by Susan Slater
“You were the prosecuting attorney at Eric’s trial. Someone, I’m guessing J.J., provided you with damaging information about Eric, played law clerk, helped you build a case, encouraged you to make him out to be a menace to society.”
“That really wasn’t necessary. Eric dug his own grave trying to represent himself.”
“But why the stiff sentence?”
“Keep a misfit out of the community. Those were close to Judge Aspen’s exact words.”
“Misfit doesn’t equate to dangerous. Someone wanted him put away, put away and set up to keep him quiet. What do you know about that part of it?”
Albert didn’t answer right away. Dan waited; he wasn’t in a hurry.
“I believe Judge Aspen was encouraged by friends.”
“Who?”
“The circuit court judge down your way, Franklin Cyrus.”
Judge Cyrus. This was getting interesting.
“What makes you say that?”
“I overheard a conversation. Judge Cyrus can be pretty convincing, convinced Aspen, anyway, that Eric shouldn’t get a light sentence.”
“But why? First time offender. You know the user charges were teenage offenses that he wasn’t cited for.”
“It was morals, if I remember correctly. Judge Cyrus said Mr. Linden suffered from a sexual addiction, probably needed clinical treatment for chronic promiscuity. I remember the judge saying that such problems are usually caused by abuse or neglect as children. Eric had just cited his dysfunctional childhood in testimony that morning. He didn’t know it, but it worked against him. I remember Judge Cyrus saying it was only a matter of time before the charge would be rape.”
“Strange that Judge Cyrus would use something like that. What was that to him? Promiscuity didn’t have anything to do with the trial.”
Albert shrugged. “There was something about him having a mistress, no, ‘coercing’ was the term used, someone underage. Judge Cyrus made it sound like it was a child, or at least a teenager. If you knew Judge Aspen, it wouldn’t take much to put an errant lawyer away, especially one suspected of drug smuggling and sexual misconduct. He really had a thing for cleaning up the profession. A fellow Yale alumnus seemed to be a double black eye.”
“Do you remember if any more was said about this child?”
“No. I wasn’t supposed to overhear as much as I did. I just happened to be in the lunch room outside Judge Aspen’s chambers.”
“So, J.J. didn’t need to help you with the case?”
“I didn’t say that. He provided some…insights into the defendant’s character like what you mentioned earlier. All on the up and up, all on the books. He was apprenticed to Judge Cyrus at the time. Did some clerking for him before he took the bar.”
“Why Judge Cyrus? I wouldn’t think a young man would find Tatum very interesting.”
“Judge Cyrus has always been a supporter of the family. My family and my wife’s. The judge has been generous by making school possible for us. My wife even clerked for him.”
McCandless. The farm couple who took in the refugees from Haiti—the Voodoo priest. It was becoming a small world.
“Was there anything else unusual about the trial?”
“Other than all of Roswell was in shock. Eric was a hometown product. Local boy makes good, goes back East to school. Everyone knew his great aunt, the one who raised him; she was a pillar of the community…the wife was well liked. Believe me, it was the talk of Roswell for months.”
“Do you know of a reason that anyone might have had to kill J.J.?” It was time to ask again. Bring the focus back where it needed to be.
“I’ll admit I’ve thought about it. It was ruled an accident. Of course, there wasn’t much left of the car.”
“I don’t think you believe it was an accident.”
“I guess I believe it might have been intentional. He could have taken his own life.”
“Why do you say that?”
“J.J. had been despondent recently. His practice was struggling and he could have just wanted out. Maybe he was in over his head.” Albert paused, then shrugged. “I just don’t know.”
Or maybe he knew I was close to finding out what really happened eight years ago, Dan thought. Knew, and couldn’t face the consequences.
***
Why would Judge Cyrus try to influence the sentencing in Eric’s case? Say that he had an addiction, a teenage mistress? According to Elaine, there had been a young girl, one of Eric’s stowaways. But she had disappeared. Disappeared. Somehow the word bothered him. She seemed to have vanished about the time Eric was busted. Was that a coincidence or was there a chance that she’d never made it up north to work in Albuquerque? Or any place else, for that matter.
Dan had the three-hour drive back to Roswell to decide on his next move, and that was to stop by the coroner’s office at the courthouse. Dan wasn’t sure what he’d find, but if his hunch was right, it would suddenly be a whole new ballgame.
The office, tucked away in a back corner on the second floor, proved to be an efficiently run archive of clinical records, masterminded and protected with gusto by the tall, gray-haired woman standing in front of him, arms crossed over a flat chest.
“I usually need a little more identification than this. What you’re asking for is highly confidential, highly volatile information.” She was peering at the card that said he was a senior investigator with United Life and Casualty but was also an independent contractor. Her lips were tightly pressed together, not a good sign.
“It has some bearing on our investigation of the deaths of several cows owned by Billy Roland Eklund. One, as you might have heard, died by mutilation.”
She pursed her lips and frowned, but he’d bet she knew what he was talking about.
“And you think these sacrifices of humans might, in some way, be connected?”
“Mr. Roland shared with me before he died…God rest his soul…” Dan had reverently lowered his eyes when he said this last and through lowered lashes saw that she had done the same. Just a moment of silence but it may have made an ally.
“…that on several occasions the bodies of young women had been found in his woods, on an altar of sorts, suggesting that their deaths had been the result of some kind of cult worship, a ritualistic killing. I understand that their bodies were brought here to Roswell, were autopsied by the coroner? That your office often sent photos and prints to Mexico trying to identify the girls?”
He thought he had won her over. She was just looking thoughtful now, not adversarial.
“There have been five that I know about, and I’ve worked here for nineteen years. A couple date way back before my time. The last was two months ago, the one you mentioned. But before that, it must have been seven or eight years since we’d had an incident.”
Dan caught his breath. Seven or eight years. He felt the excitement rising. “Would you be able to look up the dates for me?” Go easy, don’t get too eager; it might be nothing, just coincidence, Dan warned himself.
“I suppose it would be all right. It’s the kind of thing people around here don’t like to admit to. Makes outsiders shy away from investing in the community, makes us seem unsafe, if you know what I mean.” She looked at him, then added, “I was against the UFO museum at first, thought visitors would think all of Roswell ran around looking up at the sky to point at shiny whirling things.” She laughed, then added, “I’d hate for there to be any adverse publicity because of this…information.”
Dan smiled. “I understand, but this information might just mean the end to these senseless killings.” That had gotten her attention. She pushed a clipboard toward him.
“Sign here. Give your address and phone in Roswell. We keep a record of all inquiries.”
Dan signed and watched her go through an archway to filing cabinets that lined the walls of a back room. It seemed like she was gone overly long or was it just his excitement?
“Here it is,” she called out after he had heard sever
al drawers being opened and slammed shut. “Thought for a moment that I’d misplaced the file.”
She walked back into the room carrying several green pendaflex folders. “There’s a new procedure in place after this last killing. In the cases of unexplained or violent deaths, bodies must be sent to the Office of Medical Investigation in Albuquerque. In the old days, everything was handled here, locally. The body was examined, kept at the morgue a decent length of time, and if no next-of-kin presented themselves, someone would provide a burial plot.”
“Do you remember the names of people who might have done that?”
“Oh yes, people with private cemeteries. Billy Roland offered a resting place for one young girl many years ago. Seems like I remember Judge Cyrus has, too.”
“Does he have a family cemetery?”
“Not really. He set up a memorial garden. Pretty spot right next to the bank. The citizens of Tatum weren’t too pleased. But it’s nice to have someone concerned about the dead, the discarded ones who will never rest with their families.”
Dan agreed and hoped she couldn’t see his hands shake as he pulled a folder out of the file marked with a date a few days before Eric Linden was framed. First time he had used the word, framed; but suddenly he was sure that that’s what had happened.
The file was complete. A description and several photos attested to the young girl’s beauty, even in death. She was probably sixteen. It was easy to imagine Eric accepting a little thanks for teaching her the alphabet, and he would bet anything that this was the stowaway, the one he brought to this country to start a new life. The one he accepted a few favors from, and the one Judge Cyrus used to sway his sentencing. He asked for a copy of the autopsy and turned to the other files.
The first death had occurred thirty-two years ago. That placed it a few years after the Voodoo priest moved to the community. The others were spaced at five to ten year intervals.
Nothing unusual. All were attributed to rituals practiced by those who strayed north of the Mexican border. In each instance there was an investigation. A handful of men tried to track down wrongdoers. There were never any suspects found.
“I’d like to borrow a photo of this victim.” Dan pointed to the girl that he hoped Eric would be able to identify.
“That’s not our usual procedure.” The woman turned back to the copier.
“I’ll be able to have the photo back in two days.” Unless it becomes evidence, he thought.
“I suppose it would be all right. We have four others here.” She was thumbing through the stack of papers on the machine in front of her, then removed an eight by ten glossy and put it in an envelope along with the copies of the investigation and autopsy.
“Here you go. I hope this will be helpful.”
Not as much as I do, Dan wanted to add as he walked out the door. He tossed the envelope onto the front seat of the Cherokee and backed out into traffic. He knew where he was going; he had one last thing to check before he went out to the Double Horseshoe to confront Eric.
***
The offices of the Roswell Sentinel, the city’s one newspaper, were downtown in a beige brick building probably built in the fifties. He had about an hour before they closed to the public, but what he wanted to see wouldn’t take long.
The receptionist directed him to the library, a room off of a long hallway that held a microfiche reader, long heavy oak tables and several uncomfortable chairs. The cabinets of film were protected by a counter that stretched across the width of the room. Someone had to be called from the back to help him, but soon he was seated in front of the screen moving through a month’s worth of Sentinels—all seven and a half years old.
The first headline about finding the girl was two inches high: “Satan Lives Among Us.” A local group of ministers had banded together to protest the killing and vowed to get some answers. There were public outcries against satanism and ungodly ritual, lots of quotes from upstanding townspeople. Sheriff Ray supposedly took an active part in tracking down the killers, was quoted as saying he had several “hot” leads.
The second day headlines were even larger. “Community Vows Revenge,” a quote from the Tatum mayor. By then, the horror of the death had attracted state-wide attention. Sheriff Ray now had the help or hindrance of a local vigilante group. One more day and that was the end of headline news for the apparent sacrificial death. A total of three days. The next edition of the Sentinel had the news of the killing on the back page of the front section. This time the two-inch headline read: “Roswell Attorney Accused in Drug Smuggling.”
Dan scrolled through another week’s worth of headlines. Eric Linden had indeed been big news. It seems like all of Roswell was captivated by the story. Even editorials chose themes of temptation and greed. The ritualistic death of a young girl from somewhere south of the border was no longer of interest. But a lawyer, well known in the community, suddenly was.
Dan was beginning to see the sense of it all. If someone had wanted, needed, to divert attention from a heinous crime; say, one where authorities were getting too close—what better way to do it? The newspapers were proof that it had worked. One day, the community was up in arms about the killing; the next it was in shock about one of its own gone wrong.
“We’re closing in ten minutes. Is there something else I can help you with?”
“No. I have everything I need.” Dan hadn’t seen the young man come in the room. “On second thought, how long would it take to make copies of these three editions, front pages only?”
“Could you pick them up tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Dan left his name and paid for the copies, but he was already thinking of talking with Eric. He could just be the last piece in the puzzle. What did Eric know about the young woman’s death? He was out of the country when she was killed. And someone made certain that his attention was diverted when he returned. If the killer thought he could identify him…wouldn’t that have been worth the promise of two million to keep him quiet?
When Dan pulled into the long curving front drive of the Double Horseshoe, the house was dark. And, for the first time, looked empty, lifeless and forsaken, in the subdued light of dusk. No one had removed the hanging terra cotta pots of petunias, summer leftovers, that now shed dried leaves onto the porch. The cornshuck wreath on the door had been shredded by the wind. This wasn’t the same house he had pulled up in front of just four months ago on a sultry summer’s day. He drove around to the back fighting the sadness that seemed to settle around him.
He was surprised to see two cars parked next to a couple of ranch pickups: Elaine’s Benz and Phillip’s white Buick. He pulled in and headed back to the house. They must have brought Eric out. This was turning into a reunion of sorts.
The back screen door was unlatched, and Dan walked through to the kitchen. There was a faint odor of stale food, garbage not removed. There were even dirty dishes in the sink. Whoever lived in the house now wasn’t too tidy. The door to the study was closed. Dan knocked, then opened it. A floor lamp was on and had been moved to the middle of the floor. White sheeting covered the furniture. Someone was in the process of packing Billy Roland’s library; books were stacked everywhere.
The bar had been dismantled. A large slab of gray-green marble rested against one wall. All the bottles of liquor had been removed. Not the sort of thing a state school would want to inherit, Dan guessed. He wondered who had helped themselves. Billy Roland’s walnut desk was gone, leaving a lighter patch of carpet underneath. The drapes were down and the windows seemed naked with only tightly closed venetian blinds. It was a room with all the life sucked out of it.
He stepped into the hall and called out for Elaine before switching on a light. He stood and listened; but it was evident that the house was empty. There was dust everywhere. He was leaving tracks on the fine oak parquet flooring. The chandelier was dimmed by a dusty powdering. He turned and walked back through the kitchen turning out lights as he went.
The barns were a different st
ory. He walked into the first one and saw that the horses had been recently fed. Baby Belle nickered in greeting, and he stopped to rub her nose. It seemed like there were fewer horses. He couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t paid that much attention before.
The first of the cow-barns was brightly lighted and bustling with activity. Charolais, some getting bathed, others exercised, were everywhere. And the men working with them were young, not quite acne-free Future Farmers of America members who had gone on to an agricultural college. There were even two young girls working together sudsing up a half-grown bull. College kids wearing cowboy hats and Levis. The crew who usually worked in the barns was absent.
“Things have changed.” Hank had walked up to stand beside him.
“It’s a shock. What’s going to happen to the house?”
“Somebody turned up some distant relative of the first wife and we’re just waiting for her to come out and go through the household things before we turn it into offices. The Tatum library will get his books. Out here we’ve already transitioned to university ownership. The kids are doing a pretty good job, don’t you think?”
Amid squeals of delight, the two girls washing the young bull turned the hose on each other.
“Different atmosphere,” Dan admitted.
“We’ve even converted one of the bunk houses into a dormitory. Come with me.” Hank paused to unlock a door to the back of a second barn. “I want to show you something.”
Dan followed Hank back toward the clinic, which was framed in already with rough white drywall panels hanging from sturdy two by fours.
“Difficult to imagine there was a fire.”
“Yeah. We were able to shake some money loose from the trust and go ahead with the repairs.”
Hank was leading him toward the show ring, a regulation-size arena of sawdust over sand flanked by bleachers.
“Sit here, I’ll be back.”
Dan hadn’t meant to be sidetracked by Hank, but he guessed that Eric would be down at the hangar and would probably still be there when he got through. Hank could barely contain his excitement when he returned to sit beside Dan.
