Adios Angel

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Adios Angel Page 15

by Mark Reps


  “We got the information in a roundabout way from the State Highway Patrol. Eskadi Black Robes had called to get a vehicle ID. He wanted to get new plates for a previously non-registered vehicle. The VIN drew a match to the plates on Lorenzo García’s truck. When the highway boys put that together, they called us. The discrepancy is that Lorenzo’s truck is a Chevy LUV and the plates were from a Ford F-150. In my mind there is a pretty high certainty the plates on the burned up truck were indeed stolen from somewhere on the reservation.”

  “I think I can clear this up, Detective,” said Deputy Steele.

  She explained how Eugene Topy’s plates had been stolen and because he had not changed registrations when he bought the vehicle he now knew he needed to get some license plates. He was worried about getting fined because he did not have current plates. She further explained how Eskadi was going to help him work his way through the system. Deputy Steele didn’t mention anything about Eskadi’s political beliefs. She didn’t have to.

  “Mr. Eskadi Black Robes doesn’t seem to have much respect for authority,” said Detective Muñoz. “Trying to get anything from him was like trying to pull hen’s teeth.”

  “He can be difficult when it comes to dealing with what he refers to as the White man,” said Deputy Steele.

  “Did he tell you anything about the stolen plates?”

  “Did he mention that someone saw a White man stealing plates up on the reservation?” asked Deputy Steele.

  “He didn’t mention it. But like I said, he wasn’t real free with the information,” replied Detective Muñoz.

  “The second set of stolen plates was taken from a car up near Diamond Butte. That happened four or five days after Eugene Topy noticed his plates were missing. A woman gathering herbs saw a White man steal her plates. She got a pretty good look at him but she is awfully scared. The man she saw pointed a large hand gun in her direction and frightened her.”

  “Did this get reported to the police?” asked Detective Muñoz.

  “I assume the reservation police took care of it. But I don’t know for certain,” replied Kate. “There is a bit of a jurisdictional issue.”

  “Of course. You said she got a decent look at him. What sort of description do you have?”

  “I got the description second hand from Eskadi,” said Deputy Steele. “He got it from a very frightened woman.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” replied the detective.

  “She described a big man who was scary and ugly. She said he had a cap on but it looked like he had short hair, maybe a shaved head. He did have one distinctive trait. His left hand was missing some fingers.”

  “Did she notice how many?”

  “Two,” replied Kate. “Maybe three.”

  “Can you give me her name?”

  “I don’t have it, but I will try and get it for you. Do you want to talk with her?”

  “Yes. I want to find out how sure she is about the missing fingers,” said Detective Muñoz.

  “She was very certain about the fact that he was missing some fingers on his left hand. She just wasn’t certain of the number.”

  “The Chinese restaurant owner’s wife told me she thought the man who picked up Juanita Melindez in the blue Chevy LUV truck had a deformed left hand.”

  “So you believe our murderer is a tall, not good looking, White male with a deformed hand and a buzz cut who stole a truck and switched the license plates?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

  “That’s what we have been able to put together. Because the truck and the plates are from your area and the girl is from mine, it sort of looks like we are working together again, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess it does,” replied the Sheriff.

  “Do you have anything else on the dead girl?” asked Deputy Steele.

  “Not much. I hope to have more once we locate her family or her roommate. The autopsy had one other sort of weird thing. The young woman’s neck was broken and her windpipe crushed. She was strangled before she was torched in the truck. She wore a necklace with a fairly large silver cross.”

  “There’s nothing strange about that,” said Zeb. “About half the people around here wear a cross around their necks.”

  “Just hold on a second. The doctor who did the autopsy is an ambitious young buck, just out of school. He is slow to get us our reports and a real pain in the ass, but he is as thorough as they come. In this case his pedantic behavior may have big dividends.”

  “How so?” asked Zeb.

  “The broken neck was compressed down hard against her breast bone.”

  Zeb unconsciously pressed his chin against the top of his chest.

  “The chin bone ended up resting right on top of the silver cross. The immense heat from the fire seared an impression of the cross into the breast bone and protected the metal. Although the autopsy also noted that silver melts at 1764 degrees Fahrenheit and a car fire generally can only burn at a maximum of 1300 degrees. Because the chin was resting on top of the silver cross, instead of melting, it was sort of protected in a way. It was fairly intact upon autopsy. The doctor was able to use a small scalpel to remove it in one piece. Using a high powered microscope he was able to see the cross in detail.”

  “What was he looking for?”

  “I don’t know. The guy is so obsessive about his work he does some pretty odd things. My guess is he was just curious. But who the hell knows? When he was looking at the cross, he noticed some words. Evidently the back of the cross had been inscribed and the inscription was legible.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Three words…‘Ángel loves Juanita’,” said the detective. “We know who Juanita is. Now I’m looking for an Ángel.”

  Detective Muñoz was hedging his bets in hoping the proximity of the stolen car to the stolen plates would eventually tie into someone else who had seen the white male with missing fingers. Max made it clear his belief was that the killer was tied both to the Tucson area and to the specific area between the north central part of Graham County and the south central tip of the San Carlos Reservation. Zeb and Max ended their conversation with an agreement to keep each other closely informed.

  “What do you think of the detective’s theory?” asked Zeb. “Do you believe we’re dealing with a creature of habit who is tied to both Tucson, Graham County and the San Carlos Reservation?”

  “I certainly would like to know who the big brute with the bum hand is. But the odds of the car thief and the murderer being the same guy, based on what we know now, are nothing short of fantastic. With the evidence we currently have, Detective Muñoz’s theory is little more than wishful thinking. Our job is based on facts not wishes.”

  “But theoretically speaking, a White male with a deformed hand last seen with a murder victim in a stolen truck with stolen plates, and also a White male with a mutilated hand seen stealing plates on the reservation does have the potential for being a good starting point in an investigation,” countered Zeb.

  “Your theory might have a few holes in it,” Kate cautioned.

  “I didn’t say it was anything more than a theory. And, hell yes, it’s full of holes. There is certainly more than one guy with a mangled left hand walking around, but we’ve got the same description from two different people and a stolen vehicle with stolen plates,” explained the sheriff.

  “Putting together times and places of the truck and license thefts and the murder is going to be difficult. To begin with, the plates on the Chevy LUV were from Eugene Topy’s truck,” said Kate. “He lives a good fifty miles from the Garcías. Why would someone steal a truck out in the middle of nowhere, drive it fifty miles onto an Indian reservation, steal some plates, and then drive it over a couple of hundred more miles to pick up a young girl, break her neck, leave her in the stolen truck and burn it? It could only make sense if we had any kind of a motive, which we don’t.”

  “Well, Deputy Steele. Why don’t you get to work and see if you can figure out exactly what the motive is? It’s ca
lled doing your job.”

  The uncharacteristic cynicism in the sheriff’s tone did not go unnoticed by his subordinate.

  “The truth is, Sheriff, I am having a little trouble with motives in general these days. Sitting in our own jail we have a man who confessed to making the bomb threats. His motivation is completely lost on me,” stated Deputy Steele.

  Sheriff Hanks made no attempt to hide his irritation. Deputy Steele eyed the normally easy going sheriff. Maybe his gut pain was affecting his personality. Perhaps he was trying a little too hard to help an old friend solve a murder case when there was really nothing he could do.

  “Deputy Steele, why don’t you go back out toward the García place and see if you can find someone else who saw anyone sneaking around there.”

  “But you’ve been out there. I’ve been out there. We have talked to everyone more than once.”

  “No buts about it. It’s an order,” said Sheriff Hanks. “And while you’re out making the rounds drop by the Madrigal place and pick up his Bible and rosary. Would that be okay with you, Deputy?”

  “It’s out of the way, but consider it done,” said Deputy Steele sensing Sheriff Hanks’ obvious frustration.

  “And as long as you’re out there, ask around again to see if anyone saw a big White male, sort of a nasty looking guy with a deformed left hand, missing fingers, you know the description. Try to shake loose someone’s, anyone’s memory. We have him linked…” Sheriff Hanks shot a glance in Deputy Steele’s direction. “…make that possibly linked to García’s truck and some stolen license plates up in that general vicinity.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?” asked Deputy Steele.

  “Just do your job. People’s lives may depend on it,” said Sheriff Hanks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Sheriff?”

  “Yes, Helen?”

  “You were a little short with Deputy Steele. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Other than a bombing, stolen vehicles connected to the body of a murdered young woman and Delbert’s death, yeah, I guess all is well.”

  “Don’t get short with me, Zebulon Hanks, I changed your diapers,” said Helen. “Deputy Steele is doing her best. Just because you are frustrated doesn’t mean you can take it out on her. You need to concentrate on your work.”

  Helen was right. It suddenly seemed clear to him that the actions of his brother Noah, in reverting to his pre-prison behavior of car theft, had been the turning point. Just about everything else had been going downhill since then. Maybe he was angry at the bombing and the loss of Delbert. Perhaps his frustration was in the fact that he couldn’t find the stolen vehicles that might be linked to the death of a young woman. Maybe the stress of his upcoming marriage to Doreen who, thanks to her recent revelation, he wasn’t even sure he knew was weighing on him. It didn’t matter. Zeb wasn’t being professional and he knew it. It was time to change. It was time to be a man, a good sheriff for the people of Graham County.

  “Helen, you are right. I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” said Helen. “Get to work.”

  Helen could not have put it more concisely. Sheriff Hanks decided it was time to pay another visit to Felipe Madrigal. Felipe Madrigal was a lonely man. He had hardly anyone to talk to since his wife and daughter had died. The sheriff knew in his heart that Felipe wasn’t a bad guy, certainly wasn’t the bad guy behind this. Perhaps he was just a guy who had got caught up in something over which he had no control.

  The sheriff made the quick walk to Felipe’s cell in the Graham County jail. The two briefly talked baseball. Quickly the subject turned to trucks and cars. Felipe loosened up a bit when the sheriff slipped him a cigarette. The former truck driver began talking about how he could rebuild an engine from the ground up in three days. Talking about pride in his mechanical abilities seemed to make Felipe a changed man. The more Felipe spoke the more Zeb realized that he was talking to a mechanical expert, at least when it came to engines. Then, like a lightning bolt it struck the sheriff. Felipe Madrigal was a liar.

  “Felipe, have you been telling me the truth?”

  Sheriff Hanks tried playing the old good cop routine.

  “Sí, Señor Sheriff. I never tell lie.”

  “Are you a good mechanic?” asked the sheriff.

  “Sí, sí, the best. I can fix anything on engine.”

  Sheriff Hanks left the cell, returned to his office and came back with the tape recording of Felipe Madrigal calling in and asking to be arrested. Sheriff Hanks played it for his prisoner. Felipe said nothing. The sheriff waited. His prisoner said nothing.

  “Felipe, you said your truck was broken.”

  “Sí, sí, it was broken.”

  “Why didn’t you fix it?”

  “I don’t have no spare tire,” said Felipe sheepishly.

  “That’s it?” asked Sheriff Hanks. “No spare tire?”

  “Sí.”

  Felipe suddenly looked like a treed polecat. He began to look around the cell as if seeking a place to hide from the sheriff’s questions.

  “The flat tires were the only reason your truck didn’t work?”

  Felipe Madrigal held steadfastly to his lie.

  “I’m no mechanic, but I noticed the distributor cap was missing and the lead wires had been yanked off. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

  Felipe was a cornered mouse. He had lied. Sheriff Hanks could read the falsity of it in the man’s words, the sound of his voice and the expression on his face.

  “I don’t have no spare parts in my truck or in the house.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Felipe.”

  Felipe was visibly shaken and sweat beaded on his upper lip.

  “I tell you the truth. Only the truth. That is what I tell you, the truth.”

  Sheriff Hanks stood next to his seated prisoner. He inhaled, expanding all six and half feet of his height and two hundred forty pounds of his weight. Felipe cowered. The look on the sheriff’s face made Felipe wonder if the sheriff was going to strike him. Felipe slid to the back of his bed protectively. Sheriff Hanks paced back and forth menacingly. He knew Felipe Madrigal was lying to him. How could he get him to tell the truth?

  “Why didn’t you have spare parts? You know your way around an engine. Why wouldn’t you have a spare tire or two, everyone does.”

  Felipe shrugged nervously. “I don’t know. I don’t have no extra distributor cap. I had spare tires. I thought I did but when I look they were gone, stolen.”

  Felipe’s lies were getting larger. Not having a distributor cap was one thing, but not noticing the theft of spare tires was quite another, especially to a man who had so much time on his hands. Sheriff Hanks tried to bluff Felipe.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said the sheriff. “I’ll call my deputy on the two-way radio and have her take another look around. Maybe she can find the distributor cap?”

  The prisoner nodded sheepishly, like a child caught in a lie. Sheriff Hanks made the call to his deputy.

  “Deputy Steele,” said Sheriff Hanks. “What have you got for me? Did you find Mr. Madrigal’s religious items?”

  “Yes, I did. They were right where he said they were, but I found something else too.”

  “What have you got?” asked the sheriff.

  “I sat down in his chair to tie my shoe. When I sat down, some loose change fell out of my pocket. I reached in behind the cushions to grab it.”

  Sheriff Hanks, thinking of his own easy chair, imagined what sort of junk might have fallen down there over the years since Felipe’s wife had died.

  “There was quite a collection of miscellaneous debris stuffed under there, matches, half-smoked cigarettes and some hard candy with lint stuck all over it.”

  “Is that it?”

  “There was something else--something that is very important.”

  “What is it, Deputy?”

  “A handwritten note.”

  “Read it to me.”

  It t
ook exactly five words for the sheriff to know exactly what it was. He had listened to those exact words a hundred times before. Felipe Madrigal had written out the bomb threat. He had been reading it when he called it in. That was why the tone of his voice on the tape had sounded so unnatural. Why hadn’t he figured that out before? Now as Deputy Steele read the threat, it was all very obvious.

  “It’s the bomb threat, verbatim” said Deputy Steele.

  “Get that note to me ASAP,” said the sheriff.

  “Yes, sir, and Sheriff? Now that I take a look at Felipe’s handwriting closely...for an old man, who probably wasn’t schooled in English, he has excellent handwriting. It is as neat as a pin. It’s better than either yours or mine. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Goodbye.”

  Sheriff Hanks opened the Madrigal file and turned to the old man’s handwritten admission of guilt.

  Felipe Madrigal’s handwriting was barely legible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ángel opened his eyes; instantly he squeezed them shut again. Certain he had awakened in the middle of a perfect dream, Ángel made a vain attempt to fool the sandman and slip back into the sweet fantasy. It was for naught. He was awake.

  Slowly Ángel reopened his eyes, fearful of returning to the reality he knew awaited him. Ángel touched his face and rubbed his eyes, looking around the spacious bedroom. To his right, a large picture window overlooked the river. The huge bed he lay on was soft, crisp and clean. He sat up and swung his feet onto the plush carpet nearly kicking over a half full bottle of tequila. Disoriented, his eyes darted around the room a second time. He pinched himself to make certain he wasn’t dreaming. Maybe he had died. Maybe this was heaven. His pounding headache told him otherwise. Where was he? How did he get here? A rustling noise in the next room drew his attention. Quietly he opened the door and peeked through. At the kitchen table he saw the shadow of a large man cleaning a gun.

  “You trying to sneak up on me, amigo?”

  The gruff voice was Jimmie Joe’s. In fits and starts memories came slowly drifting in. He and Jimmie Joe had broken into a rich man’s house. They had spent the night drinking, laughing and playing music.

 

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