Bloodville

by Don Bullis

Work for Doc Spurlock had fallen back into a regular routine after Bunting went back to the U. S. Navy and Vee was reassigned. He spent most of his time picking over details and checking out vague leads that continued to reach the State Police from time to time. Trips to Farmington, Taos and Hobbs produced nothing of any value to the investigation. Doc had supper with his mom and dad on the way back to Albuquerque from Hobbs. Pleasant as the meal was, it annoyed Doc to learn from his mother that Patsy had been on the phone complaining about her life in Gallup. Gord Spurlock reminded his son that the Chaves County Sheriff Tom Lord would put him on the payroll just about any time it pleased him. Doc allowed as how he'd stay on with the State Police.

  All of the license numbers Doc found on Bud Rice's gas pumps checked out and didn't produce a lead worth pursuing. Some of the plate numbers belonged to cars that hadn't been in Budville for two, or more, years. No one had been able to figure out what 46 F PU BY NL meant. Bud's towing records produced the same results. Zip.

  ―Before we get into the matter of the Rice/Brown murders,‖ Captain Torrez said, ―there‘s this.‖ He handed Doc a folded sheet of paper.

  NEW MEXICO STATE POLICE DEPARTMENT INTRA-DEPARTMENTAL CORRESPONDENCE

  DATE: 11 January 1968

  FROM: Sgt. Fred Finch, Fleet Management Supervisor TO: Capt. Mateo Torrez, Criminal Bureau

  SUBJECT: Damage to Department Vehicle: Failure to Report

  Pursuant to departmental policy, vehicles assigned to the Criminal Bureau were spot-checked for compliance to minimum standards of maintenance and safety on this day and date. State Police unit #485, a 1965 Plymouth Fury, bearing New Mexico license 2-8411, was observed to have sustained damage to the right rear fender. A review of fleet accident files failed to produce a report concerning this matter. Department policy requires that you review this matter and consider appropriate disciplinary action should it be determined that the officer to which the vehicle is assigned, Agent J. B. Spurlock, is in violation of departmental regulation (SPR 51-1313). This memo will be placed in a 10-day suspense file for followup to command staff.

  CC: Colonel Sam Black, Chief

  Lt. Col. Charles Scarberry, Deputy Chief

  Lt. Col. Martín Vigil, Deputy Chief

  ―I'll be damned,‖ Doc said. ―Don't he have nothin' better to do than sneak around parkin‘ lots?‖

  ―What happened, Doc?‖ the captain asked.

  ―I bumped a guardrail post out by Chief Rancho durin‘ the big snow storm, Cap. There ain't enough damage to even mention. Kind of a rub mark and some white paint there above the wheel well.‖

  ―But you didn‘t report it.‖

  ―I didn't think nothing about it. I guess my mind was on the murder case.‖

  ―Damn, Doc. All you had to do was write me a note. I would have handled it. Now I have to take some action.‖

  ―Sorry, Cap.‖

  ―So you must be reprimanded. Here it is. Do not do that again! ¡Comprende!‖

  ―I comprende, Cap.‖

  ―Good. Now I can write a memo to fregado Freddy. Let's get on to Budville. I notice that your reports are very slim lately.‖

  ―Not much to report,‖ Doc said.

  ―What about Budwister? Anything there?‖

  ―Nothin‘ you can hang your hat on. Seems like his suspect fell in a rat hole. Probably where he belongs.‖

  The captain leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. ―I spoke with Wilcoxson yesterday afternoon. He has a suggestion. More than a suggestion, really. More in the nature of a directive. He wants Flossie to see a psychologist and to undergo examination by use of hypnosis.‖

  ―Hypnosis, huh?‖ Doc said, leaning back in his chair. ―I know a crazy old Mexican woman down to Roswell who claims she can read the future in goat guts. Maybe we should call her, too.‖

  ―That‘s my tia,‖ Torrez smiled. ―Watch what you say.‖

  Doc smiled, too. ―What‘s the DA figure to accomplish with it?‖

  ―The theory,‖ the captain said, ―is that Flossie may have been sufficiently traumatized by the events of the evening—the shots fired, the death of her husband and friend, being threatened with a gun— that she's repressing some things she knows about the killer. Wilcoxson says this hypnotist can bring these things out.‖

  ―Right!‖ Spurlock said.

  ―You have a serious problem with it?‖

  ―I'll tell you Cap, I do. I just don't hold with it. Criminal investigations to me is just what we all learned over the years: five percent inspiration and ninety-five percent perspiration. I think you wear out a lot of boot leather and you ask a lot of questions of a lot of people. Hypnotism and that other stuff is just bull farts in the wind.‖

  ―I tend to agree with you, Doc, but Wilcoxson wants this hypnosis and I can't see that it would cause a problem.‖

  ―Well, I can, Cap. Ain‘t it true that hypnotism can make people do strange stuff, you know, bark like a dog, walk like a duck?‖

  ―So I've been told,‖ Torrez said.

  ―There's also a thing like.... I'm trying to think what they call it. Like in that Frank Sinatra movie. The Manchurian Candidate.‖

  ―Brainwashing?‖

  ―That's not it. But it's like that. Hypnosis can make people do things they don't know they're doing. In the movie, every time this one guy turned over a particular card when he played solitaire, a red queen I think it was, he'd do what he'd been hypnotized to do, which was kill somebody. Lawrence Harvey played the part. It's called some kind of suggestion.‖

  ―Posthypnotic suggestion,‖ Torrez said.

  ―That's it. Posthypnotic suggestion.‖

  ―Why is that a problem if Flossie's hypnotized?‖

  ―No matter where we go with this investigation, Flossie's identification is gonna be a key thing. That's already half screwed up because of her identifyin‘ Bunting. You said so yourself the other day. A good defense lawyer is gonna claim that any ID she makes after she's been hypnotized is the product of—what'd you call it? —posthypnotic suggestion. I'd say that's a hell of a problem, Cap.‖

  ―Maybe it is. But it's Wilcoxson's problem. He‘ll be prosecuting the case. I'm glad, though, Doc, that you understand hypnosis so well. You coordinate the hypnotist and Flossie and see to it she makes her appointments.‖

  ―Does that mean I call and remind her of her appointments, or do I haul her back and forth?‖

  ―Back and forth and you sit in on the interviews, too. Write reports on what you observe. You are our protection against The Manchurian Candidate thing. Wilcoxson wants Nettie Buckley examined by the shrink, too. You handle it. 10-4?‖

  ―10-4.‖

  ―One other thing, Doc. Don wants you to leave the impression with Flossie and Nettie that the shrink and the hypnotist are our idea. More specifically, your idea. Not his.‖

  ―Damn, Cap.‖

  ―As prosecutor, he doesn't think he should get involved with it. Just tell her we need it to find the killer. She'll go along with it.‖

  ―It sure ain't my idea of police work, but I'll give it my best shot. Should I to do anything with my car? About the scratch?‖

  ―I looked at it, and I don't think so. Give it a good wash job and the paint will probably rub right off. But let this be a warning to you. Scarberry may not be in our chain of command any longer, but he hasn't forgotten us. Remember, too, that Freddy Finch is un víbora, and as Scarberry's caddie, he does more than carry golf clubs. Watch out for him.‖

  CHAPTER VI

  By mid January 1968, daily afternoon temperatures reached into the fifties and not a trace of snow remained. Herman Budwister reached a work saturation point on Monday the 15th when, with the weekend's criminal activity reports, he found enough case-files piled on his desk to keep him busy until some time in the early 1970s. The detective did the logical thing: he ignored all of it and took a walk. He strolled from police headquarters on Second Street south three blocks and a block east to the Liberty Bar on Central Avenue. He liked to drop
in from time to time just to see who was hanging around and to hear the crap the denizens of Maggotville would lay on him. Joe Peters and Joe Cato stood at the bar. He knew both of them.

  ―Hey, Cato, my man,‖ Peters said. ―Look who's here. Detective Herman Budweiser Beer of the Albuquerque pee-pee.‖

  Cato, a small man with a bad complexion and long oily hair, glanced over his shoulder and then back to his beer without saying anything. He often bragged to his pals that he didn't talk to cops unless compelled to. Peters, a head taller than Cato at six feet, was thin to the point of emaciation. His face was narrow, his small eyes bloodshot in deep sockets below a pimply forehead. Long, dirty blond, hair covered his shoulders. Dressed like a beatnik in blue corduroy pants, green wool sweater and sandals, he considered himself smarter than any and all cops and therefore didn't mind talking to them. Herman walked to the bar ordered a draft beer.

  ―The name, Joe, as you well know, is Budwister. Budwister. Not Budweiser. I'd take it as a good sign if you'd remember that.‖

  ―Sure, man, I'll remember. How about cop, or flatfoot, or pig. How you like them names, Herman?‖

  ―You got a bad mouth on you today, Joe. How‘d you like me to fix it up for you?‖ Herman balled his fist and took a step toward Peters. ―You know how hard it is to talk with busted teeth and fat lips?‖

  ―Hey, lighten up, man. A little dipadee jive don't hurt nothin‘.‖

  Budwister nodded at Cato. ―What's the matter with your amigo there, Joe? Not enough bran in his diet?‖

  ―He don't like pigs ... er, police officers, man. Bad karma. He had a real bad experience once, man. Know what I mean?‖

  ―Just as well. I don't like garbage like him, either.‖

  Cato took his beer and moved off to a table near the back of the barroom. He sat and glared at Peters and Budwister.

  ―So tell me,‖ Budwister said to Peters, ―what‘re the major haps in your substratum of society?‖

  ―Hey, nothin‘ man. Just tryin' to stay out of trouble. You know, man, tryin' to stay in complete harmony with the universe.‖

  ―Yeah. I know.‖ Herm drank off half a glass of beer. ―I know I could haul your ass off to the clink as we speak. Unless I'm mistaken, you're still on federal parole and drinkin‘ beer in the middle of the day and hanging out with a maggot like Cato over there ain't exactly detailed in the conditions of your release.‖

  ―Come on, man. I ain't doing nothing.‖

  ―You been doing something your whole life, Joe. I could go back to my office right now, look through a few theft reports and tell you exactly what you been doing. How much money you got on you? Right now?‖

  ―Twenty, dollars. Thirty, maybe. Hard earned. Why?‖

  ―Empty your pockets on the bar.‖

  ―Come on, man, I ain't....‖

  ―Do it here or I'll take you down to....‖

  ―Ok, ok.‖

  Peters hauled out a large ring of keys, a handful of loose change, a

  switchblade knife and sizable roll of currency. Budwister counted it carefully.

  ―Twenty bucks, huh? I count three hundred and twenty. Where'd it come from, Joe?‖

  ―I been working, man. That's honest money?‖

  ―Sure it is. Who you working for?‖

  ―Bob Drymaple. Detailing cars for him. Ten bucks a car. I worked three days this week.‖ Peters said it proudly.

  Herman picked up Joe‘s knife and pressed the button on the black handle. The three inch blade locked into the open position. ―Joe, Joe. You worked three days. Ten bucks a car. That's thirty-two cars you detailed in three days. You must do one hell of a good job of it. Besides, Bob Drymaple hasn't sold thirty cars in the last two years. What‘d you need the knife for?‖

  ―Dangerous world, man.‖

  ―Hard to believe a nice guy like you got enemies.‖

  ―What the hell do you want down here, Mister Budwister.‖

  ―Not a thing, Joe. Just curious, that's all. You know a guy named Ray Stirling?‖

  ―No. Should I?‖

  ―How about Bill White, or Billy Ray White?‖

  ―Not in my part of the universe.‖

  ―Larry Kendrick. You ever hear of him?‖

  ―Nope. Who are these guys, anyway?‖

  ―How about David Sipe?‖

  ―Never heard of.... Cute. Very cute. 'Course I know Dave Sipe, and you know it.‖

  ―Where‘s he?‖

  ―Been doin' some work for Drymaple, too. Maybe he's up at the car lot. Hell, I don't know where he is. I ain't his love-interest. I don't even like him.‖

  Budwister finished off his glass of beer. ―It's always a pleasure to talk to you, Joe. I guess it's the depth of your character that impresses me most. I know that if you run across Ray Stirling or Billy White or Larry Kendrick you'll let me know. Just that he's in town, know what I mean. I don't have a warrant or anything. You'll do me that favor, won't you, Joe?‖

  ―Sure, man. I'll personally come to the station. But I don‘t know nothing about....‖

  ―About what, Joe?‖

  ―You know, Billy Ray White.‖

  ―Sure, Joe. Tell you what, just to show you how much I like you, I‘ll hang on to your knife. You know, keep you out of trouble.‖

  Located north of Albuquerque in the town of Bernalillo, the Sholenberger Tool Company employed more workers than any other business in southeast Sandoval County. On the first of February, 1968, Joe Cato applied for a job there. He made the effort to keep his unemployment benefits current. The office manager guessed as much but allowed Cato to use the employee break room to fill out the application anyway. Cato made a mental note of four vending machines in the room: soda-pop, cigarettes, candy bars and coffee. Everything a working man needed to sustain him. As he returned the completed application, he counted five adding machines and three new electric typewriters at desks in the front office.

  On the fifth of February, Cato paid a return visit to the machine shop—at three o'clock in the morning. He considered himself a planner. He didn't believe in taking things for granted when it came to burglary. He'd been at it his entire life—starting at age ten when he broke into an elderly neighbor's house and stole all the money he found in the old lady's purse—and served less than a year of county jail time. He figured any police officer on duty in the town of Bernalillo would be asleep somewhere. Monday nights were slow for cops. Same with any Sandoval County deputy sheriff who might be out and about. He knew for a fact the State Police did not have officers on duty between midnight and seven in the morning. Cato figured he'd get into the plant by three o'clock and be out and gone by three-thirty. He parked his car at the north end of the large metal building at a place where two big cottonwood trees shaded the light from a nearby street lamp and near an emergency fire exit.

  Breaking and entering required no special talent. Cato simply broke a window and climbed into the machine shop. Fire exit signs illuminated his way to the employee's break room. He first rifled employee lockers and found only an old army field jacket to steal and he put it on over his sweatshirt. Then he went to work on the vending machines and cleaned out coin boxes, stuffing nickels and dimes into the jacket's over-sized pockets. Joe came upon a problem when he tried to get into the front office. A locked, heavy metal, fire door barred his way. He rose to the challenge. He found a large hammer and a chisel in the machine shop and went to work pounding on the door knob. It broke off but the door still wouldn‘t open. Cato used the chisel to pound out the inner workings of the latch. The door remained firmly closed. The burglar went in search of a bigger hammer and discovered another door to the office; a wooden one in a temporary plasterboard wall. It opened with a single kick.

  Cato took his time searching through desk drawers, pocketing loose change, half sticks of chewing gum, partial rolls of Lifesavers, used-up ball point pens, paper clips and rubber bands. Then he picked up an electric typewriter and carried it to the fire exit at the north end of the building, near where h
e‘d left his car. He planed to put all the office machines near the door—secured only by a sliding bolt—then load them up and be gone. More than thirty minutes had expired since he entered the shop, but Joe wasn't worried.

  He should have been.

  Young deputy sheriffs, the rookies, often get stuck on the graveyard shift. Even so, some of them spend a couple of years on the job with some genuine enthusiasm for doing real, basic, police work. Through the simple expedient of observing a car where none should have been parked at three fifteen in the morning, and watching it for a while, a young deputy named Paul Trujillo interrupted a crime in progress. The officer waited and watched as Cato removed a typewriter from the machine shop, and then another, and then a third. The thief carefully placed each under a blanket on the back seat of his car. While he went back inside to get another office machine, Trujillo dashed across the street and hid behind a big cottonwood tree. Cato stepped back out the fire door to face the business end of a .38 Police Special. He dropped an adding machine in his haste to obey Trujillo‘s command to raise his hands.

  The young deputy knew about the practice of ―stacking‖ where as many charges as possible are piled on a suspect in a single case. In addition to burglary, Trujillo booked Cato for larceny, for taking money from the vending machines and desk drawers; criminal damage to property, for breaking the window and destruction of the fire door; and criminal trespass.

  Placed in a small, barred, holding cell in the booking room of the Sandoval County jail, Cato chained-smoked Camels while Deputy Trujillo filled out arrest reports, property inventory sheets, fingerprint cards and booking forms. The jailer left to attend other business.

  ―Hey, bro,‖ Cato said.

  ―Yeah what?‖ Trujillo said. He was feeling pretty proud of himself, and just a little tough.

  ―You want to be a real hero, bro? Make some solid brownie points with the big-pigs?‖

  ―¡Callarse, cabrón!‖

  ―Don't hard-ass me, bro. I got a real good deal for you.‖

  ―You‘re in no position to be offering deals, ladrón.‖

  ―Sure I am. What you got here, bro? Un crimen menor y no más. I didn't get enough out of that crummy factory for anyone to care nothing about. But here's the deal: I can offer you two guys that done two killings. Hombres muy malo. You interested?‖