by Mark Reps
“Hello, Sheriff Hanks,” said Lorenzo García with a broad smile. “Have you brought me good news about my truck?”
Zeb walked up to the porch and greeted Mrs. García, who offered him tea and Mexican shortbread cookies. He had known Mrs. García since he was a child, when his own grandmother used to have Mrs. García tell her fortune or read her future in the Tarot cards. Zeb had a particular affection for the Garcías. They seemed like the perfect couple. They were solid citizens, good Catholic church-going folks and down to earth, hard-working people. None of the Garcías’ extended family had ever had a run in with the law as far as Zeb knew. The grandchildren stood next to him admiring his gun and uniform. The older of the two, a little boy about seven years old, spoke to Zeb.
"Señor, are you really a Sheriff?”
“Yes, I am,” he said tousling the young boy’s hair.
“Can I look at your gun?” asked the boy.
Sheriff Hanks looked at Lorenzo and his wife for approval. Their nods said it was okay. Taking the gun from his holster, Sheriff Hanks unloaded the weapon and held it out for the boys to touch. The boys looked at their grandparents for approval.
“Sí,” said Lorenzo. “You may touch it but be careful.”
Wide-eyed the boys each ran a gentle finger across the barrel of the gun then quickly ran off together giggling, using their fingers as pistols, pretending to shoot at each other.
“Boys,” said Lorenzo shrugging his shoulders, “will always be boys.”
Overhead clouds rolled in from across the desert expanse. The day darkened along with the sheriff’s mood. Small talk would be pointless. There was no getting around the fact that the outcome here was going to be bad. Lorenzo was going to be disappointed, perhaps even angry. The presence of Mrs. García made things only a little easier. Sheriff Hanks got right to the point.
“Lorenzo, I am afraid I have some very bad news for you.”
“You did not find my truck?” asked Lorenzo.
“No, I’m afraid your truck has been found.”
“Where?”
“In Tucson.”
“So far away,” said Lorenzo pointing toward Tucson. “Can I go pick it up?”
“I’m sorry,” said Sheriff Hanks. “Your truck has been destroyed.”
“No,” gasped Lorenzo.
“I’m afraid it is a total ruin. It was burned up in a fire.”
“No,” gasped Lorenzo a second time. “Was anyone hurt?”
Sheriff Hanks hesitated a minute before telling the Garcías that a dead body had been found inside their Chevy LUV truck. When he finally told them, they both made a fast sign of the cross. As the sheriff further explained the body had not been identified and that the truck had stolen license plates on it, the Garcías seemed to go into a state of shock.
“This is an omen,” said Mrs. García. “A very bad omen.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sheriff Hanks. He knew they had no insurance on the vehicle and that it would be a while before they had enough money to buy anything but a high mileage used junker. He departed the García homestead with Mrs. García’s words “a very bad omen” ringing in his ears. Five miles from town he got a message on the two-way radio that proved her words prophetic.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Delbert has passed on.”
At first Helen’s words made no sense to Zeb. It was almost as though his ears refused to hear the words from her mouth. He asked her to repeat what she had said. “Delbert died twenty minutes ago. Dr. Yackley just called looking for you. He gave me the sad news.”
Zeb was stunned. The shock of it all prevented tears from forming. His heart sank. He had known Delbert since they were kids. Delbert was one of the nicest people he had ever known. It was not fair. It was not right. Corita Funke had only Delbert. Now, in her old age, she would have no comfort. Worst of all was the guilt Zeb felt. It was his fault Delbert was dead. Delbert was only following his orders. For a few seconds that seemed an eternity, Zeb let every cell of his body feel the horrible sensation that had just jolted his mind.
It felt almost identical to the time when a fellow border patrol agent, one of his team members, Darren Wendt, was shot and killed not twenty feet from where Zeb and Josh stood. It was a bad time in the history of the Arizona Border Patrol. They had lost five men in a single month. Bad memories came rushing in like a canyon flash flood in spring. All of the dead Arizona Border Patrol members were murdered by thugs from a drug running and people smuggling gang, the Crazy Cachandos.
Now it was Delbert who was dead. Zeb felt rage roiling inside him. He forced a cap on his emotions. It was quite possible he might come apart at the seams if he let Delbert’s death get to him. He had been down this ugly road before. He knew nothing would bring Delbert back. Delbert was gone, hopefully and most likely, to heaven. Zeb’s faith, what he had of it, was being tested once again.
The viewing of the body and the funeral came three days later. Zeb thought Delbert, in his full uniform, never looked so handsome. Zeb had a curious reflection at the viewing. The funeral director had somehow managed to put a smile on the face of the dead deputy.
The townspeople of Safford and nearby Thatcher mourned in unison over the loss of a native son. Doreen sang a hymn that left no one in the church with a dry eye. The Bishop of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints spoke from his heart. Friends testified to the good works of Delbert Funke. It seemed as though no one wanted the service to end as it would mean the last of Delbert. Sheriff Hanks spoke from the pulpit and allowed some of the guilt he harbored to be shared with the community. His words may have helped others, but they only intensified his own feelings of guilt. No one blamed him for Delbert’s death, not even Delbert’s mother who wept uncontrollably as the casket was rolled into the church, and again as the last shovelful of dirt was tossed on the coffin.
Whoever set the explosion was now also a murderer. Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Steele were going to make certain that the crime was paid for, in full. Their investigation needed to be put into high gear. In the minds of Sheriff Hanks, Deputy Steele and just about everybody in the area, each moment that passed with the murderer of Deputy Delbert Funke walking free was a bad moment. Justice needed to be served and it needed to be served quickly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the days between the death and burial of Deputy Delbert Funke, the entire town of Safford seemed to be on hold. Now, with the funeral proceedings behind them, the time to move forward was at hand.
Deputy Steele felt the greatest sense of urgency she had ever felt in her life. The need to solve the murder of her cohort was taking precedence over any other professional issues, and certainly her personal ones.
“I have some information you need, Kate,” said Zeb. “It might be the break we’ve been seeking. Let’s have a look at your map.”
Removing a pencil from her desk drawer she handed it to Zeb who pressed the rubber eraser head against the map and drew a box. County Roads 6, 11 and 14 marked the eastern, southern and western borders. The northernmost boundary angled off to the northeast and formed an imaginary line through the jutted out southeastern tip of the San Carlos Reservation. The map clearly showed there were no marked roadways in this area.
“Joe Escarte, from the phone company, told me that inside this area they are still getting some static from the downed lines. He thinks the noise is transformer resistance complicated by some sort of a dual coupling problem or an electrical technical issue that I didn’t really understand. He says those poles out there all need to be replaced. The ones that got blown down were termite infested. He said not only were they old, but had not been treated correctly with creosote. The way he has it figured is this--somebody shortchanged the county when they sold them the poles. He asked me to look into that issue. I referred him to the local purchasing agent for the county.”
Kate studied the sheriff’s drawn outline. The area inside the box was twenty by forty miles. The eight hundred square miles seemed huge until Ze
b reiterated a point the phone company man had made.
“There are less than one hundred phones serviced by that line. Some of them are shared lines, party lines, but almost everyone who uses that line lives on County Road 6.”
“It looks like we’re going to do some legwork and knock on some--”
Deputy Steele’s comment was interrupted by a shout from Helen.
“Sheriff. Line one. It’s the man who made the bomb threat. He wants to talk to whoever is in charge. He won’t give me his name.”
Zeb Hanks stepped quickly toward his office. As he passed Helen’s line of sight he silently signaled her to record the call. He picked up the phone as Helen pointed to the already turning tape recorder.
“This is Sheriff Hanks.”
“Are you policia in charge?”
“Yes, I’m in charge.”
Zeb’s mind raced. He had the murderer of his deputy only a phone line away. Was this man a psychopath checking to see how the sheriff’s office was reacting to the loss of one of its deputies?
“I hear on radio your deputy die. I am terrible sorry.”
The man’s voice was heavy with remorse. Could it be genuine? Sheriff Hanks did not believe it for even half a second.
“I want turn myself in. I go to jail for calling in bomb threats. Can you do that? I didn’t kill no one. I promise I don’t kill no one.”
The man on the other end of the line began to sob. Sheriff Hanks was not only stunned by the man’s confession, but by his tears. He sounded soft, sincere and contrite.
“That can be arranged. What is your name?”
The man on the other end of the line suddenly froze. Anxiety arose in the sheriff’s chest. He did not want to lose the killer now.
“We can come and pick you up right now. Just tell us where you are.”
The crackling on the line increased dramatically. The man’s voice became barely audible amid the hissing. His next words became incomprehensible as the static turned to white noise before dying.
“Damn it!” said Sheriff Hanks slamming the phone. “The line went dead.”
“Maybe he’ll call back,” said Deputy Steele.
“We can only--.”
A shrill ring interrupted her comment.
“Please.” Deputy Steele’s voice was but a whisper. “Please.”
The sheriff and his deputy hurried to Helen’s desk. They hovered over her, listening in silence as she picked up the phone.
“It’s him again. He apologized for the line going dead,” said Helen. “He wants to talk to you again, Sheriff Hanks.”
The man was already talking as Zeb took the phone from Helen’s hand.
“If you come and get me, that be good. My truck, she is broken. I am sorry to not drive myself to jail. Please come put me in jail so I can rest.”
This is way too easy, thought Zeb. It could be a set-up, a trap. If the caller were a true psychopath, he might even have another explosion in mind, something to send another lawman to his grave.
“Tell me where you live,” said Sheriff Hanks. “We will come and get you.”
“Please just one to come and get me. I no want to get killed.”
“Tell me where you live. I’ll come alone. You have my word.”
“You know County Road 6.”
Sheriff Hanks had been right.
“My place four miles north of turnoff on east side of road. My name is on mailbox. Can you come now?”
“Yes I can come right away. What name should I look for on the mailbox?”
“Felipe Madrigal.”
The man sounded forlorn at the utterance of his own name. The line crackled. Sheriff Hanks listened as the man once again began to cry and apologize about the death of the deputy.
“Mr. Madrigal?”
“Sí.”
“When I come to the house, I want you to come outside with your hands over your head. Do you understand me?”
His quiet response was drenched in sobs.
“Sí, yes, yes. I am very, very sorry. No one supposed to get hurt. That already happen. No more hurting.”
“I will be right there to get you. It will take me about thirty minutes. I will honk the horn two times. You come out with your hands over your head.”
“Sí.”
“No weapons! Put your hands over your head. Do you understand me?”
“Sí. Comprendo. I understand.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Zeb’s heart thumped heavily, partly from anxiety, partly from hatred and a desire for revenge. The near certainty of a trap raced through his mind.
“Sheriff, do you recognize the name Felipe Madrigal?”
“Sure, I know right where he lives. Delbert used to memorize the names on the mailboxes. One time when I went with him I saw Felipe in the yard. He’s an old man. He walks bent over at the waist. He waved to us. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. He seemed like a nice old guy.”
“Did he just confess to the bomb threats?” asked Deputy Steele who had overheard only one end of the conversation.
“Yes.”
“How about the murder of Delbert?”
“No, he apologized for Delbert getting hurt. He said he didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Let’s go get him,” said Deputy Steele.
“He’s nervous. He wants me to come alone. You heard me tell him to come out of the house with his hands over his head. As I remember, his house sits down low, in a little glen. How do you feel about covering me? You have to be ready to shoot to kill, if it’s necessary.”
Deputy Steele had intense training in her background, but never had it been necessary to pull the trigger. At this moment she had no doubts of her ability to do so.
“As Delbert used to say…never keep a criminal waiting. Let’s roll,” said Deputy Steele.
The patrol cars crossed over the Hanksco River, headed north on County 6, as Zeb’s concern about an ambush slipped into a state of perplexity. Nothing about the case made sense. Why would a friendly old man blow up the grade school? Then it dawned on him. The bomb was less about producing physical damage than it was about inflicting fear. If Delbert had not been in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, he would not have been injured. What message was Felipe Madrigal trying to send? Why the remorse in his voice? When he had called to turn himself in, he had broken down and cried like a child, not a sociopath. Beneath it all lay a fear that it all might just be a set up. The crackling of the two-way radio broke the sheriff’s concentration.
“Sheriff?”
It was Deputy Steele.
“I was thinking…why don’t you let me go on ahead? I can park my car, climb up over the hill and get close to Mr. Madrigal’s house. That way I can be ready in case he is planning something.”
It was a risk, but a good one.
“Good idea. Just don’t let him see you.”
Kate felt the adrenaline rise as she shot past the sheriff’s car leaving a cyclone trail of dust. Zeb slowed down, rolled up his window and let her get some distance between them. Kate pulled over a hundred yards short of a silver metal mailbox at the end of a long driveway. She opened the trunk and pulled out the .30-.30. She checked the safety and quickly loaded shells into her weapon. As she worked her way to the back side of the house she noticed a smiley face painted in yellow that accompanied the handwritten name of Felipe Madrigal on the mailbox. The idea of drawing a gun on an old man who drew smiley faces on his mailbox seemed like utter madness.
Zeb pulled into the old man’s driveway. Kate, perched on a small knoll ninety feet away, tipped her cap and pointed to the small house. The yard in front of the old adobe building was littered with twisted pieces of metal, chunks of gnarly firewood, a garbage pile and a run-down doghouse. A truck with the hood propped open by a tire iron was parked under a mesquite tree on the north side of the house. A pair of windows in the front of the house had broken panes. One was partially boarded over from the outside. The other was stuffed with rags and dirty insulat
ion. Tumbleweed remnants lay trapped under a rusted television antenna at the back of the low, slanting roof.
Exiting the car, Sheriff Hanks heard the unmistakable squeak and low groan from the rusting blades of an ancient windmill. An easy wind from the south wafted the sweet aroma of late season sage bloom. Everything appeared normal--abnormally normal.
The run down ranch house showed no signs of life. Deputy Steele trained the sights of the .30-.30 on the door. A timid voice from behind a window squeaked out.
“I don’t got no gun. You tell señorita on hillside to no shoot me.”
Felipe Madrigal sounded meek, almost childish. He was definitely scared.
“She won’t shoot,” replied Sheriff Hanks. “Come out of the house with your hands over your head. Nobody wants to hurt you.”
The door of the house, with its broken screen mesh fluttering in the wind, began to open. Slowly one hand, then the other, poked through the open space. The old man’s hands trembled as he held them above his head. His rounded back and shoulders forced his head into such a position where his eyes could only see the ground. He shuffled along with great difficulty as he made his way toward the sheriff.
Could this man possibly be Delbert’s killer? Sheriff Hanks didn’t think so, but then again the things he had seen along the border of Mexico, when dealing with human and drug trafficking, did not make sense either. He shook his head clear of the thoughts of the border patrol agent’s death and focused on what was in front of him. The lingering doubt he lived with, that the deaths of Darren Wendt and now Delbert Funke had been caused by his lack of attention, haunted him at a level few could understand.
“Please, Señor Policia. Don’t kill me. I did no harm no one.”
The sheriff’s eye trained on the man caught something off to the side moving through the underbrush. He instinctively crouched behind the door for additional protection when he realized it was Deputy Steele slowly making her way into his peripheral vision.