by Ted Clifton
Ted Clifton
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EPUB edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-74-4
Kindle edition ISBN: 978-1-927967-75-1
Copyright 2016 Ted Clifton, all rights reserved.
Cover
Title Page
1: Billy the Kid Rides Again
2: Beginnings
3: The Village of Ruidoso
4: A Killing
5: Visiting Kate
6: Field Work
7: Wrap-Up
8: Tony’s Story
9: Tony’s Story Part 2
10: Tony and Kate
11: More Killing
12: Beverly and The Kids
13: Ruidoso Again
14: College Days
15: Back Home
16: Governor Johnson
17: Chief Nelson
18: Dick Franklin
19: Home Alone
20: Dinner Party
21: Confession
22: Home Sweet Home
23: Confession Two
24: Tacos
25: Election Day
26: Father and Son Talk
27: Confession Three
28: Justice For All
29: Isabella Ortega Franklin
30: Mr. Mayor
31: San Juan County Sheriff
Preview: Four Corners War
F.C.W. Chapter 1
F.C.W. Chapter 2
F.C.W. Chapter 3
Facts in the Fiction
About The Author
Books By Ted Clifton
Billy the Kid Rides Again
1989 marked the end of the Cold War, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the Exxon Valdez oil spill. George H.W. Bush became President of the United States. Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister of Great Britain. The first version of Microsoft Office was released and Nintendo debuted one of its legacy products, the Game Boy. The Internet and cell phones existed, but were very limited. The World Wide Web was only an idea, and the first satellite in the GPS system was launched.
1989—Ruidoso, New Mexico
“Just shut up and let me think. Why the hell did you try to shoot me?” Deputy Samson screamed at Charles Jackson, a big son-of-a-bitch, who at that moment was crying and begging the Deputy not to kill him. Jackson owned a small auto body repair shop just on the outskirts of Ruidoso, New Mexico. He was also a bookie, mostly taking bets on the horse racing at Ruidoso Downs. He was supposed to pay the acting Sheriff a cut of his action every week. Deputy Samson had been sent to collect an envelope from Jackson. Simple enough—just an errand. Samson didn’t even know what was in the envelope he was supposed to pick up. Then Jackson pulled a gun on him—not smart—and Samson shot him.
The deputy began pacing and rubbing his hands together. He’d fired the shot more as a reflex than anything else, and now he didn’t know what to do. Samson was honest—not a saint by any means, but unlike many who worked as deputies in Lincoln County he still clung to his basic values. A primitive part of his brain said to kill this dumb piece of shit so he could leave and forget about the whole thing. Erase the whole ugly mess. He wouldn’t do it—he knew this even as he thought about it—but he was going to have to deal with acting Sheriff Marino over the shooting and that had him sweating.
“I send you to do one simple thing and you screw it up—maybe I should come up there and shoot both of you assholes.” Martin Marino had a bad temper and was in a perpetually foul mood. Marino had left Miami some years ago to visit a cousin in Ruidoso, New Mexico, in order to avoid embarrassing questions about the $300,000 or so that had gone missing from his father-in-law’s trucking business. After a few months in Ruidoso, Martin had heard that the father-in-law considered it money well spent and arranged for his daughter to divorce Martin, enthusiastically cursing his name as he did. He let it be known that if Martin ever showed up on the east coast again he’d be dead, but that he didn’t give a shit if he stayed in fucking Mexico. Like many people, Marino’s father-in-law got New Mexico, the state, and Mexico, the country, confused.
Now feeling safe, Martin had begun a new career as a corrupt, even evil, deputy sheriff. Being a thug doesn’t usually lead to advancement, but in a lucky twist for Martin it turned out that thugs shared many attributes with a certain kind of lawman. When Sheriff Rodriguez got sick, Deputy Marino acted like he was the logical choice to step in and no one objected--at least to his face. As the Sheriff became increasingly ill and was eventually put in the hospital, Marino gradually took over, threatening anyone who got in his way. Being an especially vile creature made his threats credible—everyone believed he meant them.
Deputy Marino headed to the body shop where Samson was holding Jackson. As he drove, he became increasingly angry. His deal with Jackson had been for a twenty percent cut of Jackson’s net take. Marino thought that was fair, and now the bastard tried to stiff him—not a good decision. Jackson wasn’t the brightest guy in the world, but everybody knew him. He was a fixture at the racetrack. He always had an opinion on what horse was going to win and after a few beers would share it with anyone who walked by. Marino thought he was a scumbag.
“Sorry Martin. I just saw him pull his gun and I shot.”
That bit of news earned Samson a hard blow to the side of his head from Marino. He fell to the ground and—for just a second—thought about reaching for his gun. Marino gave Samson a look that said I’d love to shoot you today—just reach for that gun, you moron. Marino turned his attention to Jackson.
“Okay you idiot, tell me exactly why you shot my deputy—and it better be good or you’re dead.” Marino’s calm monotone was more frightening than if he’d been yelling.
“Look, Mr. Marino, I didn’t know who he was and I thought he was going to rob me. When he walked in, the light was behind him and I couldn’t tell he was in uniform—all I saw was that he had a gun. Man, I’m bleeding here, I need an ambulance.”
In a fit of temper, Marino kicked the bookie very hard several times, one blow landing on his head. The man howled and turned pale, his face contorted in obvious pain. In an amazingly short time he was dead.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Now look what you’ve done you dumb shit—he’s dead.” Marino directed his words at Samson, ignoring the fact that he’d been the one to kick the bookie, which was without question the blow that had killed him.
Samson knew that his could be the next body on the ground and put his hand on his revolver.
“What the fuck, Samson, you going to shoot me? You really are an idiot. You shot this bastard and he’s dead, and you think the best solution is to shoot the sheriff. Get your hand off of your gun and call for an ambulance, now!”
“Jeez, Martin, he’s already dead.”
“I know that, but the ambulance people won’t. You tell them that he pulled a gun on you for no reason and you had to shoot him. Now give me your gun, do what I say, and this’ll all go away.”
Samson hesitated. No one in their right mind would trust Martin Marino—the little shit was just plain evil—but the deputy was in a bad spot. If he didn’t do what Marino wanted, it could get real ugly for him. How the hell had all of this happened? The Lincoln County sheriff’s department had once been an honest place to work, but now it was more like a crime family. Samson made his decision, taking off his gun belt and handing it to Marino. Then he called for an ambulance. He hoped he’d still be alive the next day.
Lincoln County is best known as the location of some of the west’s worst open range conflicts, The Lincoln County Wars, featuring the likes of Billy the Kid. Martin Marino was short in
stature, just like the Kid—he was also crazy, just like the Kid. Lincoln County had survived Billy the Kid—Martin Marino might be a different matter.
Beginnings
Some weeks later—Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
Ray Pacheco had been the sheriff of Dona Ana County for many years before retiring. He’d bought an old abandoned cabin with an infamous past and settled into a relaxing life of doing nothing—at least for a few months. He soon realized that when you’re working and busy all you want is some free time to relax, but when every day is full of nothing but leisure time, you quickly come to want something else. The days became tedious, contributing to a feeling of isolation.
The cabin Ray had purchased was located on Elephant Butte Lake just outside of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico—locally known as T or C. He looked the part of a rural western sheriff, with his cowboy hat, boots, western shirt, and jeans, but he wasn’t actually the outdoorsman type. This strange contradiction was the result of having always devoted his life to his work in law enforcement, never taking time to try hunting or fishing. It seemed clear to Ray that despite his lack of knowledge, the solution to his inactivity was to become a fisherman. He was retired, lived on a lake, and bored out of his mind, so it was a natural: take up fishing.
To facilitate his move into the world of fishing, Ray had gone to the largest bait shop on the lake—Jack’s Bait, Boats and Beer. It was an act of courage simply to enter the store. He remembered the off-putting odor and was still unsure, even now, of what its source had been. Now as he thought back with fondness, he realized that he actually missed the smell, which had disappeared after recent renovations.
That had been the beginning of Ray’s venture into fishing—and, more importantly, the beginning of his friendships with Big Jack and Tyee Chino. Big Jack owned the bait shop and dispensed advice on almost everything to anyone who would listen. Ray recalled how Big Jack had recommended that Ray learn to fish before buying any fishing gear from his store—honest advice from the dispenser of numerous tall tales, related to fishing and to life in general. Big Jack was a contradiction. By all appearances he seemed to be a man with little ambition who had experienced little success in his life, but Ray discovered over time, not much was what it seemed when it came to Big Jack.
During their first meeting, Big Jack had advised Ray to seek out Tyee Chino, one of several fishing guides on Elephant Butte Lake, who was known for his extensive skills in the art of catching fish—and also for his frequent drunkenness. Big Jack had insisted that there was no one who knew more about all things fishing than Tyee Chino, and advised that Ray ignore any first impression and simply hire him. Tyee Chino was an Apache Indian who, Big Jack said, used a tourist-baiting dumb Indian schtick as part of his professional persona. The fishing guide business was surprisingly competitive, and Chino was going to use any gimmick that would attract paying customers. But as Big Jack said, “no one else knows half the shit Chino does about fishing.”
Once Ray spent time with Chino he found out that Big Jack had been right. Most of the Indian guide routine was an act, although the drinking was real. Chino was recovering from a failed marriage and had taken up drinking as his primary pastime. The Indian act had some truth to it—after all, he was Apache—but his stereotypical way of speaking, like a Native American in an old western movie, was bogus. Tyee had a double degree from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque in Computer Science and English Lit. He had needed to make a living after his marriage collapsed and he began drinking, so he’d become a fishing guide. The Hollywood Indian act seemed to work well with tourists, and it also suited Chino’s whimsical personality.
Beginning with that encounter, Big Jack and Tyee Chino had become Ray’s friends and eventual business partners. The journey to friendship involved some adventures tied to murder and intrigue. As they became more involved in solving the strange disappearance of a guest from the Hot Springs Inn, they realized the talents they collectively had at their disposal. Maybe so that he wouldn’t have to fish all the time, Ray had suggested that they open a private investigation business operated from the outbuildings on his property at the lake.
Through an unusual set of circumstances they had ended up with two primary sources of cases: the FBI and the AG’s office for the State of New Mexico. The FBI was supporting Pacheco & Chino, PIs because the agency had been negligent in a case involving Ray, Big Jack, and Tyee, which had put Ray in harm’s way. In order to make amends, the FBI had agreed to provide the new firm with consulting work and also to provide computer training and access. This had mostly involved Tyee, with his background in computer science.
The other source of revenue was assignments from Tony Garcia, the Attorney General of New Mexico. Tony and Ray’s history went back to their Dona Ana County days in Las Cruces, New Mexico. Tony had recently been given the new responsibility of looking into the functioning of county sheriff’s offices. The Governor and many other officials had expressed concern that some of the sheriff’s offices were not being properly monitored. Tony had reached out to Ray—as a past Sheriff—to assist him in getting a better handle on some of the less-than-cooperative Sheriff’s departments in the state.
Completing Ray’s transition from lonely retiree to this new world was his recent marriage to Sue Lewis. Sue had been the waitress at the Lone Post Café in T or C. Her history was troubled, with a bad marriage followed by a deep depression when her ex-husband killed himself. Sue couldn’t help feeling responsibility for his suicide. She’d been a physician’s assistant, and even had experience in forensics, but her emotional state had driven her to abandon most opportunities and to hit the road—repeatedly—at the first sign of personal involvement with anyone. Until she met Ray. She was younger than he was, but the match seemed to be just what they both needed.
Ray had been married for many years until his wife’s death almost eight years before. He had thought that he’d never be involved with anyone again, much less get married. His son, Michael, who had become an attorney and moved to Boston prior to his mother’s death, wasn’t pleased with his father’s marrying again. Ray was disappointed that his son seemed upset, but decided that he had to really live what was left of his life, not just wait alone to die just to please his absent son.
Another addition to Ray’s household came as a result of his first investigation case. He’d inherited a pedigree show dog, who he’d named Happy. Happy was smart, loyal, wagged his tail a lot and—according to Ray—had a great smile.
On a bright, sunny New Mexico day Ray, Tyee, and Happy were headed to Ruidoso. This was located more or less due east of T or C, and up into the mountains, but between T or C and Ruidoso was the White Sands Missile Range. This was a huge military installation covering thousands of square miles, and had been the location of the first atomic bomb blast. All access to this vast area was prohibited, a rule enforced by the military. As a result, the trip involved either going north to US Highway 380 and dropping down, or going south to Las Cruces and over to Alamogordo, then north through Mescalero. Either route added many hours of driving to what would otherwise have been a fairly direct shot, but there were no roads through White Sands and, even if there were, you’d be dodging missiles. Ray and Tyee decided to go south first and then north. One advantage to this path was the chance to drive through Mescalero, Tyee Chino’s home town.
“When was the last time you were in Mescalero?”
“Many years. I had trouble adapting to the tribal ways when I was a teenager. I was sent to live with my aunt who lived in Albuquerque when I was in high school. I only came back once, for my mother’s funeral.”
“Guess you still have lots of relatives in this area.”
“Old white man suddenly nosy old woman.”
“Yeah. Sorry. Guess you don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, my fault, Ray. It’s just not a good memory. As far as relatives, the Apaches are a small tribe and everyone’s related. In your world there are millions of people i
n your tribe—in my world there are just a few thousand. It makes it hard when you’re not a part of your clan, and doubly hard that you’re shunned by your closest kin. I guess I was a rebel—I rejected the life and the people and it hurt my mother a lot. It’s something I regret to this day.”
There was stillness in the old Jeep—even Happy seemed subdued. Ray had always thought of Tyee as someone who had left the old ways behind and ventured out into the “real world” to find a better life. Now he was beginning to understand how much Tyee had given up to escape the reservation life he couldn’t live in, only to enter a white man’s world that was not very accommodating.
“Better watch your speed though this area, Ray. One of the primary sources of revenue for the Apache Tribe is speeding tickets.”
Ray had already noticed that the speed limit had decreased significantly as they entered the city limits. Going from fifty-five to thirty-five that quickly was bound to create a lot of opportunity for ticket revenue. Just as he was thinking about it, they saw an Apache Police vehicle by the side of the road ahead of them. They kept an eye on the rear view mirror in case he should decide to get closer to them.
As they continued, the elevation began to increase rapidly. Soon the pine trees were huge and the air was much cooler. At several points there were scenic turnouts where you could see for many miles down to the desert floor—White Sands was visible off in the distance and thousands of feet below. The gleaming white sand made it seem like an unconnected, far-off world. Ray’s old Jeep—dog-ugly, as it was often called—had some trouble with elevation, but always made it to the top. At least it had so far. Tyee had volunteered to drive his newer Ford F-150 pickup, but with two grown men and Happy it would have been more than a little crowded.
“Tell me, Ray, why do you think the AG wants us to look into the Lincoln County Sheriff’s office?”
“Well, not a hundred percent sure. Tony wasn’t real forthcoming about his concerns other than to say that the Sheriff has taken ill and in his absence a deputy has stepped in and apparently is turning Ruidoso into some kind of little Chicago or something. I’ve talked to some people I know in the area and they say this guy, Deputy Marino, is running roughshod over everyone. One of my contacts says the rumors are that the guy is getting kickbacks off of almost all the activities in the area where he can force his way in—and if the businesspeople or crooks don’t agree, it gets ugly. There’s talk that the recent death of a racetrack bookie wasn’t the accident that the deputy is claiming it was.”