Bloodville (21 page)

Mat Torrez and Karen McBride met for margaritas at Sadie's on North Fourth Street in Albuquerque on Valentine's day, February 14. They hadn't been together for more than a month. Mat could not avoid spending most of his time in Española, Tierra Amarilla and northern New Mexico working on both the courthouse raid and Eulogio Salazar murder cases.

―So, my captain, how goes the war against society's criminal element. You locking up the bad guys?‖
―My dear
gringa
, crime and criminals are not something I wanted to talk about tonight, but I must say the last few months have been about as frustrating as any time since I joined the State Police.‖
―I thought you said things would be a little better when you got that one deputy chief off your back.‖

―Oh, that part's true. I get along with Marty Vigil, but Scarberry is still after one of my agents, and that gets to be a pain in the behind. But Chief Black made a mistake when he announced to the press that we would catch Eulogio Salazar's killer. Maybe you saw the headline in the
Journal
.‖

―I saw it.‖
―Well, we do not have the killers, and we probably will not ever have them, either. That‘s the frustrating part. Those people up there in the north just will not talk to us about the murder. They know. Every man, woman, and child who's family has lived in Rio Arriba County for more than one generation knows exactly who beat Eulogio Salazar to death with a gun butt.‖
―I don't understand. I mean, it's not like you're some Anglo outsider interfering in their business. You're one of them, and the police, too. Don't they want the crime solved?‖
―I am not one of them. Those people have lived in those mountain villages for generations, some of them going back to the seventeenth century. I can trace my family back only to the administration of
Gubernador
Fernando Chacón in
Nuevo Méjico
, which would coincide roughly with the administration of George Washington in the English colonies. Besides, my family roots are right here in Albuquerque. As far as solving the crime is concerned, they believe everything will eventually be taken care of, and justice will be served, and they do not need the New Mexico State Police to be involved.‖
―What about the murders of Bud and Miss Brown?‖
―You are making me look bad, my love. Two major cases and I can't seem to solve either one of them. What must you think of me as a policeman?‖
―It's not as a policeman that I most often think of you, but I am curious about two killings that took place a hundred yards from my bedroom window.‖
―I have an agent working on the case full time. A good officer. The problem is that we wasted too much time with Larry Bunting. The rule in homicide investigations is that an arrest be made in twentyfour to forty-eight hours, and the longer it goes after that, the better the chances it will never be solved. Witnesses disappear and those that don‘t tend to forget specific details. The victims are in the ground, out of sight and out of mind. Cases like that take a lower and lower priority as time goes by. Doc is working the case, but it's difficult. I personally don‘t have much hope of success.‖
―Do you remember grandma telling you about the sailor being in the bar on the afternoon of the murders? With his wife?‖
―I remember.‖
―She didn't lie, but it was much earlier in the day than she said. Closer to noon. They ate a junk food lunch: potato chips, beef jerky, pastrami sticks, beer and orange soda.‖ Karen selected her words carefully. ―I guess everyone, grandma included, wants to be involved in the real case, with the real killer. That's why she wanted to tell you about the sailor. But there was another stranger in the bar. Later in the day. In fact, it was close to seven thirty, from what she told me.‖
―Tell me more.‖
―You know how if you sit at the end of the bar you can see the trading post out the window? Well, he sat there, and he had a shot of whiskey and a beer, and he stared out the window. Grandma said she had other customers and didn‘t pay too much attention, but she glanced out the window and saw a police car go by, going towards Grants. Then this guy just got up and left.‖
―Grandma McBride told me that the sailor looked like the picture one of my agents showed her the day after the murders,‖ Mat said. ―Did this guy look like the picture?‖
―She said he didn‘t. That‘s another reason she never mentioned him to you.‖
―That‘s very interesting. Did grandma see where he went, or what he was driving?‖
―I guess not.‖
―Thank you,
mi querida
. I‘ll pass it along. Every little bit helps us, but there are other things I would like for us to talk about.‖
―Is sex a part of it?‖
―Of course it is.‖
―Ok. Then I'll listen.‖
―But first, we should talk about Nita. We need to get over that hurdle. She is my daughter and I don't want to ignore the problem. But I am going to be busy up north for at least another month. When is grandma McBride moving back to Albuquerque?‖
―Two weeks. Three at the most.‖
―Ok. Let's put off the hard decisions until then. Maybe things will be clearer to all of us. In the meantime, would you, Miss McBride, care to join me in a room at the Beach Motel on Central Avenue, adjacent to Tingley Park?‖
―Tingley Park is so gauche, especially when compared to Villa de Cubero and Gunn's Motel, but yes, my captain, I would.‖

Wilcoxson approved affidavits prepared by Spurlock and Budwister. On March 6, 1968, Judge Paul Tackett signed warrants for the arrests of Billy Ray White and Joe Peters.

―What I need to know,‖ Wilcoxson said to Spurlock and Budwister, ―is if you guys can provide me with solid information that White and Peters have fled this jurisdiction. If you can, I'll hand-carry this warrant over to the Federal Building and personally give it to Dwayne Madison at the FBI. We'll get these assholes on illegal flight to avoid prosecution.‖

―Sipe says he personally took White to Oklahoma City on the night of the 19th of November,‖ Doc said. ―No one's seen him since. Cato said Peters ain't around and he heard he went to New Orleans. The bartender at the Liberty Bar hasn't seen Peters for a month or more. That good enough?‖

―I think it'll do, especially the bartender‘s observation. One of you guys check with Peters' parole officer and see who he lists for relatives, and where they are. Maybe we can get a lead on him that way. Check with the Feds on White, too. There may be something in his file.‖

The hunt for Joe Peters turned out to be short and successful. Doc learned from prison records that Joe had an uncle in Santa Monica, California, and Dwayne Madison quickly forwarded a copy of the warrant to the FBI field office in Los Angeles. Agents arrested Joe at the uncle‘s house on Friday, March 15th. Joe offered no resistance.

Phone lines between Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and points west, were busy on Monday morning, March 18th. Wilcoxson, anxious to get Peters back to New Mexico, called his counterpart in Los Angeles and learned that Peters would not fight extradition. Wilcoxson then called Torrez and apprised him of the situation. Torrez called Deputy Chief Marty Vigil to tell him Doc would be taking his state car to California to extradite Peters. Torrez then called Spurlock and advised him of his new assignment, the trip to California. Doc suggested that Virgil Vee accompany him, but the Captain suggested, in the interest of spreading manpower costs around, that Budwister make the trip. Doc called Herm, who then called his boss, Chief Paul Shaver, who called Vigil to confirm the arrangements. Shaver then called Budwister back, and he in turn called Doc, and Doc called Torrez to let him know the arrangements were complete. Doc also called Wilcoxson and arranged to pick up the paperwork necessary to get Peters out of the Los Angeles County jail. Wilcoxson called the Los Angeles ADA back and told him New Mexico officers would take custody of Peters within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Doc and Herm were westbound on I-40 by early afternoon, headed toward Los Angeles, eight hundred and twenty miles away.

A joy of police work is professional courtesy. Spurlock and Budwister cruised along at eighty-five miles per hour without a care in the world. They spent the night at a motel in Williams, Arizona, and continued on toward Los Angeles at mid-morning Tuesday.

―You know, Doc,‖ Herm said as the officers entered the crush of Los Angeles traffic on Interstate 10, ―if we was really gung-ho, we'd go by the jail house, pick up our prisoner and head straight for home.‖

―We gung-ho?‖
―I'm gung-ho enough to suggest that we hole-up for the night. Get a few beers. Look for some dollies. We can get Peters in the a. m. and head for home. What say, Doc? Spend the night in L. A.?‖
―I ain't got no orders to the contrary, Herm. You know any place in particular.‖
―Let's just find the ocean and take it from there.‖
They found a motel on Santa Monica Boulevard with a night club next door to it and Budwister declared it a perfect spot. Both officers ate too little and drank too much and they spent most of their pocket money on a couple of young ladies who didn't slip away from the motel room until the wee hours of the morning. Herman proclaimed his pipes cleaned and the evening a success.
―Ladies of easy virtue should be favored by God,‖ he said, ―for how they help poor ignorant southern boys visiting in strange and sinful cities.‖
With churning guts and aching heads, the officers took possession of Joe Peters before noon and headed for Albuquerque. They drove out of Los Angeles and headed for Barstow. A typical desert spring day: clear, hot, glaringly bright and the wind never stopped blowing.
Peters spoke up from the back seat. ―Hey, Budweiser man. You gonna keep me hog-tied all the way back?‖
―Let's get off on the right foot, Joe. I've got one hell of a headache and I'm in no mood for your dipadee jive. My name is Budwister. Use it correctly, with Mister in front of it. If you don't, and if you continue to try and dazzle me with your repartee, I‘ll ask Agent Spurlock here to pull off the road, at which time I will pound desert sand up your ass until you puke dirt. You understand me?‖
―Yeah, man. I understand. Mister Budwister. You gonna take these cuffs off me, or what? You know, it ain't cool bein' chained up like some kind of a damn black nigger slave, man.‖
―We'll see. You behave yourself and maybe we will.‖
They drove along in silence. At Barstow, Doc turned east on Interstate 40 and ran his speed up to ninety.
―You have to drive so damn fast man?‖ Peters asked. ―I ain‘t in no big hurry to get back to Albajerky, man.‖
―Damn, you worry a lot, Joe. Relax. It won't hurt much. You won't hardly know it even happened to you.‖
―What, man? What the hell you talking about, man?‖
―Killin' your ass,
man
. You know,
man
? You hip,
man
? Shooting you full of fucking holes,
man
.‖
―Hey, man, that ain't funny.‖
―I didn't think it was funny. Doc, did you think it was funny? What I said?‖
―Tell you what I think‘s funny, Herm. I didn't bring no extra ammunition. All I got is what's in my gun. We get done shootin' this ol‘ boy here and I'll only have one or two cartridges left. What if we run into an Indian attack or a stagecoach robbery between Flagstaff and Albuquerque? Be in a hell of a fix, wouldn't we?‖
―Don't worry about it, Doc. I got some extra. You can shoot Joe's poor skinny ass ‗til your heart is content.‖
―Ok. You guys can knock it off. I got rights. You can't treat me like this, threatening me and everything.‖ Peters and his voice quivered.
―You hear any threat, Doc?‖
―Nope. I heard you say we was gonna shoot him. That ain't a threat, is it?‖
―I don't think so. You hear him say somethin‘ about his rights?‖ ―Yeah, I did. What do you reckon he meant by that?‖
―I'll ask. Just what are your rights, Joe? Why don't you tell me and old Doc here what they are.‖
―You know what they are. You got ‗em memorized. And you can't just go out and shoot a person, either.‖
―Let me tell you about your rights, Joe, and you're right when you say you got ‗em. But that's only when anyone‘s watchin‘. See, over there in Albuquerque, in the Old Lib, you got rights because someone‘s always watchin‘: Cato, couple winos, bartender. I couldn't punch your lights out because those people protected your rights for you. And over in the jailhouse, too. I bust your ass, and there's always somebody around to protect your rights: other cops, jailers, lawyers, other maggots. Always somebody. But now you take this desert out here. We turn off on one of these little roads, go a couple miles around a curve and over a hill, it's a whole different set of rules. No one's watching. Me and Doc decide what your rights are, and how long you get to have them rights before we blow your damn head off.‖
―You couldn't get away with it. Even cops. I mean, those L. A. jail people know you picked me up. They know I'm with you!‖
―They know, but they ain't watching. We might have to struggle and strain our brains to come up with a story about what happened to you, but hell, we'll manage. We're cops. It won't matter to you anyway. Coyotes‘ll get to you first. They're partial to the lower torso and the genitals. They'll chew off your dick and eat out your asshole. Then vultures‘ll swoop down and take their time as they peck big chunks of rotting flesh off yer bones. Crows‘ll get your eyes. Flies, ants and centipedes‘ll go to work on what's left. After a few months, all them scavengers‘ll leave you alone because you won‘t be nothin‘ but bones in the sun. Clean, white bones and your skull will be half full of sand and snakes will be crawlin' in and out of your eye holes.‖
―This is bad shit, man, what you're talking, Mister Budwister.‖ Peters began to sweat. The armpits of his blue cotton work shirt darkened as perspiration soaked them in widening circles.
―You lookin' for a road to turn on, Doc?‖
―I seen one back there that looked pretty good but then I got to thinkin‘. When we came across here yesterday I noticed a road sign to Death Valley and a place called the Devil‘s Playground. We can run up there and dump his ass. Hell, they‘s probably so many skeletons out there that nobody'll even notice one more.‖
―Good, Doc, good. You're always thinkin‘. Death Valley. Hell, that's almost poetic. Don't you agree, Joe? I'll bet you never thought you'd end up dead in Death Valley, did you? Or in the Devil's Playground, either.‖
―I never killed anyone, Mister Budwister.‖
Budwister turned his back on Peters and watched the barren scenery go by. A large billboard appeared on the near horizon. It proclaimed a desert oasis two miles further along.
―Pull in up there, Doc. I want to get a six pack.‖
―A six pack of what?‖
―Beer. What else?‖
―You know, Herm, this is a state car, and all, I ....‖
―Screw it, Doc. I got a parched throat and a hangover. I need a cold beer. Besides, I figure old Joe here might want to quiet his nerves before we get out to that Devil's Playground.‖
Doc pulled into the driveway of the Running Indian Oasis and Herm went inside and bought the beer. When he returned to the car, he took Peters out of the back seat, removed his handcuffs and stuffed him back in the car. Joe'd noticed that handles and window cranks were missing from each of the car's rear doors.
―Have a beer, Joe. You want one, Doc?‖
―Better not.‖
―Here's the drill, Joe,‖ Herman said, half turning in the seat. ―I got my duty .38 on the seat right beside me here. I got a drop gun handy, too. Doc's got a big old .357 in a shoulder holster and a sawed-off shotgun clipped to the front seat. You even wiggle like you're tryin‘ to escape from us and we'll scatter your various parts all over that back seat. We won't wait for the Devil's Playground.‖
Peters gulped his beer, greedily and nervously, like he might never have another.
―You get a chance to read the warrant we got for you, Joe?‖
―I read it. It don't say I killed them people.‖
―You're right. It doesn't. But the criminal complaint does, and I think you did it. I think you're the one that killed Bud Rice and Blanche Brown. I think Billy Ray White is just a figment of your imagination, and Sipe's and Cato's, too.‖
―No, man, no. He's real. Believe me.‖
―Tell you what, Joe. You just shut up and drink your beer. Me and Doc‘ll let you know what we decide about you. And your rights.‖
The officers stopped for the night in Flagstaff and deposited Peters in the Coconino County jail. They passed an uneventful evening and resumed their trip before ten o‘clock the next morning.
―You know what we forgot, Doc?‖ Herman asked as they passed the town of Two Guns.
―No. What?‖
―We forgot to stop and shoot this son-of-a-bitch. He's still here with us.‖
―Come on, man,‖ Peters said. ―Don't do that shit again, man. It ain't cool at all, man.‖
―Tell you what, Joe, you just answer me a couple questions, and I won't mention another word about it. What say?‖
―What questions?‖
―You kill them people at Budville, Joe? That man and old woman? You shoot them full of holes?‖
―I did not do it. I didn't kill nobody, man. That's the truth, too.‖
―Who did kill ‗em, Joe? Tell me that.‖
―I don't know. Maybe Billy Ray Stirling, or whatever he calls himself. He could have, but I don't know it.‖
―What do you mean you don't know? You were in on the deal from day one.‖
―He paid me two yards to get a car. I did that. I left it where he told me and I picked it up next morning. Had to hot-wire it. He must of kept the key. I never saw who drove it, and I never seen him again after I dropped off the car.‖
―So what‘re you sayin‘?‖
―Cato or Sipe. Either one of them could of done the score, too. Or even both of them. I don't know. I'm just saying maybe they could of. Know what I mean?‖
―Yeah, Joe, I know what you mean. You mean to say you didn't do it.‖
―No sir, Mister Budwister. I did not do it.‖
Doc stopped in Holbrook and bought hamburgers and fries for everyone and then stopped at the edge of town so Herman could buy a six-pack of beer before they continued east toward Albuquerque.
―You want to stop and see your old lady in Gallup?‖ Herman asked Doc when they got back on the road after fueling up in Saunders. ―I'll keep an eye on numb-nuts here if you want a quickie.‖
―I reckon not. I already got a headache.‖
―Suit yourself. At least stop for another six-pack.‖ Herman made himself comfortable and dozed off to sleep.
They pulled into Albuquerque just after six o'clock on Thursday evening. Wilcoxson and Chief Paul Shaver were waiting in the jail's interrogation room. Shaver was the last person in the world Herman wanted to see just then. He took the cuffs off Peters and sat him down in a chair at the end of a long table. He walked over and stood near the door. Chief Shaver joined him.
―You look a little bleary-eyed, Herman. You ok?‖
―Fine, Chief. Just fine. Little tired. Long trip.‖
The chief stood quietly for a few minutes, his hands folded in front of him, while Wilcoxson sat down at the table and began talking to Peters as Doc stood close by. Quietly, Shaver said, ―Step into the hall, Herman.‖
Doc saw them leave and he felt the uneasy twinge in his stomach he often got when he knew something was wrong. He took Herm's place near the door.
Wilcoxson began. ―Well, well, Joe, it's been a while since the power of law has been brought to bear on your sinful ass, hasn't it?‖
―Yeah well, screw you, Wilcoxson. You guys fucked up this whole deal real good.‖
―How so?‖
―Hell, I was comin‘ back on my own. I didn't do nothing. You'd waited another day, I'd a walked into yer office just pretty as you please and you wouldn't have to send them two bozos to get me.‖
Wilcoxson leaned toward Peters and sniffed like a hound dog. ―You been drinking, Joe?‖
―Hell yes. Me and old Budweiser been drinking beer ever since the middle of Death Valley. 'Course.‖
Wilcoxson stood up. ―What about you, officer?‖ he spat at Doc. You been drinking too?‖
―No sir. I have not!‖
―Find Budwister and get his ass back in here!‖
Doc opened the door. The two Albuquerque officers had not gone far, and they both came back into the room.
―What the hell is going on, Herman?‖ Wilcoxson shouted at the detective. ―Joe here says the two of you been boozing all the way back here from California. Is that a fact?‖
―Well, see, ah. Yes sir.‖
―What is that, some new kind of interrogation method that I haven't heard about yet. The cops and the crooks get drunk together and bullshit each other ‗til the bad guy incriminates himself. That it?‖
―No, Don, I….‖
―Paul,‖ Wilcoxson ordered the chief, ―get a uniformed officer up here to take Peters down to booking. We won't have any more use of him this evening. Damnation!‖
―What the hell is this all about?‖ Wilcoxson demanded after Peters was escorted out.
―Nothin', Don. Hell. It was hot. We picked up a couple of cold beers along the way. No big deal.‖
―No big deal to you, maybe. What about you, Doc?‖
―He didn't drink a drop,‖ Herman said. ―Not a damn drop, and he drove every mile of the way. Don't be layin' nothing on Doc.‖
―Fortunately,‖ Wilcoxson said, ―I don't think any laws were broken, but I do think you opened a door for him to claim he was improperly interrogated. You read him his Miranda rights?‖
―Hell no. We weren‘t questioning him. Just talking is all.‖
―Just talking, huh? And I suppose the subject of the Rice/Brown murders never came up.‖
―We talked about it. Don't you worry, Don,‖ Herman said. ―Joe‘ll cooperate. Take my word. Tomorrow he'll tell you everything you want to know.‖
Shaver shook his head sadly. ―Be in my office in the morning, Herman. Nine o'clock sharp. Bring your keys.‖ He walked out the door. Wilcoxson followed him.
―Did he mean what I think about the keys?‖ Doc asked.
―Yeah. He's gonna either fire me or suspend me. I'm goin' to the Wine Cellar for a beer. Care to join me?‖
―Nope. I'm goin' to the Crossroads Motel and get some sleep. I been drivin' all day. You'd do well to get some sleep, too.‖
―Screw it. What's done is done, and whatever I do tonight ain't gonna change what Shaver does to me in the morning. Take it easy, Doc. Thanks for the ride.‖