by CB McKenzie
Tinley Burke, the man said. I was a graduate student at the U and then I was an adjunct professor there for a while. Must have been that.
Rodeo Grace Garnet.
When the men shook hands Rodeo noticed the tremor in the man’s grip. Burke then fumbled with a pill bottle on the bar, obviously struggling with the childproof cap. Rodeo reached over and offered his hand, twisted the bottle open. The professor nodded his thanks and tilted the contents of the bottle onto the bartop, sorted through a wide variety of pills and selected two. There were many well-known prescription medications in that single bottle with several deadly combinations potentiating. Burke stood up on his barstool and deposited the pill bottle in his own bucket that was customized with postcards from exotic locales and Polaroid photos of what looked to be ancient Indian artifacts and human bones, mementoes of travel and death.
The professor sat back down on his barstool and seemed to drift as his medicine took effect. He stared at his notes on the legal pad. Rodeo ignored the man politely, finished his steak in ten minutes and pushed the plate back, waved at the bartender for his bill. Barbi came over and slipped a handwritten note in front of Rodeo, said nothing and just walked away.
“Still sorry about your dog, Ro. Your tab’s on me tonight. Remember the Copper Queen!?” The note was unsigned but obviously from Sirena. Rodeo folded it into his shirt pocket. He stood, whistled up his dog and nodded at his nearest barmate in parting.
Can you give me a lift home? Tinley Burke was leaning off his barstool almost horizontally. As a favor? From a former student to a former teacher?
Do you live at Eryn Hage’s place now? On Convent? Rodeo asked the professor.
The man raised an eyebrow. How do you know where I live?
I recognized the Land Cruiser outside, Rodeo said. I saw it parked in front of Eryn’s rent place recently and thought you might be connected to it.
Yes, the man said. I am connected to it as you say. You headed that direction? I’m drunk and need a ride home. Did I say that already?
Rodeo nodded. Tinley Burke put a twenty on the bar, put his car keys into his personal bucket, packed up his textbooks and notes under his arm and the men left the saloon together.
* * *
Neither man said much on the fifteen-minute drive but when they arrived at Burke’s apartment on Convent Avenue the man invited Rodeo inside for a drink.
Not to say anything, Professor, but it may be that you had enough for one night.
You sound like my old therapist, Burke said. Or my sister. He fell out of the truck as he exited and Rodeo hurried around to help his old teacher and his books into the apartment.
The rental apartment was an adobe shotgun shack with the front room a booklined study, the middle room a bedroom with a kitchen and a bathroom in the back. Burke moved unsteadily toward the back of the house. Rodeo did not follow him but examined the small front room. The books on the shelves were arranged by category. Most concerned Native American culture, death and dying or the history of crime or psychopathology. There were a number of Indian artifacts arrayed on the shelves as well. A desk against a wall was empty but for an old Apple laptop with a thick manuscript atop it, as if there to keep the lid of the computer from flying up. Paths of Death: A Serial Killer Thriller by Tinley Burke was printed on the cover page. As Rodeo pondered this title, the author retched loudly from the rear of the apartment, so Rodeo saw himself out.
* * *
The next morning Rodeo skipped his usual visit to the motel lobby because he hadn’t paid his room bill yet. He drove to the Kettle, left the sleeping dog in the truck and established himself in a corner booth from which he could keep an eye on the whole of the restaurant and on his truck. His waitress was efficient and minimalistic with her service. “Rose” was easy to spot as she flirted with the men she served and paid little attention to the women.
Rodeo ate his breakfast slowly and studied the placemat, a cartoon map of Southwestern America, recognizing most of the highlighted spots as venues he had worked back in his rodeoing days or fun places he had road-tripped to with Deb or Sirena. He had an extra cup of coffee, which he didn’t need, and drank two glasses of water with two packets of BC analgesic powder which he did need. When the waitress appeared with his check he asked her if she had had a busy morning.
Yep, she said.
You always work morning shift?
Yep.
Lots of girls on mornings? asked Rodeo.
Three of us, the waitress said. She jerked her head around the room like he could have seen that for himself.
I hated morning shift myself, said Rodeo. Not exactly a morning person.
Takes all kinds, said the waitress.
Four to noon never suited me. Rodeo’s “winning smile” bounced off the waitress.
Well, we get off this shift at ten, so it’s not too bad.
All right then, said Rodeo. You have a good one.
You have one too, mister.
Rodeo left a small tip, paid cash and got a receipt from the cashier. He returned to his truck and sat in it for a few minutes thinking. Then he drove the long block back to the parallel park alongside the Santa Cruz and the public parking lot and restrooms there. Billy was not in obvious residence in that vicinity, so Rodeo returned to the place on the hillside where the dog had taken him the day before. He continued his drive north on Mission and turned off into Barrio Hollywood, wound his way through several residential streets and to the A-Mountain Road.
There were no vehicles in the parking lot but his. Rodeo parked and left the dog in the truck, headed down the southeastern side of the big hill to the “sniper’s nest” where Rodeo glassed the surrounding hillside and the plain below with his big Leica binoculars. On the other side of the river workers toiled in the indigenous plant nursery in straw coolie hats. In the small corral beside that nursery a pair of miserable-looking horses stood stock still, side by side in the shade of the cobbled-together ramada. Another horse lay on its side in the dust seeming to be dead since nothing alive in the world looks as dead as a sleeping horse. In the fountain area a Goth kid sat in the heat staring at the riverbed under the bridge. Billy was still nowhere in sight. An unmuffled motorcycle sped down Mission Road and cut left on Starr Pass Road but otherwise there was no traffic for a long minute. Rodeo could not read the brand of the dirt bike as it passed.
Across Starr Pass Road, due south on Ajo Way was the Pima County Juvenile Detention Center where Samuel Esau Rocha had spent his incarceration for selling marijuana to high school and middle school students.
Rodeo analyzed the scene. The chain-link fence with razor wire coils atop would make it hard to hit targets inside the prison barrier. But the yard of the Juvenile Detention Center might be a tempting target for some random long rifle shots. Construction was ongoing on the west wing of the prison but should be completed shortly since the “grand opening” of the wing was planned for early autumn. For several minutes Rodeo watched dump trucks moving into and out of the fenced yard, young men in orange jumpsuits milling in the exercise area.
Rodeo looked back up the hill behind him. He could not see the parking lot, so he was out of sight of that space. Though this spot on the hillside was not as good a vantage point as the parking lot above, it did provide good sightlines east and southeast, as well as a significantly shorter and easier shot at Mission Road and Starr Pass Road traffic than from the Overlook and also provided more cover.
From where he stood there was good visibility of Mission Road for a quarter-mile stretch and Starr Pass Road for twice that distance with the bridge occupying a hundred of that eight hundred yards in the farthest left quadrant of the half mile of Starr Pass Road that was within rifle range. Rodeo guesstimated the shot from where he stood to the middle of the bridge to be in the quarter- to half-mile range. From that angle it would not be difficult for any decent marksman to hit a vehicle but to hit a pedestrian walking across Starr Pass Road bridge, especially in gloomy light, would require a
professional.
From the reports in the paper and from TPD Detective Overman, Rodeo knew the kid had been discovered by a horseback rider under some brush near the west bank of the river. Since horses and ATVs were regularly ridden in the common community property of the dry riverbed, police investigators had not been able to identify exactly where Sam had fallen nor had they been able to discover amidst all the hoof and tire tracks how Sam had gotten from under the bridge to his final resting place under the creosote bushes at least twenty-five yards away from any possible landing spot.
Rodeo sidled between cholla and teddy bear cactuses to the edge of the packed dirt circle where he had stood the day before.
The sniper’s nest had been swept clean. No trash was left, not even a cigarette butt. The shell casing was gone and some care had been made to clear the area of rocks and pebbles.
Rodeo returned to the Overlook and sat on that edge of the bench seat with his legs stretched out beyond the open door using the warm dog as a backrest. He extracted his note pad and pen and wrote—
1. Sam fell off bridge—himself—or was pushed?
2. shot up close and personal in a drive-by—gang—was Sam ganged-up?
3. long-range assassination—uncle, expert marksman, Gulf sniper estb. maybe Sam was squealing on different planned hit by RR and RR killed him to keep him quiet?
Rodeo aimed his binoculars at the bridge again and watched the traffic for a while. Four vehicles sped across the bridge, a couple going east and a couple going west, and then the bridge completely cleared. He counted Mississippis to seventeen and a solo car crossed going west and then slowed and stopped at the traffic light where Starr Pass Road intersected with Mission. Another twenty Mississippis passed before the bridge was occupied again, traffic going both ways meeting on the bridge. At one point the bridge was vacant for over thirty seconds.
Rodeo’s cell phone buzzed in his shirt pocket and he answered it.
Is this the Garnet boy I hired? I was just calling the number you gave me to call. The one on the card you left on my table when you stole my money.
Yes ma’am, Mrs. Rocha. This is Rodeo Garnet, Rodeo said. And I left you a receipt for what we agreed would be my minimum day’s rate plus minimal expenses.
You stole from me.
It’s all in the contract you signed, Mrs. Rocha. Rodeo sounded businesslike.
Aren’t you Buck Garnet’s son?
The woman seemed and sounded drunk or confused or both.
Yes ma’am. Are you calling from your home phone, Mrs. Rocha?
No. I’m on this cell thing that he used. It still has time on it and I’m going to use it.
You’re using Sam’s cell phone? Could I have access to that phone, Mrs. Rocha?
No. What do you want that for? she asked.
It might have some potential contacts in it, some clues to his death.
It’s my telephone! the old woman shouted. I paid for it. It never was his. He just used it. You just do your job. Now that you stole my money do your job.
Rodeo had already done as thorough an Internet search as he was capable of, visited the police officer in charge of the investigation, interviewed a potential witness the police had not interviewed and visited the site of the boy’s death. By professional standards that was enough to justify a day’s pay. For some private investigators that amount of work would have constituted a week’s paycheck and he himself had had clients willing to spend ten times that amount just to find a missing child who was staying with friends or off on a drug-fueled road trip.
All right, Mrs. Rocha, said Rodeo. I’m doing my job.
Well, I just called that motel where you said you were going to stay and they said you weren’t even registered. Are you even in town here?
I am in Tucson, Mrs. Rocha, Rodeo said. And I been working for you since yesterday.
I only paid for one day! the old woman yelled. You can’t charge me for yesterday on top of everything else. I won’t stand for it.
What time would you like me to come by and present the report I’m working on for you, Mrs. Rocha? Rodeo moved off the truck seat and shut the door behind him, moved around the driver’s side and opened that door.
I don’t want a report! I’m not paying you for any report. I can get a report from the newspapers. You’re supposed to be working, not reporting, the woman said.
All right, Mrs. Rocha. Rodeo got in the pickup and slammed the door. I’ll check Samuel’s parents out.
I didn’t say to check them out, the woman said. Leave them alone. Good riddance to them.
Rodeo started the truck and put his cell phone on the dashboard, put the truck in reverse and backed out of his parking space.
Mrs. Rocha, you’re breaking up … What? Repeat that please, Mrs. Rocha. I can’t hear you.
He put the phone back to his ear.
Worthless, the woman said. Corrupt and worthless.
Rodeo terminated the call before his client could.
* * *
Near nine o’clock Rodeo drove slowly through the parking lot of the Kettle and spotted through the restaurant’s front plate glass a Kool-Aid hairdo bobbing near the salad bar. The PI still had an hour until Rose’s shift was over, so he found the address of Samuel’s parents. The old woman’s handwriting on the notepaper was cramped but dramatic, the cursive practically gouged into the paper as if Katherine Rocha had meant to excise the address from her memory more than make it clear.
Rodeo called the number Mrs. Rocha had given him for her son, Alonzo Rocha, but the phone was shunted to an officially recorded message that indicated the number was no longer in service. Rodeo entered the address of Sam’s parents into his GPS and headed west toward the Tucson Mountains.
Alonzo Rocha’s house was near Katherine Rocha’s house, north instead of south on Mark Street, but not separated but by two hundred yards. The residence of Samuel’s parents was concrete block painted industrial gray with an aluminum porch, two picture windows on either side of a metal door and a dirt yard covered in weeds and trash. It was a small and untidy house though not any smaller or more untidy than some of its neighbors. A car so stripped of parts the make and model were not recognizable was propped on spare tires in the side yard. A mailbox tilted precariously on a splintered landscaping timber wedged into a stack of cinder blocks near the road in front of the house.
Rodeo parked on the dirt sidewalk and bade his dog stay put. He opened the mailbox as he passed it but did not pause to look inside, walked directly to the house. He knocked and the reinforced metal door rattled against its several protected hinges as if someone or something heavy was slamming into it. Rodeo waited, knocked again. The vertical blinds on the front windows were closed but as Rodeo moved away from the door a huge dog thrust its head through the metal blinds and rammed it against the window glass. Rodeo jumped back as the pit bull rattled the panes and began to bark hoarsely. Rodeo’s own dog started howling from the pickup.
Cállate! Siėntete! When Rodeo yelled his own dog immediately quieted as did the watchdog in the house.
A side window of the house next door opened and a man yelled at Rodeo as aggressively as Rodeo had yelled at the dogs. Cállate! Que quieres aqui!?
Rodeo walked to the neighbor’s house with his hands held open to his sides.
Estoy buscando La Familia Rocha, Rodeo said. I’m looking for La Familia Rocha, señor. Necessito hablar con Alonzo Rocha. I need to talk to the Rochas who live next door.
The man in the window was old and wary.
Que me quieres? the old man asked. La Migra? Policia?
I just want to talk to you, señor, Rodeo said. Estoy un investigador privado, he said.
Que? the old man asked.
Estoy un “private investigator,” Rodeo said. Like on the telenovelas. Usted hablas Ingles?
Espanol aqui solimente! Nada mas! Lega! The man slammed his window shut.
Rodeo walked back around the Rocha house, trying to peer into windows but the ferocious pit b
ull followed him from room to room, slamming his thick head into the window glass anytime Rodeo got near. The windowpanes were covered with dog drool and in places severely cracked. Rodeo could see through the cracked blinds that the house seemed deserted but for the pit bull though some furniture, appliances and fixtures were still inside. Rodeo proceeded to the other side of the house and knocked on another neighbor’s door.
A middle-aged woman appeared from a back room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She brought the smells of pozole and pig’s feet with her as she stopped three feet from the heavy screen door and inclined her head.
Buenas, señor. Que desea?
Puedo hablar con Señor ó Señora Rocha? Donde esta la familia Rocha?
They left, the woman said. She frowned. I don’t know where they went. We weren’t friends, just vecinos, neighbors.
I am a private investigator, investigating the death of their son, said Rodeo. And I thought they might speak to me about Samuel.
Esta muerto, said the woman. He’s dead, señor.
I know that, said Rodeo. I am trying to find out how and why Samuel Rocha died.
No se, señor.
But you know where Samuel’s parents are? Rodeo asked.
No, señor. I only know they left. The little girl died tambien. Somebody killed her too, back in the spring—around the time of Cinco de Mayo. The woman pointed down Mark Street toward Starr Pass Road. There was a shrine there for a long time but I think the City they finally took it all away. She brushed at her eyes. She used to play near the road all the time when her parents were drinking and she would even walk across the big road to go to her abuela’s house on the other side. Six years old, can you believe it.
Rodeo shook his head sadly.
I said, “This will lead to tragedy.” The woman wiped her eyes with the back of a hand.
And it did, said Rodeo.
Eso verdad, pero it does not seem right. Children play in the streets all night around here and so they should have more streetlights. The woman sniffed and shrugged. Quien sabe, señor? Who knows God’s will?