The Territory: A Novel

by Tricia Fields

  Winning tilted her head and paused long enough to consider the question, or her answer. Josie couldn’t tell.

  “Don’t you think it was wise to lock the dead man inside until the police could get here? You wouldn’t want the body tampered with, would you?”

  Josie gestured toward the trailer. “How did Officer Podowski get inside?”

  “Beats me. Have to ask him. Probably the extra key under the mat.”

  “You ought to consider being more careful with who has access to your trailer.”

  Winning shrugged.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to break in?” Josie asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Have you made any enemies since you moved here?”

  “Only enemy I have is back in New Orleans.”

  “Who’s that?” Josie asked.

  “My ex.”

  “Any chance he could have paid you a visit? Found Red up the road and got jealous?” Josie asked.

  “No way. He was strictly knives. They’re clean and easy. No jacking around with bullets. His words, not mine.”

  Winning stood and stepped back from the picnic table. She lifted her shirt to reveal a pale flat stomach and a one-inch scar just below her navel. The scar was red and puffy, a fairly recent wound.

  She looked down at her stomach as she talked. “This is his. I was a Daiquiri Girl on Bourbon Street. Made great money until my boss came in and saw blood seeping through my T-shirt. He said it was bad for business and fired me on the spot. Lousy bastard. That’s when I called my brother.”

  “Do you know anyone who was out to get Red?”

  She grinned. “You a Democrat?”

  “Depends,” Josie said.

  Winning shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still the enemy. Democrats, cops, government, former schoolteachers, the Pope. You were all plotting an attack on his shitty little house in the desert. You were all about to converge and demand he sacrifice his land and home to your subversive causes.” She rolled her eyes and sat back down. “He told that slop to anyone who would listen. I figure more people wanted him dead than alive. Except that sick bunch of freaks he ran with.”

  “The Gunners.”

  “There are some seriously bizarre people in this world.”

  “Think any of them could have killed Red?”

  “No clue.”

  “You ever hear of the members arguing with each other?”

  “No clue.”

  “Do you know if he has any family members in the area?”

  “Nope.”

  Josie sighed, frustrated at her lack of cooperation. “Ms. Winning, at this point, you’re my best connection to Red Goff.”

  “Look. I’d help you if I could. But I don’t know anything. He’s just some weird guy that ended up dead on my couch. I’d like to know how he got there, too. Trust me.” She pointed in the direction of the trailer. “But I have to sleep in that thing tonight. So, honestly, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Red Goff. The feeling was mutual once he figured out my zipper was shut. I got my own worries right now.”

  * * *

  Red Goff’s place was built into the hillside two hundred feet behind Winning’s trailer. The underground dwelling consisted of a nine-foot-by-forty-foot-long wall covered in gray aluminum siding with no windows and only one entry point, a set of sliding glass doors dead center in the wall. Cactus and desert scrub had been strategically placed in front of the wall so that his house blended into the landscape.

  After the coroner arrived for the body, Josie and Otto walked up the steep hill to Goff’s to check out his house. Otto mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief and complained about the heat.

  “What’s your take on the girl?” Josie asked.

  “Pegasus Winning. What kind of mother names her kid that?”

  “She’s pretty laid-back about it all,” Josie said. “People usually try and put on a show when they’re trying to hide something. Give you what they think you want.”

  “She couldn’t care less.”

  Josie nodded, but her gut instinct told her Winning was innocent.

  Otto pointed to the left of the house. Another structure had been built into the hillside, a one-car garage, even more carefully disguised behind a thick stand of piñon pines. “Sneaky bastard.”

  “He definitely wanted to hide something. Maybe he just wanted to hide himself away from the world.”

  “Don’t you bet that son of a buck hated that trailer perched at the bottom of his driveway? I bet old Red tried like hell to buy that piece of land just for the privacy,” Otto said.

  “I’ll call the courthouse and see who owns the land. Winning said her brother rented the land from someone, and she sends the rent payment to a P.O. box each month. The check is made out to a third-party rental agency,” Josie said.

  Otto asked, “You know anything about her brother? All I knew was there was someone living out here by Red.”

  Josie shook her head. “She showed me a picture of him, but I didn’t recognize him. I think he kept a low profile. Name is Kenny Winning. Thirty years old. Tall, skinny guy. She claims she doesn’t know what kind of job he had.”

  As they reached Red’s house, Josie pointed up the hill that served as the side of his house. “Let’s clear the back before we go inside.”

  From atop the roof, it was impossible to tell there was a house below. A half mile beyond, the land sloped into government grazing pasture and tall swaths of green native grasses, some of the prettiest country in Artemis.

  “Typical Red. Builds his house on the ugliest chunk of ground on his property,” Otto said.

  “Facing a double-wide trailer on cement blocks.” She shook her head and pointed toward a small barn with its doors wide open. “He used to raise a small herd of cattle. At least we don’t have to deal with moving cows out of here. I’ll check around and make sure somebody didn’t run off with them.”

  Otto pointed to the right side of the property, where a well-tended ten-foot-by-twenty-foot garden thrived due to a drip-irrigation system on a timer. “Hard to picture Red as a gardener.”

  They walked back down the hill, and Josie snapped 35-millimeter pictures of the house and garage before entering. Otto set his evidence kit down and tried the sliding door with a gloved hand. It opened easily.

  “Not a good sign,” said Josie.

  Otto slid the door all the way open and tapped on it. “I heard this is bulletproof glass shipped in from China. Cost him a pretty penny.”

  The two stepped into a room lit by the late afternoon sun. Several tube skylights ran approximately four feet through the dirt above the house to the ground above and provided a surprising amount of light.

  “Looks like a bachelor pad,” Otto said. “Couch, coffee table, and TV. Concrete floor. Not much else a man needs.”

  Josie winced. “Smells like Red. Musty and rank.” She walked to the back wall, which was painted a deep gray. Several hundred hooks stuck out of the wall, starting at about four feet from the floor and extending to the ceiling. “What do you figure these are?” Josie asked, moving closer.

  Otto stood in front of the wall and drew his finger around long, darkened shadows where something had covered the wall and kept the sun from bleaching the paint.

  Otto pointed to a dark outline. They noticed the pattern at the same time.

  “He had guns mounted on the wall. Dozens,” Josie said. “Somebody beat us.”

  Gravel sprayed as a pickup truck slid to a stop outside Red’s front door. A man stormed out of the truck and was about to walk in before Josie stepped up and stopped him.

  “What’s going on here?” the man demanded, trying to see around Josie and into the house.

  “I’ll ask you the same,” Josie said.

  She recognized him as the local pediatrician: a slightly balding middle-aged man in khaki pants and a button-down short-sleeved shirt. Average everything. He was a compact man, about five feet seven inches tall, with a soft boyish
complexion and light blond hair. His lips had tightened down into an angry line; his eyes filled with unfocused anger.

  “Where’s Red at?” he asked, his voice shallow and nervous.

  “Are you Dr. Fallow?” Josie asked.

  “Yes. Paul Fallow.”

  “Dr. Fallow, you’re interrupting a crime scene investigation. Unless you have something to share concerning the investigation, you need to leave.”

  The man’s complexion turned gray, and he put both hands out as if searching for a chair. Josie moved backwards and allowed him entrance to Red’s house. He stumbled in, and Otto and Josie grabbed his arms to lead him toward the couch, where he sat, staring up at Josie with uncomprehending eyes.

  “Is it true, then, that Red’s dead?”

  “Where did you hear that?” Josie asked.

  “I stopped at the Gun Club. Tiny was closing up for the day. I had to ask him about an order. He told me he’d heard a rumor that Red had been murdered. Is it true?”

  Josie shook her head at Otto. “This has to be the gossip capital of the world.”

  “Looks like Lou decided to scoop the story,” Otto said.

  Fallow looked confused. “So, it’s gossip, then—about Red?”

  “No, Mr. Fallow, this time the gossip was accurate. Red was murdered. Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill him?” Josie asked.

  Fallow sank back into the couch, his jaw slack. “I didn’t believe it. I was sure it was just a rumor.”

  “Do you know anyone who was angry with Red? Anyone Red had fought with recently?” she asked.

  Another pickup truck drove up the driveway, and all three of them turned to the sliding glass door to watch a large man in blue jeans, black T-shirt, and black cowboy hat climb out of his truck. Josie recognized Sheriff’s Deputy Hack Bloster and met him at the door before he could enter.

  “What can I do for you, Hack?”

  “What the hell are you doing in Red’s house?” Bloster spoke with a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek that made it hard to separate his words. His skin had the dark, lined texture of cowhide, and he looked to be anywhere from a well-preserved fifty to a life-hardened thirty. Josie assumed it was the latter. Bloster noticed Fallow sitting on the couch and made a move to walk past Josie into the house.

  She put her forearm up to block Bloster’s entrance, and he flinched like he had been touched by a hot iron. “This is an investigation. You need to leave the property. If you have questions, call and make an appointment with the dispatcher. I can see you tomorrow.”

  “I’m a cop. I don’t need an appointment. This is our jurisdiction, anyway. You’re the one shouldn’t be here,” Bloster said.

  Otto turned and grimaced at Fallow. “Is he part of your club?”

  Fallow’s already pale face had gone completely white. “Vice president.”

  Josie gestured toward Bloster’s truck and attempted to maintain her patience. “Deputy, you have a conflict of interest here that wouldn’t do you, or the investigation, any good. For both our sakes, I would suggest you leave until we figure out what happened here.”

  Bloster noticed the wall behind the couch in Red’s living room. His eyes widened. “What the hell did you do with his guns?”

  She considered him. The rumors would spin hard and fast, twisting the investigation into a funnel cloud of half truths and innuendo. She decided to tell Bloster the truth to gauge his reaction.

  “The guns were missing when we arrived. How do you know Red didn’t move them?” she asked.

  Bloster pointed his index finger within an inch of Josie’s chest, and she knocked it away with her forearm.

  “Don’t do that again. You have something to say to me, then do it with respect.”

  Bloster stared at her for a moment. When he spoke again, the volume was lower, but the anger just as intense. “Those guns leave the wall for one reason and one reason only.”

  “Which is?” she asked.

  “Use.” He lifted his chin in the air.

  “What kind of use?” she asked.

  “The kind we find necessary to keep this world running the way it ought to,” Bloster said.

  Fallow moaned on the couch and leaned over to put his head between his knees.

  “Suck it up, Fallow,” Bloster said.

  “What the hell are we going to do?” Fallow said toward the floor.

  “We continue to do the right thing!” Bloster said.

  Josie sighed. “I need you both to leave so we can finish here. Officer Podowski or I will be in contact with you tonight or tomorrow.”

  She wrote Bloster’s and Fallow’s contact information on the small notepad she kept in her uniform shirt pocket and both men left. Otto stood at the sliding glass door and watched the cars exit the driveway, making sure they didn’t stop to talk with the coroner or, worse, tamper with evidence.

  After she and Otto finished a quick inventory of Red’s place, they locked the sliding door with a key they had found on Red’s desk and ran crime scene tape around the front of the house. Before they locked up, Josie sketched a picture of Red’s desk and the location of the key. It seemed odd to her that someone as paranoid as Red would leave a key lying in the open on his desk. By the time they walked back down the lane to Winning’s trailer, the county coroner, Mitchell Cowan, had finished his job and was zipping Red Goff’s corpse into a black plastic body bag.

  Cowan was a large man who reminded Josie of Eeyore, the sad donkey from Winnie the Pooh. His head drooped low like his gut, as if the weight of the world was dragging him down. He talked slowly, to the point of annoyance, but he was thorough and his findings were well respected in court.

  Cowan lifted his balding head and waved to Josie and Otto. “Got a surprise for you.”

  Josie and Otto followed Cowan to the shade provided by the cedar trees. When he didn’t elaborate, Josie cleared her throat, prompting him to continue, her tolerance slipping in the heat.

  “That bullet exited Red’s skull.”

  “Does that mean the shooter was up close?” Josie asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m guessing a pretty high-caliber gun was used. The surprise, though?” He posed the question and waited for Josie to wave him on again before he would finish. “The bullet isn’t in the couch. Somebody shot him elsewhere and then arranged the body on the couch,” Cowan finished with a satisfied smile.

  “They either thought the police were inept, or they were telling us something,” Josie said.

  “Or the message was for someone else,” Otto said.

  With the body removed, Josie took additional pictures of the couch. They searched the trailer, looking for the ejected bullet, but there was no indication a gun was fired inside.

  Otto helped Cowan get the body on the stretcher, and Josie stood outside to talk to Danny Delgado, sanitation supervisor, known locally as the Dump Man. Josie had called and asked if he would haul away the bloodstained couch to the evidence locker at the department that evening. Winning stood by the trailer door and watched as Josie and Delgado carried the couch to his pickup truck. Danny and Josie climbed inside the pickup where he helped her cover the couch with a plastic tarp before she took pictures of how it would be transported. She had a feeling the couch might play a major role in the investigation and the trial.

  Danny shut the tailgate and headed for Winning like a dog after a bone. He smiled at her and rubbed his hands down the front of his blue jeans, then up and through his hair, then back down to his jeans. He had the nervous tics of a crack addict, and Josie wondered if he was really wound that tight or if drugs were the issue.

  “How about I drop your couch off, then come back and take you out for a beer?” Danny ran his hands through his coarse blond hair again.

  Winning scowled at him and crossed her arms over her chest but didn’t speak.

  “Danny. Leave her alone. A man was murdered in her home today,” Josie said.

  “Hey! If anybody in this town needs a beer, it’s her. And
I’m offering it to her free!”

  Josie pointed to Danny’s truck, and he winked at Winning as he turned to leave. Josie sent Otto to ride with Danny to provide validation the evidence was not tampered with before it was logged into evidence.

  * * *

  By the time Josie finished Red Goff’s initial paperwork, she felt as if she had worked a twenty-four-hour shift. She sat in her jeep to clear up a few things before driving home. A call to the night dispatcher confirmed there was no new activity coming from across the border. She had instructed dispatch to make daily phone calls to the Artemis PD contacts in Piedra Labrada until the city calmed down. Next, she called Martínez, who told her that the Mexican prisoner from the shooting at the Trauma Center had stabilized and was ready for questioning. Martínez was working on fingerprints and hopefully a positive identification from NCIC or DACS, the National Crime Information Center or Deportable Alien Control System. Josie thanked him and told him she would be at the jail by noon the next day to interview the prisoner.

  Before Josie hung up, she asked, “What’s the story with your deputy, Hack Bloster, and the Gunners?”

  “Bloster’s too intense for his own good. He’s a gun nut, but he’s a good cop. He’ll walk into a shit storm without a second thought. He’s good with border issues.”

  “He showed up at Red’s tonight, off duty. He threw his weight around. Wanted to know why your department wasn’t conducting the investigation.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Remind him a little professional courtesy goes a long way.”

  THREE

  Josie pointed her jeep toward the sun, just a red bump on the darkening horizon, and drove with all four windows down, listening to Johnny Cash sing a live version of “Folsom Prison Blues.” She attempted to focus her thoughts on the winding gravel road that led to her house in the foothills of the Chinati Mountains, but the image of Vie Blessings praying on the hospital floor imprinted like a watermark over everything. The wind would not clear the vision of the young surgeon, still in his blood-splattered scrubs, crying into his hands outside the clinic after it was over. And she could not erase the thought that she knew would invade every nightmare for the next month: We are losing our town to mercenary killers.