Bloodville (15 page)

The December storm closed the schools and Hill Street beyond the school playground appeared snow-covered and impassable. Doc figured he'd take a respite from his frequent overnight trips to Albuquerque. The storm might give him a chance to spend some time with his wife and son. He didn't get to do it often, and he wanted to. His home life was not a happy one, a situation he wanted to change. Committed to the State Police when he married Patsy Hoffman, Doc thought she'd agreed to live with the demands of his job. She hadn't.

The department's work schedule, so-called ―general hours,‖ meant officers worked when the brass said there was work to do. Sometimes it amounted to ten or twelve hour days, six or seven days a week, with no such thing as overtime pay or compensatory time off. Whenever Doc was at home, Patsy spent most of her time bending his ear about moving back to Roswell and finding another line of work. She did not like Gallup, or the State Police. She told Doc she didn‘t marry him to live like house trailer trash behind a schoolhouse cafeteria with the constant smell of cooking fat and half way across the state from her mother.

Doc sympathized with Patsy. He wanted to go home as badly as she did, and he was frustrated because he knew that such a move was not likely to happen; at least as long as Scarberry was deputy chief. He refused to harbor the notion that he could quit the State Police and find police work, or another occupation, in Roswell or Chaves County. He liked the work he did; he took it seriously and considered it important. That‘s why he got along so well with Virgil Vee and Herman Budwister. They felt the same way he did. That‘s also why he detested Freddy Finch. Freddy cared about being a policeman but cared nothing about police work. Freddy feared law enforcement activity might interfere with his political agenda; might keep him from being chief one day.

Doc sopped up the last of his over-easy eggs with a piece of toast as the phone rang.
―I guess you're not coming to Albuquerque today,‖ Vee said.
―Hadn't planned on it. They's a hell of a pile of snow in the school yard.‖
―I know. We got snow dick-deep here in Albuquerque and the TV says you got it worse out there. Torrez said for you to give some thought to what we do next on the Budville deal since what you got from Budwister don't seem to be too helpful up to this point. He said you might as well do something useful while you sit around on your ass. Exact words.‖
―I thought he‘d assigned you to somethin‘ else.‖

―He did, but Bud Rice came up over coffee this morning.‖ ―What‘s Torrez want me to think about?‖
―Like maybe someone local did the killings. Bud wasn't exactly

popular with our Indian brothers, or much of anyone else that lives around Budville.‖
―That‘d mean Flossie and Nettie both know who did it.‖
―I guess you could look at it like that,‖ Vee said. ―But quite a few people come and go around there that Flossie might not know. You know, the teachers that live at the Laguna-Acoma High School teachers village, they come and go about every year. So do the teachers at the BIA school over in Old Laguna. The socialist workers and medical techs at the Indian Health Care Center and the section hands on the railroad turn over pretty often too, not to mention the construction workers up on the Interstate. No reason for Flossie to know all of them. Maybe somebody like that got greedy.‖
―Maybe not, too,‖ Doc said, ―but I'll give it a think, as old Uncle Penn used to say. What else?‖
―Bud spent six or seven years in state and federal court trying to stop Interstate 40 from being built, and then from opening up. Maybe he made some enemies.‖
―He probably made more friends than enemies,‖ Doc said. ―Hell, none of the business people wanted the Interstate in the first place, and the Indians as I recall, didn't much give a damn one way or the other, but I'd think if they was to take a position, it'd be against the new road. Besides, Bud's the one that muscled the feds into buildin‘ interchanges for Cubero and Los Cerritos. That shouldn't make anyone around Budville mad at him.‖
―You keep all them thoughts in mind because I know Torrez is gonna ask you about it sooner or later. I thought of something else we should‘ve checked out and I don't think anyone did. I know I didn't.‖
―What's that?‖
―Bud used to write down license numbers on the side of his gas pumps. That's why he carried that pencil stub around with him all the time.‖
―Why‘d he do that?‖
―He told me he only did it when he thought a car was suspicious for some reason or other. He figured if they skipped without paying for gas, he'd have a license plate number to call in. Wouldn't it be something if the killer's plate number was right there in front of the store all the time?‖
―That'd be somethin' all right. Hell, Vee, I can't sit around here all day knowin‘ about a thing like that. I‘m goin‘ to Budville.‖
―How are you gonna....‖
―Don't worry nothin' about it. I'll get there. I'll be in Albuquerque tonight. One way or another.‖
―As long as you're going to Budville anyway, you might ask Flossie if she'd provide you with Bud's wrecker call logs for the past couple of months. Maybe there's a motive in there.‖
―Right, Vee. See ya later.‖

Doc‘s state-owned Plymouth made deep tracks in the fresh snow on Hill Street until he reached Old 66 Avenue and turned east toward the Interstate 40 interchange. He made it to Budville with only the minor mishap of banging the right rear fender of the Plymouth into a guardrail post when he skidded on ice as he turned off the Interstate and on to the Old Road at the Chief Rancho Motel east of Grants. The llano between there and Budville seemed a giant field of cold white under a gray/black overcast sky surrounded by tree-mottled hills barely visible through billowing clouds of blowing snow. The road, plowed out a few hours before, was clear out on the flat but Doc broke through new snow in places where low hills sheltered the road from the wind and drifts piled up quickly. Traffic was light.

Some obliging State Highway Department snowplow operator had cleared the snow from the driveway of the Budville Trading Post. Doc stood at the counter and drank a cup of hot coffee with Flossie. Nettie sat quietly in her customary chair near the magazine rack, her face as pale and sickly as it had been when he questioned her more than a month before. She looked unwell and uncomfortable. Doc wondered if she was ill. He didn't ask.

Doc found it hard to visualize the night of the murders in that room, the hours he spent there with the gore and the stink, black fingerprint powder all over everything, taking measurements, drawing diagrams, lifting fingerprints, looking for the clue that would bring everything together and point the finger of guilt in the right direction. Flossie stood near where Bud's blood had soaked into the floorboards. The bullet hole in the far wall had been plugged and painted over. The bullet hole in the filing cabinet was still visible.

Spurlock didn't feel inclined to talk to Flossie about the status of the case, mindful of her resentment when Mat Torrez asked her about Bunting. Doc thought about asking if she remembered Herman showing her a photograph on the Sunday morning after Bud died but he didn't do that either. They talked about the snowstorm and Doc reported road conditions between Gallup and Budville. After a while Doc said, ―Agent Valverde told me Bud used to write license plate numbers down on the gas pumps out there. Is that a fact?‖

―He did that sometimes. When he thought somebody might skip without paying for gas.‖
―Do you reckon he wrote down a number on the night, you know, when...?‖
―When he got killed? I don't know. Like I said before, I was in the bathroom curling my hair. You notice, Nettie?‖
―He could have ... done but I didn't ... see him.‖

―You haven't noticed any new numbers on either one of the pumps since then?‖
―No. They all look about the same to me.‖
―You mind if I take a look?‖
―No I don't. Do whatever you think. I still want whoever did it to get caught. If it wasn't that man Bunting, then whoever did do it.‖
―We appreciate your help, Mrs. Rice. There is one other thing. Could you hunt out the wrecker log for the past few months, before November 18. No hurry. I can pick them up on my way back to Gallup tomorrow or Friday but we'd like to look them over.‖

―I'll do that, yes, and you be careful on that road out there, officer. It's about as bad as I've ever seen it.‖ As an afterthought, she said, ―Is that Mr. Torrez still working on Bud's case too?‖

―You tell him I said hello, would you? I enjoyed visiting with him. He stopped in one evening, right after Bud died, and I appreciated it. We had a nice talk.‖

―But you know, he told me he‘d see that I got Bud‘s money, you know, the money you said he had in his pocket, six, seven hundred dollars, whatever it was. I never have got it.‖

―I‘ll check on that for you.‖
―I‘d appreciate it.‖

The old-fashioned gas pumps dated from the late 1930's. Faded red in color, with opaque white glass globes on top, they stood six feet tall on their concrete island and each advertised the Phillips 66 Oil Company. Doc found lists of numbers on both pumps, right beside apertures where hose nozzles attached when not in use. Some notations were faint, mere pencil marks and hard to read on the pale background. The paint was thin in places as if Bud sometimes erased numbers from his list. The officer copied down the ones he could read and guessed at the others. Most seemed to be from out of state. Before each was a notation such as Cal or Tex or Arz and then the letters and numbers of a license plate. After others were letters, some alone and some in groups, such as BW or RB. The entry at the top of the list on the east pump was different from the rest. It read:

On the drive along I-40 from Budville to Albuquerque, dodging stalled cars and trucks stuck in snow banks, Doc thought about where the investigation was going and he admitted to himself that it wasn't going much of anywhere. The lead from Budwister still had promise, but not much. Billy Ray White had a dozen aliases and his rap sheet was long as a cow country barbwire fence. Most interesting was that the mug shots of Billy Ray White and Larry Bunting showed them to look as much alike as brothers. Their facial features were similar and they kept their hair cut and combed in the same style. They were within an inch of being the same height and within a year of being the same age. Nothing indicated their paths had ever crossed.

With Billy Ray White's file and photographs spread out in front of them, Spurlock and Mat Torrez had discussed how best to use the information. Doc was in favor of using White's photograph for a photo ID and trying for an arrest warrant.

―I understand that you‘d like to see this matter closed out,‖ Torrez had said. ―
Yo también
. But, let's make sure we do it correctly or we'll end up back behind the eightball again. Even if Flossie made another positive ID, I'm not sure we could get a warrant. Maybe Wilcoxson could manage it, but I doubt it. Her last identification didn't hold up, and that‘s all we have to connect this White, or whatever his name is, to these murders.‖

―I guess you're right, Cap, but damn I hate this pussyfootin' around. What do you want me to do?‖
―Send out a teletype to the western states. See if there have been any similar crimes within the past six months. Also, put out some feelers. Check with our counterparts in Louisiana. New Orleans. Check White's prison record. Find out as much about him as you can. When, and if, our investigation leads in his direction, we'll be ready.‖

Doc drove into Albuquerque as the afternoon light faded. He usually stayed at the Crossroads Motel on Central Avenue just across from the Presbyterian Hospital. The red neon ―No Vacancy‖ light blinked as he pulled into the driveway. He went into the office anyway. He thought maybe the clerk could suggest another place to stay, but the night manager couldn‘t help. With the snowstorm—the State Police discouraged travel in all directions—and Christmas less than a week away, not a motel in Albuquerque had a vacancy. The clerk said the Red Cross had cots available in the gym of Albuquerque High School a few blocks west on Central Avenue. Doc declined. He spent an uncomfortable night on the sofa in Captain Torrez's office.

As point man for the State Police investigation into the courthouse raid at Tierra Amarilla, the snowstorm was a major inconvenience for Captain Mat Torrez. Snow packed roads made it difficult for State Police agents to get in and out of the high mountain villages of northern New Mexico. The weather also made it hard for Mat to get out to Budville, and Dixie‘s Place, to see Karen McBride, but he managed it from time to time. Those trysts became important. Too often, Mat thought, when he wasn‘t with Karen, he spent his evenings alone in his house, a lonely place since his wife died, drinking vodka until he slept, often in a stupor.

Mat spent Christmas Eve with Nita. They ate dinner at Sadie's Mexican Kitchen on north Fourth Street. Mat felt proud squiring his daughter around town. A beautiful girl, he thought, blessed with onyx black hair, clear, dark eyes and smooth olive skin; her face broad and cheekbones high, she seemed always smiling. Mat marveled at how much she looked like her mother—even the way she dressed, in white cashmere sweater and charcoal gray skirt—and she had a way of saying things that reminded him even more of his late wife. He enjoyed being reminded of of Nita's mother. Their marriage provided Mat with the happiest years of his life.

The smell of chile and pork cooking in Sadie's made for a pleasant, homey, admosphere. They ate red chile enchiladas and drank Dos Equis beer before they went home to open gifts. Mat made hot buttered rum for both of them before he told Nita he'd be spending Christmas Day in Budville. Nita felt vaguely uncomfortable about the arrangement. She hadn't met Karen, didn't know anything much about her, but her father hadn't shown such interest in any woman since her mother died. On the other hand, Nita wanted to spend Christmas Day with her boyfriend, at his place, and her father's trip to Budville fit her purposes exactly. She didn't protest his absense.