Hermit's Peak

by Michael McGarrity

  “Are you saying I don’t have a plant that produces any mind-altering substances?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. How soon can you get me a specific site location?”

  “It may take a while.”

  “That won’t do. Who can I talk to about giving my request priority?”

  “The sergeant in charge of the case and my captain.”

  “Give me their names,” Professor Pino said, reaching for a pen.

  “Sergeant Gonzales and Captain Garduno.” Ben picked up the tray of cactus plants.

  “Leave those with me please,” Ruth said.

  “They’re evidence in a criminal investigation.”

  “I understand that. But I don’t think you know how to care for those plants, and I won’t have you negligently harming them.” Ruth Pino smiled. “Tell you what: I’ll give you my husband and firstborn son as hostages in exchange for the Knowlton’s cactus.”

  Morfin shook his head in mock disbelief. “I guess I could transfer them to your custody for further analysis.”

  “I’ll care for them lovingly.”

  “You’ll have to sign some paperwork. Are you always so hard-nosed, Professor?”

  Ruth Pino laughed. “I’m the toughest instructor in the department, Agent Morfin, and proud of it.”

  • • •

  “I just got off the phone with my wife’s first cousin,” Captain Garduno said when Gabe walked into his office. “She teaches at the university.”

  “Would that be Professor Ruth Pino?”

  “Morfin called in the information to you, I take it.”

  “He left out the part about your family ties.”

  “He didn’t know. Ruth is hot to visit the site where the cactus was found. She’s even cancelled her classes for the day to do it. Didn’t you send Thorpe over there to collect evidence?”

  “I did.”

  “Can you spare him to show Ruth around?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. I’ll let her know. What do you have on Santistevan?”

  “He’s got a clean record. No wants, warrants, or arrests. No military service. One speeding ticket in the last three years. He paid the fine. His mail is delivered to a neighborhood postal box in San Geronimo.”

  “Is there any evidence that Santistevan is tied to the crimes?”

  “Not yet. All I’ve got is an eight-year-old kid’s description of a truck, a license plate number, and a composite drawing along with a physical description of Rudy that doesn’t correspond to Santistevan at all,” Gabe said.

  “That’s a start.”

  “Maybe. But we’re not lacking for evidence, Cap. The ballistics report came in a few minutes ago: a thirty-eight caliber bullet killed Boaz. Also, the lab lifted a clean fingerprint from the oil container found at the poaching site. The print isn’t in the computer, but the lab can match it when we find the perp. We’ve got a good tool mark from the barbed wire samples we collected, and some good plaster-cast tire impressions. The tread marks left at the cabin gate and the clear-cut area are identical.”

  “So, go arrest somebody,” Captain Garduno said jokingly, knowing full well that solid evidence without a suspect was always a frustrating dilemma.

  Gabe cracked a small smile. “I’ll get right on it.”

  • • •

  Melody Jordan timed her departure from work to allow for a quick change of clothes before her scheduled meeting with Dr. Campbell Lawrence at the School of American Research. She switched to a pair of dress slacks and a top that fit just tightly enough to give an understated suggestion of her breasts. She would change back again before returning to work.

  Campbell Lawrence was a good-looking man in his late thirties who didn’t wear a wedding ring. At the conclusion of his seminar last fall, Lawrence had joined Melody and some of the other students for drinks. She had found him witty, charming, and—she liked to think—more than passingly interested in her.

  Now Lawrence was back on a year’s sabbatical. She had seen him only once since his seminar, when he spoke at a noontime colloquium at the school. Time didn’t permit more than a brief exchange after his presentation, but Lawrence had seemed genuinely pleased to see her again.

  She checked her hair, flew out the door of her house, and drove hurriedly to the campus. She eased into a parking space, gathered up the X-ray envelope and the box of bones, and walked down the crushed gravel path toward the Indian Arts Research Center.

  The school, located on the grounds of an old estate near the historic Canyon Road and Acequia Madre district, was a lovely collection of adobe buildings behind high walls, spread over beautifully landscaped grounds. The compound contained a library, administrative offices, cottages for scholars in residence, an artist studio, and a priceless collection of Native-American arts and crafts housed in a high security building.

  The school had been started early in the century as an archaeological field research facility, long before most colleges offered courses in the subject. It soon earned a prestigious reputation as a renowned anthropological and humanities research and study center, and nowadays drew visiting scholars to the campus on a year-round basis. It even had its own publishing house.

  Melody found Campbell Lawrence in the small lab inside the Indian Arts Research Center.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” she said.

  “You caught me at a good time,” Campbell said with a smile as he shook Melody’s hand. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Melody handed Campbell the X-ray envelope and started placing the bones on an examination table. Finished, she turned to find him studying the X rays on a wall-mounted fluoroscope.

  While Campbell concentrated on the X rays, Melody looked him over. He had a full head of curly brown hair cut short and a neatly trimmed mustache. His hair line, low on his forehead, drew attention to his gray eyes. He was, Melody thought, very attractive.

  “This break is old,” Campbell said. “I’d say it happened in childhood and wasn’t properly immobilized after the bone was set.”

  “That’s highly unusual,” Melody said.

  “Only if you’re applying Western standards of medicine. I think the injury was treated as a break, not a fracture. Whoever did it may not have had access to any equipment or facilities. It may not have been treated by a physician. I would imagine the victim probably had some chronic pain as a consequence.”

  “With impaired mobility of the arm?” Melody asked.

  “Possibly. But what interests me most is the slight deformity here.” He pointed to the joint end. “That’s not from getting hacked up. Let’s take a look at the bones.”

  Campbell walked to the table and picked up the long bones. “There’s the deformity again. Just the slightest bit of bowing in the humerus and femur. Run a phosphorus and calcium test on the bones. If the results show deficiencies, I’d say your victim had rickets as a young child.”

  He picked up the pelvic bone. “A female, certainly.”

  “Any guesses on race?” Melody asked, hoping Campbell would confirm her own assessment.

  Campbell measured the humerus and the femur. “I wish you had more of the skeleton for a comparison. But if we estimate her height at five feet, four inches, which I think is a good guess, then I’d say her legs were a bit shorter than normal. Not much, but a bit.”

  He put the tape measure down. “It can’t be anything more than speculation, but from what I’ve seen, I’d say this young woman was of mixed race, Hispano-Indian, probably from the southern part of Mexico or Central America. She suffered from poor nutrition, vitamin deficiency, and woefully inadequate medical care.”

  “That’s very helpful, doctor,” Melody said.

  “Please, it’s Campbell.”

  “Are you and your family enjoying your time in Santa Fe?” Melody asked as she repacked the bones.

  “I’m divorced.”

  Melody tried to look sympathetic. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “
I’m fully recovered from it.”

  She turned her attention to gathering up the evidence and repacking it. “Have you gotten out to see the sights since you’ve been here?”

  “Not as much as I’d hoped to. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “I can give you a year’s worth of ideas. If you’re free, we could discuss it over dinner tonight. I’m a fairly decent cook.”

  “I’d like that very much,” Campbell said.

  Melody gave him her address, directions to her house, and a thousand-watt smile.

  • • •

  Post office records showed that a second individual, Isaac Medina, received mail at Santistevan’s rural delivery address. Gabe stopped at the first occupied house in San Geronimo and asked the elderly woman who came to the door for directions. The woman pointed out a dwelling on a small hill behind her house. A pickup truck was parked in front of the house and smoke drifted from the chimney.

  “Isaac lives there,” she said. “But Joaquin Santistevan moved away some time ago. You have to go through the village to get to Isaac’s driveway. Turn right at the old store. You’ll see his gate halfway up the hill.”

  Gabe called in his location before he entered Medina’s driveway and drove toward the house slowly, scanning it as he approached. No one was in sight.

  He parked and waited a minute before getting out of his vehicle. The dwelling had a slanted tin roof that covered an enclosed porch with a row of waist-high windows. Through the windows, Gabe could see a line of upright freezers and refrigerators, all different shapes and sizes. On the ground in front of the house were a dozen or more old washing machines, clothes dryers, and dishwashers, some scavenged for parts and some intact.

  He knocked hard at the porch door and called out. A stocky, unshaven man with gray hair stepped out of the house and opened the porch door.

  “What do you want?” the man said.

  “Isaac Medina?” Gabe asked.

  The man nodded.

  Gabe showed his shield and ID. “I’m looking for Joaquin.”

  “He doesn’t live with me anymore.”

  “Can you tell me where to find him?”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want to ask him?”

  “I want to talk to him about his truck,” Gabe said.

  “You mean the accident?”

  “That’s right,” Gabe said.

  “Come,” Medina said as he pointed to the side of the house. “I’ll show you. He told me he wasn’t going to report it to the police because his insurance rates would go up.”

  Gabe followed Medina to the back of the house where a three-quarter-ton Chevy truck with a caved-in front end and smashed windshield was parked.

  “What did Joaquin tell you about the accident?” Gabe asked as he walked around the vehicle. No winch, no hydraulic lift in the bed, no wrought-iron side rails, and the truck was gray in color, not dark blue.

  “He didn’t have to tell me nothing; I was with him. We hit a deer. See for yourself. There’s still blood, skin, and fur on the grille and bumper. It happened a mile from the house. We walked home, got my truck, towed the Chevy here, and then we butchered and dressed the deer. I still have some venison steaks in the freezer.”

  Gabe looked and saw blood splatter, flakes of hide, and small strands of fur embedded in the grille. “When did the accident occur?”

  “Late October, last year.”

  “Where’s the license plate?”

  “Joaquin took it off the truck.”

  “How can I contact Joaquin?”

  “You’re not here about the accident,” Medina said.

  “His license plate was reported by a witness to a crime.”

  “Joaquin is no criminal. What kind of crime?”

  “Wood poaching.”

  Medina laughed, showing a row of crooked lower teeth. “He doesn’t need to steal wood from anybody. His father owns the biggest woodlot in the county.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Sure I do. I’m his uncle. His mother is my sister.”

  “What’s the name of his father’s company?”

  “Buena Vista Lumber and Supply.”

  “Why was Joaquin living with you?”

  “He was separated from his wife for almost a year. Now they’re back together.”

  “What’s his wife’s name?”

  “Debbie.”

  “Is she one of the Romero girls?”

  “No, her maiden name was Espinoza.”

  “Where can I find Joaquin?”

  “He works at the woodlot for his father, Philip Santistevan.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Medina.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the gringo who got murdered at the cabin?” Medina asked.

  “That’s a completely different case,” Gabe said, quite sure that Medina would be on the phone to his nephew as soon as he drove away.

  • • •

  At midmorning, the U.S. Attorney called Kerney from Albuquerque. She wanted a face-to-face afternoon meeting on a joint task force bribery and conspiracy operation involving Social Security Administration employees and Motor Vehicle Division workers who were under investigation for selling driver’s licenses and Social Security cards to illegal, undocumented aliens.

  There was no way Kerney could refuse. He hung up, called Sara, explained the situation, and told her their camping trip would have to be delayed.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Sara said. “We’ll simply do it some other time.”

  “I should be home early in the evening.” Silence greeted Kerney’s comment. He waited for a response and none came. “Sara?”

  “This conversation is starting to sound much too domestic,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Am I missing something here?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t sound that way to me.”

  “Stop it, Kerney. I’ll see you when you get off work.”

  Kerney hung up the receiver, wondering what in the hell was going on. He waited a minute, dialed his home number again, and got a busy signal.

  There wasn’t time to brood over it. In five minutes he would be taking a phone call from a newspaper reporter about the early morning discovery of an elderly woman who had been raped and murdered at a remote farmhouse in southeastern New Mexico.

  The department’s public information officer had set up the call. Kerney buzzed him and asked for the fact sheet on the case.

  The lieutenant came in, gave Kerney the sheet, and sat.

  Kerney read it quickly. “In other words, we’ve got nothing so far.”

  “What we’ve got is heat, Chief. I just got off the phone with the county sheriff. The victim was the grandmother of the chairman of the county commission. The sheriff wants the department to offer all possible assistance.”

  “Has he talked to the newspapers about it?”

  “Of course he has. He’s a politician. He’ll do his best with the limited resources available. But without the department’s help—you know the rest of it.”

  Kerney nodded. Laying off responsibility to the state police for major case investigations was standard procedure for sheriffs who had limited budgets, few personnel, and no technical specialists.

  “I’ve got a TV reporter and another print journalist standing by to speak to you after this interview is finished. They’re covering the same story.”

  “Don’t schedule any more for me,” Kerney said.

  “I’ll handle whatever else comes in.” The lieutenant glanced at his wristwatch. “Your first call should be happening right about now.”

  The phone rang and Kerney picked it up.

  • • •

  Buena Vista Lumber and Supply, ten miles south of Las Vegas on a state road, contained hundreds of cords of dry and green split firewood, stacks of peeled vigas used for roof beams in Santa Fe–st
yle homes, and virtually every type of fencing material imaginable. A chain-link fence enclosed the lot.

  Gabe drove to the office trailer in front of a large metal storage building and parked. He found Joaquin Santistevan inside the trailer at a desk, giving a telephone quote to a customer. On the desk was a framed photograph of a young, pretty Hispanic woman.

  Santistevan finished the call and turned to Gabe. He had the same lean build as Orlando and looked to be about the same height. “What can I do for you?”

  Gabe showed Santistevan his credentials. “I’m looking for a woodcutter who drives a dark blue, three-quarter-ton Chevy with a winch on the front bumper, side rails, and a hydraulic lift in the bed.”

  “I see trucks like that in and out of here all the time. Do you have a name?”

  “Rudy.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” Gabe said, handing Santistevan the composite drawing. “Does your father have an employee named Rudy?”

  “No.” Joaquin looked at the drawing and gave it back.

  “Maybe he does contract woodcutting for your father.”

  “I handle that end of the business. Nobody who looks like that cuts wood for us.”

  “What did you do with the license plate from the truck you left at your uncle’s place?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “It was reported to be on a vehicle used in a crime.”

  “Somebody needs glasses.” Santistevan stood up. “We’ve got a wall of old license plates in the storage building. I added it to the collection. It’s been there for months. Want to see it?”

  “I do,” Gabe said, following Joaquin out of the office.

  The license plate collection ran the length and width of two frame walls of a corner office. It included plates from the 1930s right up to the present, in chronological order.

  “It’s right there,” Santistevan said, pointing to his plate. “The tag doesn’t even expire until August. What kind of crime are you investigating?”

  “Wood poaching. You wouldn’t knowingly buy firewood that’s been illegally harvested, would you?”

  “I can account for every cord in the yard, either by Forest Service permit or a contract with a private landowner.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  Gabe left, parked down the road where he could see traffic leaving the woodlot, and tried to figure out what in the hell was bothering him. It was something about the photograph of Santistevan’s wife and her maiden name. Isaac Medina had said it was Debbie Espinoza.