West Texas Dead: A Kailey and Shinto Mystery

by Frances Hight

  He winked at me. “You’re a college man now, Mr. Alvarez. You and I are going to be planning your life together. I suggest you study up.”

  “College? No, no, Mr. Miller. I’m not what you call college material.” I stepped back into his office, holding the catalog straight-armed like I’d grabbed a venomous snake ready to bite.

  He waved me off. “You leave that to me, Junior. I’ve read your records. You don’t give yourself enough credit. We’re about to change all that. See you in a month.”

  He resumed his seat and picked up the phone, a clear sign that my time in the box was over.

  I turned back for the door and saw shadows move through the frosted glass. A sharp rap rattled the old door in its hinges.

  “Midland PD.”

  I looked at my P.O.

  He raised his eyebrows at me. “Already, Alverez?”

  I got a familiar sinking feeling in my gut.

  “He’s in here,” he yelled.

  The door swung open to reveal two, female uniforms standing at polite attention. Each had that standard-issue flat expression that marks a cop from a hundred yards off.

  “This have to do with the mess outside?” my P.O. said.

  The two cops entered the office. One, not bad looking and the other with an exotic, Indian-in-the-family-tree look. The pretty one spoke. “It does. I’m officer Kailey Carmichael. This is Officer Shinto Elliot. We have a few questions for this man here.”

  Miller looked at his watch and grinned. “Ten minutes,” he said. “That is a new record Mr. Alvarez, even for a jaded old kahuna like me. Officers, may I introduce Mr. Junior Alvarez. Junior, this is Midland P.D. Though somehow, I suspect you’ve already met them.”

  Chapter Five

  Kailey and Shinto

  We’d been back barely long enough for me to find my old desk, the smell of the accident scene still fresh in my nostrils. I rummaged around for a report form and uncapped a pen about the time Shinto strode up and flopped into my other chair.

  I shoved the form back and replaced the pen cap. “Long time no see,” I said.

  “What’d you think?” Shinto said.

  “About what?”

  “The price of condoms on Main Street. What do you mean about what? Our ex-con’s story.”

  “I believed him.”

  “Kailey, dude. We interviewed him in his P.O.’s office.”

  “That P.O. seemed a little strange in a beach boy kind of way. But Junior Alvarez, I don’t know. I liked him.”

  “You remember his name.”

  I tapped the open pad on my desk. “So does my notepad. What’s your point?”

  “Something about your Junior. I dunno, I get a weird vibe.”

  “Testosterone,” I said. “You probably don’t recognize it up close.”

  “Oh, that’s funny.” Shinto sniffed like a dog testing the breeze. “No, it’s not that. Plenty of hormones in here. No, biggie. I’ll

  figure it out. Hey, what’s this?” Shinto picked up a brown-paper wrapped package from my desk.

  “Nothing,” I said and grabbed for it.

  Shinto yanked it out of reach and held it over her head. “Is it personal? Tell me it’s personal.”

  “Yes. Give it.”

  She squeezed the package and shook it. “Feels hard, like wood. It’s definitely wood.”

  “Shinto, it’s stupid. I wasn’t even going to bring it.”

  “Personal and stupid. Now I have to open it.”

  “I’ll kill you for this.”

  “Oh, goodie.” Shinto tore off the brown wrapping paper. “I was right, it is wood. A plaque kind of wood.” Her lips moved as she read: Crime Scene Analyst Accreditation.

  Shinto stood and announced to the uniforms still lurking in the squad room. “Hey, everybody, listen up.”

  “I will definitely kill you for this,” I hissed.

  All talk ceased in the room and my best friend in the world cleared her throat dramatically and commenced to embarrass me.

  This is to certify that Officer Kailey Carmichael of the Midland Police Department has successfully completed the FBI School of Crime Scene Analysis. As a graduate of this intense course of study, the above-mentioned officer has been given the specialized tools to be of valuable service to crime scene analysis and forensic investigation.

  She showed me the bottom of the plaque. “Who’s that?”

  “Read it. You read everything else.”

  “This is signed personally, by FBI Deputy Director Edgar Flynn,” She announced. “You can see it right there. Blue ink on the bottom.”

  Silence.

  “What the hell are you goofballs waiting for? Give our girl a hand. And make it loud.” Shinto bowed in my direction and began clapping like an idiot. The rest of the squad joined in and a few even whistled.

  “Way to go, Kailey.”

  “Knew you could do it.”

  “Don’t get a big head.” The Captain had come in to see what the noise was all about. He added his congratulations to the rest of them as he came over to see what Shinto had been reading. Shinto handed him the plaque and he looked at it like it was a Tiffany bracelet. “Damn proud of you, Carmichael. This is going up on the wall in the front lobby.”

  “No, Captain—”

  “Good P.R. for the department. You can thank me later, Kailey,” he turned and waved a hand over his shoulder. “I meant that about the big head.”

  “Now I am definitely going to kill you,” I said.

  Shinto stood there beaming. “Nice, right? That was so nice.”

  “I need a drink,” I said. “La Bodega? After shift?”

  “It’s a date, gorgeous.”

  Chapter Six

  Kailey and Shinto

  Half past 6:00 P.M. the pink and green neon in La Bodega’s front window slid its way up my hood as I pulled into one of a few remaining spots. They served better than decent Tex-Mex and generous pours, especially anything with tequila in it, which made La Bodega the after work go-to bar in town.

  I should know. I learned from the best. My daddy worked in the oil fields and loved to hang out at any old bar after the whistle blew. If I wanted to see him, I trucked to his bar de jour and sat while he drank. Fun times. The oil boom in the doo-dah days of the late eighties brought a lot of guys like my dad to Midland, some wanting to work and others wanting to take their hard-earned money from them.

  Rough crowd for rough times, and my daddy loved it. Most memories I have of my dad are either him drunk, heading to work with his hard hat and lunch pail, or getting the shit kicked out of him in a bar. My daddy had a real smart mouth and stupid hands.

  I pushed through La Bodega’s double doors and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. The smell of corn tortillas and beer made me realize how much I’d missed this place. Dallas had its contenders, but even their dives were too refined. This cinder block cop hangout on the edge of a residential neighborhood would have made my daddy smile.

  “Kailey! Hey, girl, where you been?” Shinto Elliot yelled across the crowded bar room. She was easy to spot, holding court mid-bar surrounded by cops and civilians in equal measure. The girl had style and felt more at home in her own skin than anyone I’d ever met. She always had.

  Shinto and I have been friends since first grade and became inseparable when Billy Martin lured us into the bushes and pulled our pants down. Between the two of us, we gave poor Billy a bloody nose and a healthy respect for women. Later, Shinto’s older brother taught us how to hit him where it hurts. Billy let it be known not to mess with us, and we enjoyed a drama-free childhood thanks to that one encounter. Last I heard he’d married and been blessed with three daughters. Karma is awesome.

  I watched Shinto snap her fingers and a Lone Star magically appeared in her fist. She waved it at me and started across the bar room. I met her halfway, and she spun me in a gigantic hug. “Good to see you, girl. This is for you.”

  The icy beer went down like glacier water and half the bottle d
isappeared before I stopped for breath. “Tastes of heaven,” I said.

  “I know, right?” Shinto smiled that lopsided grin I remembered and we clinked bottles.

  I noticed several guys turn and nudge each other. Let them think what they want. Only one of us is gay, and it’s not me.

  “Let’s find a quiet place in here and catch up. Before it gets crazy,” I said. “I want to know about Afghanistan, the Army, your love life. All of it.”

  She let out a low, gassy burp. “Back at you Kailey. Dallas, forensics for shit’s sake, your mom—and your love life. I don’t see a wedding ring on your finger.”

  A quiet place in La Bodega was purely a foreign concept, but it didn’t matter. We wormed our way into a place at the end of the bar and started yelling at one another over the piped-in mariachi music and the well-oiled crowd.

  “Tell me about your mom, first,” Shinto said. “How’s my favorite lady doing?”

  My mother and Shinto had a relationship stronger than most real mothers and daughters. My mom filled in some of the gaps in Shinto’s crappy childhood and got a second daughter in the bargain.

  “Mom’s aging, Shinto. It really hit me when I got back from Dallas. I was only gone six months, but she aged a couple years in that time.”

  “Not easy living in a chair, Kailey, I was in-country when I heard about the accident. Didn’t get any details.” Shinto said.

  “One night, driving home from their typical date night of momma watching daddy drink, he missed a curve and drove smack into the Scarborough Draw off Big Spring Drive. He drowned. Momma got thrown from the car and broke her back. Police said Daddy’s blood alcohol came in at twice the legal limit. Shocker. I came home on compassionate leave and moved in with momma to keep an eye on her. I gradually returned to the force and settled into a life of crime fighting and kicking the occasional badass. Until I got sent off to Dallas for the FBI Crime Analysis gig.”

  I drained my beer. “Your turn. Tell me about life in the service. How was Afghanistan?”

  Shinto’s eyes went flat and she took a long pull of Lone Star before answering. “Afghanistan was mountains. Cold. Locals who hate America and love our money. Army, Marines and Guard units performing above and beyond. And me and my MPs walking a line you don’t learn about ’til you get there.”

  “Different from here,” I said. More a statement than a question.

  “In every way,” Shinto said. “Main difference is the intensity. The level of hate is higher and comes at you from all sides. The uniform makes enemies everywhere you go. That MP brassard even makes enemies out of your friends.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Here, all we worry about are the occasional crazies, domestics, drunks, drugs and the cartel.” She shook her head and flashed two fingers for another round. “There was this one family. Two daughters, who reminded me of us when we were younger. A son. Father in and out and sketchy as hell. But I liked them.”

  “And you had to leave them there,” I prodded.

  She thought a few seconds. “No. They left me. Apparently, the father didn’t like me hanging around so much. Came down from the mountains one night and slit all their throats. Both little girls, his 12-year-old son, and his wife. Lined all four bodies up on the floor of their tiny home. A message for me, I think.”

  The bartender placed two more beers in front of us. Shinto drew her finger around the label, her nail found where it pulled away from the damp bottle and scraped it off.

  “I spent the rest of my tour hunting the bastard. Never found him. I hope there is some kind of hell for people like him.”

  “My god, Shinto. I am so sorry.”

  Shinto rummaged around her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She fiddled with some buttons and handed it to me. “This is them,” she said. “I keep them close to remind myself of what I did with candy and kindness.”

  I looked at a short woman in a hijab, a sullen boy and two little girls eating candy bars. I handed back the phone. “You didn’t do anything.”

  “Just got a family killed.” She shrugged and drank. “No biggie.”

  Chapter Seven

  Junior

  “Daddy, please, don’t make me go with him.” I pulled with all the might a skinny eight-year-old boy could muster. The old man’s grip tightened.

  Dad frowned, and I could see he might be changing his mind. Mommy stood silent, shaking and sweating.

  “Please, Daddy, I’ll be good, promise.” I sagged and pried at his fingers.

  “Luke, the devil has this boy in his grip.” The pastor shook his head and closed his eyes as if the thought were too horrible to contemplate. “I will personally drive Satan out of Junior. It will not be easy.”

  I kept struggling. His iron grip cinched harder and he wouldn't let go.

  He laid his other hand on Dad’s bowed head. “Pray with me, for your son’s soul.”

  I kicked the pastor and he glanced down at me. His white, cadaverous face and shadowed eyes showed no emotion until he licked fat red lips that creased into a smile. Pastor Hess murmured, “Praise his name” and handed Daddy an envelope.

  Daddy grabbed it. Mommy tugged on Daddy’s arm and sobbed.

  “No, please, Daddy, please.” My protests collapsed to a whisper as I sagged in the grip of my tormentor and peed myself. The scald on my leg and smell of urine added shame to my misery. “Daddy, don’t leave me. Mommy, please. I promise when you take your medicine and sleep all the time I’ll be quiet.” I begged. My father and mother’s silent retreating backs were my answers.

  I awoke drenched in sweat, rolled over, and glanced at the chipped plastic clock on the nightstand. Noon. My stomach growled and my throat felt like baked dry river bed. Rise and shine. That familiar nightmare, burned into me at eight, followed me into my new life. Will I ever shake it?

  Midland, Texas is where I landed. Out of jail and into Section Eight housing. My apartment complex is on Garfield across from Midland Community College. The college had lots of green rolling grass in front, courtesy of the taxpayers. How in the hell did I manage to get here? Surrounded by oil well-studded desert and the only grass for miles is across the street.

  I made my way to the kitchen naked and held my mouth under the faucet. I plopped a couple pieces of stale bread into the toaster. Next to it, the list of available jobs from the Midland fish wrapper classifieds beckoned. Yeah, yeah. I moved to the faded yellow Formica table, sat with a grunt, and spread my future in front of me. Dishwasher, carwash attendant, window washer. I sensed a theme here.

  I dabbed the Bic pen on my tongue and got creative, writing down a list of job applications I supposedly sent out this week. A small price to pay for high-class government housing. I live two floors up in a two-story apartment complex. My toilet leaks, the front door leans on one and a half hinges. Not its fault; I came home drunk a couple of nights ago and slammed it. Paradise.

  I fingered the fifty-buck food stamp credit card. Have to make it last ’til the end of the month. Ten more days. I folded the job application into a tiny square by the time my toast popped up.

  A tub of fake butter and a jar of strawberry jam were all I could find after a search through the fridge. Why the hell did I go shopping loaded? I wiped a semi-clean plastic knife on my thigh, pulled a paper plate from a new package, and grabbed a banana to go with the toast. Damn, I’m hungry.

  Munching, I gazed out the large window in front of my table. I caught a glimpse of an older woman in the building across the walkway on the first floor. My being on the second floor had its advantages. I’d seen her around, I couldn’t place where.

  I stroked myself. She could use some of this.

  Too much testosterone. Too little self-control. They told me that at every mandated therapy session at every lockup I’d been in since I was fourteen. Junior, you need to control your urges or you will find your way back to jail. I squeezed myself erect with one hand and held my toast with the other. Multitasking. None of them knew what I’d suffered as a
child. I didn’t know how to tell them and figured they wouldn’t believe me if I did. I concentrated, stroked harder. Been a long time since I slid into a woman, but prison makes you real good with fantasies.

  Jesus, it’s hot.

  I tossed my toast on the table and switched on the fan next to me. I needed both hands for this fantasy. She appeared again at her kitchen window. Like an angel and right on time. I felt the surge tighten my balls, and I squeezed and pumped. She never looked up. I didn’t think she could see me if she did. I licked my lips, forgot about breakfast, and stared at her. A little voice behind the heat in my brain whispered insistently. I ignored it and watched her open the window wide. Her red-going-gray hair plastered to her head in the heat. She fanned her blouse, and I could see the swell of her breasts; nice.

  The voice in my head got louder when she turned away from the window and I lost sight of her.

  There’s something about her, something familiar.

  The whispers shut down when she returned a few seconds later with a couple of tomatoes. She rinsed them and placed each one on her windowsill and then started doing her dishes. Her breasts jiggled every time she rubbed a plate. Yes, baby, yes. Do it like that. Ahhh.

  You Know Her. The frigging voice gave up the whispers and went to full-on shout.

  Ah.

  You Know This Woman. Hello?

  Ah.

  Car Wreck? Crashing Glass?

  Ah. Ah—Shit!

  My hot neighbor with the nice ta-ta’s is the very same woman I pulled from the car wreck earlier in the week.

  Damn it. I picked up my toast, ripped off a bite, and chomped furiously.

  So much for my one-man sex show.

  Angry and frustrated, I reached behind me and yanked open my kitchen junk drawer. I felt around until I found my father’s KA-BAR, the only thing he ever gave me I could actually use. Seven inches of carbon steel, a knife sharp enough to shave with. I kept it with me always, from stint to stint. Joint to joint. First item I search for when I retrieve my personals on checkout. I feel better having it with me. I don’t know why, exactly. Protection? Maybe. Shit happens—life inside teaches that lesson on your first day, and I studied at the feet of masters. Besides, here on the outside, guns weren’t an option. Not a legal one, anyway. Not for an ex-con. So, I’ve got the next best thing. A big, badass piece of steel with an edge. Like me.