Bloodville (14 page)

A month to the day after Bud died, Flossie Rice placed a long distance telephone call to Clarence Mumfee in St. Johns, Arizona. Mumfee, a black man born and raised in a white town, made an adequate living over the years as an independent contractor doing jobs no one else wanted to do. He pumped septic tanks. He cleaned out chicken coops, hog pens, and dairy barns. He cut and sold firewood. He bought and sold scrap iron and he did auto salvage work.

―Clarence, you still interested in wrecking out some of them old cars Bud left out back of the trading post?‖ Flossie asked.
―Miz Rice, I'm sure mighty sorry to hear about you losin' old Bud the way you did. Just too bad, you ask me. I knowed him since the Lord created dirt.‖
―Thank you, Clarence. Now, about the cars....‖
―Why, yes, I'd be mighty interested in doin' the work. What kinda deal you got in mind?‖
―I don't know. What'd you and Bud talk about?‖
―Never did get that far. I made an offer and he always said he didn't need no damn nigger messin' with his salvage; said he wrecked out junk when he felt the urge and didn't need no help doin' it neither. I always figured I'd wreck 'em out, give Bud the good parts and sell the rest for scrap and we'd divvy up the proceeds. I figured it'd make his life some simpler and give me a little profit to boot. I couldn't never convince him of it though.‖
―No good for me. I'm not stayin‘ in the car repair business so I won't need no parts. I just want to get rid of some of that junk and turn it into money in the bank.‖

―Tell you what, Miz Rice, I'd be willin' to do it on shares. Fifty fifty. You got the junkers and I got the strong back and weak mind. I wreck 'em out, sell the parts and the scrap, and we split the proceeds right up the middle.‖

―How much do you think we'd be talking about, Clarence?‖ ―I don't rightly know. Bud never let me get a real good look at everything he had out there. Hundred dollars a car, maybe. Maybe more for some of them. Maybe less. They‘s probably some of them that can be sold as is, not wrecked out. You could sell them without me havin‘ anything to do with it ‗cept I‘d pick ‗em out for you.‖
―When would you get started?‖
―Be after the first of the year if the weather's good. I ain't wadin' snow to wreck out no junk cars. I'm gonna need a place to sleep, for me and a helper too. You got any suggestions, Miz Rice?‖
―Blanche Brown's little house is empty. I sent her things back to Maryland. You could stay in there. Who's your helper?‖
―Young fella used to help me out some before. Hung around with my daughter. I don‘t reckon you ever met him. Name's Max Atkins. He got in trouble over some bad checks down in Phoenix a couple years back and got sent to the Florence pen. He's supposed to get out around New Years. I spoke up for him to the prison people and they gonna let him work for me while he's on parole. He's a good boy, mostly. When he ain't drunk.‖
Mumfee didn‘t feel comfortable telling Flossie everything he knew about Atkins‘ considerable criminal record which extended back five years to West Virginia, long before Max landed in the Arizona pen for using a stolen credit card. Clarence also didn‘t tell Flossie that Max was white, and the father of his granddaughter.
―He's your problem, Clarence. I'm gonna talk to some folks and see if you're takin' advantage of a poor widow woman. If you ain't, we got a deal.‖

At mid-week before Christmas in 1967, a major snowstorm swept down from Canada and spread out over the American Southwest. New Mexico, from Santa Fe to Gallup, took a heavy hit with snow blowing into six- and seven-foot drifts in the high country. Many roads, especially those through mountain passes, were closed. In the capital city, only the main thoroughfares had been plowed out when Deputy Chief Charles Scarberry made his way to State Police headquarters on Cerrillos Road at the south end of town. He prided himself on never missing a day at the office, come hell, high water or three feet of snow. The weather could therefore be no excuse for any subordinate who wanted to stay at home for the day.

He'd taken his first sip of coffee and unfolded the Santa Fe daily
New Mexican
and spread it out on his desk when his phone rang. Scarberry knew the call was something important when he heard the voice of Chief Sam Black and not the chief's secretary, Chere Ortiz. On the other hand, maybe not. The weather was bad. Chere didn't make it to work when the humidity rose above 75%, let alone when snow covered the ground or the wind blew. She and the chief had a very special relationship.

Scarberry topped off his coffee cup before he climbed the stairs to the second floor of the headquarters building. Fitted with floor to ceiling windows, the chief's office always seemed impersonal and institutional. Outside, to the northeast, past two flagless flagpoles and a stand of tall ponderosa pines, all swaying in the cold winter wind, rose the snow covered Santa Fe foothills. Beyond them were the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, their highest ridges obscured by fast moving gray/white clouds. Scarberry didn't take any notice of the view. He took an uncomfortable seat in an over-stuffed chair facing his boss who sat on a leather couch across a low coffee table. The Chief fouled the room's over-heated air with acrid smoke from his ever-present Roi-Tan cigar.

Scarberry hated Black's habit of making him commit himself before he knew what the question really was, or would be. ―Torrez is runnin' the show and he's got Spurlock doin' the leg work. Blind leading the blind, if you ask me.‖

―Why is that, Charlie?‖
―I know you and Torrez are tight. The way you handled my letter on him pretty well proved that, but he listened to Wilcoxson and let that Bunting son-of-a-bitch off the hook.‖ Scarberry sipped his coffee, thinking about what he should say. ―This new investigation is a waste of time and my recommendation is that we close it out. Spurlock ain't gonna find out anything new unless they go back to lookin‘ at Bunting.‖
―I'd think you'd want to see Bud's killer caught?‖
―We caught him, and then let him go.‖
―Don't you think there could‘ve been an honest mistake made, Charlie? Ain't it possible Flossie was mistaken and the real killer is still out there running around somewhere?‖
―I doubt it, Sam. I know Flossie about as well as I know anyone. She's hardheaded. She wouldn't make a mistake like that.‖
A built-in bookcase—containing no books—covered one entire wall of the chief's office. The shelves served as a display case for a dozen or more framed photographs of Chief Black at various stages of his career and in the company of various politicians: U. S. Senators Dennis Chavez, Joe Montoya and Clint Anderson; Congressmen Tom Morris and Johnny Walker; Governors Ed Mechem, Jack Campbell and Dave Cargo. The bookcase also doubled as a service bar for an electric coffee pot, a half dozen cups, cream and sugar. The chief stood and walked over to the coffeepot. He filled his cup without offering to fill Scarberry's.
―I'm making a couple of changes around here. This Bud Rice thing produced some heat.‖
―Like what?‖
Black resumed his seat and relit his cigar. ―Like Lieutenant Governor Lee Francis. He ain‘t a happy man. Two out of three murders, right in his own back yard, have yet to be solved. Jack Elkins made an arrest in less than a week on that Montaño killing last summer, but, Lee says, in spite of the leadership of the deputy chief of the State Police, it's been more than a month and we don't even have a suspect in the Rice/Brown murders. I gather that Bud was a regular and generous contributor to Lee Francis' political campaigns.‖
―Bud thought Lee Francis was a horse's ass.‖
―Maybe. But he greased the skids anyway. Then there's Senator Floyd MacLaurie out of Grants and western Valencia County. Chairman of Senate Rules Committee. He told me he thought better of State Police investigations. Says he's been told that the deputy chief made some real doubtful decisions and issued some questionable orders which resulted in our current problems with the case.‖
―Who the hell's he been talkin' to?‖
―I don't know for sure, but I‘d guess that DA investigator out there. What's his name?‖
―Mitchell. Jim Mitchell.‖
―That's right. Jim Mitchell. Lot of pull with the local Democrat party. A real comer, they tell me. Anyway, the department can't take the heat, Charlie. Tom Fetter‘s been on the phone between Governor Cargo, Lee Francis, Floyd MacLaurie, and me. Several times. Recently as fifteen minutes ago.‖
Scarberry knew very well that short, little, gray headed Tom Fetter—the owner of a hardware store in Portales and a close friend of Dave Cargo—was chairman of the State Police Board and much taken with his own importance. Fetter even had a police radio installed in his personal car so he could monitor law enforcement activity as he traveled around New Mexico making sneak inspections on State Police officers and district offices. Fetter was fond of writing letters to the chief regarding officers who spent too much time on lunch or coffee breaks. Scarberry despised the man but kissed his ring as appropriate.
―Effective immediately,‖ Chief Black said, ―you are divested of official interest in the Rice homicide and any other investigation currently active with this department.‖
Scarberry stood up. ―What the hell are you sayin', Sam?‖
―I said we're reorganizing. Sit down, Charlie. I don't need you hulkin‘ over me like a goddamn grizzly bear. Come January one, the State Police Department will have two deputy chiefs. Fetter got the board to approve it by a telephone survey of the members. You'll be in charge of uniformed services. The other deputy chief will be in charge of Investigative Services: Criminal, Narcotics, Intelligence, Internal Affairs. They call it division of responsibility.‖
―Divide and conquer is what I call it. Goddamn politicians.‖ The deputy chief sat on the edge of his chair.
―Call it whatever you want, Charlie.‖ The chief sipped his coffee and puffed his cigar.
―And just who in the hell is my counterpart gonna be? Mat Torrez? You seem to think that son-of-a-bitch can't do no wrong.‖
―Not a bad idea, but I couldn't bring it off. Cargo likes him too, but Mat doesn't have enough political clout. No. Martín Vigil.‖
―He's a hot-shot. Thinks he knows everything.‖
―He's also a Deputy Chief of the State Police beginning in two weeks, no matter what you think of him. The Governor likes him, and he‘s built himself a good, solid, political base up in Rio Arriba County. Election year starts in less than two weeks, Charlie. You seem to overlook that. Cargo needs help up north what with Reyes Tijerina and the Tierra Amarilla shootin' match, and all.‖
―I thought Cargo liked me, too. I busted my ass for him last year, you know.‖
―Yeah. You had officers haul his wife from Belen to Santa Fe a couple times. Hell of a favor, Charlie, but he must like you anyway. If he didn't, you'd be downstairs in personnel making arrangements for your pension. You didn‘t do yourself no favor when you jerked Torrez off the Tijerina thing and put him on Bud‘s murder full time. Look, Charlie, you know how it works. I need to have something to tell the legislature and the governor. Marty Vigil is it.‖
Scarberry got to his feet again and stood near the big windows facing the chief. The glare of a cloud-muted sun at his back made him appear a flat, black, silhouette. ―Sure, Sam. I know. I need to just duck out of sight and keep my mouth shut for now. Good of the department and all that crap. I'll do it, and I'll stay around too. You can count on it. I still figure on being chief of this outfit. The way you chain-smoke them stinking seegars, you'll be out of here in a couple more years, or dead, I figure.‖
―Maybe I will, Charlie, and maybe I won't, but I appreciate your attitude on this. We don't want to leave the impression that we had a major personnel shake-up in the State Police Department. We just want to show all concerned that we can adjust and adapt to the needs of our constituency.‖
―I want Freddy Finch assigned to me,‖ Scarberry announced.
―What for?‖
―As the head of uniformed services, I need an aide. I want Freddy Finch.‖
―He might not like getting bounced out of the Narcotics Bureau. He used up a lot of suck to get in there.‖
―He'll take the transfer, and promotion to sergeant. I know Freddy. Besides, he's already doing a little work for me that I want finished up.‖
―Sergeant too. Ok. I'll see to it. What kind of work‘s he doing for you, Charlie, besides carrying your golf bag?‖
Scarberry ignored the jab. ―Organization and administration stuff. He's got a good eye for organization.‖
―I'll take your word for it. Where do you think he should be officially assigned?‖
―Fleet Management. I'll take care of the rest. If it's all the same to you, Sam, I'm gonna take the rest of the day off. In fact, come to think about it, I think I'll take annual leave 'til the first of the year. I've got the time comin', then some.‖
―You do that, Charlie.‖ The chief stood and walked to his desk. He thumbed through his calendar. ―I'll see you on the morning of Tuesday the second of January. Plan on a meeting with me, Tom Fetter and Marty Vigil at nine o'clock.‖

The sky‘d cleared and the sun shone brightly, but the day remained Arctic cold. Wind-blown snow swirled around the few cars in the parking lot as Scarberry left headquarters. His nature wouldn‘t allow him to quietly surrender half of his command. Pay-back‘s a bitch, he thought, and certain State Police officers were about to find out just how true that was. Freddy Finch would do nicely as his right hand in getting the job done. Freddy‘d happily do anything the deputy chief asked him to do.

Many New Mexico State Police Officers live in house trailers because the department will pay to move them as a part of transfer from one duty station to another. The tin houses often occupy space on public property—school grounds, National Guard armories, Highway Department maintenance yards—or on land donated by some private citizen who likes the idea of having a State Police officer living nearby. Doc Spurlock parked his fifty-foot mobile home behind Gallup's Jefferson Elementary School and hooked it up to the cafeteria‘s utilities.