The Admitting and Discharge desk at the hospital answered on the second ring.
“That boy the ambulance brought in last night?” a female voice asked. “The one that had that collision with the deer? That would be Carlos Sanchez, hold on a minute.” Lester could hear the tapping of computer keys. “He’s no longer here Sheriff. They had to fly him to Oklahoma City.”
“Did he regain consciousness, do you know?”
“I don’t, and all the staff that was here last night is off duty. You can check with them this evening if you want. His doctor is Dr….Holman. He would be the one to ask.”
“Thank you Ma’am. Oh, did Carlos have any family come in?”
“Sorry, but I really don’t know.”
“All right then. I’ll call again later.”
Reaching down to pet the lab, Lester said, “Damn it Harley, he seemed like a good kid too. People forget about all the deer out in the country, crossing the roads at night. They all make the same mistake; the first deer runs across the road and that’s the one they look at. It’s the second animal or the third that’s trailing behind, that’s the one they hit.”
Harley listened. Since he had no use for the unknown words, the lab didn’t bother to respond. The human hand felt good on his head though.
The next call was to Walter Moody, the principal of the Boise City High School, but his wife Betty answered instead.
“No, Walters not here. He’s out playing golf like he usually does on a Saturday morning. Can I take a message?”
It was gonna be another long day was the thought running through Lester’s head.
“Yes Ma’am. I need the home address of Carlos Sanchez, one of the students at the school. The boy was in a car accident last night. I’d like to talk with his parents if I could.”
“Oh my, an accident you say? Is he hurt?”
“I’m afraid so, Ma’am. He’s in the hospital in Oklahoma City. Would you have your husband call that information in to the Sheriff’s Office dispatch when he comes home?”
“I sure will. I hope that boy’s gonna be okay.”
“I do too Ma’am. Bye now.”
Lester didn’t need the phone directory for his next call.
“Billy Ray, can you come to work? I need you boy.”
“What’s up?”
“Remember me telling you about the football player I interviewed at the high school? Seems the kid slammed into a deer last night out on 287. The deer came through the windshield and mashed him pretty bad. They had to Life Flight him to Okie City.
“Where do I come in?” Billy Ray asked, knowing that his weekend off had just been shot down.
“Meet me at the office as soon as you can. I want to call the OSBI, see if I get them off their butts. Then, as soon as I can get an address for the kid, I want to go out to his house and talk to the parents. Later on, towards sundown, you and I are going back to the Pirate’s Den.”
“Somehow, I get the feeling it’s not to drink beer and shoot pool?”
“No sir, we are taking you and your hot rod Camaro and sitting in the parking lot. I want to see what sort of clientele hangs out at Earl’s bar. Oh, one more thing. I get to drive.”
“Oh hell no, I’m too young to die.”
“Hush up, I’ll see you in a short.”
Lester found the 800 number for the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation on the first page of the phone book under Emergency Numbers, dialed it, and got a menu recording.
“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “Doesn’t the state have enough money to hire someone to answer an emergency telephone?”
Impatience at the boiling point, Lester listened to the options, the last of which was to stay on the line if you needed personal assistance.
Lester yelled at the phone. “Damn right I need personal assistance unless you got computers that can find a missing girl.”
Agent Ted Metcalf didn’t really mind working on Saturdays. It was quiet, well, usually quiet, and it gave him a chance to catch up on his paperwork and sneak in a little personal time as well. He had just downloaded the latest Stephen King novel to his Kindle reader and by the end of the first chapter, was hopelessly engrossed in the story. Later in the day the OU Sooners would be on TV to play a little smash-mouth football with the Florida State Seminoles. The office didn’t have a hi-def TV, only an old 17” CRT in the corner, but Ted figured he couldn’t be choosy if he was getting paid to watch it. When the phone buzzed, the agent mumbled a silent obscenity and picked up.
“Agent Metcalf.”
“Sheriff Lester P. Morrison, Cimarron County, Oklahoma.” Lester got right to the point, as was his way. “We got a missing teenage girl out here and could use a little help finding her. You boys got anything more important to do today?”
Why me? Metcalf thought to himself. Why do I always get the calls like this?
“Slow down Sheriff. Let’s start at the beginning and you can drop the attitude.”
What attitude? Lester thought, but relayed the facts of Melissa’s disappearance as accurately as possible including the car wreck of the alleged boyfriend, Carlos Sanchez. Agent Metcalf listened without interruption but had some questions.
“All right Sheriff, let me make sure I understand. This girl was last seen on Thursday evening, correct?
“That’s what I said.”
The agent glanced at the wall clock. “It’s now mid-morning on a Saturday, so that would make it around 36 hours, more or less, since she voluntarily walked out the door of her home.”
“Oh, you guys over there in the City are sharp, no doubt about it,” Lester said. “No wonder you get paid the big bucks.”
The agent let that one pass and continued.
“Sheriff Morrison, here’s the way I see it. You have no evidence of foul play, much less a crime scene. No witnesses to any unusual activity around the home. No suspicious strangers hanging around in trench coats. No on-line love affairs with dirty old men. What you have is a young girl, subject to teenage emotions, and as that age group often is, prone to irrational acts. Statistics show that one in seven kids between the ages of 10 and 18 will run away from home at some point. Sometimes it’s abuse or maybe they’ve done something wrong, or they’re pregnant, or maybe they just didn’t want to take the trash out. You say your girl stormed out of the house in a huff after harsh words with the parents. It would follow the pattern if she’s simply holed up somewhere with a friend. Now, when you get more to work on, feel free to call the OSBI. In the meantime, if you continue to believe the situation warrants action, I would suggest you canvass the neighborhood and dig around until you find her. I’d bet good money your girl is sitting in someone’s living room, as we speak, and watching MTV, or whatever kids watch on Saturdays these days.
Lester took a deep breath, hesitating, trying to keep his anger under control. Going off on this self-righteous jerk would not help find Melissa. A man with good sense would let it pass. But it was not to be.
“Agent Metcalf,” he said with a calm but deliberate voice, “I’m gonna tell you this one time and one time only so listen up. What you can’t seem to get through your thick over-paid skull is that a runaway kid in this end of Oklahoma has no place to run to. It’s not like we have streets of prostitution out here. We live in a land of small god-fearing communities where everybody knows everybody else. A man can’t look twice at well-rounded woman walking down the street without some preacher talking about it next Sunday morning. My point being, if Melissa Parker had simply spent the night at a friend’s house, we would have known about it in less than 36 goddamn hours. No sir. Mark my words. Something has happened to that child. Now if you bunch of suits over there want to sit around and play with your computers and your statistics all day, just go right ahead. In the meantime, we simpletons out here in the Badlands will go about our business which, for now, is finding lost girls. Goodbye Agent Metcalf, you, you…Jack Wagon.” Slamming the phone to the cradle, Lester leaned back and swung his boots up on the
kitchen table.
Despite his anger, Lester felt a grin coming on. The term Jack Wagon coming to mind when it did, pleased him. He had heard it on that TV commercial for Geico insurance and it had stuck in his head. Lester wasn’t sure what it meant, but he knew it was an insult. Let Agent Metcalf look it up.
A bowl of oatmeal and a pot of coffee later, Lester locked the front door (although he’d never been robbed in his life) and headed for the pickup. Like a magicians trick, Harley appeared from nowhere, out of thin air it seemed, and gave him the look, his tail wagging furiously. Lester had learned to stay out of the path of that otter-like tail when it was oscillating in high speed, such as it was now. A swipe across a shin with that thing was downright painful.
Lester thought about it and gave in. “Okay, let’s go. Get in the truck.” The lab needed no further encouragement, truck and go being the sounds he was waiting for. In a single bound, Harley landed behind the steering wheel, ears perked, and ready to go.
“Move over damn it, I’m driving today.”
Lester hit the switch for the passenger window, allowing the many scents of September to pass through the cab. The dog took the hint and moved over.
Saturday morning in Cimarron County was about as laid back as life could get with an azure blue sky and a warm sun to whisk away the chill. Traffic between Lester’s place and Boise City—a short five miles—was non-existent. Harley was doing his dog thing, head out the window and tongue lolling in the fifty-five mile per hour breeze. Ranch houses on both sides of the road had activity in the barns and fields, a Saturday for those folks being no different than any other day. Livestock had to be checked and tended to. Fences needed mending. A few of the places had milk cows, another never-ending job, and there was always a piece of machinery that needed attention.
Lester couldn’t help but wonder what kind of a morning Melissa was having. Was she really with a friend as Agent Metcalf suggested. Was she feeling guilty about walking out like she did? Was she ready to pick up a phone and call her mother to say she was sorry? Or was she being held captive, a sex slave to some depraved monster like some of those poor girls in California he’d heard about? Or was she lying in a field or a ditch or a patch of woods somewhere with a circle of vultures overhead?
The black Camaro waiting in the courthouse parking lot was shiny and spotless as always. Billy Ray sat with the door open and the stereo on loud, listening to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts doing her smash hit, I love Rock ‘n Roll.
“So, am I getting overtime for this?” Billy Ray asked, turning the radio down as Lester pulled alongside.
“You’ll be paid with the everlasting love of mankind if you can find Melissa. Your reward will be a place in heaven.”
“That’s what I figured.”
The two-way radio in the pickup came to life.
“Dispatch to Sheriff Morrison. You out there?”
Lester grabbed the mike.
“You got him.”
“Sheriff, I got a call from the principal at the high school. He gave me an address you requested. Ready to write?”
Lester copied the information.
“Get in the truck, Billy Ray.”
“What about Harley? Want me to put him in the back?”
“Nope, never liked the idea of dogs riding in the bed of pickup, too many things to go wrong. We can all fit up front. Harley, scoot over.”
Harley wasn’t keen on giving up his window seat, but did as he was told.
“Where we goin’?” Billy Ray asked, scratching the dog’s ears.
“To the home of Carlos Sanchez; I’d like to know why Carlos was leaving town in the middle of the night. I got to tell you, Billy Ray, looking in that smashed-up car and seeing that jersey with that big 81 on it was a shocker. Especially since it was only yesterday afternoon when I’d talked with the kid.”
The deputy turned to his boss, his face a picture of concern.
“Number 81 you say? According to my buddy Jason, 81 is the star receiver on the football team. But 81 didn’t play last night; wasn’t even on the bench.”
Lester had to think about that awhile. “Hard to believe the boy would miss a football game unless he had a very good reason, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would,” Billy Ray agreed. “Sick or injured or some kind of family emergency is all I can think of, and the first two would be doubtful. Most kids would have to be tied down and held for ransom not to play. I bet we get some answers at the home.”
A block away from the address, Billy Ray blurted, “Ransom! If someone had kidnapped Melissa, surely we would have had a call for ransom by now.”
Lester shook his head. “Not necessarily. You never know about a kidnapping. Sometimes there is no ransom. Could easily be a sex thing. Grab em’, use em’, and kill em’. Happens a lot.”
“But not around here,” Billy Ray added.
“No, not around here…not yet anyway.”
The Sanchez house was a white two story with what looked to be a lot of square footage, plenty of room for a large family. The yard was well cared for with two modest flower gardens on either side of the front door, both full of pink mums. An external garage sat to one side with the overhead door closed. There were four cars in the gravel driveway; two Fords, a Dodge, and a Jeep Cherokee. None of them were late model and it was obvious from the faded paint and dents that all had seen some hard miles. As the lawmen stepped from their pickup, a curtain in the front part of the house parted and quickly closed. Much to his chagrin, Harley heard the command “Stay!” Didn’t like it, but as there were no squirrels or cats in sight, decided it would be a good time for a nap and curled up in the seat.
The doorbell was a standard ding-dong, two-chime affair, but after three cycles, there was no response. “Try knocking,” Lester suggested.
After a half-dozen hard raps, the door slowly opened, but no more than six inches or so, barely wide enough for a middle-aged Hispanic woman to peek out and cautiously appraise her visitors.
“Hello there,” Lester said. We’re from the Sheriff’s Department. I’m Sheriff Morrison. Could we please talk to the family of Carlos Sanchez?”
“Perdón, yo no hablo inglés.”
Lester and Billy Ray looked at each other as if to say now what?
“Let me try,” Billy Ray said.
He pointed at the woman and asked, “Carlos Sanchez madre?”
The woman hesitated but then, “Sí.”
“Carlos padre?” Billy Ray said and shrugged his shoulders.
“Yo no sé.”
“I think she means she doesn’t know where the father is. Where do I go from here?”
Lester said, “Ask her why Carlos didn’t play football last night.”
“What? I don’t how to say that.”
“You were talking Spanish just now,” Lester challenged.
“Hey, I only know a half dozen words and I’ve all ready used two of them.”
Lester removed his straw hat and rubbed his forehead. “I knew it was gonna be one of those days.” The woman had barely moved, holding the same close gap in the door.
Lester had an idea. “Ask her for a drink of water if you can figure out how.”
“I don’t know the word for water, aqua or maybe it’s agua?
“Take a shot at it.”
“Senora, drink, aqua?” Billy Ray asked and pantomimed drinking from a glass.
The woman stared at him with obvious suspicion but finally nodded and turned away without closing the door. Lester waited a few moments, then motioned with his head for Billy Ray to follow him inside. Easing the door shut, neither man spoke, using the opportunity to look and listen. The interior of the home was as neat as the outside with almost everything in its proper place. A pair of scuffed and paint spattered work boots sat beside an easy chair while a single cigarette butt smoldered in an ash tray, a lazy trail of smoke spiraling upward. Billy Ray pointed at his ear and then at the ceiling where the smoke gathered. Footsteps. Lester nodded.
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Senora Sanchez returned with a glass of water, but her eyes went wide when she saw the lawmen inside her house. Billy Ray gave her his brightest smile and drained the glass.
“Tell her thank you,” Lester said.
Billy Ray knew that one. “Gracias.”
Lester tipped his hat to the woman, murmured another gracias, then to Billy Ray, “Let’s go.” Both heard the click of a lock behind them.
Back in the pickup, the men sat and thought about what they had just seen. The black lab, confined to the middle of the seat, was now awake and impatient with the delay to hit the road and to sample more interesting odors. Lester gave him a quick head rub to calm him down.
Billy Ray broke the silence. “Four cars in the driveway, only two people in the house that we know of. What do you make of that, Sheriff?”
Lester said nothing, but continued to watch the curtains and doors of the house. Billy Ray raised one eyebrow, waited for a reply, didn’t get one, and wished he hadn’t answered the phone this morning. The deputy had enough time to find his pocket knife and clean the fingernails of one hand before Lester eventually answered the question. “It wouldn’t be much of an assumption to figure there are people in that house that don’t want to be seen. And, since we’re assumin’ those people are probably of Mexican descent, one could also assume, that there’s a possibility one or more doesn’t have a green card. But that’s a lot of assumin’ for no more than we know. Fact is, Billy Ray, at this point in time, I don’t give a hoot about any illegal residents in that particular abode, not while that child is missing anyway. But it’s something to keep in mind.”
“Too bad Mrs. Sanchez doesn’t speak English,” Billy Ray said. “I’d sure like to know why her boy didn’t show up at the game last night.”
Lester smiled, “Oh, she could speak it all right, or at least understand it. Carlos spoke English very well when I talked with him. You can’t tell me she didn’t pick up some of that ingles from her son.”
“But how do you know they live together? Maybe the boy and his mother don’t get along. He could be staying with a relative, or his father for that matter.”
Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel Page 11
