by Mark Reps
Zeb nodded. He wasn’t about to press the private side of Josh Diamond.
“We talked a little. While she was casting the footprints I stood around to watch. Standing there, looking at the boarded up building next to mine, I noticed something I hadn’t previously seen.”
Josh pointed to a piece of plywood covering a busted out basement window in the adjacent abandoned building.
“This is what I called Deputy Steele about.”
Zeb looked down at the sun beaten lumber. The curled piece of wood was cracked, faded from exposure and covered with pigeon droppings. Near the center of the warped board he noticed was a brown discoloration. Beneath the stain a dried drip line ran for a few inches. It looked like a dirty board covering an old window frame. No different in appearance than when he’d originally noticed it.
Josh crouched near the window.
“Right here. This is what struck me as odd.”
Zeb squatted. He ran a finger over the wood near the brown stain.
“Now take a whiff. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
Zeb’s furrowed eyebrows caused Josh to snicker. Zeb was well aware Josh knew things about tracking that he could only imagine, but sticking his nose next to a brown stain amid a pile of pigeon droppings seemed a little silly. Zeb did it anyway.
“What do you smell?” asked Josh.
“Pigeon shit,” replied Zeb pulling his head away from the wood.
“Did you get a good smell of the brown stain?” asked Josh.
“Tobacco? It has the foul odor of chewing tobacco. Spittle, my dad used to call it.”
“Very good,” replied Josh. “You pass the test.”
“I think I see what you’re getting at, but isn’t it sort of a stretch connecting it to whoever burgled your store?” asked Zeb.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Josh. “I found some tobacco spittle, as you so aptly put it, in my back office, next to the ammunition. Let’s go back inside. I’ll show you.”
Zeb examined the tobacco stain. Using a pocketknife he scraped it into a borrowed baggie.
“You haven’t taken up the chew, have you?” asked Zeb.
“No. I find it a vile habit.”
“Did anyone who chews tobacco come back into this area?” asked Zeb.
“The only three people that have been back here in the last week are you, your deputy and me.”
“I guess there is a pretty good chance we have ourselves a tobacco chewing thief. If you find anything else, would you please let me know?”
“You can count on it, Sheriff.”
Zeb smiled. Somehow it felt right to have Josh call him that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Sheriff Hanks just checked in. He said he wanted you to call him right away if you have anything new. Here are your phone messages.”
Kate took the pink slips from Helen and headed for the communications room. The first message was from her grandmother wondering what time she was planning to stop by the Desert Rose Nursing Home. The second was from the editor of the Eastern Arizona Courier requesting an update on the school bombing investigation for the current edition of the weekly paper. The third call was from Eskadi Black Robes. He wanted her to call as soon as possible. Kate activated the radio set and signaled the sheriff’s car.
“Sheriff, this is Deputy Steele. Helen said you wanted me to check in.”
“I’m down in a hollow, but I can hear you pretty well. What have you got?”
“I’ve got some new information.”
“Go ahead. Let’s have it.”
“You know that beat up Chevy Vega with the leaky radiator that Lorenzo García said he helped fix?”
“Yes,” replied Sheriff Hanks.
“It turns out the same guy had the same water leak problem about fifteen miles further down the road. I found another man who told me a young Mexican male stopped at his house and asked for some water for his radiator.”
“Did both people who saw the driver describe him the same way?”
“Yes, the given descriptions match in height, weight, hair color and length, age, right down to the silver necklace with a silver cross around his neck.”
“By any chance did the second witness see anyone in the car with him?”
“Negative,” replied Deputy Steele.
“Thanks, Deputy. I’m on my way back to the office now. Out.”
Kate returned to her office, scribbled a few notes from her conversation with the sheriff and picked up the phone to call Eskadi. He sounded perturbed.
“Why is it when a First American calls a deputy sheriff, it takes forever to get a return call? I bet if I was some White person with a problem you would have called last night.”
“Don’t you even bother to say hello?” asked Kate.
On the other end of the line Eskadi Black Robes emitted a grudging grunt as a substitution for a greeting.
“To answer your question, I was working. I thought your call was personal so I was waiting until I had more time. I didn’t want to have to rush when I called. What’s the problem?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t get any cooperation from the police anywhere. It is truly a matter of the police not giving a damn about Native Americans--even if the police have native blood flowing through their veins.”
“Eskadi, getting short with me isn’t going to solve anything. Please, why don’t you explain to me what you’re talking about?”
Kate was beginning to feel the downside of dating a tribal chairman who believed that the White man conspired against the Indian at every turn. An education at the University of California Berkeley had turned him on to the radical branch of the American Indian Movement. His politics of intolerance of Whites and other authority figures frequently rose to an unreasonable level. His position at the San Carlos Reservation had done little to quell his rage.
“The damn police in Tucson don’t give a good goddamn about a missing person from the reservation. Even if they might have her body,” said Eskadi.
“What are you talking about? A missing person situation?” asked Kate. “You know the reservation isn’t their jurisdiction. You would raise holy heck if they came on the reservation without your permission.”
“Hell, yes I would. But this is different. It’s a missing kid.”
“Did you report it to the reservation police?”
“They don’t seem to give a shit either. No one cares if a dark-skinned, Native American child is missing. It would be an entirely different situation if it were a blond haired, blue eyed kid.
Kate knew that there was a small seed of truth in Eskadi’s observation. Obviously there had been a misunderstanding somewhere along the chain of command. An angry Apache and a stubborn city cop in Tucson mixed like oil and water.
“Maybe I can help,” said Kate. “Tell me what you told the police.”
“I was listening to the news when they had that story on about the young girl’s body,” said Eskadi.
“Are you talking about the young woman who was found in a burned up truck in Tucson?”
“Yes, I am. The reporter said the truck was stolen from outside of Safford.”
“That’s right. The truck belonged to Lorenzo García. He lives outside of town just south of reservation land.”
“The news report said the body was a young female, slight build, about five feet tall. Possibly Mexican…maybe Native American…maybe mixed blood.”
“The possibly Native American part is news to me,” said Kate. “Where did you hear that?”
“I didn’t need to hear it. Those White cops and White coroners wouldn’t know one dark skinned person from another. To them we are all the same.”
“I think you’re making quite a leap.”
“Try seeing it through my eyes,” said Eskadi.
“Tell me what you have,” pressed Kate.
“Kaytee Brince’s daughter, Layna, is missing. She fits the description I heard on the radio to a tee.”
&
nbsp; “What makes you think Layna is the dead girl?”
“I’ll tell it to you just like I told it to everybody else. Layna and her boyfriend have been picked up twice for joy riding. They have a history of borrowing trucks that don’t belong to them.”
“Borrowing?”
“Kaytee Brince called me because Layna’s been missing for a week. She thought she was staying over at her boyfriend’s house, but he’s gone too. He has been missing for a week or more as well.”
“Did anyone file a missing person’s report?” asked Kate.
“They’re doing it today.”
“Not a lot can be done until a missing person’s report gets filed. Nobody would know where to begin. Did you tell Mrs. Brince to make sure to mention that her daughter has a history of vehicle theft and joy riding? Believe it or not it might actually speed up the process a bit.”
“There’s no history of that stuff,” said Eskadi.
“But you just said--,”
“I said they got picked up for joy riding. Each time the truck was returned without any damage. Nobody pressed charges. Not everybody follows the ways of the Whites. Some people make allowances for kids who do stupid things.”
“Give me a description of the two missing kids. You’re in luck because the detective in charge of the case is an old friend of Sheriff Hanks. I have to talk with him anyway.”
“Why don’t you come up here and talk with Kaytee?” asked Eskadi. “She is pretty shook up because no one is willing to look for her daughter. It would be very helpful to me if you would drive up here, and perhaps allay her fears a little bit.”
Kate was up to her ears in work. The San Carlos Reservation was technically out of her jurisdiction. Anyway, Eskadi was probably the one who got Mrs. Brince worried to begin with. If Layna and her boyfriend had a history of joyriding, they would probably show up soon. Eskadi, as usual when it came to police matters, was leapfrogging ahead of himself and the legal process. Kate glanced at her watch.
“Where does she live?”
“Just east of High Rolls off of Indian Route 9 near the Black River. When you get to the first road past the railroad crossing just north of the intersection of Indian Route 9 and Indian Route 4, hang a right. You’ll see my truck,” explained Eskadi.
“Is she there now?”
“No. She’s sitting in my office about five feet away from me.”
“Give me an hour and a half. I have to finish a couple of things here at the office.”
“Thanks, Kate. I’m sorry about being short with you. It’s just that in my job I am supposed to be able to get things done for my people. Sometimes dealing with the White man’s bureaucracy puts me at my wit’s ends.”
“Forget it. If Layna Brince was the girl in the pickup, we had better know about it. If it isn’t her, we need to know that too.”
“There is one other thing too. I almost forgot. Somebody else reported a pair of missing license plates. This time there was an eyewitness. The thief was a White man with a big gun. I thought you would want to know.”
“Do me a favor would you?” asked Kate.
“What do you need?”
“Get me a description of the White man. A description of the gun would be helpful as well.”
“Might be hard to do.”
“Why?”
“All those White men look the same to us reservation folk,” exclaimed Eskadi.
“You’re too funny for words. Just get me the descriptions and maybe I can help you.”
“I’ll see you in a little while at Kaytee Brince’s house. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The walk from his desk to the jail cell where Felipe Madrigal was being held took Sheriff Hanks less than a minute. The cold cement floor, iron bars and antiseptic feel of the holding area made his bones ache. His jail felt of pain and loneliness to him until he mentally reminded himself of its purpose.
Through a small meshed window in the heavy metal door which separated the holding cells from the rest of the jail, he eyed the old man. Sitting on the center of his cot, Felipe Madrigal slowly ate from a tray of food balanced precariously on his lap. The meal, judging from his hot plate and the number of empty cans in his garbage pit, was probably the first home cooked meal he had eaten in quite a while. He ate deliberately while staring down at his plate and chewing each bite of food thoroughly. Sheriff Hanks noticed that Felipe swallowed with some difficulty. His salt and pepper facial hair had become matted and disheveled from sleeping on the cot. His drooping mustache gave him the sad look of hopelessness. Zeb turned the key in the large metal lock and pushed open the creaking door. Felipe didn’t raise his eyes to greet the sheriff until he stood over him. His aged face expressed the fear of a lost child.
“Señor Madrigal, do you feel like talking today?”
Felipe, unresponsive to the sheriff’s request, shifted positions jiggling the food tray on his lap.
“I’ve brought you something.”
The old man remained impassive, mutely staring at the floor.
“They are from your house. I thought you might like them.”
Zeb held the pictures out to the prisoner, who lifted his head slightly. An unsteady hand grasped them. Clutching the photos in his gnarly fingers, Felipe pressed them to his chest. His whispered response was barely audible.
“Gracias, Señor Policía. Muchas gracias.”
“The woman is beautiful. Is she your wife?” inquired Sheriff Hanks.
The old man’s bespectacled gaze fixed itself firmly on the ancient, sepia photograph. Holding the wedding picture in trembling hands, his head rhythmically quivered to the restlessness of a heavy heart. The old man peered sadly into the faded photograph of his lifelong love.
“You must miss her terribly.”
Tears rolled down the now softened face of the old Mexican as he tipped his head forward slightly in assent.
“I brought these also.”
Sheriff Hanks handed Felipe the baby picture and the First Communion photo.
“Your daughter?”
“Sí.”
“Would you like me to contact her? She must be worried about you,” said Sheriff Hanks.
The old man placed the pictures on the cot next to him and leaned forward placing his head in his hands and began to weep softly. Pulling a well-traveled handkerchief from his pocket he wiped his eyes, blew his nose and returned it to his pocket before speaking.
“God has called her home. She is dead one year today,” he replied.
“I’m sorry.”
“Gracias. Tiene Ud. niños? Bebés?”
Sheriff Hanks shook his head, not understanding what his prisoner was asking.
“Do you have children? Babies?”
“No.”
The old man put his head down and sat silently, staring at the floor. Felipe Madrigal began to tell a story that almost broke Zeb’s heart. The prisoner told the sheriff of the pain his wife and daughter went through in dying from cancer. He spoke of how he tried to remain strong and faithful to God, of how he lost his faith. Felipe’s eyes never met Zeb’s as he talked of the pain in his heart and mind. His grandson, his only hope for the future of his family, had ended up in prison and was little more than a drunkard and a thief. Yet, Zeb felt this old man for some reason had not given up completely on his grandson. Zeb looked at Felipe and saw a man who had almost nothing to live for. This kind of man could go either way, he could try and resurrect his life or he could throw it all away. It was clear that Felipe Madrigal had said all he was going to say for the moment. Further questioning would have to wait. Zeb had breached the gate of the old man’s inner being. He handed Felipe Madrigal his heart medication, asking him again if he would like to talk to a lawyer.
“I am guilty. I no need lawyer. I tell the judge that I make those phone calls.”
Sheriff Hanks made a vain attempt to explain even if he did make the calls it would be better for him to have a court appointed lawyer to explain his rights.<
br />
“No lawyer. Please, I want to see priest.”
Sheriff Hanks closed the cell door and watched as Felipe softly pressed his fingers on the photograph of his dead wife, tenderly caressing her image. He knew the old man needed time to think. Where that thinking would take him, Zeb could not imagine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Eskadi’s directions were less than precise. The trip to the reservation took Kate longer than she had anticipated. By the time she arrived at the Brince house it was late afternoon.
Kate spotted Eskadi sitting at a little picnic table under a small grove of cottonwood trees on the south side of the house. Sitting next to him were a short, heavy-set Apache woman and two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The petite young girl and the tall skinny boy appeared to be in their late teens. Kate waited to get out of the car until they waved to her. Eskadi rose to greet her.
“Good news,” said Eskadi. “Kayla’s daughter, Layna, and her boyfriend showed up about fifteen minutes ago. They were visiting some friends over in Las Cruces. They didn’t call because their friend didn’t have a phone. Come on over and sit down and join the celebration. Mrs. Brince just made some fresh lemonade.”
A brief chat over a cool drink with Layna and her boyfriend convinced Deputy Steele that they had not been involved with either the car or the license plate thefts. They assured her, at the ripe old age of eighteen, their wild days were behind them. As of right now, joy riding was a thing of the past. Mrs. Brince, elated at the safe return of her daughter, continually ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair, periodically stopping to hug her.
With the sun resting atop the mountains to the west and an hour drive ahead of her, Kate excused herself. Eskadi walked her to the car as Mrs. Brince continued showering the returned children with affection.
“I would have tried to get a hold of you to save you the drive but the timing didn’t work out,” said Eskadi. “But I’m glad you drove up anyway. You have been a stranger to these parts.”
“With the death of Deputy Funke we’re short staffed. I have been working lots of overtime and will be for a while.”