Bloodville (16 page)

Snow remained deep on the ground, but Christmas Day was sunny and warm and the mountain air in Budville was filled with the friendly smell of piñon and cedar smoke. Following a midafternoon meal with Grandma McBride, Mat and Karen went outside and threw snowballs at each other before they drove to room seven of the motel at Villa de Cubero. Karen had reserved it. They sat on the bed, each with a beer in hand.

―I was hopeful that we might indulge ourselves in adult sexual prerogatives. Is that a possibility, do you think?‖
―I certainly hope so. But I meant where are we going with this whole thing. The first time we madly groped each other was in this very room only one month ago.‖
―Thirty-five days, to be exact.‖
―You've been counting days?‖

―Every one of them. This is the seventh time we‘ve shared this bed. I can provide you with more detail, if you‘d like.‖
―Not necessary,‖ she said. ―I remember. I spend most of my time thinking about you, too, Mateo Torrez. And us. And this bed. Is there another bed, somewhere, in my future?‖
―What is wrong with this one? I've come to enjoy and appreciate it very much myself. After only one month, are you making demands on me?‖

She elbowed him in the ribs. ―Thirty-five days. Yes I am. Grandma is getting close to winding up her business out here. Flossie wants to lease the bar to the guy that runs King's Cafe. Joe Garcia. She thinks he'll work a little harder to turn a profit, and she's probably right, too. I can't get very excited about the bar business. Neither can grandma.‖

―How soon will you be moving?‖
―I don't know. A couple of months. March. April. Before summer, anyway. Grandma's got a man interested in buying some of the horses, but she's not letting him touch a fetlock until the check clears the bank. She's talking about boarding the rest of them in Albuquerque. Besides, we've got to get the house in town opened up and ready to live in again.‖
―Where is it?‖
―Out on Rio Grande Road, past Camino del Pueblo.‖
―That's the high rent district, no?‖
―Well, yeah. Grandma is a little rich.‖
―A little rich? How much is a little rich? I mean.... It is not my business, but.... A little rich?‖
―She's not rich like the Beetles, or Elvis, but she could match quarters with, say, the Unsers, you know, the race car drivers.‖
―I know Bobby and Al Unser. They own property up in Rio Arriba County, not far from where I‘ve been spending a lot of my time lately. Investigating the shooting of Officer Nick Saiz, and all that. Reyes López Tijerina.‖
―You're avoiding my question. What about my bed?‖
―Cannot your
abuela rica
afford you
una cama?
‖
―Sure, but that's only a piece of furniture. I'm talking about our bed. Your‘s and mine.‖
―You are a brazen
gringa
. You are suggesting a liaison, no?‖
―And you are a mealy-mouth Mexican. Yes. I led you to this bed. Now you lead me to the next one.
¿Sí?
‖
They stopped talking then, and he undressed her, and she him, and they made love well into the evening hours. Most lives contain but few truly memorable times and Christmas, 1967, was a day Mat Torrez cherished for what remained of his life.

Mat had much to think about as he drove home. He knew he didn‘t want to lose Karen but he didn't know how to make a commitment to her. He worried about Nita. He‘d never taken a woman home before and he had not the slightest idea how to tell his daughter he loved another woman. There'd been no one since his wife died and Nita had helped him keep loneliness at bay. But then Nita graduated from UNM at mid year and would be starting graduate school in January. He didn't know what she had in mind for the future—whether she‘d be leaving him—but he did know he didn't like her boyfriend. He supposed all fathers hated their daughter's boyfriends. Ah well, he thought, he‘d see Karen again on New Year's Eve. Maybe they could talk about the future then. Maybe they would accomplish more if they were not sitting on a bed when they discussed it. Maybe they could complete a conversation.

Agent Spurlock drove to Santa Fe on Saturday, January 13th to meet with Captain Mat Torrez for a confabulation on the Rice/Brown murders. On orders from Governor Dave Cargo, by way of Col. Sam Black, Torrez had paid scant attention to the Budville murders since January 3 when the dead body of Eulogio Salazar, the Rio Arriba County jailer and courthouse raid witness, was found in his pickup truck along a rural road near El Vado Lake in Rio Arriba County. The jailer had been beaten to death. Chief Sam Black took personal charge of the case.

―I‘ve never seen anyone‘s face beaten in like that,‖ he said after viewing the body. ―You couldn‘t even tell it was Eulogio. I‘ve seen a lot of guys beaten, but never nothing like this.‖

Legal and political considerations made the Salazar murder important in an election year. The jailer, wounded when the Rio Arriba County courthouse was raided by the so-called Alianzia the previous June, had announced his willingness to testify against Reyes Tijerina and other members of the group. Chief Black assigned 17 officers, including Captain Mat Torrez and Deputy Chief Martin Vigil, to work on the case full time. Governor Cargo took a personal interest.

Work for Doc Spurlock had fallen back into a regular routine after Bunting went back to the U. S. Navy and Vee was reassigned. He spent most of his time picking over details and checking out vague leads that continued to reach the State Police from time to time. Trips to Farmington, Taos and Hobbs produced nothing of any value to the investigation. Doc had supper with his mom and dad on the way back to Albuquerque from Hobbs. Pleasant as the meal was, it annoyed Doc to learn from his mother that Patsy had been on the phone complaining about her life in Gallup. Gord Spurlock reminded his son that the Chaves County Sheriff Tom Lord would put him on the payroll just about any time it pleased him. Doc allowed as how he'd stay on with the State Police.

All of the license numbers Doc found on Bud Rice's gas pumps checked out and didn't produce a lead worth pursuing. Some of the plate numbers belonged to cars that hadn't been in Budville for two, or more, years. No one had been able to figure out what 46 F PU BY NL meant. Bud's towing records produced the same results. Zip.

―Before we get into the matter of the Rice/Brown murders,‖ Captain Torrez said, ―there‘s this.‖ He handed Doc a folded sheet of paper.

DATE: 11 January 1968
FROM: Sgt. Fred Finch, Fleet Management Supervisor TO: Capt. Mateo Torrez, Criminal Bureau
SUBJECT: Damage to Department Vehicle: Failure to Report

Pursuant to departmental policy, vehicles assigned to the Criminal Bureau were spot-checked for compliance to minimum standards of maintenance and safety on this day and date. State Police unit #485, a 1965 Plymouth Fury, bearing New Mexico license 2-8411, was observed to have sustained damage to the right rear fender. A review of fleet accident files failed to produce a report concerning this matter. Department policy requires that you review this matter and consider appropriate disciplinary action should it be determined that the officer to which the vehicle is assigned, Agent J. B. Spurlock, is in violation of departmental regulation (SPR 51-1313). This memo will be placed in a 10-day suspense file for followup to command staff.

CC: Colonel Sam Black, Chief
Lt. Col. Charles Scarberry, Deputy Chief
Lt. Col. Martín Vigil, Deputy Chief

―I'll be damned,‖ Doc said. ―Don't he have nothin' better to do than sneak around parkin‘ lots?‖
―What happened, Doc?‖ the captain asked.
―I bumped a guardrail post out by Chief Rancho durin‘ the big snow storm, Cap. There ain't enough damage to even mention. Kind of a rub mark and some white paint there above the wheel well.‖
―But you didn‘t report it.‖
―I didn't think nothing about it. I guess my mind was on the murder case.‖
―Damn, Doc. All you had to do was write me a note. I would have handled it. Now I have to take some action.‖
―Sorry, Cap.‖
―So you must be reprimanded. Here it is. Do not do that again! ¡
Comprende
!‖
―I
comprende
, Cap.‖
―Good. Now I can write a memo to
fregado
Freddy. Let's get on to Budville. I notice that your reports are very slim lately.‖
―Not much to report,‖ Doc said.
―What about Budwister? Anything there?‖
―Nothin‘ you can hang your hat on. Seems like his suspect fell in a rat hole. Probably where he belongs.‖
The captain leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. ―I spoke with Wilcoxson yesterday afternoon. He has a suggestion. More than a suggestion, really. More in the nature of a directive. He wants Flossie to see a psychologist and to undergo examination by use of hypnosis.‖
―Hypnosis, huh?‖ Doc said, leaning back in his chair. ―I know a crazy old Mexican woman down to Roswell who claims she can read the future in goat guts. Maybe we should call her, too.‖
―That‘s my
tia
,‖ Torrez smiled. ―Watch what you say.‖
Doc smiled, too. ―What‘s the DA figure to accomplish with it?‖
―The theory,‖ the captain said, ―is that Flossie may have been sufficiently traumatized by the events of the evening—the shots fired, the death of her husband and friend, being threatened with a gun— that she's repressing some things she knows about the killer. Wilcoxson says this hypnotist can bring these things out.‖

―Right!‖ Spurlock said.
―You have a serious problem with it?‖
―I'll tell you Cap, I do. I just don't hold with it. Criminal investigations to me is just what we all learned over the years: five percent inspiration and ninety-five percent perspiration. I think you wear out a lot of boot leather and you ask a lot of questions of a lot of people. Hypnotism and that other stuff is just bull farts in the wind.‖

―I tend to agree with you, Doc, but Wilcoxson wants this hypnosis and I can't see that it would cause a problem.‖
―Well, I can, Cap. Ain‘t it true that hypnotism can make people do strange stuff, you know, bark like a dog, walk like a duck?‖
―So I've been told,‖ Torrez said.
―There's also a thing like.... I'm trying to think what they call it. Like in that Frank Sinatra movie.
The Manchurian Candidate
.‖
―Brainwashing?‖
―That's not it. But it's like that. Hypnosis can make people do things they don't know they're doing. In the movie, every time this one guy turned over a particular card when he played solitaire, a red queen I think it was, he'd do what he'd been hypnotized to do, which was kill somebody. Lawrence Harvey played the part. It's called some kind of suggestion.‖
―Posthypnotic suggestion,‖ Torrez said.
―That's it. Posthypnotic suggestion.‖
―Why is that a problem if Flossie's hypnotized?‖
―No matter where we go with this investigation, Flossie's identification is gonna be a key thing. That's already half screwed up because of her identifyin‘ Bunting. You said so yourself the other day. A good defense lawyer is gonna claim that any ID she makes after she's been hypnotized is the product of—what'd you call it? —posthypnotic suggestion. I'd say that's a hell of a problem, Cap.‖
―Maybe it is. But it's Wilcoxson's problem. He‘ll be prosecuting the case. I'm glad, though, Doc, that you understand hypnosis so well. You coordinate the hypnotist and Flossie and see to it she makes her appointments.‖
―Does that mean I call and remind her of her appointments, or do I haul her back and forth?‖
―Back and forth and you sit in on the interviews, too. Write reports on what you observe. You are our protection against
The Manchurian Candidate
thing. Wilcoxson wants Nettie Buckley examined by the shrink, too. You handle it. 10-4?‖
―10-4.‖
―One other thing, Doc. Don wants you to leave the impression with Flossie and Nettie that the shrink and the hypnotist are our idea. More specifically, your idea. Not his.‖
―Damn, Cap.‖
―As prosecutor, he doesn't think he should get involved with it. Just tell her we need it to find the killer. She'll go along with it.‖
―It sure ain't my idea of police work, but I'll give it my best shot. Should I to do anything with my car? About the scratch?‖
―I looked at it, and I don't think so. Give it a good wash job and the paint will probably rub right off. But let this be a warning to you. Scarberry may not be in our chain of command any longer, but he hasn't forgotten us. Remember, too, that Freddy Finch is
un víbora
, and as Scarberry's caddie, he does more than carry golf clubs. Watch out for him.‖

By mid January 1968, daily afternoon temperatures reached into the fifties and not a trace of snow remained. Herman Budwister reached a work saturation point on Monday the 15th when, with the weekend's criminal activity reports, he found enough case-files piled on his desk to keep him busy until some time in the early 1970s. The detective did the logical thing: he ignored all of it and took a walk. He strolled from police headquarters on Second Street south three blocks and a block east to the Liberty Bar on Central Avenue. He liked to drop in from time to time just to see who was hanging around and to hear the crap the denizens of Maggotville would lay on him. Joe Peters and Joe Cato stood at the bar. He knew both of them.

Cato, a small man with a bad complexion and long oily hair, glanced over his shoulder and then back to his beer without saying anything. He often bragged to his pals that he didn't talk to cops unless compelled to. Peters, a head taller than Cato at six feet, was thin to the point of emaciation. His face was narrow, his small eyes bloodshot in deep sockets below a pimply forehead. Long, dirty blond, hair covered his shoulders. Dressed like a beatnik in blue corduroy pants, green wool sweater and sandals, he considered himself smarter than any and all cops and therefore didn't mind talking to them. Herman walked to the bar ordered a draft beer.

―Sure, man, I'll remember. How about cop, or flatfoot, or pig. How you like them names, Herman?‖
―You got a bad mouth on you today, Joe. How‘d you like me to fix it up for you?‖ Herman balled his fist and took a step toward Peters. ―You know how hard it is to talk with busted teeth and fat lips?‖
―Hey, lighten up, man. A little dipadee jive don't hurt nothin‘.‖
Budwister nodded at Cato. ―What's the matter with your
amigo
there, Joe? Not enough bran in his diet?‖
―He don't like pigs ... er, police officers, man. Bad karma. He had a real bad experience once, man. Know what I mean?‖
―Just as well. I don't like garbage like him, either.‖
Cato took his beer and moved off to a table near the back of the barroom. He sat and glared at Peters and Budwister.
―So tell me,‖ Budwister said to Peters, ―what‘re the major haps in your substratum of society?‖
―Hey, nothin‘ man. Just tryin' to stay out of trouble. You know, man, tryin' to stay in complete harmony with the universe.‖
―Yeah. I know.‖ Herm drank off half a glass of beer. ―I know I could haul your ass off to the clink as we speak. Unless I'm mistaken, you're still on federal parole and drinkin‘ beer in the middle of the day and hanging out with a maggot like Cato over there ain't exactly detailed in the conditions of your release.‖
―Come on, man. I ain't doing nothing.‖
―You been doing something your whole life, Joe. I could go back to my office right now, look through a few theft reports and tell you exactly what you been doing. How much money you got on you? Right now?‖
―Twenty, dollars. Thirty, maybe. Hard earned. Why?‖