The highway passed over the Rio Guijarra arroyo, a deep cut that hadn’t carried anything other than gravel in a dozen years, and I could see the flashing lights up ahead in the Spur parking lot. My approach was down to fifty miles an hour by the time I spiked the brakes and felt the hard shimmy of some other auto part announcing its resignation.
Victor’s parking lot was full, but my attention was drawn to two vehicles in particular. A late model blue and white Ford Bronco with a pop-up camper hitched behind was pulled in at the side of the saloon, and angled in behind it, blocking its exit, was a regular cab 1973 Chevy pickup, sort of battered bronze in color, that I knew well. Sergeant Payson’s patrol car, lights ablaze, formed a chevron with Doug Posey’s state truck beside the camper unit, further blocking it in. Off to the left, Gus Prescott’s pickup was flanked by two sedans, both with out-of-state plates. My attention was drawn to the bronze Chevy.
Bob Torrez hadn’t been able to resist doing a little hunting of his own.
Chapter Twenty-five
The trouble with arriving at a scene with lights flashing is that those very lights can escalate an otherwise calm situation. The deputy had corralled four men. This didn’t look like one of those, “Say guys, do you have a minute to chat?” moments. Still, it had been a helpful civilian who called the cops, not the deputy radioing for backup.
Torrez’ audience wasn’t happy, and when I saw who the moderator was, neither was I. It wasn’t just four men that the deputy had collected. It was three men and Victor Sanchez. The group offered enough belligerent body English to hint that this wasn’t a friendly gab fest. And predictably, Victor’s stubby index finger was jabbing at the center of Deputy Robert Torrez’ chest without actually making contact. The deputy may have been driving his own truck, but he hadn’t gone home and changed into civilian clothes. He was in uniform.
As physically imposing as young Torrez might have been, the four-to-one odds weren’t in his favor. Apparently unperturbed by his riled audience, the new deputy held a fistful of documents that he arranged on top of his aluminum clipboard.
I walked across the parking lot, taking my time to survey the men gathered around Victor Sanchez…two were on the youthful side of middle-age, but significantly overweight…both of them bruisers. The third young man looked as if he had just stepped off a military recruitment poster—neat, close-cropped pate, no facial hair, icy blue eyes and strong jaw, and shoulders so square that you could use him as a carpenter’s tool.
Sometimes it’s hard to pick a target on which to focus opening remarks, sometimes it’s easy. In this case, Victor Sanchez did the job for me. The owner of the Broken Spur saloon was certainly turning the air blue. I suspect as each police car pulled into his parking lot in turn, the color in his face rainbowed. He pivoted just enough to glare at me as I approached, fists balled on his hips. Just on the margin between burly and fat and a head shorter than the deputy, Victor combined nasty and ugly in fair proportions.
I didn’t mind Victor’s motormouth, especially if he kept it leashed to the confines of his establishment. But his belligerent nonsense was clearly adding to the men’s bravado.
“Someone in the saloon called us,” I said. “So here we are.” Now that I was present, Sergeant Payson was drifting around to peer into the windows of the Bronco, his right hand relaxed on the butt of his holstered revolver. He hummed a little tune, as if enjoying the prospect of thumping some heads. He was behind the trio, all of whom faced Torrez. Doug Posey, who looked as if he must have been somebody’s teenaged son, stood directly behind the camper.
“Wasn’t a bit of trouble until this kid,” and Victor jerked his thumb at Deputy Torrez, “decided to show up and start throwin’ his weight around.” I could imagine Torrez doing that, all right. Yep. Victor turned—at least he did that—and spat with the wind. “Every time you damn guys are in the neighborhood, you cost me business. You got no business here. This is private property.”
I’d heard this same litany from Victor a dozen times, and to his credit I would be the first to admit that the saloon owner generally solved his own troubles with the occasional hunter, cowboy, or construction worker who swam too deeply in the sauce. As Sheriff Salcido was fond of saying, with considerable admiration, “That Victor—he’s quick with the frying pan.” I’d seen more than one drunk prostrate on the saloon’s wood floor, skull bruised by a quick bash of cast-iron.
As if inflated by support from the saloon owner, the fat guy with a pillow hanging over his belt put his hands on his hips and took his turn glowering at me. I knew well enough what he saw…an over-the-hill guy whose own avoirdupois was not in tight control, with close-cropped gray hair, thin mustache, and casual clothes. My weekend uniform included basic blue jeans and a white shirt with one Posadas County Sheriff’s Department shoulder patch and my name tag over the right breast pocket. It was enough to suggest “cop,” enhanced by the badge that rode on my belt between buckle and holster.
“This isn’t your affair, Bud,” he said. Despite the blubber, despite the fisherman’s hat pulled right down until it bent his ears, I saw enough family resemblance that I pegged him as Leo Bailey’s brother…same shape of skull, same deep-set ice chips for eyes, and probably the same square build before gravity took over. At the moment he was fueled with so much liquor that I could smell it on his breath. Unless they’d been working on their own stash in the Bronco, they’d crossed the border early enough to hit up the Spur for refreshment…and maybe carried a nice cargo of imported Mexican booze as well.
“Do I know you?” I asked, centering on him. I didn’t like being called “Bud,” but before the man could reply, Deputy Torrez extended a driver’s license toward me with his left hand. He kept the heavy metal clipboard in his right hand, a handy swatter. I took the license, saw it was a Kansas issue, and turned slightly to keep the glare off the plastic.
“This is bullshit, man,” Victor growled. “When you’re finished with all your shit, you can get out of my parking lot. He has no right to come bargin’ in my personal place of business.” Mr. Gracious turned on his heel and stalked off toward the side door of the saloon—his private entrance to the kitchen.
“Mr. Clifton Bailey,” I read. “Fort Riley, Kansas.” It listed his weight at two hundred fifteen, a lie by about fifty pounds. He stood flat-footed now, his weight on his heels. A good push would send him rolling backward like a jelly donut. When he extended his hand for the license, I shook my head and handed it back to Torrez. The man’s eyes narrowed, burying themselves in a puffy face made even more so by too much alcohol and not enough sleep. “Your brother is a little worried about you, Mr. Bailey.”
“My brother?”
“Leo, our local newspaper man. I guess he’s wondering how he’s going to be able to keep your picture and the family name out of the newspaper. ”
“Lieutenant Joseph Allen Smith,” and Torrez handed me a Tennessee driver’s license and a military ID as he explained, “is—was—in possession of a concealed handgun in a liquor establishment.”
I looked at the license. In typical fashion, the MVD camera managed to make the handsome young fellow look like a scruffy convict. But he’d clean up okay, and in full uniform might even be impressive. Clarksville, his listed hometown, was an Army town, home of the Army’s 101st. I examined the military ID. The faded vestige of my own still rode in my wallet.
Now, I was impressed. Rookie Deputy Torrez had thought to collect all the necessary paperwork. They’d apparently surrendered the documents without a fight, maybe the smartest thing they’d done all day, and that was a hopeful sign.
“What’s your assignment at the base, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, Military Police, sir.” He snapped the answer out and then clammed up.
“Ah. Then you know better.” I could see the bottom inch of his belt holster beneath the hem of his light cotton shirt, but couldn’t tell if the handgun was still
in his possession.
“Yes, sir.”
“You probably noticed the sign on the saloon door that warns patrons. Concealed or not, in New Mexico, it’s illegal to carry firearms into a liquor establishment unless you’re a law enforcement officer in pursuit of his duties.” Like lunch. Or a cool break. The posted warning was required by the state, but I knew that tacking the paper to the wall was the extent of Victor’s compliance.
“You fellas are lucky you weren’t stopped down in Mexico. You’d still be making yourselves at home in a Mexican prison.”
“Look, look,” Clifton Bailey interrupted, holding up a none-too-steady but placating hand. The sudden bonhomie coincided with Lars Payson’s appearance from behind the truck. Sergeant Payson stood behind Torrez, just off to one side. “We’re just out here doing some camping, and some scouting for one of the fall hunts. We were down across the border camping for a little while, hunting javelina down Mancos way. We had all the right paperwork, anyway. Joe is on leave, and I guess it’s fair to say that the past couple of months haven’t been much of a picnic for him over in Bosnia.” He tried a wry, ingratiating smile, as if I was going to melt when I heard the international trouble spot mentioned. “We’re sorry about this mix-up with the gun in a bar. He’s just so used to carryin’ it…”
I ignored that and reached out for the next offering from the deputy.
Torrez handed me the remaining driver’s license. “Mr. Arthur Edward Torkelson, far from his home in Posadas, New Mexico.” I nodded at the short, porky version of Stuart Torkelson, his older brother. I could smell Artie’s sweat halfway across the parking lot. His arms were crossed across his chest, the denim shirt plastered to his body in half a dozen places. He rested his elbow on the rear window frame of the camper, elbow to elbow with Bailey. The one free hand picked nervously at the rubber window frame.
I handed the licenses back to Torrez. Movement caught my eye, and I saw Victor Sanchez standing by the back corner of his saloon, just outside the kitchen door. I grinned at him and touched two fingers to my forehead. He ducked back inside.
“So,” I said to the rookie deputy, “I have to wonder if these fellows have given any thought to finding designated drivers to take this fancy rig back to town.”
“Attawene needs the business,” Torrez said.
“Christ almighty,” Bailey said. “How’s that going to be…” and promptly got stuck on the next word. He burped some air and settled for “…necessary?”
“Maybe the breathalyzer will prove us wrong,” I said. “But the sauce has been flowing pretty heavily here, seems to me.” Torrez handed me the registration certificate for the truck, showing Torkelson as owner.
Bailey hung on a smug expression that made me want to write him a bale of tickets then and there. “We ain’t driving,” he announced triumphantly. He tried to stand a little straighter, but misplaced a foot and staggered just enough to put a lie to anything he said. “Hell, we wasn’t even in the vehicles when this young fella high-balls into the parking lot, raisin’ all kinds of dust. Then he comes right into the saloon like he owns the place. But hell I know…he’s just workin’ the quota. I know how it works. He followed us inside just so he could give Joe a hard time about the gun.”
“It’s good that we understand each other then,” I said. “Mr. Bailey, where’s your vehicle?”
“Up at that flea trap motel in Posadas.”
I turned and regarded him for a moment. “You sure?”
“Hell, yes, I’m sure.” His eyes skated back and forth like pinballs.
“You think D’Anzos have finished repairing it already?”
“Ah, shit, man,” Artie Torkelson muttered dejectedly.
“Mr. Bailey, let’s cut to the chase. As you probably know, we’re investigating an unfortunate incident that started right in this neighborhood a day or two ago. We had some kids partying, and one thing led to another. Next thing we know, they’ve driven off the interstate up in town, and collided with the overpass support pillar.”
I could see from his wandering eyes that he was having trouble following me. “Now, it seems that sometime that same evening, someone managed to run into a stump along County Road 14, damaging his truck. That truck was towed to D’Anzo’s in Posadas, where it sits, waiting for repair authorization. MVD tells us that it’s your truck. The wrecker driver remembers you well when he hooked up with you right here, in this parking lot, Wednesday evening.”
Cliff Bailey was beginning to look more like a stroke victim than a bruising drunk. His face first flushed and then went pasty-pale.
“The truck is not parked at the motel, and I have to wonder why you would tell us that.”
“I didn’t…I…you…” He gulped and one hand clutched at his chest. “No. Look.” But an explanation wasn’t forthcoming. Instead he looked wildly at first Smith and then at Torkelson. His partners didn’t look as if any great, creative ideas had occurred to them.
I watched him struggle, and it was the young Army lieutenant who tried to help him out.
“Cliff, what’s going on? Sheriff, we don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s try this, then. Someone blew all kinds of holes in one of Herb Torrance’s windmills and cattle drinkers, just out of the canyon,” I said. “We know that four youngsters from the area were there in the canyon, and we know that the three of you were there.” That was a stretch, but the trio didn’t need to know that at the moment, our evidence was shaky. “We know that the kids left the area, and possibly you may have chased them for a ways up the county road. Until you overcooked it and hit a stump.”
“Cliff…” the lieutenant appealed.
“I wasn’t chasin’ them,” he blurted, his face exploring various shades of purple. His vascular system was amazingly artistic in its use of color. “My God, what do you think? One of ’em was having a seizure of some sort, and they took off like…like crazy people. I mean, we heard just a little bit ago what happened with that crash up in town. I was readin’ the local paper inside, here, just now. Yeah, we saw ’em, and maybe we all did some shooting. But I didn’t chase ’em anywheres. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with their wreck up in town. Nothin’.”
“All four of ’em took off?”
“Yeah, all of ’em. I mean,” and he looked confused, “well sure. All of ’em.”
“Then you would be surprised to learn that one of those youngsters was struck by a ricocheting bullet and lay out in that country all night, all by herself, to eventually die of her wounds sometime the next morning. About the time you three took off to Mexico to hunt pigs, there she was.”
He tried vainly to make all that work in his mind, and failed. “Three of those kids were killed in the crash, my friend,” I added. “The fourth died right over there.” I nodded at the rough country north of the Broken Spur.
Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, because Clifton Bailey looked as if someone had slammed a door in his face. “I want a lawyer.” His chin jutted out pugnaciously, the alcohol doing the talking. He shifted his considerable weight, glaring first at me, then at the impassive Robert Torrez, then swiveled to take in Sergeant Payson and Officer Posey. I remained silent, giving him time to let the attack of belligerence pass. Drunk as he was, as used to bullying folks as he might have been, even his frazzled brain could see that the odds weren’t good.
“Fair enough. Lawyers are a good idea just about now. We’ll all adjourn this meeting and convene in town. How’s that?” I didn’t give him time to reply. “Sergeant Payson, will you transport Mr. Bailey in your unit? Officer Posey, I know it’s a squeeze, but can you transport Lieutenant Smith? Mr. Torkelson…” I stopped as Deputy Tom Mears, hot off the trail from María, braked hard into the parking lot. “Ah, Doug, you’re off the hook. Lieutenant Smith will ride with Deputy Mears.”
“But we…I mean, you can’t just haul us in without arresting
us. I mean, on what charge?” Bailey cried.
“Let’s start with felony damage to property. That’s a place to start. And then we can tack on public intoxication. And contribution to the delinquency of minors. And at this point, reckless endangerment leading to great bodily harm of a child,” I said. “So, yes, you have the right to remain silent, gentlemen,” and I went through the rest of the litany. My invitations about the various rides back to town sounded more hospitable than they were. The only person who expected the handcuffs was Lieutenant Smith.
Chapter Twenty-six
A quick arraignment was to our advantage, and District Judge Lester Hobart agreed to see the whole gang at ten the next morning. That delay would accomplish a couple of important things. First, there was some serious sobering up needed. Just as important, it gave us the opportunity to talk with the men individually—and both Lieutenant Smith and Artie Torkelson seemed willing, lawyer or not.
With separate rides to Posadas, and then separate accommodations in the village lockup, they hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to each other, and that made their situation a challenge. They’d had no chance to rehearse a joint tale of innocence.
No other detainee was in our county lockup at the moment, so Lieutenant Smith enjoyed one of the cells in the juvenile “wing,” the short hallway that included only two cells, while Bailey had tried to find some comfort in one of the women’s cells on the first floor. Torkelson had been sure that his brother would come up with whatever bail was set, but surprise…bail wouldn’t be set until the arraignment with Judge Hobart in the morning. Until then, Artie was given the opportunity to enjoy our hospitality for the night.
During the drive back to town, my Ford capped out at forty-five miles an hour with a symphony of dying parts grinding themselves further to pieces. Officer Posey followed us, just in case we should be forced to become pedestrians. I was transporting Artie Torkelson, who remained silent for the trip. Once in a while, I’d glance in the rearview mirror and see him looking at the handcuffs, and once in a while he’d give a little shake of the head as if he didn’t believe the direction his life had taken.
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