Adios Angel (14 page)

“No.  I find it a vile habit.”

“Did anyone who chews tobacco come back into this
area?” asked Zeb.

“The only three people that have been back here in the
last week are you, your deputy and me.”

“I guess there is a pretty good chance we have
ourselves a tobacco chewing thief.  If you find anything else, would you please
let me know?”

“You can count on it, Sheriff.”

Zeb smiled.  Somehow it felt right to have Josh call
him that.

“Sheriff
Hanks just checked in.  He said he wanted you to call him right away if you
have anything new.  Here are your phone messages.”

Kate took
the pink slips from Helen and headed for the communications room.  The first
message was from her grandmother wondering what time she was planning to stop
by the Desert Rose Nursing Home. The second was from the editor of the Eastern
Arizona Courier requesting an update on the school bombing investigation for
the current edition of the weekly paper.  The third call was from Eskadi Black Robes. 
He wanted her to call as soon as possible.  Kate activated the radio set and
signaled the sheriff’s car.

“Sheriff,
this is Deputy Steele.  Helen said you wanted me to check in.”

“I’m down in
a hollow, but I can hear you pretty well.  What have you got?”

“I’ve got
some new information.”

“Go ahead.
Let’s have it.”

“You know
that beat up Chevy Vega with the leaky radiator that Lorenzo García said he
helped fix?”

“Yes,”
replied Sheriff Hanks.

“It turns
out the same guy had the same water leak problem about fifteen miles further
down the road.  I found another man who told me a young Mexican male stopped at
his house and asked for some water for his radiator.”

“Did both
people who saw the driver describe him the same way?”

“Yes, the
given descriptions match in height, weight, hair color and length, age, right
down to the silver necklace with a silver cross around his neck.”

“By any
chance did the second witness see anyone in the car with him?”

“Negative,”
replied Deputy Steele.

“Thanks,
Deputy.  I’m on my way back to the office now.  Out.”

Kate
returned to her office, scribbled a few notes from her conversation with the
sheriff and picked up the phone to call Eskadi.  He sounded perturbed.

“Why is it
when a First American calls a deputy sheriff, it takes forever to get a return
call?  I bet if I was some White person with a problem you would have called
last night.”

“Don’t you
even bother to say hello?” asked Kate.

On the other
end of the line Eskadi Black Robes emitted a grudging grunt as a substitution
for a greeting.

“To answer
your question, I was working.  I thought your call was personal so I was
waiting until I had more time.  I didn’t want to have to rush when I called. 
What’s the problem?”

“I’m sorry. 
It’s just that I can’t get any cooperation from the police anywhere.  It is
truly a matter of the police not giving a damn about Native Americans--even if
the police have native blood flowing through their veins.”

“Eskadi,
getting short with me isn’t going to solve anything.  Please, why don’t you explain
to me what you’re talking about?”

Kate was
beginning to feel the downside of dating a tribal chairman who believed that
the White man conspired against the Indian at every turn.  An education at the
University of California Berkeley had turned him on to the radical branch of
the American Indian Movement.  His politics of intolerance of Whites and other
authority figures frequently rose to an unreasonable level.  His position at
the San Carlos Reservation had done little to quell his rage.

“The damn
police in Tucson don’t give a good goddamn about a missing person from the reservation. 
Even if they might have her body,” said Eskadi.

“What are
you talking about?  A missing person situation?” asked Kate.  “You know the
reservation isn’t their jurisdiction.  You would raise holy heck if they came
on the reservation without your permission.”

“Hell, yes I
would.  But this is different.  It’s a missing kid.”

“Did you
report it to the reservation police?”

“They don’t
seem to give a shit either.  No one cares if a dark-skinned, Native American
child is missing.  It would be an entirely different situation if it were a
blond haired, blue eyed kid.

Kate knew
that there was a small seed of truth in Eskadi’s observation.  Obviously there
had been a misunderstanding somewhere along the chain of command.  An angry
Apache and a stubborn city cop in Tucson mixed like oil and water.

“Maybe I can
help,” said Kate.  “Tell me what you told the police.”

“I was
listening to the news when they had that story on about the young girl’s body,”
said Eskadi.

“Are you
talking about the young woman who was found in a burned up truck in Tucson?”

“Yes, I am. 
The reporter said the truck was stolen from outside of Safford.”

“That’s
right.  The truck belonged to Lorenzo García.  He lives outside of town just
south of reservation land.”

“The news
report said the body was a young female, slight build, about five feet tall. 
Possibly Mexican…maybe Native American…maybe mixed blood.”

“The
possibly Native American part is news to me,” said Kate.  “Where did you hear
that?”

“I didn’t
need to hear it.  Those White cops and White coroners wouldn’t know one dark
skinned person from another.  To them we are all the same.”

“I think
you’re making quite a leap.”

“Try seeing
it through my eyes,” said Eskadi.

“Tell me
what you have,” pressed Kate.

“Kaytee
Brince’s daughter, Layna, is missing.  She fits the description I heard on the
radio to a tee.”

“What makes
you think Layna is the dead girl?”

“I’ll tell
it to you just like I told it to everybody else.  Layna and her boyfriend have
been picked up twice for joy riding.  They have a history of borrowing trucks
that don’t belong to them.”

“Borrowing?”

“Kaytee
Brince called me because Layna’s been missing for a week.  She thought she was
staying over at her boyfriend’s house, but he’s gone too.  He has been missing
for a week or more as well.”

“Did anyone
file a missing person’s report?” asked Kate.

“They’re
doing it today.”

“Not a lot
can be done until a missing person’s report gets filed.  Nobody would know where
to begin.  Did you tell Mrs. Brince to make sure to mention that her daughter
has a history of vehicle theft and joy riding?  Believe it or not it might
actually speed up the process a bit.”

“There’s no
history of that stuff,” said Eskadi.

“But you just
said--,”

“I said they
got picked up for joy riding.  Each time the truck was returned without any
damage.  Nobody pressed charges.  Not everybody follows the ways of the
Whites.  Some people make allowances for kids who do stupid things.”

“Give me a
description of the two missing kids.  You’re in luck because the detective in
charge of the case is an old friend of Sheriff Hanks.  I have to talk with him
anyway.”

“Why don’t
you come up here and talk with Kaytee?” asked Eskadi.  “She is pretty shook up
because no one is willing to look for her daughter.  It would be very helpful
to me if you would drive up here, and perhaps allay her fears a little bit.”

Kate was up
to her ears in work.  The San Carlos Reservation was technically out of her
jurisdiction.  Anyway, Eskadi was probably the one who got Mrs. Brince worried
to begin with.  If Layna and her boyfriend had a history of joyriding, they
would probably show up soon.   Eskadi, as usual when it came to police matters,
was leapfrogging ahead of himself and the legal process.  Kate glanced at her
watch.

“Where does
she live?”

“Just east
of High Rolls off of Indian Route 9 near the Black River.  When you get to the
first road past the railroad crossing just north of the intersection of Indian
Route 9 and Indian Route 4, hang a right.  You’ll see my truck,” explained
Eskadi.

“Is she
there now?”

“No.  She’s
sitting in my office about five feet away from me.”

“Give me an
hour and a half.  I have to finish a couple of things here at the office.”

“Thanks,
Kate.  I’m sorry about being short with you.  It’s just that in my job I am
supposed to be able to get things done for my people.  Sometimes dealing with
the White man’s bureaucracy puts me at my wit’s ends.”

“Forget it. 
If Layna Brince was the girl in the pickup, we had better know about it.  If it
isn’t her, we need to know that too.”

“There is
one other thing too.  I almost forgot.  Somebody else reported a pair of
missing license plates.  This time there was an eyewitness.  The thief was a
White man with a big gun.  I thought you would want to know.”

“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.”

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.