Hermit's Peak (12 page)

“With impaired mobility of the arm?” Melody asked.

“Possibly. But what interests me most is the slight
deformity here.” He pointed to the joint end. “That's not from getting hacked up. Let's take a look at the bones.”

Campbell walked to the table and picked up the long bones. “There's the deformity again. Just the slightest bit of bowing in the humerus and femur. Run a phosphorus and calcium test on the bones. If the results show deficiencies, I'd say your victim had rickets as a young child.”

He picked up the pelvic bone. “A female, certainly.”

“Any guesses on race?” Melody asked, hoping Campbell would confirm her own assessment.

Campbell measured the humerus and the femur. “I wish you had more of the skeleton for a comparison. But if we estimate her height at five feet, four inches, which I think is a good guess, then I'd say her legs were a bit shorter than normal. Not much, but a bit.”

He put the tape measure down. “It can't be anything more than speculation, but from what I've seen, I'd say this young woman was of mixed race, Hispano-Indian, probably from the southern part of Mexico or Central America. She suffered from poor nutrition, vitamin deficiency, and woefully inadequate medical care.”

“That's very helpful, doctor,” Melody said.

“Please, it's Campbell.”

“Are you and your family enjoying your time in Santa Fe?” Melody asked as she repacked the bones.

“I'm divorced.”

Melody tried to look sympathetic. “Oh, I didn't know.”

“I'm fully recovered from it.”

She turned her attention to gathering up the evidence
and repacking it. “Have you gotten out to see the sights since you've been here?”

“Not as much as I'd hoped to. Do you have any suggestions?”

“I can give you a year's worth of ideas. If you're free, we could discuss it over dinner tonight. I'm a fairly decent cook.”

“I'd like that very much,” Campbell said.

Melody gave him her address, directions to her house, and a thousand-watt smile.

 • • • 

Post office records showed that a second individual, Isaac Medina, received mail at Santistevan's rural delivery address. Gabe stopped at the first occupied house in San Geronimo and asked the elderly woman who came to the door for directions. The woman pointed out a dwelling on a small hill behind her house. A pickup truck was parked in front of the house and smoke drifted from the chimney.

“Isaac lives there,” she said. “But Joaquin Santistevan moved away some time ago. You have to go through the village to get to Isaac's driveway. Turn right at the old store. You'll see his gate halfway up the hill.”

Gabe called in his location before he entered Medina's driveway and drove toward the house slowly, scanning it as he approached. No one was in sight.

He parked and waited a minute before getting out of his vehicle. The dwelling had a slanted tin roof that covered an enclosed porch with a row of waist-high windows. Through the windows, Gabe could see a line of upright freezers and refrigerators, all different shapes
and sizes. On the ground in front of the house were a dozen or more old washing machines, clothes dryers, and dishwashers, some scavenged for parts and some intact.

He knocked hard at the porch door and called out. A stocky, unshaven man with gray hair stepped out of the house and opened the porch door.

“What do you want?” the man said.

“Isaac Medina?” Gabe asked.

The man nodded.

Gabe showed his shield and ID. “I'm looking for Joaquin.”

“He doesn't live with me anymore.”

“Can you tell me where to find him?”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No.”

“What do you want to ask him?”

“I want to talk to him about his truck,” Gabe said.

“You mean the accident?”

“That's right,” Gabe said.

“Come,” Medina said as he pointed to the side of the house. “I'll show you. He told me he wasn't going to report it to the police because his insurance rates would go up.”

Gabe followed Medina to the back of the house where a three-quarter-ton Chevy truck with a caved-in front end and smashed windshield was parked.

“What did Joaquin tell you about the accident?” Gabe asked as he walked around the vehicle. No winch, no hydraulic lift in the bed, no wrought-iron side rails, and the truck was gray in color, not dark blue.

“He didn't have to tell me nothing; I was with him. We hit a deer. See for yourself. There's still blood, skin, and fur on the grille and bumper. It happened a mile from the house. We walked home, got my truck, towed the Chevy here, and then we butchered and dressed the deer. I still have some venison steaks in the freezer.”

Gabe looked and saw blood splatter, flakes of hide, and small strands of fur embedded in the grille. “When did the accident occur?”

“Late October, last year.”

“Where's the license plate?”

“Joaquin took it off the truck.”

“How can I contact Joaquin?”

“You're not here about the accident,” Medina said.

“His license plate was reported by a witness to a crime.”

“Joaquin is no criminal. What kind of crime?”

“Wood poaching.”

Medina laughed, showing a row of crooked lower teeth. “He doesn't need to steal wood from anybody. His father owns the biggest woodlot in the county.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Sure I do. I'm his uncle. His mother is my sister.”

“What's the name of his father's company?”

“Buena Vista Lumber and Supply.”

“Why was Joaquin living with you?”

“He was separated from his wife for almost a year. Now they're back together.”

“What's his wife's name?”

“Debbie.”

“Is she one of the Romero girls?”

“No, her maiden name was Espinoza.”

“Where can I find Joaquin?”

“He works at the woodlot for his father, Philip Santistevan.”

“Thanks, Mr. Medina.”

“Does this have anything to do with the gringo who got murdered at the cabin?” Medina asked.

“That's a completely different case,” Gabe said, quite sure that Medina would be on the phone to his nephew as soon as he drove away.

 • • • 

At midmorning, the U.S. Attorney called Kerney from Albuquerque. She wanted a face-to-face afternoon meeting on a joint task force bribery and conspiracy operation involving Social Security Administration employees and Motor Vehicle Division workers who were under investigation for selling driver's licenses and Social Security cards to illegal, undocumented aliens.

There was no way Kerney could refuse. He hung up, called Sara, explained the situation, and told her their camping trip would have to be delayed.

“There's no need to apologize,” Sara said. “We'll simply do it some other time.”

“I should be home early in the evening.” Silence greeted Kerney's comment. He waited for a response and none came. “Sara?”

“This conversation is starting to sound much too domestic,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Am I missing something here?”

“Everything's fine.”

“It doesn't sound that way to me.”

“Stop it, Kerney. I'll see you when you get off work.”

Kerney hung up the receiver, wondering what in the hell was going on. He waited a minute, dialed his home number again, and got a busy signal.

There wasn't time to brood over it. In five minutes he would be taking a phone call from a newspaper reporter about the early morning discovery of an elderly woman who had been raped and murdered at a remote farmhouse in southeastern New Mexico.

The department's public information officer had set up the call. Kerney buzzed him and asked for the fact sheet on the case.

The lieutenant came in, gave Kerney the sheet, and sat.

Kerney read it quickly. “In other words, we've got nothing so far.”

“What we've got is heat, Chief. I just got off the phone with the county sheriff. The victim was the grandmother of the chairman of the county commission. The sheriff wants the department to offer all possible assistance.”

“Has he talked to the newspapers about it?”

“Of course he has. He's a politician. He'll do his best with the limited resources available. But without the department's help—you know the rest of it.”

Kerney nodded. Laying off responsibility to the state police for major case investigations was standard procedure for sheriffs who had limited budgets, few personnel, and no technical specialists.

“I've got a TV reporter and another print journalist
standing by to speak to you after this interview is finished. They're covering the same story.”

“Don't schedule any more for me,” Kerney said.

“I'll handle whatever else comes in.” The lieutenant glanced at his wristwatch. “Your first call should be happening right about now.”

The phone rang and Kerney picked it up.

 • • • 

Buena Vista Lumber and Supply, ten miles south of Las Vegas on a state road, contained hundreds of cords of dry and green split firewood, stacks of peeled vigas used for roof beams in Santa Fe–style homes, and virtually every type of fencing material imaginable. A chain-link fence enclosed the lot.

Gabe drove to the office trailer in front of a large metal storage building and parked. He found Joaquin Santistevan inside the trailer at a desk, giving a telephone quote to a customer. On the desk was a framed photograph of a young, pretty Hispanic woman.

Santistevan finished the call and turned to Gabe. He had the same lean build as Orlando and looked to be about the same height. “What can I do for you?”

Gabe showed Santistevan his credentials. “I'm looking for a woodcutter who drives a dark blue, three-quarter-ton Chevy with a winch on the front bumper, side rails, and a hydraulic lift in the bed.”

“I see trucks like that in and out of here all the time. Do you have a name?”

“Rudy.”

“That's it?”

“That's it,” Gabe said, handing Santistevan the composite
drawing. “Does your father have an employee named Rudy?”

“No.” Joaquin looked at the drawing and gave it back.

“Maybe he does contract woodcutting for your father.”

“I handle that end of the business. Nobody who looks like that cuts wood for us.”

“What did you do with the license plate from the truck you left at your uncle's place?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It was reported to be on a vehicle used in a crime.”

“Somebody needs glasses.” Santistevan stood up. “We've got a wall of old license plates in the storage building. I added it to the collection. It's been there for months. Want to see it?”

“I do,” Gabe said, following Joaquin out of the office.

The license plate collection ran the length and width of two frame walls of a corner office. It included plates from the 1930s right up to the present, in chronological order.

“It's right there,” Santistevan said, pointing to his plate. “The tag doesn't even expire until August. What kind of crime are you investigating?”

“Wood poaching. You wouldn't knowingly buy firewood that's been illegally harvested, would you?”

“I can account for every cord in the yard, either by Forest Service permit or a contract with a private landowner.”

“Thanks for your time.”

Gabe left, parked down the road where he could see traffic leaving the woodlot, and tried to figure out
what in the hell was bothering him. It was something about the photograph of Santistevan's wife and her maiden name. Isaac Medina had said it was Debbie Espinoza.

Shit, he knew the Espinoza family, he thought to himself. He pulled out the composite drawing and studied it. It was Debbie Espinoza's brother, Rudy.

He called dispatch. “Go to Channel two,” Gabe said. Channel 2 was the secure broadcast frequency not picked up by police scanners.

“Ten-four,” the dispatcher replied, switching over.

“Run a check on Rudy Espinoza. Keep it local. I busted him about four years ago for driving under the influence.”

After a long wait, the dispatcher came back on the air.

“He's done six months' probation for a second DWI since then, and he was booked and released for lack of evidence on a breaking-and-entering charge.”

“Where?”

“San Geronimo, last summer.”

“When was the DWI bust?”

“June of last year.”

“What was he driving?”

“Hold on.”

Gabe could hear the dispatcher's keystrokes as she entered the search into the computer.

“A nineteen-ninety-four Chevy three-quarter-ton pickup, blue in color. Tags are expired. Plate number Two-six-six CJR.”

“Got an address?”

“Anytime you're ready.”

Gabe took down the information, signed off, and made contact with Duran, Houge, and Morfin on Channel 2 as he pulled onto the highway and started rolling toward the interstate.

“I've got a possible suspect in the Boaz murder,” he said as he hit the switch to the overhead lights and floored the unit.

“Go,” Duran said.

“Rudy Espinoza. He matches the information supplied to us by Boaz's ex-girlfriend and son. So does his vehicle. I may have tipped my hand.”

“Is he running?” Houge asked.

“Could be. Look for a dark blue Chevy three-quarter-ton with side rails, front-end winch, and hydraulic lift in the bed. Plate number Two-six-six CJR, tags expired.”

“Where?” Morfin asked.

“Ojitos Frios. ID any other moving vehicle that looks suspicious.”

“Armed and dangerous?” Duran asked.

“Roger that,” Gabe said. “Run Code three, lights only, and stay on the air. Give me locations and ETAs.”