by Mark Reps
“Actually, Sheriff, I am a little stuck. It might just be helpful if you would sit down with me and have a listen.”
Zeb placed his elbows on Kate’s desk. He leaned forward resting his chin on a closed fist. He gave his full concentration as his deputy replayed the tape.
“The voice isn’t familiar sounding. It doesn’t sound exactly like Mexican-American nor does it sound like Athabascan. Worst of all, it sounds wrong. Something isn’t right about it. The tone, the way it’s worded, something.”
“We need to figure out what it is that we don’t know. Any small hint might be helpful.”
“Wait a minute,” said Sheriff Hanks. “I remember something Delbert told me a while back.”
“Yes?”
“I think that phone call might have come from north and east of town.”
“What? How do you know that?” asked Kate.
“That scratchy sound when the man hung up. You know that squeaky sound when he set the phone down. Did you hear that?” asked Zeb.
Kate mimicked the sound of a phone being put back in its cradle.
“Say, that’s it and a pretty good imitation,” said Zeb. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Just one of my many talents. Actually, Eskadi and I have contests doing mimicry. It’s a long story,” she said with a smile. “When I hear that sound, it seems to me as if he was nervous, like his hands might have been shaking and hung the phone up too fast.”
“That could be,” said Sheriff Hanks. “Remember when we had those big winds about four months ago? The weather reporter on Channel 6 called them dry Santa Ana crosswinds.”
Kate nodded.
“The high winds knocked down a bunch of telephone wires out that way. That funny noise in the telephone wires started right after that. I remember Delbert saying that an uncle on his mother’s side lives out that way. He told me that every time she called him that high pitched sound irritated the dickens out of her hearing aid. Delbert said she was going to sue the phone company for the price of a new hearing aid if they didn’t get it fixed.”
Zeb and Kate suddenly realized how much they missed Delbert’s unique ways around the office. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he had a keener sense of observation than most. To top it off he had a memory that was rock solid.
“Delbert told me none of the other local lines were having that particular problem. I remember he told me his mother asked him to call the lineman supervisor and tell him to fix it. Delbert talked to him. He said the supervisor told him there had not been complaints anywhere else about line interference, but he did say he was surprised more poles hadn’t been blown over in those big winds.”
“So the phone company was fairly certain those are the only lines with that type of static on them?” inquired Deputy Steele.
Kate ran a finger over the map. The huge territory she had been looking at was quickly reduced to a workable area. A call to the local phone company might narrow her search area even further.
“Sheriff, do you remember exactly where the telephone poles were blown down?”
“Sure I do. I did a drive along with Delbert to check and see if any poles had fallen onto the road. Thank goodness, none had.”
“Do you remember what road the poles were downed on?”
“On County Road 6, just off Highway 191. I’d say about nine miles north of the turnoff on the west side of the road. Just a little past an old abandoned cattle corral.”
Kate scoured the map.
“County 6, here it is. It joins up with Indian Route 11 on the lower end of the reservation, near the Gila Box.”
“Yes, that is exactly the spot.”
“Do the telephone poles that were downed serve that area of the reservation too?”
“I don’t think so. I am fairly certain they stop before the reservation land. I can check with the telephone company line supervisor. I know him. He’s a good guy.”
“When you talk with him, would you find out where the line ends? If we can find out who the customers are on the lines, we might catch a break.”
“Good thinking, Kate. You better watch it or you might be next in line for my job.”
Kate was surprised to hear Zeb talk that way. It was out of character to speak so freely to her about something as important as a sheriff’s election.
“Sheriff, do you drive out there often?”
“No, that is, I mean was, Delbert’s turf. Hardly anyone lives out that way. It is sort of a no man’s land as far as people are concerned.”
Kate eyed the map. County 6 joined up with Indian Route 11. From there it angled off to the northwest and ran along the edge of the southernmost tip of the San Carlos Reservation. After a distance it shot back up to the northwest and joined up with Indian Route 8, the major road through the heart of Indian land. Tracing her finger backwards along the same route something caught her eye.
“Sheriff, have you ever driven on the lower end of the reservation?”
“I’ve hunted out there. I think I know it quite well.”
“Are there any roads where County 6 joins up with Indian Route 11?”
“There’s an old washed out road. It meanders through the reservation. I heard it used to go most of the way up to Indian Route 8. You would need a four-wheel drive vehicle with high clearance--or a horse--to make it through there.”
“Where does it go?”
“It runs up to an abandoned copper mine. It hasn’t been maintained since they shut the copper mine down years ago,” said Sheriff Hanks.
Without speaking Kate continued to eye the details on the map.
“Anything else?” asked Sheriff Hanks. “If not, I think I will call the phone company.”
“No, nothing right at the moment. Once you’ve talked with them, please let me know what you found out.”
“Certainly,” replied the sheriff. “Is the evidence you have leading you down the road to a specific theory?”
“Maybe. I hope so.”
“Work on it. Let me know. I am headed out to tell old man García about his truck,” said the sheriff.
“Good luck.”
Kate studied the detail map of Graham County. At the intersection by the high school she wrote a large X. She put a second X at the grade school. Half way up County Road 6, in the area of the downed telephone poles, she put a third X. It was a long shot at best. Suddenly Kate had the distinct feeling that maybe Delbert had come out of his coma. Maybe he could add something to all this. She could not have been more wrong.
13
Zeb headed out to see old man García who was not going to be very happy when he heard the news about his truck. Being the bearer of bad news was a part of the job Zeb had come to dislike intensely, but it came with the territory and it was his responsibility.
As he approached the García homestead Zeb saw Lorenzo, his wife and a couple of their grandchildren sitting on a front porch swing. They all smiled and waved as they saw Sheriff Hanks approach.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. Sheriff Hanks parked in Lorenzo's yard. He hesitated a moment and then got out of the car slowly.
“Hello, Sheriff Hanks,” said Lorenzo García with a broad smile. “Have you brought me good news about my truck?”
Zeb walked up to the porch and greeted Mrs. García, who offered him tea and Mexican shortbread cookies. He had known Mrs. García since he was a child, when his own grandmother used to have Mrs. García tell her fortune or read her future in the Tarot cards. Zeb had a particular affection for the Garcías. They seemed like the perfect couple. They were solid citizens, good Catholic church-going folks and down to earth, hard-working people. None of the Garcías’ extended family had ever had a run in with the law as far as Zeb knew. The grandchildren stood next to him admiring his gun and uniform. The older of the two, a little boy about seven years old, spoke to Zeb.
"Señor, are you really a Sheriff?”
“Yes, I am,” he said tousling the young boy’s hair.
>
“Can I look at your gun?” asked the boy.
Sheriff Hanks looked at Lorenzo and his wife for approval. Their nods said it was okay. Taking the gun from his holster, Sheriff Hanks unloaded the weapon and held it out for the boys to touch. The boys looked at their grandparents for approval.
“Sí,” said Lorenzo. “You may touch it but be careful.”
Wide-eyed the boys each ran a gentle finger across the barrel of the gun then quickly ran off together giggling, using their fingers as pistols, pretending to shoot at each other.
“Boys,” said Lorenzo shrugging his shoulders, “will always be boys.”
Overhead clouds rolled in from across the desert expanse. The day darkened along with the sheriff’s mood. Small talk would be pointless. There was no getting around the fact that the outcome here was going to be bad. Lorenzo was going to be disappointed, perhaps even angry. The presence of Mrs. García made things only a little easier. Sheriff Hanks got right to the point.
“Lorenzo, I am afraid I have some very bad news for you.”
“You did not find my truck?” asked Lorenzo.
“No, I’m afraid your truck has been found.”
“Where?”
“In Tucson.”
“So far away,” said Lorenzo pointing toward Tucson. “Can I go pick it up?”
“I’m sorry,” said Sheriff Hanks. “Your truck has been destroyed.”
“No,” gasped Lorenzo.
“I’m afraid it is a total ruin. It was burned up in a fire.”
“No,” gasped Lorenzo a second time. “Was anyone hurt?”
Sheriff Hanks hesitated a minute before telling the Garcías that a dead body had been found inside their Chevy LUV truck. When he finally told them, they both made a fast sign of the cross. As the sheriff further explained the body had not been identified and that the truck had stolen license plates on it, the Garcías seemed to go into a state of shock.
“This is an omen,” said Mrs. García. “A very bad omen.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sheriff Hanks. He knew they had no insurance on the vehicle and that it would be a while before they had enough money to buy anything but a high mileage used junker. He departed the García homestead with Mrs. García’s words “a very bad omen” ringing in his ears. Five miles from town he got a message on the two-way radio that proved her words prophetic.
14
“Delbert has passed on.”
At first Helen’s words made no sense to Zeb. It was almost as though his ears refused to hear the words from her mouth. He asked her to repeat what she had said. “Delbert died twenty minutes ago. Dr. Yackley just called looking for you. He gave me the sad news.”
Zeb was stunned. The shock of it all prevented tears from forming. His heart sank. He had known Delbert since they were kids. Delbert was one of the nicest people he had ever known. It was not fair. It was not right. Corita Funke had only Delbert. Now, in her old age, she would have no comfort. Worst of all was the guilt Zeb felt. It was his fault Delbert was dead. Delbert was only following his orders. For a few seconds that seemed an eternity, Zeb let every cell of his body feel the horrible sensation that had just jolted his mind.
It felt almost identical to the time when a fellow border patrol agent, one of his team members, Darren Wendt, was shot and killed not twenty feet from where Zeb and Josh stood. It was a bad time in the history of the Arizona Border Patrol. They had lost five men in a single month. Bad memories came rushing in like a canyon flash flood in spring. All of the dead Arizona Border Patrol members were murdered by thugs from a drug running and people smuggling gang, the Crazy Cachandos.
Now it was Delbert who was dead. Zeb felt rage roiling inside him. He forced a cap on his emotions. It was quite possible he might come apart at the seams if he let Delbert’s death get to him. He had been down this ugly road before. He knew nothing would bring Delbert back. Delbert was gone, hopefully and most likely, to heaven. Zeb’s faith, what he had of it, was being tested once again.
The viewing of the body and the funeral came three days later. Zeb thought Delbert, in his full uniform, never looked so handsome. Zeb had a curious reflection at the viewing. The funeral director had somehow managed to put a smile on the face of the dead deputy.
The townspeople of Safford and nearby Thatcher mourned in unison over the loss of a native son. Doreen sang a hymn that left no one in the church with a dry eye. The Bishop of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints spoke from his heart. Friends testified to the good works of Delbert Funke. It seemed as though no one wanted the service to end as it would mean the last of Delbert. Sheriff Hanks spoke from the pulpit and allowed some of the guilt he harbored to be shared with the community. His words may have helped others, but they only intensified his own feelings of guilt. No one blamed him for Delbert’s death, not even Delbert’s mother who wept uncontrollably as the casket was rolled into the church, and again as the last shovelful of dirt was tossed on the coffin.
Whoever set the explosion was now also a murderer. Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Steele were going to make certain that the crime was paid for, in full. Their investigation needed to be put into high gear. In the minds of Sheriff Hanks, Deputy Steele and just about everybody in the area, each moment that passed with the murderer of Deputy Delbert Funke walking free was a bad moment. Justice needed to be served and it needed to be served quickly.
15
In the days between the death and burial of Deputy Delbert Funke, the entire town of Safford seemed to be on hold. Now, with the funeral proceedings behind them, the time to move forward was at hand.
Deputy Steele felt the greatest sense of urgency she had ever felt in her life. The need to solve the murder of her cohort was taking precedence over any other professional issues, and certainly her personal ones.
“I have some information you need, Kate,” said Zeb. “It might be the break we’ve been seeking. Let’s have a look at your map.”
Removing a pencil from her desk drawer she handed it to Zeb who pressed the rubber eraser head against the map and drew a box. County Roads 6, 11 and 14 marked the eastern, southern and western borders. The northernmost boundary angled off to the northeast and formed an imaginary line through the jutted out southeastern tip of the San Carlos Reservation. The map clearly showed there were no marked roadways in this area.
“Joe Escarte, from the phone company, told me that inside this area they are still getting some static from the downed lines. He thinks the noise is transformer resistance complicated by some sort of a dual coupling problem or an electrical technical issue that I didn’t really understand. He says those poles out there all need to be replaced. The ones that got blown down were termite infested. He said not only were they old, but had not been treated correctly with creosote. The way he has it figured is this--somebody shortchanged the county when they sold them the poles. He asked me to look into that issue. I referred him to the local purchasing agent for the county.”
Kate studied the sheriff’s drawn outline. The area inside the box was twenty by forty miles. The eight hundred square miles seemed huge until Zeb reiterated a point the phone company man had made.
“There are less than one hundred phones serviced by that line. Some of them are shared lines, party lines, but almost everyone who uses that line lives on County Road 6.”
“It looks like we’re going to do some legwork and knock on some--”
Deputy Steele’s comment was interrupted by a shout from Helen.
“Sheriff. Line one. It’s the man who made the bomb threat. He wants to talk to whoever is in charge. He won’t give me his name.”
Zeb Hanks stepped quickly toward his office. As he passed Helen’s line of sight he silently signaled her to record the call. He picked up the phone as Helen pointed to the already turning tape recorder.
“This is Sheriff Hanks.”
“Are you policia in charge?”
“Yes, I’m in charge.”
Zeb’s mind raced. He had the mur
derer of his deputy only a phone line away. Was this man a psychopath checking to see how the sheriff’s office was reacting to the loss of one of its deputies?
“I hear on radio your deputy die. I am terrible sorry.”
The man’s voice was heavy with remorse. Could it be genuine? Sheriff Hanks did not believe it for even half a second.
“I want turn myself in. I go to jail for calling in bomb threats. Can you do that? I didn’t kill no one. I promise I don’t kill no one.”
The man on the other end of the line began to sob. Sheriff Hanks was not only stunned by the man’s confession, but by his tears. He sounded soft, sincere and contrite.
“That can be arranged. What is your name?”
The man on the other end of the line suddenly froze. Anxiety arose in the sheriff’s chest. He did not want to lose the killer now.
“We can come and pick you up right now. Just tell us where you are.”
The crackling on the line increased dramatically. The man’s voice became barely audible amid the hissing. His next words became incomprehensible as the static turned to white noise before dying.
“Damn it!” said Sheriff Hanks slamming the phone. “The line went dead.”
“Maybe he’ll call back,” said Deputy Steele.
“We can only--.”
A shrill ring interrupted her comment.
“Please.” Deputy Steele’s voice was but a whisper. “Please.”
The sheriff and his deputy hurried to Helen’s desk. They hovered over her, listening in silence as she picked up the phone.
“It’s him again. He apologized for the line going dead,” said Helen. “He wants to talk to you again, Sheriff Hanks.”
The man was already talking as Zeb took the phone from Helen’s hand.
“If you come and get me, that be good. My truck, she is broken. I am sorry to not drive myself to jail. Please come put me in jail so I can rest.”