Apache Country

by Frederick H. Christian

  “As soon as CSI gets done. Say a couple of hours max. They may have to do some digging in the bathroom. RPD will reimburse you for any damage that’s done.”

  She gave him one of those Yeah, sure looks. Easton shrugged. Nobody said it had to be fair. He thanked her and went back outside. The CSI unit had arrived.

  Chapter Eight

  In the narrow parking area a deputy was putting up a second perimeter tape the way Easton had suggested. He ducked under it and went over to the doorway of the motel room to watch the criminalists at work. It was always a pleasure to watch professionals doing what they did best and the Riverside CSI team was as good as anything the big cities had.

  The routine never varied. First the crime scene was carefully photographed, measured and diagrammed. Then, as the coroner’s deputies began their detailed examination of the body, the criminalists would start checking every inch of the room for fingerprints, footprints, weapon evidence, foreign objects, tissue, blood.

  Wearing disposable coveralls, masks and surgical gloves – AIDS and norovirus added a lot more dangers to police work – technicians would locate, log, photograph and take samples of any and all blood drops, spatters, and smears, while others examined the surfaces of light switches, door handles, plumbing traps, sinks, towels and bedding. Color-reactive chemicals would be used to detect trace blood. Carpeting, sub-flooring, floor and wall cracks would be checked for blood seepage, while any rags, mops, sponges, paper towels, trash cans, clothing hamper, or washer/dryer at the scene would be examined for evidence of cleanup attempts. In this particular homicide, there probably hadn’t been any, but they would look anyway.

  Everyone worked purposefully and methodically. Nobody hurried, nobody took any short cuts. Not just because they were professionals who took pride in their expertise, but also because they knew they might one day have to testify in court as to what they did here, and how and why they did it. Everything was done strictly by the book; that was why the book was there.

  Immobile at the center of this scene lay the body of the victim, still half in and half out of the bathroom. Technicians had already put plastic bags on Weddle’s hands to preserve any biological evidence on them or beneath his fingernails, but otherwise he was still just as Charlie Goodwin had found him, physically present but utterly absent. It was a warm night, and beneath the bright indoor lights erected by CSI the dead man’s skin was already beginning to take on the sickly greenish tinge of postmortem lividity.

  For no reason at all, Easton suddenly remembered his college philosophy teacher likening life to a trip on a cruise ship that never stopped traveling, with death as a stopover excursion. Every day new passengers came on board, and others were dropped off, never to return. The only thing you didn’t know was when it would be you. Today it had been Jerry Weddle’s turn to disembark, and now he was on his way to the undiscovered country.

  Smiling at the memory, Easton saw James Sánchez coming across the parking lot toward him. Medium height, solidly built, with dark, intelligent eyes and a smooth, unlined face that gave away little of what he was thinking, Sánchez was wearing a dark blue silk jacket, pale blue shirt open at the neck and Levis over cowboy boots. He looked more like a weekending CPA than a detective. For Easton’s money he was RPD’s best detective, and also one of his favorite people.

  “How’s it looking, James?” Easton asked

  Sánchez stuck out his lower lip. “Right now everything says crime of opportunity. Perp thinks the place is empty, comes in using a key. He’s looking for money, plastic, jewelry, whatever. But Weddle is in the bathroom. He hears the perp or the perp hears him, and it hits the fan.”

  “That second shot bothers me,” Easton said.

  “Me, too,” James replied thoughtfully. “It’s untypical. More like a hit. What are you doing here, by the way?”

  Easton explained the connection and Sánchez nodded. “I know you, Dave,” he said. “Something about this you don’t like?”

  Easton took a few moments to reply. “Look at this guy, James. Cheap shoes, off the rack clothes, a four-year-old Honda Civic. How much would he have had in his wallet?”

  Sánchez shrugged. “Walk-ins like this, a credit card with a five hundred dollar limit is enough reason to waste someone.”

  “I guess.”

  “He local, this Weddle?”

  “Albuquerque, I understand.”

  “You talk to him at all?”

  “Very briefly,” Easton said and explained the circumstances.

  “You get any sense of what sort of guy he was?” Sánchez asked.

  “Why don’t you ask Charlie Goodwin? He’s over there in the patrol car with Billy Charles Cummings.”

  “Need to talk to him anyway,” James said. “Might as well be now.”

  “Okay if I tag along?”

  Sánchez raised one shoulder and led the way out across to the patrol car. He opened the door and got in the back and Easton got in on the other side.

  “Want to talk to you, Charlie,” James said. “You okay?”

  Goodwin twisted around to face them. He was in his mid-fifties now, overweight, out of shape. He smelled of stale tobacco and he looked like a bum. He had on one of those Banana Republic straw sombreros, a blue cotton polo shirt and a crumpled blue and white candy stripe seersucker suit. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford decent clothes – he was a partner in a successful Riverside law firm with branch offices in Santa Fe and Albuquerque. The trouble was, Charlie was the tightest man with a dollar you were ever going to meet.

  He not only saved coupons, he collected his neighbors’ discarded newspapers and snipped out theirs. He switched off his engine going downhill to save gas, cursed at pedestrians or motorists who came out of junctions and created wear on his brake pads. It wasn’t anything to do with money. Charlie scrimped for the pure joy of it. Paradoxically his wife June was a cheerful, generous woman who sat on damn near every charity committee in town.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “A bit shaky. What do you want to know?”

  “Weddle,” James said. “Start with his background. Any family?”

  Goodwin blinked, and they realized he had no idea whether Jerry Weddle had a family or whether he’d originated on the third rock from the sun.

  “How about a girl friend, Charlie? Or a significant other we could contact?”

  Goodwin shook his head. “I’d have to check his personnel file,” he said. “Best I recollect he was sharing an apartment over in Albuquerque with some guy who works for Sandia Labs. Jackson, Johnson, something like that. Call the office, they’ll give you the number.”

  “That’s what I like about lawyers,” Easton said. “The precision.”

  Sánchez gave him a hard look. He shrugged unrepentantly.

  “How long has he been with the firm?” Sánchez asked.

  “He joined us about a year ago.”

  “Fresh out of law school,” Easton offered.

  Goodwin looked surprised. “How did you know that?”

  “I’m right?”

  “He came to us straight from ENMSU. We had him working with Dick Etulain out of our branch office in Albuquerque. Mostly domestic stuff, you know, divorces, conveyancing, some Navajo Council work.”

  “Never handled a criminal case, right?” Easton said.

  Goodwin looked uncomfortable and shook his head.

  “Ironheel is up for two counts of murder, Charlie,” Easton said. “What the hell made you think Weddle to be able to handle his defense?”

  Goodwin blinked, his bloodshot eyes shifty, as if he’d been accused of something obscene.

  “Jeez, Dave, you got to understand, we were like, running on empty. I had Walter down with summer flu, two of our best people on vacation, two others in trial. When you called me and said Ironheel needed an attorney, Weddle was all I had.”

  Easton shook his head in disbelief but this time kept his mouth shut. This was Sánchez’ show, not his.

  “I understand he called you
, that’s how you got to be the one found the body, right?” Sánchez asked Goodwin.

  “He told me he had to talk to me. Immediately. He said. there was something very important I needed to know.”

  “Was it about Ironheel?” Easton asked.

  “I don’t know. He just said get over here fast.”

  “Did you see anyone near the unit when you arrived?”

  Goodwin shook his head. “Just … the door was open, and I went in. And there he was on the floor.”

  “You touch him? Touch anything in there?”

  “Good God, no,” Goodwin shuddered.

  “You getting all this, Billy Charles?” Sánchez asked the deputy. Cummings nodded and held up his notebook.

  “Okay, Charlie, go on home,” James said. “We know where to find you. Oh, and you’ll need to come by RPD tomorrow and make a statement.”

  “I wish I could be more help.”

  “You did just fine, Charlie,” James told him. Like shit, his voice said.

  Easton looked out the window and saw Chief of Police Ab Saunders getting out of his car. A short, broad, balding man who moved ponderously and perspired heavily, he had on a tan double breasted suit, and wore a broad-brimmed dark brown fedora that wouldn’t have looked out of place in The Untouchables. He always reminded Easton of the guy who used to play the TV detective, Cannon.

  “Chief Saunders just got here,” he announced, for the benefit of Sánchez and the deputy. He checked his watch: 10:44. “Guess that’s my cue to fold my tent.”

  They got out of the squad car and went over to where Ab Saunders was talking to one of the deputies. Saunders looked up as they approached.

  “Any developments?” he said to Sánchez.

  Easton stood aside as James quickly updated Saunders. The fat man listened absently, his eyes following Charlie Goodwin as the lawyer got into his Chrysler 300 and drove out of the courtyard.

  “What the hell’s Charlie Goodwin doing out here?” he muttered.

  “He found the body,” Sánchez told him. “We just got through talking to him.”

  Saunders picked up immediately on the ‘we’ and scowled at Easton, making no attempt to conceal his disapproval.

  “SO got an interest in this, Dave?” he said. He sounded peeved, as if Easton was interfering in something that didn’t concern him. Everyone in law enforcement knew Saunders was very territorial. The guys at RPD said if a body were found lying across the county line, Ab would measure it to confirm that more of the corpse was lying in his jurisdiction than SO’s. Maybe even move it over his side of the line a little to make sure. In other words, when push came to shove, what was his was his. Including the charm-school manners.

  “I came up here intending to talk to Weddle,” Easton told him. “Walked in on all this.”

  “Talk to him about what, exactly?” Saunders asked, his voice still edged with animosity.

  “Couple of things I needed to clear up,” Easton replied, not replying at all. “He was acting for James Ironheel, our suspect in the Casey killing.”

  “That’s a weird one. Never heard of an Ind’in killing a white man before. You getting anyplace?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And you think there might be a connection here?”

  Easton shrugged. “Might. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Yeah, right. Well, thanks, ’preciate all your help out here,” Saunders said.

  In other words, take a hike. Easton shrugged. There was nothing anyone could do about the fact Saunders had been way back in the line when they handed out the graceful manners. And anyway, strictly speaking, Ab was within his rights: SO might have an interest but this crime scene wasn’t Easton’s jurisdiction. He touched two fingers to his forehead as an adios to James and walked back across the parking lot to his Jeep, wishing he could go straight back home and take a shower, but knowing he must first stop off at the office.

  As he started the engine, a tall, athletically built young man ambled over and tapped on the window. He was wearing a blue denim shirt, chino pants, and Reebok shoes with blue trim. It was Pete Thorne, a reporter for The Riverside Star.

  “Anything you can tell me, Dave?” he asked.

  Easton shook his head. “Not my case, Pete. You’ll have to talk to the Chief or James Sánchez,” he said.

  “Waste of time,” Pete said. “I’m on the Chief’s shit list for some reason or other. Listen, let me run what I’ve got by you, okay? The victim is Jerry Weddle, age twenty-six, unmarried, works for Goodwin Massie. Lives in Albuquerque. Checked into the motel around eight. Sometime in the next hour he was shot. The thinking is a walk-in killing.”

  “Very good,” Easton said, impressed. “They’re estimating time of death as sometime between eight and eight thirty, but don’t quote me on that till the coroner’s report is in. There’ll be a full statement from RPD later.”

  “Any connection between this and the fact Weddle was representing the Apache you guys have got locked up for the Casey killings?”

  “Can’t answer that.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  Easton just waited. The younger man held up his hands.

  “Okay, okay, just one more question. I heard Weddle was shot twice. Once in the body, once in the head. Wouldn’t you say that was unusual?”

  “You expect me to answer that on the record?”

  The reporter grinned. “Okay, off the record.”

  “Then yes, it’s unusual. James Sánchez said much the same thing – it’s more like a hit. But whether it’s significant ...” He gave a shrug.

  “Well, there goes my lead,” Thorne grinned resignedly. “Thanks, anyway, Dave. I’ll check if James has anything else after the Chief leaves.”

  “Good plan,” Easton said, and left the reporter looking ruefully across the parking lot to where Chief Saunders stood in the harsh light of the police floods, mopping his forehead with a bandanna. William Conrad, Easton remembered. That was the name of the actor who played Cannon in the TV series.

  He eased the Jeep through the scatter of parked police vehicles and out of the parking lot. There was still a knot of spectators outside the motel entrance; he felt the heat of their eyes, the weight of their prurience. Most of them were elderly, probably drawn here by news of the killing on late evening TV. He wondered what their reaction would be if he wound down the window and shouted “Get a life!” Probably just stare at him uncomprehendingly, like, What’s his problem?

  He headed south on Main. Traffic was heavier now; people were going out to dinner or the movies or shopping or bowling. The frozen yogurt shop was crowded with kids. The parking lot outside the Red Lobster was full. The light breeze was still warm, the street lights and the hoardings, the brightly lit buildings, and the myriad stars in the huge night sky above were the same as always. Nothing had changed, except that Jerry Weddle had said the long goodbye.

  As he drove downtown the same questions kept repeating themselves over and over in Easton’s brain. Was it just coincidence? Or could there be a connection between Weddle’s death and the deaths of Robert Casey and his grandson? Who else had the lawyer called from the motel? And why? How did James Ironheel fit into all this? What could he have told Weddle that so electrified him? The questions raced through his mind like minnows pursued by pike.

  But no answers came.

  Chapter Nine

  Joe Apodaca was sitting in his office with his chair tilted back, feet on the window sill, staring gloomily out at the dark parking lot. As Easton came in, he swung his feet down and swiveled around in the chair. The frown that furrowed his forehead made him look harassed and out of sorts.

  “Confucius say, ‘The deeper the thoughts, the tougher the swimming’,” Easton said.

  Apodaca made a sour face. “Screw him,” he said. “You want coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  Apodaca got up, making that Uhhaahhh sound older people do, and the moment took Easton slightly by surprise: Somehow he never consci
ously thought of the sheriff as old. Yet the evidence was there: the dark liver spots on the backs of the hands, the larger one at the right temple, the faint tremor when he lifted his coffee cup.

  He sat down in the visitor chair as Apodaca got two mugs and filled them, handed one to him, shook some Sweet and Low into his own cup, then sat down and leaned back, his eyes watchful. They always were.

  “Thought you might like an update on Weddle,” Easton said.

  Joe nodded. “Just had a call from Ab Saunders. He said you were up there.”

  The question was implicit. “According to Hal Sweeney, after Weddle talked to Ironheel he left like his ass was on fire. I wanted to ask him why. But I got there too late.”

  “Why didn’t you just call him?”

  “Wish I had,” Easton said. “But I wanted to be able to watch his face.”

  Apodaca understood that. A lot of law enforcement officers felt the same way.

  “Ab says it’s looking like a walk-in,” he said, again making the question implicit.

  “They were still processing the scene when I left,” Easton replied, but it was no use. The sheriff spotted the evasion immediately. He put down his coffee cup and leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

  “Something you don’t like about it?”

  “There’s something doesn’t fit, but I just can’t pin it down,” Easton said, letting the frustration show. “Look, Weddle drives over here from Albuquerque, stranger in town, doesn’t know a soul. He talks to Ironheel for ten, fifteen minutes and next thing you know he’s burning rubber getting back to his motel. First thing he does when he gets there is call Charlie Goodwin, tell him he’s got to talk to him right away.”

  “How do you know he called Goodwin?”

  “Charlie was at the scene. He found the body.”

  “You questioned him?”

  Easton grinned. “Ab Saunders hadn’t arrived yet.”

  “Obviously,” Joe said and smiled. “Did Goodwin say what Weddle wanted to talk to him about?”

  “Weddle wouldn’t tell him over the phone. Just said it was very important.”