Dead Horses

by David Knop

  As I walked toward the master bedroom, Rose came out of the kitchen and I asked her how Marta was doing. “She’ll make it,” Marta said, weakly.

  Outside, dash-mounted flashers lit the crowd. Someone yelled, “Step back folks, step back!”

  Two men entered the home, both dressed in black coveralls with FBI embroidered on their breasts in yellow. I knew them both, Special Agents Michael Crutchman and John Zagorsky.

  “Okay, Romero we got it,” Crutchman said with a dismissive wave-off and belligerent tone. Whenever I saw Crutchman’s wide cheekbones, broad forehead, and pronounced jawline, I had an urge to rearrange them with my fist.

  “I got two adult males, dead,” I started to brief him, but the agent had little time for me and was inspecting the master bedroom before I stopped speaking.

  “I got it,” Crutchman said over his shoulder.

  Crutchman needed a knee in the balls every now and then. Like now. A slow burn rose from my stomach. Zagorsky motioned me outside. “Tell me what you know.”

  I told him what I’d seen in the bedrooms, then said, “Jason had a substance abuse history.”

  “Know the family?”

  “My whole life.”

  “Tough like that,” Zagorsky said. “People you know. Any family we need to talk to?”

  “Younger brother Matt lives in Albuquerque. Marta, the mother, and her sister, Rose. Talk to Rose, for sure.”

  “Tell me what you think.” Zagorsky tilted his head.

  “I run off an H3 earlier today. 2007, black, with Colorado plates, white mountains with red background, a veteran’s plate. Decals on the bumper; NRA, love guns, cold dead hands, that sort.”

  “Numbers?”

  “Too dirty to read,” I said.

  “Description of the driver?”

  “Hispanic, high-and-tight haircut but full beard, like I’ve seen on hipster snowboarders.”

  “Zagorsky!” Crutchman yelled from the doorway.

  “Stay near the phone, Romero,” Zagorsky said as he walked away.

  Crutchman yelled from the house. “Hey, I said you’re out of it.”

  “Right.” A lifelong friend and his son. Throats slit. Stay out of the investigation, my ass. It doesn’t work that way.

  Before I left, Rose came out of the house and I asked her how Marta was doing.

  “She’s a tough woman, but Peter, please check on Matt. She told me he hasn’t been home in two months. She’s worried. He’s all she has left.”

  I hadn’t seen Matt for years and didn’t know what he could contribute to the investigation, but I would find out. “Yes, of course. I’ll talk to him this morning.”

  Chapter 5

  The early sun bled scarlet and rust along the back wall of my home office.

  I listened to the messages on my personal line. A computer voice instructed me to press one if I was Peter Romero. I deleted it.

  I dialed Junior’s number. My son’s voice boomed on the other end. “S’up, Dad?”

  “Good to hear your voice, son. Stayin’ healthy? Is the coach beatin’ you up?”

  Junior played tight end for Dallas and was not easy to get on the phone, especially when training camp started, this year in Oxnard, California. I got lucky and connected before he walked out the door for morning training.

  “Hey, what can you tell me about Jason Pecos?” I asked without segue.

  “Didn’t really talk to him much after he got into drugs. Haven’t seen him in years. Sad case, that guy. Even Matt would have nothing to do with him. What’d he do now?”

  “I hate to tell you this, but someone killed him this morning. His dad, too.”

  “Oh, man. That sucks. Wha—”

  “It was awful, son. Seein’ Juan cut like that upset me. I can’t…” I choked up without warning.

  “Don’t worry, Dad. I get it, but I don’t envy your job.”

  “Your mother always said the same thing.”

  “How you and Mom doing?” he asked.

  “Haven’t heard from her after the papers were served.” In fact, it appeared Costancia was not going to talk to me again. I had left messages on her phone. “You?”

  “I talk to her about once a week. Says Grandma’s as ornery as ever.”

  “Things are going well, then.” Costancia lived with and cared for her aged mother on the southern edge of the Navajo reservation, a place without running water, electricity, or phone reception. But that was not the reason she never called. I was the reason.

  “I gotta go to practice, Dad.” He paused. “Listen, you and Mom. You really gotta try and work it out.”

  “I know, son.”

  Junior clicked off. His absence on the line brought home how empty my life had become.

  I was so proud of my boy. Good kid, great student, extraordinary athlete. Costancia always said he looked like me, called him Mini or waasht’i when he was a toddler. As a man, he stood taller and broader. Built in a muscle factory, friends said. Smarter too, but I never let on.

  I pushed away from my desk. Even though I’d been up most of the night, I wanted to interview the surviving Pecos boy, Matt, before the FBI got to him. Whatever the FBI learned from him; they would not tell me. And there was always the chance they would tell him not to speak to anyone, especially me.

  Matt lived in Albuquerque and a police database search gave me Mateo Pecos’s address, but his cell number was not listed. The report of a death is not best done by phone anyway, so a visit was in order. I hopped into my Jeep and motored south on I-25, thankful it was too early for Albuquerque rush hour traffic.

  Matt’s home, a single-family ranch, was located across from a Target. A black Dodge Ram with tinted windows parked out front. I studied the ride. A lot of truck: tricked-out grill, fog lamps, auto-bumpers, side steps. All black-on-black. Had something epic under the hood, too, I bet.

  Breathing deeply, I walked to the front door. On active duty in the Corps, I had accompanied the chaplain on death notices, and I’d given death notices as a cop. There is no easy way to do it, so I always tell the family quickly and directly, in no uncertain terms, that their loved one is dead. They are going to be wrecked no matter what, so there’s no sense in sugar-coating it.

  The most difficult thing is not knowing how the family is going to react. In some cases, family members have fainted, slammed the door in my face, or pulled out a gun. Or asked for the money. Some will want to hug you while they cry, some will lose their mind and tear their place apart, and some just sit in stunned silence.

  Matt answered my knock. He was four years older than his brother but looked younger. Matt had avoided drugs, held a steady job and, from the looks of the house, led a productive existence.

  “This can’t be good, Mister Romero,” Matt said. “It’s Jason, isn’t it?”

  “You and I need to sit down.”

  Matt let me in, motioned to the living room couch, and sat on a chair across from a coffee table. Looking around, I admired the neatness of the place, or maybe I was just putting off the inevitable.

  I always struggle to find the right thing to say during notifications, what I tell them they’ll remember for the rest of their lives. “Matt, Jason and your father were killed last night at 2:45 a.m. The cause of death appears to be stabbing with a sharp instrument. They both died instantly. The FBI is at the scene investigating and your mother is safe with your aunt.”

  “No. No.” He said straight-faced. “There’s some mistake. No, not both.”

  I watched him then shook my head. “Matt, I am so sorry, but there’s no mistake.”

  Matt blanched. “Aw, shit.” He shook his head, exhaled, said, “No surprise. Jason hung with bad dudes.” He’d focused on his brother and had not, I assumed, processed the death of his father. I said nothing. Matt would need no reminder.

  He put his head in his hands. The color drained from his skin. My heart went out to him. I have known this young man since h
e was a baby. Mateo Pecos rocked back and forth on the couch and rubbed the nape of his neck. He clutched himself. “Who did it?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  No soothing words came, but I managed a weak, reassuring smile. “FBI’s working it now. I’ll tell you more when I know.” I looked away when I spoke, relieved I got through it without fumbling the words.

  “I’ll kill those bastards!” he said, neck muscles like cables. His breath came in bursts like a sprinter.

  “Kill who, Matt?” A probing question at the wrong time can hurt. Matt was a victim of this crime, too, but his comments made me curious.

  “He was a good kid. Funny. Laughing all the time. Good in school, too. Had a wicked pitching arm. We practiced ‘til my catching hand hurt. But now, shit, nothing but trouble since he was twelve.” Pecos sniffed back tears and snot. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “My parents tried everything. It just got worse.”

  “Know anyone who would harm Jason?”

  “Damn near everyone he met.” Pecos held a handkerchief over his eyes.

  “Who, exactly?”

  “Wanna start with pushers?” He sniffed, wiped his face.

  “Locals?”

  Matt took time trying not to lose it. “Mostly, but talk is he owed so many dealers he had to buy out of town.”

  “Anyone specifically who might have it in for him?”

  Matt sniffed again, paused. “Heard a loudmouth talking in a bar. Seen him around. He’s a meth cooker. Said a tweeker stole his car, a lowrider. Cooker found out later it was Jason stole it. Dumbshit ripped off a fucking cooker to pay a dealer.” He dropped his head into his hands. “Jason couldn’t do anything right.”

  “This cooker gotta name?”

  Matt said, “No, never heard a name.”

  Matt twitched while talking, poor kid was wound up. He grabbed a table lamp, jerked out the cord, and threw it against a wall.

  “Stay with me, Matt, I know your hurtin,’ but stay with me. I wanna help. Any ideas where I can find this cooker?”

  His shoulders slumped. Maybe he’d thrown away some anger with the lamp. “No, when Jason started pulling his bullshit, I left home. The fighting. All I know is what I hear from my mom.” He looked away.

  “Anybody want to harm your father, Matt?”

  Matt shook his head quickly as if he was trying to shake off a fly.

  “Been home lately? Check on things?”

  “Not since Jason moved in a year ago. Didn’t really want to be near the psycho.”

  That statement didn’t fit with Rose’s recollection. I must’ve made a face because he asked, “What?”

  “Your aunt says she saw you recently.”

  Matt said, “Whatever. Look, I gotta go to work.” He averted his eyes.

  “You mentioned the pushers were not local.”

  “Española. Go figure.”

  No surprise, Española. The city’s population neared twelve thousand people but suffered a drug overdose death rate six times the national average, the nation’s worst. “You remember or hear any more, call me.”

  Pecos exhaled, looked at his watch, stood, then said, “Man, I gotta go.”

  “I’ll find them, Matt. I will find them.” My stakes in this murder were no different than Matt’s. Juan was a brother for the better part of my life.

  Matt nodded, wiped his face with a sleeve. He followed me out, slammed the front door, then hopped into his vehicle.

  Matt and I drove off in opposite directions. As the distance from Albuquerque increased, Matt’s credibility decreased. Matt was distraught at his father’s passing, but he asked no questions about the death. He seemed distressed at first but recovered quickly. Too quickly. I wondered if and what he was holding back.

  My suspicions were the product of a cynicism I’ve developed over my life as a Marine and a cop. I had no evidence to suspect Matt except a feeling and that he owned an expensive truck. That could mean a lot of things. Or nothing. I tucked my doubts away. For now.

  Morning traffic north on I-25 dragged the trip out and confirmed my reasons for not living in the city, any city.

  Beyond Bernalillo, the traffic thinned and I floored it. No pueblo car, this. I was probably the only pueblo cop who had no official car. The pueblo’s budget never included one.

  I preferred it that way. They paid for gas, but this ride was mine. The growl of the engine and the whine of the Jeep’s big tires improved my spirits. I shifted to third gear and let the pipes blow. The rumbling glass packs made my world right.

  Chapter 6

  At my desk, a pile of paperwork I’d been putting off waited. As I waded through it, I replayed the visit with Matt. He seemed truly shocked, but who wouldn’t be. It did not go unnoticed that Matt never asked me how his mother was doing. And he had memory problems over his last home visit. Disbelief gnawed at the back of my brain, but my gut said to withhold judgment.

  The phone rang. “You down in Albuquerque talking to Matt Pecos?” asked Special Agent Crutchman.

  “Thought all your spy drones were in Afghanistan.” It hadn’t been two hours since I interviewed Pecos.

  “Don’t get smart, Romero. You have no jurisdiction and you’re pushing up against interference.”

  “I have every right to inform next of kin, something you fucked up. That’s cold, Crutchman.”

  “I don’t like rez cops telling me how to do my job.”

  I steamed, waited for the pressure to blow off. “Another comment like that and I’ll let every rez cop between here and Oklahoma know of your appreciation of them. Better yet, I’ll take it to the SAC.” I knew the Special Agent-in-Charge. She considered me a pain-in-the-ass and would probably kiss it off, but Crutchman, new to the field office, had no idea what she would do.

  “You won’t get another warning, Romero.”

  “Either will you.” I followed with a cheerful, “Have a nice day!” I slammed the handset. Crutchman could take issue with my supposed threats until he figured out the SAC didn’t give a shit what I said.

  No, I wasn’t staying away from this case. Someone had killed my friend and his son on my reservation. I would not stop probing just because some fed said so.

  My personal line rang again. The same computer voice said, “If you are Peter Romero, please press one…” I hung up.

  In the past, I needed money fast. A neighbor’s horse I loved, Crowd Killer, had become available for sale by his previous owner. By the time I found out, the horse was halfway out of the barn on his way to Texas. Since my personal life was turning to shit, I couldn’t stand to lose another living thing that would have anything to do with me. I put up my car for a loan from a payday service that called day and night if you missed a payment.

  The bill collectors were on my ass. Harassment by phone and threatening letters interrupted my days and nights because I’d missed a couple of payments while laid off. No amount of discussion with a human being—I’d actually found one at BandelierQuickLoan—could persuade the collectors to lay off. I considered hiring a lawyer but that would take money I didn’t have. I considered shooting the phone, but I didn’t have enough money to replace it.

  The talk with Matt had opened leads that required attention. I needed follow-up on the question of his last visit to the family but, in a pueblo like this, you have to question in a very circumspect way. Word gets around and may return to bite. As a Marine, I’d often throw verbal hand grenades and survey the destruction, but that wouldn’t work here, so I had to figure another approach. For now, I had other tips to follow.

  One lead pointed to Española, sixty miles north. Some road time and a few questions might turn up something. Sure, the FBI warned me away but they’d always done that, and I always managed to escape their wrath, not to mention, charges. To me, evading the constraints of the system has always been an art form.

  Driving north, the collection activities of BandelierQuickLoan soured my mood. Fortunately, drivin
g my Jeep had a way of making a bad day nicer. I flew on Interstate 25, then eased around Santa Fe traffic on the bypass, and rolled Highway 85 to Española. Traffic proved heavy in town because this day was the annual Lowrider Fest, a celebration of Chicano culture and showing off the hydraulically-athletic cars.

  The Fest parking lot at the Española Plaza Convento was full but I made a quick tour of the area checking for the Hummer with Colorado plates that had cruised my rez. Chances of spotting the H3 were zero-to-none but luck plays big in any investigation.

  I parked near the plaza’s entrance then walked around the place. In addition to classic and lowrider cars, there were bands, Los Niños de Santa Fe lined up to perform a dance set, food vendors cooked, and artisans sold goods at the periphery. Giggles and squeals emanated from bouncy houses. All under a clear sky and hot sun. It was a beautiful day to enjoy New Mexico culture.

  Lowriders on display were eye candy for car nuts, me included. At least a hundred cars, every age, make, and American model. Ford LTD’s and Galaxies; Chevy Impalas and Bel Airs; Lincoln Continentals and Cadillac DeVilles had gathered in colors resembling Halloween candy. Candy apple red, lightning blue, neon lime, iridescent magenta, dazzling gold. And colors of Indians: Inca and Aztec gold, forest green, sky blue, dusky purple. Sparkling flaked colors, pearled colors, and chrome wherever metal showed. And murals, too: Madonna with the baby Jesus, Jesus on the cross, Jesus in tears. Laughing floral skulls, Katrinas, Aztec women, Hispanic women, Chicana women, buxom women, naked women. A few crying Elvises, too. Lowrider paintjobs have always been over the top, and this was the cream spilling over the brim.

  Between band sets, speakers boomed recordings of lowrider favorites: Divine Sound’s “What People do for Money”, Debbie Deb’s “When I Hear Music”, and “Sabor A Mi” by El Chicano.

  A voice interrupted the music to announce, in Spanish and English, the lowrider jumping contest would start in thirty minutes.

  When the band started playing again, I scanned the crowd. The combo, a seven-member group included guitars, a sax, flute, keyboards, and a hot percussionist. The crowd screamed when the group launched into War’s “Why Can’t We Be Friends” followed by “Cisco Kid” and “The World is a Ghetto.” Relieved at finding no hostile faces, I walked over to the displays.