by Jon Talton
“I can’t believe you,” she whispered. Her eyes did a subtle once-around-the-room. The crowd at the bar laughed uproariously at something.
We walked the half mile home, alongside streets with sparse weeknight traffic. Up Fifth Avenue to Cypress, past the big old palms and the stucco houses. The air was dry and cold. It might get down to the low 40s tonight. Lindsey had a tension in her stride, and I knew she was quietly aggravated that I had decided we should walk to the hospital, stop at My Florist, and walk home when some nut was out there who might be after me, too. I looked behind us, but the street was empty except for the shadows of the palm trees. The buzz of a helicopter—police or TV news—came from the direction of downtown.
I decided against telling her about my mysterious visitor that afternoon. After I saw the fire door open, I went back in my office and called the security desk downstairs. But the guard said he never saw anyone come out. Leo O’Keefe? It was probably just somebody who was lost and looking for the marriage license bureau in the courthouse basement. Cops could get so paranoid. So could history professors.
Finally she asked, “What about Nixon’s partner, the rookie? Is he safe.”
“He’s dead,” I said. She looked at me wide-eyed. “No, not that way. Cancer. He died in 1995.”
Time to change the subject. “Lindsey,” I said. “Have you ever heard of Camelback Falls?”
“Sounds like a new resort on Camelback Mountain. Just add water,” she said. “What is it, really?”
“I don’t know. It was a notation in Peralta’s datebook, next to my name. I saw it yesterday when I went for his insulin. But I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
She said, “David Mapstone, native Phoenician and Arizona history expert stumped? Let me write down the date.”
“I also had a run-in with Jack Abernathy, who came in Peralta’s office while I was there. He was acting strange.”
“He is strange, Dave. The deputies call him the Planet Abernathy, because he’s so far out in orbit.”
We crossed Monte Vista, one block to Cypress. She went on, “Anyway, I don’t know what Camelback Falls is. Maybe it’s like Niagara Falls.”
She stopped and gave me a kiss, all tongue and passion. She giggled, a very un-Lindsey-like action. “I’m yours ’til Camelback Falls, Dave.”
Then she took my hand snugly in hers, and we resumed our fast walk home.
Chapter Eight
By 10 A.M. Wednesday, I had already spent two hours in the records bureau, looking through case records of the Guadalupe shootout. I’m not a morning person, but I wasn’t sleeping. Until two days before, I could come here as a nobody. Or a curiosity: that former history professor who worked for Peralta. Now I created a sensation. Records clerks scurried forward to meet me, to find every file I sought, to cover their asses. With difficulty, I persuaded them to return to work and let me have some quiet. Hell, I was still nobody, and would happily return to that state as soon as Peralta popped his eyes open and started making his usual demands.
But two days after the shooting, that still hadn’t happened. The night before, we sat with Sharon as nurses came and went from his bedside like initiates in an obscure cult. We watched his heartbeat on the scratchy electronic line of the EKG, watched his chest rise and fall to the command of the respirator. I had asthma as a child, and the fear of suffocating still lingers. The respirator scares the hell out of me. The swelling of his brain had gone down, the doctors told Sharon. And their devices measured brain activity, a good sign. But he was still out cold. Sharon sat by his bed speaking to him in her soothing coloratura, a voice even nicer in person than on the radio. But the only response was the steady trace of a heartbeat, a blue-white line on the screen by his bed.
With that memory, I finished off the remains of a bagel, took another sip of my mocha, and went back to the work before me. The trauma of that May evening so many years before was reduced to four file folders on a table. Paper records. The department was moving backward, putting files into the computer database that could be viewed by deputies using laptops in the field. But that effort petered out with documents dated around 1990. I was looking at antiques of law enforcement record-keeping.
The files were a mess of incident reports, witness statements, news clippings, detectives’ notes, and court transcripts. Some faxed pages were almost entirely faded out. But sheet by sheet, the events revealed themselves. There was even a copy of the arrest report of Leo Martin O’Keefe and Marybeth Watson, with my signature and badge number—“D.P. Mapstone, 5718”—at the bottom of the page. I didn’t remember being there for the booking, but obviously I was. It was a long time ago.
The memory of the files was incomplete, but it went like this: At approximately 6:45 P.M. on the evening of May 31, 1979, sheriff’s deputies Harold Matson and Virgil Bullock stopped a suspicious vehicle in an alley in Guadalupe. The occupants of the car apparently opened fire on the deputies as they approached. Matson and Bullock never knew what hit them. Their .38 Special service revolvers weren’t even drawn.
At 7:02 P.M., Sergeant Mike Peralta and Deputy David Mapstone arrived on the scene. They encountered the suspects, who immediately opened fire on them with automatic weapons. Peralta killed two suspects. (Mapstone was pretty fucking worthless, though the record happily omitted that fact). The two dead suspects were Billy McGovern and Troyce Meadows. They were prison escapees from Oklahoma, in for armed robbery and, at ages twenty-three and twenty-four, carrying hardcore records. They had escaped from the state prison in McAlester the previous July by hiding in a laundry truck.
Charged as accessories were Leo and Marybeth. They were Okies, too. Just kids: Leo was twenty-one and Marybeth was seventeen. Billy McGovern was Leo’s cousin. Somehow the four had hooked up on the afternoon of May 31. Then the paper trail faded and disappeared. The files held no statements from Leo or Marybeth. It was the frustration of dealing with records that had been picked over a period of years, then relocated as the department grew, and finally neglected until the past reached out and threatened us. I made a note to call over to the County Attorney’s Office. Maybe they had a more complete file.
Still, the outcome was clear from court papers and press clippings. Leo and Marybeth were charged as accessories. Arraigned as a juvenile, Marybeth received five years’ probation. Leo agreed to a plea-bargain, accessory to assault on a police officer, and got a year in the state prison. It jarred me to see the name of his public defender, Hector Gutierrez, who was now one of the best known white-shoe lawyers in town. Back then, he had been called “Red Hector” for his radical politics and courtroom diatribes against “the system.”
A frayed clipping: Leo O’Keefe, imprisoned for his role in a 1979 killing of two deputies, was charged with the murder of another inmate. Then it was life for Leo, which in Arizona meant more than seven years and out on good behavior. So he was capable of killing.
A mug shot from 1979: Leo looking scared and a little stoned. A stupid kid with stringy black hair over his shoulders and black plastic-framed glasses. But he had an old-man’s face, with a knobby chin and raw cheekbones. He hardly looked the role of the hardened killer.
Then I saw myself. My God, I looked young, so damned young. My photo stared out from an article on the shooting. Peralta was there, too. I had forgotten he was sporting a thick bandito mustache back then. And even though in my mind’s eye Peralta was always the same, he, too, looked impossibly youthful. The article was by Lorie Pope of the Arizona Republic. She was a twenty-one-year-old cub reporter then. I wondered what she remembered about the case.
“So how’s it hanging, Sheriff?”
It was Bill Davidson, his long, handsome face peering around a set of filing cabinets.
“Oh, somehow I’m still employed,” I said. “How are you?” It was strange to see these senior commanders, who had mostly regarded with me indifference, suddenly chatting like old friends. Davidson was OK compared to his peers. He’d never treated me like I had two heads and ope
n sores.
“Oh, getting too old to do this stuff.” He sighed and edged against the filing cabinet, a lean uniformed man with careless posture. “Every day I come to work thinking I’ve seen just how cruel human beings can be to each other, and every night I go home with a new lesson I didn’t want to know.” His face regarded me with easy brown eyes, a thick gray mustache, long age lines in the right places on skin that was sundried and taut. It was an adult man’s face, authentic but out of place in an age of teenage boy beauty.
I couldn’t help but notice the long whitish scar on the side of his neck. It came up out of his collar and stopped just below his left ear. Davidson got that when I was still a rookie. He was the first on the scene of a guy trying to kill his baby daughter with a machete. Davidson pulled the kid out of the way and took the brunt of the blade in the side of his neck and shoulder. It was one of the bravest things I ever heard of when I was on the streets.
“I see you’re in uniform,” he said.
“I brief the media at noon,” I said. “It seemed like the right thing.”
He drew his mustache down distastefully. “I don’t envy you that,” he said. “Little light reading?” He nodded toward the array of files on the table before me.
I told him what I was doing. He said, “Sheriff, you pay detectives to do this kind of thing for you. You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I just wanted to see.” Truth was, I desperately needed something to occupy my time besides going to meetings and worrying about Peralta.
Davidson shook his head. “Poor old Matson and Bullock,” he said. “Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time. I remember right where I was that day: flat on my back with strep throat. Got it from my kid.” I didn’t know Davidson personally back then, and he probably didn’t know of my involvement in the shooting.
He said, “That killing shook up this department for years. It hit home. Hell, Harry Matson had been my training officer when I was a rookie. After that, we knew Phoenix wasn’t the same place any more.” The long etchings in his face tensed and deepened. “People were just crazy, vicious for no reason. They called us ‘pig.’ They’d set up ambushes for us. Pull out guns when all that happened is they were stopped for some petty-ass traffic violation.”
“What do you know about this O’Keefe?”
“Not a damned thing,” Davidson said.
“I just wonder if he’s capable of coming back to get revenge.”
Davidson said, “It’s always the ones you don’t think about. Not the guys that stand up in court and threaten to kill your family. Prison has a way of dealing with most big talkers. No, it’s guys like this little prick.”
We both noticed Lindsey standing behind him. Davidson turned suddenly crimson. “Pardon my language,” he said, and excused himself. Davidson was at least ten years older than me, in a generation of male cops that had been forced to accept women colleagues. But some still held these quaint taboos and social customs from an earlier time. In the right setting, it was kind of endearing.
Lindsey cocked an eyebrow. “We should all avoid little pricks, Sheriff.”
“You are so bad.” I looked at her straight on. She was in civilian clothes, a white, oxford-y blouse, short black skirt, sheer black stockings, black shoes with thick heels. She loved her monochromes, and with her hair and coloring it worked to stunning effect. I said what I thought: “Will you marry me? My God, you are beautiful.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you think so.” She reached down and scratched my shoulder. “You’re pretty sexy in uniform, Dave. This is a part of you I’ve rarely seen.”
I told her about the press briefing.
She leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Sometime you’ll have to wear your uniform at home, give me the discipline I need, Sheriff.” Her soft hair ran across my neck and face. I was instantly hard. Right there in Central Records.
“You’re blushing, Dave,” she said. “I thought all you guys who came of age in the seventies had no inhibitions.”
“I’m not blushing.” I said, feeling the heat running out into my face.
“Who’s that?” She put a long finger on the mugshot of Leo O’Keefe.
“He doesn’t look like a cop killer,” she said after I told her. “Just looks like a kid.” She pulled up a chair next to me and sat, crossing her fine dark-stockinged legs. “Now these guys.” She reached over to the prison photos of McGovern and Meadows. “You can see the sociopath in their eyes. But this kid, what was he doing out with the other two?”
“He was this one’s cousin,” I tapped McGovern’s surly face. “He and his girlfriend Marybeth somehow hooked up with them.”
Lindsey bit her lower lip. “What a mess. Could those kids have even done anything to stop the shooting?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I was trying to find their statements to refresh my memory. But a lot of the deputies thought they got off too easy, probation for her and a year for O’Keefe. But he’s a loser. Iced a guy in prison and they tacked life onto his sentence.”
She rubbed her hand over my back. “Oh, Dave, you’re not that hard. You know how bad luck comes to people.”
I nodded, felt a pang of something like compassion, and put my hand on her thigh. Right there in Central Records.
Lindsey said, “But if he tries to hurt you, I’ll put a nice tight pattern of hollow-point ammunition in his chest, reload, shoot him again, and then read him his rights.
“I’m actually here on a mission, Dave.” she went on, absently picking through the files. “You asked about Camelback Falls.”
“Yes.” I lowered my voice. “It was the notation in Peralta’s calendar.”
“Camelback Falls was the name of a house,” she said. “It’s still there, actually. On the south face of the mountain. Anyway, does the name Jonathan Ledger mean anything to you?”
“The sex guy?” I asked.
“You are the sex guy,” she whispered as I stroked her leg. “Dave, let me concentrate. Yes, Ledger wrote The Sex Instructions and More Sex Instructions. Best-sellers, as you know. Not that I’ve ever read them. He owned the house until his death in 1989. He called it Camelback Falls. Maybe it was some wordplay on Falling Water.”
“Who owns the house now?” I asked.
“Some rich guy who lives in North Carolina. The house has changed hands five times since Ledger died. The current owner is trying to get a permit to demolish it and build something grander. But the house hasn’t been called Camelback Falls since Ledger. When I called the Realtor today she didn’t even know that was what it was called.”
I sat back in the chair. Now I was more baffled than ever. What could Peralta have wanted to know from me about Jonathan Ledger’s house on Camelback Mountain?
“Thanks, beautiful,” I said. “You’re pretty smart for a propeller head.”
She licked her lips, “What are you doing for lunch, Sheriff?”
“Media briefing,” I said sadly. “But afterward…”
“Actually,” she said, “I have another mission. I’m going to the briefing, too. That’s why I’m kind of preppy-looking today, and I know that look really turns you on, Dave. But I am your new bodyguard.”
“I work alone, ma’am,” I said, deepening my voice. “Anyway, the cyber-terrorists of the world won’t take a holiday while you baby-sit me.”
“Sorry, Dave. You have to be accompanied by a deputy from now on. It’s new policy. So you can have me, or some knuckle-dragger from the patrol bureau. Kimbrough is getting very ticked off that you’re just wandering around unprotected. And so am I.” She sat back, luminous, smiling, proud of herself.
I smiled, too, and said, “Well, don’t expect me to get any work done.”
Chapter Nine
The phone’s ring broke me out of a nightmare about Peralta, shadows at my office door, and suffocating on the end of a respirator hose. But when I picked it up there was only silence on the line, silence in the dark bedroom, Lindsey’s hand against the sweat co
oling on my back.
Then a voice said, “David Mapstone?”
“That’s me.”
“Acting Sheriff David Mapstone?”
If this was a telemarketer, I was going to get homicidal. Instead, the voice, a man’s voice—average, unremarkable, baritone—said, “This is Leo O’Keefe.”
I sat up straight, turned on the light and mouthed the words “Leo O’Keefe” to Lindsey. She angled out of bed and disappeared down the hall.
“Leo, we need to talk to you.”
“I saw the news,” he said. “You’re after me.”
“You’re an escaped convict,” I said. The little pinpoint of pain pushed at my middle. “You know the detectives suspect you shot Sheriff Peralta.”
“I didn’t,” the voice said calmly. “Who are you, David Mapstone? Why are you the acting sheriff?”
Beats the hell out of me, I thought. Lindsey came back in the room, a cell phone at her ear. She pantomimed with the other hand: Keep him talking.
“I’m nobody, Leo. I’m the department historian. I was the one they got to fill in after the sheriff was wounded.”
“I’m sorry he’s hurt,” the voice said. He didn’t remember me from Guadalupe, or my name, anyway.
“What about Dean Nixon,” I said. “Did you try to contact him?”
The line went silent. Finally, “That’s right. Have you talked to Deputy Nixon about me?”
“Leo, you’ve got to turn yourself in. I give you my word, you will be treated well.”
He laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “I know about that.” His voice picked up momentum, edged up half an octave. “Mapstone, they can’t let any of this come out. That’s why Peralta was shot.”
I started to speak, but he cut me off.
“I have information for you,” he said, now speaking frantically. “I can’t explain now. If you’re interested, walk to the pay phone at the Jack in the Box at Third Avenue and McDowell. I can see if you come alone or not, and I can see if cops are in the parking lot. Make sure you walk.”
