by Mark Reps
This is way too easy, thought Zeb. It could be a set-up, a trap. If the caller were a true psychopath, he might even have another explosion in mind, something to send another lawman to his grave.
“Tell me where you live,” said Sheriff Hanks. “We will come and get you.”
“Please just one to come and get me. I no want to get killed.”
“Tell me where you live. I’ll come alone. You have my word.”
“You know County Road 6.”
Sheriff Hanks had been right.
“My place four miles north of turnoff on east side of road. My name is on mailbox. Can you come now?”
“Yes I can come right away. What name should I look for on the mailbox?”
“Felipe Madrigal.”
The man sounded forlorn at the utterance of his own name. The line crackled. Sheriff Hanks listened as the man once again began to cry and apologize about the death of the deputy.
“Mr. Madrigal?”
“Sí.”
“When I come to the house, I want you to come outside with your hands over your head. Do you understand me?”
His quiet response was drenched in sobs.
“Sí, yes, yes. I am very, very sorry. No one supposed to get hurt. That already happen. No more hurting.”
“I will be right there to get you. It will take me about thirty minutes. I will honk the horn two times. You come out with your hands over your head.”
“Sí.”
“No weapons! Put your hands over your head. Do you understand me?”
“Sí. Comprendo. I understand.”
16
Zeb’s heart thumped heavily, partly from anxiety, partly from hatred and a desire for revenge. The near certainty of a trap raced through his mind.
“Sheriff, do you recognize the name Felipe Madrigal?”
“Sure, I know right where he lives. Delbert used to memorize the names on the mailboxes. One time when I went with him I saw Felipe in the yard. He’s an old man. He walks bent over at the waist. He waved to us. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. He seemed like a nice old guy.”
“Did he just confess to the bomb threats?” asked Deputy Steele who had overheard only one end of the conversation.
“Yes.”
“How about the murder of Delbert?”
“No, he apologized for Delbert getting hurt. He said he didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Let’s go get him,” said Deputy Steele.
“He’s nervous. He wants me to come alone. You heard me tell him to come out of the house with his hands over his head. As I remember, his house sits down low, in a little glen. How do you feel about covering me? You have to be ready to shoot to kill, if it’s necessary.”
Deputy Steele had intense training in her background, but never had it been necessary to pull the trigger. At this moment she had no doubts of her ability to do so.
“As Delbert used to say…never keep a criminal waiting. Let’s roll,” said Deputy Steele.
The patrol cars crossed over the Hanksco River, headed north on County 6, as Zeb’s concern about an ambush slipped into a state of perplexity. Nothing about the case made sense. Why would a friendly old man blow up the grade school? Then it dawned on him. The bomb was less about producing physical damage than it was about inflicting fear. If Delbert had not been in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, he would not have been injured. What message was Felipe Madrigal trying to send? Why the remorse in his voice? When he had called to turn himself in, he had broken down and cried like a child, not a sociopath. Beneath it all lay a fear that it all might just be a set up. The crackling of the two-way radio broke the sheriff’s concentration.
“Sheriff?”
It was Deputy Steele.
“I was thinking…why don’t you let me go on ahead? I can park my car, climb up over the hill and get close to Mr. Madrigal’s house. That way I can be ready in case he is planning something.”
It was a risk, but a good one.
“Good idea. Just don’t let him see you.”
Kate felt the adrenaline rise as she shot past the sheriff’s car leaving a cyclone trail of dust. Zeb slowed down, rolled up his window and let her get some distance between them. Kate pulled over a hundred yards short of a silver metal mailbox at the end of a long driveway. She opened the trunk and pulled out the .30-.30. She checked the safety and quickly loaded shells into her weapon. As she worked her way to the back side of the house she noticed a smiley face painted in yellow that accompanied the handwritten name of Felipe Madrigal on the mailbox. The idea of drawing a gun on an old man who drew smiley faces on his mailbox seemed like utter madness.
Zeb pulled into the old man’s driveway. Kate, perched on a small knoll ninety feet away, tipped her cap and pointed to the small house. The yard in front of the old adobe building was littered with twisted pieces of metal, chunks of gnarly firewood, a garbage pile and a run-down doghouse. A truck with the hood propped open by a tire iron was parked under a mesquite tree on the north side of the house. A pair of windows in the front of the house had broken panes. One was partially boarded over from the outside. The other was stuffed with rags and dirty insulation. Tumbleweed remnants lay trapped under a rusted television antenna at the back of the low, slanting roof.
Exiting the car, Sheriff Hanks heard the unmistakable squeak and low groan from the rusting blades of an ancient windmill. An easy wind from the south wafted the sweet aroma of late season sage bloom. Everything appeared normal--abnormally normal.
The run down ranch house showed no signs of life. Deputy Steele trained the sights of the .30-.30 on the door. A timid voice from behind a window squeaked out.
“I don’t got no gun. You tell señorita on hillside to no shoot me.”
Felipe Madrigal sounded meek, almost childish. He was definitely scared.
“She won’t shoot,” replied Sheriff Hanks. “Come out of the house with your hands over your head. Nobody wants to hurt you.”
The door of the house, with its broken screen mesh fluttering in the wind, began to open. Slowly one hand, then the other, poked through the open space. The old man’s hands trembled as he held them above his head. His rounded back and shoulders forced his head into such a position where his eyes could only see the ground. He shuffled along with great difficulty as he made his way toward the sheriff.
Could this man possibly be Delbert’s killer? Sheriff Hanks didn’t think so, but then again the things he had seen along the border of Mexico, when dealing with human and drug trafficking, did not make sense either. He shook his head clear of the thoughts of the border patrol agent’s death and focused on what was in front of him. The lingering doubt he lived with, that the deaths of Darren Wendt and now Delbert Funke had been caused by his lack of attention, haunted him at a level few could understand.
“Please, Señor Policia. Don’t kill me. I did no harm no one.”
The sheriff’s eye trained on the man caught something off to the side moving through the underbrush. He instinctively crouched behind the door for additional protection when he realized it was Deputy Steele slowly making her way into his peripheral vision.
“Deputy Steele, check the house.”
She made her way to the door and quickly ascertained that Felipe Madrigal was alone, at least at this moment.
“No one is going to shoot you,” said Sheriff Hanks.
“Gracias, Señor Policia. Gracias.”
Felipe Madrigal fell to his knees, weeping.
“Suplico clemencia. Clemencia. Please have mercy on me, Señor Policia.”
Sheriff Hanks grabbed the little man under the arm and helped him to his feet. The man’s left eye was discolored and swollen. His face was sad and defeated. A salt and pepper beard surrounded a mouthful of yellowing teeth.
“Are you Felipe Madrigal?”
“Sí. I am Felipe Madrigal.”
“Did you phone the sheriff’s office in Safford and say you wanted to confess to the bomb threats at the high school a
nd grade school in Safford?”
“Sí.”
“Do you know your rights?”
The old man responded with a puzzled look and turned toward Sheriff Hanks.
“Under the laws governing the State of Arizona and the United States of America you have the right to remain silent.”
The tired and haggard looking old man stared at the ground. His body trembled as Sheriff Hanks rattled off the Miranda mantra.
“Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”
The old man said nothing. He stood rigid, gazing open mouthed toward the ground.
“Should I read them to him in Spanish?” asked Deputy Steele. “I’m not so sure he understands everything you said.”
“I think you had better do that,” replied Sheriff Hanks.
Deputy Steele removed a Spanish copy of the Miranda rights from her pocket. She read fluently, sometimes not even looking at the words. When she asked the old man if he understood, the weathered old man responded by nodding his head up and down.
“Let’s put some cuffs on him and put him in the back seat of my car. I want to ask him a few questions on the way into town. Deputy Steele, you close up the house and follow me back to town.”
Sheriff Hanks headed south on County 6. He waited for Felipe Madrigal to say something. If the old man was the first to speak, he might feel less pressure. He might simply let things out, maybe even explain what he had been thinking by threatening the lives of hundreds of children. The sheriff drove slowly. His prisoner remained mum. Near town Zeb flipped down the visor to shade himself from the setting sun. In the rear view mirror he noticed Felipe holding his head forward. The prisoner wore a humble, sad expression on his face. The sheriff flipped the passenger’s side visor down to block the sun from his eyes.
“Gracias.”
“De nada”
“Habla Ud. español?” asked the old man.
“Un poco, no, not really,” replied the sheriff.
The old man returned to a stony silence.
“Felipe?”
“Sí?”
“Why did you call in those bomb threats?” Zeb glanced over his shoulder. The old man was quivering. “Felipe?”
“Sí?”
“Did you think that no one would get hurt when you made a bomb and put it in the grade school?”
“Señor Policia. I didn’t make no bomb. I didn’t put no bomb in the school!”
His meek voice suddenly became adamant. His dull eyes sharpened as he spoke.
“Who made the bomb, if you didn’t?”
Felipe cast his eyes toward the floor of the car, tipped his head forward and once again became mute.
“Is there anything you’d like to say to me now? We’re almost at the jail. The more you can tell me now the easier it will be for you. My deputy is dead. This won’t go easy for you.”
The old man’s voice was forlorn, fearful as he muttered three words.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy.”
17
Felipe Madrigal barely uttered a word as he filled out some paperwork he obviously didn’t understand. His confusion and disorientation heightened as Deputy Steele inked his fingertips for identification. The look in his eyes spoke of a man who carried a heavy burden bearing down on his soul. Yet some unseen force rendered him mute.
A hand braided leather billfold revealed twelve dollars cash, a social security card, an expired Local 616 Morenci Copper Miner’s ID card and an Arizona driver’s license. According to the driver’s license Felipe Madrigal was sixty-five years old, five feet two inches tall, weighed a hundred twenty pounds. He had brown eyes and black hair.
Tucked away in the wallet was a Spanish version of a prayer to the Blessed Virgin and three small photos. One photo was Felipe dressed in a fine white suit with an Indian or Mexican woman in a traditional wedding dress. The second photo was a smiling, young girl in a white dress holding flowers and a Bible. From the age of the photo, Deputy Steele assumed it was his daughter. The final one was a young boy in a cap and gown. The deputy held the picture of Felipe and his wife on their wedding day. She held it close so her prisoner could see it clearly. Felipe shook his head.
“Ella está con Dios.”
“Que?” said Deputy Steele.
“She is with God,” said Felipe.
When she flashed the second photo, his eyes welled with tears.
“Ella está en un lugar mejor ahora.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t understand spoken Spanish very well,” said Kate.
The old man looked away, speaking silently, “She is in a better place now.”
“Felipe?”
“Sí?”
Deputy Steele showed him the picture of the young man.
“Who is this young man?”
Felipe Madrigal shook his head, almost defiantly.
“Is he your grandson?”
“My grandson has gone to devil,” replied Felipe.
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know.”
Felipe spoke the words with a harsh determination. Deputy Steele once again asked about Felipe’s grandson but his unwillingness to discuss the young man stopped the conversation cold.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“No. No quiero comer…quiero fumar.”
Deputy Steele shrugged her shoulders.
“Could I have cigarette?”
“I’m sorry,” replied Deputy Steele. “There is no smoking in the jail.”
The tired looking old man lay down on the bed and rolled towards the wall. Breathing heavily through his mouth it sounded to Deputy Steele as though he was fighting back tears of distress and pain.
Kate was stymied. If Felipe made the bomb threat, why would he confess and then clam up? Maybe the old man did not have respect for her because she was a woman?
She walked to her office and removed the bomb threat tape from the locked desk drawer. She slid it into the tape player. There was no doubt the voice on the tape was that of Felipe Madrigal. A part of her genuinely wished that the recording was not this seemingly humble old man. A glance at the clock told her it was after nine. She knocked on Sheriff Hanks’ door.
“Come in. What have you got for me?”
“Not much, I’m sorry to say.”
Zeb kept his head down over some paperwork and grunted. Her response was more or less what he had anticipated.
“Sheriff, I think you might be able to get more out of Felipe Madrigal than I can. I think he would rather talk to a man. If he’s awake, I am willing to bet you can get him to chat. I think he might feel better if he got things off his chest.”
“I agree with you. It seems like things are weighing pretty heavy on him. I get the feeling he wants to tell us something. Did you learn anything that might help me to get him to talk?”
“He seems to open up when you get him to talk about his family, his wife and daughter that is, but not his grandson. I think if he believes we are here to help him, he might talk. But I don’t know for sure. I suspect he is very troubled.”
“We see a lot of troubled folks in here, but we don’t see many like him do we, Kate? We don’t see many that had a hand in killing one of our own.”
It took everything the sheriff had inside him to hold back his anger.
“No, we sure don’t. Thank God for that. Sheriff,” said Kate.
“Yes?”
“It’s just not the same without Delbert around.”
Stony silence was the sheriff’s response. He did not need to be reminded that it would never be the same again. When you lose a man, a good man, you never forget. Zeb felt his anger rising as he headed for Felipe Madrigal’s cell. Felipe was lying on his side, half asleep and half weeping. Zeb put his hands on the cell door and listened. Could this whimpering old man possibly have made the bomb and planted it in the boiler room of the grade school? Could this man really be Delbert’s killer? The whimper turned into a soft snore. Zeb decided he would let the old man s
leep on his guilt. Tomorrow would be here soon enough. The sheriff headed home. He gave orders to the night staff to check in on the prisoner to make sure he did not try to kill himself.
18
Doreen greeted Zeb with a hug and a kiss. His response, or rather the lack of his anticipated response, told her his mind was somewhere else.
“You okay, sugar dumplin’?”
He wasn't. There was no sense lying to Doreen. He knew she could read him like a map.
"Not really."
“Delbert?” she asked.
“We arrested the man who called in the bomb threats. He may be the guy that murdered Delbert. He could be part of a group of crazy people with bad ideas. I don’t know for sure.”
The thought of Delbert created a painful tear that slipped down Doreen’s cheek as she asked Zeb who he had arrested.
“An old man. His name is Felipe Madrigal. To look at him you wouldn’t think he had a bad bone in his body. Most sociopaths can fool you though.”
“Felipe Madrigal? I don’t recognize the name. I thought I knew everybody around town.”
“He probably has never been in the Town Talk. He lives off of County 6, just south of the San Carlos Reservation.”
Zeb slipped out of his boots, hung his cowboy hat, unbuckled his holster and walked to the refrigerator for a cold beer. Doreen had not seen him drink in a month of Sundays.
“Do you believe him? I mean about not having made the bomb?” asked Doreen.
Zeb took a few sips of the cold brew. It was a good question. He did not have a good answer.
“I don’t think he is lying to me. But, on the other hand, I doubt like hell that he is telling me the whole truth either,” said Zeb staring blankly at the television screen.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew Felipe wanted to tell more than he was saying. Was Felipe so full of remorse that he couldn’t speak? Was he in shock knowing that he had killed Delbert? What was the reason behind his half-truthful story? Maybe Felipe Madrigal had something to fear. Maybe he was a true sociopath. The sheriff knew for certain that being behind locked jailhouse doors was not what scared Felipe. The more he thought about it, the more Zeb realized it probably was not even the thought of prison that scared him. What was behind Felipe Madrigal’s fear? If he could answer that question, he might understand a whole lot more.