Bloodville

by Don Bullis

  ―What?‖

  ―We didn't ask if Billy Ray's got a tattoo on his belly.‖ ―You're right,‖ Doc said. ―We should have.‖

  Doc and Herman had left the bar and gone their separate ways when Sgt. Freddy Finch walked into the Wine Cellar. He flashed his badge before he talked to Adele the waitress. She told him that Herman and his friend had each consumed four beers. Budwister, she said, drank dark draft beer like he always did, and the Anglo in the Stetson hat drank Coors. Finch made a note on a small pad and smiled as he put it into his pocket.

  CHAPTER VII

  Mat Torrez arranged an expensive dinner in the Crystal Room of the Hilton Hotel in downtown Albuquerque for himself, his daughter, and Karen McBride. He'd grown tired and frustrated walking the tightwire between work in northern New Mexico, work in Albuquerque, trips to Budville to see Karen and a few evenings at home with Nita. The Salazar killing was no closer to solution than it had been on January 3. Nita, Mat thought, had become distant and distracted; she acted as if spending an evening with her father was a chore rather than a treat. She appeared annoyed when he called to say he'd be home for an evening, or a weekend. He didn't consider Nita an adult woman with a serious, and intimate, boyfriend. Fathers are like that about daughters. Karen pressed to become closer to Nita, and Mat couldn't put off introductions any longer. It seemed a simple matter. The three of them would have dinner; Nita and Karen would instantly like each other and they would all live happily ever after.

  Mat and Nita arrived first and a baldheaded man in a tuxedo seated them at a round table arranged with elegant crystal and three English bone china place settings. Mat poured the chilled and waiting champagne. They had each sipped a little wine when Karen entered the room. The heads and eyes of other patrons—especially the males—turned and followed her as she walked toward the table. She left a wake of envious stares behind her. Karen wore a silk dress, white with a red and yellow floral pattern. Its bodice showed off her large breasts and narrow waist to good advantage and her skirt swished back and forth like a flag in the wind as she walked. Mat's heart swelled. She was as welcome to him as the warm and gentle breezes of early spring; her smile as bright and clear as mountain sunshine.

  Shocked, Nita realized the stunning woman coming toward their table was Karen McBride. She hadn‘t known quite what to expect. Mat had described Karen as younger than himself, and very pretty, but Nita didn't count on the dazzling beauty she saw before her, especially a woman no more than a few years older than herself.

  Karen extended her hand. ―You must be Nita. You don't know how very, very happy I am to meet you.‖

  Nita and Mat stood. Nita took Karen's hand uncertainly. ―I am, too, I.... Yes. Nice meeting you, too.‖

  Karen kissed Mat on the cheek and they all sat down. Nita tossed off what remained of her champagne and refilled the glass.

  ―Your manners, Nita,‖ Mat said and he nodded, smiling, at Karen's glass.

  ―Oh. Yeah, ah yes. Certainly.‖ She filled the glass to overflowing. ―Sorry.‖

  ―It's all right, dear,‖ Karen said, and she put her hand on Nita's. ―Don't call me dear!‖

  Karen withdrew her hand. ―What shall I call you?‖

  ―Nita. That's my name. Daddy, you didn't tell me.... You said she

  was.... But you didn't....‖

  ―I don't know what else I could have said. I told you she was

  beautiful. Did I lie?‖ Mat smiled broadly, his chest out, proud that

  such a beautiful woman was his exclusively.

  ―No, but you didn't say she was, well, as young as me. I thought

  she would be, you know, like.... Well. More mature.‖ Nita felt a sense

  of confusion and frustration that she finally admitted was odium. She

  did not—would not—like Karen McBride.

  ―Thanks for saying that, but I am a little older than you are.‖ ―How much? Not that it matters. You're still young enough to be

  his daughter. My sister. Not my mother.‖

  ―I'd be happy if we could just be friends.‖

  ―I hardly think you shacking-up with my father is a strong basis

  for friendship between us. I‘m his daughter. You‘re only, only, his

  concubine. Excuse me. I'm going to the powder room.‖

  Karen followed ten minutes later only to learn from the ladies

  room attendant that young Miss Torrez took a taxi cab and left. Karen

  returned to the table but didn't sit down. She said she'd feel better if

  Mat went on home and talked to Nita.

  ―I'm sorry, my captain, the evening didn't turn out better.‖ ―I don't understand, Karen. What happened?‖

  ―She loves you, Mateo, and she does not want another woman in

  your life. Maybe she'll change when she gets a little older.‖ Karen

  kissed Mat on the cheek and made her way out of the Crystal Room. About as bewildered as he'd ever been in his life, Mat paid for the

  champagne and drove home hoping to have a long chat with his

  daughter about the way things would probably be. Nita was not

  there. He found a note taped to the telephone—she always put them

  there because she knew he‘d call State Police headquarters before he

  went to bed—which simply said, ―I've gone out.‖ Signed ―N.‖ Mat

  put three ice cubes in a glass tumbler and filled it to the brim with

  vodka. Nita stayed out all night.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Spurlock made eight trips from Gallup to Budville, then on to Albuquerque and back to Budville and then Gallup for the sole purpose of taking Flossie and/or Nettie to visit Dr. Jon McArthur, a psychiatrist and/or Mr. Sol Gold, a hypnotist. Doc considered the entire exercise a waste of his time and the department's too. It may have been the only point in the entire case upon which Spurlock and Charles Scarberry agreed, but of course Scarberry didn't know it. The deputy chief had been led to believe the whole thing was Doc's idea and he counted it another reason he didn‘t like the criminal agent. Scarberry tried to convince Flossie not to take the treatments. Cranial castor oil treatments he called them. To his irritation, she insisted on going, if only, she said, to do everything she could to find Bud's killer. Scarberry tried ordering Mat Torrez to order Doc to drop the idea. Torrez referred Lt. Col. Scarberry to Lt. Col. Vigil or Colonel Black.

  Doc sat patiently through each session. In the early ones, the hypnotist talked to Flossie about her childhood, young adulthood, early marriage and the death of her first husband twenty-two years before. He learned that Claude Hinkle died on November 4, 1945, while under a 1937 Ford sedan, replacing the muffler, in his garage at Grants. The car slipped off the jack and the differential gear case crushed his chest. Flossie found his body after he failed to arrive at home for supper. He left no survivors other than his wife.

  In later sessions they discussed events the night of the murders. Doc listened as Flossie said, almost word-for-word, what she'd said to him and Mat Torrez on the early afternoon of November 19. She did not add one new item of information. Budwister showed up for one session and did a sketch of the suspect as Flossie described him while she was allegedly under hypnosis. A picture, nearly identical to the one he drew in Budville the morning on November 19, emerged. Budwister told Doc that Flossie offered nothing new. The Albuquerque officer doubted she was even under hypnosis.

  On one of his trips, Doc delivered Nettie to Dr. McArthur while Flossie visited Sol Gold. Dr. McArthur's report read:

  Nettie Buckley is a 54 year old, widowed, unemployed, disabled, childless housewife. She was seen in psychiatric consultation in able to establish her mental status, her degree of reliability, and over all personality evaluation.

  The patient states that she was born in Old Mexico and was originally married to Harry Buckley, who is now deceased over ten years. The marriage produced no children. During her adult years she worked mainly as a domestic, but was disabled as sh
e states, ―because of the sugar (Diabetes) and other sickness problems.‖ She now takes Insulin tablets orally, but has dizzy spells.

  During the interview, the patient recounted her aspects and movements during the crimes of November 1967 and appeared to know her own movements but was not very sure of the movements and activities of others.

  Closer examination of the patient's personality revealed her to be quite confused, borderline psychotic, and not aware of her surroundings—is barely able to give the presence of time, does not know who the President of the United States is, nor the governor of New Mexico. She may be somewhat mentally retarded, as well. This patient is quite unreliable although she may be able to give evidence from among a group of live suspects, and this would be considered fairly reliable. Otherwise, she is not suitable for hypnosis or regressive hypnosis.

  Diagnosis:Borderline psychosis

  Recommendations: None

    

  Dave Sipe sat with his feet up on the desk in a shanty on stilts that passed for a sales office at Bob Drymaple's used car lot. He sipped alternately from a can of Coors beer and a pint bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon. Spurlock and Budwister found him just before dark one evening toward the end of February. He didn't get up when the policemen entered the office and he yawned when they showed him their badges. He raised the beer can in a mock salute and started to take a drink when Budwister slapped his feet off the desk causing him to spill beer down the front of his sleeveless, western-cut, shirt.

  ―Damn, man. Shit!‖

  ―Show some respect, Davy boy,‖ Herman said.

  It surprised Doc to note that Sipe looked almost clean-cut. A minor

  case of acne left a few pockmarks along his jaw-line but he kept his longish hair neatly trimmed and his clothing clean. What placed him out of the ordinary were the tattoos that covered both arms. An intricate spider web design emanated from his left elbow, around his arm, and upward to the shoulder and downward to his fingers. His right arm displayed a mixed metaphor of tattoo art. A red ribbon inked around his wrist contained the word MOTHER. Above it, a skull and crossbones and devil‘s head stared at each other. Just below his elbow were four roses in a square cluster. A large black panther, claws on each paw drawing imaginary blood, occupied his upper arm.

  ―You got no call, Budweiser....‖

  ―Let me tell you what we got, Davy boy. You been running with real bad company. You should be more careful.‖

  ―Screw you. I didn't do nothing.‖

  ―Yes you did. You are an accessory before, during and after the fact, to murder. You also conspired to commit murder, and you aided and abetted in murder.‖

  ―I don't have to talk to you. I got my rights.‖

  ―Sure you do, Davy boy. But you ain't under arrest so we can ask you anything we want.‖

  ―Ask 'til your balls drop. I don't have to answer nothing.‖

  ―True,‖ Herman said. ―I just thought you might want to make things easier on yourself, you know? Help us out a little. We help you out a little. You've never done any real jail time, Davy boy, but these Budville murders might just change all that.‖

  ―I don't know nothing about it.‖

  ―Ok, Davy. We'll just go ahead and get an arrest warrant, and we'll be back in the morning. Then we'll see if your memory improves. You'll like jail. Believe me.‖

  ―That's a fact,‖ Doc said. ―They's big old boys in there that's hung like seed bulls. They'll want to get real friendly with you. You got a virgin asshole, Davy? I bet you do. They'll like that.‖

  Sipe ignored the State Police officer. ―Come back with your warrant, Budweiser. See if I care.‖

  ―The name is Budwister. You'd do well to remember that.‖

  Doc and Herman drove directly from the car lot to the residence of Mrs. David Sipe, Sr. in Albuquerque's far north valley. The house, an attractive, well maintained, white two-story frame structure with an attached two-car garage, was surrounded by a large, neatly trimmed and tidy lawn. The Officers cruised past, drove around the block and parked on the opposite side of the street a half block away. Dusk had become darkness when an ancient Ford pickup with a dealer‘s license plate wired to the back bumper pulled into the driveway and parked. Sipe sprinted up the porch steps and into the house.

  ―How you want to handle it, Herm?‖ Doc asked.

  ―I don't know if he's gonna try and get away in that junk Ford or if he's got someone comin‘ to pick him up. Tell you what, you walk on up this side of the street and see if you can get around on the right side of the truck. If he tries to get into it, arrest him. If he's got someone pickin‘ him up, I'll just cut him off and we'll grab both of 'em. And Doc, take off that hat, will ya. This ain't the OK Corral. It makes you stand out like mouse shit on grits.‖

  ―True, Officer Budwister, true. 'Course, I could stay here and you could do the circling around. That way I could just leave my hat where it belongs, namely on my head.‖

  ―That too is true, Agent Spurlock, but as we are in my car, that is to say, the city of Albuquerque's car, and I am assigned to it, and it to me, as it were, I elect to stay put while you do the necessary skulk.‖

  Doc took his Stetson off and placed it carefully on the back seat. ―I know what it is, Herman,‖ Doc said. ―You think I don't understand, but I do. It's a question of you damn city boys taking advantage of us country boys. You think just because we got sheep shit on our shoes, we're good at sneaking and stalking and tracking like the red Indians.‖

  ―If you don't move your ass, there won't be no need for sneaking and tracking. Be careful.‖

  Three minutes later Doc hunkered beside the old Ford pickup. He had a clear view of the porch, front door and yard by looking through the truck's windows. A minute passed, then two and then five. Doc was uncomfortable. His knees hurt from the crouching. Then headlights illuminated the residential street and a car stopped at the curb. The driver gave a blast on the horn and Sipe emerged from the house with a duffel bag in his hand and started across the lawn at a fast walk, limping slightly, and looking around, up and down the street. Herman quickly pulled his car into the path of the second car. Sipe recognized what was happening. He turned and dashed toward the pickup. Doc had positioned himself in the shadow of the garage when the car pulled up in front. He stepped out into the flood of light provided by the porch lamp.

  ―Howdy Dave. Fixin' to take a trip, are you?‖

  Sipe threw the duffel at Spurlock and tried to reverse his direction of flight, but his foot slipped in the grass and he went down on one knee. The bag missed the officer and Doc pounced on Sipe like a cat on a cockroach. The altercation was brief and Sipe, face down in the grass, felt Doc's knee in the middle of his back as handcuffs clicked into place around his wrists. The suspect cussed and struggled against the steel restraints.

  The driver of the car, surprised at being blocked off, stalled the engine when he jammed the transmission into reverse and popped the clutch. Herman ran to the car and stuck his gun into the driver‘s ear. Joe Cato seemed surprised. All Sipe had said on the phone was, ―Come and pick me up as soon as you can. The heat‘s on!‖

  ―Damn, Joe, I didn't know you were out of jail,‖ Herm said.

  ―The public defender let me out. She said you damn pigs can't keep me in there forever.‖

  ―Too bad. Get out of the car. What're you doin‘ here?‖

  ―None of your damn business. Just visiting.‖ Cato got out.

  ―Get your hands behind you!‖ The officer put handcuffs on Cato's wrists.

  Sipe's mother stood on the front porch and watched as her son continued to struggle and kick as Doc half carried, half dragged him to the unmarked police car.

  ―Police brutality, you son-of-a-bitch,‖ Dave screamed. ―You can't come on my property and arrest me. You got to have a warrant. I'll sue! I'll own the city of Albuquerque, you pig bastard!‖

  ―Tell you what, Davy boy,‖ Herm said as Doc bent the suspect over the hood of the police car beside Ca
to, ―we've got a warrant. We had one when we saw you this afternoon. We just wanted to see how bad you wanted to talk to us. Now we know. Charges are what I said before: accessory, conspiracy, aiding and abetting murder. With any luck you'll get off with ten, fifteen years.‖ Budwister read Sipe his Miranda warnings from a little card.

  Mrs. Sipe listened from the front porch and then turned and walked into the house. Deep shadows concealed a look of utter disgust on her face. She closed the door behind her and Doc heard a deadbolt snap firmly into place. She turned off the porch light. The officers deposited Dave Sipe into the back seat of the police car and closed the door. Budwister removed his handcuffs from Cato's wrists.

  ―You don't want nothing from me?‖

  ―No, Joe,‖ Budwister said. ―We got no paper on you, but we'll find you when we want you. We'll just follow the stink.‖

  ―Hey, Joe,‖ Doc said. ―I got a question for you.‖

  ―What?‖

  ―Has Billy Ray White got a tattoo on his belly? A big one?‖

  ―How in hell‘d I know. I ain't got no interest in looking at his bare belly. I'm a married guy, for Christ's sake.‖

  ―Just asking, Joe. Just asking.‖

  The officers got into the car and Doc looked around for his hat. All he could see was a small part of the brim left visible when Sipe sat down—deliberately—on the Stetson.

  ―Sorry about your Roy Rogers hat, pig.‖ Sipe smiled.

  David Sipe learned a lesson that night about sitting on a man's hat. His ears rang for two days from the punch to the head Doc gave him. The suspect stopped smiling.

  Doc located Wally Webb at Drymaple's car lot a couple days after the interview with Cato. A short little man with an oversized head, Webb dressed himself like a drugstore cowboy; the toes of his boots, belt, hatband, and wristwatch bracelet all studded with silver and turquoise. Not comfortable in his conversation with the police officer, Webb chained smoked and scratched constantly at the sweaty armpits of his red and white western cut shirt.