by Cliff Black
“You have a problem, Geronimo,” he grinned. “I can tell by the way you said that. The previous owner hasn’t come back to haunt you, has he?”
“Maybe so, Ezzy, only if my neighbor’s right, he’s a she.”
“And she’s come back to haunt you?”
“Not quite, but a few nights ago, someone–a man, I think–either picked the lock or had a key–and came into the trailer while I was in bed. He probably thought the place was empty since I didn’t have a car parked outside.”
“What happened?”
“He started searching through the cabinets in the front area. I managed to call the cops and scared him off.”
“Did you find out who he was?”
“I didn’t find out anything, except it’s probably not the first break in.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“A Corporal Brown. He knows I worked on that Squaw Canyon killing. He warned me to keep out of this case.”
“This case?”
“He didn’t elaborate. I can only assume he meant the disappearance of the trailer’s owner.”
Ezzy shook his head and said, “Brown’s not the brightest bulb on the string. Any other problems?”
“It may not be a problem, but I was changing out the light fixtures this morning and found these.” I handed him the film strips. “It makes me wonder if this is what the guy who came in my trailer was looking for.”
“Dang, Geronimo, you do live an exciting life. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you about that trailer.”
“Do you have any idea who owned it and why she abandoned it?”
Ezzy held the film strips up to the light. “You know more than I do. I didn’t even know it belonged to a woman. It must have been abandoned for six months to come up on a sheriff’s sale. I was at an FBI school six months ago. I can’t tell what’s on these film strips, can you?”
“I’d guess documents. Where can I have prints made–confidentially?”
“Why not turn them over to Corporal Brown. Maybe you could solve his case for him. He might learn to like you.”
“Having someone come in while I was asleep–someone who probably had a key–is a bit spooky. I’d kinda like to know if I can expect any more midnight visitors. If there’s a clue on those film strips, I don’t think the cops in Cortez will share with me.”
“I can get prints made. I wouldn’t want it to get back to the Cortez cops, though. I do think you should give them the film after we satisfy our curiosity.”
“I’m willing to do that. I only want to know what I’ve bought into.”
Ezzy said, “I’ll make some discreet inquiries–see if there’s something besides the missing owner that’s got Brown up tight. I’ll call you tomorrow. With a little luck we can meet here again, look over the prints, and figure out if there’s anything to be concerned about.”
Chapter Four
Deputy Miller called the next morning and said to meet him at the county line at one o’clock. He was already there when I arrived. I didn’t get the usual “How Geronimo,” he didn’t say a word, just handed me a manila envelope. I wondered if he was angry. I was too curious to spend any time thinking about it. I pulled the contents from the envelope and began to examine them.
The top print was a photo of a young couple with a baby. The woman, long, dark, hair hanging straight, wearing an ankle-length, shapeless dress, held the baby. The man, standing slightly behind the woman, with hair as long as hers and clothing even less appealing, had eyes that said, “What can I steal.” I glanced at Ezzy. His expression told me nothing.
Next was a photo of a young woman in tight jeans, a well filled western style shirt, and a broad-brimmed hat that couldn’t tame a wealth of curly, black hair. She might have inspired a thousand cowboy love songs. In the woman’s arms was a pretty, dark-haired girl about two years old. I flipped through the rest of the prints. They were either pictures of documents or of newspaper articles. I said, “I don’t suppose you recognize any of these people?”
“Read the rest,” Ezzy said. “Maybe you’ll get a clue.”
There was a birth certificate for one Eileen Smith, born December 12, 1979 in Louisville, Kentucky. The parents were listed as James W. & Mary Smith.
“That Smith name bothers me,” I said. “More people in the United States are named Smith than any other surname, which means one shouldn’t be surprised by encountering a Smith, but Smith is so often used as a pseudonym. It’s especially troublesome combined with given names James and Mary. I guess we can assume they’re the couple in the photo with the baby.” Ezzy didn’t say anything. I turned to the next print. It was also a birth certificate. This one for a Cherish McLaughlin. The mother was listed as Mary McLaughlin. No father listed. Cherish was born December 12, 1979 in Louisville, Kentucky.
“Wait a minute,” I said and went back to the first certificate. “The dates are the same. . . .”
I checked further. The births were in the same Mercy Hospital and attended by the same doctor. Even the time of birth, 5:15 a.m. was the same.
“Did you see this? Everything’s the same.”
Ezzy said, “Not quite impossible, but the doctor would need four hands.”
“Given that both certificates are here together, Ezzy, doesn’t it seem likely there’s something fishy?”
“You think so? Let’s see . . . An attractive lady comes into a trailer park by herself. She’s pulling an Airstream trailer with an old Cadillac. Two months later she disappears, but persons unknown search the trailer. Then the new owner finds hidden film strips showing two births at the same time and place. What’s fishy? Seems like an everyday occurrence to me.”
“Only in my life,” I said.
The next print was of a marriage license for James W. Smith and Mary McLaughlin that was dated October 13, 1979. It was issued in Louisville, Kentucky.
“If this license is for the same James W. and Mary Smith of the birth certificate, the wedding was a few months late.”
“That happens,” Ezzy said.
The next print was a third birth certificate, this one in Spanish. It showed the birth of Maria Dolores Gil in Nogales, Mexico. The date of birth was January 3, 1980. The mother was listed as Maria Virginia Teresa Castillo. The father was Jose Alfredo Gil.
“You think this might be for that little girl?” I asked. “The woman holding her could have Latin blood.”
Once again Ezzy said nothing, so I went back to the prints. The next three were also Spanish documents regarding Maria Dolores Gil. I guessed they could prove Maria Dolores was a United States citizen.
The last two prints were photos of newspaper articles. There was a story from Louisville, Kentucky, dated January 7, 1981. It told of the death of Mary McLaughlin in an automobile accident. The car had gone off a mountain road in a snow storm, rolled down a hillside, caught fire and burned. Survivors were Mary’s baby daughter, Cherish McLaughlin, and a James W. Smith. According to the article, Smith was driving. After the rolling car came to a stop, Smith was able to extricate himself from the wreckage. He moved the baby to safety, but the car exploded in flames before he could get Mary out. Mary’s parents were listed as Mr. & Mrs. A. A. McLaughlin of Louisville, Kentucky. I read that and did a double take.
I went back and reread the birth certificates.
I said. “Looks to me like Mary McLaughlin had a baby daughter, possibly fathered by James W. Smith, but for some reason there are two birth certificates. One showing the father as James W. Smith, the mother as Mary Smith, and the baby as Eileen Smith;. the second shows no father, the mother as Mary McLaughlin, and the baby as Cherish McLaughlin.”
“That’s how I saw it,” Ezzy said. The baby would have been barely over a year old when her mother died in the car fire. Question is, why did the news article refer to the mother as Mary McLaughlin? Why wasn’t she Mary Smith?”
“Maybe the marriage–even late–was a secret,” I said. “I wonder if there’s still an A.A. McLaughlin in Louisville. That�
��s something I can find out.”
“Maybe it would be best if I didn’t know you’re messing with Corporal Brown’s case,” Ezzy said. “I can’t be held responsible for what I don’t know.”
“This is part of it then?”
“It could be totally unrelated, but I doubt Brown would think so.
I wondered if I should get involved. My gaze fell to the final print. It was a newspaper article from Reno, Nevada dated 18 May 1998. It described finding the charred remains of James W. Smith in his burned fishing cabin, which was built in an out-of-the-way place near Walker Lake.
“I suppose this has to be the same James W. Smith.” I said to Ezzy.
“Seems likely.”
“Strange that James W. Smith, and Mary McLaughlin, presumably Smith’s wife, both burned to death but some seventeen years apart. What are the odds of that?”
“Point is, Geronimo, are you gonna give this to Brown and forget about it, or are you gonna start digging for answers?”
I said, “The film strips go straight to the Cortez cops. What they do with them is their affair. I may snoop around out of curiosity. This would be an interesting case to work on, if I had a client.”
Ezzy gave me a quizzical look. An eighteen wheeler came by with a loose tire tread hammering the road. Ezzy grabbed his CB radio mike and alerted the trucker to his problem.
When he put the mike down, Ezzy said, “You don’t sound totally convinced you want to go back to teaching.”
I took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “I didn’t think it showed. I also need something to fill my time until school starts. There’s a lot of work around the house that needs doing, but being over there–especially when Nat’s gone–just tears me up. I guess I was never meant to be single. I hadn’t expected to do any more investigative work, but things aren’t going too well for me at the college right now either. Maybe it’s time for another career change. I’ve been wondering if I could pick up enough investigative work to keep me busy and support myself. What do you think? ”
Ezzy grinned at me and said, “You ready to spend your nights chasing playboy husbands, peeking in motel windows, exciting stuff like that?”
“I hope I’m never that hungry.”
“I hope you’re not either. I’ve been digging around a little, though. There is something peculiar about the disappearance of your lady trailer owner. No one seems to have known her or talked to her. She left and came back like she was working, but no one knows where. Even her name and where she came from is shrouded in mystery. It’s Corporal Brown’s case. They probably gave it to him because no one cares what happened to her. The truth is, regardless of Brown’s posing, no one is looking for Candace Appleton.”
“Is that the missing woman’s name?” I wrote it down.
“That’s what the Cortez cops called her.”
“I’d like to find her and rub Corporal Brown’s nose in it,” I said, “but a deep pockets client would be better. Since I don’t have one, I might practice on Ms. Appleton’s disappearance while I’m waiting for my leg to heal and my new truck to get here.”
Ezzy looked at me with a straight face and said, “And Juanita to come back, maybe?”
“It doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen,” I said. “She called yesterday. The University isn’t going to reopen the dig until your cop killers are found.”
“How serious is that friendship, Geronimo? Think anything will come of it?”
I didn't know how to answer that. After thinking a bit I said, “Hard to say, Ezzy. Sometimes I think there’s a spark there. Other times she seems distant. I don’t know much about her. If she didn’t remind me so much of Camille, I’d probably write her off.”
“Then I hope you won’t mind that I gave a lady your name and cell number. She’ll be calling you, if she doesn’t get cold feet.” Ezzy's grin was back.
I’d already had a neighbor lady in Durango chasing me, and one of my faculty friends kept trying to line me up. In spite of the enjoyable moments I’d had with Juanita, I wasn’t ready to get involved in dating. I still hadn’t come to grips with Camille’s untimely death.
“Who's the lady?” I asked without much enthusiasm.
“Evelyn’s cousin. Evelyn ran into her at the Wall-Mart store in Cortez and brought her home for dinner. She’s a looker and has class, but she has poor taste, or maybe just bad luck, in men.”
“So you figured I’d be right up her alley?”
Ezzy laughed. “It was Evelyn’s idea to get you guys together. She’d like to see her cousin stop shopping for men in bars. If you don’t want to see her, say so. We’ll call her and tell her to back off.”
Curiosity had struck again, so I said, “Tell me about the lady. I could stand a diversion if nothing else.”
“Her name is Michelle Grafton–goes by Shelly. Grafton is her maiden name. She’s been married two or three times but not for long. Her last marriage lasted almost two years. The guy was quite a bit older–a lawyer. Evelyn thought Shelly’d found a keeper, but then he took off for parts unknown. That was last October.”
“Why would he do that?”
“If Shelly knows, she didn’t tell us. I asked Evelyn if her classy cousin had a dark side. Evelyn swears she was a normal kid when they were growing up–except she would rather play ball than eat or chase boys.”
That sounded like my daughter, which piqued my curiosity still more. “You really think she’ll call me?” I asked.
“Only time will tell, but Evelyn gave her quite a talking to about the type of men she goes after. I think she convinced her to try something different.”
“Well, I’m different. Does she know about Camille and Natasha?”
“Evelyn told her what happened to your wife. I don’t think Natasha came up.”
“Let it ride. I guess it can’t hurt to give her a whirl if she decides to call,” I said.
What I didn’t say was that this woman sounded like she really should be tied up to a private investigator, but one like Sam Spade, not a wanna-be who was really a math teacher with a seventeen-year-old daughter.
“I hate to break this up, Geronimo,” Ezzy broke my reverie. “But I've left the big city of Dove Creek completely defenseless. I’ll help you with your mystery when I can, but our interests may diverge at times.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Ezzy. In the mean time, if you should happen to learn anything about Candace Appleton or my trailer or . . .”
“Is that all? You want me to spend full time on it, or just seven hours a day?” When I didn't rise to the bait he said, “Maybe I can stretch a point and make some inquiries.”
Ezzy turned up his police radio and listened for a minute. Then he said, “Looks like there may be trouble brewing. I better head out.”
While I gathered up my pictures, I remembered that with the sheriff gone they'd lost a third of the force. “Are you back up to full three man strength?” I asked.
“Yeah, we are. We picked up a new man a couple of weeks ago. The commissioners talk about hiring a fourth man, but it's only talk. If it happens, it won’t be until after the election.”
“You ought to run for the top job, Ezzy.”
“I dunno. I don’t have any political clout, and I don’t think the county’s ready for a blanket-butt sheriff.”
“Hey, careful how you talk,” I said as I put a hand on the door handle. “I resemble that remark, and it’s not politically correct.”
“You’re right, but neither am I politically correct.” Ezzy said. “That’s part of the problem. I’m no politician. I say what I think.”
“They’re not gonna find a better man, Ezzy. And besides, you’re more Anglo than Navajo,” I opened the door and got out.
“Yeah,” Ezzy said, “but it’s the Navajo part people notice.”
“Well, you gotta ask yourself whether you’d rather be sheriff or take a chance on getting another crooked boss. And, being the sheriff pays better, doesn’t it?” I shut his door and watched
as he took off for Dove Creek.
I stopped at the police building before going back to my trailer. I gave the film strips to the desk sergeant.
He heard my explanation and said, “Corporal Brown isn’t in the office right now, but he’ll want to talk to you about these. Can you wait a few minutes?”
“He knows where to find me.”
Brown did know where to find me, and it didn’t take him long. I was sitting on my step waiting for him when he drove up. He didn’t get out of his car. He rolled the window down and said, “Corbin, I thought I told you to keep your nose out of this case.”
I looked at him for at least thirty seconds, while his neck got red and blood vessels in his forehead throbbed. “Well, now, Corporal,” I said. “You can tear up the ground with your hooves and horns if you want to, but the fact is I still don’t have any idea what case you’re talking about.” That wasn’t true. I knew what he meant, but I wanted him to articulate it. Maybe if he’d say what the case was, he’d get off his fat butt and do something.
Brown shouted, “What’s on that microfilm?”
“Why don’t you have prints made and tell me?”
Brown looked at me like he really wanted to work me over with his night-stick. He said, “If I find you’re lyin’ to me, and specifically, if I find that film is evidence in this case, your ass is grass. I’m warning you. This is a police matter and we don’t need any amateurs muddying the water.”
“I guess it won’t do me any good to ask, again, what case you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play cute with me, Corbin. Give me half an excuse and your butt will be in the slammer so fast your shadow will still be outside.” He started to roll his window up and said, “You better hope we never meet again,” and tore out of the park like there was an emergency somewhere.
Talk about amateurs.
Chapter Five
After I worked Corporal Brown out of my system, I called information for Louisville and asked for A. A. Mclaughlin. The number was unlisted. I called my home and left a message for Natasha. Maybe she could work some magic with our computer.