Apache Country Read online

  He snapped his briefcase shut to emphasize his displeasure and stood up. “Joe, keep me posted, yes? Day or night.”

  “Sure, Olin.”

  As McKittrick and Wally Paul hurried off to their TV interview and the rest of the staff returned to their duties, Easton followed Joe Apodaca into his office. The sheriff threw himself into his chair, angrily spinning it left and then right.

  “Jesus, that guy!” he gritted, blowing out his breath gustily. “Why is he always such an asshole?”

  “And you caught him on his good day,” Easton said.

  Joe managed a grin. “You know, there was a moment back there I thought Tom Cochrane was going to spit in his eye.”

  “There was a moment back there I thought you were,” Easton said, and waited. Joe got around to things at his own speed. He got up from his chair, poured coffee into two mugs and handed one over.

  “Been thinking,” he said, drawing it out. “I figure someone ought to go over and see Ellen Casey.”

  Easton frowned. “RPD already talked to her, Joe. She’ll have told them everything she knows.”

  “Ye-es,” Joe said, as if reluctant to say more.

  “She’s probably in shock. The whole family, come to that,” Easton pointed out. “It would be an intrusion.”

  Apodaca looked up, his eyes unreadable. “I know. But I thought maybe you could, you know, talk to her, get some sense of what was going on in her world.”

  The penny dropped. “Let me see if I’m getting this right,” Easton said. “What you mean is, go out there and be supportive and understanding and tell her how much we all hate to intrude on her grief, then sort of slip in a couple of personal questions, like was Casey cheating on her or was she cheating on him, that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah, that sort of thing,” Joe said, not looking at him. “You and Ellen used to be pretty close, didn’t you?”

  But not any more, Easton thought. That line of Scott Fitzgerald’s about the rich being different came back to him. No matter how often they welcomed you into it, you never became a part of their world unless you were rich, too. The game was too expensive. The numbers were too big.

  “No way,” he said flatly.

  Joe shrugged. “Then I’ll have to send someone else. Jack Basso, maybe.”

  “You’d do it, too,” Easton said. “You bastard.”

  “Knew I could count on you,” Joe smiled.

  Chapter Three

  Easton was about halfway down Country Club Road on his way to the Casey home when the radio crackled and the dispatcher patched Joe Apodaca through. His voice was tense with excitement.

  “Get your ass back here pronto,” he rasped. “State cops just told us, yesterday they arrested a guy who looks good for the Casey killing.”

  “What?”

  “Some guy called Ironheel.”

  “Ironheel?”

  “Native American. Apache.”

  “What?” Easton couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.

  “I know, bizarre,” Joe rasped. “But this looks like our guy, Dave. Blood on his clothes, Casey’s billfold in his pocket. Damned near killed two State cops who tried to arrest him. So get back down here.”

  “On my way,” Easton said as he flicked on the siren and did an illegal one-eighty at the next junction.

  Avoiding the six o’clock traffic by using Atkinson, which ran parallel to Main north and south, he was back downtown inside ten minutes. He was still trying to get a handle on what Joe had told him. Robert Casey and his grandson murdered by an Apache? The word ‘impossible’ kept floating into his mind.

  Pulling into his slot in the storm-fenced parking lot behind the courthouse, he saw satellite vans parked along Virginia and a bunch of reporters milling on the ramp leading to the entrance to the old jail; it hadn’t taken long for the vultures to smell blood. Or maybe McKittrick had tipped them off. Olin loved headlines, especially when they had his name in them.

  To make sure none of the reporters saw him, Easton walked all the way around the front of the building and crossed the street a block up, going into the Sheriff’s Office building by the rear entrance.

  He could feel the contained tension in the air as he hurried through to Joe’s office. Gloria Fresquez, Joe’s secretary and Girl Friday, looked up as he appeared. Slim, dark-haired and attractive, she usually wore a smile that could light up the room. Right now, though, she looked dispirited and he wondered why.

  “‘sup?” he asked.

  “McKittrick’s inside,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the doorway. That explained the glum look.

  “And pleased with himself, right?”

  “Like a pig in a truffle farm.”

  Looked like McKittrick still had a long way to go in the hearts and minds department, Easton thought, and went on in. Joe Apodaca’s office was faceless, a cluttered room that always smelled of coffee. The furniture, if you could call it that, consisted of a battered old desk, a couple of filing cabinets, a dusty PC, a scanner and an Epson printer on a side table – Joe wasn’t much on hi-tec – with some files stacked alongside. A window looked out on to the parking lot. The only decoration, if you could call it that, was a wall calendar from the Riverdale Seed Company with a photograph of Main Street in 1898.

  The sheriff was sitting at his desk drinking coffee. Olin McKittrick swiveled around in the visitor’s chair as Easton came in, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. Gloria had him pegged exactly right, Easton thought. A pig in a truffle farm. Probably already called the Governor. Just to keep him informed, of course.

  “Ah, Dave, there you are,” he said warmly, as if they were old friends meeting after a long time. “Isn’t it great we nailed this guy so fast?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Easton said and hitched a buttock on the corner of Joe Apodaca’s desk. “What’s the story?”

  “Yesterday about six thirty, two State cops on patrol see this guy walking north on 286, miles from anyplace,” Apodaca told him. “So they check him out. He has blood on his clothes but he’s not injured. When they ask him how it got there and he clams up, they decide to bring him in for questioning. They’re not expecting any trouble, maybe they’re a bit sloppy. Anyway, when they try to cuff him he grabs the nearest trooper and rams his head against the car. Then he whacks the other one so hard it puts him right out of it, bim-bam, both of them down. Then he takes off into the brush like a jackrabbit.”

  “The first trooper’s concussed and bleeding like a stuck pig but he manages to get his gun out. Sees the guy legging it, fires a shot into the air and yells halt,” McKittrick said, taking up the story. “Guy freezes, obviously knows the next one will be for real. Trooper herds him back to the car, cuffs him to the rear bumper, radios for help, then passes out.”

  “Boys in the riot squad got there, said it was like the gunfight at the OK Corral,” Joe said angrily. “One trooper with a ruptured spleen, they’ve got him in an ICU at Riverdale General, the other half in, half out of the car, four-inch gash in his head. Blood all over the place. And the guy caused all the trouble is sitting there cuffed to the bumper, like none of this has got anything to do with him.”

  “Where exactly did all this happen?”

  “About ten miles north of where Casey was killed,” McKittrick said, emphasizing it in case Easton hadn’t caught the significance.

  “Mess like that, people must have seen it. Didn’t anyone stop to help?” Easton said.

  “Ha!” Joe said disgustedly. “When’s the last time you heard of civilians stopping to help cops?”

  “So they brought him in. And …?”

  “They were going to stick him in the SP jail unit, bring him up in tomorrow for arraignment,” McKittrick said. “But when they searched him they found Casey’s billfold in his pocket. Checked with the family, found out Casey was missing, called us.”

  “He still in the SP slammer?”

  “You kidding?” McKittrick grinned. “Minute we got the news I sent Jack Basso down th
ere to haul his ass up here.”

  Jack Basso was SO’s badass deputy. All two hundred twenty pounds of him. He was hard to like, but when it was down to muscle rather than brain he was a useful man to have around.

  “He give Basso any trouble?”

  Joe shook his head. “Came in like he wasn’t involved.”

  “Has he copped a plea?”

  “Not yet,” McKittrick replied. “It doesn’t matter much. We’ve got him cold. “Easton looked at his boss. “Who’ve you given this to, Joe?”

  “Cochrane and Irving,” he said. “They’re questioning him right now. Here’s his stats.”

  He handed over a computer printout of the details taken when the prisoner was processed.

  “Chiricahua Apache,” Easton noted. “That’s unusual.”

  The Chiricahua Apache were an Arizona tribe. Most New Mexican Apache were Mescaleros or Jicarillas.

  He leafed through the rap sheet. James Ironheel, age thirty-three, height five ten, weight one-hundred eighty-two, occupation firefighter. Two jail terms for burglary, a string of convictions for petty larceny, drunk driving, parole violation. Some firefighter.

  “What was his story on the billfold?” he asked.

  “Claimed he found it on the highway.” McKittrick gave a mirthless laugh. “You want to get me odds on that in Vegas?”

  “You don’t think this is all a tad too easy?”

  “Oh, spare me, please,” McKittrick said impatiently. “There’s only one way this turkey could have got Casey’s billfold. He killed him for it.”

  “And Adam?”

  McKittrick didn’t say ‘Don’t be stupid,’ but it was obvious he wanted to. “The kid could ID him, Dave,” he said patiently.

  “Yeah, but why cut his throat? Why not just shoot him, too?”

  McKittrick shrugged. “He’s an Apache. Maybe they get off on stuff like that.”

  Easton didn’t answer that one. “Was he carrying the gun? Or the knife?”

  McKittrick shrugged. “He probably dumped them. I’ll send a team out there tomorrow. Metal detectors, the works. If they’re there, we’ll find them.”

  “You sound pretty confident. That mean you’re going to file?”

  “Already have,” McKittrick said, a shade of defiance in his voice. “I’ll get him arraigned Monday. That will give you guys ten clear days to make our case.”

  “Gosh, thanks.”

  McKittrick glared at him but didn’t reply.

  “Has he got an attorney, this Ironheel?” Easton asked.

  “He waived.”

  Easton frowned. He knew a little about the Apache, their history and their culture, and one thing he knew for certain was they didn’t trust white-man law, often with good reason.

  “I’ll call the public defender,” he said. “If what you say is true, this guy’s going to need all the help he can get.”

  “Don’t have to break a leg on that, Dave,” Apodaca protested. “We need time for a run at this guy before the PD shuts him up.”

  Easton shook his head. “He’s got the same rights as anyone else, Joe.”

  “Oh, for Chrissake, nobody’s asking you to railroad the sumbitch,” McKittrick said impatiently. “Just don’t be so over-damned zealous.”

  Easton shrugged, making a mental note to put in a call to the public defender anyway. Whether he wanted one or not, James Ironheel was going to need an attorney.

  “Something else,” he said. “Mart Horrell said Casey was killed with a high powered pistol. A .357 Magnum or a .45, right?”

  “And?”

  “Where would an Apache with a sheet like this guy’s get hold of that kind of a gun?”

  “He’s a burglar, maybe he stole it,” McKittrick snapped. “What is this, Twenty Questions?”

  “It’s what his lawyer is going to ask you in court.”

  McKittrick didn’t speak for a moment. He looked out the window, his eyes veiled. Then he nodded.

  “I forgot,” he said. “Got ambitions to be a DA yourself one day, don’t you, Dave?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing. Go ahead, rain on my parade.”

  His patronizing air was starting to get Easton’s hackles up. “Okay, answer me this,” he said, meeting McKittrick head on. “Why Garcia Flat? This guy lives on the Reservation at Mescalero, eighty miles away, right? How does he even know Garcia Flat exists, let alone where it is? I’d be willing to bet two-thirds of the population of Riverdale don’t.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about that,” McKittrick said crossly. “He was up there, for Chrissakes. The lab already confirmed specks of blood found on his clothes and one of his shoes are the same type as Casey’s. It’ll take time to run DNA tests, but even without them, we have enough. The billfold puts him there, the blood puts him there.”

  “You know what really bothers me?” Easton said. “What the hell Casey was doing at Garcia Flat in the first place.”

  “Maybe he picked Ironheel up in town,” McKittrick said. “Maybe he made Casey drive out there.”

  Easton shook his head. “No way would Casey have picked up a hitch-hiker. Especially not with Adam on board.”

  “Oh, come on,” McKittrick said, impatiently. There were two small red anger spots on his cheeks. “He walked. He flew. Who cares? The evidence says he was there, that’s all that matters.”

  “Okay,” Easton said. “Let’s say, unlikely as it seems, Casey picks up this Ironheel guy and for reasons we can’t figure out, drives out to Garcia Flat. When they get there Ironheel shoots the old man, cuts the boy’s throat, takes Casey’s billfold. Then, although there’s a sixty-thousand dollar four wheel drive standing there with the keys in it, he elects to hike two and a half miles to the highway, heading for – did he say where he was going, by the way?”

  “Vaughn,” Joe said. His eyes were bright and alert, watching every nuance of the exchange between his chief deputy and McKittrick.

  “Olin,” Easton said. “This is bullshit. You’d have trouble convicting a mangy coyote on what you’ve got here.”

  “Explain how he got the blood on him,” McKittrick said hotly, the anger unconcealed now. “Go ahead. Tell me how he got Bob Casey’s billfold. Make me believe it.”

  “Not my job,” Easton replied. “You’re the one who’s going to have to sell this to a jury. And if you want my opinion, you’re going to have a hard time doing it.”

  “Who the hell are you, Oliver Wendell Holmes?” McKittrick snapped. “We’ve got a suspect and he’s good for it. What’s your problem?”

  The classic DA’s response, Easton thought, holding onto his temper. Whenever a case looked iffy, McKittrick would retreat behind the same barrier a lot of DA’s hid behind: I’ve got a perp and he looks good for it. Now go out and make my case for me. If we don’t have enough facts, get more. If the facts don’t fit, find some that do.

  Prosecutors played a lot of legal games these days, and whether you liked it or not, they were a fact of life. The spin doctors spun, the shrinks and the expert witnesses did their songs and dances, the deals got cut and the law got bent, and as a result good people went to jail and bad guys walked, and there wasn’t a solitary damn thing anyone could do about any of it. Easton gave up on arguing and headed for the door.

  “Think I’ll go over and see what this Ironheel guy has to say,” Easton said. You want to sit in?”

  “Pass,” Apodaca said wearily. “This was my day off, remember?”

  “What about you, Olin?”

  McKittrick shook his head. “Just make sure he pleads to the sheet,” he said.

  “You mean, even if he’s innocent?”

  “Very funny,” McKittrick said.

  Chapter Four

  It was getting along toward twilight as Easton came out the back door of the SO building, crossed Virginia, and went up the steps into the Courthouse. The satellite vans were still there, as was the knot of reporters outside the old jail. Probably hanging around hoping McKittr
ick would give them a juicy soundbite for the late news. Tonight a new development. The circus was always on parade.

  Imposing rather than beautiful, the Baca County Courthouse was a big, traditional domed stone building erected on land where the first mercantile establishment had stood back in the 1870s. It was a product of the days when they built public buildings with massive marble pillars and inlaid stone floors and Phantom of the Opera chandeliers, physical representations of the solidity and power of local government. He was kind of fond of the old place; it was like the large lady in the Marx Brothers movies, simultaneously majestic and absurd.

  Somehow the rabbit’s warren of modern offices inside the building with their partitioned workstations always struck Easton as anachronistic. In such surroundings you felt people should be using steel-nib pens and foolscap parchment instead of computers and laser printers. Right now the place was as silent as a tomb. Only the spiders worked this late.

  He went down the wide, ornately-balustraded stone stairway to the basement and then along a featureless corridor that led to the jail complex beneath the northeast corner of the Courthouse. Capable in its heyday of holding two hundred prisoners, CDC – officially the County Detention Center, but better known as El Hueco, the Hole, or maybe The Emptiness, a name Hispanic prisoners had long ago given it – was now used only as a drunk tank on Saturdays or for holding overflow when the district court was in session. Longer term custodies were housed in a new state-of-the-art County Jail south of town. In spite of its looking like something put together by a deranged Sim City nerd, the new jail was one of the most sophisticated facilities in the Southwest, its inmates enjoying conditions and food as good as anything available at the best downtown motels.

  Here at CDC things were less refined – no digital locks with daily security number changes, no hi-tech surveillance systems, just a pushbutton pad which Easton utilized to gain entrance. He checked in with duty Receiving Officer Patti Lafferty, whose job it was to process arrestees in and out. A well-built blonde in her mid-thirties, Patti looked more like a high-school tennis coach than someone whose job it was to pat down killers, rapists and all the other varieties of garbage the system washed her way. Looks were deceptive; Easton knew for a fact that Patti worked out regularly at the Riverside Spa. He’d seen her pacify and cuff fractious custodies twice her size.