by JL Curtis
“What about the knife?” Clay asked. “Where is it?”
The sheriff snapped his fingers. “Damn, I knew there was something I forgot. Billy said the doc at the hospital did a chain of custody for it. He figures your Rangers have control of it, but didn’t say anything about it.”
“Yeah, Johnson should have it. I hope to hell he didn’t let them clean it!”
“Nope, according to Billy, it’s in a paper evidence bag, just like when they pulled it out.”
“Good! Not that we’re going to get much off it. But maybe we can get a make and see where it came from.” Clay groaned. “Since I’m up, I guess I better get back to work on my report. The rental car came back to Enterprise in Laredo, and the glove box had four burner phones in it, in addition to the one in the passenger’s seat. The clothes are all generic, the toiletries are the same. At this point, I’m leaning the same way you are. Cartel hit. But why a lone guy? And why John? Unless—”
The sheriff cocked his head. “Something caught your attention.”
Clay mused, “I wonder if this is because of our little set to with the coyotes a couple of months ago. I know that new CBP sector DPAIC was pissed at John. I wonder if he let his name slip, or put it out as the shooter. Maybe Bucky can check on that.”
The sheriff looked at his watch. “Well, we should know in a couple of hours. Bucky said he’d be here by eight. Doc said he’d do the autopsy on the body this morning, so we should have that info by ten.”
Clay looked around the station. “If I can borrow an office, I’ll get back to typing on my report. Have you started going through John’s computer and office yet?”
The sheriff nodded. “Yeah, nothing but the hitchhiker case he was working on. Apparently he was a Vet that had walked out of the VA hospital in Phoenix, heading to Louisiana. A couple of phone numbers for Louisiana cops, nothing in email, or anywhere else that points at anybody wanting to hit him.”
***
At 10:00AM, Doc Truesdale walked into the sheriff’s department with a folder under his arm and was pointed to the conference room. Entering, he saw the sheriff, Clay and Bucky sitting amid a mess of paperwork, printouts of photographs and bags containing the old man’s clothes, gun, boots, hat and the knife that had been driven over from Houston. Bucky was saying, “That face looks familiar, but it’s- Ah, hell, I can’t say for sure. Hi, Doc!”
Truesdale sat down, saying, “I’ve got the autopsy report for you. Three shots, two in the abdomen, both angled up. One under the chin, that was the killing shot. All delivered from contact range. Powder burns on all wounds.” He opened the folder. “Found two forty-five rounds in the upper thoracic cavity, both of them from John’s forty-five. They match the Gold Dots he had in the gun. Third round exited the body, so I don’t have a location on it. One thing of interest, the decedent is not American, or at least never had any dental work done here. I’m putting the age at mid-late forties, five foot ten, weight one eighty. Lots of scars on his hands and arms. Looks like knife wounds and two old gunshot wounds, one in the right bicep and one in the left thigh. Last meal was Mexican food, probably at lunch.”
Bucky said, “Knife wounds? Old knife wounds? As he’d been in some knife fights type wounds?”
Doc nodded. “Maybe, as good an explanation as any. Why?”
Bucky held up a finger and pulled the conference phone to him, dialed and waited for an answer. When the office in Laredo answered Bucky said, “Hey, Mike can you push me a link in ATIX for the list of enforcers the cartels use and the pictures we’ve got of them? I think one of them might be on the slab over here in Fort Stockton.”
They heard clicking on the other end and Mike came back, “Which department you want me to send it to?”
The sheriff and Clay both said, “Send it to—”
Bucky jumped in, “Send a copy to my desk, and info to Sheriff Jose Rodriquez Pecos County, and Ranger Clay Boone.”
More key clicks and they heard, “On the way.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Bucky said as he punched the phone off. “Jose, where’s your terminal?”
The sheriff stood. “Follow me. It’s in dispatch.”
They all crowded around the display as the sheriff called up the link and began flipping through the names and pictures of the various enforcers. They’d gone through all of the pictures when Doc said, “Wait, back up two.”
The sheriff did as asked. “What Doc? Does he look familiar?”
Impatiently, Doc said, “No back one more.”
“That could be him. Be right back.” Doc ran back to the conference room and returned with the autopsy pictures. “Yeah, pretty sure that’s him.” Showing the pictures of what was left of Roberto’s head he said, “See the scar over the eyebrow? He’s got the same one. Take away the moustache and I think this is your guy.”
Bucky flipped the picture around and whistled. “That .45 of John’s did a number. But yeah, that is one bad boy. Roberto Velasquez. He’s a long time enforcer for the Zetas. He was apparently part of a street gang run by—Son of a bitch! Zapata. That would explain why he’d dropped off the radar. He must have moved with Zapata.”
Clay and the sheriff looked at each other, and Bucky nodded. “Makes sense.”
“But the last phone call was to Cozumel,” Clay said.
“Zeta’s headquarters is in Cozumel,” Bucky replied. “And y’all’s bust up of the smugglers a couple of months ago was a Zeta operation.”
Clay tapped the table with his knuckle. “Yeah. I think we need to have a little talk with this CBP guy Covington. He’s out of Marfa, right? That’s the HQ for the Marfa sector.”
Bucky nodded. “Yep, he’s a real piece of work. Tight-assed administrator type, not a field guy at all. My bet is he’s over in El Paso, kissing up to the director of field operations and the DHS officers over there. Lemme make a call.”
Five minutes later, Bucky walked back into dispatch. “El Paso today for meetings.”
Clay smiled. “What the hell? He’s only three hours down the road. Care to ride along?”
Bucky grinned. “Why not?”
***
A little after 3:00PM, Clay pulled into the CBP office in El Paso, and they walked into the reception area. As they did, Bucky smiled seeing the director coming out of the offices in the back. “Hector, how are you?”
Hector replied, “Pretty good, Bucky. What are you and Ranger Boone doing all the way over here?”
Clay shook hands and said, “Need to talk to one of your boys, Hector. We’re investigating a second attempted murder on John Cronin over in Pecos County last night. Bucky thinks the perp is or I should say, was a cartel enforcer.”
Hector looked puzzled. “Was?”
“Three rounds of forty-five,” Clay said. “Last one under the chin. No more enforcer.”
Hector whistled. “Damn! Was John hurt?”
“Stabbed in the chest with a butcher knife,” Clay replied. “He’s alive, thanks to the doctors at Houston Memorial. They air-lifted him over there last night and he went right into the OR.”
“Who do you need to talk to?” Hector asked. “And I guess I better ask why?”
“One Deputy Patrol Agent-In-Charge Covington,” Clay said. “We were told he’s over here today for meetings.”
Hector sighed. “Oh joy.” Turning around, he escorted them through the door to the offices saying, “I think I better sit in. Why don’t we do this in my office?”
“Fine by us,” Bucky said.
Ensconced in Hector’s office, cups of coffee in hand, they waited while Covington was tracked down. He eventually showed up at Hector’s door. He entered and said, “Yes, sir? What can I do—” Covington stopped dead, mid-sentence when he recognized Bucky and Clay sitting on the couch.
Hector motioned to the two. “These gents would like to ask you a few questions. They’re investigating an attempted murder of one of our deputy sheriffs up in Pecos County.”
Covington looked uneasy. “If it’s all the
same, sir, I’d be much more comfortable answering any questions with a lawyer present. Can I call him?”
Clay lost it. “Why you little chickenshit sumbitch. I’ve heard how you treat—”
“Not here, not now, Clay,” Hector interrupted. “Covington, you’re dismissed. I’ll handle this.”
Covington, red-faced and trembling, stomped out of the room as Hector spun to face Clay and Bucky. “Okay, what the fuck am I missing here? Clay, you’ve obviously got a hard on for Covington, why?”
Clay related what he’d been told from the other Marfa Sector CPB officers and what Major Wilson had discussed about the interactions after he’d left. Clay also explained the reasons he wanted to question Covington and laid out what he wanted to know. Especially if anything had been published or posted that had either John’s, his or Spears name on it in the office with respect to the shootout. They all knew the cleaners and others that moved through the offices on a daily basis were being paid by or threatened by the cartels to pick up whatever information they could about CBP’s work and scheduling of raids and patrols.
Hector leaned back in his chair and toyed with a letter opener in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he said, “I’ll look into it, if you’ll trust me to give you what I find.”
Clay leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Hector, I’ve known you for over twenty years. You, I trust. Covington, not so much.”
Bucky was all in favor of stopping by Marfa on the way back, but Clay convinced him to let Hector do what he could.
Recovery
Swean and Hartsfield swept into the old man’s room a little after 06:00AM. “Morning, Mr. Cronin,” Swean said. “How are you feeling this morning?”
The old man fidgeted in his bed. “Other than like I got stomped by an elephant, and I’m lying in this torture device you call a bed. I can’t sleep worth a shit, and the food here sucks. I guess that’s better than the alternative, but not by much!”
Hartsfield picked up the old man’s wrist and asked, “Any deep chest pains? Hurt to cough? Feel like your heart is racing? Dizzy or lightheaded?”
“Not unless I try to get up to quick,” the old man grumbled. “But that ain’t happening anyway. And, yes, it hurts like hell to cough!”
Hartsfield stuck a thermometer under the old man’s tongue. “Here, hold this under your tongue please.”
When it dinged he pulled it out and said, “Ninety-eight point six. Good to go.”
Swean noted the reading and said, “How about movement? Can you raise your arms? Over your head? Out to the side?”
Seeing the old man wince at that motion, he reached in and pulled the old man’s hospital gown aside and ripped half the bandage off the chest. Peering and poking he said, “Incision itching?”
The old man grunted. “Hell, yes.”
Taking a penlight out of his smock, he peered closely at the stitches and finally said, “No suppuration, scabbing nicely. No heat. I think we’ll continue the antibiotics. You’re going to need rehab on that left pectoralis major and the internal intracostals.”
Jesse walked in, surprised to find both doctors there and said, “Rehab?”
Swean looked up and nodded. “Yep. The knife entry made a pretty significant vertical cut in the pectoralis and rehab is going to be necessary to get the muscle built back up, and hopefully lessen the hypertrophic scar formation from getting too bad.”
“Are y’all going to do that here?” Jesse asked.
Swean glanced at Hartsfield, then said, “Nope, we’re kicking you out, Mr. Cronin. We need the beds for sick people, and you’re on the mend. We should be able to get you out of here by ten this morning.”
The old man muttered, “Thank God for small favors.”
Jesse panicked. “But, but we don’t have any arrangements to get you home. And your clothes.”
“Call Billy,” the old man said. “He took my pants and boots. Tell him to pick me up a Dickie’s work shirt, seventeen neck forty-six chest. Or just get me a large size. Thirty-six waist, thirty-two inseam on the pants. Hell, get Billy to take my ass home.”
“Okay, Papa,” Jesse said. “I’ll call Billy.” Turning to the doctors, she said, “What about prescriptions, bandages and stuff like that?”
Hartsfield said, “I’ll do the prescriptions. I want another month of antibiotics, and I’ll give you two months of painkillers.”
“What about laxatives?” the old man asked. “I can’t shit worth a damn with whatever you’re giving me.”
Jesse hid a laugh as Swean said, “Yeah, we can throw them in too. I’ll have the nurses do a package of bandages and ointment for you, too.”
***
A week later, the Lear touched down a little after noon in Fort Stockton, taxied slowly into the FBO and was met with two Tahoe’s. Billy came off first and was met by Bob and the security team, in addition to the sheriff. Scanning around, Billy asked, “Who’s the wildman over there with the wheelchair?”
“That’s Duck,” Bob said. “You said pick up a medic, and the Duck was between jobs, so he’s here.”
Billy looked at the man with heavy skepticism. “That is the medic?”
“John,” the sheriff called. “You need some help getting down the steps?”
Billy turned and stepped back up to guide the old man, only to have him say, “Billy, get the hell outta my way. My legs work fine. It’s just my chest and arms that ain’t workin’ so well.”
Getting down off the airstairs the old man said, “Jose, what’s the status of the investigation?”
“You took down one bad boy,” the sheriff said. “Roberto Velasquez, he was an enforcer for the Zetas. He was apparently part of a street gang run by one Ernesto Zapata. Apparently, the knife he tried to use on you was Zapata’s, which lends credence to Zapata being dead. At least he didn’t get to carve another notch in that knife.” The old man nodded without saying a word, which surprised the sheriff.
Duck Drake pushed the wheelchair up behind the old man and said in a deep voice, “Captain, you need to sit down before you fall down. If you fall down, I gotta pick you up like a baby, and I don’t think you want to be embarrassed like that, do ya?”
The old man glared at Drake, but sat slowly in the chair with Drake’s assistance. He grumbled, “Maybe I should have stayed in the hospital. At least I got treated, ah hell. At least I’m almost home. Jose, I’m going to be out of action for probably six weeks. You might want to get Clay to cover for me.”
“Don’t worry about coverage,” the sheriff said. “Just worry about getting well. We’ll handle the rest of the stuff.”
“The captain needs his rest,” Drake rumbled and started pushing the old man toward the Tahoe. Billy and the sheriff looked at Bob, who gave them a Polish salute.
“Hey, you told me to get a medic, and Duck’s good. The personality might leave a bit to be desired, but he’s a shooter, too.”
At the truck, the old man started for the front seat. “Nope. You’re in the back, captain. No front seats and no driving for eight weeks.”
The old man snarled, “Why the fuck not?”
Duck said quietly, “What if we have a wreck and the airbag goes off? What do you think that is going to do to your ribcage in the state it’s in now?”
The old man threw up his hands and got slowly into the back seat. “Fine. And I didn’t think about that. Sorry.”
Billy and the sheriff chatted for a few minutes as the Tahoe’s left the ramp and headed back to the ranch.
***
When they pulled into the ranch yard, the old man saw Yogi and he smiled softly. “Glad the pup’s okay. Hope he doesn’t jump on me.”
Lisa brought Yogi down the steps on the leash, with Yogi whining all the way. As the old man got out of the truck, Yogi barked in joy, but didn’t jump. He sniffed the old man’s hand and licked it, tail going a mile a minute. Lisa said, “You want me to keep him for a while, captain?”
The old man considered the offer. “I think we’ll be a
lright here, Lisa, and I owe you big time for keeping him for me. Please let me pay you for your time and trouble.”
Lisa glared at the old man. “Captain, I did this because I wanted to. If you want to pay me for something, it’s the bag of dog food. I’ve got what’s left in the car.”
Duck rumbled, “Sir, you need to go inside now. I think you need to rest.”
The old man sighed. “The voice has spoken. Thank you, Lisa. I’ll get the money to you as soon as I’m up and around.” Nodding to Duck, he added, “Or as soon as my minder lets me.”
Duck helped the old man up the steps, and into the house. As he was walking slowly toward his bedroom, he was surprised to see Iris bustling around the kitchen. Stopping he asked, “Iris, what are you doing?”
“Mr. John, I’m cooking and cleaning for y’all. Eddie brought the two colts we’re working with up last week, and he’s socializing all of them. And Senor Felix told us to use the foreman’s house. I hope that’s all right?”
The old man said, “That’s fine, Iris, but why are you doing the cooking and cleaning?”
Iris put her hands on her hips. “Mr. John, you men are useless for cooking. All you can do is burn meat. And y’all live like pigs in a sty.” Pointing at Duck and Bob, she continued, “These men have a more important job than cooking. And I wasn’t going to send Eddie up here with no food. He’d damn well forget to eat! So I just decided to tag along.”
Confused the old man asked, “What about y’all’s place, Iris?”
“Nobody is going to bother that old rundown place,” she said. “And I saw at Christmas this place needed a good cleaning.”
The old man said simply, “Thank you, Iris. More than you know.” He walked on back to his bedroom and sank gratefully on the bed. Duck had disappeared and the old man decided he would stretch out for a few minutes.
***
Three hours later, Duck gently kicked the end of the bed. “Mr. Cronin, I need to change your bandages. Do you want to try a shower?”