by Rich Curtin
“That’s where you saw the solar-powered drones arriving from the south.”
“Right. But it wasn’t time for us to make a move just yet. There was an airstrip on the ranch where small aircraft were periodically loaded with product from the drones. From there, pilots flew the stuff to remote, mostly-abandoned airstrips all over the western states where it was transferred to delivery vehicles. We tracked the aircraft and delivery vehicles until we had all the distribution routes mapped out and the dealers identified. The network covered eight western states. One morning, we swooped down on every damn one of them simultaneously.” White grinned and raised his beer in a toast. “Busted the whole ring that day. Best day of my life.”
“Was that airstrip off Route 347 part of the cartel’s operation?”
“Sure was. One branch of the distribution system led to that airstrip. I spent a lot of time there staking it out. A small, yellow Cessna landed there twice a week and unloaded cargo into a waiting panel truck.”
“Do you think there’s any chance the drug runners have started using that airstrip again?”
White thought for a long moment. “It’s possible, of course. But the only way to know for sure is to stake it out again.”
Rivera disliked stakeouts. To him, they were a waste of time, time that could better be spent investigating, interviewing, analyzing. Unfortunately, sometimes they were the only option. “Do you know a fellow by the name of Herman who lives in a homemade dwelling not far from the airstrip?”
“Sure. I tried to hire him once as a lookout. Said he wasn’t interested, that he was content with his life the way it was. I offered him good money but he wouldn’t bite. Said he didn’t need any more money. Said he wouldn’t know what to do with it if he had it.”
It was cold and dark when Rivera left White’s home. He was tired and decided to stay in Bluff for the night rather than head back to Monticello. He drove to Recapture Lodge, a motel he’d once stayed at and liked. It was the middle of February, well outside the tourist season, so he was pretty sure they would have a room available. They did.
12
A NEARLY-FULL MOON rising in the east helped light the way as Rivera hustled through the cold night air from the manager’s office to his room. He fumbled with the key, opened the door, turned on the lights, and set the heater to its highest level. While he waited for the room to warm up, he sat at the small desk wondering if he had accomplished anything today. He pulled his notebook from his shirt pocket and began paging back through it, reviewing what he had learned.
As expected, there wasn’t much there. The only substantial fact was the four shots heard by Bill Converse’s foreman, Slim Keegan. Other than that, just a whole lot of nobody seeing anything unusual. Nothing substantial he could grab onto and run with. He checked his notes to see if there were items that required follow-up or clarification.
The first item that caught his attention was something Converse had mentioned. He talked about a Navajo sheepherder with a flock of Churro sheep. Rivera wasn’t familiar with the term ‘Churro.’ During his investigative career, he’d developed a habit of leaving no stone unturned, no question unanswered. It was partly his curious nature and partly a discipline borne from experience that made him pursue each detail until he understood it. He removed his laptop from its case and set it up on the desk. He took off his jacket, connected his laptop to the motel’s wi-fi system, and ran a search on ‘Churro Sheep.’
One website revealed that Churros were a breed brought over from Europe by the Spaniards beginning in the 1500s. It was a shaggy-looking animal with two types of wool. The top coat was coarse, and the undercoat was extremely fine. Another website stated that the Navajos favored the animals for their hardiness, their wool, and the flavor of their lean meat. It showed several photos of the animals. Some Churro rams had four or more horns protruding from their heads, usually at crazy angles. A few had six. Odd looking sheep, he thought.
Rivera continued paging back through his notes. Linda Mason Hart had been certain her parents had no reason to end their lives. And she’d been persuasive about it. He learned little else substantive from her, except for a cross-country trip her parents had made as teenagers and the name and telephone number of a friend of theirs who lived in Taos—Virginia Stolte. Even though the likelihood of Virginia having useful information was low, she might be able to shed some additional light on the Mason couple and why they had detoured off of their planned national-park route. He checked his watch. It read 8:36 pm—not too late to give her a call. He dialed her number.
“Hello?” The woman’s voice was raspy as though she’d been a smoker all her life.
Rivera introduced himself and explained that he was a deputy sheriff in Utah. “Ms. Stolte, have you received the news about the Mason couple yet?”
“Yes, I did. Their daughter Linda called me earlier today. What horrible news! Wilma was a dear friend of mine at the University of Maryland, but we lost track of each other fifty years ago. Recently we reconnected through Facebook. I was so looking forward to seeing Wilma and Matty again. I’m so upset. I just can’t believe what happened. I keep hoping it’s just a bad dream, and soon I’ll wake up.”
“I’m the investigating officer on the case, and I need to learn all I can about the Masons. Did Linda tell you how they were found? Both shot and Matthew with a revolver in his hand?”
“Yes and the implications are just absurd. They were a happy couple. Wilma told me on the phone they were still in love after all these years. She said they were taking a driving vacation through the Southwest, a journey they’d been planning for a year. They were scheduled to stay with me here in Taos for a few days before continuing on. There’s no way it was a murder-suicide. No way. Someone killed them.”
“We know it wasn’t robbery. They still had their money. Any idea why someone would want them dead?”
“No, I just can’t imagine.”
“They were found in a very remote part of southeast Utah. Do you happen to know if they knew anyone who lived in that area?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“I understand from Linda that besides visiting the national parks, they were revisiting parts of a route they had taken fifty years ago as they headed west.”
“Yes. Wilma told me they were planning to do that—drive some of the same back roads they explored fifty years ago.”
“Linda said you were also on that trip.”
“Yes, I was.” There was a long pause. Rivera could hear breathing. “Oh, my. That was such a long time ago. Fifty years!”
“Linda showed me a photograph of the six people who were on that trip and the Volkswagen minivan you were traveling in.”
“We were headed for San Francisco. It seems silly to say it now, Deputy, but our goal was to take part in the Summer of Love.”
“The Summer of Love? Not sure I’ve heard of that.”
“A big happening was going to take place in San Francisco during the summer of nineteen sixty-seven. Thousands of flower children from all over the country were converging on the Haight-Ashbury District. There was music and dope and free love and talk of peace not war. It was hippie heaven. We wanted to be part of it. Don’t ask me why. We were young and it was an exciting time.”
Rivera had only a cursory knowledge of that turbulent period of U.S. history and now found himself curious to hear about it from someone who had lived through it.
“Exciting in what way?”
She laughed. “Oh, you know, it was a time of young people rebelling against the status quo and the war in Vietnam and our parents and the government. We rejected the rules made by the establishment telling us how we were supposed to live our lives. Instead, we made our own rules. It was all new—the music, the clothing, the demonstrations, and the rebellion. So we went to San Francisco that summer and met kids from all over the country. We hung out, danced, did drugs, made love, and plotted the overthrow of the government.” She laughed. “Everyone loved everyone. It was the
Age of Aquarius, a time of feeling completely free. I loved it. I was happy all the time. If I could snap my fingers and go back there right now, I’d do it in a second.”
“How did you end up in Taos?”
“I fell in love with a boy I met during the Summer of Love. His name was Gilberto. He was a cute Latino with long hair, good weed, and a guitar. What more could a girl ask for?” She laughed again, a laugh of pure enjoyment. “When he left San Francisco, I followed him to Taos. Then I lost track of him. I think he went to New Orleans. I stayed in Taos and got a job as a waitress. Today I’m still in Taos and still a waitress.” Now her tone became wistful. “I was a good student but for some reason I never went back to school. The years went by and here I am.”
“So your journey to San Francisco took you through southeastern Utah?”
“That’s right.”
“Why that area?”
“No particular reason. We got off the main highways and detoured through some of the back roads to see the scenery and to camp out at night. We slept under the stars to save money—you can’t easily do that in a city or a town. We learned that the hard way—we tried sleeping in public parks in a few towns, but either the rednecks or the local police would run us off. So we tended to stay on the back roads, away from civilization. I remember we got off the main highway and drove from Colorado into Utah through a pretty canyon that was called Elmer Canyon or something like that.”
“Was that McElmo Canyon?”
“Yes, that was it—McElmo Canyon. From there I remember we drove on bumpy dirt roads for a long while and never saw a soul.”
“When we found the Mason couple, they were dressed like hippies. Was that unusual for them?”
“I don’t know. Wilma said they wanted to relive that part of their history one last time, so maybe they dressed for the part. They fell in love on that trip—spent their lives together ever since.”
“We found a few joints in Wilma’s purse.”
Rivera heard delighted laughter coming through the phone.
“Oh, that is so funny. Damn, I’ve missed those two.”
“So the six of you finally made it to San Francisco?”
Virginia hesitated before answering. “We were on a counter-culture quest for answers with like-minded young people and were kind of high for the whole trip. I guess I can tell you that now without getting arrested, can’t I?” She forced a laugh. “When we got there, the Summer of Love was in full swing and we joined right in.”
Rivera noticed she hadn’t exactly answered his question. “Is there anything else you can tell me that would help explain why they were at that particular location in Utah?”
There was a long pause, then a sigh. “I can’t think of anything, but if I do I’ll call you back. All I can think about right now is how much I’m going to miss seeing my old friends.”
“Call me any time, day or night. If I can figure out why they were killed, I’ve got a pretty good shot at figuring out who killed them. Problem is, right now I don’t have any idea about a motive. Linda Mason deserves to have her parents’ killer brought to justice.”
Rivera gave Virginia his contact information and thanked her. As soon as he clicked off, his curious nature caused him to turn to his laptop and search for information about the 1960s. He wanted to refresh his memory about what had happened during that time. He checked several websites and jotted down a list of historical events:
Cuban missile crisis, Bay of Pigs invasion, Standoff with U.S.S.R. fleet.
Assassination of President John Kennedy.
Fear of “the bomb,” Ban the bomb.
President Johnson expanding the war in Vietnam.
Women’s rights, the pill, equal pay for equal work.
Equal rights, Freedom marches.
Martin Luther King Jr.’s ‘I have a dream’ speech.
Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination.
Cities are burned across U.S., Black Power Movement, Riots.
Attempts at school integration, Governor George Wallace obstructs.
Vietnam, Tet Offensive, napalm, body bags, burning of draft cards.
Old white men sending young soldiers off to die.
Rebellion and protests by the young.
Hippie dress, long hair, piercings, bohemian lifestyle.
Distrust of “the Man” and other authority figures.
Takeover of Universities by students, sit-ins.
Rock and roll, Woodstock, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin.
Robert F. Kennedy, presidential candidate, assassinated.
Riots at 1968 Democratic Convention, Chicago Police club demonstrators.
Rivera sat back and stared at the list he’d composed. He took a deep breath and let it out. He was surprised and a bit overwhelmed at all that had happened during the intense and tumultuous decade of the sixties. The country seemed to be on the verge of coming apart. Impressionable young minds were bombarded with distressing news stories on an almost daily basis. And tucked away somewhere in the fear, anger, and chaos of the time was the Summer of Love, a beacon of hope and a break from the horrors of the world. No wonder the young had been attracted to it. No wonder Virginia Stolte and her friends had set out for San Francisco that year.
Rivera knew this background information probably wouldn’t help him figure out why the Masons were murdered, but the power of those memories from fifty years ago had to be the explanation for why they had detoured from their planned vacation route and ended up on a lonely back road in southeast Utah. Which brought his thinking back to the primary question: Why were the Masons killed?
He closed his laptop and sat at the desk, discouraged at his lack of progress. It crossed his mind that maybe Nick Lathrop was right—maybe it was a murder-suicide. Maybe Rivera was looking for something that wasn’t there. But the bruises on Matthew Mason’s wrist and the absence of a camera argued otherwise. What was missing from the picture was some clear-cut motive for the killings. There was no robbery and they had no known enemies in the area. That left only the wrong-place-wrong-time theory—that the Masons had perhaps photographed a small plane landing on the grass airstrip, right in the middle of a drug delivery.
Rivera yawned. It had been a long day, and he was tired. He took off his uniform, climbed into bed, and slid under the covers. As he lay there, he couldn’t help thinking about Virginia Stolte’s life story and how it reminded him of a long conversation he once had with his grandfather. It was about the forks in the road one encounters during one’s lifetime. Rivera’s grandfather, the wisest man he knew and the one he often turned to for advice when faced with a difficult problem, had pointed out that everyone was faced with a series of choices during his or her time on earth, choices that often seem unimportant at the time, so they give them little or no critical thought. But taken in the aggregate, they can shift the direction of one’s life in dramatic ways. Tune in to those decisions, his grandfather had counseled—recognize the forks in the road and try to make your choices only after conscious deliberation.
Virginia had no idea when she began her freshman year at the University of Maryland that she would end up spending her life as a waitress in Taos. When she decided to head west to the Summer of Love with her friends, the trajectory of her life was forever altered. At the time, she probably hadn’t given the adventure much thought—just a fun trip with friends. Now, it sounded to Rivera like maybe she had some regrets about the way things had turned out for her.
And that line of thought led him to think about Gloria Valdez and the impact she would have on the trajectory of his own life. It would certainly be a major one, and he was sure it would be positive. That is, if she would accept his proposal of marriage. He dialed her number.
“I miss you,” she said.
“I miss you too. I wish I was there, holding you in my arms.”
“That sounds so nice. I’ve been thinking about you all day long.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can wrap up this case.”
&nb
sp; “How’s the investigation going?”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t made much progress.” He summarized the details of the case starting with the dead couple, the way they were dressed, the man’s bruised wrist, the gun in his hand, where the bodies were found, the shots heard by Converse’s foreman, and the absence of a camera. He told her what he’d learned from Virginia Stolte about a trip fifty years ago and that maybe the Masons had been revisiting their memories. Then he lamented over the lack of clues—no one so far had seen anything out of the ordinary—and there was no sensible motive. “The deputy I’m working with thinks it was a murder-suicide, but I doubt it. According to the daughter and Virginia Stolte, the Masons were happy together and had a good life. There was never a hint they wanted to end their lives.”
“And they were halfway through a pre-planned vacation trip visiting the national parks. Doesn’t sound like they were depressed. I agree with you.”
“The only motive for murder I can think of is that they accidentally stumbled on a drug deal in progress.” Rivera told her about the airstrip and its history.
“Could be that,” she said, “or something else that makes no sense now, but will after you uncover more facts.”
Rivera grinned. “You’re starting to sound like my old boss, Sheriff Leroy Bradshaw.”
“I know how much you appreciated him.”
“He taught me most of what I know about conducting an investigation.”
“So what do you think he would advise?”
“Same thing you said. Gather more facts.”
“I know you’re going to be up there until you break the case. I might be able to get some leave and come for a visit. Things are slow in Rio Arriba County right now. The crime rate here goes down when it gets cold. The bad guys in my county are spoiled—they tend to work only when the weather’s nice. Maybe Sheriff Gallegos can get by with one less deputy for a few days.”
