homer mumbled.
The old man laughed afresh. “All those trophies and things were just laying about his place, under the bed or in a closet, collecting dust. If he’s not going to display them, I sure as hell will.” The old man winked at his grandson. “Least he can do in exchange for my pair of Colts.”
Corrie glanced at the pair of revolvers on the sheriff’s hips with newfound respect.
Homer took a sip of coffee and sat forward, obviously eager to change the subject. “Agent Swanson has some pictures she’d like to show you.”
“Yes, indeed, and I’m curious to see them.” He looked at Homer. “Does this have something to do with that theory of yours?”
“God, no.”
Corrie looked at them. “What theory?”
When there was no answer, the old man said: “Well, are you going to tell her about your crackpot ideas, or am I?”
“It’s nothing,” Homer said, almost shyly. “You know, we’ve always had a problem with looters and relic hunters here—like just about every place else in the remote Southwest. I keep an eye on the usual suspects. But recently, although there’s been no uptick in looting, there’s been an increase in antiquities hitting the market without any provenance.”
“Could be a private collector who’s short of cash,” Fountain said. “Selling off pieces of questionable origin under the table.”
Homer nodded. “Could be.”
“Or it could be that my grandson has spent too much time with his head in the sun,” the old man said.
“My head’s just fine,” the sheriff replied. “You called it a theory—I just call it curious. Anyway, this person we’re trying to identify has been dead seventy years.”
Corrie picked up her accordion folder. “Before I show you the pictures, I want to explain that what you’re seeing is only a facial reconstruction, based on what we know from the anatomy of the man’s skull. It almost certainly isn’t going to be an exact likeness. But if it even merely resembles someone you knew, please tell me. Take as much time as you need.”
He nodded. “When did the feller die?”
“We think around 1945 or a little later.”
“I was five years old in 1945!” said the sheriff’s grandfather. “How am I going to recognize him?”
“I realize it’s a long shot,” said Corrie.
“I’ll do my best. Now, let’s see the pictures.”
Corrie slid the first one out, a full-frontal image of the reconstruction she had labored so hard over. She handed it to him, and he peered at it, frowning, his lips moving but making no sound.
“Here’s another,” Corrie said, handing him a three-quarters view.
He held them, one in each hand, looking from one to the other, lower lip protruding. A good minute or two passed. “Any others?”
Corrie gave him the profile. He peered at it. Then he gave a loud sniff. “Sorry, don’t know him.”
“You sure, Grandpa?” Homer asked.
“Never seen him before. I’m sorry to disappoint you, young lady.”
Corrie gathered up the photos.
“Can you think of any other folks around here who might know him?” Fountain asked the sheriff’s grandfather. “You know, old-timers who still have their marbles. Older than me. Older than you—if that’s possible.”
The man cackled. “That’s a tall order.” He was silent for a while, then tore a piece of paper off a nearby pad and started to write.
“There.” He handed Corrie the paper, on which were written two names in a shaky hand. “Homer will know where to find these people. Both of ’em are eighty-five years or older.”
Corrie drained her coffee, hoping to get a refill before they had to leave, and sure enough the sheriff’s grandfather, without even asking, poured her another.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Have another cookie.”
They were Tollhouse, her favorite, but she managed a polite refusal. The lawyer, however, swiped a few as he walked past the plate.
“Even if Gramps didn’t recognize it, that reconstruction you did was some piece of work,” Homer said as they walked back to the Jeep a few minutes later. “Even the photo of it looks lifelike.”
“Thanks. I always enjoyed working with clay in high school art class, when I got the chance. I never dreamed it might be useful in a law enforcement career.”
The sheriff frowned at the paper with his grandfather’s spidery script. “Clark Stoudenmire and Marilou Foss.”
“We should also check the local paper,” sh
e said. “There might be some photographs in the back issues.”
“The Socorro Register building burned down back in 1962, and it took all the old newspapers with it.” Fountain shook his head sadly.
Watts was still examining the scrap of paper. “Foss is in town, but Stoudenmire is way the hell out in the foothills. I suggest we get him out of the way first.”
“You’re a most unusual man, Sheriff,” Corrie said.
Watts looked up. “Why’s that?”
“All those awards. I don’t know how you resist bragging. I even heard you let that scumbag Rivers draw first.”
For a minute, she thought he was going to turn red again. But then he scoffed. “Aw, heck. Practice and patience count for most of it. And you’re not so old yourself—you’ve got time. How’s your performance on the FBI range?”
“Sucks ass.”
“Hell, it can’t be that bad.”
Corrie looked away quickly.
“What’s the trouble there, Corrie?” she heard him ask in a quieter voice.
“It’s not the marksmanship,” she said, surprised to hear herself blurting it out. “It’s—it’s something else.”
“You mean that little fracas at Cedro Peak Campground?”
She glanced back. “What did you hear?”
“I’m sheriff.” And Watts shrugged, as if that explained everything. After a moment, he spoke into the silence. “How old was the girl?”
“What girl?”
“In the camper.”
Corrie paused. “Seven.”
“You were seven once. What was your father like?”
“Nice.” Another pause. “It was my uncle who was the bastard. My mom’s brother.”
Watts sighed, shook his head. “Corrie, I’m not old enough to lecture you.”
“Good.”
“But I will say this: Pulling a gun on someone, with intent to kill—well, it can bring all kinds of stuff to the surface. Stuff you don’t even know you remember. You can shoot five bad guys, but there’ll be something about the sixth…” He paused. “Cops don’t like to admit it, but it’s true. I’ll tell you something: If it ever stops mattering, you’re in the wrong game.”
This was followed by a silence. Fountain looked out curiously at them from the Jeep.
Corrie drew a slow, deep breath.
“Okay?” Watts asked.
“Okay.” She looked at him, eyes narrowed slightly. “Did we ever have this conversation?”
“Hell no.”
“I didn’t think so.”
19
STOUDENMIRE LIVED IN a double-wide set upon a rise, surrounded by spectacular views. He didn’t have a phone and so they weren’t able to call ahead, but by the time they pulled up he was already standing in the doorway, a giant of a man with a barrel chest, narrow hips, and a bald, grinning head. As they got out, he held his hands up in mock fear. “You got me, Sheriff! I’m guilty! Slap on the steel! Whatever I’ve done, Mr. Fountain here will get me off!” And he gave a belly laugh as he shook the hands of both men.
Watts introduced Corrie, and Stoudenmire turned to her with the expression of surprise she’d come to expect. “FBI?”
Corrie shook his hand as he continued to stare.
“What brings the FBI out here?” he said.
“Shall we go inside?” Watts asked, pointing at the door.
“Of course, of course.” They followed him into the dim and unappealing trailer, which smelled of old bacon, and took their seats in a shabby living room full of Scotch plaid furniture.
“Mr. Stoudenmire, do you know about that body they found in the ghost town up yonder?” Watts asked once they were settled.
“I don’t get much chance to read the paper these days.”
“Well, a body was found in High Lonesome, and we’re investigating, the FBI and myself. We’re trying to identify it, and Agent Swanson here has some pictures she’d like to show you. Just in case you might remember. The man died around 1945.”
Stoudenmire nodded, his eyes lighting up with interest.
Corrie took out the first picture and handed it to him. He took it up as she gave him the spiel about not expecting a perfect match. After a lengthy pause, he tapped the picture with a long, dirty fingernail.
“Kind of looks like that old coot who was around here when I was a kid,” he said. “I’m trying to think of his name.”
“Here’s another,” said Corrie.
He took up the second picture, held it close up, then far away, squinting. “Yup, that’s him.”
Corrie felt her pulse quickening, thrilled that her reconstruction might have worked so quickly. “What was his name?” she asked.
“Jim…”
She waited.
“Jim what?” asked Watts, also on the edge of his seat.
Stoudenmire screwed up his face. “Damned if I can remember. He was an old feller, you’d see him in town from time to time. He had various half-baked ideas he was talking up, but none of ’em worked out. He bought a bunch of cashmere goats, but they all died. Then he thought he could make a business of buying and selling junk.”
“But you don’t remember his last name?”
He shook his head. “Everyone just called him Jim.”
Corrie suddenly remembered the gold ring with the initials on it. “The last name began with G,” she said.
“G,” the old man repeated. “Jim G…Jim Gower. That’s it, Jim Gower!”
Corrie leaned forward. “And you’re sure of the identification, Mr. Stoudenmire?”
“You bet. Old Jim Gower. That’s him.” A decisive tap with the fingernail.
“What else do you know about this Gower?” Fountain asked.
“He scratched out a living on a ranch in the Jornada somewhere. That’s hard country. After he lost the ranch you’d see him in town, sometimes drunk or sleeping on a park bench, or trying to sell some old coins or arrowheads and other useless relics. Harmless old duffer.” He shook his head. “Jim Gower. Brings back memories, don’t it?”
Watts raised his head. “There’s a Gower out by Magdalena. Jesse. Young guy, writer or something. Do you know if they’re related?”
The old man shook his head. “Don’t know of any other Gowers in these parts, myself. I don’t think he had much family, if any.”
On the way back to Socorro, the sun cast a brilliant gold light across the prairie, setting the hills on fire. During sunset, the desert actually looked beautiful. The rest of the time, Corrie thought, it was just plain burnt-up.
“What do you know about this Jesse Gower?” she asked Watts.
“Not that much. He was from around here somewhere, went away to college. Lived in New York City for a while, then came back and settled at his old family place to write a novel. But that was ten years ago and I guess things haven’t gone so well.”
“Your guess is correct,” Fountain said. “I heard he got his nose broken last year at a bar in San Antonio, spent the night in jail. My guess is he’s taken to drugs or drink—or both. He may not be of much help to you.”
“Maybe not,” said Corrie, “but if they share a last name, we have to see him. I can’t do it tomorrow morning—I’ve got to present the case at our weekly meeting—but afternoon is good, if that works.”
“Fine by me,” Watts said.
“Think I’ll pass, myself,” Fountain told them. “From what I’ve heard, visiting Gower won’t be pretty.”
20
NORA PUT ON her best suit for the occasion, and when she entered the FBI briefing room she was immediately glad she had. The room was wall to wall with well-groomed young men and women in immaculate blue and gray suits, polished shoes, and shining faces. This was a far cry from the jeans-and-work-shirt informality of the Institute. Even in New Mexico, it seemed, the FBI were totally buttoned-down. She was especially pleased to be there, as Weingrau had come by her office earlier and praised her for working so well with law enforcement. “What you’re doing,” she’d said, “is i
nvaluable publicity for the Institute.” On top of that, the Institute’s press office had issued a release about the pro bono cooperation with the FBI, and the Albuquerque Journal had picked it up. Many details, of course, had been left out, including the gold cross, High Lonesome, and the body itself, but it was still a favorable story.
Nora took a seat near the rear as a fellow named Lathrop was winding up a PowerPoint presentation on the facial reconstruction, using pictures of the dead man’s face.
“We employed the method outlined by Taylor and Angel in Craniofacial Identification in Forensic Medicine,” he was saying in a pretentious British accent, standing next to an image of the deceased person’s reconstructed face. “We think it gives better results than computational forensics. Wouldn’t you agree, Agent Swanson?”
Corrie nodded curtly as Lathrop continued clicking through the photos.
“We determined,” Lathrop went on, “that our man was an emaciated fellow, in his fifties, balding on top with a fringe of hair, skin weathered from years in the sun. We took all this into account as we painstakingly reconstructed the face, added wrinkles and hair and a leathery tan. We think we’ve achieved an excellent likeness, and the proof is that we already have a tentative ID.”
He looked around. “Any questions?”
Many hands went up. Lathrop picked one.
“Okay, but was it murder?”
Corrie started to answer, but Lathrop interrupted. “Nothing definitive either way,” he said. “At least from a forensic point of view.”
“But this is an official case now?” someone asked.
This time, Corrie answered. “Yes, it’s official and approved by the SAC.”
There were a few more questions about how Lathrop had reconstructed the face, what the actual process involved, which the man answered with plummy self-confidence and panache while Corrie stood next to him.
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