Holes in the Sky

by Mark Reps

  “Some folks say the Pope himself is a member of the Mafia,” said Mabel.

  “These ears of mine won’t stand to hear blasphemy like that,” protested Doreen. “You can say what you want to about President Kennedy. He had his faults. But the Pope is the word of God on earth. The Pope is therefore infallible. He would have nothing to do with the Mafia. End of subject.”

  “Be that as it may, why is the Catholic Church buying all that land on Mount Graham?” asked Mabel.

  “What do you know about that?” asked Deputy Steele. “What have you heard?”

  Along with Zeb, Jake and Eskadi, Kale had spent hours of detective work on the case. For all their effort and in spite of all the information that was flying around the room, their conclusion was essentially the same as these ladies.

  “That secretary over at the real estate office. What’s her name? I can’t think of it right now,” said Edna. “The one that works for John Farrell. She comes to the bathhouse once a month. First Tuesday of every month. Just like clockwork.”

  “Darla Thompson,” said Mabel. “Miss Darla Thompson.”

  “That’s right. She’s never been married. She doesn’t have a soul to share her woes with. Not that what she says is so interesting. All she wants to talk about is her work. I mean really, secretary at a real estate office, how boring is that?”

  All five feet and two hundred twenty pounds of Edna came alive as she threw herself into the new gossip.

  “She tells me her boss, John Farrell, is selling land right and left off the top of Mount Graham. He claims he can take any property from on top of the mountain, doesn’t matter how big or how small, and double, even triple, his money overnight, no questions asked. Miss Thompson said there’s this property company, an international company from Italy, in Europe, where the Mafioso is from, that wants to buy every piece of land they can get their hands on and they don’t care what it costs.”

  “I suppose it’s because it’s more expensive to own land in Italy,” added Mabel in all seriousness. “Because the whole darn country is no bigger than a big ol’ cowboy boot.”

  “I think it goes without saying everyone who’s ever seen an Italian movie knows how crowded Rome is. Anyway, Miss Thompson starts telling me how Farrell sends her down to the courthouse to hunt and peck around for properties, properties that have been foreclosed on for back taxes. He paid her fifty dollars for every one she found. Easy money.”

  Edna’s captive audience was all ears.

  “So Farrell buys up all those properties, doesn’t pay squat for ‘em. He got ‘em all for the back taxes, sometimes even less from what I heard. It’s common knowledge he’s in cahoots with the county assessor.”

  “I’ve heard for years the county tax office works with those real estate people and lets them steal land from poor folks for next to nothin’,” added Mabel.

  “Like I was saying, old man Farrell buys all these properties for pennies on the dollar,” said Edna. “Then he turns around and jacks up the price by a ton. This Mafioso company don’t care what they have to pay. It’s all laundered money anyway.”

  “Mind if I ask a question?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Did anybody say exactly what the property is going to be used for?”

  “Farrell’s doing it to get rich,” said Edna and Mabel in unison.

  “No, I mean this Italian corporation or whatever it is.”

  Once again in unison the pair spoke. “The Mafioso.”

  “Why would anyone want to buy the top of a mountain? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I can think of a lot of reasons,” said Mabel.

  “Like what?” asked Kate.

  “Maybe a fancy resort like the ones they have up in Sedona or over in Santa Fe. We might end up being a new tourist spot for the southeastern part of the state. Or, maybe a rich guy is putting a villa up there like they have in Italy. I’ve seen what they look like in Sophia Loren movies.”

  “Or maybe the Mafia is buying it up to sell it back to the government,” added Edna. “Everyone knows since Jack Kennedy was president the Mafioso and the government work together. Those Catholics are all in cahoots.”

  “Damn, I’ll bet anything that’s it,” said Doreen suddenly.

  “What on earth are you talking about, Doreen?” asked Zeb.

  “You know the Forest Service is prowlin’ all over the place up there. That funny little guy, the doctor scientist. Bede, that’s his name, Dr. Venerable Bede. He’s been workin’ for the government for months now. He left his survey maps right there in that booth.”

  “What would the government want that land for? If they did want it, they could just take it by right of eminent domain anyway,” mused Zeb.

  “What’s eminent domain?” asked Edna.

  “It’s a right that government has to come in and condemn a property. They can take it over for their own purposes. They do it to the Indians all the time,” added Deputy Steele.

  An uneasy tension overtook the room. Everyone knew of the long-standing disputes between the Mormons and the Apaches regarding that exact subject.

  “We all know why they want that land,” said Edna. “It’s one the US Government is never going to fess up to.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sheriff Hanks.

  “UFOs.”

  “That’s right,” added Mabel.

  “UFOs?” asked the sheriff.

  “Yup. That’s right. Even you have to admit there have been an awful lot of sightings in the Mount Graham area over the past thirty years. The number goes up every year. I can’t hardly think of a soul in these parts who hasn’t seen at least one. I think the government is finally going to study them.”

  Sheriff Hanks and Deputy Steele couldn’t argue about the number of sightings. Hardly a month went by without someone claiming to have spotted a UFO near Mount Graham or at nearby Aravaipa Canyon. Some months there were as many as twenty reported sightings called into the sheriff’s office. Delbert even claimed to have seen strange sky sights while on patrol in remote areas.

  Deputy Steele and Sheriff Hanks were both thinking about the women’s gossip on the death of Father McNamara, the sudden real estate boom on Mount Graham and the strange man by the name of Bede. Both knew there wasn’t likely a kernel of truth in all the gossip. As sad as it was for Doreen to hear, Father McNamara, for reasons no one would likely ever know, had killed himself. John Farrell was simply doing his job, selling real estate. And Bede was just another temporary forest service employee doing fieldwork on Mount Graham. But Doreen knew otherwise. She had been meeting with Father McNamara once a week for months. He had been helping Doreen fight what he called a ‘crisis of faith’.

  But when Kate thought of Mount Graham, the holiest place in all of Apache tradition, being sold to the highest bidder, an unsettling chill flowed through her spirit. The uneasiness was accompanied by tightness in her chest that slowly extended upwards where it became a lump in the throat. What she felt was what Jake had called a lawman’s uneasy hunch.

  When the phone at the Town Talk rang, Doreen didn’t even answer with her usual sass. The call was for Sheriff Hanks. Delbert had been released by the Neurological Institute in Tucson. He was back in the local hospital and out of extreme danger.

  “I’m going to run over and have a peek at him. Deputy Steele, you’ve got morning rounds around town.”

  “Give Delbert my best. Tell him I’ll be by soon to say hello.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Delbert looked amazingly well for a man who had been knocking on death’s door only days earlier.

  “Delbert, welcome home,” said Sheriff Hanks.

  Delbert managed a weak smile through the tube they had stuck down his throat,

  “We need you to get better, Delbert,” said Sheriff Hanks. “It sounds like they want to keep an eye on you for a few more days until you can go home.

  Delbert managed a weak nod and the tiniest of smiles.


  “Doc, what did they find over in Tucson?” asked Zeb.

  “The conclusion was temporary partial respiratory paralysis. He also has an ulcer in his gut.”

  “Delbert? You have an ulcer? I never thought you worried about anything?” said Sheriff Hanks.

  “He was poisoned somehow. They are not exactly sure what the poison was, but they should know soon.”

  The conversation was interrupted by Helen Nazelrod on the two-way radio strapped to Sheriff Hanks’ shoulder. “Sheriff, it’s John Farrell over at the Rodeo Real Estate Office. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “He hanged himself. His secretary called it in not five minutes ago.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She found him hanging by his neck inside his office when she came back from lunch. She’s pretty shook up.”

  “I’m on my way there now.”

  “Sheriff, Jake just happened to walk in right after she found him. He’s there now.”

  “Thanks, Helen.”

  Outside the Rodeo Real Estate building a tearful Darla Thompson was talking with Deputy Steele. Dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, she broke into a hysterical fit of sobbing each time she tried to explain what happened.

  “There he was hanging by his neck. He was dead. He was alive just an hour ago. I saw him just an hour ago. Now he’s de-de-de-dead.”

  Sheriff Hanks nodded to his deputy as he made his way through the entrance of the two room real estate office. The outer room was little more than a busy looking secretary’s desk, three wooden chairs lined neatly against the wall and a water cooler. Moving quickly Sheriff Hanks didn’t see Jake Dablo crouched behind the secretary’s desk looking at something on the floor. A cheap wall clock read one twenty. Next to the door leading to Farrell’s office was a table with two odd looking coffee makers. Zeb glanced at the strange machines before peering around the corner into Farrell’s office.

  Inside, the dead body of John Farrell, hanging by the neck, swayed ever so slightly. He stepped gingerly into the room.

  “We better cut him down before anybody sees this.”

  Zeb, startled by the voice, turned to see Jake Dablo standing in the doorway.

  “You’re right.”

  Carefully, Zeb stood under the body. The legs of the dead man straddled his neck. Jake slipped a knife from his pocket, stood on a chair and cut him down. At once Zeb’s knees buckled under the weight of the dead man. Jake did his best to help steady the load, but the awkward dead weight of John Farrell’s body pushed Zeb against the desk. Both went tumbling onto the floor.

  The body of John Farrell lay spread eagle on the floor. The noose was still tightly bound around his neck. The dead man’s right eyelid drooped open, revealing an off center eyeball. The dried remains of a salty tear left an opaque trail from the corner of Farrell’s left eye. His left arm was tucked tightly under his buttocks. The right hand, twisted into a palm up position, pointed a solitary middle finger directly to where the body had been hanging.

  Overhead, the remaining portion of the rope dangled eerily. Secured to a decorative wooden beam, the rope looked like a macabre bolo tie. Jake stood back and surveyed the scene as Deputy Steele entered the room.

  “Kate, is Darla okay?”

  “No. Not at all. Her sister is out there consoling her now.”

  “Good. Kate, would you please call Doc Yackley. Ask him to come right over if he can. Then cordon off the area. I don’t want anyone walking around inside the office destroying evidence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do that and come right back. I need another set of eyeballs on the scene. We’ve got a lot of work to do. As long as you’re here, Jake, you might as well lend me a hand. You’ve got more experience than I do at this sort of thing.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “Helen told me Farrell’s secretary came back from lunch shortly after one o’clock and found him hanging. She called the office and Deputy Steele was dispatched to the scene. She told me you were at the office when the call came in. Did she forget anything?” asked Zeb.

  “That’s about the way she gave it to me.”

  Sheriff Hanks and Jake moved methodically about the room for the better part of five minutes. They examined the dead body, the desk, the rope and the floor. Deputy Steele joined them.

  “What do you make of this?” said Deputy Steele, pointing to some marks on the wooden floor.

  Jake pulled his bifocals from his left shirt pocket. Kneeling down for a closer view, he noted three distinct sets of markings. Sheriff Hanks bent down and joined him, running a sole finger alongside the odd set of markings.

  “These could be scuff marks from a shoe or boot,” said the sheriff.

  Jake raised his eyes toward the ceiling. The remaining portion of the rope that had gripped Farrell’s neck and squeezed the life out of him swayed softly as a gentle desert breeze flowed through the open window. The same warm breeze caressed Kate’s face as she followed the path of Jake’s eyes toward the crossbeam and rope. She continued following the experienced lawman’s line of vision as he stared at the recumbent body of John Farrell.

  “Hush Puppies,” said Jake.

  Zeb and Kate exchanged a glance that set their collective minds in motion.

  “Farrell is wearing Hush Puppies.”

  Deputy Steele eyed the heels of the dead man’s shoes. Her mind reconstructed the possible course of events of Farrell’s final moments as the sheriff theorized on the same subject.

  “Farrell tossed a firmly tied noose over the support beam. He secured the rope with two half hitch knots to keep it from slipping.” said Zeb.

  “And, my guess is, he probably tugged downward on it to make certain it was secure, wanting to make certain the beam would support the weight,” added Jake.

  “From there one final step up onto the chair, and he stuck his head through the noose,” added Kate.

  “And kicked away the chair,” said Jake.

  The matter of fact nature in which the men dealt with the gruesome event was a quick lesson for the young deputy. Kate quickly realized she was becoming one of them in the truest sense of her duty.

  “I wonder,” pondered Jake. “In that brief time after you step off the chair and before your neck snaps, does your whole life flash before you?”

  “Any ideas, Deputy?” asked the sheriff.

  “I took an abnormal psychology class once. We studied a chapter about people who survived attempted suicides. They all reported that life indeed slowed down and that personal memories were intensely focused,” replied Kate.

  “I wish we could know his last thoughts,” said the sheriff. “It would go a long way in explaining his action.”

  “Sheriff, Jake, look over here.”

  Deputy Steele pointed beneath Farrell’s desk to some scuff marks.

  “Look at this.”

  The sheriff got down on his hands and knees. At first he didn’t see anything.

  “Do like this.”

  Kate tilted her head to the side.

  “Look at it this way. You’ll get a better angle on it.”

  Zeb tipped his head and brought his face close to the floor. A pair of previously unseen, intermittent, ill-defined marks on the floor became clear. His eyes followed them from beneath Farrell’s desk to where they ended, directly beneath the dangling rope.

  “What do you think, Deputy?”

  “I think we should seal off the scene and get the body out of here. We need to check every inch of this office.”

  Before Zeb and Jake had a chance to comment, the booming voice of Doc Yackley filled the room.

  “Zeb, what the hell is going on here? Deputy Steele called my office to report a suicide. It seems to me unnatural death is getting a little too common in these parts.”

  “It’s John Farrell,” replied Zeb. “It appears as though he’s hanged himself.”

  Doc Yackley walked around the large desk and hovered over the body for a brief moment. Wit
hout saying a word he put on rubber gloves and began a cursory examination. He looked at his watch, checked the dead man’s carotid artery, lifted his eyelids up and down, opened Farrell’s mouth, stuck a finger inside and swathed the inside. He glanced in Farrell’s ears and checked his hands and scalp before palpating the broken neck in great detail. After five minutes of poking and prodding he got up and walked over to the west-facing window. Pulling a pipe out of his pocket, he tapped it against the outside window ledge before filling the bowl. A few quick inhales later he spoke.

  “What have you got, Zeb?”

  “An apparent time of death between noon and one. Farrell’s secretary left for lunch shortly before noon. He was alive then. When she returned from lunch an hour later, she found him hanging.”

  Doc inhaled some pipe smoke. His eyes studied the sprawled out body.

  “What are you doing here, Jake?” he said turning to the ex-sheriff. “I thought you were all done with the law business.”

  “Just a coincidence, Doc. I happened to be…”

  “Doesn’t matter. Since you’re here, what do you think?

  “I’m not so certain,” said Jake.

  “I didn’t think you would be.”

  “But then again…”

  “Then again, what?” asked Doc.

  “But then again, maybe…”

  “Anyone care to let me in on this little cat and mouse game?” asked Deputy Steele.

  “Come over here,” said Doc. “I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

  Kneeling over the body of John Farrell, Doc Yackley carefully loosened the noose from around the dead man’s neck.

  “See this.”

  Doc pointed to the right side of the dead man’s neck. The trio honed in on his instruction.

  “He’s got rope burns. They run the entire length of his neck. Look at these abrasions under his chin. Note two separate and distinct levels of indentation into the flesh made by the rope.”

  Doc carefully tipped Farrell’s chin up, giving the trio a clearer view.

  “Now take a look at this.”

  Doc opened Farrell’s mouth very carefully. Using his thumb and first finger, he grabbed onto the tongue and pulled it out of the mouth.