Scratchgravel Road: A Mystery

by Tricia Fields

“When you say ‘lax on safety,’ have you heard workers complaining about something specific?”

  Jeremiah frowned and rubbed at his chin, a gesture Josie took to mean he was uncomfortable with the question.

  “Just stuff I hear from people,” he said. “Makes me wonder what those workers might be carrying out on the bottoms of their shoes.”

  She nodded and decided to let it go. “You ever see anyone who worked at the plant with sores on their arms?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Open sores. Something that might have been caused by exposure to the chemicals or the radiation?”

  He looked insulted. “No, ma’am.” He paused, and then asked, “You aren’t going to turn this into a witch hunt, are you? The media did enough of that. We don’t need the local coppers stirring things up.”

  Josie assured him that was not her intent. “You did an important job for the country. I respect you for that.”

  His face softened a bit and he nodded at her peace offering.

  Josie thanked him for his time and pulled her poncho back on to wade back out through the mud.

  On the slow drive back to town she replayed her conversation with Jeremiah in her mind. Artemis had been ready for war the year she moved to town and took her job as a city officer. As in the Erin Brockovich case, the town was convinced there was groundwater contamination, although instead of chemicals leaching into the groundwater from a gas company, they were leaking from a nonoperational nuclear weapons facility. Artemis received national media attention when a group of local mothers staged a sit-in around the courthouse, protesting the high rates of cancer in the youth living in Arroyo County. A small group of citizens signed with a law firm who specialized in environmental disasters. As a result of the lawsuit the government hired a research company who finally revealed two years later that the rates of certain types of cancer were slightly elevated in and around Artemis. The court ruled against the citizen group in the first trial, citing insufficient evidence due to the small sampling size from the small number of people living in Artemis and Arroyo County. The group appealed and the case returned to court.

  During the same time period, the Environmental Protection Agency came to town to survey and evaluate the Feed Plant and discovered abysmal conditions: hundreds of rusted barrels containing nuclear waste, cracked concrete silos filled with radioactive gasses, contaminated soil and water, equipment used in the production of uranium sitting unprotected and unmonitored. The EPA put the plant on a fast track for cleanup and a private company, Beacon Pathways, was hired for undisclosed millions to clean the plant up over a period of ten years. The media coverage died down after the citizens’ case was lost on appeal, and Beacon’s ten-year cleanup contract was extended an additional ten years. Other than occasional grumblings in the local paper about the abuse of taxpayer money, it was a one-time sensational issue that most residents preferred not to think about. For others, Beacon paid well during troubling economic times and those workers hoped the cleanup would be around for decades. Josie wondered if the extensions would ever end.

  * * *

  Josie pulled her jeep in front of the police department, anxious to tell Otto what she had discovered. She ran through the rain and into the building, forgoing her umbrella. The bell above the door dinged and Lou, who was pulling folders out of the filing cabinet, turned around, an irritable look on her face.

  “Better tread lightly,” Lou said.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “You heard about Teresa?” Lou scowled and looked behind her as if scouting for spies. She loved gossip. Josie thought the world of Lou, but she had a mean streak a mile wide and she looked ready to use it.

  Josie shook her head, and Lou motioned Josie back to her desk.

  “That girl did it this time. Teresa took her savings account money and posted bail for Enrico Gomez!”

  Josie looked confused. “I just saw him this morning.”

  “Sheriff must have got him right after you left. Sheriff Martínez just got off the phone with Marta. He told her that Teresa was at the bail bondsman’s before the ink dried on the paperwork.”

  “Damn that kid. What were the charges?”

  “Possession. Couple grams of coke. Teresa paid standard bond fees and he was out within two hours.”

  “Who arrested him?” Josie asked.

  “Sheriff’s deputy. Pulled him over for speeding, driving toward Marfa. Deputy found the drugs in the glove compartment. Boy wasn’t even smart enough to throw it out the window.”

  Josie sighed heavily. “How did Teresa find out about Enrico getting arrested?”

  “Supposedly the jailer allowed him two phone calls. He placed two collect calls, one to his grandpa, who didn’t answer. Then he called Teresa.”

  “How can a kid with so much potential be so hell-bent on destroying her life?”

  “Teresa claims he was framed. He’s the love of her life and all that garbage. Marta’s ready to rip her kid’s eyes out over it.”

  * * *

  Josie shook her head and walked toward the stairs in the back of the office. Gossip, especially accurate gossip, was torture in a small town. Marta would be living in her own private circle of hell when word got out on the streets that her daughter had bailed out a drug dealer.

  Josie saw Otto leaning against the office doorway when she reached the top of the stairs, his expression grim. “Lou filled you in, I have no doubt.”

  Josie nodded.

  Marta was sitting at her desk talking loudly into the phone.

  “Who’s she talking to?” Josie asked.

  “Wee Wetzel.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said.

  Otto poured them both a cup of coffee, placed Josie’s on her desk, and carried his back to his chair. “Marta wants to know how a bail bondsman could let a minor bail out a convicted felon,” he said in a loud whisper. “Wetzel said Marta’s daughter paid cash, and she had picture identification. Nothing he could do about it. Marta is threatening to sue him and throw his butt in jail.”

  “Where’s Teresa?” Josie asked.

  Before Otto could answer, Marta slammed the phone down, stood from her desk, and planted her hands on her hips. “I will have his ass in jail by nightfall. I don’t care if I arrest him for loitering or jaywalking or peeing on a tire, he will break a law by sundown.” She was breathing heavily and her voice was low and measured.

  “Hold on. Let’s think this through,” Josie said.

  “How could Wetzel allow a sixteen-year-old girl to implicate herself with a sleazy bastard like Gomez? Why didn’t he call me first? No professional courtesy?”

  Josie stood and shut the door to the office and pointed to the conference table. The three sat down and allowed Marta to rant against the bail bondsman for several minutes.

  Josie finally cut her off. “Wetzel is scum. He has no concept of professionalism or courtesy. Don’t waste your time trying to figure someone like that out. You can’t do it.” She leaned forward in her seat, watching Marta closely. “You know we’re behind you on this, one hundred percent, but my advice is to slow down.”

  “She had to sign a contract—a legally binding contract—to bail him out of jail. You can’t tell me a sixteen-year-old can legally do that!”

  Otto cleared his throat. “The worst thing you can do is go after him and have it backfire. You need to make sure you can wrap him up tight before you do anything.”

  Josie nodded agreement. “I’ll call the county attorney and ask his opinion first. We need to make sure the law backs you up. Then we’ll take care of Wetzel.”

  Marta blew air out as if a balloon deflated in her chest. “That girl is going to kill me. She will literally be my death.”

  “She’s just being a kid,” Josie said.

  Marta closed her eyes. “Please. Do not make excuses for my daughter’s behavior. She’s gone too far this time.” She ran her hands back through her hair several times, blinking her eyes, trying to
keep the tears from coming. “I appreciate you both, more than you can imagine.” She took a deep breath and looked away from Josie, her voice softer. “I hope this doesn’t cause problems for you.”

  “You let me deal with that. Your conduct isn’t at issue,” Josie said. She imagined the notion had been weighing on Marta since the sheriff had called her with the news.

  Marta’s expression lightened and she nodded slowly as if forcing herself to move on. “I’m okay then. Tell me where we are with the body.”

  Josie smiled. “This’ll take your mind off Teresa. I think I know where our dead man worked.” She was pleased at their startled expressions. “The old Feed Plant.”

  “The dead guy was on the cleanup crew?” Otto asked.

  “It’s a good possibility.” She watched Otto’s expression turn to dread.

  “Is that where the sores came from? He was exposed to radiation? And we were exposed. You better call Cowan ASAP.”

  She tilted her head and held a hand up. “Don’t panic yet. The old cobbler—Jeremiah Joplin? He worked there for years during full production. He said he never saw anyone with sores like what we saw. If anyone in the community had seen wounds like that they would have exposed it when the big cancer scare took place.”

  Otto shook his head. “This is bad.”

  “Sauly worked at the plant when they first started cleanup. He worked there for years,” Marta said. “I’m sure he’d talk to you.”

  “I’ll go visit him tomorrow.” Sauly Magson was one of Josie’s favorite local characters. He was an old hippy who lived by his own set of standards and was one of the most content and happy people she had ever met.

  “Have you talked with the manager at the Feed Plant yet?” Otto asked.

  “No. Can you call and schedule an appointment for us to meet with him tomorrow? We could meet in the morning if you can work an earlier schedule.”

  “Will do.”

  Lou buzzed the intercom and her voice came through the speaker on Josie’s desk phone.

  “Chief?”

  “Yes.”

  “National Weather Service announced a severe thunderstorm warning for West Texas. Stretches from El Paso down to Presidio. Six inches tonight. They expect the Rio to flood Presidio before dawn. They’ve started evacuations down by the river. They’re moving families out into a temporary shelter they set up at the elementary school in Presidio.”

  “All right. Thanks, Lou.”

  “Mayor wants everyone sandbagging tomorrow in shifts. I signed you and Otto up for a two-hour shift. Seven to nine in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Lou,” Josie said.

  They looked out of the large windows in back of the PD. Fast-moving gray clouds stretched as far as they could see in all directions.

  “What an ugly sight,” Marta said.

  Otto looked grim. “This is supposed to keep up for the next week.”

  Josie looked at her watch. It was almost five o’clock. “Otto, can you call Cowan and fill him in?”

  He nodded. “Will do.”

  “Just have him call my cell if he has any questions,” she said. “Marta, we’ll call the county attorney when I get done at the Feed Plant in the morning. Find out where we stand.” She stood and grabbed her keys off the desk. “For now, let’s pay a quick visit to Mr. Wetzel. Rattle his cage a little.”

  * * *

  Josie left a phone message for the county attorney and then she and Marta made a dash out the front door to Josie’s car. Dripping wet and cursing the rain, they drove to Wee Wetzel’s bail bondsman’s shop, one of three ranch-style homes located directly across the street from the Arroyo County Jail. His CERTIFIED BAIL BONDSMAN sign hung from a chain off the TV antenna that climbed the front of his house.

  “I asked Teresa how she knew about Wetzel and she said Enrico told her. He promised to pay her back after he got out and proved his innocence,” Marta said. She opened her door and spoke to Josie over the top of the car. “How could she fall for such trash?”

  Josie thought about Javier, Marta’s ex-husband, an abusive alcoholic, but she said nothing.

  They walked under umbrellas across the front yard, a twenty-foot-wide patch of sand, and Josie knocked on an aluminum screen door that hung crooked in its frame. The mesh screen had apparently been shredded by the dog that they could hear yipping and growling on the other side of the scarred wooden door.

  A woman in a neon-colored velour track suit opened the door and stuck her head out. Her hair had been dyed a burnt orange and teased up around her head. Josie showed her badge and Marta stayed behind her.

  “You here for Wee?” she called out, raising her voice just above the dog’s.

  Josie nodded and the woman put a finger up and slammed the door. Several minutes later a man opened the door just a few inches. A red veined nose and thick fleshy lips appeared in the crack of the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to have a talk,” Josie said.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “I’m here to ask you some questions. Mind if I come in a minute?”

  Wetzel huffed and opened the door. He wore a pair of mechanic’s navy work pants and a V-neck T-shirt with yellow underarm stains. The small dog had stopped barking but growled and hunkered down in a corner as Josie entered with Marta following behind her.

  A noisy window air conditioner recirculated lukewarm air that smelled of cigars into a small living room space that had been converted into an office. The space included a desk, filing cabinets, and piles of file folders, loose papers, and brimming ashtrays. A neat stack of People magazines lay on the floor and Josie figured the woman spent at least some time in the office. She wondered at the idea that Wee could have found a woman desperate enough to live with him.

  Marta stood with her legs slightly apart and her arms crossed across her chest, her expression grim. “You make it a practice to allow kids to make bail for convicted felons?”

  “I ain’t breaking any laws.” Wetzel sniffed deeply as if he might spit onto the floor.

  “That’s not what I asked,” she said. “She’s sixteen years old. She’s using her babysitting money to bail out a meth user. A person with any conscience would at least have called the minor’s parent.”

  He smiled widely. “I think you owe me an apology, Officer Cruz.” He turned and walked back to his desk. He dug around on his desk, muttering to himself. He finally held a paper up in triumph, his smile revealing teeth stained the same yellow as his underarms.

  “Take a look at this. That wasn’t no kid that signed those papers. That was a twenty-one-year-old woman. I got a Xerox copy of her license to prove it.”

  Marta took the paper from him and examined the photocopy. Josie looked over her shoulder. The license was a good forgery. It looked clean on the copy. Marta was quiet for a time, staring at the page, obviously not prepared for this new revelation.

  “You knew that was my daughter. You can’t tell me you thought she was twenty-one years old. She’s a baby!”

  Wee laughed a low and seedy chuckle. “That wasn’t no baby that came in here in that tight pair of jeans and skintight T-shirt.”

  “You nasty son of a—”

  Marta took a quick step across the room toward Wee. Josie had no doubt she aimed to punch, and no doubt about her ability to do damage, and in spite of a strong desire to watch it all unfold, she grabbed Marta by the arm and took the paper out of her hand.

  “We’re not wasting any more time,” Josie said, and pulled Marta to the door.

  “Give me that paper back! That’s my document! I don’t got another copy!”

  “I’m seizing this as evidence,” Josie said.

  They walked out the door and Josie folded the sheet and put it in her shirt pocket as they approached the car.

  Marta turned to face Wee as she opened the passenger-side door of Josie’s jeep. “Listen to me closely, Wee. You are scum. And when scumbags start messing with kids I take a personal interest. And whe
n it’s my own kid I get vicious. I’ll figure out a way to nail you for this. Next time I’ll have you in cuffs.”

  “You and what army, sweetheart?” he yelled, and let the door bang shut.

  * * *

  Josie arrived home that evening and found Chester lying on the front porch, his head atop his crossed paws and long bloodhound ears splayed out on either side. He looked mopey.

  “You’re as tired of this rain as I am, aren’t you?” Josie reached down and scratched the top of his head and behind his ears. Appearing thoroughly exhausted, he struggled one leg at a time to a standing position, but he still managed to push himself through the door first.

  Josie hung her gun belt in the kitchen pantry and got Chester a snack before starting the shower. She turned the water on hot and laid her uniform on the bed so she could change over to a fresh one for the next day. She’d have to polish the brass and switch the badge, nameplate, and medals over before morning. She’d always thought undercover work would be preferable for the sole reason that she would not have to change a uniform over.

  She laid a pair of khaki shorts and a lacy pink sleeveless blouse on her bed. After her shower she swiped concealer on to hide the dark circles under her eyes and then brushed her brown hair out and pulled it behind her head in a clip. She looked in the mirror and thought about Dillon’s pretty secretary, the classy Christina Handley, and dug through the vanity drawer to find mascara and lip gloss. She applied both and flashed a smile into the mirror, feeling a bit ridiculous, but satisfied with the final effect.

  Josie was generally comfortable in her role as a thirty-something-year-old tomboy. But Christina caused Josie to picture herself as Dillon might, or even as a complete stranger might, and it made her uncomfortable. Christina accessorized. She wore heels and makeup and had her hair done in a salon, not the Quick Clips across the street from the courthouse that Josie frequented. It wasn’t that Josie couldn’t choose appealing clothes and shoes to match; she just didn’t want to. The process was tiresome and she preferred to spend her time doing other things. And until Dillon had hired Christina as his secretary, Josie hadn’t given her wardrobe a second thought.