“Mrs. Wynn, don’t come around with that shit.”
“I’m only kidding, for goodness’ sake. Foreigners are always so sensitive.”
“I was born in Yuma, Arizona,” said Montalvo.
“Well, who wasn’t?” answered Ginny. “Here.”
She slipped $50 into his hand. He gave it a quick count. He had expected considerably more. “What's this?” he asked.
“That, my amigo, is the monthly payment on my refrigerator.”
He looked at the money in his hand like a drought-defeated farmer feeling for rain.
“Well, when do I get more? When do I get it all?”
“I wired the bank in Denver,” she said. “I touched bases with my bank in Chicago. The Kansas City bank has promised an early reply, and I have a call in to the bank in Seattle. But these things take time. Be patient.”
She quickly walked out of Woolworth’s, Mrs. Lister struggling to keep up. Rudy watched them go, and suffered his first misgivings about Mrs. Wynn’s honesty.
On the first day of his hangover, Beef Buddusky could not get out of bed. He made it to work on the second, but he threw up on some man’s roof and had to take the rest of the day off.
He stopped at a bar and got himself back into shape. At the hotel he took a hot bath and shaved. He looked into the mirror and somehow felt justified in feeling sorry for himself. Things had simply gone to shit.
He rehearsed a long heart-to-heart talk he was going to have with Ginny. If he could get nowhere with her (and he already expected that would be the case) he would tell it to Gordon. He would apologize to Maria. He would talk to Mae. Somehow he would straighten everything out. He should have done it long ago. Enough is enough.
He was intercepted on the sidewalk by a breathless Mrs. Lister, who panted and leaned on her cane and said, “We can’t go up there, Bomba. The police are there. I saw them.”
Suddenly there was nothing in his mind. “How come?” he asked.
“How come? They killed Maria, those two boys.”
Beef grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her. “They didn’t!”
“Oh, yes, they did!” she said, her teeth rattling.
He held her shoulders and felt himself sinking like a raw egg in a glass of beer. He walked backward, bowing like a Chinese servant as he retreated down the sidewalk. Every time Mrs. Lister tried to tell him more, he raised his hand to stop her.
“Got bad hearing,” he said.
Beef went back to his hotel, settled his account, and packed his bag. He dropped his swimming trunks into the wastebasket, as sad as rootlessness. On his dresser thought he had found a home. long, last, wistful look at the Springs, where once he was the barrette he had stolen in Maria’s apartment. He could not throw it away. He put it into his pocket and slung his bag like guilt over his shoulder. He walked to Route 25, dropped his bag to the ground, and extended his thumb to the south. He gave one long, last, wistful look at the Springs, where once he thought he had found a home.
TWO
The man in the wrinkled suit who stepped into the Colorado Springs Police Station was a man familiar with such places. He had graduated from one. He knew instinctively when there was a major crisis in the station itself. What he sensed here was occasioned by one of two things, in his experience: either a cop had been killed or a cop had committed a major crime.
He presented himself to the desk sergeant and said, “You have an officer named Wynn. Is he around now?”
“You a reporter?” The sergeant was in a foul mood.
The man showed him his identification. “Martin Lowell, chief investigator, Pueblo County DA’s office.”
The sergeant’s features softened. “Christ, man, c’mon with me.”
It was almost 9 p.m. before Martin Lowell returned to Pueblo. He came into the office and sat down in a chair like a man who had spent the past several hours listening to things for which only cops could have ears.
District Attorney Ferguson leaned back and waited for him to speak.
When he did, he said, “You know, the Springs is a helluva pretty town. It’s easy to see why people like to retire there.”
“But?” asked Ferguson.
“But I think the shit’s about to hit the fan there. A girl has disappeared without a trace. The one who got the annulment was her mother-in-law. When that didn’t bust up the marriage I think she cooled the girl.”
Ferguson flipped back through his calendar pad to find the word Annulment written there. He wrinkled his brow, angry at himself and once again doubtful of the nobility of man. A woman had boldly demonstrated her capability of acting out deep hatred, and no one picked up the cue.
“Goddammit,” he said, “I should have arrested them as soon as I learned their names. What about the son?”
“It wouldn’t surprise the rest of the fuzz to learn he had a hand in it. They don’t like him much there. But they got nothing on him. All the evidence they have, which isn’t so much, points to the mother.”
“What are they doing?”
“They’re in a tailspin. They’re walking around the station talking to themselves.”
“Did they book her?”
“They don’t even have her. They had to let her go.”
“What!”
Ferguson reached for the telephone and located the DA of El Paso County still in his office.
“Hello, Fred, this is Ferguson in Pueblo.”
“Why, hello, Ralph, how are you?”
“What’s the story on this Wynn case?”
“Christ, bad news travels fast. How did you hear about it?”
“I have an interest. What’s going on?”
“Well, the word around town is that the mother of one of our cops hired some local talent to murder her daughter-in-law. The girl is missing, under unusual circumstances. She denied it, of course, but she finally said she was the victim of extortion on the part of two Mexicans who are working for an old guy named Barrajas, who owns a local eyesore.”
“Why the extortion?” asked Ferguson.
“Threats against her son, she claims, because he arrested Barrajas in a case involving receiving stolen property. Anyway, she picked one of the Mexicans out of the mug book, a bad boy named Rudy Montalvo. We questioned him and he denied even knowing Mrs. Wynn. We picked up Barrajas and he admitted knowing Montalvo and his friend, a kid named Yanez who’s supposed to be down there in Pueblo right now. We’re looking for him. But he doesn’t admit to anything else. Then we find out that Mrs. Wynn was always in the company of a little old lady named Mrs. Lister and a big thug they called Bomba the Jungle Boy. Getting interesting?”
“Go on,” said Ferguson.
“Looks like Bomba the Jungle Boy has run, but they bring in Mrs. Lister, who right off the bat tells them she can’t say anything or else she’ll go to the gas chamber. They asked her who told her that, and she said Canny Wynn. They reassured her that only murderers go to the gas chamber. She breathes a sigh of relief and tells them two Mexican boys murdered Maria Wynn, the policeman’s wife. We bring in Barrajas again and this time he admits to introducing Mrs. Wynn to Montalvo and Yanez. Beyond that, he says he knows nothing.”
“My man tells me you let Mrs. Wynn go.”
“I had to, Ralph. All we had was Mrs. Lister, and if you could listen to her you’d know she’d be next to worthless as a witness. Barrajas could possibly be an accomplice, so he’s no help. We need a body and then some, or we’re in real trouble with this one. All we’ve got now is a senile old lady. And I’m afraid they might all run.”
“They will run,” said Ferguson. “Do you want me to put her on ice for you?”
“Can you?”
Ferguson told him about the annulment.
“Christ,” he said, “this is getting peculiarer and peculiarer. You take her, Ralph, and I’ll find some way to nab Montalvo and Yanez. Can you boost the bail on her?”
“I can try.”
When he hung up the phone, Ferguson looked at Lowel
l, who asked, “What’s the oldest sin, chief?”
“Stealing apples,” said the DA.
Lowell thought about it for a moment, and said, “I guess you’re right at that.”
Ferguson waited in his office until he heard that Mrs. Wynn was safely in the custody of the County of Pueblo. He had a strong impulse to go down and have a look at her, but he overcame it. The real case was in the Springs, and welcome to it.
THREE
In Colorado Springs, Juan Barrajas finally admitted to interrogators that he introduced Ginny Wynn to Montalvo and Yanez for the purpose of doing some sort of job for her. He did not know what kind of job, he said. Yes, the boys borrowed a car to do the job. The car belonged to Lupe Martinez, who was questioned and freely admitted that she had lent her car to Rudy. She showed it to the detectives.
“See what they did to it,” she said, still peeved at them.
There were some bloodstains that the spray paint did not cover.
They arrested Montalvo and charged him with violation oF his parole: driving an automobile.
The police picked up Yanez in Pueblo and took him to the Springs for questioning. The name Ginny Wynn did strike a familiar note with him, but he could not place the lady. Ah, maybe it was in the Panama Club that he had met her, but the memory was vague. Well, she could have propositioned them to commit murder, but they sure wouldn’t take her up on it.
They could get him no further than that, but they were sure he would be the first to weaken and tell all, if they could only keep him in jail for a while. Unfortunately, there was nothing to charge him with, and he had no criminal record.
The El Paso County DA called Ferguson and asked him if he thought, since Yanez was from his county, that he could arrest him for something.
“I’m sure of it,” answered Ferguson. He did some checking, found Yanez was delinquent in his child support payments, and arrested him for that.
All three of them were now behind bars, but unless a body and a confession were forthcoming, it would be hard to keep them there for long. Montalvo and Yanez could be held easily enough, but Mrs. Wynn might have the resources to make bail.
Ferguson filed a complaint against Ginny before Judge Barry Winston, the same judge who had earlier been duped into granting a fraudulent annulment, charging her with bribing a witness (Bomba the Jungle Boy), fraudulently preparing a document to deceive the court, forgery of Maria Wynn’s signature, and aiding and abetting the commitment of perjury. To Gordon’s great surprise, the judge followed the district attorney’s recommendation and set the bail at $50,000. Gordon could not raise it, nor could he get it reduced.
The chief of police put Gordon on a two-week suspension for striking a superior officer. After that, he advised, Gordon would be wise to take his vacation time. Gordon knew there was no way they could make him take a vacation; he had done nothing wrong. But he also knew he could not serve with men who looked at him the way they did. His days as a cop in Colorado Springs, if not elsewhere, were over.
His only concern now was his mother. He could not get her out of jail. He set out to find a lawyer who could.
Ginny kept to her story. If Maria Wynn was murdered, it was in retaliation for Ginny’s not paying extortion money. She said that it was her belief, however, that Gordon’s wife pulled this disappearing act in order to give her husband a lot of bad publicity. Gordon defended her to the press, supporting the lie that his wife had often threatened to leave like that, mysteriously and without a word. He insulated himself against memories of Maria and hopes for their child. What might have been did not become. He would permit himself no emotion contrary to the defense of his mother. He would not look to any future beyond saving her life. He was, and probably would be, neither trapped nor free.
Rudy Montalvo would say nothing at all. His friend Goose Yanez kept indicating that he would like to talk, but just couldn’t bring himself to do so.
Mrs. Lister became a local celebrity and was only too willing to tell all she knew, down to the finest detail she could invent. She liked the attention. For her own protection, the police sponsored a vacation for her at a hot springs resort, where she spent her days soaking with a third-degree black belt in karate.
Juan Barrajas, an inch at a time, finally allowed that he knew the boys were to be hired for something comparable to murder, but he had no alternative. He did not want to go to prison at his age. He had been advised by a disbarred lawyer who frequently loitered around the Panama Club to refuse to testify unless he was offered immunity from prosecution as an accessory or accomplice. This advice cost him one bottle of beer, but it was worth considerably more.
The annual Christmas party for the courthouse offices was winding down. Earlier there had been the sharing of a multitude of gripes concerning pay scales, seniority, politics, job titles, bureaucracy, and all the other irritations of government employment. Shortly thereafter followed the customary quick assignations in cloakrooms and closets, offering youthful thrills but no promise of fulfillment. Santa arrived on the scene and distributed goodies to all assembled. Now Santa lay passed out in a corner, his beard over his eyes, two of yesterday’s darlings asleep on either side of him; the resident legal bunny had made her selection for this winter’s night and departed; and a community realization that another year was nearing its end, thrusting them into a new and uncertain one, settled over the celebration and all but stilled the laughter.
Martin Lowell was rounding the last turn to a mean drunk. There was no satisfaction in having three killers behind bars, if only on piddling charges. It offended his sense of enclosure to be without a corpse or confession. The Springs authorities in charge of the case had made only two trips down to Pueblo to question Yanez and the mother.
Ralph Ferguson stopped to talk to him on his way out of the party.
“Good night, Marty.”
“‘Night, chief.”
“You feeling all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“If you feel like it, go and talk to Yanez. Maybe you can help out the Springs.”
“Okay, maybe I will. Nobody up there’s moving his ass.”
Ronnie Fischer, a sheriff’s deputy, wandered up to them.
“Take Ronnie here with you,” said Ferguson. “He doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself either.”
Ronnie Fischer had recently flunked another exam for promotion. An ex-Navy signalman, he did not drink, having sworn off after causing $2000 worth of damage in a Honolulu bar and sending two Marines to the hospital with serious jaw fractures. He was demoted for this, and his future in the Navy looked weak, which is why he mustered out. Like so many men whose entire adult life had been spent in the military, he sought police work upon discharge. He worried that he would not get very far in the sheriff’s department either.
Lowell and Fischer went downstairs to an interrogation room and called for Yanez to be brought to them.
“You want to be the good guy or the bad guy?” asked Lowell
“Makes no difference to me,” said Fischer.
“I’ll flip you for it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Okay,” said Lowell, “I’ll be the bad guy.”
Yanez was brought into the room. Neither Lowell nor Fischer paid any attention to him. He stood a moment, then helped himself to a chair.
Fischer sat behind the desk. Lowell sat on a corner of the desk and said to him, “Why don’t you and the old lady come over some Sunday after the New Year and I’ll barbecue something?”
“Good idea.”
“I got a recipe for chili I’d like to try out on you,”
“Sounds good.”
“It’ll rip you a new asshole.”
Danny Yanez sat smiling, looking from one to the other, as though he expected them to invite him.
“What are you smiling for, punk, you glad you killed a defenseless girl?” said Lowell.
Yanez looked deeply hurt. He stared between his knees and said nothing.
“Montalvo Squealed,” said Lowell. “He says you did it. The old lady says the same thing, says it was all your idea.”
Yanez said nothing until Martin Lowell kicked his feet and almost sent him flying off his chair, and then he said, “C’mon, man.”
“How’s the new baby, Goose?” asked Fischer, offering him a cigarette.
“Okay, I guess. She didn’t even let me see her.”
“Your kids are gonna be real proud of their papa when they grow up. You want them to follow in your footsteps, lady-killer?” asked Lowell.
Yanez took a drag on his cigarette and said, “You’re a real bastard.”
Lowell kicked his feet again.
“Hey, man, I’m gonna go back to my cell there. I don’t have to talk to you guys.”
“Ease off, Marty,” said Fischer. “Goose is gonna do what’s right. He’s a good boy. Ask anyone in town.”
“Yeah?” asked Yanez, not realizing he was so popular.
“Sure, everybody around here says you’re a good kid, wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“This chili I make,” said Lowell to Fischer, “I use three different kinds of chilis at once.”
Yanez let his head hang down. “I’d like to help you guys, you know that. You, Fischer, not this other guy. He ain’t my friend.”
“Well, I'll be your friend,” said Fischer, “but you gotta level with me, like friends always do.”
Poker, seduction, and the third degree, thought Fischer, they’re all the same.
“Can I have a coffee?” asked Yanez.
“Sure, kid,” said Fischer, rising.
“No! Don’t leave me with him. Let him go get it.” “Okay, punk,” said Lowell, leaving the office. “I’ll get your goddamn coffee for you.”
“He really is a bastard,” said Yanez. “Been drinking too, looks like. You stay with me, Fischer, or the son-of-a-bitch will kill me.”
“I think I can keep him off you, but he’s feeling mean because he keeps wondering where this poor girl is, her and her poor little baby, where they’re lying tonight.”
Yanez’s mouth opened wide in terror. “What baby?” He gripped the arms of his chair.
The Accomplice: The Stairway Press Edition Page 16