Dead Horses

by David Knop

  The place had been tossed; clothing ripped, dishes broken. The killers, four, judging from the boot prints, had destroyed the man’s belongings, as poor and spare as they were. This was not a robbery gone bad. These sick fuckers had an agenda. Disgust heated my face.

  I stuck my Smith and Wesson in my belt and searched the campsite. Twenty yards out curled a big Turkish Akbash male, probably a hundred pounds when alive. The medium-length, white coat hadn’t yet been ravaged by scavengers, but the dog’s black lips remained pulled back in death with teeth exposed in a valiant defense of his wards. This display of loyalty by this dog inspired and disturbed me.

  The bloated carcass seemed mostly intact with only a few tentative buzzard bites. The canine had been poisoned, probably baited by female scent. Uphill, a dead vulture lay like a discarded feather duster. The bird’s carcass bolstered my theory that the perps used some fast-acting toxin to kill the dog, and subsequentially the hungry scavenger.

  Fifty yards uphill, I found another Akbash, a female, in the same bloated condition. She had not gone as fast, though. The lure of female scent didn’t work on her.

  Caked blood on white fur and a crushed skull told a different story. The poor bitch had been beaten to death, but she had gotten a piece of the assailant. The dog had locked jaws on a piece of blue cloth. The same type of cloth found where Pokoh was shot, a medical bootie shoe cover. “Good girl,” I said.

  After thirty minutes of searching, I found nothing more. My phone showed no bars, so I continued up the hill to find a signal. At the top, a three-foot-wide hiking trail ran east and north. The mountains were full of trails like this and the abundance of boot marks showed it well-used.

  But this one was different: it offered more of the unmistakable smell of death. My chest tightened as I followed my nose to a pair of swollen corpses, skin split and turning black in places. Buzzard had enjoyed his work, bones protruding from the bodies. Shredded skin hung from exposed ribs.

  The victims were in their early twenties, both Asian. One, a female dressed in hiking boots, shorts and hooded jacket. Her companion, a male, wore jeans and a Fort Lewis sweatshirt, a local college. Both were shot in the face. Gray, purple, and black mush oozed from a gaping hole at the rear of each skull.

  Brown-black scavengers with wrinkled red heads sat in the surrounding trees and gossiped through their white beaks. No doubt Buzzard resented my intrusion. I sympathized and wanted to exit the scene, but I now had an intense, growing need to close this case. I wanted these killers who were capable of unspeakable brutality, wanted them so bad my jaw ached.

  My phone showed three bars. “Reporting a triple homicide,” I told 911. Blood rushing through my ears made the response sound distant. I spoke louder, gave them my location and as many details as they wanted.

  On my return to the campito, I placed my S&W under the truck seat. I was licensed to carry in New Mexico. Colorado honored that permit, but I didn’t want to complicate things with investigators I did not know.

  Within twenty minutes, a herd of vehicles from numerous jurisdictions crowded around the campito. I got the same half-assed questions as I did when Pokoh was shot. All of La Plata County Sheriff’s Deputy Frank Jones’s questions were demeaning, but the one that set me on edge went, “You making this a habit, Romero?”

  “What?”

  “Seems like I get a report lately, you’re calling it in. First Pokoh, now these three.”

  “I been in town day and a half. What are you talkin’ about, Deputy?”

  Surprised by Jones’ attitude ambush, I matched him grin for nasty grin.

  Jones closed in, his spit hot on my face, his coffee breath sour. He lowered his voice to a hiss. “You carrying, Romero?”

  “I’m licensed in New Mexico. Makes it legal here.”

  Jones squinted, frowned, walked away. “Don’t leave the county, Romero.”

  Jones was ticked at me and I didn’t know why. I wasn’t going to ask him. I was out of my home territory. I had no people in Colorado, no support, no juice. I had to pick my battles carefully because if I lost, no one would come to pick up the pieces.

  At my motel in Durango, I steamed over Jones’ attitude. I couldn’t catch his act and it bugged me until I got bored with it. I had other things to think about.

  The various crimes showed no pattern, but I was sure they were connected. Call it native intuition. Call it pig-headedness. I just couldn’t let the idea go. Dead horses dumped here and there, two people murdered back home, four killed in Colorado. I was stumped.

  It’s Criminology 101. M.O.M; motive, opportunity, means. Motive is the thread that starts to weave the crime. Find the motive and the cover-up unravels like a cheap sweater.

  People think of Colorado as a hip place, populated by millennials of the liberal-and-active set who spend most of their time biking, hiking, and skiing the Rockies—when they’re not making big bucks at hi-tech start-ups or craft breweries. True enough in Denver, but there’s another angry side goose-stepping around the outskirts. A dirty secret. North of Denver, a white supremacist group adopted a highway and got a mile of road to clean and a big sign to promote their hate agenda. A neo-Nazi parolee murdered the state’s prison chief a few years ago. Colorado’s famous beer family were hard-righters who sat on boards with a former KKK leader, apartheid supporters, and ultra-right Christian groups calling for the execution of homosexuals, adulterers and blasphemers. I don’t know who they consider a blasphemer, but I know hate.

  No investigator worth a shit should favor any one motive, but one haunted me. I’ve lived through this kind of hate and I sensed it here: the reception I got in the bars, the overly violent murders and pointed destruction of Rafi’s belongings. Everything I’d seen till now smelled of it. The dead horses were owned by a Saudi citizen. Rafi was Basque. The two kids killed on the trail were Asians. The men killed on my reservation, Juan and Jason Pecos, were Indians. Hate is a far-too common motive. There could be other motives, of course, and I wasn’t dismissing any possibility, but this one left a lingering taste in my mouth.

  By the time I returned to the motel, the sun had set. I hit the bed without dinner. It may have taken all of three minutes to go to sleep even though my head pounded so bad I wanted to never wake up.

  Chapter 12

  A headache and dry mouth reminded me of one of the reasons I didn’t drink anymore. My bed was a mess with blankets and the sheets on the floor, damp when I picked them up.

  Deer walked through my dreams all night, grazing, watching me. The same buck that appeared when Pokoh was murdered, his rack unmistakable. He stared at me, begging me to understand him. I reached out, but he darted away. I ran but he sprinted. I woke up panting and feeling like I’d run a marathon. I never found out what he wanted to tell me. After a hot shower, I gasped when I looked at the clock: noon. I gobbled a granola bar, hopped into the pickup, and headed for the La Plata County Sherriff’s Office in Durango, a place hostile to me. Deputy Jones had made that clear.

  My soon-to-be-ex-wife, Costancia, always said I went out of my way to look for trouble, and, unfortunately for our marriage, she was right. She often claimed I was nuts, too. Couldn’t disagree with that, especially since my plan today was to provoke Jones. I didn’t trust him. Jones seemed to have an agenda and I was going to find out what it was.

  I planned to ask for the case file of Pokoh’s murder. The case was open and that meant copies could not be issued, a standard procedure most everywhere. But, the act of asking would raise a red flag. I was hoping that would be enough to flush out the bastard. Pheasant hides in the grass until stepped on.

  The Turner Drive complex in Durango consisted of one-story cement structures that included the county lockup. Gloom emanated from the place despite a brilliant sun set against an azure, high-country sky.

  When I asked the records clerk for the files on the Pokoh case, I got the expected answer.

  “The case is still open, and records are not
available to the public until closed,” he said, pointing to a sign on the wall that explained the policy. He walked off saying, “Can’t do it anyway. Server’s down. Geek’s coming from Denver. Give it a few days.”

  On the way out, Deputy Frank Jones talked to a uniform in the hall acting like he didn’t notice me. A quick squint betrayed him.

  Pheasant flushed. Game on.

  After a short drive and a drive-thru hamburger, I returned to my motel, and passed time by shelling out twenty-five bucks for a walking tour of Durango. The town’s history was rife with Old West gunfights, whorehouses, and hangings. I found myself enjoying it but that wasn’t my reason for doing it. I hoped my wandering would lead Jones—assuming he was watching—to believe I was an unaware, easy mark.

  Back at the motel, I waited until the sun peeked beneath the low clouds. If they were coming for me, they would come for me after dark. I readied myself the best I could. My pistol, a comfort under my belt, reminded me that this day could end ugly.

  At last light, I bunched up blankets and pillows to mimic a sleeping form on my bed before I left the room. I hugged walls and shadows towards a neighboring building. The single-story, cement-block affair with a turreted, flat roof and brick chimney, offered a vantage point to the door of my room if I could get on the roof. The fading light through a low window revealed boxes and blue tarps covered in dust inside.

  With a hard kick to the rear door, I was inside. No alarm sounded nor did visible wiring disclose a silent alarm. The place smelled musty and unused. An inside stairway led to an asphalt-covered roof. I sat against the base of a chimney where no obstructions interrupted my view of the street, the motel’s parking lot, or my room.

  Vehicles passed in numbers during rush hour. At seven-thirty, the street settled into its nightly routine with moderate traffic and few pedestrians. The temperature dropped soon after the sun but nerves, not chill, sent a shiver down my spine. The hours passed slowly. At ten, a dark ’71 International Harvester Travelall passed, slowed, then drove off. It returned four times, twenty minutes apart.

  Roof-sitting on a cold night waiting for trouble gave me time to think. The lack of evidence in both cases, the horse killings and the Pecos’s deaths, had rendered my investigation stillborn. I would not impress Palafox when I reported with zip.

  At two in the morning, a dark Ford F-150 drove into the parking lot and stopped behind my Chevy in a rattling idle. I froze and suppressed a cough from diesel fumes drifting up to my hideout.

  Two black-hooded men, one tall, the other stout, climbed out and gently clicked the doors shut. The pickup k-turned in the motel parking lot and paused behind my truck. Streetlights flashed on metal.

  Below me, they walked quickly to my room, the tall one with pistol raised in his left hand. I pulled mine, held it close.

  The men stood at either side of the door, tall one on the left, to my room and scoped the surroundings. The tall man looked toward my hideout. I melted into the chimney. They nodded at each other and kicked in the door. Flashes popped behind the window curtains until the men bolted from the room. The tall one, threw thumbs up in my direction before they both hopped in the truck.

  Thumbs up? I whirled.

  The man pointed his pistol directly at me and fired. I shot twice. A street-lit badge pinned to a khaki shirt dropped with a thud. The acrid bite of propellant filled my nose. I spit dust caused by his bullet when it had grazed the chimney two inches from my head.

  I sprinted to the body. A shocked expression contorted Jones’s face as blood blossomed through his shirt. Apparently, he’d not seen me siting pressed against the chimney. I reached down to close his vacant eyes, the only token of respect he’d get from me.

  Jones had earned the bullets, but I felt no pride of victory. This wasn’t my plan. This wasn’t inviting trouble, this was summoning the fucking apocalypse.

  I jumped at the sirens and searched for the quickest way down.

  On the ground, I bolted for my truck, jumped in, backed, shifted, stomped the gas. The shooters were gone, but the motel manager ran in pajamas toward my room with a pistol. He fired at me but missed. I stomped it, picked up speed and fishtailed onto Florida Road when I came to it.

  Goddamn. Killing a cop in a capital punishment state is a stupid thing to do. I tried to keep my breath under the range of hyperventilation and kept telling myself I did what I had to do. Over and over. I kept my eye on the rearview as I pressed pedal toward the Ute reservation.

  Nearing the rez, twists in the road came quicker and the road narrowed in the headlights, but I kept a heavy foot.

  Deer stood motionless in the middle of the road. Wide, green eyes stared at me from a gray face.

  I jerked the wheel and the pickup became airborne . The cab exploded into a coffin of inflated airbags. Then black.

  The seatbelt held but the chest strap pressed against my windpipe, gagging me. The Chevy had landed nose-down and on its right side off the highway. I fat-fingered the buckle until it let go. I slid over the center console to the passenger door. I struggled to a standing position, feet on the passenger door panel, the center console pressing against my stomach.

  My crowded standing position limited my ability to reach up, but I found the driver’s door handle and pushed until my ribcage punished my effort with a sharp, breath-robbing stab. The Silverado’s door weighed a ton. The door slammed shut twice when I pushed it upward from below. I gulped air, then shoved it again. At last, it stayed, pointing straight up into the night. My chest fired nerve shots as I used the steering column for leverage to haul myself through the door frame and over the edge of the chassis to the ground. I landed on my shoulders, then sat on cold stones to take inventory of my parts. Everything I counted hurt. Thank the gods, my neck was not broken.

  Above me, the left front tire spun slowly, rubber and cord splayed like torn rags. Sirens approached at high speed and drowned out the engine’s ticking.

  I squatted next to the wreckage, ready to die by cop.

  Chapter 13

  The truck had landed in a ditch facing south alongside Florida Road. I tried to stand but couldn’t find the strength to keep my feet under me and flopped onto my butt. I saw stars and hoped they were real ones. Sirens grew louder.

  The ancient ones had songs to sing when death was near. I couldn’t remember any I’d heard so I sang whatever I could.

  “I’m about to die. Fuck youuuuu,” I sang. “Try to catch meeee. I’m not your…son of bitch!”

  Dizzy and out of words, I pulled myself up, using the chassis for leverage. I raised my legs one at a time to see if they worked. My ankle shot pain up and down my right leg. It hurt like hell, but not enough to be broken. I held onto the frame a few long minutes before I tried walking. My ankle screamed in protest. I locked my jaw and put one foot in front of the other.

  Flashing lights neared as sirens warbled and whooped. I froze. Lights brightened the ground where I stood, then left me in the shadows. The sounds followed the red and blue lights into the night. Eight cars by my count.

  Florida Road loomed above me. Deer had caused me to run off the road. I don’t know if that maneuver was intended or just a natural, buck-in-the-headlights stunt. My truck had bounced over the guardrail leaving no broken posts or twisted rails. The lack of damage and the roadbed’s sloping sides combined to hide the Chevy’s wreckage from view. I thanked every god that came to mind.

  Using the road to find shelter was out of the question, but the land on either side of the road looked like rough country. Even in the dark, I could see the trees and brush were dense. And, this high country was full of rapid streams, more than a few beaver dam marshes, rocky meadows and boulders the size of buildings. The journey was gonna be rough-going.

  Green eyes stared at me blankly. Deer trotted into the bushes, then poked his head out like a pet dog begging for me to follow. The animal watched unmoved as I stiff-legged toward him like an old man.

  My head st
arted to spin. I wrapped my arms around my chest, the movement sending pain through my ribcage, and I sensed the dazed beginnings of shock. I needed shelter. Cold mountain nights can kill. Deer put me in this position, but I would have to take my chances with him, now.

  Rafi Maestrejuan’s campito lay over the ridge up ahead. I flashed on the sheepherder’s corpse and the dead dogs. It was a three-mile trip and the air smelled of snow. I had no options, the cold could kill faster than the cops if I didn’t get moving.

  The sheepherder’s camp seemed a good place to hide because only a crazy person would return to the scene of the crime to camp out. By now, the police had processed the scene, taken photos and evidence, cleared out, and lost all interest in the campito. Or so I hoped.

  The moon teased the horizon behind me. Soon it would provide some light.

  We pushed through roadside brush and set out for the campito. Acting like he knew the way, Deer led, but kept distance. I followed, having laid out my trust like a beaver trap: one wrong move and then—what? After all, Deer had saved me from getting arrested or shot by the cops by causing the wreck and hiding me in the ditch but what he had planned for me, next?

  As we walked, Deer looked back towards me and side-to-side frequently with an expression I took as concern.

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  Deer startled and leapt into the brush. The scrub rustled, then quieted. I stood still, waiting, then starting walking again. A knot swelled in my stomach filling the hollow in my chest. If Deer had wanted to help me, I’d blown it.