The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  Neither man professed to know where Ulibarri had gone or what he’d planned to do after leaving the racetrack casino.

  Tredwell had agreed to let his client account for his activities during the time of the murder. Staggs had taken his car in for warranty service at the dealership, where the discovery of a leaky oil pan made it necessary to keep the vehicle for several hours beyond the scheduled appointment. Staggs had waited until it became apparent that parts would have to be ordered and the car kept overnight, getting a ride home from the lot boy. The parts manager, service manager, mechanic, and the lot boy all put Staggs at the car dealership before, during, and after Ulibarri’s estimated time of death.

  “All we’ve got is a staged crime scene,” Clayton finally said, looking at the photograph of Ulibarri’s body with his belt undone, his pants unzipped, and his cowboy boots placed neatly together on the floor. “Telling us what?”

  “Don’t know,” Hewitt said, rubbing an eye. “Maybe it’s not a message meant for us. Maybe it’s not even staged. Tomorrow, let’s see what we can learn about Johnny Jackson.”

  Clayton nodded. “I’ll also contact the FBI to see if any similarly staged homicides have been reported.”

  “Yeah,” Hewitt said.

  “Yeah,” Clayton echoed, his mind blank, his body weary.

  A quiet, dark house greeted Clayton upon his arrival home. In the living room he removed his weapon, ejected the magazine, and locked both in the gun cabinet where he kept his hunting rifles. He heard Grace shush him, turned around, and found her sitting in the recliner with Hannah cradled in her arms, fast asleep. She shook her head to warn him not to talk, and carried Hannah to her bedroom.

  Seeing Hannah out of bed so late at night worried Clayton; she was usually a sound sleeper.

  “It’s just a cold and a small cough,” Grace said when she returned.

  Clayton nodded and sank into the recliner.

  “I feel like I haven’t seen you in days,” Grace said, turning on a table lamp.

  “The ways things are going, it probably would’ve been better if I had just stayed home,” Clayton said.

  “Problems?”

  “Mistakes,” Clayton replied. “Too many of them, and all mine.”

  He told her about Tredwell’s threat to sue him for the false arrest of Harry Staggs. “Paul Hewitt even went so far as to say he thought Tredwell could probably win the suit,” he added.

  “Was that the extent of his comments?” Grace asked, as she sat on Clayton’s lap and pulled his arm around her waist.

  “Yeah.”

  “That doesn’t sound like very harsh criticism.”

  “Maybe not, but I bet he has second thoughts about hiring me.”

  “Now you’re jumping to a conclusion.”

  “Not only did he pull me out of the fire with Tredwell, but he showed me a thing or two about interrogating a witness. Hewitt’s sharp.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Grace said, looking into his tired eyes.

  Hannah started coughing before Clayton could respond. Grace got up quickly, checked on Hannah for a few minutes, and returned to find Clayton with his boots pulled off, fast asleep in the recliner.

  She covered him with a blanket, turned out the light, and went to bed, fretting about her husband. He seemed so down lately, which wasn’t like him at all.

  Chapter 6

  Homicides in Lincoln County were rare, so when Paul Hewitt arrived early at his office he fully expected major print coverage about the Ulibarri case. But he wasn’t prepared to have it be front page news in the morning papers from El Paso to Albuquerque, Las Cruces to Roswell. Headlines read:

  MURDER SUSPECT KILLED

  TOP COPS QUARREL IN LINCOLN COUNTY

  ILLEGAL GAMBLING DEN UNCOVERED IN RUIDOSO

  SUSPECTED KILLER SLAIN AT ILLICIT POKER PARLOR

  RUIDOSO SWAT TEAM FINDS MURDERED FUGITIVE

  GAMBLING DEN OPERATOR GOES FREE

  There were sidebar articles about the Anna Marie Montoya and Joseph John Humphrey cases, and a story that summarized Ruidoso’s well-deserved reputation during the Prohibition era as a wide-open boot-legging, speakeasy, and gambling town.

  Although the quotes were anonymous, Hewitt figured the leak about Harry Staggs and his decision to keep the city cops out of the investigation came from the Ruidoso police chief. The man had been privately denigrating the sheriff’s department for years, and resented Hewitt’s role as the county’s chief law-enforcement officer.

  Fuming, he closed his office door, turned on a small portable television, and surfed the network channels for the early morning local newsbreaks. All of them featured the story at the top of the telecast, with video of the cabin where Ulibarri had been killed.

  Tredwell called, pissed and wanting an explanation about how the story hit the papers. Hewitt told Tredwell he didn’t control the news media and to direct his outrage at the Ruidoso police chief. The district attorney called, pissed and wanting a meeting so Hewitt could explain why he’d cut a deal with a felony suspect’s attorney on his own authority.

  Two county commissioners called to tell Hewitt the Ruidoso mayor was talking about asking for a grand jury probe of the sheriff’s department. Reporters called wanting interviews. Hewitt put them off.

  The only good news was Artie Gundersen’s telephone report that the bloodstain on Ulibarri’s boot, which Clayton had fished out of the dumpster behind the western-wear store, was a match to Humphrey’s, as were the traces of blood on the knife found in cabin three. Additionally, Ulibarri’s latents were all over the blade handle, and the murder weapon conformed nicely to the entry wound in Humphrey’s chest.

  Hewitt called the reporters back and issued a statement: forensic analysis of the evidence gathered by lead investigator Deputy Clayton Istee and state police crime technicians proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Ulibarri was Humphrey’s killer, and the case had been closed. He gave specifics, brushed aside questions about the ongoing Montoya and Ulibarri investigations, hung up, and wrote a quick note for Clayton Istee telling him about Gundersen’s findings.

  He wondered what was bothering Clayton Istee. Over the last several days, he’d seemed wary and constrained in his dealings with others, including Dillingham and Quinones. Were his slipups troubling him? There were all kinds of judgment errors that could occur during a major felony investigation, and no cop was immune to them. But getting bogged down by becoming overly cautious or trying to be perfect could quickly derail an investigation, especially a homicide case where time was of the essence.

  He decided to keep a close eye on his deputy, and went off to meet with the DA, wondering how hard it would be to get his butt out of the crack it was in. Fortunately, the DA was an old friend, a hunting buddy, and a member of the same political party. They actively supported each other in their races for office in every election. If necessary, he would call in every personal and political chit he possessed to make the problem go away.

  The sheriff’s note about the blood match on the knife and Ulibarri’s boot didn’t make Clayton feel any better about himself. If he had thought to search the resort parking lot for Humphrey’s car, Ulibarri might still be alive and in custody, charged with murder one.

  He started the day doing paperwork and writing reports. Assembling a homicide casebook was no simple task, and he worked hard to make it thorough, thinking he could at least put together a comprehensive file without screwing it up.

  He filled out an offense report, his supplemental reports, the investigation worksheets, and a crime scene worksheet, and completed the last of his canvass field notes. He redrew his crime scene sketches, compiled a witness list, labeled and arranged in sequence all crime scene photographs he and the rest of the team had taken, and updated his investigative narrative. He played back the taped interview with Harry Staggs and decided he needed a better, more detailed description of Johnny Jackson.

  He called Harry Staggs on the phone and got him to answer specific q
uestions about Johnny Jackson’s physical characteristics. He recorded each response Staggs made on a blank piece of paper.

  Physical Description of Johnny Jackson

  Head—long & round in shape

  Eyes—maybe brown, oval, with small pupils

  Brows—straight, possibly thin

  Nose—narrow, not too large

  Mouth & upper lip—small or average

  Chin—square, no dimple noted, but possible

  Forehead—wide

  Hair—black, curly, full, cut short, with short sideburns, &

  no graying

  Facial hair—none

  Mole—small, possibly located just below right cheekbone

  Build—slim, weight about 140 to 145

  Complexion—light skinned & tanned

  Other scars, tattoos, marks—none noted

  Age—Approx. 40

  Height—5’6” to 5’7”

  He placed the telephone in the cradle thinking that for somebody who’d repeatedly denied knowing Jackson personally, Staggs either had a remarkable memory for details or was lying through his teeth.

  Clayton suspected the latter. He wondered if Staggs was leading him astray with a false description. Maybe the name was phony, too. If he could come up with an eyewitness who put Staggs and Jackson together, socially or otherwise, he might be able to break Staggs down and discover why he seemed so scared of a pimp, even a high-class one.

  He worked up a wanted-for-questioning bulletin on Jackson, did the violent-crime analysis report for the FBI, called the Bureau to ask for an expedited comparison to any similar crime scenes, and left the completed paperwork with the sheriff’s secretary, who started faxing it right away.

  With the more detailed description Staggs had provided, Clayton used a computer program to create a composite likeness of Johnny Jackson’s face. He printed it, made copies, gave some to Quinones and Dillingham, and asked them to start looking for Jackson.

  Outside, the wind was blowing hard in an angry gray sky and snow clouds masked Carrizo Mountain. The bleak morning completely matched Clayton’s gloomy mood.

  He headed back to the Mescalero Reservation and the resort to begin his own search for the mysterious Johnny Jackson, thinking that if he turned out to be a figment of Staggs’s imagination there would be hell to pay.

  Paul Hewitt had a theory about how people became lawyers, and it had to do with the names parents gave their children. Hang a couple of colorful monikers on a newborn and it was a lead pipe cinch that another budding lawyer would eventually be launched into the world. In the DA’s case, the name was Roland Hatley Moore, Hat to all his friends.

  Hewitt sipped his coffee at a back table in the Dugout Bar & Grill, waiting patiently for Hat to make his appearance. The Dugout opened early for breakfast, which could consist of either the house special of home fries, eggs smothered in green chile with a side of bacon, or a double shot of whiskey for those who drank their meals.

  A favorite local hangout, it also drew travelers passing through town. Bison, moose, and elk heads hung on the dark paneled walls, along with framed posters crusted yellow from nicotine smoke. Mismatched tables and chairs filled the dining area, and two pool tables were crammed into a small adjacent space next to some windows.

  A see-through partition separated the dining area from the bar, which was festooned with old six-shooters and rifles. Fortunately, none worked, although the butt of one pistol recently had been used to quiet a rowdy customer.

  With the town fathers and local real estate agents now touting Carrizozo as an arts and crafts community— which it really wasn’t—a small group of newcomers had moved in. Most were retired baby boomers or senior citizens, pursuing their hobbies or artistic dreams and making a few bucks from the sale of their work.

  Down the street a new restaurant had recently opened where you could get a gourmet sandwich with sprouts, a veggie burrito, a fancy pastry, lemon-flavored bottled water, an all-natural juice drink, or a decaffeinated latte, all while surfing the Internet.

  In the year the place had been open, Hewitt had never seen one cowboy, rancher, or blue-collar worker cross the threshold.

  Hat arrived, spotted Hewitt in the back of the room, and sat himself down at the table.

  “What in the hell were you thinking?” he said as he unbuttoned his western-cut sport coat.

  “I think you’re getting a little thick around the middle, Hat. It’s time for you to join the gym I go to in Ruidoso. We can work out together. It opens at six in the morning.”

  “I’m not even alive at six in the morning,” Hat replied, leaning across the table to look Hewitt dead in the eye. “For chrissake, you can’t let a felony suspect walk. That’s not your prerogative. Do you know how many reporters have called me asking why I wasn’t filing charges against Staggs?”

  “How many?”

  “Too many.”

  “Got any suggestions?”

  “Arrest Staggs, discipline your deputy, and let me deal with Tredwell. Maybe I’ll agree to a plea bargain.”

  “Can’t do that. It was a false arrest to begin with. No exigent circumstances, no probable cause. Tredwell threatened a civil rights suit if we refused to cut Staggs loose, so we agreed that Deputy Istee had simply held Staggs in protective custody during a potentially dangerous felony arrest.”

  “Jesus, you’re kidding me. That’s not what the news reports said.”

  “Consider the source.”

  “You’ve got to stop squabbling with the Ruidoso police chief.”

  “I will, as soon as he goes back to Houston, or wherever the hell he came from.” Hewitt waited for the waitress to pour Hat a cup of coffee and move off. “Are you gonna help me out here?”

  “I’m not going to lie for you, Paul.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Just say that you agree there was insufficient probable cause to warrant an arrest of Staggs by Deputy Istee.”

  “Why are you protecting this kid?” Hat asked.

  “That’s not what this is about.”

  Hat looked at his watch, slugged down his coffee, and stood up. “Get me copies of everything you have on Istee’s investigations, plus I want a written statement from you detailing your conversation with Tredwell.”

  “You’ll have it in two hours. Thanks, Hat.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Hat said as he adjusted his bolo tie. “I’ll get back to you.”

  Relieved by the outcome of the meeting, Hewitt stayed behind and ordered breakfast.

  Kerney went to work in his blues and spent the morning trying to concentrate. Pleased by the possibility of what a new artificial knee could mean, Kerney clock-watched as he ran through the paperwork on his desk, calling at the earliest possible moment to schedule the MRI test and then to speak to the architect about the swimming pool.

  The architect said he’d get right on it and have a plan done by the end of the day. Kerney gave the architect the go-ahead to have a survey crew spot the corners for the house and hung up.

  He visualized the setting. The house would be nestled below the ridge overlooking a red sandstone canyon capped with a thin line of gypsum rock. Large windows would face south down the canyon to a stand of old cottonwood trees and a meadow cut by a sandy arroyo. To the north, behind the ridge, an expanse of pastureland dotted with piñon and juniper trees undulated toward the foothills and mountains behind Santa Fe.

  It would be fun to cut a new driveway from the nearby ranch road to the building site with a grader. Kerney had learned to operate one under the watchful eye of his father. He could probably borrow or rent a neighbor’s machine and rebuild the entire ranch road from the highway to the house site by himself. He would crown it, slope it, cut bar ditches for runoff, and pack it down with base course gravel to make it all-weather. It would be a welcome change of pace from his normal routine and give him a feeling that the dream of actually owning a ranch was underway. He could get the job done over a couple of weekends if he planned it right.
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  In between administrative staff meetings he called the remaining names on Osterman’s list and learned none of them had known Anna Marie in college—or so they said. After the last meeting, he walked to Lieutenant Sal Molina’s office and asked for a few minutes. It was time to put his ego aside and let the department work the Montoya case instead of trying to do it all by himself.

  Molina, the major felony unit supervisor, nodded and gestured at an empty chair. Kerney filled him in on his stunning lack of progress in the Montoya case.

  “I’m kicking it back to your unit,” he said, “but I want to stay in the loop.”

  “We’ll start with background checks on Osterman and the people on the list he gave you,” Molina replied, “just to see if anything unusual or kinky shows up.”

  “Do the same with Cassie Bedlow,” Kerney said. “And see if you can find out who Montoya roomed with during her college years in Albuquerque.”

  Molina nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Can you free up Detective Piño?”

  Ramona Piño was Molina’s only female detective. She was petite, cute, perky, and weighed all of a hundred and five pounds. Molina had watched Piño put a straight-arm takedown move on a perp almost twice her size. The perp had been too busy screaming in pain to be embarrassed.

  “That’s possible,” Molina said.

  “Send her undercover as a prospective student to Bedlow’s modeling and talent agency,” Kerney said. “I’d like her to get a feel for Bedlow’s operation, and learn what she can about the freelance photographer Bedlow uses.”