by John R Cuneo
“It’s pretty dark in here,” said Chuck. “Let me go back to my truck and get a flashlight.”
“No need for a flashlight,” said the other man. “We have some burn barrels just ahead, and I’ll light them so you can see the equipment.”
The man retrieved a small can of gasoline that was next to the barrels, then poured a small amount of the flammable liquid into both barrels. During this time, the fake Salazar moved to the right of Chuck. This was a telltale sign the attack was coming as soon as the barrels were ignited. The other man threw a lit match into the first barrel, and as the flame erupted, Chuck instantly retrieved the pipe from his left sleeve. In the next moment, the fake Salazar produced a knife from his pocket, but Chuck was ready for the attack, and in a split second, he brought the length of pipe crashing into the fake Salazar’s throat, sending him to the ground.
The other man, temporarily blinded by the flash of fire light, wasn’t sure what was happening. Was it his associate or Chuck lying lifeless on the ground?
Not wanting to fire a shot and get the attention of any busybody passerby, Chuck took careful aim and threw the pipe toward his target as if it was a tomahawk, landing a perfect hit in the man’s forehead, sending several inches of the pipe into the man’s brain. Chuck retreated to the shadows, thinking perhaps the third man was waiting somewhere, but after a short time, he realized the third man must have stayed back at the storage facility.
Quickly Chuck examined the bodies, looking for identification and weapons, and soon he had their wallets and discovered their pistols. Chuck took the wallets and put them in his coat pocket, then poured gasoline into the second burn barrel and set it on fire. Working as fast as he could, he stripped the men out of their clothing and placed the items in the burn barrels, making sure everything was turned to ash. The last things he threw into the fire were the men’s shoes, knowing they would require more time in the flames to break down. Chuck went back to the roadside and carefully surveyed the area, making sure no one was coming down the road. He then retrieved a small propane torch from the back of his truck and made his way back to the two lifeless bodies lying by the burn barrels. He ignited the torch and was careful to burn the hair off the men’s heads. Meticulously, he moved the torch over the fingers of the dead men, making the retrieval any type of fingerprint pointless. Moving back to the faces, he set about blistering the eyes and noses, not to hide the features in the event they were found but to speed up the process of decomposition.
Not wanting to leave his tire tracks in the fenced area, he carefully dragged each of the bodies and placed them in the bed of his truck, making sure to cover them securely with an old tarp. Then he returned to the fire barrels, and taking the last of the gasoline, he carefully poured a small amount onto the ground where the bodies had lain. He took a moment to check he had not dropped anything he was carrying. He still had his pistol and knife, and he had retrieved the twenty-one-inch length of pipe, which he had wiped in the dirt and grass next to the burn barrel.
Now that he was satisfied he had left nothing behind, he ignited the gasoline on the ground. Even though it created a huge flame, it would soon die out, leaving the equipment storage yard dark and vacant. After chaining and locking the gates to the storage yard, Chuck proceeded down the frontage road and made his way across town over to the site of the new construction project his company would be starting soon.
Chuck entered the property site and saw the lights were out in the foreman’s trailer and no vehicle was parked there. He drove directly to the hole that had been dug for burning and bearing trash by his construction workers. Not far from the burn hole was an excavator, the exact one that had been used to dig the hole. Seeing this, Chuck started the vehicle, lowered the shovel down to the bottom of the hole, and removed another bucketful of dirt. He looked around to make sure he was alone, then removed the bodies from the back of his truck and dropped them into the deepest part of the burn hole. He carefully placed a large bucketful of dirt over the two bodies, and with the skill of an artist, he tapped the loose dirt at the bottom of the hole, making it look as though nothing had been disturbed. Chuck then took the old tarp and threw it into the hole along with scraps of wood lying close by. He took the excavator and drove it back to where he had found it. Again, Chuck surveyed the area, making sure he was completely alone and had not been seen. Getting back into his truck, Chuck remembered there was a self-service car wash near his hotel. Without hesitation, he made his way over to the car wash and, for the next thirty minutes, power washed the entire vehicle, top and bottom, including the bed of the truck. When he was satisfied with his work, he returned to his hotel room to examine the contents of the wallets he had retrieved. In total, the two men had $318 in cash and no credit cards, and both of their drivers’ licenses had been expired for over a year. It was clear both guys had been local punks and not associated with any of the cartels; they were just muscle.
It was late, and Chuck was tired, but before he went to sleep, he knew there was at least one other person that knew about the meeting this evening, and not wanting any surprises in the middle of the night, he carefully moved some of the furniture in the hotel room to barricade the door. Now, with his pistol next to him, he would be able to get some sleep.
It was another beautiful morning in Gallup, New Mexico, as Chuck made his way to the construction site to meet with his foreman regarding the upcoming project. As he entered the property, he saw three vehicles parked next to the foreman’s trailer.
“Good morning,” Chuck said to one of the men as he entered the trailer.
It was the project foreman, who had worked for Chuck for almost fifteen years now. Another man in the trailer was from the city zoning office and was there to start the preliminary surveying of the property, making sure to stake out areas where electrical would be laid and concrete poured. The third person was a young man who had only worked for the company short while. He was there to assist the surveyor and be a gofer for him and the foreman that day.
Chuck and the three men made small talk about the upcoming project. Then Chuck told the young man to come with him for a few minutes. The two proceeded to the burn hole, and on their way, they both picked up scraps of wood and any other trash that they came across. They threw it all down into the hole.
Chuck pointed to the front-end loader parked nearby. “Do you know how to operate that equipment?” “Of course, I do,” said the young fellow.
“Start it up and bring it over to the hole.”
The man was happy to show the boss that he could run the equipment, and in no time, the front-end loader was parked off to the side of the burn hole. In the meantime, Chuck had walked around, gathering scraps of wood and large broken branches and throwing them down into the hole. As the fellow parked the front-end loader, Chuck looked at the him, nodding his approval and giving him a thumbs-up.
He directed the man to get a can of gasoline from the foreman’s trailer and bring it over to the burn hole. After the man had done so, Chuck instructed him to pour some down into the hole. “But be careful. Don’t fall in,” Chuck said with a laugh.
The man carefully poured several gallons down along the length of the pit. They stood next to the trash pit. Chuck put his hand on the man’s shoulder and asked, “Have you ever started the fire in the burn hole before?” “No, sir, I haven’t,” said the man.
Chuck reached into his pants pocket and retrieved a pack of matches, which he gave to the man. “It’s all yours.” Most people would think that was no big deal, but to the man, here was the boss, the owner of the company, allowing him to set the burn hole on fire. The man smiled and took the matches. Stepping toward the burn hole, he struck a match, setting it on fire, then dropped it into the trench. A moment later, he was treated to a pyrotechnic spectacular that could only be appreciated by a construction worker. The flames erupted from the pit, forcing the man to take several steps backward rather quickly. He lo
oked at Chuck and, smiling ear to ear, exclaimed, “What a rush!”
Chapter 18
Enough is Enough
I thought you were going to get an early start this morning,” said Carolyn as I finished my last cup of coffee.
“It’s only a two-hour drive,” I said as I placed my plate and coffee cup into the sink. “And besides, if I left too early, I would increase the chances of having to stop for elk and deer crossing the road.”
She gave me one of her looks, the kind every wife gave her husband when she was positive he was wrong and she was right.
“Make sure you take a change of clothes with you. Last time you went into one of those storage sheds, you came out completely filthy from head to toe,” she said.
“Yes, dear,” I told her, and pointed to a small duffel bag in which I had already placed another pair of pants and a clean shirt.
“Are you sure you have everything?” asked Carolyn. “The license plate cover and the window sticker?”
“Yes, dear, everything is in place underneath the back seat,” I said.
“And make sure you put on those shoe covers. Remember you almost forgot them the last time.”
I gave Carolyn a goodbye hug and kiss and started my journey to Gallup, New Mexico. I drove north to the small town of St. John’s, where I stopped at a small convenience store to top off my gas tank. It was there that I remembered I had an old .22 caliber revolver with me. Not wanting to drive all the way back home, I carefully placed the pistol in my right coat pocket. But first, I carefully removed each of the cartridges and wipe them clean with a handkerchief that I had then after replacing the cartridges, then completely wiped down the pistol. Unknown to Carolyn, I had the pistol with me every time we had gone out of town, and I just did not want to give her more to worry about knowing I was carrying a firearm.
As I continued my drive, I thought back to the day I had purchased that pistol. It was at least twenty years earlier, when I was involved in a cross-country training flight with the army. We had been forced to spend the night at an air force base just outside of Tucson, Arizona. Several of us had gone out to dinner, and it’d been a long time since any of us had been away from the military, so we’d decided to take a walk and just enjoy the civilian atmosphere.
We’d entered a small general store to do some window-shopping and generally just kill some time There, we had noticed they had an entire department of firearms for sale, everything from shotguns to pistols. Looking at the display case, my eyes had soon caught the small .22 caliber revolver. I had purchased it with cash and had carried with me ever since. No paperwork, no signature, and no way to trace the firearm.
Gallup, New Mexico, was a small, quiet town situated on Interstate 40 just east of the Arizona-New Mexico border. It was a favorite place for long-distance truck drivers to stop for the night and enjoy a home-cooked meal and a good night’s sleep. It was approaching noon when I arrived at the storage facility located on the frontage road next to a large fenced-in piece of property used to store tractor-trailer equipment. I stopped several hundred yards down the street just to look and get a feel for what I might be walking into. The access road was completely void of any traffic. I went and put the California license plate and the rear-window sticker in place.
The storage facility was quite small compared to the others we had been to. As I keyed in the security code to enter, I noticed an office right by the access control panel, and in the office was a young man under thirty years old. The young man watched me intently and had a look on his face that indicated he had never seen me before. After entering the access code, I waited for the gates to open and again noticed the young man watching me. All I could do was wait for the gates to open, then drive onto the property.
After finding the storage unit, I drove around the complex several times, looking for security cameras and surprised to see none. Going back to the unit, I exited the truck, making sure I had my gloves, shoe coverings, and hat on. Using the key, I snapped open the lock, then opened the door. But this time, things were a bit different. When I opened the locker door, I noticed a very loud clicking or snapping sound as if some type of sensor had been attached just inside the door.
Oh shit. This is not good, I thought.
I worked as quickly as possible, taking the boxes out of the storage shed and placing them into the bed of my truck. I was almost finished loading the boxes when I heard a voice calling down the storage unit driveway.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing down there?” yelled a voice.
I looked around, and again the man, about the same size as me, only younger, yelled. “That’s my unit! What the hell are you doing?” I held up the key. “There must be a mistake. This is my cousin’s unit,” I said. “Don’t give me that shit. Who the fuck, are you?” he said. “Just take it easy. I’m here to get some stuff for my cousin.”
“You got no fucking cousin. Get out of here.” “Not till I get my cousin’s boxes of books.”
The young man reached out and pushed me on the shoulder. “Get the hell out now or else.” He produced a knife out of his pocket. I put up one of my hands. “I don’t want any trouble, but you got this all wrong.”
The young man stuck the knife in my face and said, “No, motherfucker, you got this all wrong.” My left hand went up to block the knife while reaching into my right pocket. We sidestepped one another. The guy swung the knife, just catching me on the left shoulder. “You piece of shit,” I said, and produced the small .22 caliber pistol from my right pocket, sticking it into the man’s chest and pulling the trigger twice quickly. The man hit the floor, dropping the knife on the way down.
The young man doubled over in pain and yelled for help. I took the pistol, jammed it into the man’s face, and pulled the trigger two more times. Then I dragged his body over to the far corner of the locker.
“You cocksucker, you cut me,” I said.
I put the barrel of the pistol in the young man’s ear and fired the last two shots. I placed the pistol back into my pocket, then removed the last three boxes from the unit and placed them in the back of the truck. I closed and locked the tonneau cover, securing the contents. My shoulder was killing me. I had forgotten how much it hurt to get cut. Back in the storage unit, I covered the body with a tarp that had covered the stack of boxes. Back in the cab of the pickup, I took out my jacket so I could cover the wound from prying eyes. I also grabbed a broom and swept out the unit as best I could.
I had gloves on, so I was not afraid of leaving fingerprints, but I thought I had better take that knife with me. I wiped the blood on a rag from my truck and made sure there was no blood on the man’s hands or clothing. Looking down at the corpse of the man, I thought, Why in the hell didn’t you just walk away?
I took another look around the storage shed before leaving, and with a rag, I wiped down anything I might have touched, including door sills and jambs. Even though I had gloves on, I was not taking any chances. The young man’s body was lying on the ground and covered with a tarp. Looking down at him, I uttered, “Rest in peace, ass hole.”
I closed the locker door and reinstalled the security lock. I swept the area at the door of the locker with a broom, then placed the broom in the back seat of the pickup. After exiting the storage unit facility, I rounded the corner and drove to the other side of the interstate into a neighborhood of single-family homes.
Looking around, making sure no one was watching, I got out of the truck and removed the California license plate and the LA baseball placard taped on my back window. I placed these items into the truck. It did not take long until I was back on Interstate 40 and heading west toward Arizona and the safety of the ranch.
Of all the things to happen to me, the last thing I wanted was more damage to my left shoulder. It had been broken and rebuilt due to a car accident a few years earlier and was the cause of me giving up commercial aviation. It did not take l
ong before I saw the sign for a rest area two miles ahead; that would be perfect for what I needed to do.
After parking, I grabbed the duffel bag I had with me and made my way into the restroom, where I removed my shirt in private and observed the damage done by the knife. The blade of the knife had gone directly into my shoulder, leaving a wound an inch deep and approximately one and a half inches wide. I cleaned the wound with an alcohol wipe from the truck and placed a clean bandage over the entry point. That would have to do for now. I put on a clean shirt and stuffed the blood-covered clothing into my bag, then secured it closed. I made sure to wash my hands with plenty of soap and water before I headed back down the interstate.
For the next two and a half hours, most of my thoughts were turned to how I would explain this to Carolyn. Surely she would notice my shoulder injury, so I decided to not tell her the truth. With everything going on in our lives, I didn’t want her to know I had killed someone. I would tell her there was a loose piece of metal on the wall of the storage shed that had pierced my shoulder when I had been moving boxes. I did not like the idea of lying to her, but the less she knew about today’s adventure, the less for her to worry about.
I drove up to the cabin at 3 p.m. and saw Tom. He was following me onto the property. We waved to each other, and not wanting to park close to the storage bunker, I parked next to the blacksmith shop.
“Hello, Tom. How’s everything going today?” I asked him.
“Everything is great. How are you and Carolyn doing?” Carolyn came out of the cabin. “I thought I heard somebody talking,” she said, then walked over to Tom and gave him a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you, Tom.”
“Good to see you too. I came by because I’ve broken a metal bracket that held my cellar storm doors closed, and I was wondering if I could use the blacksmith shop to try and repair it.” I looked at him and said, “Only if you let me help. I’ve been itching to try this forge, and now I have an excuse to fire it up.”
