When the Devil Doesn't Show: A Mystery (12 page)

“My family is from Galisteo,” Gil said. “But my grandfather had an uncle from up there.” This was part of the usual conversation between Hispanics from Northern New Mexico when they met for the first time. Gil’s sister called it “proving your ties.” It was an interrogation of sorts, with each person expected to prove their family had been there for hundreds of years. Gil thought it was a way for two strangers to find a connection. Or maybe it had evolved as a way to avoid marriages among people who had too many relatives in common. His sister thought of it as a form of elitism, a way for a stranger to surreptitiously confirm that the other person was of the correct Spanish descent. Gil most often had the conversation with grocery cashiers or bank tellers after they saw his last name on a credit card or check. But he’d also had it after introducing himself to senators and judges. Gil knew he was expected to ask next about the officer’s family.

“Are you related to the Sandovals who live near Pecos?” he asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Those are my great-uncle’s people.”

The three of them had reached the front door, and Gil stopped to look at the damage. The door was of polished aluminum—a very modern door for a very old house—but had given way easily with whatever the suspects had used to ram it in.

Inside the foyer, the house opened up into a large living room with viga-lined ceilings. The walls were a stark white and hung with bright modern artwork painted with wide brushstrokes. The furniture, which included a couch and winged side chairs, was also white, and matched the area rug covering the dark Mexican tile floor.

“What did the victim do for a living?” Gil asked.

“He was retired, but he worked from home finding props for movies and TV shows,” Sandoval said. Over a glass desk, a wall held a dozen framed pictures of film sets and famous people. One was of the Coen brothers, who had shot
No Country for Old Men
in New Mexico, and another was of John Travolta, who had signed a photo of himself while in town filming
Wild Hogs
.

“You should see the extra bedroom,” Sandoval said. He walked down a small hallway and opened the door. Gil followed. Inside, it looked like a cross between a hoarder’s house and an antique shop, with furniture and household items overflowing the room. In one corner was an old-looking wooden chair with very straight angles. As Gil got closer, he realized it was an executioner’s electric chair. Next to it, on the ground, were a typewriter, a trumpet covered in gold glitter, and a foot-tall statue of Lady Justice. In another corner was an old-fashioned metal hospital bed with a clutter of junk on top. Gil could see a World War II army helmet, a pair of red cowboy boots, a knight’s shield, and what looked to be a stuffed housecat.

Gil went back out to the living room to hear Joe, who seemed not have realized that Gil had been out of the room, talking to no one in particular.

“He clearly had money,” Joe said, looking over the desk. “His computer setup is amazing. Look at that monitor.”

Gil moved toward the center of the room, where one of the white wing chairs had been placed. The state police had already taken the body away, but a large pool of blood remained behind and had worked its way into the upholstery.

“What about the condition of the body?” Gil asked.

“He was shot,” Sandoval said. “It looked like a small caliber, maybe a .22. There were lots of shallow cuts on his arms and a few burns; we don’t know what was used to make those.”

“Was there anything carved in his chest?” Joe asked.

“Yeah, the letter
L,
” Sandoval said. “That was messed up.”

“Any cuts to his genitals?” Gil asked.

“Nothing that I saw.”

“You were the first on scene?” Gil asked.

“Yeah,” Sandoval said. He looked more than tired. It was the same look Joe and Gil had had for two days. These cases were taking a toll. “I came to make contact with the homeowner, to check about a shots-fired call, but when I approached, the front door was standing open. I removed my gun from my holster and called it in on my handheld radio. The lights in the living room were on. I saw the victim, Stanley Ivanov, right away. I cleared the house then I checked for a pulse on the victim. When the backup got here, we searched the house and the grounds again.”

“What evidence was collected?” Gil asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sandoval said. “I know we got fingerprints, at least one off the duct tape used to tie up the victim, but I haven’t heard from the investigating detective where they are with that.”

“Who’s in charge of the case?” Gil asked.

“Gil Montoya?” someone behind them said. Gil turned. It took him a minute to recognize State Police Lieutenant Tim Pollack.

“How the hell are you?” Pollack said with a smile. “It’s been, what, like forever?” Gil had first met Pollack a year ago, when they were both working the homicide of a schoolteacher. At the time, there had been rumors that Pollack was leaking information to the press, even though, as the temporary public information officer for the state police, he was supposed to be the one controlling it. Nothing had ever come of the rumors, but Pollack was no longer the PIO. He still had the same intense blue eyes, shaved head, and fast speech.

As they shook hands, Gil introduced Pollack to Joe.

“You finally committed to a partner? Last time I saw you, you were going stag,” Pollack said, shaking Joe’s hand. “He’s like a lone wolf, this guy.”

“I guess that would make me part of his pack,” Joe said.

“So what’s up? What’s the deal? Why ya here?” Pollack asked, snapping his gum. “I heard about your victims who got popped in that house fire. You think the same suspect killed my guy?”

“Could be,” Gil said. “What can you tell me about your case?”

“I’m sure Sandoval gave you the lowdown,” Pollack said. “Pretty much what you see is what you get. Busted-down front door. Dead guy named Ivanov with cuts all over him. Shot in the head. We don’t know if anything was taken. We got a bunch of partial prints that we couldn’t use, but the rest led back to a guy named Tyler James Hoffman, who’s barely eighteen. And Gil, you are going to love him.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s an escaped inmate from Texas,” Pollack said. “Why does every escaped convict in the United States come here? They know we’re
New
Mexico and not the
actual
Mexico, right?”

Pollack was not exaggerating. Every week, inmates and wanted felons from all over the United States were caught in New Mexico. It was a mecca for those running from the law. They came to hide in the hundreds of miles of open desert and forested mountains. Maybe they thought they’d be like the Old West outlaws—Butch Cassidy or Billy the Kid—who’d hid from the law for years, using the deep canyons for their escapes. Most of the captures nowadays were just a footnote in police reports, since the suspects were apprehended without incident, but there were some exceptions. Back in the 1990s a trio of men robbed the Ute casino just over the Colorado border, then headed into Navajo Country, where they ditched their car and went off on foot. It was June, and they had no food or water. With nothing for a hundred miles, law enforcement officers didn’t bother to chase them; the men weren’t going to come out alive.

“So, why would I love the escaped inmate from this case?” Gil asked.

“Because that automatically makes him a problem for the federal marshals,” Pollack said. “Now I just sit on my thumbs until the boys from Phoenix get here. Then you and I get to go home and wait for Santa Claus with all the other good little boys and girls. Like I always say, don’t you love it when a plan comes together?“

“Okay,” Gil said, hesitantly.

“Tell me about your case,” Pollack said.

“It’s pretty much the same…” Joe started to say, before Gil interrupted.

“I don’t think they’re related. There are some fairly substantial differences.”

“That sucks for you,” Pollack said. “If it had been the same guy, you could be sipping on cocoa at home in your pj’s by this time tomorrow. Oh well, life is like a rodeo. Sometimes you get the bull by the horns, sometimes the bull gets you.”

CHAPTER TEN

December 22

Kristen Valdez tried to stack the cedar wood in the
horno
oven, but she had a hard time gripping the logs through her thick gloves. She managed to push the last log through the small opening of the beehive-shaped oven and then lit a match. The tinder caught easily, and soon a few of the logs started to turn black as the flames reached them. Inside the mobile home, her mother had a modern oven, but the dome-shaped
horno
in the backyard had to be used for the ceremonial baking. Now Kristen just needed to watch the fire for the next hour or so until it burned down to coals.

The back door of the trailer opened and her mom peeked her head out.

“Mom, it’s freezing out here. Put a coat on,” Kristen said.

“Oh,
hita,
I just wanted to ask if you were going to your cousin’s baby naming.”

Kristen sighed. Her “cousin” was actually a fourth cousin, and the baby naming ceremony would be at 7:00
A.M
. and would require everyone to stand outside for an hour. The naming ceremony was held on the fourth day after birth, when the baby is held out to greet the sunrise and is given her Pueblo name. Later the same day, there would be a baptism Mass, where the baby would get her Christian name for everyday use.

“I think I have to work,” Kristen said. That was the excuse she used for everything, but her mother just nodded and went back inside. The family didn’t mind that Kristen was a police officer. It was to be expected, since her father was of the Winter People and, since lineage was passed down paternally, so was she. The Tewa pueblos didn’t have a clan system like the Navajo. Instead, they had two groups that people were assigned to: the Summer People and the Winter People. The Winter People were associated with the north, masculinity, and minerals, while the Summer People were of the south, femininity, and plant life. Since masculinity was associated with protection, Kristen’s job as a police officer, even though it was more dangerous than working as a secretary, was easily accepted. Her mother had been of the Summer People and, as had been expected, changed to her husband’s group when they got married. It occurred to Kristen that if she married one of the Summer People, she might not get out of family obligations so easily. “Just another reason not to get married,” she thought, as she put another log in the
horno.

*   *   *

Gil and Joe were back in the car, the tires crunching through the ice on the dirt road as they drove away from the house, when Joe asked, “What was that about?”

Gil didn’t answer, and instead said, “We need to start collecting information about Hoffman.”

“He’s killed multiple people,” Joe said. “I think we need to follow the three-name rule and call him Tyler James Hoffman.”

“The three-name rule?”

“You know, how you have to use three names, like John Wayne Gacy or Lee Harvey Oswald, for really evil killers.”

“As opposed to nice killers?”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing…”

“What about Ted Bundy? He only had two names. Or Jeffrey Dahmer?” Gil didn’t wait for Joe to answer, saying, “At least we figured out why the
T
was carved in Jacobson’s chest.”

“
T
is for Tyler,” Joe said. “As in Tyler James Hoffman. But who the hell has the initial
L
?”

“I’m assuming someone in his crew.”

“Are you going to keep ignoring me or tell me the deal with Pollack?” Joe asked. “Why did you lie about the cases not being connected?”

Gil waited for a moment, choosing his words, before saying, “The state police have the right to take over any local case as they see fit. If I’d admitted the murders were similar, Pollack could have decided to hand them both off to the marshals, who might not get here for another day or two. In the meantime, no one would be trying to find Hoffman.”

“You mean Tyler James Hoffman.”

“We’ll tell the marshals about our case when they get here, but in the meantime, I want to try to find Hoffman,” Gil said. “But that would mean you’re not leaving for Las Vegas tomorrow.”

“Who cares about that?” Joe said. “I just don’t want that Pollack guy in our business. He’s a tool.”

“I thought you two really bonded.”

“He quoted
The A-Team.
Who does that?”

“You quoted
Monty Python
yesterday.”

“Do I really have to explain to you the massive difference between quoting from a piece of genius-level British humor and from a 1980s TV show where a bunch of guys drive around in a van? Do you know me at all, Gil?”

*   *   *

Lucy had gone to the store to get travel-size shampoo and conditioner. When she got back to the car, she heard her cell phone beep at her, telling her there was a message. Even though the phone was in her pocket the whole time, she’d missed a call, likely because cell phone reception in the store didn’t reach back to the hair products aisle. She listened to her voice mail. It was her brother.

“Lucy, Mom’s in the hospital. She got the flu and couldn’t keep her meds down for the last few days. She was running around outside naked … Anyway, I wouldn’t bother coming home for Christmas. She’s on the usual seventy-two-hour mandatory hold, and then the doc says they’ll keep her locked up for another week or so until her meds kick back in … sorry about the trip. We’ll reschedule.”

She replayed the message, “Lucy, Mom’s in the hospital…”

*   *   *

Gil and Joe were back in the conference room with their laptops, with evidence logs and crime scene photos spread out on the table like brochures in a real estate office. Joe had run a check on Hoffman, who had been convicted nine months earlier after a series of home invasions in El Paso. He and his accomplices would break in, assault the homeowners, then leave with some small electronics. He was arrested when one of his accomplices turned him in. He was seventeen at the time, old enough to be convicted as an adult of armed robbery and sent to a minimum-security prison in Texas. He escaped just ten days ago when he and two other inmates attacked a guard and then stole a maintenance truck.