by Mark Reps
Both of the pink message slips had brief notes. The first read, ‘Please call Eskadi Black Robes’. The second note was just as direct. ‘Please call Josh Diamond’. Deputy Steele surmised Josh had decided after all to take the county up on paying his hospital bills and was calling her about the paperwork. Eskadi’s was likely personal. She decided to handle them after she took a little trip out to the Garcías’ to see if she could glean any more information.
As Sheriff Hanks approached the home of Felipe Madrigal, bright morning sunshine streamed over the top of the Peloncillo Mountain range sending short shadows over the peaceful landscape surrounding the run down adobe house that the jailed man called home.
A low groan escaped from the old windmill. Unlike earlier, Zeb was not there to bring in a suspected killer, yet his body tensed. For a brief second his mind shot back to a day at the Mexican border. He, Josh Diamond, and the now dead Darren Wendt were on routine patrol on that fateful day of Darren’s death. For another, longer moment, he thought of Doreen and the loss of her husband and son. His mind began to spin with all the things in life that could go wrong and too often did. Then quickly, he remembered that he was on home turf, his turf, Graham County, and for all intents and purposes this was his own back yard. He breathed a few easy breaths when suddenly an ominous foreboding came over him. Could this be the day he breathed his last breath? He had received a bulletin from his old border patrol commanding officer on this new thing called PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. He had read it briefly and tossed it in the waste basket. Now he was having second thoughts about what he had read. “Don’t be an asshole,” he told himself. “Just be smart. Nothing to worry about. Stay calm.”
In the low arroyo behind the house, an otherworldly presence seemed to beg for communication. Ears piqued, he stilled himself and listened. After a moment he shook his head knowing the present moment called for logical, rational thought, not superstition and fear. Sheriff Hanks breathed more easily as the old man’s fire pit and a garbage dump caught his eye. They seemed too close to the house until he remembered Felipe Madrigal’s limp and the difficulty with which he walked. Closer inspection revealed neat stacks of tin cans, glass bottles and miscellaneous unburnable items. The yard itself was full of junk and these neat stacks seemed out of place. They were probably for recycling. Maybe the old man made a few bucks this way?
Plentiful coyote, raccoon and skunk tracks lead to and away from the trash pit. He imagined the kind old man to have befriended the local critters. He assumed Felipe Madrigal suffered the fated malady of many old people, too much time, too little to do.
In the yard a skeleton of a rusted backhoe, some old machinery tires, flattened junk metal and a broken down chair were strewn about. It was a mess which likely made perfect sense to the owner. Zeb drew back from the thoughts in his head. He was beginning to feel a little too much compassion for someone who might have killed his deputy. He reminded himself yet again to stay focused and do his job.
Parked by the rustling mesquite tree was Felipe Madrigal’s truck. The tire iron still propped up the hood. Approaching the truck cautiously he peeked at the engine, half expecting to find a bird’s nest or perhaps a sleeping rattlesnake. At first glance the metal parts told him nothing. When he looked closer, he saw a detached wire. It led to where a distributor cap should be. He was no expert on car engines, but he knew vaguely what he was looking at. The sheriff stepped back and noticed both back tires were flat. He thought back to how the old man had described his disabled vehicle. He did not say his tires were flat. He had said his car was broken. He had said nothing about flat tires. Sheriff Hanks bent down near the rear wheels. The shade from the mesquite tree made it difficult to get a clear view. Casually running his finger along the tire’s edge he felt an indentation surrounded by an unnatural rough edge. Closer examination revealed the tire had been slashed. A quick walk to the other side of the truck easily revealed that tire had also been slashed. A mostly bald spare tire sitting in the bed of the truck was also flat. It was obvious someone, perhaps Felipe himself, had wanted to make sure the truck wasn’t going anywhere.
Sheriff Hanks walked to the house. He slowly poked his head inside and entered. The interior of the house was unkempt like that of an old man without a wife. In the small kitchen on the counter next to the sink sat a propane stove with an ancient coffee percolator on one burner and a much used, burn-encrusted fry pan on the other. At the back of the sink sat a water glass, a bottle of aspirin and a half-empty prescription bottle of nitroglycerin tablets with the instructions - TAKE AS NEEDED FOR ANGINA. He slipped the medication in his pocket. His prisoner might need it. Next to the coffeepot was a caned chair. Its sagging and partially torn seat spoke of many lonesome hours its owner spent staring out a partially open window. The image of an old man sitting, sipping coffee, fumbling with the bottle cap on the aspirin, placing a pill in his palm, quivering as he reached for the water glass carried the feeling of isolation, loneliness.
Through the window he had a clear line of vision to the north toward the road. The old man had taken the time to remove anything that might interfere with a straight on view of the county road. Delbert had mentioned there was hardly any traffic on this road. The old man probably did not want to miss the rare car or truck that happened by.
The second room of the house was dark. Both front windows were boarded up from the inside. A small commode and sink stood in one corner. A curtain hanging from the ceiling partially hid them. Felipe Madrigal was either very modest or thoughtful of the rare guest. Who might his visitors be? A closer look revealed cobwebs and layered dirt where the curtain abutted the wall. Felipe used little of his small space.
A dilapidated easy chair with an ancient brass floor lamp sat in the corner. The sheriff pulled the cord. The flickering light from a loose bulb revealed a stack of magazines, some of them twenty years old. As he leaned forward to tighten the bulb his foot brushed against a rusting coffee can filled with cigarette butts and ashes.
On an end table next to the lamp sat a dial phone, some yellowing, framed photographs and a clock radio. One looked to be a young Felipe Madrigal in a suit standing next to a delicate looking dark skinned Mexican or Indian woman in an ornate wedding dress. It was similar to the one Felipe carried in his billfold. Another picture was a baby in a bonnet being held by the woman in the wedding dress. Still another was a child in what looked to be a first communion dress. The fourth picture in the progression showed the same girl in a cap and gown--a high school graduation photo. Unframed and sitting on the desk was the picture of a fair skinned, long-haired boy, who looked either, or perhaps both, Mexican and Apache. The sheriff also noted the boy was rather feminine in his characteristics. He also wore a cap and gown, but looked to be only thirteen or fourteen years old. Beneath the young man’s photo were some faded newspaper clippings, yellowed with age. They had been precisely cut from the Eastern Arizona Courier. One was a picture of an unnamed old man and a boy fishing. The other two were unreadable, coffee-stained police reports.
Sheriff Hanks turned on the radio and sat in the old man’s chair. His big frame sank deeply into its broken seat as the radio played music from a Tucson Spanish speaking station. For the first time all day he felt at ease, incredibly calm. It was obvious that Felipe Madrigal was dirt poor but within that poverty he had every material thing he needed…or so it seemed. Sheriff Hanks’ mind began to drift.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Sheriff Hanks. Are you there?”
Deputy Steele’s voice coming through his two-way radio took the sheriff away from his pondering of Felipe Madrigal. He snapped to attention quickly, knowing that perhaps Kate had found out something new from the Garcías.
“I’m here.”
“Find anything interesting?” asked Kate.
“I think I have a better feel for Mr. Madrigal. But as far as evidence goes I have found nothing that I can piece together at the moment. But I do have a question for you.”
�
�Yes?”
“Remember when Mr. Madrigal called to have us come and pick him up?”
“Yes,” said Kate. “He said his truck was broken.”
“That’s how I remember it too. Would you consider two flat tires a broken truck?”
“No. I would call them flat tires. A broken truck would indicate something mechanical to me.”
“Well he’s got two flat tires and a flat spare on his truck. It looks like they have been flattened on purpose. But I believe Felipe Madrigal was telling the truth. This truck is broken. Somebody yanked the wires to the distributor cap and removed the cap itself,” said Zeb. “This thing couldn’t run if it wanted to. Somebody saw to it that Felipe’s truck was staying put.”
Zeb thought of the meek, gamy-legged Mr. Madrigal sitting in the jail cell looking forlorn and lost. He was either far more cunning than he let on or he was hiding some deep, dark secret in his soul.
“Did Mr. García remember anything new when you talked with him?” Zeb asked.
“Yes sir, he did. He said it was Mrs. García’s tea leaf reading that helped him remember something. But I think it was the dead body they found in his truck that jogged his memory,” said Deputy Steele.
“What did he recall?”
“Mr. García remembered a young Mexican male stopping by the house a couple of days before his truck was stolen. The young man was having car trouble a few miles up the road. His radiator hose was leaking. Mr. García gave him a bucket of water and a lift back to his car. He even helped him put some duct tape on the leaky hose.”
“What made Mr. García suspicious?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“Two things. First, he said the young man went on and on about his Chevy LUV. He asked him all sorts of questions about it. Mr. García didn’t think much about it at first because everyone who sees it asks about it. You could really tell how much he loved his truck," said Deputy Steele.
“He certainly did.”
“When they got the overheated car running, Mr. García headed back home. He looked in the rear view mirror and waved, you know, friendly like. The young man waved back. Then, when Mr. García went to adjust his rear view mirror, he saw something odd.”
“Yes, go on,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“He saw something run out of the bushes toward the car. At first Mr. García thought it might have been an animal, a coyote he supposed. He slowed down and took a look over his shoulder. He couldn’t see clearly because of all the dust that had been roiled up by the other car taking off down the road. But Mr. García swore he saw two people in the little car. He pulled over to see what the deal was, but when he did, the driver of the other car made a fast U turn and headed off the other way. I guess he just sort of forgot about it until today when I was talking with him.”
“Did he say what kind of car the young man was driving?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“Yes, he most certainly did. I don’t think I need to tell you he is quite an expert when it comes to cars.”
Sheriff Hanks knew it for certain having talked to Lorenzo García many times since his Chevy LUV had been stolen.
“The car was a Chevrolet Vega. Mr. García said he even mentioned to the young man that he should get a different car because the aluminum engine in the Vega is nothing but trouble. He said the young man laughed and told him he was thinking about getting a new pickup, maybe one just like Mr. García’s.”
“Did Mr. García say what color the Vega was?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“He said the name of the color of the car in Spanish. Amarillo.”
The sheriff knew that meant yellow.
“Did he say what kind of shape the Vega was in?”
“He called it a real rust bucket. Mr. García said he couldn’t believe anyone would let a car get in as bad of shape as that. He figured it was probably all the young man could afford.”
The wheels spinning in Zeb’s head gripped like the traction on a firm road. The description of the vehicle, yellow and rusted, was a perfect match to the recently stolen Vega. What were the odds Mr. García’s truck was stolen by the young Mexican man in the Vega? Could there be a link between the young Mexican and the dead girl in Mr. García’s burnt out truck.
“Deputy Steele, are you still in the vicinity of the García place?”
“Six or seven miles back toward town,” replied the deputy.
“I want you to go back and get a detailed description of the driver of the Vega from Mr. García.”
“I have a decent one, but I can get a better one. I will do that right now.”
Kate was starting to put the same pieces together as the sheriff. Stolen yellow Vega, young man, stolen Chevy LUV pickup that the young man in the possibly stolen Vega had seen as an easy opportunity. And, a dead young Mexican woman in Mr. García’s stolen pickup. It was a long shot, but it had to be considered. It was the hottest lead they had.
“Did you find out anything else?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
“Nothing specific. I did talk with four or five people out that way who complained about fast traffic. It seems an oversized pickup, a high rider with an elevated cab, has been seen speeding down those roads at what some of the people said was over a hundred miles an hour. They asked me to set up a speed trap out there. I told them that would be impossible but that we would be on the lookout for speeders, especially in big pickup trucks. I believe some of the older folks are quite scared about it, especially after Mr. García’s truck was stolen.”
A crosswind carried a trail of dust into the wooded dale behind the Madrigal place where it settled restlessly. Overhead, the squeaking from the windmill ceased, replaced by a constant droning hum as the wind became steady. The faint odor of dried sage surrounded Zeb as he stared at the disabled truck pondering the old man’s motive. What did Felipe Madrigal have to gain by calling in a bomb threat? Why risk what little he had?
“I will see you back in town,” said Sheriff Hanks, clicking off the two-way radio.
He returned to the house and grabbed the pictures from the table. Maybe being surrounded by pictures of his family would loosen the old man’s tongue. It was a long shot but he needed something. Maybe Kate would find something as well.
Back in town Zeb made an official stop at Josh Diamond’s gun shop. The clanging cowbell signaled his entrance as Josh’s bloodhounds eyed him curiously. The proprietor was nowhere to be seen.
“I’ll be right there,” shouted the store owner. “I’ve just hard wired the place with a new security system. So don’t try and walk off with anything.”
Josh peeked over the swinging doors. He greeted his old border patrol buddy with a broad smile.
“Zeb, welcome back to my home away from home. I’m cleaning up an old Winchester repeater.” Josh reached out to shake Zeb’s hand but withdrew, noticing just how filthy his hands were. “This rifle is a real beauty. Come on back here and have a look.”
Zeb slipped around the edge of the counter. The broken glass had been replaced and a new set of guns had been placed in the Elk antlers.
“Look at this. It’s a Winchester 94. It’s one hundred percent original, right down to the gold inlay. There aren’t many of these old gals around anymore. It even has John Ulrich’s name engraved. Want to see?”
Josh’s infectious enthusiasm was catching and calming. Zeb found himself feeling light and happy as he watched his old pal softly run his hand along the stock and barrel of the rifle. This time his memories of the border patrol days were better ones. He remembered how Josh liked to take his weapon apart, clean it and put it back together, blindfolded, just like in the movies. It had been a difficult morning trying to dig into Felipe Madrigal’s psyche. Zeb was glad for the distraction.
“Nice thirty-caliber,” said Zeb eyeing the weapon.
“I’m impressed,” exclaimed Josh. “I didn’t know you knew these old-fashioned guns.”
“What sort of a western lawman would I be if I didn’t know about the most famous deer rifle in history?”
; “Tell me more,” said Josh, egging on Zeb. “I didn’t have you pegged for the collector type.”
Zeb held the gun and eyed down the sight line.
“Lever action, one of the first made, known as the true personification of the romance of the old west. Twenty-six inch barrel, forty-five inches in total length.”
“Forty-four and a half.”
“I was rounding up,” said Zeb. “If you know so much, maybe you can tell me where the gold was mined for the inlay.”
“Just north of San Francisco.”
“Touché.”
As he passed the gun back to Josh, Zeb eyed Josh’s injuries.
“Isn’t it a little tough working with a wrist cast and broken ribs?” asked Zeb.
“When a man loves what he is doing, there is no such thing as pain.”
“Amen,” said Zeb.
The men stood quietly for a moment as Josh wiped the rest of the grease off his hands.
“Zeb, from the look in your eyes this isn’t a social call.”
“Actually, it is business,” replied Zeb. “I was hoping you found something which might lead me to the thieves.”
“Well Zeb, actually I did find something. Here, let me show you what I found.”
Josh led him to the back door. The big two inch by four inch beam still kept the door secure. But Josh had replaced the old latch with a new, complex key lock. As they passed through the door into the alley Zeb observed Josh’s careful, almost measured movements. He had not changed one bit when it came to his unique eye for detail.
“Your deputy, Kate Steele, came by a few hours after you were here. She dusted for prints and made some castings of the boot prints left behind by the alleged perp. She is very competent.”
“You would have to search pretty far and wide to find someone who didn’t think the world of her,” replied Zeb. “And I just bet you find her appealing in many ways.”
“She is all right by me,” said Josh. “As to how all right she is, time will tell.”