WRATH IN THE BLOOD
by
Ronald J. Watkins
© Ronald J. Watkins 2011
www.RonaldJWatkins.com
WatkinsLiterary.com
Cover by David E. Payne
Published originally as Alter Ego
Other books by the author
Fiction
Cimmerian: A Novel of the Holocaust
The Far Side of the Moon
A Suspicion of Guilt
Shadows and Lies
The Dutchman
A Deadly Glitter
The Flower Girl
True Crime
Evil Intentions
Against Her Will
The Naked Streets
Romance
Nocturne
SciFi/Fantasy
Hunter: Warrior of Doridia
Caravans of Doridia
Non-Fiction
Unknown Seas
Birthright
High Crimes and Misdemeanors
The Summit Murder Series with Charles G. Irion
Murder on Everest
Murder on Elbrus
Murder on Mt. McKinley
Murder on Puncak Jaya
Murder on Aconcagua
Murder on Vinson Masiff
Murder on Kilamanjaro
Abandoned on Everest [prequel]
PROLOGUE
It was abruptly silent in the house when the shower stopped. There was the throaty gurgle of the last trace of water running down the drain, then the metallic click of the opening shower door. There was no television playing, no radio or stereo. The naked figure methodically dried, then carried the damp towel to the laundry room before returning to the walk-in closet in the master bedroom to slowly dress.
The blood created a fresh pattern of modern art across the unblemished white of the bedroom wall. A thick blotch near the carpet spread almost evenly in an arch until it tapered to nothingness near the door to the walk-in closet. It was still bright crimson and smelled of freshly burnished copper.
The blood throughout the bedroom was cast about as if by a crazed painter. Its metallic odor was intermixed with the fragrance of perfume and floral smelling soap from the shower, the humidity still hanging in the air.
Blood. On the carpet, against the walls, along the ceiling. A thick pool oozed from under a throw rug, dark and heavy like syrup. A section of the carpet the size of a telephone book had been carved out, leaving a dark open space. A portion of a second wall where blood was splattered was wiped nearly clean.
The signs of a terrible struggle were visible everywhere in the large bedroom. The blood stained mattress of the king size bed was half off the box springs, a corner just touching the carpet. A porcelain lamp was knocked to the floor, the lamp shade crushed beneath a foot. Two sets of draperies were pulled from their usual place and lay crumbled. A dresser was pitched forward, stopped in its fall by a chair, the drawers tossed open and the contents cast askew. Lingerie, several pieces of gold jewelry, a lone sapphire ring, and an unopened box of Joy perfume lay on the carpet scattered about the chair.
The recently bloodied kitchen butcher knife was clean and slipped into place in the butcher block. Blood soaked clothes, ruined beyond further use, were in a green plastic bag, the mouth cinched tight, waiting to be taken away. Rags used in the cleanup have been washed and dried then carefully put away.
Now dressed the figure casually examines the entire scene a last time, pausing for several minutes to gaze at the bedroom. A bare hand reaches down and moves a necklace no more than an inch, then the figure straightens, gives the room a final look before slowly walking the length of the house. The green bag is lifted, the door to the side of the house is opened, then closed lightly. There are steps on the sidewalk, fading with each footfall, then nothing.
The house is dead quiet now, calmer than it has been for the last hour. The only sound is the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the creak of a nearly imperceptible settling of the large house, and through its thick walls, the distant yapping of a small dog.
In the bedroom a single fly buzzes in a lazy circle as if uncertain where first to feast in so vast a smorgasbord.
PART ONE
ONE
In the high desert more than two hundred miles south and east of Phoenix, Arizona, John Goodnight squinted momentarily towards the sun just as it broke the ridge of a low lying mountain range in the distance to his right. Turning his gaze back to the box canyon below, still shrouded in heavy shadow, he stretched his long frame across the broken ground and fixed his binoculars again on the makeshift corral. His genial, heavily creased face looked as if it had spent a lifetime in the wind and sun.
The four men lay wrapped in sleeping bags beside a battered pickup. The cattle stood unmoving. There was absolutely no wind and a thin wisp of white smoke rose from a smoldering fire, plaining into a layer of haze that spread across the enclosed end of the canyon.
Sheriff Jethro Ludwig squirmed next to Goodnight then spoke in a loud whisper. “I forgot how uncomfortable a stakeout is, Ranger, though to be honest I never liked 'em very much. I make it about 50 head, don't you?” Ludwig was a man of average height with a vast gut and a heavy drawl. He had cursed repeatedly in the dark as they moved into position, stumbling over the barren rocks.
“Fifty-two.” Goodnight's hat lay on the ground beside him. His head of hair was as full as when he had been a teenager and the color of milk. His full mustache was a shade darker.
Ludwig sniffed, ran his bare hand under his nose, then pulled a round container of snuff from his hip pocket and stuffed a finger full between his cheek and gum. “You sure those are Bobby McGuire's cattle down there? I just can't see a man like him risking everything for a few head of cattle. Hell, Ranger, he was my biggest campaign contributor last year and I've known him since we were kids.” Ludwig shook his head. “This just don't seem right somehow.”
Goodnight held the binoculars trained below as he spoke. “Maybe McGuire's got a special reason to want to be your good friend, Jethro. He's been reporting more stolen cattle than any other rancher in these parts for about 10 years now. That's why Western States Insurance required he implant a microchip in every head he wanted insured. Last night I snuck up on that corral below and scanned a half dozen head. Those are the ones he says were rustled off his range all right. That's about $50,000 dollars down there, Jethro. From what my informant says, with the fix McGuire's in, he figures that's worth the risk. He gets paid for the cattle and he gets the insurance money.” Goodnight spoke in a soft, easy voice with the lingering trace of a south-western accent.
Jethro squinted below through his battered Army green binoculars. “I can't see a goddamn thing now with that sun up.” He wiggled closer to the edge. “What I can't figure is why he didn't just cut those chips out.”
Goodnight shrugged lightly. “Who knows? Laziness, arrogance, ignorance. We're only 38 miles from the Mexican border. That's less than an hour's run once they're loaded. He probably thinks this was going to be over too fast to worry about going to all that trouble.”
“So why not sell the cattle south of the border first, then file for the insurance?”
“He's been doing this for years without trouble. Why change now? And I'd say he needs the money real bad. Watch those lenses, Jethro. You don't want to pick up the sun.”
“Sorry.” The sheriff lowered his binoculars and rolled on his side with a grunt. “Let's just take them now. McGuire might not even show.”
“My man says he will, and I want McGuire.”
Ludwig grunted. After a moment he said, “I got to get in shape for this kind of shit, Ranger. I'm not a young man anymore.”
“Jethro, you're at least 20 years you
nger than I am.” Below Goodnight made out the ranch hands who were now stirring from their sleeping bags. One spilt gasoline from a red metal can into the fire and it flashed to life. He then joined the other men standing in a scraggly line urinating in the sage brush.
“I got to say I was real surprised to see you yesterday after-noon, Ranger, after all these years. How do you like doing insurance work instead of law enforcement?”
“It has its ups and downs, like anything. I don't do much of this anymore and I'd say that's a blessing. Mostly it's a lot of paperwork.”
“I sure was sorry to hear about the way they treated you. It wasn't right to run a man like you off after all you did for them.”
“It's done, Jethro. Thanks anyway.”
Jethro ruminated a moment then said, “You know, I been thinking. Maybe you can help me out when I'm through sheriffing. I sure could use a cushy job in an office during my golden years, what with the way I keep packing on the pounds. There's the trucks. See the pickup behind them? What's he doing with rigs?”
Goodnight had already spotted the vehicles. “I'd say McGuire doesn't want to risk transporting the cattle in an open truck. Those are air conditioned so they'll do for the quick run south he has in mind.” There was a fair amount of confusion below as the two tractor trailer rigs maneuvered to place their opening towards the corral. Written on their sides was Consolidated Van and Storage. A paunchy man wearing a black wide brimmed hat like a country western singer stepped from the dusty blue pickup and issued orders.
“Who's the Mexican?” Jethro asked.
Goodnight watched for a long moment. “I'd say that's McGuire.”
Ludwig spit into the dirt in front of his face then stared back into his binoculars. “You think? I can't see his face clear with that goddamn hat in the way.” He stared a minute longer. “Yeah, that's probably him.”
“That's all I'm waiting for, sheriff. I've got the claimant in possession of the cattle he reported stolen four days ago. You want to call your man so he can block the pass and we'll get this over with?”
“Oh yeah. I'll do that right now.”
Ludwig wiggled his way backwards grunting as he went, then stood crouching and walked awkwardly towards his Jeep two hundred yards behind them. The first rig was in place now and the hands were waving their hats, whistling and hooting the first load of cattle into place. The full grown cattle could just fit into the two trucks and as the job was finishing the sheriff returned carrying with him a lever action carbine.
“My man's moving up,” he said with effort. “Boy, I've got to get in shape.”
“I sure wish you'd brought along some more people for this, Jethro.”
“Ranger, Bobby McGuire's real popular with my boys. He has that big barbecue every Fourth of July like I said. The only man I trusted not to tip him off is Arden and that's 'cause he don't like anybody. Shit! Look at that! He's taking off in the pickup!”
Goodnight had seen the rancher turn his head towards the mouth of the canyon, then run to his truck. “This way, Jethro!” Goodnight rose and ran across the rocky ground towards a ledge 100 yards away. From here he could see the entrance to the box canyon and in the near distance he spotted a Jeep bucking its way across the desert heading for the dirt road that ran immediately below. As the pickup emerged from the canyon the Jeep changed its angle to head it off, but it was obvious the pickup had the edge and was going to make it. Just then Ludwig lumbered up, wheezing and cursing, spitting his snuff out like vomit.
“Give me the rifle,” Goodnight ordered. He took the old weapon into his hand and was dismayed to see it was a 30-30. Even with a scope it didn't have the gun wouldn't be much use from this range. The first of the tractor trailer rigs was emerging from the canyon with a roar of its heavy duty diesel engine.
Goodnight took aim on the racing pickup. The carbine scarcely bucked when he fired and a puff of dirt sprouted ten feet in front of the fleeing vehicle. He levered the weapon.
“Don't kill him, Ranger!” Jethro said. “Jee-zus, it's just rustling. We can't do that no more.”
The second shot landed on the dirt road just in front of the pickup. Goodnight worked the action again and placed the carbine to his shoulder. With his third shot the right front tire of the pickup suddenly went flat and the vehicle lurched off the road, plowing into a stand of mesquite trees before coming to a stop.
Goodnight could hear the engine as the driver tried repeatedly to back out but he was high centered, stuck on a clump of brush. Jethro fixed his binoculars to his eyes. “Would you look at that,” he said almost with awe as the driver stood in the clear with his back to them, yanked the black hat from his head and threw it into the dirt with disgust. The deputy drove up in a swirl of dust and the driver slowly raised his arms.
Goodnight lowered the hammer on the rifle. “Jethro, why don't you get a modern rifle? This thing's damn near useless for real shooting.”
“I inherited it with the office, Ranger, and they don't give me money for better guns. You know that. That was some shooting by the way. You're welcome to hunt elk with me any time you want.” Ludwig stared back at the scene below.
The heavy trucks had nowhere to go since the deputy had the only road barred and they had both stopped where they were, the second one blocking the canyon entrance so the ranch hands couldn't get their pickup out. Their curses and shouts could be heard even on the ridge. Ludwig was using the binoculars again. “I'll be damned but that sure as hell is Bobby McGuire down there! Who would have thought?”
Goodnight sighed as he handed the carbine back. “Those vans are for hauling furniture, Jethro. Things, and people, aren't always what they seem.” He glanced at the morning sun fully risen but laying low on the horizon. “Let's get down there and give your boy a hand before everyone starts scattering on foot, then maybe we can grab a bite. My treat.”
Ludwig grinned for the first time that morning. “Now you're talking!”
TWO
“Do you mind if I turn on the tape recorder?”
Phoenix police Detective Tom Kosack held his finger poised above the matted black record button with a drop of red in its center. Despite the claustrophobic heat of the cramped police interview room he was dry as if he had just sprinkled himself with talc. He was nearing fifty, heavyset with hound dog eyebrows and fleshy cheeks. His well-worn candy stripped tie was loosened and a thatch of grey chest hair poked from the V of his shirt.
“Go ahead. I'd like another glass of water,” Jack Swensen said.
Detective Ruth Morrison lifted the muted gold colored plastic pitcher. Morrison was not a pretty woman in the traditional sense; her features were too vital and heavy. But she was striking in appearance, with startling, alert azure eyes. Despite her years as a cop she retained a distinctly feminine grace apparent even as she held the pitcher of water.
The room was stark and contained a single metal table and three battered chairs. The smell of disinfectant overwhelmed Morrison's faint floral scented perfume. She filled the transparent plastic cup Swensen pushed in front of her and placed it across the small table in front of the suspect.
“We're recording,” Kosack announced. “Let me back up, Jack. Your name is...Jack Dwayne Swensen. The time is 23:35. The date is June 13th. It's a Monday. You live in the Foothills Estates at... 3232 Foothill Circle. Earlier tonight you called the police and reported your wife missing. My name is Tom Kosack. Myself and Detective Morrison, who is standing here with us, responded to your address, talked to you for a time there, then we asked you to come downtown to answer more questions. You agreed. Is that right so far?”
“That sounds about right.” Swensen finished off the water with an audible gulp, then looked at Morrison who silently refilled the cup.
In his late 30's, Swensen had a square jaw and receding blond hair which gave him a younger appearance. His blue eyes were set too close together and his nose and small mouth were centered well inside his large face. He was six feet tall with skin reddened in p
atches by daily exposure to the sun. He was stout and fit enough but was losing his fight with his gut. He wore expensive metal rimmed glasses, a wrist watch thin as a penny and a gold pinky ring on his left hand. Despite the heat in the room he made no attempt to remove the jacket of his light grey suit.
Kosack continued, his manner business-like and in no way threatening. “My notes say we arrived here at...22:15, that's 10:15 P.M. civilian time. We've been talking since then and I just asked if you minded us recording this and you said that was O.K. with you. Am I right?”
“That's right. Like I said. I want to help if I can. That's the kind of guy I am.” Swensen's voice was slightly higher pitched than the mass of him suggested and detracted from his physical presence.
“We gave you your rights before we started questions here at the station. You recall that, don't you?”
Swensen nodded his head.
“You need to answer out loud, Jack. The tape recorder can't handle a nodded head.”
“Yes. You gave me my rights.”
“Detective Morrison will read them again for the record.” Kosack looked over to his partner who recited the litany from memory. Then he asked, “Are those the same rights you heard earlier?”
“Yeah,” Swensen looked up at both of them in turn. “This isn't necessary. It's like I told you before. I don't need a lawyer. I haven't done anything wrong. I'm willing to answer questions, within reason. I'm really upset over this.”
“So in light of these rights we've explained to you, you would like to speak to us?” Kosack asked.
“That's right.”
Kosack glanced at Morrison who nodded her agreement to accept the waiver. “Since we're recording now, Jack, why don't you go back to the beginning and tell it to us again.”
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