by L. D. Henry
“What happened to him, Powers?” Tarbow asked gruffly, anxious to have the investigation resolved quickly.
The little convict, his eyes riveted on the bloody mess lying on the stone floor, slowly shook his head and a kind of shiver passed over him before he spoke: “I—I don’t know, sir,” he stammered, then shivered again.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Tarbow growled. “You were right here in this cell with him, weren’t you?”
“Y-yes, but I d-don’t know what happened,” Powers insisted, pressing back against the wall, still terrified. He peered at the warden hesitantly. “I—I just heard a boom an’ when I turned over to look, there he was, laying on the floor like this.”
A light shudder racked the prisoner’s thin body again and he finally tore his glance from the grisly thing on the floor. “I was layin’ on my bunk facin’ the wall, layin’ on my stomach with my head turned,” he whined, plainly frightened. “Then I heard this boom, an’ when I turned around...”
“Did you hear him say or do anything before that?” Tarbow probed, a slow anger beginning to edge his words. “Anything at all?”
“Well, I heard Fish curse the siren. Said it hurt his ears,” he added nervously. “I—I tried to humor him. Told him it was just another sacrifice to the Great God Out.”
“Go on, let’s hear the rest of it,” Tarbow snapped when Powers paused.
The little man grew calmer; now his eyes were studiously avoiding the bloody body. “That’s when I turned my face to the wall. It was only a short time before it happened.”
“And you’re sure you heard nothing before that?” Tarbow pressed on impatiently, his eyes frosty, a frown wrinkling his brow.
“W-well, I heard boot steps an’ I heard the guard countin’ men,” he said. “You know, like after every prison break...”
Guard Harplee spoke out: “Yes, sir, I was counting the cells along the other side of the corridor first because there are so many more men to keep track of on that side.” He waved toward the front of the hallway. “I was two cells down the line on that side when it happened, sir. I ran back here an’ saw Dwyer on the floor like this,” he said firmly. “Powers was still lying on his bunk, his mouth open in surprise.”
“That’s right,” Powers rasped, pressing a hand against the side of his face. “I just had time to turn my head when Mister Harplee got here.”
“Soon as I saw what happened, I just sent Honas to get you,” the big guard explained.
“The Indian?” Tarbow asked quietly, his bushy brows almost covering his eyes when his frown deepened. “Was he with you all the time?”
Harplee’s eyes swept out to the corridor and back again. “Well...yes. He was right behind me all the time.”
“Can you account for him all the time he was with you?” the superintendent asked.
“Yes, sir, he was right behind me all the time,” Harplee insisted,. “but you know how Indians are—they ain’t much interested in our housekeeping, nor counting prisoners, sir.”
Tarbow pinched his lips together and was silent for a moment. He brushed his thoughts aside, too confused to pursue them from the evidence presented. But he knew that he must act before anyone panicked. He jerked a thumb at the little convict, then said to the burly guard: “Put him in the cell with Print and Laustina. Don’t allow anyone in this cell except the doctor and me.”
He let his eyes drop to the grisly remains one more time. “I’ll send for Doctor Botts at once so he can do what’s necessary here.”
The prison budget did not allow for a full-time doctor, however, a small financial arrangement had been made with Dr. Rufus Botts of Yuma to serve as the examining physician and coroner as required. His office was located above the double cells and could only be reached from the yard by means of wooden stairs that were under constant scrutiny by both north tower guards.
In the corridor, Tarbow half turned. “Harplee, you make arrangements for a burial detail tomorrow afternoon.”
Harplee touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in salute. He watched the superintendent edge through the double doors, knowing that he was a very worried man because the three prison commissioners wouldn’t look favorably on such a death inside the prison. Especially not after the shooting during the attempted breakout earlier this morning.
He beckoned for Powers to come out of the cell. The little convict moved gingerly around the body, trying not to look directly at it while he shuffled out into the corridor. The inner and outer cell doors were made of heavy strap iron, and connected by an iron rod so that both doors moved in unison. This was designed to permit only one person at a time to ease through the archway, thereby slowing any speedy escape attempt.
“Allison,” Chief Guard Harplee directed the other guard. “You stand watch on this gate. Nobody even looks, much less gets in here but the doctor, understand?”
Frank Allison nodded. Used to prison routine, he closed the cell door and leaned his back against it, his eyes idly following Harplee marching the wiry Powers to the end cell where Print and Laustina and Carugna stood, curiously trying to find out what happened after the muffled boom.
Irritated by the unusual happenings, Ben Harplee shoved Powers into the cell with the three murderers, and clanged the lock into place on the heavy iron hasp. His glaring eyes forestalled the question Print was about to ask before he strode away.
Print shrugged resignedly, biding his time. He would find out what he wanted to know from Powers after Harplee was gone.
Joshua Tarbow sat at his desk, fingers steepled together touching his dry lips. His fuzzy thoughts were gradually sliding back into focus, extruding from the stunned scene he had earlier witnessed in the blood-splattered cell block. He raised his eyes when the doctor placed his satchel on the floor and plopped into the horsehair-stuffed armchair.
“What’s the verdict, Rufus?” he asked.
“I found a few slivers of copper in the upper part of his mouth,” Dr. Rufus Botts said. “Copper slivers, they were, imbedded in the remains of the jawbone, and in some of the flesh scattered around the cell.”
He paused a moment, sensing the warden’s anxiety. “From the powder specks, I’d say it was probably a blasting cap that exploded and blew away the lower jaw and part of his throat”
Tarbow fidgeted with some papers on his desk, his mind striving to fit the evidence he was hearing. Then he sent a skeptical look back at the doctor. “You think he stuck a dynamite cap in his mouth and set it off? Why?”
Heavyset, florid-faced, the doctor shrugged, not wanting to commit himself. “I’m not saying that’s what happened because who knows what a loco weed smoker will or won’t do—or even why. Between finding the bits of metal and powder, there were only food particles mixed in with the flesh and bone. So you see, the only foreign material in his mouth were the copper bits. And because blasting caps are made of copper, and because there has been an explosion, I merely suggest this as a possibility.”
“But how would he get a blasting cap in here?” Tarbow wanted to know, looking dubiously at the medic.
The doctor grinned. “I don’t want to be facetious, Joshua, but how the devil did he get loco weed and morphine in here?” He gestured with both hands, palms up. “The cap could have gotten in the same way.”
Tarbow’s face went stiff, a flush showing that Botts had struck a nerve. “Hmmm, yes, maybe he did put a blasting cap. in his mouth. Probably found it,” he said halfheartedly.
Rufus Botts shrugged, knowing that under the circumstances, one answer was as good as another. “You’re right, he probably found it in the yard. You have been blasting ino that caliche hill out yonder, haven’t you?” he asked, purposely offering his friend a solution.
Tarbow thought he saw an out and he nodded speculatively while he reviewed what Botts had said. The cementlike caliche formation that covered the hill had needed some blasting to start holes so that sledges and drills could pound out the new cells needed in the prison expansion progra
m. The plan called for additional cells to be constructed by carving out a new yard on the east side of the hill, which now formed the south wall of the prison. Already this wall contained the “snakepit” and the “crazy” cells.
His mind weighed the chances that one of the convicts had stolen a cap from the work area. He straightened his shoulders with a shrug; if the prisoners wanted to kill one another over some grudge, why should he care.
“You’re right,” he told the doctor. “The prisoner probably just stuck a cap in his mouth and bit down on it. That could set it off, you know.”
“Or maybe he just lit it like a cigarette,” Botts smiled in agreement. “He just did himself in, Joshua. Let’s face it.”
Tarbow nodded, feeling somewhat relieved. “Yes, I do believe that he committed suicide with a dynamite cap in his mouth.”
“The man was a loco weeder, Joshua, we both know that,” Rufus spread his hands with finality.
Tarbow nodded—the conversation had reached a convenient vein, one that was to his advantage...so why not end it now? He recalled that Dwyer had been a screaming wreck during the maximum security period following the return of the five escapees. No telling what a person in that condition would do.
He stood up, signaling the end of the talk, glad to complete the touchy discussion. “I wanted to make sure that there had been no foul play. I’m glad to hear your official determination, Doctor,” he said formally.
Dr. Botts, too, stood up, equally glad to be rid of the subject. He gestured with both hands, then said, “No one shot him, no one stabbed him, nor was any poison found, Warden. I officially believe that he died by his own hand by some unknown means because his body couldn’t stand the pressure of being without drugs.”
Tarbow reached out and shook hands with the doctor. “Thanks for filling out the Circumstances of Death Report,” he said. “He had no listed next of kin, so I’ll have a detail bury him first thing tomorrow afternoon.”
The doctor raised a hand in farewell and quietly closed the door behind him. Tarbow sank back into his seat and wiped a hand across his brow.
Chapter Six
On the last day of his life Judge Bliss Morcum awoke in a sour mood. Habitually drunk, this morning was no different from countless others. He sat with his feet over the edge of his bed contemplating the insistent rapping on his front door. White hair tousled, he gazed blearily toward the strong sunlight assailing his eyes from the window. There was no hurry. Anyone pounding on his door would stay there until he came. He belched, then arose unsteadily to his feet and began to scratch his paunchy stomach.
The knocking on his front door with renewed vigor. Clad only in long underwear, he shuffled to the closet and struggled into a faded gray robe.
Judge Morcum lived in a small five-room house just off Laguna Street, east of the blacksmith’s shop. Already the leather-aproned hoof shaper was plying his trade. Morcum could hear the clanging of the hammer against the steel anvil above the thumping sound at his front door.
Moving ponderously through the living room, he opened the door in sour humor, but quickly recovered when he saw Tomasina standing there.
“Buenos días, sir,” she said, her dark eyes staring boldly at him. The effect of that look shook him from his lethargy. “Today my mother is sick. I have come to work at you house, Senor Judge.”
His bloodshot eyes dipped to the cleavage of her tightfitting dress, down to the slim waist, then back up to her breasts stretching the thin material. Their eyes met again and a teasing smile hung on her red lips.
“Come in, Tomasina, come in,” he said quickly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get dressed.”
Tomasina was the daughter of Manuel Lopez, who had years ago taken up residency with Concepción, a Cocopas prostitute. Lopez, considerably older than his Indian housemate, worked as a driver hauling supplies for Hooper & Hinton. Spending much time on the road moving freight, he laid no claim as the father of the comely Tomasina.
Bliss Morcum licked his lips, watching the girl sway past him when she walked into the other room to begin her work. In his more sober moments, he had watched her many times, walking along the streets of Yuma, and he had always gazed lecherously from afar. He knew that she was Concepción Lopez’s daughter but he never dreamed that one day the girl would visit his house to work in place of her mother. Concepción came to Morcum’s place each Friday to clean and tidy up for the next week’s onslaught of sloppiness.
Good Lord, he thought, today was sure enough Friday, and seeing the girl, he vainly wished that he had been up and dressed before she arrived. He watched her move to the broom closet for dust rags before he went to the kitchen. He pumped a basin full of water, washing his face and neck and then combing the white strands of hair over the shiny places on his scalp. The feel of cool water restored some vigor to his spirits but it did nothing for the sour taste in his mouth.
Reaching under the sink he brought up an almost full bottle of Rocky Mountain Thistle Dew. Sloshing some whiskey into a glass, he downed its contents in a gulp, feeling the warm glow moving through his body. He took another long pull at the bottle before replacing the cork.
There, that was much better, he thought, a man needed something to steady him in the morning. He peered into the front room on the way to his bedroom, pausing to observe the girl’s sleek movements as she dusted furniture. Damn, the way she wiggled her young body while she worked did things to a man.
Watching her stoop and bend drove him back to the kitchen and he took the cork from the bottle on the sink before he tipped it to his lips. Holding the bottle steady, he gulped until the level lowered several inches, the warm liquid filling the void in his stomach. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, breathing deeply, then he carried the bottle back to his bedroom.
Finished with her work in the living room, Tomasina came to the open bedroom door. Her eyes took in his ruddy complexion. Standing in faded red underwear, his long-waisted body, bulging stomach, and short legs created a ludicrous spectacle, and the girl laughed.
“I am ready to work in you bedroom now,” she said, her chin inclined slightly, the saucy look back on her face.
“Of course, my dear, come in,” he said, and when the girl started past him, he grasped her shoulders, drawing her hungrily against him.
Amused, she allowed him to kiss her, even permitted him to clumsily fumble with her breasts, and when she tilted her head back, excitement lay in her looks until his whiskey-soaked breath flung into her face. Stifling, she turned up her nose, but he tried to pull her toward the bed.
Her teasing mood left her and she laughed at him in disdain. He staggered when she pulled quickly away from him, laughing all the harder, but his hand caught at the neck of her dress ripping away part of the shoulder seams. Then anger spread its dark flush on her cheeks; her eyes ablaze, she spat in his face.
“Bastardo!”
Incensed, Bliss Morcum slashed the back of his hand across her mouth. “You filthy little Indian whore!”
“Tonto bastardo!” She shrieked, her breasts showing the lift and fall of her angry breathing. Spitting at him again. she ran from the house.
Red rage flushed over him as he wiped a hand across the spittle on his cheeks while he stood helplessly watching her run across the street toward the fiesta grounds. Her nubile body filled with animal magnetism had gripped him—hard! And the thought of this lush creature escaping him unsettled his drunken complacency.
Then he turned his bleary-eyed look back to the faded mirror over the worn bureau. They say that mirrors don’t lie, but the man who Bliss Morcum saw hadn’t been on this side of the glass for over twenty years. Earlier in his life while at Tucson, when he was still a mediocre lawyer, he had defended an Indian girl against the charge of assault on another woman over the favors of a gambling man.
Being penniless, she paid him with her body by moving into his flat, and pay him she did indeed, for her sexual talent made him deliriously happy. But just when he was fal
ling in love with her dusky appearance and lush body, she ran away with a traveling man—a perfume drummer with a flair for charming women.
Wounded in spirit to think that any woman would prefer a salesman over an up-and-coming lawyer, he took to drinking. And all the while he nurtured a deep hatred againt Indian women, yet subconsciously he envisioned her talents to all Indian females, lusting for them, yet openly hating them, too. And still he continued his search, even though most of his sex was only in his whiskey-sotted mind. And so it was with his desire for Tomasina.
What was wrong with her anyway? he asked himself. Maybe he was a lot older than her, but by damn he was somebody! He wasn’t like those callow young Mexicans or Indian scum she rolled with every night. Didn’t she realize that he was a judge and far above those worthless, loud-mouthed cowboys who called suggestive things to her when she walked down the street, trying to make her blush.
Just let her wait and see, he railed to himself, just wait until she ended up in one of those whorehouses on Rincon Alley, then he’d fix her, by damn! The first time anyone complained against her, he’d see that she was sentenced to the women’s yard up on the hill. Maybe he’d sentence her to six months, then she’d remember him!
Damn her—damn all Indian whores! Unexplainably, it was always so in Morcum’s dealings with Indian prostitutes, nor could he understand the insatiable urge he had for Indian women. Damn them, damn them all!
He belched, then stumbled over to where the bottle stood on the dresser. By damn, he had been glad to hear that the two women murdered by those five convicts last month were Indian. Raped they were—that’s what should happen to all Indian whores!
He belched again, then struck his chest lightly with his fist to help dispel the knot that always formed when he became upset. Gas in his stomach, he grimaced; damn, he better calm down. No use getting so worked up over nothing.