Adios Angel (8 page)

Zeb headed out to see old man García who was not going
to be very happy when he heard the news about his truck.  Being the bearer of
bad news was a part of the job Zeb had come to dislike intensely, but it came
with the territory and it was his responsibility.

As he approached the García homestead Zeb saw Lorenzo,
his wife and a couple of their grandchildren sitting on a front porch swing.
They all smiled and waved as they saw Sheriff Hanks approach.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.  Sheriff Hanks
parked in Lorenzo's yard. He hesitated a moment and then got out of the car
slowly.

“Hello, Sheriff Hanks,” said Lorenzo García with a
broad smile.  “Have you brought me good news about my truck?”

Zeb walked up to the porch and greeted Mrs. García, who
offered him tea and Mexican shortbread cookies.  He had known Mrs. García since
he was a child, when his own grandmother used to have Mrs. García tell her
fortune or read her future in the Tarot cards.  Zeb had a particular affection
for the Garcías. They seemed like the perfect couple.  They were solid
citizens, good Catholic church-going folks and down to earth, hard-working
people. None of the Garcías’ extended family had ever had a run in with the law
as far as Zeb knew.  The grandchildren stood next to him admiring his gun and
uniform.  The older of the two, a little boy about seven years old, spoke to
Zeb.

"Señor, are you really a Sheriff?”

“Yes, I am,” he said tousling the young boy’s hair.

“Can I look at your gun?” asked the boy.

Sheriff Hanks looked at Lorenzo and his wife for
approval.  Their nods said it was okay.  Taking the gun from his holster,
Sheriff Hanks unloaded the weapon and held it out for the boys to touch.  The
boys looked at their grandparents for approval.

“Sí,” said Lorenzo.  “You may touch it but be
careful.”

Wide-eyed the boys each ran a gentle finger across the
barrel of the gun then quickly ran off together giggling, using their fingers
as pistols, pretending to shoot at each other. 

“Boys,” said Lorenzo shrugging his shoulders, “will
always be boys.”

Overhead clouds rolled in from across the desert
expanse.  The day darkened along with the sheriff’s mood.  Small talk would be
pointless.  There was no getting around the fact that the outcome here was
going to be bad.  Lorenzo was going to be disappointed, perhaps even angry. 
The presence of Mrs. García made things only a little easier.  Sheriff Hanks
got right to the point.

“Lorenzo, I am afraid I have some very bad news for
you.”

“You did not find my truck?” asked Lorenzo.

“No, I’m afraid your truck has been found.”

“Where?”

“In Tucson.”

“So far away,” said Lorenzo pointing toward Tucson. 
“Can I go pick it up?”

“I’m sorry,” said Sheriff Hanks.  “Your truck has been
destroyed.”

“No,” gasped Lorenzo.

“I’m afraid it is a total ruin.  It was burned up in a
fire.”

“No,” gasped Lorenzo a second time.  “Was anyone
hurt?”

Sheriff Hanks hesitated a minute before telling the Garcías
that a dead body had been found inside their Chevy LUV truck.  When he finally
told them, they both made a fast sign of the cross.  As the sheriff further
explained the body had not been identified and that the truck had stolen
license plates on it, the Garcías seemed to go into a state of shock.

“This is an omen,” said Mrs. García.  “A very bad
omen.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sheriff Hanks.  He knew they had no
insurance on the vehicle and that it would be a while before they had enough
money to buy anything but a high mileage used junker.  He departed the García
homestead with Mrs. García’s words “a very bad omen” ringing in his ears.  Five
miles from town he got a message on the two-way radio that proved her words
prophetic.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Delbert has passed on.”

At first Helen’s words made no sense to Zeb.  It was
almost as though his ears refused to hear the words from her mouth.  He asked
her to repeat what she had said.  “Delbert died twenty minutes ago.  Dr.
Yackley just called looking for you.  He gave me the sad news.”

Zeb was stunned.  The shock of it all prevented tears
from forming.  His heart sank.  He had known Delbert since they were kids. 
Delbert was one of the nicest people he had ever known.  It was not fair.  It
was not right.  Corita Funke had only Delbert.  Now, in her old age, she would
have no comfort.  Worst of all was the guilt Zeb felt.  It was his fault
Delbert was dead.  Delbert was only following his orders.  For a few seconds
that seemed an eternity, Zeb let every cell of his body feel the horrible
sensation that had just jolted his mind. 

It felt almost identical to the time when a fellow
border patrol agent, one of his team members, Darren Wendt, was shot and killed
not twenty feet from where Zeb and Josh stood. It was a bad time in the history
of the Arizona Border Patrol.  They had lost five men in a single month.  Bad
memories came rushing in like a canyon flash flood in spring.  All of the dead
Arizona Border Patrol members were murdered by thugs from a drug running and
people smuggling gang, the Crazy Cachandos. 

Now it was Delbert who was dead.  Zeb felt rage
roiling inside him.  He forced a cap on his emotions. It was quite possible he
might come apart at the seams if he let Delbert’s death get to him.  He had
been down this ugly road before.  He knew nothing would bring Delbert back. 
Delbert was gone, hopefully and most likely, to heaven.  Zeb’s faith, what he
had of it, was being tested once again.

The viewing of the body and the funeral came three
days later.  Zeb thought Delbert, in his full  uniform, never looked so
handsome.  Zeb had a curious reflection at the viewing.  The funeral director
had somehow managed to put a smile on the face of the dead deputy.

The townspeople of Safford and nearby Thatcher mourned
in unison over the loss of a native son. Doreen sang a hymn that left no one in
the church with a dry eye. The Bishop of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter
Day Saints spoke from his heart.  Friends testified to the good works of
Delbert Funke.  It seemed as though no one wanted the service to end as it
would mean the last of Delbert.  Sheriff Hanks spoke from the pulpit and allowed
some of the guilt he harbored to be shared with the community.  His words may
have helped others, but they only intensified his own feelings of guilt.  No
one blamed him for Delbert’s death, not even Delbert’s mother who wept
uncontrollably as the casket was rolled into the church, and again as the last
shovelful of dirt was tossed on the coffin.

Whoever set the explosion was now also a murderer. 
Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Steele were going to make certain that the crime was
paid for, in full.  Their investigation needed to be put into high gear.  In
the minds of Sheriff Hanks, Deputy Steele and just about everybody in the area,
each moment that passed with the murderer of Deputy Delbert Funke walking free
was a bad moment.  Justice needed to be served and it needed to be served
quickly.

In the days between the death and burial of Deputy
Delbert Funke, the entire town of Safford seemed to be on hold.  Now, with the
funeral proceedings behind them, the time to move forward was at hand.

Deputy Steele felt the greatest sense of urgency she
had ever felt in her life.  The need to solve the murder of her cohort was
taking precedence over any other professional issues, and certainly her
personal ones.

“I have some information you need, Kate,” said Zeb. 
“It might be the break we’ve been seeking.  Let’s have a look at your map.”

Removing a pencil from her desk drawer she handed it
to Zeb who pressed the rubber eraser head against the map and drew a box. 
County Roads 6, 11 and 14 marked the eastern, southern and western borders. 
The northernmost boundary angled off to the northeast and formed an imaginary
line through the jutted out southeastern tip of the San Carlos Reservation. 
The map clearly showed there were no marked roadways in this area.

“Joe Escarte, from the phone company, told me that
inside this area they are still getting some static from the downed lines.  He
thinks the noise is transformer resistance complicated by some sort of a dual
coupling problem or an electrical technical issue that I didn’t really
understand.  He says those poles out there all need to be replaced.  The ones
that got blown down were termite infested.  He said not only were they old, but
had not been treated correctly with creosote.  The way he has it figured is
this--somebody shortchanged the county when they sold them the poles.  He asked
me to look into that issue.  I referred him to the local purchasing agent for
the county.”

Kate studied the sheriff’s drawn outline.  The area
inside the box was twenty by forty miles. The eight hundred square miles seemed
huge until Zeb reiterated a point the phone company man had made.

“There are less than one hundred phones serviced by
that line.  Some of them are shared lines, party lines, but almost everyone who
uses that line lives on County Road 6.”

“It looks like we’re going to do some legwork and
knock on some--”

Deputy Steele’s comment was interrupted by a shout
from Helen.

“Sheriff.  Line one.  It’s the man who made the bomb
threat.  He wants to talk to whoever is in charge.  He won’t give me his
name.” 

Zeb Hanks stepped quickly toward his office.  As he
passed Helen’s line of sight he silently signaled her to record the call.  He picked
up the phone as Helen pointed to the already turning tape recorder.

“This is Sheriff Hanks.”

“Are you policia in charge?”

“Yes, I’m in charge.”

Zeb’s mind raced.  He had the murderer of his deputy
only a phone line away.  Was this man a psychopath checking to see how the
sheriff’s office was reacting to the loss of one of its deputies?

“I hear on radio your deputy die.  I am terrible
sorry.”

The man’s voice was heavy with remorse. Could it be
genuine?  Sheriff Hanks did not believe it for even half a second.

“I want turn myself in.  I go to jail for calling in
bomb threats.  Can you do that?  I didn’t kill no one.   I promise I don’t kill
no one.”

The man on the other end of the line began to sob. 
Sheriff Hanks was not only stunned by the man’s confession, but by his tears. 
He sounded soft, sincere and contrite.

“That can be arranged.  What is your name?”

The man on the other end of the line suddenly froze. 
Anxiety arose in the sheriff’s chest.  He did not want to lose the killer now.

“We can come and pick you up right now.  Just tell us
where you are.”

The crackling on the line increased dramatically.  The
man’s voice became barely audible amid the hissing.  His next words became
incomprehensible as the static turned to white noise before dying.

“Damn it!” said Sheriff Hanks slamming the phone. 
“The line went dead.”

“Maybe he’ll call back,” said Deputy Steele.

“We can only--.”

A shrill ring interrupted her comment.

“Please.” Deputy Steele’s voice was but a whisper. 
“Please.”

The sheriff and his deputy hurried to Helen’s desk. 
They hovered over her, listening in silence as she picked up the phone. 

“It’s him again.  He apologized for the line going
dead,” said Helen.  “He wants to talk to you again, Sheriff Hanks.”

The man was already talking as Zeb took the phone from
Helen’s hand.

“If you come and get me, that be good.  My truck, she
is broken. I am sorry to not drive myself to jail.  Please come put me in jail
so I can rest.”

This is way too easy, thought Zeb.  It could be a
set-up, a trap.  If the caller were a true psychopath, he might even have
another explosion in mind, something to send another lawman to his grave.  

“Tell me where you live,” said Sheriff Hanks.  “We
will come and get you.”

“Please just one to come and get me.  I no want to get
killed.”

“Tell me where you live.  I’ll come alone.  You have
my word.”

“You know County Road 6.”

Sheriff Hanks had been right.

“My place four miles north of turnoff on east side of
road.  My name is on mailbox.  Can you come now?”

“Yes I can come right away.  What name should I look
for on the mailbox?”

“Felipe Madrigal.”

The man sounded forlorn at the utterance of his own
name.  The line crackled.  Sheriff Hanks listened as the man once again began
to cry and apologize about the death of the deputy.

“Mr. Madrigal?”

“Sí.”

“When I come to the house, I want you to come outside
with your hands over your head.  Do you understand me?”

His quiet response was drenched in sobs.

“Sí, yes, yes.  I am very, very sorry.  No one
supposed to get hurt.  That already happen.  No more hurting.”

“I will be right there to get you.  It will take me
about thirty minutes.  I will honk the horn two times.  You come out with your
hands over your head.”

“Sí.”

“No weapons!  Put your hands over your head.  Do you
understand me?”

“Sí. Comprendo. I understand.”