Easy Errors

by Steven F Havill

  “Don’t matter if he’s just takin’ her to the emergency room.”

  “True enough. But I don’t buy it. To me, the most logical answer is that the three men didn’t know Darlene was down there. Never saw her. Maybe they assumed that when the kids left, she went with them. I can understand the kids finding her, and panicking. I can see that. Double panic, especially if Orlando was starting to have troubles with the asthma attack. But I’d expect a little more from three adults—especially when one of them is a lieutenant in the MP’s.”

  “You guys finished shaking the building?” Sergeant Lars Payson stood at the base of the stairs.

  “We are. We have a successful comparison. A real preliminary one, but it gives us something.”

  “Not with that junk, you don’t,” Payson said skeptically, looking at the pipe apparatus.

  “The FBI will confirm it. This gives us a place to start.”

  Payson looked skeptical. “The DA is here, if you want to meet with him.”

  “We do.”

  “I kinda shifted the patrol schedule around. Sisneros is staying central in case something blows up.”

  “Good. We’re at a point where a BOLO should be issued for Clifton Bailey and his pals. They’re our primary persons of interest. The Border Patrol has been alerted as well.”

  “I’ll see to that,” Payson said.

  With the firearms wiped off and secured in their cases, we followed Payson upstairs to the small conference room. District Attorney Dan Schroeder had adopted his usual posture, leaning far back in his chair, one arm looped over the back, the other hand fiddling with a gold ballpoint pen. He was in conversation with Sheriff Salcido, who sat with his hands folded on the table in front of him, looking for all the world as if he’d done something wrong.

  “Thanks for taking the time, gents.” Schroeder flashed his most sincere politician’s smile. Sergeant Payson closed the door of the conference room, and we went through the handshaking ritual before taking our seats.

  Schroeder ran both hands through his well-oiled blond hair, leaving finger tracks. The pen never left his hand. “Sheriff Salcido has filled me in on most of the details.” He straightened the legal pad in front of him and surveyed the chicken scratchings on it. “Let’s just take my concerns in order, then, working backward. Tell me if I’m off base.

  “Number one,” and he tapped the pad with his pen, “we don’t know why the excessive speed just before the crash.” He tapped the paper again. “We have some reason to believe that something—we don’t know what—was going on in the vehicle before the crash that may, or may not, have contributed.

  “Number two…the driver was alcohol-impaired. One passenger was apparently not impaired. The third passenger was in the throes of a reaction of some sort, perhaps a combination of asthma meds and alcohol. There is supposition that that passenger may actually have been deceased before the crash.” He glanced up at us, a silent, unreactive audience.

  “Okay. Number three.” I glanced to one side and saw that Payson was taking notes in his elegant architect’s printing. “It appears that the youngsters had been down in Bender’s Canyon. A fourth youngster, Darlene Spencer, whom we assume was in their company at some point in time, was also in the canyon, and her body was found the next day in the general vicinity of Herb Torrance’s windmill and stock tank number two. The medical examiner says death resulted from a single bullet wound through the eye to the forebrain with massive hemorrhage.”

  Schroeder heaved a sigh. “Number four. Preliminary evidence shows that three other men were also present in the canyon, perhaps concurrent with the four children. That evidence suggests that all present were in some way or another involved with vandalizing both a stock tank and windmill owned by Herbert Torrance with repeated gunshots from a variety of firearms, and that the bullet that struck Darlene Spencer was fired during that time, perhaps ricocheting off the windmill structure.” He stopped reading and picked up one of the photographs that Deputy Torrez had taken—the close-up of the windmill’s sail. “Wow.” He examined the photo for a moment, then dropped it back on the table.

  “Number five. A vehicle belonging to Clifton Bailey, currently domiciled in Fort Riley, Kansas, struck a juniper stump off County Road 14, perhaps while pursuing, or following, the youngsters who had departed the scene in their Suburban.” He looked up at me. “We don’t actually know yet why Bailey was on County Road 14, do we?”

  “No, sir.”

  He nodded, and waited for me to elaborate, and when I didn’t, nodded again and continued on. “Number six. No effort was made by any parties present to remove the injured Darlene Spencer from the canyon location, nor to summon first aid for her. According to the medical examiner, it’s probable that Darlene Spencer survived through much of the night, although most likely comatose.” He paused. “And thank God for being comatose.

  “Number seven. Do we have a number seven?” He flipped a page of his legal pad. “Yup. Number seven. It is not known who fired the shot that ricocheted, striking Miss Spencer. Evidence suggests that she had left the immediate area in order to find a spot to relieve herself, and was struck during that time.

  “Number eight. At this point, the District Attorney’s office is interested in pursuing charges of felony property vandalism,” and he held up fingers to count them off, “reckless endangerment with a firearm of a child leading to death, failure to report an incident, and…” he looked up at us, letting his gaze come to rest on Robert Torrez’ impassive face, “whatever else I can dream up.” He tossed the legal pad on the table and straightened up, clasping his hands together in front of his face. “What am I missing? We have four of our community’s best and brightest gone. What am I missing?”

  “What we’re missing is any information from Clifton Bailey, whom we feel was clearly involved somehow.”

  “Somehow,” Schroeder interjected. “We’re really in the dark about what the hell actually happened down in that canyon.”

  “That’s correct. The ballistics tests we just completed downstairs lead us to believe that one of Mr. Bailey’s guns—one that we recovered following the search of his truck—is the weapon that fired the fatal bullet.”

  Schroeder wrote diligently on his pad for a moment before looking up. “The FBI will confirm that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re being very careful to avoid saying that Clifton Bailey is the person who fired the fatal shot.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, he did, or yes, you’re being careful?”

  “I’m being careful. It appears that any of six people could have fired it. Everyone except Darlene Spencer, of course.”

  “Ah.” He rested his chin on his hands. “So…what resources do we need that we currently don’t have?”

  “Ballistics tests from the FBI to support our own conclusions. Those are being arranged. We need to talk with Mr. Bailey and his two companions, who, as far as we know, are still in Mexico on a pig hunt. At the moment, those three are our only witnesses.”

  “Do you expect any others to come forward?”

  “Not for the actual shooting incident. Reuben Fuentes probably heard the crash into the stump that involved Mr. Bailey’s truck.”

  “Probably. But he didn’t witness it?”

  “No.”

  He grimaced. “Herb never talked to any of these individuals? The kids or any of the three adults? I mean, he’s right down there in the thick of it.”

  “No.”

  “Have you been in touch with Mexican authorities? I mean, is that an avenue for us? You have contacts down there, I know.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “But…” he prompted.

  “If we go that route, we’re talking all the bureaucratic red tape that we’re all so familiar with. Official requests, along with a whole litany of reasons, then extradition proceedings, then t
his, then that.” I saw the crow’s-feet deepen at the corners of Schroeder’s close-set eyes.

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “The only newspaper coverage so far could lead the three to believe that we’re not looking beyond the kids to place blame for Miss Spencer’s death. The metro papers have just picked up the initial skeleton story from the Register, so that helps. They might think, at this point, that they’re in the clear. And you know, there’s every possibility that the three don’t even know about Miss Spencer’s death.” I held up both hands in surrender. “They may never have seen the body, they might be totally in the dark about what happened. And now they’re hunting in a relatively remote area of Mexico, down by the Rio Mancos, so they may not have had word.”

  “What about Leo?”

  “Leo Bailey knows we’re looking at a connection. He knows we searched his brother’s truck. What else he’s been able to figure out, or what he plans to do about it, is anybody’s guess.”

  “He’s not involved in any way, though?”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “Could he have tipped off his brother?”

  “In Mexico? I don’t think so.”

  “I think,” Sheriff Salcido said slowly, stretching out the word into a sing-song, “that it’s best to meet these men at the border, no? We hear that they’re probably coming back Sunday.” He shrugged. “If that’s the case, it’s faster to do that, rather than trying to run circles around all the bureaucratic hurdles that the Mexican government will throw up, even with Lieutenant Naranjo’s help.” The sheriff glanced across at me, eyebrows raised.

  “A good point,” I said. “Tomás Naranjo has been most cooperative in the past. I think he should be advised, but that’s as far as it should go, at this point. We also are issuing a BOLO for all three men. So any border point is going to be on the watch. They’ll take them into custody for us. On our side of the fence.”

  “Does Bailey have a family?” Schroeder asked. “Besides his brother?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never talked with him. I’ve never talked to Leo about that.”

  “If he has no family, it may not be to his advantage to return to the U.S.,” Schroeder said. “At least, certainly not at the Regál crossing.”

  “A BOLO should snare him, no matter where or when,” I said.

  “Maybe.” Schroeder didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, but he nodded agreement. “I’ll be glad when all three are in custody, and are answering questions.”

  He gathered his papers and looked at each one of us. “Any questions for me?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Deputy Torrez,” Schroeder said, “this has to be a hard time for you. I’m truly sorry—and I know that doesn’t count for much. But rest assured that all of this will be resolved somehow. And I know that doesn’t bring your brother and sister back, or Chris Browning, or Darlene Spencer. Or my old friend Willis Browning.” He looked hard at me. “Enough’s enough. Be careful about how all of this goes down.”

  I caught Sergeant Payson at the door. “Will you work with Torrez to get the bullets packed up for shipment to the FBI lab? They need to go out today. I don’t think he’s ever done that before, and you can give him pointers, help him talk to the right people. I’ll take care of the BOLO.” I felt a hand on my elbow, and turned to see Sheriff Salcido. He nodded his head toward his office, and I joined him there.

  “You’d tell me if you were entertaining any plans to head down into Mexico,” he said softly.

  “Of course. I’m not. I don’t see what that would accomplish. I’m not going down there to chase three guys through the brush.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He nodded as if to say, “That’s that.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I left the office an hour or two before six, and rendezvoused at the Don Juan with Sergeant Lars Payson and Officer Doug Posey of the New Mexico Game and Fish Department. I had missed my chance with lunch when I met with Stuart Torkelson and Leo Bailey, so it seemed high time for a proper dinner. Lars had no particular home life, having split with his wife a dozen years before. They’d had no kids, and neither had ever remarried.

  At Posadas Jaguars basketball games, Lars and his ex still sat with each other and shared popcorn.

  Doug Posey, just twenty-three years old, was a swinging bachelor—not that there was a whole lot of swinging going on in Posadas County. One of his favorite hobbies was trying to talk me into going with him on a fishing trip to Alaska. I’d agreed to do that when Alaska eliminated their mosquito, no-see-um, and horsefly populations.

  Both Payson, who was then forty-two, and the four-years-removed-from-being-a-teenager Doug Posey, were good dinner company, taking my mind off the awful events of the past few days.

  Sheriff Eduardo Salcido was over visiting with Modesto and Ariana Torrez. Deputy Torrez had gone off duty at four that afternoon, but when I left the office shortly after five, he was still on the premises.

  Deputy Tom Mears was working swing, and because this was a Saturday night, the shift sergeant, Howard Bishop, was also working. Mears was working the area around María, famous for its active saloon whose back door was mere yards from the barbed-wire border fence. Sergeant Bishop, never particularly quick to get rolling unless it was lights-and-siren time, was working in his cubbyhole of an office, just down the hall from dispatch.

  State Police Officer TC Markham was up on the interstate, keeping tourists and truckers honest.

  My own portable radio was sitting on the table beside me at the Don Juan. We had just ordered, and Posey had launched into a tale of his latest arrest featuring a Texas man who didn’t think that he needed a license to shoot feral hogs. Posey patiently explained that the little guy he’d blown practically to bits with a .338 LaPua was a javelina, not a feral hog. I didn’t hear how the tale ended, because Ernie Wheeler’s voice interrupted. Wheeler was my dispatcher of choice for a busy weekend swing shift.

  “Three zero one, PCS. Ten twenty?”

  “Three oh one is ten-ten at Madrid’s,” Mears replied.

  “Three zero one, be advised…” and Wheeler halted his transmission. He started again after clearing his throat, finger still depressing the transmit bar. “Be advised that a civilian reports that the subjects of the BOLO are being detained in Regál at the moment.”

  Wheeler hadn’t finished his broadcast when I was on my feet, followed closely by Payson. I dropped a twenty and a quick apology at the register, and dashed outside into the heat of late afternoon.

  “PCS, three ten. Ten nine?” The 310 cranked a few times too many before it rumbled to life, leaving a gathering cloud of blue smoke as I pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Three ten, we have a phone call from Gus Prescott down at the Spur. He says the guys you BOLO’d are out in the parking lot.”

  “That’s negative on Regál? They’re at the Spur?” Surely, Wheeler knew that the Broken Spur Saloon was actually eight long miles across the pass from Regál.

  “Three ten, roger that.”

  “PCS, you said ‘detained.’ Who’s responded?” As far as I knew, Bishop was still in the office. Mears was in María. Even as Wheeler ruminated about that, I shot through the intersection of Bustos and Grande, turned right so hard that the Crown Vic groaned and tried to push its nose up on the sidewalk. I corrected and we headed south, Payson just yards behind me.

  “We’re not just sure. It was a civilian who called. No radio communication.”

  “Three ten and three oh three are in route,” I said. “ETA twenty minutes.”

  That was a stretch, I knew. The Spur was twenty-six miles southwest from the interstate underpass in Posadas. If I held a steady hundred miles an hour, it would take us sixteen minutes, more or less, depending how many critters or tourists we had to avoid. With a newer car, Payson could go faster, and pr
obably would.

  A rich stink rose from the floor of my aging Crown Vic as I accelerated out of town on State 56. The oil pressure needle wavered just below center. It seemed like an eternity ago that I’d fielded questions from County Commissioner Randy Murray about the state of the Sheriff Department’s fleet. Too bad he wasn’t riding with me at this moment.

  “Three oh three, go ahead. I’ve got some problems,” I radioed.

  “Affirmative. You’re smokin’ pretty good.” Payson’s two-year-old patrol car pulled into the left hand lane and accelerated past. A quarter mile back, Doug Posey was flogging his Chevy state truck in an effort to keep up.

  “PCS, three oh one is responding. ETA forty minutes.”

  “Uh, roger that.”

  Mears would arrive in time to clean up the mess. The advantage was that if the richly complaining 310 crapped out completely, I could hitch a ride with him. Posey pulled close to my back bumper, the wiggle-waggles in his grill frantic.

  “You’re smokin’ pretty good,” he echoed as the pickup slid by.

  “Ten four.” I raised a hand in salute as he passed. But I wasn’t giving much thought to the smoking.

  The Border Patrol had assured us that they’d take Bailey and his buddies into custody when they tried to cross…but somehow, that hadn’t happened. There were dozens of ways the situation could have been gone south. Someone might have come on shift who hadn’t read the BOLO. Someone just forgot. Whatever. Obviously, the trio weren’t being pursued by customs agents. If they had been, and were stopped at the Spur, there was no reason for Gus Prescott to call us. He would have just sat with his face in his beer, enjoying the show.

  The Crown Vic seemed willing to give me eighty-five miles an hour, the rich, blue vapor trail spreading out behind. The Rio Salinas Arroyo came and went, and as the intersection with Forest Road 122 out to Borracho Springs appeared, I was coaxing maybe seventy-five out of the hemorrhaging Ford.

  “PCS, three ten, three oh three is ten six Spur.”

  “Ten four, three oh three.”