“We don't have a warrant.”
“Abandoned dwelling, evidence of criminal activity,” Hector said. “We're just poking around.”
They rummaged through it, but the trailer had been tossed before they got there. The only thing of possible interest they found was a stack of letters from the VA, hidden in the fridge.
“Lloyd was a vet,” Ruby said.
“DD-214, his separation, and applications for benefits.”
“Why the icebox?”
The inside of the refrigerator was moldy, since the power had been turned off a month before. Chinese takeout, covered in green slime, clotted milk, rancid butter.
“If somebody torched the place, the documents would survive a fire,” Hector said.
“Any significance?”
“They must have meant something to Lloyd.”
“You're working blind,” she said.
“No argument,” Hector told her. “Let's see if we can shake anything out of those two stoners.”
* * * *
Ida Ramirez worked two jobs. She wasn't home. The kid who came to the screen door was surly. They heard the soundtrack from The Flintstones coming from the TV. “What are you here for?” he asked them.
“Would you be Georgie or Teo?” Hector asked him.
“Who's asking?”
Hector took a deep breath. “You run over a woman's garden a couple of days ago?”
“That old bag? She needs a life.”
Hector didn't like pulling cop shit on people, he figured you got more flies with honey, but the kid was seriously pissing him off. “You're not making any friends, here,” he said.
“Get lost,” the kid said.
“You smell ganja?” Ruby asked Hector.
“Sure do,” he said. “Open up,” he told the kid.
“You can't bust in here like this,” the kid said.
Hector pushed past him into the kitchen. There were empty beer cans on the kitchen counter, and the air was heavy with the sweet, dense fragrance of marijuana.
“The fuh?” the kid on the couch in front of the TV said.
Ruby stepped inside, her hand on her holstered weapon. “Minors in possession of alcohol, use of a Class D substance,” she said to Hector. “Adds up to a felony fall. How many priors you figure they've got between them?”
“We been in juvie before,” the kid in the kitchen said.
“But this time you'll stay in juvie,” Hector told him. “They won't release you to your mom. You'll be in state custody until you're eighteen. Then you can be tried as an adult.”
“This is a jive beef.”
Ruby shook her head in exasperation.
“What do you need, anyway?” the kid on the couch asked. He hadn't moved a muscle since they came in.
“The guy you ran off,” Hector said. “What was that about?”
“Which guy?”
“You're using his trailer to party in.”
“That dieselhead? He was a loser.”
Hector looked around the trailer. “You, of course, being a winner,” he said.
Irony wasn't the kid's strong suit, or he was too wasted to care.
“You don't quit the juice, you're going to be fifteen going on fifty,” Hector told him.
They left the two brothers and went outside.
Hector took a deep breath. “Jesus,” he said, “what kind of world are we living in?”
“One where you get the first taste for free,” Ruby said.
* * * *
The burned-out double-wide was registered to a C. H. Esterhazy in Sheridan, Wyoming, but the registration had lapsed three years previous. Hector's contact at MVD got what records were available, including a title to the vehicle, and the last known address of the owner. Clare Hopkins Esterhazy, deceased, age eighty-four, at a nursing home in Casper. There was no bill of sale reassigning ownership. The obvious question was how the trailer had wound up in the meadow below Kettle Creek. Lloyd's old pickup wouldn't have done the trick. You'd need at least a three-quarter ton truck to move it, with four-wheel drive.
Hector caught a break when a hunter named Jerry McGill told him the trailer had been up there at least two years because Jerry and his hunting buddies had been hiking past it that long. They'd assumed it was seasonal occupancy.
“You never knocked on the door?”
Jerry smiled. “It's the mountains, Hector,” he said. “If we'd seen somebody living there, we would have stopped out of courtesy, to tell them we were hunting the National Forest land. Otherwise, let well enough alone.”
He meant you didn't walk up to someplace on the ragged edge of nowhere without an invitation. Hector understood.
Lloyd, assuming it was Lloyd, could have bought propane tanks anywhere inside a hundred-mile radius, and humped them up to the abandoned trailer. The other mystery was how he knew the trailer was there.
* * * *
Hector telephoned the FBI agent, Frank Child. “I'd like to call in that favor,” he said.
“What do you need, Deputy?”
“I've got paperwork on a guy named Lloyd Threadgill.”
“The meth lab that blew up.”
“Nothing probative,” Hector said. “He's got a history with speed, is all I have. It was his truck burned at the scene.”
“Close enough for government work,” Child said.
“I've got his DD-214,” Hector said.
“That's a start,” Child said.
“He was in the Gulf War, the first one,” Hector said. “You've got leverage I don't,” Hector said. “You can get on to St. Louis, look at his records. I want to know the units, the men he served with.”
“Names.”
“I'm down to stems and seeds,” Hector said.
“Let's see if we can find something we can smoke.”
Hector was surprised the FBI guy had a sense of humor.
“Back at you in twenty-four,” Child said.
They hung up.
Hector didn't know exactly what he was asking for. He had too many pieces, and no pattern. If he had a pattern, maybe the pieces would fit.
But he couldn't shrug off the two boys in the trailer park.
Katie had morning classes to teach, so she was staying over in Billings tonight at a girlfriend's. Nothing wrong with that, but it meant Hector had nobody to take his troubles to. He opened a beer and watched the news while he made himself dinner.
It was a Tuesday, so NCIS was on at seven. Hector wasn't that crazy about cop shows, but he got a kick out of Mark Harmon, even if the character was unlike any Marine gunny of Hector's acquaintance. The episode resolved in a flurry of gunfire and wisecracks, and Hector found himself wondering what he might do if he had the forensics and computer capability of Mark Harmon's crew, or their sudden, intuitive leap of faith after the third commercial break. Hector could have used a sudden intuition, or a leap of faith.
Restless, he called Lame Deer. He wanted to bring the retired FBI agent up to speed, but more than that, Hector wanted somebody who'd listen. Lame Deer might help put his thoughts in order.
“What's your interest in Lloyd's military record?” was Lame Deer's first question.
“I don't know,” Hector said. “It's a dropped stitch.”
“The gang chases him off, but he's got a place to hide.”
“The woman's dead. How did the trailer get there? How did he know where to find it?”
“Cart before the horse,” Lame Deer said.
“Okay, walk me through it.”
“Guy blows himself up. You trace his truck. You go to the trailer park, you find a couple of teenage dopers.”
“I can't shake that.”
“You're not seeing the forest for the trees. You can't let it get personal.”
“Deputy Pacheco got on to the Livingston PD. They know the local dealers are using kids to mule speed.”
“So you've got an intervention, maybe some arrests.”
“It doesn't make me feel any better.”
/>
“You're bailing out a bathtub with a teaspoon.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Focus.”
Hector smiled. “Both of us?” he asked.
“Who's trafficking in the Gallatin?” Lame Deer asked him.
Hector thought about it. “You figure Lloyd is answering an unanswered need,” he said.
“Filling a vacuum.”
“Identify a customer base, and provide the product.”
“You're burning daylight, Hector,” Lame Deer told him.
It was a fair question Lame Deer had asked. There was a law of supply and demand. How much demand was there for drugs in Stillwater County, and who were the suppliers? Drugs, of course, were everywhere, and Hector understood his little patch of ground was no exception, but it wasn't Bozeman or Billings. He knew he was being naive. Livingston, for example, only had a population of about six thousand people, and look what he'd run across there. Just because Stillwater was primarily ranch country, the towns small and spread out, feed and hardware stores, mostly, didn't mean the drug presence was negligible. Coke and heroin, downers, reds. You could probably buy quaaludes or Vicodin from a high-school kid. He was just resistant to the idea.
Okay, he told himself. That's fatal. It was like thinking those same high school kids don't have unprotected sex. Katie offered birth control counseling at the clinic, not that it made a dent in the rate of STDs and unanticipated pregnancies. Turn it back to front, Hector thought. Demand, then supply.
Why had Lloyd come to the Absarokas? To get the hell out of Dodge, for openers, the gangbangers more than he could handle on his own. But maybe somebody had offered to set him up in business. A vacant trailer, raw materials, a market share.
So, who had the market?
He called Joe Pony. Joe was Hector's counterpart up by Big Lake. He was one of the two other Stillwater deputies.
“I can give you a couple of names,” Joe said. “Local guys. Nobody in your neck of the woods, far as I know.”
Hector thanked him, and tried Absalom Enterprise, the third deputy.
“I put a guy away a few years ago,” Ab told him. “Lakota, name of Cloudfoot. The fall was three to five. He might be out by now.”
Hector felt like he was spinning his wheels. He phoned the States.
The answer to his first question took him neither forward nor back. The lab had a positive on Lloyd Threadgill, DOA at the crime scene, so Hector could stop thinking about the guy theoretically. The drug task force wasn't as comforting. Ike Cloudfoot had been released from state correctional up in Helena four months previous. He hadn't contacted his parole officer.
“Meaning he's in violation?” Hector asked.
“Open arrest warrant,” the state police officer said.
“Last known?”
She gave him the address. Somewhere near Hailstone.
Hector hung up. Oh for three. Or maybe a base on balls.
* * * *
It seemed to Hector there were two interrelated issues, Lloyd's possible associates, and the timeline. Lloyd had a couple of minor pops for possession, but he'd never been in prison. Ike Cloudfoot was a hard case who'd been in the heavy his entire adult life, so if there were any connection between them, it had to be on the outside. The problem was lack of opportunity. Cloudfoot had gone down on the distribution beef two-and-a-half years before. Lloyd had shown up in Livingston a year ago, at least according to the local police blotter, which showed two arrests in the last twelve months. It was remotely possible they'd hooked up after Cloudfoot got out of the joint, but there was no proof either way.
Then there was the trailer. No way Cloudfoot had towed it up Kettle Creek two years back. He was in stir. So maybe the Lakota was a red herring. Hector was grabbing at straws, but he decided this was a square peg in a round hole. And in any case, Cloudfoot had vanished off the radar.
He went back to Lloyd. Agent Child had forwarded his e-mail exchanges with the VA.
Threadgill, Lloyd. Dates of active service, MOS, training certifications, unit deployments, awards and commendations, rank at separation. The usual boilerplate.
No, wait a minute. Hector went back. Lloyd had been promoted to E-6, not specialist grade, staff sergeant. But he'd separated as an E-4, which suggested disciplinary action and reduction in rank. There was no indication of a court-martial proceeding, so it had to be an Article 15, non-judicial punishment, captain's mast, which wouldn't show up in his permanent record. Hector wondered what was serious enough to cost Lloyd two stripes, but not serious enough to get him discharged under less than honorable conditions. It was a fine line. The military operated under very strict rules, but an Article 15 was the next best thing to a plea bargain. Lloyd had been offered a deal.
His operational specialty, his MOS, was Electronic Warfare, which covered a multitude of sins. Spook stuff, possibly. A security-classified job in a combat zone. Where had he trained, again? Biloxi, Mississippi. And then he'd gone through jump school at Stead AFB, in Nevada. So he had parachute wings, too. He'd been assigned flight status in the Gulf, and there was an entry on his pay log for hazardous duty. All of which added up to absolutely nothing, from Hector's point of view. It told him zip about an exploding trailer, filled with meth vapors.
Or perhaps not.
Lloyd's last documentation was determination of disability. Possible exposure to toxic elements. Everybody who'd been in the Gulf had possible exposure to toxic elements. The VA was on the fence, trying to slide away from it.
Lloyd was another unacknowledged casualty.
* * * *
“All due respect, that's a lot of road apples,” Hieronymo said. He nodded toward Katie. “I'm thinking the doc agrees with me on this.”
“People choose their poison,” she said.
“They choose to be victims too,” he said. Hieronymo was a substance abuse counselor, working out of Katie's clinic. “I know that's not the received wisdom, these days, but it's how it looks from where I sit.”
“Lloyd brought it on himself,” Hector said.
“Yes and no,” Hieronymo said. “Guy was in combat. He comes back from the Gulf with a Jones, he wouldn't be the first. You have to be willing to take the responsibility, is all.”
“Surrender to a higher power?” Hector suggested.
“If you're hitting the sauce or you're strung out on drugs, you've already surrendered to a higher power, Hector.”
“I didn't mean to sound like a wiseass.”
“VA has outreach. Post-traumatic stress, addiction issues. But they don't come to you, you need to go to them.”
“Understood.”
“And even if Lloyd had been getting help, he didn't stay on message. It's hard to live a clean life.”
Moment to moment. Sylvia Greyeyes had described herself as a dry drunk, Hector remembered.
“You need some kind of support mechanism. Friends, family. It's pretty obvious Lloyd didn't have one.”
“So he falls back on the one he knows.”
“Booze was a good friend to me,” Hieronymo said. “Always there when I needed it, never let me down. I've been sober the past five years, and I've wanted a drink each and every damn day of those five years. It doesn't go away.”
“What's the difference between you and a guy like Lloyd?”
Hieronymo smiled, and rubbed his thumb and his index finger together. “About that much,” he said.
“Except that you're straight,” Hector said.
“So far,” Hieronymo said. “Today's not over yet.”
* * * *
Child was on the phone. “Anything?” the FBI agent asked.
“I think Lloyd had help,” Hector said. “The wrong kind.”
“Cloudfeather?”
“Cloudfoot,” Hector corrected him. “No.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Nothing. Cloudfoot might be background noise, but I can't put them together.”
“What's your thinking?” Child asked.
“I think Lloyd was a target of opportunity,” Hector said.
“I'm listening.”
“Lloyd went to the VA. He wanted treatment, or he wanted to sign up for disability. Six of one. Either way, he's in the system.”
“I gave you what I got,” Child said.
“There's more,” Hector said.
“Confidentiality,” Child said. “I won't get his medical.”
“He's a dead guy. Dead people don't have secrets.”
Child blew out his breath. “You're a hard man, Hector,” he said.
“No more than I have to be,” Hector said. “Find out where Lloyd applied for benefits. What's his last known, before he came to Montana, and how did he wind up here? Somebody suckered him into that double-wide.”
“I don't know where you're going with this.”
“Where it takes me,” Hector told him. They rang off.
* * * *
He talked to Ab Enterprise again.
“You think Cloudfoot's involved?” Ab asked.
“I don't see it, but he's a loose end,” Hector said.
“Loose is right, if he hasn't reported to his P.O. Too bad they didn't notify me of his release.”
“Slipped through the cracks.” He gave Ab the last known he had from the state police. “You know it?”
“It's a campground up on Big Lake. Seasonal. The way I remember, Ike Cloudfoot's mom parked herself there, early May to late October. Had what you'd call an unlicensed snack bar.”
Meaning she sold beer to the fishermen. “Give you leverage with her?” Hector asked.
Ab snorted. “Naomi's a piece of work,” he said. “Ike's no prize, but the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.”
“You get the chance, will you check it out?”
“I can make a run out there, next couple of days. You want in?”
“I'm not going to see anything you wouldn't,” Hector said.
“Ike's old lady doesn't deal dope, far as I know,” Ab said. “Bootleg liquor is all, and Frito pies I wouldn't feed a dog.”
There was an unasked question. “Something's bothering you,” Hector said.
“It bothers me the States didn't tell me Ike had gotten out of the slam. It bothers me that he's gone missing. It bothers me that nobody gives a rat's ass. And it bothers me to go up to Big Lake without somebody watching my back.”
AHMM, July/August 2012 Page 13