Bloodville

by Don Bullis

  ―I think Doc can handle this ok, Chief.‖

  Scarberry ignored what Torrez said. ―You handle this case personally and I want you to get ahold of Chief Paul Shaver at Albuquerque PD. You tell him I want a couple of his crime scene people out here. Photographer too.‖

  ―I‘m not sure we need....‖

  ―Don't you by-god argue with me, Captain. Just fuckin‘ do it. A goddamn cowboy like Spurlock don't know a crime scene from Shea Stadium and I ain't got a hell of a lot of faith in your brown ass either, but you're all I got.‖ Scarberry turned away from Torrez and walked back toward the store. He stopped beneath a floodlight affixed to the wall above the front door and he turned back with fresh tears in his eyes. ―Torrez,‖ he said loudly enough for all to hear, ―you get this thing moving. No one sleeps, no one rests, ‗til this son-of-a-bitch is in custody. Or dead. That clear?! I want an arrest in twenty-four hours.‖ He went inside and unnecessarily slammed the door shut behind him.

  Neither Bobby Gutierrez nor Juan Posey had a police car. They stood together in the parking lot, apart from other officers. No one talked to them, the traditional treatment for rookies. They listened to Colonel Scarberry yell at Captain Torrez and they watched as the captain assigned officers to various jobs sending them off in different directions. Soon only three police cars remained parked in the driveway of the Budville Trading Post. Two officers, other than Gutierrez and Posey, were inside one of them and out of sight. Captain Torrez went around the corner into the dark to relieve himself. Scarberry stepped out of the store and into the dim light of the parking lot. His eyes fell upon the two rookies.

  ―What the hell you two doin‘?‖ He faced them with his feet planted wide apart, fists on his hips.

  ―Nothing, Chief, we....‖ Gutierrez stood at attention as he addressed the deputy chief.

  ―Where the hell is Torrez?‖

  ―Around the corner, sir.‖

  ―Torrez! Get your ass out here!‖

  The captain emerged from the darkness, zipping his fly. ―Yes,

  Chief?‖ Angry, Torrez spoke in a strong, even voice.

  ―What the hell these two doin'?‖

  ―They‘re rookies.‖

  ―Sorry ass lookin‘ rookies, too. Get 'em busy.‖

  ―They don't have a car.‖

  Scarberry looked around the parking lot. ―Whose car is that?‖ ―Officer McGee's unit, sir.‖ Gutierrez said.

  ―Where's McGee?‖

  ―Al North took him to Grants to arrange for the airplanes,‖ the

  captain said.

  ―Give his car to these guys.‖

  ―Damn, Chief,‖ Torrez said. ―That is not the way....‖

  ―Don't argue with me, Torrez.‖

  ―We don't have the keys for it....‖

  ―Then hot-wire it, damnit!‖

  ―No need, sir,‖ Gutierrez said. ―Officer McGee gave us each a key

  in case we had to get in the car in a hurry, or something.‖ ―Get busy!‖ The deputy chief went back into the store and

  slammed the door behind him again.

  ―I didn't mean to get you in no trouble, Captain,‖ Gutierrez said. ―Don't worry about it.‖ Torrez felt pain behind his eyes as if his

  sinus cavities contained molten lead. With two years more service on

  the State Police than Scarberry, he didn't appreciate being treated like

  a pendejo by the deputy chief, especially in front of a couple of novatos.

  ―There's a bar down the road about a mile, give or take. On the south

  side. I don't know the name of it. You two go check it out then come

  right back here.‖

  Captain Torrez went into the store and closed the door quietly behind him. The conversation that followed between the Captain and

  the Lieutenant Colonel is lost to posterity but many of those most

  closely involved in the Rice/Brown murder investigation noted that

  the relationship between the two senior officers became quite formal

  for a time and the deputy chief did not soon again raise his voice to

  the commander of the Criminal Investigations Bureau, at least not

  where anyone else could hear it.

  ―That was something there, wasn't it?‖ Bobby said.

  ―Something, ok,‖ Juan agreed. ―I guess big-shots fight amongst theirselves just like everybody else. We better radio in.‖

  Gutierrez turned the key in the ignition, and nothing happened. The solenoid on the starter didn't even click.

  ―Yeah,‖ Gutierrez said. ―But first we better find somebody with some jumper cables. This battery's dead as old Bud.‖ Bobby‘s own remark annoyed him. He didn‘t think himself as callous as that. He started turning off switches. ―Damn, Troy left everything on. Light bar, headlights, radio. No wonder the battery died.‖

  Neither of the other two State Police officers at the trading post had jumper cables. Few officers carried them because they might be obliged to use them. Starting stalled cars wasn‘t considered State Police work. Using the radio to call for Bud‘s tow truck was police work. One of the senior officers found a set of cables behind the seat in the cab of Bud‘s little red wrecker and in short-order Gutierrez and Posey had McGee's unit back up and running.

  ―Don't shut her off when you get on up the road there, rookie,‖ the officer said as he tossed the cables into the back of the wrecker. ―I do believe old Bud‘s out of business and you'd play hell findin‘ a sober Indian around here, let alone one with a pair of jumper cables.‖

  Posey didn't respond. Didn't react. The young Indian wasn't used to racial ridicule but rookie State Police officers, as another matter of tradition, didn't take issue with senior patrolmen on any subject.

  Gutierrez drove slowly into the bar's dirt driveway. Posey took note of license numbers on three cars and two pickups parked up close to the one story adobe building. The officers parked and went in. They left the patrol car‘s engine running and the doors locked. Posey had his key. Neither wanted to face the embarrassment of losing a State Police unit to thieves. That kind of thing ruined careers.

  The saloon might have been old and quaint or it might have just been allowed to grow old looking at an early age. Sawdust covered the floor's oiled wood planks and neon beer signs and imitation brass light fixtures styled after coal oil lamps provided barely adequate light. The room reeked of cigarette smoke, stale beer, urine and Pinesol. A dark little man wearing a white shirt with arm garters stood behind the bar and four women occupied bar stools.

  ― Buenas tardes, officers,‖ the man said as he removed a long, brown, cigarillo from his mouth. ―What can I do for you?‖

  ―You hear about what happened at Bud Rice's place?‖ Bobby said it earnestly.

  ―No. Did something happen.‖ The man's face was somber. ―Well, Bud Rice got....‖

  The women at the bar all laughed and the little man smiled. ―So you know,‖ Bobby said, not at all amused. ―Ok. That's why

  we're here. ¿Cómo se llama?‖

  ― Mi nombre es Frank Fernandez. I own this bar, and this is mi esposa, Delfina.‖ He nodded his head toward an attractive woman seated near him at the end of the bar. ―But I don't know how we could help you out.‖

  Posey wrote down the names of the other women at the bar. ―Maybe,‖ Gutierrez said, ―you could tell us if there was any strangers around here earlier tonight, say about seven o'clock. Seventhirty. Something like that. Anything unusual. Stuff like that.‖

  ―No. Quiet night for a Saturday. Hunting season, you know.‖

  ―Yeah. I know. No strangers around here, huh?‖

  ―I don't know. I was in and out. Doing chores. Feeding my goats. You see anyone, Delfina?‖

  ―I don't know. What did he look like?‖

  ―A gringo," Bobby said. ―Had on a black jacket. A tattoo or something on his belly, but you probably wouldn't know nothing about that. Maybe driving a light colored car. That sound right, Juan?‖


  Posey nodded.

  ―He sounds like the White guy that married Darlene Concho from Acoma,‖ Delfina said. ―He was in here tonight. At least I think it was him. He had on a black jacket. Dark colored, anyway. I've only seen him two or three times before. It was him, Frank, no?‖

  ―I guess it was him, but you waited on him.‖

  ―Who is this, now?‖ Bobby asked.

  ―I don't know his name. Darlene Concho married him after she joined the Navy. He's still in the Navy. Anglo guy. He had two shots of whiskey. Wild Turkey. And one bottle of beer. Coors. I remember because I don't remember him drinking before. Darlene had a beer sometimes but he would drink an orange coke or something else. He didn't speak to me or nothing, but, like I said, I only met him once or twice before.‖

  ―When would this have been?‖

  ―A couple of years. After they got married. They was here from Washington. Both of them was stationed up there, I think. I can't remember the name of the town, but she told me. He is a quiet guy. Didn't say too much but he seemed to like Darlene a lot.‖

  ―I mean when was he here tonight.‖

  ―Oh. Tonight. I don't know. Seven. Seven-thirty. No, Frank? Seven-thirty?‖

  ―About that. I was back from having my supper.‖

  ―What did he do?‖ Bobby asked.

  ―He came in,‖ Mrs. Fernandez said. ―He sat on this very stool. Ordered a shot and a beer. Drank the shot in one swallow and then tapped the edge of the glass with his finger and I filled it back up. He drank some beer and then sipped the rest of the whiskey while he finished the beer. He counted out the exact money to pay for it. One dollar and ninety cents. He didn't leave me no tip. He was here maybe ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. No mas.‖

  Posey made notes. ―Did you see his car, what it looked like?‖

  ―A junky old pickup,‖ the bar owner said. ―Maybe a Ford.‖

  ―You see what direction he went when he left here?‖ Bobby followed up.

  ―No. I am only guessing about the pickup. There was one like that parked outside when I came in from supper and he was in here. He is gone now. So is the pickup.‖

  ―Did the guy seem nervous or anything?‖

  ―I don't know about nervous,‖ Delfina Fernandez said, ―but he drank two shots of hundred proof whiskey muy rapido, I think.‖

  ―Muchas gracias, Señor Fernandez. Señora. Criminal agents will want to talk to you some more, but I don't know when it will be.‖

  ―If it is not pretty soon, we will be closed and they can wait until the morning,‖ Frank Fernandez said. ―But I do not know what else we could say. We have told you what we know.‖

  ―It is too bad about Miss Brown,‖ Delfina said. ―We always liked her very much. ―Pero, Bud.‖ She hesitated. ―No, I will not speak ill of the dead.‖

  Officers Gutierrez and Posey reported the results of their investigation to Captain Mat Torrez. He relayed the information to all roadblocks: ―Subject may smell of whiskey and be in the company of an Indian woman.‖ He also assigned the follow-up to narcotics officers Freddy Finch and Carlos Gallegos who arrived at Budville on the morning of Sunday the 19th.

  ―This assignment is a pile of crap, Freddy,‖ Carlos Gallegos said as they drove west out of Budville. ―This is Sunday. We ain't supposed to work on Sunday, especially during football season. I wanted to watch Dallas kick hell out of the Redskins this afternoon and here I am running all over creation on this sorry-assed deal.‖

  ―Carlos, buddy, take it easy. Spurlock is gonna be case agent. It ain't too much to ask that we give up a Sunday once in a while to help out. Besides, I knew old Bud. Kind of liked him. My kind of guy. Didn't take shit from nobody. Period.‖

  ―You just want to suck up to Scarberry. Everyone knows you and him is big asshole buddies.‖

  ―The deputy chief‘s done good by me, and him and me play a little golf. I figure I can miss Ed Sullivan from time to time.‖

  ―That's the other thing, too,‖ Carlos said. ―Tonight‘s cowboy night on the tube. High Chaparral, Bonanza and Cimarron Strip all in a row, man. I'll bet I won't see any of them. We're stuck in this damn thing 'til someone gets arrested. Mark my words, Freddy.‖

  ―It's what we signed on for, Carlos. Bein' a cop ain't the same as selling shoes. Requires personal sacrifice. Know what I mean?‖

  Fred Finch meant every word of what he said. At six feet, he was about average height for a State Policeman. He jogged daily, worked out on weights four times a week, and played golf on the weekend, or whenever Scarberry summoned him to the course. He didn‘t drink and didn‘t smoke. Keeping fit, he often said, was part of being a good police officer, part of the discipline required for the job. He carried himself—postured, really—as if his every move was being photographed by a Hollywood movie crew.

  Freddy‘d never married and rarely dated. When he did entertain women, the purpose was sex—"fuck 'em and forget 'em," he often said. He held the opinion that healthy young cops kept a string of babes and he liked to project that image. He also liked talking with fellow officers about all the quim he got—a subject second only to departmental politics in popularity. Women, he said, found it hard to resist him. Freddy never figured out that his babes were cop groupies who‘d go to bed with any man carrying a badge and gun.

  ―Screw your personal sacrifice,‖ Carlos said.

  Frank and Delfina Fernandez were a little less off-hand with the narcotics agents than they'd been with the rookies. The officers soon learned that Darlene Concho, a full-blooded member of the Acoma Pueblo Indian tribe, and her sisters and brothers, were orphans. They'd lived with first one aunt and then another before Darlene ran off and joined the U. S. Navy as a teenager.

  One of life's little inconsistencies, Freddy thought. People born and raised in the waterless desert of New Mexico join the navy, while people, like himself, born and raised a hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean in Long Branch, New Jersey, do their time in the army. Freddy often recognized life's little inconsistencies. He never dwelt on them.

  Darlene, posted to Everett, Washington, after boot camp, met a young sailor, got pregnant, and married, well before her hitch was up. She was released from the navy, but her husband stayed in. That was four years earlier. By Sunday, November 19, 1967, Darlene had two small children and her teenage brother lived with her and her husband. Neither Frank nor Delfina Fernandez could recall hearing the sailor's name. Delfina gave the agents a list of names: people she thought were in Los Cerritos Bar when the gringo drank his whiskey, two shots of Wild Turkey.

  CHAPTER III

  At one hundred ninety pounds and six feet tall, Jim Bob ―Doc‖ Spurlock looked every inch a Southwestern peace officer. Secretly vain about his appearance, he kept his light brown hair neatly trimmed and combed even when it didn't show much from under his silverbelly-gray Stetson hat. His fastidiousness included crisply clean and pressed western-style clothing and black Tony Lama boots polished to a high mirror-like gloss.

  Doc came from a family involved in law enforcement and ranching in New Mexico‘s Pecos Valley since the end of the Civil War. As a teenager, Doc earned blue ribbons and belt buckles as an amateur rodeo bull rider and was well regarded as a top ranch hand. He pictured himself as a lawman from the first time his grandfather regaled him with tales of chasing cattle rustlers and armed robbers around the Llano Estacado of eastern New Mexico and west Texas. He joined the New Mexico State Police in 1956. It only bothered him a little that black and gray State Police uniforms, with black Sam Browne belts and black boots, looked more like storm trooper attire than garb of western lawmen.

  Doc's choice of agencies did not please his father. Gordon Spurlock's years of familiarity with New Mexico law enforcement provided him experience in the ways of the State Police and their general disregard and disrespect for county sheriffs, sheriff's deputies, and city police officers. Gord would have much preferred having his eldest boy stay home and work for the Chaves county sheriff, or even the Roswell or Artesia Police
, if law enforcement was something he flatout had to do. Either way, he'd have been available to help out on the ranch from time to time. Besides, as well known in southeastern New Mexico for his bull riding as Doc was, he'd be an attractive candidate for sheriff himself, or even higher office. Problem was, Doc didn't like politics and thought he could avoid them by joining an organization as large as the New Mexico State Police Department. It made sense in his young and idealistic mind.

  Doc Spurlock handled nearly a dozen murder investigations during his years with the State Police but the only two autopsies he ever witnessed were those performed on the bodies of Bud Rice and Blanche Brown. He learned early Sunday morning, November 19, 1967 that he didn't like postmortem examinations. After he scraped behind the fingernails of both victims and properly placed the scrapings in twenty individually marked white envelopes, he stood beside a deep sink near the morgue door and watched the procedure begin. Pathologist Dr. Bill Howard told him to stand there in the event a wave of nausea overcame him and he felt the need to vomit or escape.

  Dr. Howard put a tape recorder on a small, white, drop-leaf metal table and strung a cable so the microphone dangled from a surgical lamp above the body on the slab. The Medical Examiner mashed a button on the recorder and talked as he worked.

  ―The body,‖ he intoned, ―is that of a well developed, fairly well nourished white male, measuring approximately 70 inches in length and weighing about 165 pounds. Postmortem rigidity is present in all extremities. Postmortem lividity is diffuse over the dependent parts. The facies are extremely bloody with a predominance of dried blood on the right cheek and neck. The eyes are brown.‖