The Drum Within

by James R. Scarantino

  “Not an inconsistency at all. Mr. Fager killed his wife because of what she had learned from Cody Geronimo.” Pencils scratching, flashes exploding, reporters mumbling to themselves as they wrote furiously. “Mr. Fager entered the store after my client informed her about the man she was married to. She confronted him. He butchered her and had the audacity to make the 911 call. The police should have seized his shoes and clothing, bagged his hands, and taken him into custody instead of the innocent man they profiled because he is Native American.”

  The reporter next to Aragon dialed his cell phone. “Mr. Fager,” she heard him say. “This is Hank Thomas of The New Mexican … ”

  “Please take your conversation outside,” Thornton said, and the reporter moved to the hallway. “Yes, we are saying that Walter Fager is the murderer, of those poor women in the desert and his own wife. He is now trying to cast his guilt upon Mr. Geronimo. He is exploiting a police error to portray my client as the prime suspect. All of it, his pathetic petition, his silly lawsuit, his statements to the media—all of it is designed to divert attention away from himself.”

  “What’s this about his time in the military?” a female television reporter asked. Montclaire was at the PowerPoint projector. A black-and-white image appeared on the screen beyond the podium. A tall, lean American standing with darker men, some in turbans, some with scarves over faces, old rifles slung over shoulders. The setting was wild and mountainous. The American was armed with an M-16, a grenade clipped on his chest and a K-bar knife on his thigh.

  “This photograph hangs in the office of Walter Fager. I saw it when I worked for him. That man with the rifle is a much younger Walter Fager.”

  Aragon detected glare in the photo, as though it had been shot through a window.

  “Mr. Fager insists he served in Bosnia before the U.S. military officially entered that nation.”

  Montclaire advanced the slide. A map of the Balkans appeared with a red arrow marking a small town whose name Aragon could not read.

  “Just recently Mr. Fager revealed that upon leaving the military he was, in his words, ‘fucked up pretty good.’ We have learned the reason for his being fucked up pretty good.”

  The next slide showed a pile of bodies inside a farmhouse.

  “Batke, Bosnia. This photograph was taken by a young man from the village before he fled. According to records of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, Muslim women were slaughtered here by Croatian militia. A Muslim charity has made contradictory claims.”

  A commotion at the back of the room silenced Thornton. Walter Fager stood in the doorway, jaw set, staring at the screen.

  Thornton squared her shoulders and continued.

  “Walter Fager has told everyone who ever worked for him that photograph of him as a young soldier was taken in Batke, Bosnia. The Muslim elders of that community alleged it was an American who killed their wives and daughters. The allegation was dismissed as an effort by Muslim extremists connected to Al Qaeda to incite anti-American hatred. The Pentagon insisted Americans had never reached Batke. The war crimes investigators did not know about that photograph in Walter Fager’s office.”

  Another photograph lit the screen. An aerial shot of a cleared plot in rugged mountains, distinct depressions in neat rows marking the ground.

  “The Red Crescent found this field outside Batke.”

  The screen shifted to show an aerial view of the graveyard beyond Geronimo’s ranch house. Neat rows, distinct depressions in the ground.

  “And this is where the FBI discovered those poor women. Do you see any similarities? Draw your own conclusions.”

  Walter Fager charged Marcy Thornton.

  Aragon came out of her chair as quickly as a male reporter two seats away. Fager reached Thornton before they could intercept him. He lifted her off her feet by the front of her shirt and threw her against the wall. His hands went for her throat.

  Aragon grabbed Fager’s right hand, put him in a wrist lock and bent back two fingers. He was on the ground in less than a second. The male reporter straddled him and bent back his other arm.

  “Hey,” Aragon said. He was hurting Fager.

  “FBI. Rivera sent me.”

  The television crews removed cameras from tripods and moved in, competing with reporters snapping photos on cell phones and news photographers with digital zooms. A mix of fascination and pathos spread through the room. The man writhing on the floor, now sobbing, now spouting curses, was not the Walter Fager who had dominated Santa Fe’s courtrooms and terrorized assistant district attorneys for decades.

  Aragon said, “His office. Next door.”

  She released her wrist lock. Lewis helped the FBI agent lift Fager to his feet. Fager went quietly as they pushed their way through the media throng. Reporters trailed, shouting questions. Cameramen ran ahead for what was going to appear on the evening news like a perp walk.

  The agent said his name was Tucker and helped get Fager to his office. The photo of Fager in Bosnia was there behind the desk, next to a photo of a scowling Winston Churchill. They asked if he had firearms in the office. He shook his head, said his gun was at home. A distraught secretary, paralyzed in her chair at the desk outside the door, confirmed that information. They checked Fager’s desk anyway and found no weapon.

  Aragon got Rivera on the phone. They agreed Fager would not be at liberty long. A motion to revoke his release would likely be filed, with a hearing first thing tomorrow. She said Thornton had done a better job than they had tying Linda Fager to the other murders. Rivera wanted time to consider Thornton’s play and would call back later.

  Next Aragon called Bronkowski. He said he was on the road, heading to Oklahoma.

  “If you want to help your friend, I need to know what guns he keeps at home.”

  Forty-Six

  Everything from Albuquerque to Oklahoma City was brown. Six and a half hours of endless sky, straight road, and a horizon that never got closer, until a silver-skinned spire above downtown threw spears of reflected light across the prairie.

  Bronkowski had stopped once for gas. He was eating and drinking out of the cooler on the seat next to him. No need to stop to tap a kidney. That’s what Coke bottles were for.

  He pulled over when Aragon called. He told her he had last seen the Beretta in the dining room, but Fager may have returned it to the desk in his home office.

  She asked what he was doing in Oklahoma. He explained about chasing down the oilman who had purchased a Cody Geronimo statue. He would turn around immediately. Fager needed him. She said he would do more good completing his mission than rushing back to be with his friend. If his hunch was right, none of Thornton’s misdirection would matter.

  When the call ended, Bronkowski sat on the interstate’s shoulder with semis shaking his Camry. After a few minutes he put the car into gear and continued into Oklahoma City.

  He had done his research. Grady Fallon had been a broke cowboy delivering irrigation pipes to ranches when he got the bright idea of selling scrap pipe to wildcatters. Now he was pulling up pipe three miles long from the North Sea and reselling it on the other side of the globe to Russians punching holes in the ocean bottom north of Japan. Tomahawk Pipe and Casing today had more office space in Asia than in Oklahoma.

  He had reached Fallon at his office in one of those towers looming over the prairie. Fallon said he’d be glad to talk about the statue he brought back from Santa Fe in his motor home. Maybe Bronkowski could figure out why he couldn’t get it in the house. Nothing to do with size; it made the dogs go crazy. Bronkowski remembered Fallon’s wife saying the statue had spoken to her. Now it was speaking to the guy’s dogs.

  He took the bypass around downtown and I-35 north, following Fallon’s directions to Edmond. He exited at a Walmart by the highway, then headed east into rolling green hills, where he was told to find a lake. A private road
bordered by white pipe fence (no doubt excess inventory of Tomahawk Pipe and Casing) led him around a tree-lined shore to a plantation-style mansion. A black motor home fit for a touring rock band sat in a circular drive, where it peeled off to a six-car garage.

  The man Bronkowski had seen in Secret Canyon Gallery was washing sidewalls with a hose in one hand and a beer in the other. Fallon could probably buy every truck wash in the state and here he was cleaning his own tires. As Bronkowski got closer he saw a full wet bar, with stainless-steel refrigerator and sinks, projecting from the motor home’s flank.

  Fallon was dressed in blue jeans, with the belt buckle hidden under his belly. He tilted the bottle to his lips as Bronkowski got out of his car and came over.

  “In the gallery you’re a guy from Malibu with money to burn. On the phone you’re a PI working for a friend whose wife was murdered.”

  “I was working then, too. That guy in the suit with me, that’s my friend.”

  “You’re the third person today who’s called about that thing.” Fallon cracked another beer for himself and offered one to Bronkowski, who accepted. “That news about bodies at Geronimo’s place. I’ve already been offered thirty percent more than I paid last week. I expect to double my money when he’s arrested. Damn,” he drank beer and swallowed, “I thought the oil racket was ugly.”

  “I’m not here to buy. I’m here to tell you what you’ve bought.”

  “I can see what I bought. Glued-together garbage.”

  “Somewhere in that glued-together garbage,” Bronkowski said, putting down his untouched beer. This wasn’t news you delivered with a Bud in your hand. “Are pieces of women Cody Geronimo killed.”

  Fallon let out a whoop.

  “That explains it. C’mon inside. I gotta tell Ginger.”

  Ginger was dressed in pink and jumping up and down to an exercise video on the biggest screen he had seen outside a football stadium. A two-story window framed the lake outside the house.

  “You need to hear what this fellow has to say,” Fallon said as he picked up a remote and paused the video, leaving the instructor suspended on the screen in mid-leap.

  Fallon insisted she sit for the news. Her eyes went wide in horror before Bronkowski had finished.

  Two dogs entered the cavernous room. One was a fluffy Bichon Frise, the other a black Labrador with the white whiskers of age around its muzzle.

  “That’s the one goes nuts over the statue,” Fallon said, leaning down to scratch the old Lab’s ears.

  “He’s our boy’s dog,” Ginger said. “Bobby’s in Arabia.”

  “Bahrain,” Fallon said. “The Lab’s name is Uncas—you know, Last of the Mohicans. Bobby raised him from a pup in Alberta when Tomahawk was going and blowing strong in the Rockies. Bobby did search and rescue. Uncas was a star. Found three skiers buried in an avalanche.”

  “And he goes crazy around that statue?” Bronkowski asked.

  “Whines and moans, then gets to growling. That upsets Little Bijou. She runs in circles and snaps,” Ginger said. “It’s because Uncas smells someone inside that statue, isn’t it?”

  Fallon opened a china cabinet. It was a faux beer cooler. He pulled one for himself, and offered another for Bronkowski, who waved him off this time.

  “You want me to give that statue to the police,” Fallon said after he took a long drink. “They’ll take it apart. I’m out three-hundred grand. All because an old dog is trying to tell us something.”

  “I don’t want that thing on this property.” Ginger had her hands on her hips.

  “But it spoke to you, hon.”

  “I’ll hear it in nightmares. Get rid of it.”

  Fallon opened the hidden beer cooler again and took the remainder of the six-pack.

  “You can’t fit that big ol’ thing in your rice burner,” Fallon said. “Let’s take it apart until Uncas shows us what’s in there he don’t like.”

  Ginger pressed play on the remote. The instructor returned to earth and spread her feet wide. Ginger rushed to catch up.

  “She keeps trying to get me to do pilots,” Fallon said as he headed out with dogs at his heels.

  “Pilates!” Ginger shouted over her shoulder as she did some kind of jumping jacks. “Thinks he’s being clever, showing his ignorance.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Bronkowski said, and turned to follow Fallon.

  “Mister B,” Ginger called out as she dropped her head between her knees and looked back through her legs, hair sweeping the floor, breasts on her jaw. “I’m sorry I can’t say your name. If he breaks out the Early Time and fires up that diesel, you get yourself and those babies right back here.”

  The vanity plate on the front of the motor home said Black Castle. Inside was a fireplace and tile floor. An ivory steering wheel at a driver’s seat as big as a La-Z Boy. Chandeliers. Teak paneling, a full sofa, two recliners, a smaller version of the exterior wet bar, and televisions everywhere. The Geronimo statue called “Spirit Wing” stood in the middle of the floor, just up the steps from the driveway. The Lab had its lips curled back, black gums and worn canines showing. A sorrowful whine escaped its chest.

  “Toolbox behind the driver’s seat,” Fallon said, as he held the old dog by its collar.

  Fallon was ready to disassemble a piece of art that cost more than Bronkowski’s house. It was Bronkowski who hesitated. Even if they found a bone or skin or whatever human was in there, he saw Marcy Thornton turning it around: He worked for Fager, the damning evidence was never in the statue, Bronkowski had planted it at his boss’s order to falsely throw guilt on Geronimo, part of Fager’s scheme to divert attention from himself. And where did it really come from? From the women Fager murdered and buried at Geronimo’s ranch.

  “I need a video camera. We have to document taking it apart, finding what we find.”

  “Right there.” Fallon pointed to the big screen. “I let Ginger take the wheel while I talk to my people all over the world. I see them, they see me, so they know I really exist. I need to remember how to make it record. Runs through a computer somewhere in the belly of this rig.”

  Fallon used a phone built into the dashboard to call his wife inside the house. Bronkowski heard Ginger’s voice saying, “Are you crazy?” when Fallon asked if she would come out to give them a hand. She told him how to work the camera while Uncas whined and paced and scratched the front door to get out. The Bijon Frise raced across the floor, its nails scrabbling tiles, snapping at Uncas when he came near, taking his turn scratching to get out.

  Fallon locked the dogs in the back room, where Bronkowski saw a king-size bed under a chandelier and another gargantuan TV.

  They were able to disassemble the statue, one scrap of leather, feather, stick, reed, and stone at a time. Below the surface they found bones connected by wires and screws. They dismantled the strange skeleton and arranged the bones on the tile floor. Fallon brought out Uncas, but forced the other dog back into the bedroom. Uncas alerted immediately on the largest bone. Bronkowski didn’t need a dog to tell him he was looking at a human shoulder blade.

  “Spirit Wing. Jesus.”

  Forty-Seven

  Rivera gathered them in his war room to discuss Fager’s meltdown. He had ordered take-out. The sight of red, white, and blue Lotaburger bags made Aragon smile.

  Tucker, the agent who had posed as a reporter, was there. Lewis had wrangled time away from the kids for the late-night meeting. Goff wanted to come, but Aragon kept him away.

  “He really hates Fager. Foaming at the mouth,” she told Lewis on their way to the FBI’s office. “Ready to kill him for making Thornton look believable. He’ll feel better when Fager’s in jail. The motion to revoke his conditions of release is Judge Diaz’s first hearing tomorrow. She assigned it to herself, saving us the trouble of guessing the outcome.”

  She told Goff to make himself useful. Park
outside Fager’s office. Let her know if he went home, where he kept a loaded Beretta. Aragon was prepared to use the conditions of Fager’s bail to stop and frisk him as soon as he stepped out the door.

  Gathered around Rivera’s conference table, they dug into the food, ate quietly, all hungry after a long day of work.

  “Feels great to deliver good news,” she said. The men had to wait for her to swallow the last bite of her burger to explain. She wiped her lips, took a sip of Coke. “Bronkowski’s on his way back with a human scapula from inside one of Geronimo’s statues.”

  “A huge break,” Rivera said. “We can see if it matches any of the bodies at the ranch.”

  Lewis said, “We get a match, it gives us PC to go after the other statues and see what’s inside them. We can get into his house, his gallery, that modern wing at his ranch.” He caught Aragon’s eye. “Lord knows what’s in there.”

  “Right. Who can imagine what we might find?” she said.

  She liked the energy. For the first time she could remember, she had complete confidence in every law enforcement officer she saw.

  “We have to include Geronimo’s sales records in the first warrant.” She added a serious tone to her voice. “Find out who bought the other statutes. Collectors are not going to be happy having us dismantle artwork that’s soaring in value as news of this case spreads. Bronkowski lucked out. He found probably the only person ready to turn a Geronimo masterpiece back into worthless trash.”

  Rivera said, “We’ll get sued.”

  “DOJ has a million lawyers. They can figure it out. We’ve got another problem.” She laid her hand on Rivera’s arm. “We need your help staying with this. Tomorrow we go back on rotation.”

  “What if the FBI formally requests the participation of detectives Aragon and Lewis in a joint task force?” he asked. “Linda Fager will be an integral part of that investigation. I’ll insist you carry that case for the task force, since you were the first detectives on scene. We’ll also request you reopen the Tasha Gonzalez inquiry. I can have the U.S. Attorney make the pitch. He knows we owe this show to you.”