by Cliff Black
Persons Missing or Dead
By Cliff Black
A special thanks to my dear wife, Merial. Always willing to tag along as I research locale, always first at proof reading, wondering about my criminal mind, but still encouraging my efforts.
Thanks also to the ‘Writer’s Cramp’ for putting up with this old grouch. You’ve helped more than you can ever know.
Cover art by Glen Hawkins
(glenhawkinsart.com)
Copyright 2012
Persons Missing or Dead
Chapter One
I’m lying crippled among the rocks on Cedar Mesa, a coyote wearing an orange jump-suit and sun-glasses climbs toward me, the bullet hole above the bridge of his nose glows red, his expression a maniacal grimace. I empty my pistol at the apparition, and a soundless scream escapes my lips.
I awoke and shivered. My blanket was tangled and sliding off my broken leg, my skin exposed to the cool night air. I wasn’t lying on rocks but the trailer’s bare plywood bunk. The glowing red bullet hole was my cell phone charger. I could move my legs, though the left was encased in plaster from toe to thigh. I shifted on the thin sleeping bag between me and plywood, trying to rearrange the blanket, my heart pounding like a pile driver, my breath coming in gasps. Maybe a shrink could do something for this recurring nightmare.
Might there have been some better way to resolve my conflict with Carrol Bensen–other than shoot him between the eyes?
Something changed . . . . I tried to pause my labored breathing. The night sounds were plainer, like another window or the door had opened. I smelled an unwashed body, the stench of stale tobacco smoke. My bed shifted slightly. Someone had stepped into my trailer. Who came uninvited at three a.m.? My only weapon was a crutch; the San Juan Sheriff still had my gun.
I lay in the dark, holding my breath, straining my ears, trying to calm my thudding heart. I heard a slight creak as one of the overhead cabinet doors opened, then saw a glimmer of light and a silhouette when a pen-light was beamed inside the empty space. The light went away, and I heard a soft thud as the door closed. I grabbed my cell phone off the night stand, stuck it under my pillow, and turned it on.
When I heard my kitchen table being raised from its stored position, I punched up 911 and Send. Now what could I do? I couldn’t speak without being heard, and the police couldn’t trace the location of a cell phone. I waited. I could faintly hear a female voice saying, “Hello–Hello–.” I heard the oven door open, and then the drawer beneath the oven. When I heard pans being shifted I stuck my head under the blanket and whispered, “Sundance Trailer Court.” The voice stopped repeating hello, and said something different. I waited while the intruder opened and closed kitchen cabinets. What was he looking for? There was a long silence when he came across my box of Wheaties. I continued to wait, trying to quiet my breathing and muffle the sounds from my cell phone.
I heard the pantry being rolled open. I whispered, “Space twenty-five.” There was no way to know if my message was received.
A beam of light probed along the floor, the intruder using the open pantry as a shield, checking out the bedroom. My shoe was on the opposite bunk–easier for me to reach in my crippled condition. I didn’t think there was anything on the floor to give away my presence. The light was gone for a few seconds, and then it was in my eyes from over the pantry. I put the phone to my ear and said, “Sundance Trailer Court, space twenty-five, home invasion.”
The voice said, “They’re on their way.” I could only hope they really were. I swung my good leg out of bed and grabbed a crutch. The pull-out pantry rolled back into place. Would he come in the bedroom? I heard a fast moving car come through the park entrance. The intruder heard it too. I sensed him hesitate, then run out the door and off my step. I was wearing cut-offs to sleep in, so I whipped a tee shirt over my head and crutched my way out to the small porch, flipping on the flood light as I went through the door. A patrol car pulled into my drive.
There were two officers. One said, “This your trailer?”
“It is.”
“Where’s your vehicle?”
“I can’t drive. My daughter drops me off here.”
“What happened?”
“Someone broke into my trailer.”
“What did he look like?”
“I never saw him, but he smelled of rancid sweat and tobacco smoke.”
A big, white car flashed through the intersection half a block away heading for the trailer park entrance. “That would be him,” I said, pointing.
The cops jumped in their car and tore out after him, too late, too far behind. Maybe I was wrong. Whatever the reason, they didn’t come back.
I thought about going back to bed. I was wide awake. I doubted I’d be able to sleep. I lowered myself into the ratty lawn chair on loan from the park manager, while glancing at the clock on the wall, showing nearly three-fifteen.
Why would someone search this trailer? There was nothing of value here. I decided to do some fishing. I called the Sheriff’s office since they’d handled the sale of the trailer. They referred me to the Cortez city police. I called them.
“Cortez Police. This is Corporal Brown,” a bored, or tired, or sleepy male voice answered.
“Good morning, Corporal. This is Daniel Corbin. I'm in the Sundance Trailer Park. A couple of your troops were here. Someone broke into my trailer.”
“So, what’s the problem?” He didn’t sound anxious to help.
“I hope the problem is being taken care of, but I would like some information. I bought this trailer about ten days ago. They told me it was abandoned last January. I'm wondering if there's something more I should know. ”
Brown's voice was back to its 'when will this shift be over' tone as he said, “I don't know what you mean.”
“Why would someone break in?” I asked. “This place smelled so bad from beer and cigarettes that I hired a lady to help me, and we've torn everything out. The drapes are gone, the carpet's gone, the mattresses are gone, the couch is out being recovered, and we've scrubbed the surfaces to a fair-thee-well. I guess a thief wouldn't know that, but the place was empty when I took over, except for some cleaning supplies under the sinks. They stunk too, so I threw them out. Now, there's a little food. I have a change of clothes, a tooth brush, a blanket, and a sleeping bag. There's nothing here to steal. Maybe if I knew who used to own it, and what happened to them . . .”
After a long pause Brown said, “Lemme see if there's anything in the file.”
I thought, Two more days to a walking cast. Maybe I won’t feel so helpless then.
“You did say your name is Corbin?” Brown was back, sounding almost animated.
“I did.”
“That is the Airstream trailer that was in the sheriff's sale?”
“It is.”
“And someone broke in again?”
“You mean it’s happened before?”
“That’s not what I meant.” After a silence, during which I tried to figure out what he had meant, he said, “Aren't you the guy that got involved in that murder down in Squaw Canyon last spring?”
I didn’t like the way he put that. I said, “I did investigate the incident, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Don’t be sticking your nose into this case. Just because you bought the trailer doesn’t give you any right to put your oar in. You got that?”
This clown was beginning to tick me off. I controlled myself and said, “I don’t know what case you’re talking about. All I want is a camp trailer to replace one I lost. I teach math at Fort Lewis College. I’m not looking for another investigation. I only wanted to know if there’s a reason someone would break in here.”
�
�Bums and druggies don’t need a reason. It won’t likely happen again.” He hung up.
I was left with the uncomfortable feeling there was a reason for the break in. What were the cops hiding? Whoever had been in my trailer wasn’t looking for something to steal, so they could buy booze or drugs. One look around should have convinced him there was nothing like that here. What was the real reason?
It was three days later. I was back from two days in Durango, during which I acquired a walking cast and a rented mini-pickup with an automatic transmission. The upholstery place had installed my couch, and now, for want of something better to do, I was nibbling around the edges of the mystery surrounding this trailer. If there was something the cops didn’t want me to know, I was bound and determined to learn what it was.
I began my search at a permanently installed trailer a few feet east of mine. I limped up the step and knocked on the door.
“Hi, I'm Daniel Corbin,” I said when a big white-haired man answered the door. “I’m the guy bought the Airstream trailer next door. Someone tried to break in a couple of nights back. I was wondering if you saw or heard anything, or if you know anything about the previous owner?
“Who is it?” I heard a shrill-voiced woman yell from the back of the big trailer.
“Just the guy from next door–wants to borrow a screw driver,” the man shouted back.
“We ain’t got none!”
“Yeah we do too, Maudie. I’m gonna find it and take it over to him. Can’t hurt to be neighborly.”
“Ain’t never helped–” My neighbor winked and shut the door on me, so I didn’t get to hear the rest of Maudie’s tirade.
I limped back to my trailer. I assumed I’d soon have a visitor, and in any case, I needed to get off my leg. I was pushing it trying to get by with a cane.
About five minutes later, I was beginning a computer file named “Notes on Trailer Investigation,” when I saw the old guy from next door work himself up onto the step outside my screen door. He wasn’t really old–I guessed about sixty–but he was having a hard time walking. He sported a big paunch, and there was something wrong with his feet or legs.
I pushed the screen open. He grasped the handle on one side and the door frame on the other and hoisted himself inside. I invited him to sit down. He more fell than sat on my newly upholstered couch.
“Names’s Clyde,” he said, after taking a couple of deep breaths. He stuck out a ham-sized paw. “Danged old woman,” he muttered under his breath then said, “I don’t know anything about your break in, but I know a couple of things about the lady used to live here.”
“A woman owned this trailer? Was she alone?”
“So far as I know. Strange, too. She was one fine looking filly.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Well, now, Mister Corbin. You did say your name is Daniel Corbin?
“I did.”
“Well, now, the way I understand things, a private investigator gets paid for making investigations. Seems to me if somebody knows something this here investigator needs to know, maybe the investigator would pay for what that somebody knows.”
I didn’t think he’d believe I wasn’t a private investigator. I said, “Ordinarily I’d have no objection to paying for information. Trouble is, I don’t have a client to pay the freight, and I’m not a rich man. Since I have no way to judge the value of your information, why don’t you tell me what you think it’s worth?”
“Well, now, Mister Corbin, I expect you can figure out there ain’t a lot I can do. I read some, and I watch TV, but my eyes can only take so much of that. I’m not a rich man either. I can’t work, and I can’t draw Social Security for a few more years. I was thinkin’ what I know ought to be worth one of those fancy new police scanners. My old one’s got problems, and the wife don’t think I need a new one.”
“I suppose you have a particular model in mind.”
“Matter of fact I saw one at the Radio Shack store a few days ago that would do nicely.”
“How nicely?” I asked.
“It’ll cost you about five hundred bucks time you pay the taxes.”
“I don’t want to know that bad, Clyde. I apologize for bothering you.”
Clyde levered himself to his feet. “Well, now, you think about it, Mister Corbin. If you change your mind, you just drop into the Radio Shack store and pick up one of their scanners that’s designed for mounting in a car or truck. And be sure to get the power supply and ear phones that go with it.” He slapped a scrap of paper down on the table. “That’s my phone number. When you have the scanner, call me. Don’t tell Maudie what it’s about. I’ll make up some excuse to come over. You’ll see what I’m asking is a bargain.”
“Have you talked to the police?” I asked.
“Not about this. I tried to tell them we needed to talk private-like, but they was too dumb to pick up on it. That’s all I’m gonna say.”
Chapter Two
After Clyde left, I went back to my computer and made a few notes. I couldn’t stay with it for thinking about the old guy and his attempt to sell information. I shook my head and laughed. I couldn’t imagine he knew anything worth five hundred dollars–especially to me. Surely the park manager will know, I thought.
Time to curl up with a book. The thought of reading reminded me I had new fluorescent light fixtures to install on the ceiling and under the cabinets above the couch. I turned off the breaker and got at it.
I finished the ceiling light and started on one of the lights over the couch. When I loosened the screws holding the fixture to the overhead cabinet, two shiny black strips fluttered to the couch.
What in the heck is that? I asked myself, picking them up, putting them on the table and going on with my work while wondering why a light fixture needed shims. I finished the project, turned the breaker back on, tested all three lights, and admired my handiwork.
Then I picked up the black strips on the table. I was about to toss them when I noticed the perforations along one edge. These were no shims. They were four-inch long strips of microfilm.
I figured the police might be interested in my find, but given the way Corporal Brown treated me, I wasn’t about to go running to them. Maybe once I knew what I had I’d share, then again maybe not. They hadn’t shared with me.
Could these film strips be what the thief was after? He had little chance of finding them. Someone had removed the lens from the light, loosened the screws holding the base of the fixture to the cabinet bottom, slipped the film strips in the gap, and then re-tightened the screws.
I wondered what Ezzy would think. Ezzy Miller was a deputy sheriff, now the acting sheriff, in the next county. We had been forced to cooperate during my last investigation, and he was the one who told me about this trailer coming up in the Sheriff’s sale.
I called the Dolores County Sheriff's Office.
Chapter Three
The Dolores County Sheriff’s Department was headquartered in the little town of Dove Creek. Ezzy Miller had a degree in criminology, was an uncanny tracker, and could run farther in cowboy boots than I ever could in running shoes. Why he stayed in Dove Creek can only be explained by the powerful attraction the Four Corners has on some of us.
The dispatcher said Ezzy was in town somewhere. I told her what I was driving, and to have him watch for me. I left Cortez and drove out Highway 666 for Dove Creek.
It was one of those days when rows of cumulus clouds march across an impossibly blue sky, creating a scene more dramatic than the wild canyons and mesas whose colors bounced off the cloud bottoms. Later in the day we could expect lightning and scattered, drenching rains. For now, just the passing sky was worth traveling hundreds of miles to see. I marveled at how the blazing sunlight was switched on and off by the low, fast-moving clouds.
I loved this country. I knew people who saved to go to Hawaii or Paris or Rome. I preferred a chaise lounge under a ponderosa pine in some secluded canyon, the only sound the breeze sighing in the treet
ops. I loved the high desert.
I half expected Ezzy to intercept me somewhere. I wasn’t disappointed. I spotted the sheriff’s Grand Cherokee soon after I crossed from Montezuma County into Dolores County. He flashed his red spot light. I pulled off the road, and Ezzy made a U turn and parked behind me. I got out and limped back to his vehicle.
“How, Geronimo,” he said as I opened the passenger's door and got inside. “Nice to see you walking again–sorta.”
Ezzy is part Navajo, and he knows I'm part Apache. The “How, Geronimo” was a running bad joke I couldn't seem to break him of. I said. “How’s my pup getting along? I feel guilty that I haven’t been able to bring him home yet.”
“You want the truth, Geronimo?” Ezzy's grin was gone.
“I’m sorry if he’s been a problem,” I said. “Now that I have a walking cast and wheels, I can take care of him.”
“Don’t misunderstand. Oscar’s a problem all right. The problem is we want to keep him. He’s so danged smart, and he’s really good company for Evelyn. We decided last night if we can’t talk you out of him, we’ll have to go puppy shopping. I don’t mean to put you in a bind, Geronimo, but we really would like to keep him.”
“That takes a load off. I’ve been feeling bad that I couldn’t take care of him or even see him. He probably won’t even remember me by now.”
“He might. You guys went through a lot together.”
I said, “He was never supposed to be mine anyway. If you and Evelyn want him, I’ll be happy to let you keep him. I’ll be teaching again come September, and Nat will be in school too. Oscar would be left alone too much at our place.”
“Thanks, Geronimo. We'll give him a good home.” He listened to his radio for a few seconds and then asked, “How’s the new trailer coming along?”
“Funny you should ask,” I said. “I’ve done a lot of cleaning, but I can still smell cigarette smoke when I come in from outside. My trailer is sort of what I wanted to talk to you about, but not about the smell.”