“If you think of anything specific, give me a call.” He offered his card to the disappointed professor, who had evidently expected to share his darkest suspicions with the policeman. As he turned to leave, Parris heard Presley’s last shot. “She was a tease. Wanted all the men to … to notice her. Young or old, it didn’t matter to Priscilla Song.”
Parris stopped abruptly and stared at Presley until the man blinked. “Old, yeah, that reminds me. We have a solid report,” he lied, “that some old geezer has been seen following Miss Song around. I don’t have a name yet, but”—his eyes swept Presley from head to toe—“we know what the guy looks like.”
Presley seemed to shrink. “That seems irrelevant, since it was obviously Pacheco who murdered Pris—Miss Song.”
“All we know for sure,” Parris continued with an innocent expression, “is that Pacheco ran away from the scene. Anybody might have killed her.”
The physicist swallowed hard; his Adam’s apple bobbled.
“Who knows”—Parris fought to keep a straight face—“maybe this old guy works right here at the university. Might even be someone you know.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, gotta go do some paperwork. But I’ll be back.” Presley watched the policeman march away; he wiped at beads of perspiration forming on his forehead.
Baiting the old gossip, Parris mused as he found the stairwell, had been a pointless thing to do. He had made an enemy of Waldo Thomson and frightened Harry Presley, all in a morning’s work. There was nothing to gain by annoying potential sources of information. Tomorrow, he knew he would reflect on his actions and feel foolish. Parris smiled as he pushed the door open and sniffed the crisp mountain air. But tomorrow was far away. This was today!
SEVEN
Parris opened the shoe box Leggett had found in Priscilla’s closet. There was a photocopy of her RMP entrance application. A stack of publications from her time at Arizona State was impressive for one so young; she was co-author on a half dozen scholarly articles. Parris made no attempt to read the erudite papers, but the titles dealt with such arcane subjects as diamagnetism, laser spectroscopy, and superconductivity. One publication in the Journal of Clinical Neurology fell outside the pattern: “Synergistic Effect of Specific Impurities in Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.” It was evidently a cross-departmental collaboration; the other authors were associated with the Biology Department.
There were snapshots. After viewing the mutilated corpse, it was a surprise to learn she had been lovely. It was a sorry business, being a policeman—picking up bits of bodies at accident sites, examining records of lives lost. And calling relatives: That was the truly nasty part. The university registrar had reported that Priscilla Song’s parents were deceased; there were no other known relatives. It was time to search for friends.
A sealed manila envelope contained a surprise: a matched pair of “fill in the blank” Last Will and Testament forms you could buy for fifty cents in any stationery store. The first began:
Last Will and Testament
of Priscilla Marie Song
In the Name of God, Amen. I Priscilla Marie Song, of the County of Atascosa, and State of Colorado, being of sound and disposing mind …
The sole heir was the same person listed on her university admission form under “Who to Contact in Case of Emergency”: William C. Thorpe. The address was a rural route near Questa, New Mexico. There was also a telephone number. The second document was identical except that William C. Thorpe had designated Priscilla M. Song as his sole heir. The documents had been signed only a few weeks earlier. Why would one so young, with so little property, draw up a will … and why now?
The kosher thing to do would be to fax the New Mexico State Police and leave the notification of William Thorpe to them. It was their jurisdiction; it might as well be their headache. But he had an impulse. No … not this time. He dialed the New Mexico telephone number Priscilla had penned under Thorpe’s name. The machine rang a dozen times; he was about to hang up when a gruff voice answered.
“Thorpe Ranch.”
“My name is Scott Parris. May I speak to Mr. William Thorpe?”
“Ain’t here. What’s your business with him? If you’re selling something, we either can’t afford it or don’t have no use for it nohow.”
Parris knew this man, or at least this type of man. “Not selling anything. It’s personal business and it’s very important.”
“My boy’s been up to Fort Collins.” There was a slight pause. “On business. Expect him back anytime now.”
“Could I drop by, say … around noon tomorrow?”
Thorpe provided detailed directions for finding the ranch.
* * *
Julio Pacheco shivered under the pile of rubble in the concrete tube that diverted spring runoff under the mountain road. He had spent the night alternating between fitful naps and periods of dull fear following any unexpected noise in the forest or along the road. Every time an automobile had rumbled over the highway above, his muscles had tensed. Would the local cops have the dogs out sniffing for his scent? Julio was not a man who generally feared the creatures of this world, but the vision of hounds on his trail evoked a combination of loathing and terror. When he was a small child, his uncle’s pit bull had attacked him without provocation. The boy had almost lost a leg; the infection puffed the limb up until it seemed the skin would surely split under the strain. His mother and aunts had lit candles and prayed to Jesus and the saints, and, to the amazement of the doctor from Tuxtepec, the boy had lived and kept his leg. The ugly scars from the brutish canine’s teeth were still there to remind him. He had faced determined men with sharp blades, even guns, without flinching, but he solemnly prayed to God that he would not be confronted by a pack of dogs.
His muscles ached. Julio was terribly thirsty, but the water that rippled through the culvert during the spring melt and summer rains was long gone; the streambed was powder dry. Always optimistic about his misfortunes, Julio mused that this was probably lucky; if it had been summer, a thunderstorm might have dumped enough water to wash him away as he slept. His romantic imagination embellished the headlines. JULIO PACHECO, UNGRATEFUL MEXICAN WRETCH, the American newspapers would shriek, SAVED BY THE SAINTS FROM THE PIT BULL, NOW DROWNED LIKE A RAT IN A SEWER! What would his mother, his uncles, and his nieces think of such a tale? He had only one goal in mind: to return to Mexico and tell his family what had happened. A man might kill his wife or mistress, if she deserved it. That was certainly acceptable. Once he explained, even his mother would understand his predicament.
First things first, though. He must find water. The Mexican pushed away a large piece of cardboard and blinked at the first amber rays of the morning sun illuminating the eastern end of the four-foot-diameter culvert. No one had been over the road for a half hour, but the rising sun would surely bring travelers. He crawled out of the concrete tunnel, stretched, grunted, and urinated on a tree. Thus relieved, he left the roadside and trudged, parallel to the small highway, through the pine thicket, where he could quickly find shelter in the brush if anyone passed by. He kept the early-morning sun to his left. Even if the road turned, he would move south. Always south.
After he had walked another five miles and dropped to altitudes under six thousand feet, the tall pines were gradually replaced by juniper, piñon, and scrub oak. There was still no water; he was approaching the stage of dehydration where his lips would crack and his tongue would swell. He paused, shaded his brown eyes with his hand, and scanned the horizon. He spotted a windmill less than a mile to the southwest. Where there was a working windmill, there should be a water tank. The hardy Mexican threw his jacket over one shoulder and directed his tireless pace toward the windmill. As he approached within a hundred yards, he saw the pickup truck behind the livestock tank. A gaunt old man was pitching small bales of hay from the truck to a dozen black Angus whose ribs could be counted. Thirsty as he was, Julio decided to move into the grove of juniper and wait until the man left. As he turned, he heard
the dog bark. Julio instinctively moved his hand to the ever-present hunting knife in the sheath on his belt; he was rooted to the place where he stood until he realized that the blue-eyed Australian sheepdog was small and apparently not vicious. He continued his steady pace toward the aged rancher, who eyed him warily.
“Well howdy,” the old man offered between deliberate chews on a wad of tobacco.
“Howdy yourself,” Julio replied through parched lips. “Been walking a long time. Saw your tank from up yonder. Spare me a drink?”
“Help yourself,” the old man responded as he waved a hand toward the water tank. “There’s a-plenty for ever-body.”
Julio was relieved. “Don’t mind if I do.” He dipped up shallow handfuls of the warm liquid and drank slowly so that he would not become ill. Julio had spent considerable time in the vast Mexican desert between Chihuahua and Piedras Negras, some of it on the run from the federales. He had learned how a man must deal with thirst.
Julio looked up and saw the old gringo watching him with great interest. Had the rancher heard broadcasts; were the radio announcers describing the Mexican who ran from the place where the young woman’s body had been found? Was there a reward? Perhaps he would soon find out.
The old man hesitated before he spoke, then seemed to put away his doubts about this dusty intruder as he noticed Julio’s calloused hands. After all, the Mexican did look like a working man, not one of those two-bit drug runners. “You looking for work? I’m getting too long in the tooth to do everything by myself.”
Julio grinned in relief. Evidently, the rancher had not listened to the radio today. It would be best to go along until opportunity presented itself. “Maybe. Could use a few dollars and a place to bed down. What do you pay?”
The rancher answered cautiously, almost whining. “Well, that depends on what you can do. Times is hard in the beef business. Can’t offer too much. There’s a bunk and wood stove in the tractor shed and the grub is whatever I eat myself. Maybe two dollars an hour?”
The Mexican assumed a downcast look.
The rancher entered into the bargaining. “Maybe two-fifty, if’n you’re willing to work hard.”
This old man could spot an illegal a mile away. It was not the first time he had hired himself cheap Mexican labor.
“Well,” Julio replied with pretended interest, “first, let’s check out the grub.” He flashed a smile. “If I don’t choke and puke, then we’ll see.”
The old man eased himself off the pickup bed and climbed into the cab. The sheepdog followed. The rancher pushed the door open on the opposite side and motioned to the Mexican. “Pile your ass in here, Pancho. We’ll go have us some eats and see if we can work out a deal.”
Julio watched the dog as the pickup bounced along the pitted gravel road; the animal sat between them with its tongue hanging from its mouth. The dog stared expectantly ahead, seemingly unconcerned about Julio’s presence.
It was time. He dare not wait until they reached a paved road. “Pull over here.”
The old man seemed not to hear, so Julio raised his voice over the sound of the clicking valves in the worn-out GMC V-8. “Here. Pull over here!”
The rancher heard him clearly this time. “What? Why? It’s more’n a mile ’til we get to the blacktop.”
Julio reached across, shut off the ignition, and removed the key. The old man cursed and slammed on the brakes. “You crazy Mexican, you altogether loco or what?”
The dog seemed to be confused, and offered no raised hackles or bared teeth. For this, Julio was grateful. “This is adios, old grandfather. You and the mutt get out.”
The rancher reached for the glove compartment, but Julio grabbed his wrist and pushed it back to the steering wheel. The Mexican pressed the latch on the glove compartment; the door fell open to reveal a .22-caliber single-action revolver housed in a worn leather holster. Julio removed the revolver from the holster and cocked the hammer. “Out of the truck now … don’t borrow trouble.”
The rancher was hoarse with rage. “It’s my truck and my land. I ain’t lettin’ nobody, ’specially no wetback, order me around. You get out.”
Julio sighed. The old man was just like his father; he had plenty of grit. It was too bad; he could have liked the hardheaded old cowman. With no warning, Julio swung the revolver barrel and struck the rancher with a sharp blow to his temple. The old man yelped, then slumped against the door. The sheepdog growled and attached its sharp teeth to Julio’s sleeve. He slammed the gun barrel down hard, just behind the animal’s head; the dog died instantly. He didn’t feel bad about the small beast, but the old man really had balls. It was a shame to leave him on foot, but a man on the run from the law had few options. Julio carried the rancher several yards off the road and gently propped his limp form against a large piñon tree. The outlaw climbed into the old pickup and checked the gas gauge. It was just a notch above three-quarters; that was good luck. Perhaps the saints were watching over him. It was a good eight hours before dark, and he had a long way to go over unpaved back roads that would, he prayed, not be watched by the American policemen. He would point his nose south. Always south.
EIGHT
“Take a load off,” Simpson said. “I’m about done with my final report.” He glanced sideways at his haggard visitor. “You look kind of run-down.” The dampness in Simpson’s basement morgue seeped into his joints. Scott Parris straddled an uncomfortable metal chair. “I’ve been better.”
“We’ll have to make that fishing trip down to the Animas, get your soul refreshed. After we get our limit in native browns, I’ll take you to the dining room at the Strater Hotel in Durango. My treat.” Simpson’s eyes twinkled. “For breakfast, they dish out pan-fried trout and eggs that’ll make you say, ‘Why thank you, ma’am, I’ll be back for more soon as I get over this.’”
The policeman didn’t look at the small form on the marble slab that was, thankfully, covered by a coarse pea green sheet. Simpson pushed the button on his Sony cassette recorder and cleared his throat. “Pulmonary condition marked. Plural and abdominal cavities contain normal amounts of fluid. Lower edge of liver is one point five centimeters below the costal margin on the midclavicular line. Heart weighs two hundred and ten grams, appears normal in all respects. Right lung weighs six hundred and twenty grams, left lung five hundred and ninety grams. Both lungs are edematous, moderate congestion. Trochesbronchial tree exhibits no foreign material or obstructive bodies. Liver weighs one thousand two hundred and thirty grams, also exhibits congestion, and has dark purple color.”
Parris waited patiently for the bottom line as the medical examiner continued his monotone report to the rotating magnetic tape.
“Vertical fracture of left mandible. Caused by horizontal blow, judging from associated bruising pattern. Removed Phillips screwdriver from left orbit. Implement has shaft with five-millimeter diameter, eleven-centimeter length. Tip of screwdriver has a sharp point. Penetration was approximately eight point five centimeters, depth referenced to initial penetration in lacrimal bone, on nasal side of globe, which was not grossly damaged. Death ascribed to extensive cranial hemorrhage in left frontal and left temporal lobe, which was complicated by asphyxia immediately subsequent to strangulation.”
He paused and glanced at Parris, who was somewhat pale. “Want a cup of coffee? Got a fresh pot upstairs; you know where to find a cup and everything.”
“I’m okay. Been missing a lot of sleep.”
The medical examiner cleared his throat and returned to his professional monotone. “Five wounds on abdomen followed death, penetrations of stomach and large intestine. Incisions appear to have been made by the blade of hunting or butcher knife, probably at least four inches in length.” He detailed the location and depth of each incision. “One shallow laceration in liver, two more in large intestine, which is distended and empty. Stomach pierced by three-inch incision, some contents spilled into abdominal cavity. Kidneys weigh three hundred and twenty grams and are normal. Spleen weig
hs one hundred and ninety grams and is congested; bone marrow is dark red in color.” He paused, Parris thought for dramatic effect, and continued. “No fluid material found in the vaginal canal, but two vaginal-smear swabs were prepared and will be submitted for analysis. External genitalia show no signs of contusion or abrasion.”
Simpson pushed the OFF button and turned to see how his friend was receiving this report. “You want the layman’s version?”
“Give it to me in two-bit words.”
“The assailant grabbed his victim by the neck, probably with his left hand, and slugged her left jaw with his right hand. Must have hit her hard, because the blow broke her jaw. After this, he strangled her until she was unconscious or at least until she was weak enough so she couldn’t put up a fight. Then, while her heart was still beating, he stabbed her through the left eye socket with the Phillips screwdriver to finish the job off. After she was dead—that is, when her heart was no longer pumping blood—he made several long incisions into her abdomen. It’ll all be in the report.”
The policeman felt a nervous twitch in his jaw, imagined the sensation of pain as the steel rod penetrated her eye. “He apparently took the knife with him,” Parris said. “We’ve combed the building and grounds, turned up nothing. Can you help me on motive?”
Doc scribbled on a yellow pad. “No evidence of sexual contact.”
“Then what do we have?”
The medical examiner peered over his spectacles at the policeman. “Could be sexual, in a twisted way. Maybe he gets his jollies from cutting up his victim. It’s been known to happen. Then, it may be something more simple. May have something to do with drugs.”
The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries) Page 6
