by Mark Reps
“Do me a favor would you?” asked Kate.
“What do you need?”
“Get me a description of the White man. A description of the gun would be helpful as well.”
“Might be hard to do.”
“Why?”
“All those White men look the same to us reservation folk,” exclaimed Eskadi.
“You’re too funny for words. Just get me the descriptions and maybe I can help you.”
“I’ll see you in a little while at Kaytee Brince’s house. Goodbye.”
24
The walk from his desk to the jail cell where Felipe Madrigal was being held took Sheriff Hanks less than a minute. The cold cement floor, iron bars and antiseptic feel of the holding area made his bones ache. His jail felt of pain and loneliness to him until he mentally reminded himself of its purpose.
Through a small meshed window in the heavy metal door which separated the holding cells from the rest of the jail, he eyed the old man. Sitting on the center of his cot, Felipe Madrigal slowly ate from a tray of food balanced precariously on his lap. The meal, judging from his hot plate and the number of empty cans in his garbage pit, was probably the first home cooked meal he had eaten in quite a while. He ate deliberately while staring down at his plate and chewing each bite of food thoroughly. Sheriff Hanks noticed that Felipe swallowed with some difficulty. His salt and pepper facial hair had become matted and disheveled from sleeping on the cot. His drooping mustache gave him the sad look of hopelessness. Zeb turned the key in the large metal lock and pushed open the creaking door. Felipe didn’t raise his eyes to greet the sheriff until he stood over him. His aged face expressed the fear of a lost child.
“Señor Madrigal, do you feel like talking today?”
Felipe, unresponsive to the sheriff’s request, shifted positions jiggling the food tray on his lap.
“I’ve brought you something.”
The old man remained impassive, mutely staring at the floor.
“They are from your house. I thought you might like them.”
Zeb held the pictures out to the prisoner, who lifted his head slightly. An unsteady hand grasped them. Clutching the photos in his gnarly fingers, Felipe pressed them to his chest. His whispered response was barely audible.
“Gracias, Señor Policía. Muchas gracias.”
“The woman is beautiful. Is she your wife?” inquired Sheriff Hanks.
The old man’s bespectacled gaze fixed itself firmly on the ancient, sepia photograph. Holding the wedding picture in trembling hands, his head rhythmically quivered to the restlessness of a heavy heart. The old man peered sadly into the faded photograph of his lifelong love.
“You must miss her terribly.”
Tears rolled down the now softened face of the old Mexican as he tipped his head forward slightly in assent.
“I brought these also.”
Sheriff Hanks handed Felipe the baby picture and the First Communion photo.
“Your daughter?”
“Sí.”
“Would you like me to contact her? She must be worried about you,” said Sheriff Hanks.
The old man placed the pictures on the cot next to him and leaned forward placing his head in his hands and began to weep softly. Pulling a well-traveled handkerchief from his pocket he wiped his eyes, blew his nose and returned it to his pocket before speaking.
“God has called her home. She is dead one year today,” he replied.
“I’m sorry.”
“Gracias. Tiene Ud. niños? Bebés?”
Sheriff Hanks shook his head, not understanding what his prisoner was asking.
“Do you have children? Babies?”
“No.”
The old man put his head down and sat silently, staring at the floor. Felipe Madrigal began to tell a story that almost broke Zeb’s heart. The prisoner told the sheriff of the pain his wife and daughter went through in dying from cancer. He spoke of how he tried to remain strong and faithful to God, of how he lost his faith. Felipe’s eyes never met Zeb’s as he talked of the pain in his heart and mind. His grandson, his only hope for the future of his family, had ended up in prison and was little more than a drunkard and a thief. Yet, Zeb felt this old man for some reason had not given up completely on his grandson. Zeb looked at Felipe and saw a man who had almost nothing to live for. This kind of man could go either way, he could try and resurrect his life or he could throw it all away. It was clear that Felipe Madrigal had said all he was going to say for the moment. Further questioning would have to wait. Zeb had breached the gate of the old man’s inner being. He handed Felipe Madrigal his heart medication, asking him again if he would like to talk to a lawyer.
“I am guilty. I no need lawyer. I tell the judge that I make those phone calls.”
Sheriff Hanks made a vain attempt to explain even if he did make the calls it would be better for him to have a court appointed lawyer to explain his rights.
“No lawyer. Please, I want to see priest.”
Sheriff Hanks closed the cell door and watched as Felipe softly pressed his fingers on the photograph of his dead wife, tenderly caressing her image. He knew the old man needed time to think. Where that thinking would take him, Zeb could not imagine.
25
Eskadi’s directions were less than precise. The trip to the reservation took Kate longer than she had anticipated. By the time she arrived at the Brince house it was late afternoon.
Kate spotted Eskadi sitting at a little picnic table under a small grove of cottonwood trees on the south side of the house. Sitting next to him were a short, heavy-set Apache woman and two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The petite young girl and the tall skinny boy appeared to be in their late teens. Kate waited to get out of the car until they waved to her. Eskadi rose to greet her.
“Good news,” said Eskadi. “Kayla’s daughter, Layna, and her boyfriend showed up about fifteen minutes ago. They were visiting some friends over in Las Cruces. They didn’t call because their friend didn’t have a phone. Come on over and sit down and join the celebration. Mrs. Brince just made some fresh lemonade.”
A brief chat over a cool drink with Layna and her boyfriend convinced Deputy Steele that they had not been involved with either the car or the license plate thefts. They assured her, at the ripe old age of eighteen, their wild days were behind them. As of right now, joy riding was a thing of the past. Mrs. Brince, elated at the safe return of her daughter, continually ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair, periodically stopping to hug her.
With the sun resting atop the mountains to the west and an hour drive ahead of her, Kate excused herself. Eskadi walked her to the car as Mrs. Brince continued showering the returned children with affection.
“I would have tried to get a hold of you to save you the drive but the timing didn’t work out,” said Eskadi. “But I’m glad you drove up anyway. You have been a stranger to these parts.”
“With the death of Deputy Funke we’re short staffed. I have been working lots of overtime and will be for a while.”
Eskadi rested his hand on her shoulder. He looked toward the shadowed western slope of the mountain as he called her by the Apache name he had given her.
“Son--ee--ah--Ray?”
The questioning and uncertainty in his voice sounded strange. His face carried a confused, pained expression.
“Have you given your heart to another man?”
Was Eskadi, the strong and brave tribal chairman of the San Carlos, jealous? The woman in her was more than a little curious as to why he was acting so strangely.
“What makes you ask?”
“You have been distant lately in a way you never have been before. It made me feel like something is wrong between us.”
“I’m afraid it’s just your imagination. I’m not seeing anyone but you,” said Kate running a hand across his face.
While her words were essentially true, she had been having random thoughts of Josh Diamond. Those thoughts were fleeting, however, and certainly not etched into
any sort of purpose or intent.
A beaming smile returned to Eskadi’s face.
“Sorry, I’m running late. I have a lot of work to do yet today. Let’s talk about it when we have more time.”
“Then should I call you later about the White man who pulled the gun on one of my people when he was stealing those license plates?” asked Eskadi.
Kate did not appreciate Eskadi’s little cat and mouse game. This was exactly the sort of thing that could make her think of the easy going, yet professional ways of Josh Diamond.
“Do you have something already?”
“I made a quick call before I came over here. I thought you would appreciate it if I did you a favor.”
“Did you find anything out?”
“The White guy was not only big, he was ugly too,” laughed Eskadi.
“Let’s leave personal opinions out of this,” replied Kate.
“No, I mean he really was big and ugly. He was wearing a cap but the witness thought it looked like he had pretty short hair, like military guys wear. His head might even have been shaved. She couldn’t tell for certain.”
“That narrows the list down to about fifty million people,” said Kate.
“No need to get sarcastic,” said Eskadi derisively. “He was also missing some fingers on his left hand.”
“Missing fingers? How many?”
“Two, maybe three. She couldn’t be sure because she was scared and ran away when he flashed his gun.”
“Did she recognize what kind of gun it was?”
“A hand gun with a short barrel. That’s all she saw.”
“Do you think she would talk to me?” asked Kate.
“Not a chance. She is too scared to talk to the White police.”
“Where did this happen?” asked Kate.
“Up here between the Ruidoso Ruins and Diamond Butte. She was up there gathering herbs when it happened. She said it was either last Wednesday or Thursday, just about the time when the sun was going down. He was in a great big truck, the kind of truck that sits way up high off the ground. She said after he saw her he got in the truck. Another man was driving. She thought the driver was a younger Mexican or Native, maybe even mixed blood. In either case he took off driving down the road like a crazy man.”
Kate jotted down a few notes and looked over toward the mother and daughter before saying goodbye to Eskadi.
On the return trip to Safford she could only think of Felipe Madrigal. No matter how she put the pieces together, it added up to exactly nothing. The stolen cars, stolen plates and the dead body of the young girl in Lorenzo García’s truck didn’t seem to have a direct link. But her intuition told her otherwise. She felt trapped between the facts and what she wanted to believe.
Dusk and the hissing of the streetlights turning on overhead greeted her at the city limits of Safford.
“Deputy Steele. Step into my office would you?”
“Yes, Sheriff Hanks.”
“Did you get any more information from anyone who might have seen the car thieves?”
“No…” replied Deputy Steele.
“You’re hesitating,” said Sheriff Hanks. “Why?”
“Nobody else had anything specific to say. I mean no one else had seen the Vega or the little guy….”
But?” said Sheriff Hanks.
She knew Zeb carried a certain amount of ill will toward Eskadi, and, as shorthanded as they were, he might not care for the fact that she had run out to the reservation to follow a lead that turned out to be nothing. On the other hand, she had garnered some information that might be of value.
“I had a lead on a missing girl who I thought might have been the dead girl in Lorenzo García’s pickup. It turned out she wasn’t really missing. But I did find out some other things that might be important. One in particular seems to be.”
“Go on.”
“Eskadi…”
Zeb rolled his eyes.
“…gave me some information. I don’t know if it means anything but it might.”
“I know you and Eskadi are close, but he and I have history between us.”
“I know that and I get it.”
“So don’t be taken aback if I take anything he says with a grain of salt,” said the sheriff.
“I understand completely.”
“Okay, what do you have?”
“An old Indian woman was gathering herbs between the Ruidoso Ruins and Diamond Butte.”
“I know that place,” said Zeb.
“She saw an oversized pickup with a big White man and a younger Mexican or Native American, or maybe even mixed blood. They were stealing license plates. She got close enough to see that the big White man was missing some fingers. He pulled a gun on her when he spotted her.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Eskadi told me she is scared. She won’t talk to anyone but him. He doubts she will tell him anything more than she already has. She thinks the big White man with the missing fingers is the devil himself.”
“That could be very important. See if you can follow up on it. You have a better chance of getting Eskadi to do something than I do.”
“Got it,” said Kate. “I take it you have talked with our prisoner some more?”
“Yes, I did have a nice conversation with Madrigal. I believe he is a good man in his heart. But something is dreadfully wrong. I don’t know exactly what, but I do think he will tell us eventually.”
“What did you find out?”
“You might say he’s more than a little down on his luck on account of his wife and daughter. They both died of cancer. First, his wife died. That was about two years ago. His poor wife died very slowly and suffered a lot. Her suffering almost killed him from the sounds of it.”
“How did he express that to you?”
“It isn’t as much how he said it, as what he said. Sadness, I guess. Her death broke his heart. Then just when he was starting to get over his wife’s death his daughter was diagnosed with cancer too. Ovarian cancer took both of them from him. He is obviously depressed. I guess he’s been that way for quite a while. He started crying when he was talking about it. To be honest, I had to do my best to keep from crying myself.”
The sheriff’s openness was a bit surprising. He had not really opened up in that fashion to her, ever. This new, compassionate side of her boss was as welcome as it was unnerving.
“Mr. Madrigal prayed the rosary every day for two years. He kept asking God for a miracle. He lit candles to the Blessed Virgin Mary. He even made a holy shrine. I guess he is what you would call a devout Catholic. On the other hand his faith was tested by the death of his wife and he became angry with God. When his daughter got snatched away so soon after the death of his wife, Mr. Madrigal told me that he shook his fist toward heaven and cursed God until he was so hoarse he couldn’t even talk. He thinks that his actions are the root of his problems and for that he takes complete responsibility,” explained Zeb.
“What exactly does that mean?” asked Kate.
“He believes his actions toward the Almighty came back on him as a personal curse.”
“You mean him making the phone calls about the bombs and his being in jail?”
“No,” replied the sheriff. “Not like that. It seemed like something else.”
“What? What do you think he meant?”
“He feels horrible about Delbert. I am certain he is willing to go to jail for that, even if somehow he wasn’t directly involved.”
“If nothing else, we are absolutely certain he made the phone call.”
Kate’s reminder was indeed a solid fact. Felipe Madrigal had been involved with Delbert’s death. Yet something felt wrong. That little man inside the sheriff, his conscience, his intuition, his gut feeling, told him something else was definitely at play. Zeb was working on a theory that someone had forced Felipe Madrigal into making those phone calls. But who? And why?
“I am becoming quite sure he didn’t place the bomb in the school.”
Deputy Steele reiterated that there was no doubt Felipe Madrigal had made the phone calls. “No matter how you look at it, he was complicit.”
“Sometimes you learn about a man in other ways,” said Zeb. “Mr. Madrigal had such a hang dog look on his face that I could almost feel sorry for him, for his situation.”
Kate’s return gaze spoke to the issue of becoming too compassionate with those you have under arrest. Zeb caught the look as well as its meaning.
“I wanted to get to know him better. I thought I could figure out what makes him tick. He started talking about his work. He was very proud of that. He was a truck driver for a lot of years for the company that owned the mines. Felipe had been a short haul driver for the copper mines in Morenci. He had hauled mostly for the big mine in Morenci, but he also spent five years working at the Indian Flats mine on the southern end of the San Carlos Reservation. The limp came from a leg injury when a piece of equipment fell off a truck. After the accident he couldn’t handle a clutch anymore. The union got him a job as a security guard at the credit union in Morenci. It was a desk job. He carried a gun and wore a badge, but mostly he signed people in and out of the safe deposit boxes at the credit union.”
“Did he say why he called in the bomb threat?”
“We never went near that subject,” replied the sheriff. “I don’t think he wanted to talk about that.”
“What else did he talk about?”
“Everyday things. We compared notes about different county roads we both knew. He’s the only guy I ever met who has been out on those roads more than I have or more than Delbert did. He knows every landmark in the county. But most of all, I would say when he wasn’t talking about truck driving he was pretty down in the dumps.”
“You seem to have gotten to know him.”
“Yes, I feel like I do, at least a little bit.”
“Why do you think he called in the bomb threats?”
Zeb looked out the window. Deputy Steele could practically see the wheels spinning inside the sheriff’s head.
“I don’t want to call Felipe Madrigal a liar. But if he hadn’t confessed to calling those threats in, I would swear he didn’t do it. It’s almost like he’s making it up or covering for somebody. I listened to those tapes again. That is him on those tapes. There is no doubt about it.”