“So, what do you think?” I asked Estelle. She started the Bronco and levered it into gear.
“I want to see what Linda was able to piece together,” she said. “And then we need to finish what we started earlier. We need to sort through Martin Holman’s files. There’re pieces missing, sir.”
“Many, many,” I agreed, and braced myself for the first cattle guard. “And I’d be interested to find out what our friends from the FBI spent their time doing. If anything.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ve been busy,” Estelle said, and the tone of her voice brought my head around.
“We’re not in competition here,” I said.
“Of course not, sir.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Bronco thumped over the last cattle guard, and Estelle steered onto County Road 43, taking us back to Posadas. We drove in silence for the first couple of miles.
During those infrequent moments when Martin Holman was feeling his administrative oats, he would gently jibe me about my habits—one of which was an aversion to the continual squawking and static of police radios. I routinely left them turned off…leaving the airwaves to the regular road deputies.
Cellular phones in each unit had been one of his solutions, and I suppose it made sense, unless an officer crashed into a tree while trying to punch in a number on one of those tiny pads.
I reached forward and turned on the two-way radio, keyed the mike and said, “Posadas, three-ten.”
Gayle Sedillos was on the air, and from the tone of her voice, I couldn’t have guessed the sort of afternoon that she had had with the federal contingent breathing down her neck.
“Three-ten, Posadas.”
“We’re ten-eight,” I said. “Ten-nineteen.”
She acknowledged without requesting elaboration, explanation, or ETA, as if it were a Sunday afternoon with blooming roses the only source of noise and excitement.
“What?” Estelle asked. She glanced my way and caught the grin on my face as I hung up the mike.
“Just passing thoughts,” I said. “Remember when J. J. Murton worked for us? The Miracle?”
“Sure.” She smiled but kindly refrained from comment.
“The man who actually asked, ‘Do you know what your ten-four is?’ over the air.”
“I remember that.”
“The Miracle was one of Holman’s greater triumphs,” I said. “I could never make either one of them understand that people other than the police listen to radio conversations.”
“You’ll miss Gayle if she and Bobby end up moving away somewhere.”
“I’m hoping they don’t,” I said. “I’m hoping they stay right here and continue the endless Torrez-Sedillos dynasty. Between the two of them, they’re related to half the county.”
“Nearer to two thirds,” Estelle said. “And we’ve got company.” She indicated the rearview mirror, and I turned around to see the dark Suburban coming up behind us. I recognized Neil Costace’s blocky shape behind the wheel. The lights flashed, and Estelle slowed the Bronco and pulled off on the wide shoulder.
“Where did they come from?” I asked.
“Parked in the turnoff to the boneyard,” Estelle said, referring to Consolidated Mining’s access road.
The Suburban slid in behind us, and when Walter Hocker stepped out, his face was grim. He stalked toward us, a manila folder in hand. I rolled down the window and waited. He appeared at the door and nodded at Estelle.
“What did you find out?” he asked without preamble.
“About what?”
A brief flash of irritation crinkled his forehead and then he leaned on the doorsill like a rancher looking for conversation.
“About anything at all, Sheriff.”
I could feel Estelle’s gaze boring into my skull. No doubt she remembered my exact words as we’d left the windmill.
“We just chatted with Richard Finnegan,” I said. “His wife is the one who saw the aircraft and heard the ‘backfiring.’” Hocker nodded impatiently. “We went out there primarily because of this photograph.” I turned, and Estelle snapped open her briefcase and handed me the folder. I handed the blowup of the block house to Hocker, pulled the pen out of my pocket and pointed. “That appears to be a shadow,” I said. “We think it’s of a person standing behind the building.”
Hocker pushed his dark glasses up onto his forehead and bent close, squinting at the photo. “Finnegan?”
“I don’t know. He says not.”
“You believe him?”
“I don’t know that either.”
Hocker turned his head and looked off into the distance, then tapped the photo. “Where’s the negative for this?”
“In our darkroom with our deputy,” I said. “She’s been working most of the day on this.”
“And so what did you find out there?”
“No footprints. Nothing to indicate that someone was there. But the ground is rocky and it’s harder to leave a trace than not. So I’m not surprised.” I reached over and pulled the evidence bag of .223 casings out of the briefcase.
“And these. Twelve rounds.”
“Son of a bitch,” Hocker muttered. He handed the photo back to me and took the bag by the closure. By this time, Neil Costace had ambled his way over to join us, preferring the view on Estelle’s side of the Bronco. “Two-twenty-three,” Hocker said, and nodded toward Costace. “Show those to him. And the picture.”
“The position of the casings is kind of interesting,” I said. I pulled Estelle’s briefcase across my lap like a desk and spread the field drawing she had prepared. “The location of the casings suggests a fan. If the rifle was anywhere near consistent in the way it ejects spent cases, the shooter would have been standing uphill from the block house. Thirty, forty yards or so.”
Hocker shook his head. “There’s no way to tell by that what direction the shots were fired from.”
“That’s true. I’m saying there’s a suggestion there. Nothing more.”
I watched Costace roll the casings this way and that. “South Korean,” he said. “Some of that surplus stuff.”
“You’re sure there weren’t more?” Hocker asked.
“Not that we found. And we swept the area thoroughly.”
He pursed his lips and regarded Estelle. “You’re very quiet,” he said. “What’s your take on all this?”
“Those cases weren’t fired recently,” she said. “They’re reasonably clean, but you can see traces of dirt in the crease around the primer. They’ve been on the ground for a while.”
“So they weren’t involved with this shooting?”
Estelle shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Convenient location, then,” Hocker said.
“Yes, sir.”
He grinned. “You think someone put them there to frame Finnegan? That someone figured we’d find them and put two and two together for the wrong answer?”
“No, sir.”
He looked surprised. “Why not?”
“Because if that were so, it would assume that the person who planted the cases knew what was on that film. It assumes that he would know we’d be out here, looking around in that very spot. It would assume that the person who fired the shot knew that the occupant in the airplane was taking photographs.”
“A lot of assumptions,” Costace said and handed the bag of casings back to her.
“Yes, sir.”
“So, just a hunter firing half a clip at a coyote?” Hocker persisted.
“Who the hell knows?” I said.
“Well, it gives us something,” Hocker said. “I want to see the rest of that film.”
“Follow us on in,” I said.
Hocker hesitated. “By the way, did Buscema get in touch with you?”
“Not in the last couple of hours.”
“He’s got a probable path for that bullet. They found the point of entry, to the right of centerline, just about where the belly of the aircraft starts to turn upward into t
he sides.”
“On the right side,” I repeated.
“The right. From there, it deflected off a structural member of some sort, fragmented, and at least one chunk found its way up through the back of the victim’s seat.”
“Did Buscema find any other pieces?”
Hocker shook his head. “Another fragment continued out the left side of the fuselage. He’s got evidence of that, too.” He paused. “Now, let me ask you something. How well do you know this Johnny Boyd character?”
I shrugged. “I’ve known him for twenty years. He doesn’t have a record, if that’s what you mean. He’s a hard-working rancher. Good family. His son’s a student at the state university. The only contact the department’s had with Johnny Boyd over the years was a property-line dispute he had six or seven years ago when the Bureau of Land Management traded for a piece of property that adjoins his. That was resolved.”
Hocker shot a glance at Costace, and I added, “Why?”
“Let me show you something. You might find it interesting.” He slapped the door of the Bronco with the palm of his hand and trudged back toward his own vehicle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The more I read, the more my stomach churned as if I’d been served some spoiled green chili. And maybe not for any reason that Walter Hocker would understand.
I held up a photocopy of a handwritten letter dated in 1997. The penmanship was confident and brusque, written with a black felt-tip pen. It was addressed to the Secretary of the Interior of the United States. I skimmed it quickly and then returned to the beginning.
“Sirs,” the letter began, and I read it aloud. “It has come to my attention that an agency of your department is considering purchase or fair-value exchange for some 6800 acres located in Posadas County, for the purpose of establishing either a national park or a national monument.
“The land in question is to include the entirety of what is known locally as the Martinez Tubes, and extends north beyond the southwestern boundaries of the Circle JEB Ranch, property owned entirely by my family and myself.”
I stopped and glanced up at Estelle. “You remember that?” I asked. “They were thinking of making a park out of the lava tubes.” She nodded. “Nothing ever came of it,” I added for Hocker’s benefit, although I was sure he was well aware of that.
The letter got to the point in blunt terms that left no room for misunderstanding:
“The Circle JEB Ranch operation has no interest in entering into any sort of negotiations with the federal government, now or ever, for either land exchange or outright sale. It is also our understanding that the land may be acquired through condemnation proceedings. Be advised,” and I paused for breath, “that any action by the federal government, or any other government, to secure lands owned by the Circle JEB Ranch will be met with appropriate response.”
“Huh,” I said. “And then it’s signed, ‘Sincerely yours, John Patrick Boyd.’” I placed the letter back in the folder, wondering if Johnny Boyd had the slightest inkling about the extended life of his handwritten message.
“All right,” I said. “There’s that. The letter makes perfect sense, and I remember the circumstances. For a while, there was talk of all kinds of development off the west end of Cat Mesa. A big national monument that would draw some tourist dollars to the area. And I remember that it hinged in large measure on being able to acquire the land—including a large chunk of the Boyds’ ranch.” I looked at the letter again. “We even had a congressman or two down here at one time. And then the whole affair went away quietly when it became clear that the lava tubes were short, shallow, and boring—nothing at all like the big ones up by Grants, or certainly not like the limestone caverns over at Carlsbad. Not park material, one congressman said.”
I leaned back and gazed at Hocker, whose face was expressionless. “So tell me, Walter, how does it happen that a letter from a small-time rancher to a federal land-management agency attracts the attention of the FBI?”
“I suppose someone in the Department of the Interior thought that the letter constituted enough of a threat that they forwarded a copy to us for our files. Just to have it on record.”
“A threat?” I said. “It reads more like a promise. And there’s no suggestion of violence, either. Just as easily, he could have been promising appropriate litigation. Or a ‘Letters to the Editor’ campaign.”
“He could have been,” Hocker agreed.
I frowned. “I don’t understand, then. Since when do things like legitimate letters between citizens and a federal agency become part of a law-enforcement record? Am I being naive?”
“If you want my opinion,” Hocker said, sounding very much as if his opinion wasn’t worth much, “it’s the words ‘met with appropriate response.’” He reached down, slid the letter to one side and tapped a report that bore the letterhead of the Department of the Treasury’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.
“And now we’ve got the BATF,” I said, puzzled. I scanned the report. “And this is routine?” I asked, holding my hands out. I looked up at Estelle and beckoned her closer so she could read the evidence for herself.
“It’s the law, to my understanding, that if someone buys more than a single handgun during any one day’s purchase, the multiple transaction must be reported by the firearm’s dealer to the BATF. Isn’t that right?” Hocker didn’t reply, and I handed the stapled records to Estelle. She scanned down the columns.
“I think it’s during any five-day period, sir,” Estelle said. “This is a moderate arsenal,” she murmured. “And much of it purchased within a year or two of that letter.”
“You see what I’m saying?” Hocker asked.
I leaned back. “No, Walter, I don’t. Even if Johnny Boyd’s got a paranoid streak a mile wide, there’s not a thing that’s illegal about buying a whole railroad car full of arms, as long as each weapon is purchased legally.”
“Depends what they’re used for,” Hocker said.
“That’s a different issue,” I snapped. “I said that ownership of the firearms is not illegal. Or even improper. The man fancies hardware. He can afford it, apparently. So what?”
Hocker leaned hard against the door. He clasped his hands together, both forearms on the windowsill. “Keep going, Sheriff.”
The next several documents covered other purchases John Patrick Boyd had made within the past eighteen months. This time the transactions were far from routine and required additional registration, or Class 3 fees, as fully automatic weapons: a Browning Automatic Rifle, caliber .30-06; a Schmeisser, caliber .9mm; and a Thompson A-11, caliber .45ACP. I stopped reading and looked up at Hocker.
“See what I mean?” he said.
“What baffles me is that Johnny Boyd came by these weapons, and the federal paperwork, perfectly legally, Walter. And the last purchase was made within the year. What, you think that suddenly he whips one of them out and starts shooting at airplanes?”
Hocker grinned and looked across at Costace. “Sheriff, let me ask you something. We’ve got a plane brought down by a bullet. Maybe stray, maybe well and truly aimed. That airplane is hit, the pilot is killed, the plane crashes in the backyard of a man who at one time thought he was being threatened by the feds…who thought he had received at least enough of a threat to warrant writing letters.
“And after he writes the letters, he spends what had to have been a hell of a bankroll on firearms purchases, including at least three fully automatic weapons. Ammunition isn’t recorded, so we don’t know anything about that.” He leaned toward me and lowered his voice even more. “Now don’t you think that’s reason enough to at least talk to the man?”
He reached in and picked up the folder and shook it gently. “I don’t know if you’re a fan of profiles or not,” he said softly.
I interrupted him before he could go any farther. “No, no, Agent Hocker. We don’t believe in any modern law-enforcement methods around here at all. Just men on horseback.”
He stopp
ed and smiled again, and shook his head patiently. “That’s not what I mean, Sheriff. What I meant was, if we were to design a profile of someone who would deliberately fire a high-powered rifle, or a machine gun, at a low-flying aircraft, an aircraft that is obviously circling his property—and, if you figure in the weather, must be doing so for a fairly important reason—then Johnny Boyd fits that profile. He’s on record.” He shook the folder again.
When I didn’t respond immediately, Hocker tucked the folder under his arm and stood back from the door. “There are at least ten handguns on this list,” he said. “Each one of those falls under the Brady Bill guidelines, so one of your department was charged with doing a background check.”
“And I’m sure one was done. We have one deputy who routinely handles all those, at least until we go to the instant check system. Then it will be the FBI’s headache.”
“Which deputy?”
“Sergeant Mitchell. If there’d been anything squirrelly, he’d have caught it.”
Hocker took a deep breath and tapped the Bronco’s door with the corner of the folder. “How well do you know Mr. Boyd?”
“Fairly well,” I said. “And I’ve been in this business long enough to know that people aren’t always what they seem. The Boyds stick to themselves. They have a son away at college. I was in their home earlier today, as were you. I saw a variety of weapons in a living-room cabinet. You saw the same cabinet, but didn’t have a chance to do an inventory. But I’ll tell you this…there was nothing in the cabinet anything like any of this. Nothing like what’s on that list. Let me see it again,” I added, and held out my hand.
“You know him fairly well, but you didn’t know that he buys machine guns?”
“Nope,” I said. “I didn’t know that. There are probably things you do that I don’t know about, either.” I opened the folder and scanned the list of weapons. “An interesting collection. All military.” I counted quickly. “Eight of them.”
“You’re assuming the bullet was from a rifle, and I agree. But any of these handguns takes ammunition that may be loaded with jacketed bullets. And at two hundred or so yards, a jacketed bullet from a high-performance handgun will easily punch a hole through the aluminum skin of an airplane.”
Out of Season Page 17
