by Don Bullis
Scarberry stood and walked slowly toward the door. He stopped in front of Torrez, like a general inspecting a private, and he talked into the Criminal Bureau commander's face, nose to nose, not shouting, but loud enough for the others in the room to hear. ―Your job, captain, is to arrest and put criminals in jail. Not find reasons to turn ‗em loose. I want to see you in my office at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Is that clear?‖
Torrez did not come to attention, as a private might have, and he responded in a clear, moderate voice. ―You talk to Chief Black, Colonel. If he tells me to be in your office at eight o'clock in the morning, I will certainly be there. If not, I certainly will not be there.‖
―I'll have your brown ass for this, Torrez. You went too far.‖ ―Give it the best shot you have, Chief.‖
On Wednesday afternoon, December 6, 1967, Don Wilcoxson, Parker Pratt and Larry Bunting appeared before District Court Judge Paul Tackett in Albuquerque. Wilcoxson formally requested dismissal of all charges. Judge Tackett agreed.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I
The Old Road—U. S. Route 66—served Albuquerque as main street. Better known as Central Avenue, it cut the city in half for more than fifteen miles with a slash of neon lights—motels, restaurants, gas stations and beer joints—from the Sandia Mountains on the east to the volcanic cones on the west.
The Liberty Bar stood at the corner of Central Avenue and First Street, the same spot occupied by the White Elephant Saloon at the turn of the century in 1901. Times change in three generations. The White Elephant, an elegant watering hole, gaming parlor and bordello, attracted the city‘s upper crust. The Liberty Bar, a dive, clip joint and whorehouse, attracted the city‘s criminal class. Joe Peters, Joe Cato and Dave Sipe liked the place; so did other unsavory types like Pete Garza and Billy Ray White.
Albuquerque residents Peters, Cato, Sipe and Garza were casual drunks and professional criminals: burglars, sneak thieves, armed robbers, fences, con men and sometime dope peddlers. Garza alone among them was an addict: a heroin junkie. They often partied, whored, and gambled together and frequently traded stolen goods among themselves and abetted each other in criminal activities. But all four had been criminals, and among criminals, long enough to know from hard experience that no real trust, or honor, exists in a world populated by alcoholics, junkies, pimps, whores, thieves and killers.
Billy Ray White drifted into Albuquerque in the late summer of 1967 and soon hooked up with Dave Sipe who introduced him to the others. They all did business with Billy Ray, and he was casually accepted into their little clique based on the credential that he‘d done time in Leavenworth Federal Pen, as had Joe Peters.
Peters' four years of federal hard time made him the big-bug of the little group. Joe Cato had done no more than a few months of county jail time, the result of plea bargains on petty theft and burglary charges. Dave Sipe had served little real time but he'd sat in the can for short periods and been questioned on many occasions. No criminal charge ever stuck to him.
Sipe, Peters and Cato thought it comical when the cops arrested Larry Bunting for the Rice/Brown murders. Each in his own way knew the sailor didn‘t do the crime because each knew, or thought he knew, who fired the fatal shots. An innocent guy—especially one straight enough to join the U. S. Navy—going up to the big slam in Santa Fe was the best revenge against regular society any of them could think of. The three of them gathered and got drunk at the Liberty Bar the day after Wilcoxson cut Bunting loose. Billy Ray White was busy that afternoon, robbing a jewelry store in Gretna, Louisiana. Pete Garza nodded off after he shot-up a cap of heroin—Mexican brown— at his novia’s house in Albuquerque‘s South Valley.
State Police Chief Sam Black surprised Mat Torrez on Friday afternoon, the day after Don Wilcoxson‘s press conference, when he walked into the Captain's office in Albuquerque. State Police chiefs did not as a rule ―drop in‖ on subordinate officers nor did they make random calls on district offices. More often than not, such a visit was a significant event, one with plenty of lead-time.
Chief Black closed the door behind him. ―If I know you, Mat, you've got some coffee around here somewhere. Just black, if you don't mind.‖ The chief sat down across the desk from Torrez and unwrapped a fresh Roi-Tan cigar.
Mat asked his secretary to bring in two cups of coffee. ―What brings you to the big city, Chief?‖
―Before we get into any of that, I want you to lay out the Bud Rice murder investigation for me right down to the nut-cuttin‘.‖
―I had a meeting with my investigators this morning. I was just now trying to get their reports in some kind of order.‖
―Not just this morning. I want the whole thing, from Saturday, November 18th until I walked into your office just now.‖ The chief used a Zippo lighter embossed with a State Police badge to build a fire on the end of his stogie.
―Damn, Chief. That covers a lot of ground. May I ask why you are asking me to do this?‖
―You can, and I'll tell you why when you‘re finished. I got the best part of the afternoon set aside.‖ He puffed mightily on the cigar, filling the room with caustic blue/gray smoke.
Mat told the story as best he remembered it. Black interrupted from time to time to ask a question or make a minor observation. The conversation took most of an hour and two cups of coffee each.
―That's all of it, Mat? That's where the case stands?‖
―I think it is, Chief. You know, we had fifty or more officers out there at one time or another, from four or five agencies. Maybe I missed something, but I can't think what it would be.‖
―What about Karen McBride?‖
―What about her? She‘s not a part of the case.‖
―She's a witness. You bed her?‖
―I did, but like I said....‖
―You talk to Flossie Rice outside of official channels?‖
―I am not sure what that means, Chief.‖
Black took a sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket. ―Did you,‖ he read, ―while drinking coffee at the Budville Trading Post, engage Flossie Rice in a conversation regarding her identification of the suspect Larry Bunting?‖
―I did, but it wasn't outside official channels.‖
―You told her your visit was not official. Did you, along with Candelaria, Spurlock and Virgil Vee, hold a secret meeting in Villa de Cubero the morning after Bunting was arrested for the murders?‖
―We met. I called the meeting. But there was no secret about it. What is this all about, Chief?‖
―Charlie Scarberry wrote you up. Claims you screwed up the whole investigation.‖ Black put the pages on Mat‘s desk.
―That‘s interesting, Chief.‖
―Says you undermined his authority and your personal conduct jeopardized the investigation. Says you disobeyed his direct order to search the suspect's car and that you weren't even there when it finally was searched because you were shacked up with the McBride woman in Villa de Cubero.‖
―Where do you think he got all of this, Chief? I mean, what I did with Karen McBride is my business alone. None of his.‖
―I know where he got it from. Flossie Rice. It wasn't common knowledge, fifteen, eighteen years ago, but a few of us who knew the people involved had a real itchy suspicion about Charlie Scarberry and Flossie Rice, and how they spent their time when Old Bud wasn't around. If Bud knew, he didn't care nothin' about it. Charlie was dollars in the bank for Bud's towing business and the J. P. Court.‖
―She's not very good looking, Chief. I thought State Police officers had higher standards.‖
―For a fact, but she looked a hell of a lot better back then, before she spent twenty years pumping gas and hooking up wrecked automobiles. Anyway, seems like you went over to the trading post and talked to Flossie and she got the impression you was questioning her honesty insofar as the identification of Bunting was concerned. She called Charlie and you can figure out the rest of it. She also made some remark about you and the McBride girl. S
ome local folks observed that you spent the night with her and someone even noticed her carryin‘ your breakfast across the road one morning.‖
―Damn. They don‘t miss a trick, do they. What about the deal with Mo and Doc and Vee?‖
―I don't know for sure, but I'd guess it's something as simple as checking radio logs. I reckon they all went 10-6 at the motel.‖
―Probably so. We didn't have anything to hide. So what happens now, Chief?‖
―You're the commander of the Criminal Bureau. You handle the case however you think best, but I want you to get back to the Tierra Amarillo mess. The Governor has a mighty strong interest in how the Reyes Tijerina thing shakes out. My recommendation to you is to hand the Rice murder over to Wilcoxson. Lend him Doc if you want to. Far's I'm concerned, Charlie's bitch-letter is history. I don't have time to fool with it. The legislature meets in just over a month and there's Christmas in between. If I don't get my pre-legislature asskissing done, the department stands to lose some big bucks in appropriations. And Mat, don't worry none about this. You still got my full support, and Charlie don't. He's only where he‘s at because Dave Cargo wants him there and I'm not up to a fight with the governor right now. But believe me when I tell you that I'd trim his wick in a second if I could do it. It‘s mighty damn uncomfortable workin‘ around a deputy chief you know would cut your throat in a heartbeat just to get your job.‖
―If it‘s all the same to you, Chief, I‘ll keep Doc under my supervision. Wilcoxson tends to get a little carried away sometimes.‖
―Like I said, Mat, you handle it, but get me some results up there in Rio Arriba County, too.‖
On the anniversary of Pearl Harbor Day, December 7th, 1967, early in the afternoon, Doc Spurlock placed a telephone call to Albuquerque Police detective Herman Budwister. The two officers discussed meeting for a cup of coffee but settled on having a beer instead. Spurlock met Budwister at the Wine Cellar Lounge in the Fair Plaza Shopping Center in northeast Albuquerque, across the street from the State Fair Grounds. The barroom was long and narrow. A row of black leather booths, under a low false ceiling of latticework and plastic ivy, occupied one wall. A bar that would seat thirty people filled the other side of the room. The Wine Cellar sold very little wine but offered a dark beer on tap that Herman favored.
From the time he got off work in late afternoon until he went home to a small apartment nearby for late TV news and a little sleep, Herman generally occupied a stool near the middle of Wine Cellar‘s bar. With but little variation, he'd lived that way since his divorce became final two years before.
Doc and Herman occupied a half-round booth in the corner farthest from the bar's front door. Beer was served.
―Too bad about Bunting,‖ Budwister said. ―I thought you had him cold. Them Indians‘ll get you every time.‖
―I'll tell you what, Herman, it wasn't just the Indians. Seemed like everybody I talked to had seen Bunting in Albuquerque, and his wife, too. I got real tired of hearin‘ about the fat Indian woman in the red car coat and the skinny-assed gringo.‖
―So what's up?‖
―Vee told me that you and him stopped by a junkyard the morning after the deal out at Budville; said you showed some guy the picture you drew of our suspect.‖
―Yeah. I did. Junkyard guy's name is Frenchy LaCroix. He's a witness in the armed robbery of an S & L out on Coors Road six, seven weeks ago. I did a sketch of the suspect based on Frenchy's description and he looked a lot like the Budville shooter the way Mrs. Rice described him to me. Frenchy's junkyard is out on West Central so it wasn't out of our way to stop by. Why?‖
―You think the two robberies could be connected?‖
―Could be. Same general description. Black jacket. Leather, I think, and pointy-toed shoes. Got fifteen hundred, two thousand bucks. I don‘t remember about the gun, but I can check my files. I do recall that my guy‘s MO was a departure from other recent armed robberies around town. What do you think about it?‖
―I‘ve got to find some direction to take in the Budville case, Herm,‖ Doc said. ―The heat is on. Scarberry‘s about to have a shit-fit. Says he's gonna see a conviction if it's the last thing he ever does. The death of Saint Bud the Good must be avenged!‖
―Is Scarberry always a horse's ass?‖
―I hate to say it about someone in my own department, but he is for a fact.‖
―By rights,‖ Herman said, ―I shouldn't help; shouldn't even talk to you. Your deputy chief made it very damn clear that the Budville matter was a State Police case and he didn't even want me or my kind around. Made me feel like Medger Evers at Byron Beckworth's birthday party.‖
―I know,‖ Doc said, removing his hat. ―Best I can do is hang my head in sad shame. I feel pitiful bad about it.‖
―I cannot help but be touched by such sincere contrition.‖ Herman tipped back his glass of dark beer.
―Did this junkyard guy do you any good?‖ Doc asked.
―Frenchy said the drawin‘s looked a lot alike. As if I didn't know it. We already had a suspect in the S & L job so I pulled the mug shot while Vee and I waited for duplicates of my Budville drawin' to be made. I showed it to Mrs. Rice when we got back out to Budville. She said it looked like the shooter. I was fixin‘ to tell you about it when ol‘ Scarberry run me off. Your guys got Bunting later that night and Mrs. Rice went ahead and ID‘d him so I didn‘t worry too much about it.‖ Herman drank some beer. ―Anyway it‘s quite a ways from Albuquerque out to Budville and I couldn't see why an Albuquerque heister would go all the way to Budville to do a robbery, especially someone who'd scored almost two grand less than three weeks before. I figured it was just a coincidence.‖
―Haven't you ever heard that there ain‘t no coincidences in criminal investigations, Herman?‖ Doc said.
―I‘ve heard it said but I never believed it.‖
―Who‘s the suspect? He in custody?‖
―Oh hell no. He's a transient, from New Orleans, I think. We had him in on a minor beef which is why we had his picture on file, but we didn't have enough on the loan company deal to get a warrant. Frenchy LaCroix isn‘t your ideal witness. The man drinks durin‘ the day; sometimes ‗fore noon, if you can believe it. Other witnesses just couldn‘t make this guy for sure. Eyewitnesses are the world‘s worst. Wilcoxson kicked him loose.‖
―Well,‖ Spurlock said, ―it's a start. Who's the suspect?‖
―He's got about a dozen AKA's. Billy White seems to be his real name. Career criminal.‖
―What's his main claim to fame?‖ Doc asked as he waved at Adele the waitress for two more beers.
―I don't know how famous it makes him, but as I recall, the guy's like twenty-four, twenty-five years old and he's already done five or six years in the Federal slammer. Heavy duty joints. Marion. Leavenworth. Seems to me he's only been out five or six months. Some kind of major thievery, I believe.‖
―Herm, would you mind if we, ah, kind of worked together on this. I know you don't have no love for Scarberry, but your guy here seems like a good place to start.‖
―Screw Scarberry. Every department's got one like him. Some time I'll tell you about an APD captain I know of.‖ He finished off one glass of beer and sipped at a second. ―It's fine with me. I‘ve got a caseload no five cops alive could handle and it irritates hell out of me that a deal like that loan company heist falls through the cracks. You don't have any other place to go with the Rice case?‖
―Tell you the truth, we spent so damn much time on Bunting that any other trail got dead cold. I know ol' Bud testified in some kind of federal drug trial over in Texas just the week before he got blasted and we're tryin' to make a connection there, but it looks like he wasn't a major player in that deal. Seems like some feds arrested a dope hauler, heroin, I think, out by Grants and they called Bud to tow the car in and store it in his junkyard. I guess Bud only testified as to chain of possession of the vehicle. You know how forthcoming the feds are in a deal like that.‖ Doc sipped his beer.
―We're makin' some other routine checks, but nothin' so far. Worst thing I can think about is that it was a random, spur of the moment deal and the shooter was drinkin‘ beer with some whore on his lap in Los Angeles or St. Louis by the time we arrested Bunting.‖
―‗Course,‖ Herman said, ―even I knew about Bud and all the money he supposedly had stashed around the place.‖
―I know, and Flossie said the killer talked about knowing there was more money in the store. Hell,‖ Doc exclaimed, ―we could make a case on Flossie herself. We could make as good a case against her as we did on Larry Bunting. I reckon she'll inherit the whole ranchero.‖
―There's a thought,‖ Budwister said. ―Maybe all you need to is canvas the neighbors and see what degree of marital bliss was shared by Mr. and Mrs. Bud Rice.‖
―I don't even want to even think about that possibility. Close as she is to Scarberry, even Captain Torrez couldn't protect me if I was to go after that line of investigation. Shit, I‘d end up guardin‘ the only school crossin‘ in Hachita. Let's check out this Billy White guy.‖
―You want to do it just between us, over beers and coffee, or should we go for getting the brass to give us the seal of approval?‖
―I gotta go with the brass,‖ Doc said. ―Captain Torrez is my guardian angel and my boss. He's tight with Chief Black and that keeps a lot of political crap, and Deputy Chief Scarberry, off my back. I expect my chief and yours‘ll go along. I'll do it from my end and request your personal help, if that's ok with you.‖
―Great with me. You think we should get Wilcoxson involved? I've learned over the years that havin' the DA involved makes it easier to get warrants and subpoenas when we need ‗em.‖
―They's a problem there,‖ Spurlock said. ―Captain Torrez can dance around our organization chart and get to the chief outside the chain of command, but he'd be upwind of a feedlot if Scarberry found out Wilcoxson was in on the deal, directly. See, Scarberry still thinks Bunting is guilty as hell and Wilcoxson, Captain Torrez, and me all caved in on the deal. If he had his way, we'd be operatin‘ on the theory that Bunting did the killin‘ and we missed some vital clue; either that or we'd be out to prove that all them Indians lied to protect a white man they barely know. ‗Course, there ain't no reason we can't funnel our stuff through you to the DA, is there?‖
