– convicted 5/11/97 – sentenced to 240 months, commencing 5/11/97
– escaped from NM State Penitentiary 12/26/07
– present whereabouts unknown
– currently sought for questioning in the deaths of Ricardo Ramos, Millie Singleton, and Chato Ramos
Other facts:
– parents deceased
– one sibling (Beryl @ 24-25 yrs.)
Damien wasn’t a parolee. He was a fugitive. How could Carmen have been so wrong? Had she misled me on purpose?
My next online stop was the Bernalillo County Court Records website. The summary of Damien’s 1997 murder trial made for interesting reading, especially the testimony from the arresting officer and eyewitness accounts of the bar fight and subsequent shooting. Defense witnesses related Damien’s hardships as a youth. His kid sister testified that Damien had taken care of her after a drunk driver killed their parents two years before.
I sat up straight—Damien’s legal counsel had been Richard O’Connor, Esq.
I dialed the law firm, expecting Rebecca Turner to answer.
“Mr. O’Connor isn’t taking phone calls right now,” said an unfamiliar female voice. “May I take a message? Whom shall I say has called?”
I ignored her questions. “Let me speak to Rebecca Turner.”
“I’m sorry. Ms. Turner isn’t in today.”
I hung up and rummaged in the center desk drawer for Rebecca’s business card, the one with her home phone number on the back. I dialed it.
“Hello?”
“Hello Rebecca, it’s Gabe McKenna.”
Silence.
“Are you there?”
“Yes.” She muffled a cough.
“I need to see you right away.”
“I’m not feeling well, Professor.”
“Rebecca, it’s important that I speak with you today. In person. It’s a matter of life or death.”
“You’ll have to come over here.” She gave me her home address.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“No. Four o’clock,” she said. “I can’t see you until four o’clock.”
It was one-fifteen. “Okay, see you then.”
I placed a call to Gallego’s Car Rental on Fourth Street and asked them to send me an SUV until the cops released my Land Cruiser. I offered a hundred dollar bonus if they’d get it to me within two hours. The car arrived in thirty minutes and they parked it in the carport.
I returned to the kitchen to refresh my coffee. A sweet sounding car horn drew me to the window. Jack Case climbed out of the Hudson.
I walked outside to greet him as a pickup truck touting Case Classic Cars pulled into my driveway. I was up to my ass in motor vehicles.
The Hudson sparkled. “She’s beautiful, Jack. Thanks.”
“New wiring, belts and hoses. We fixed all the rodent damage.” He squinted at me from behind his black-rimmed glasses. “Washed, waxed, tuned, new fluids; tires inflated to spec. Even new wiper blades. Here’s my bill.”
Eight hundred dollars, entirely reasonable. With my Land Cruiser impounded, riddled with bullet holes and out of commission until the kidnapping was solved, I appreciated these wheels.
“I’ll be right back.” I walked inside and came out with a signed check that I swapped for the keys Jack gripped in his hand. He patted the rear fender of the Hudson, pulled a clean chamois cloth out of his back pocket, and wiped away the slight smudge his hand had made. My car elicited a final, longing glance before Case climbed into his pickup and drove away.
I moved the SUV out of the carport, and then got into the Hudson and turned the ignition. She purred her way into the parking spot, safely out of the sun. I returned to the house and my investigations.
My final online search was for Millie Singleton. I’d seen her on Ybarra Place and more recently in the Cibola County morgue, but wanted to check her background. She’d done time twice at the New Mexico Women’s Correctional Facility, from 1988 to 1990 for aggravated assault, and from 1992 to 1998 for meth distribution. Just like Carmen said. They’d released her for good behavior after she’d served two-thirds of her second sentence. She had no arrest record since 1996. I hoped to find Richard O’Connor connected to her cases. He wasn’t, but her arresting officer in 1992 was a surprise: a young police sergeant named Sam Archuleta.
After her conviction at the meth trial, Millie Singleton was remanded to the custody of an officer from the Women’s Correctional Center on August 6, 1992. The receiving officer’s signature was smudged. I increased my screen magnification and struggled to make it out until my head ached. When it finally became legible, the hair on the back of my neck bristled.
I gazed into the bottom of my empty glass and then hurled it against a wall. Otis leapt off the desk and disappeared.
All kinds of crazy thoughts went through my mind as I escaped to the bedroom, threw off my clothes, and took another shower. By the time I’d dressed and stepped out my rear kitchen door, the air was oppressively hot.
A roadrunner perched on the waist-high wall between Carmen’s backyard and mine. I approached within a few feet before he jumped over the wall and scurried toward her house. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across her broken back door. The cops must have been all over the place once they learned of their fellow officer’s disappearance.
I rolled across the wall, careful to protect my ribs. Her back door sagged a couple of inches off its frame. I leaned my full weight against it. Two steps and I stood inside her kitchen.
A thin layer of dust coated the countertop. The refrigerator held a sealed gallon of milk, a tub of margarine, and a plastic bag of soft tacos. Nothing else. The bags Carmen lifted from the trunk of her car on Friday had contained something other than groceries.
I crept into her bedroom. The closet stood open, half-filled with dresses, A.P.D. uniforms, and an ocean of shoes. No men’s clothing. Only women’s toiletries in the master bathroom. Archuleta got it right about the bust-up of her marriage.
The room was neat, except for her unmade bed. No loose change on the dresser, all the drawers were orderly. I ran my hands through some lacy lingerie.
Heavy, drawn drapes kept this room darker than the kitchen. No wall art, no santos. I felt sadness here. It seemed a good place to cry.
A ten-minute search of the rest of her house revealed little. No photos anywhere, nor any record of her past. Perhaps there was little she cared to remember.
A clock in her living room chimed the half hour. Just enough time to get to Rebecca Turner’s place by four.
I retraced my path through the kitchen and noticed something I’d missed on my way in. An answering machine sat on the far end of the countertop. It was unplugged.
A veneer of fine dust, like that on the counter, covered the machine. Why hadn’t the police checked it for prints? I plugged the cord into a wall outlet. The machine beeped. Its red light blinked.
The scrolling LED listed one message, time stamped 9:45 a.m. on Saturday, about ninety minutes after we’d left for Catron County. I pressed ‘Play.’
An angry voice that I didn’t recognize spoke quickly: “Already gone? Well…look, if you do get this message, don’t forget to do what you’ve been told.”
I replayed the message in my head all way to Rebecca Turner’s place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Huning Highlands is a neighborhood of once-stately Victorian homes just south of Central. The lofty elm trees that lined both sides of Rebecca Turner’s street transported me to an earlier time, as I drove down the center aisle of a great green cathedral. My ‘48 Hudson could have been the current year’s model here.
Many of the buildings were subdivided into rental units, with two or three house numbers out front. I parked outside 221-B, trudged up thirteen steps, and stood on the landing outside her second floor door. I had to knock three times before she opened it.
“Professor. Come in.”
I’d only seen Rebecca in professional apparel. Toda
y she wore a skin-tight, pink tank top. It barely contained her breasts and revealed a flat midriff. Her legs were those of a lingerie model and stretched from shimmering pink shorts down to bare feet.
But bruises spoiled her wrists and forearms, and for the first time I noticed a light, greenish-purple discoloration that ringed her neck. Untamed blonde hair hung down over one eye. Her right hand brushed it aside, but it fell back like a petulant child.
I couldn’t ignore her puffy, bloodshot eyes. “Have you been crying?”
“Allergies. I get them every spring.” She pulled a tissue from a pocket in her shorts and blew her nose, as if to prove the point.
I didn’t buy it.
Rebecca stepped back and waved me into her apartment. Dark gray drapes covered the living room windows. The décor was neutral, even a bit bland: a small, flat-screen television, one tan upholstered chair with matching ottoman, and an oversized, faded green couch that looked like it might double as a guest bed. An open bag of potato chips sat on the sofa, a can of diet soda rested next to a TV remote atop a folding tray table. The television was on. Its sound was muted.
I settled into the chair. Rebecca plopped down on the farthest end of the couch, brought her knees up under her chin, curled her arms around them, and stared at the bag of chips.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She didn’t answer.
“Is that okay?” I asked.
“I guess so.”
“How long have you worked for the law firm?”
“Almost five years. Why?” She reached for the diet soda and tipped it up for a sip. Then she put it back on the tray table.
“Has Richard O’Connor worked there all that time?”
She shifted around on her couch like she couldn’t get comfortable. “Sure. He got me my job.”
“What did you do before?”
“I was a waitress.” Her back stiffened. “Why does that matter? Why all these questions? Go away. Leave me alone.”
I leaned toward her. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Damien. That is your name, isn’t it? Beryl Damien? Jason’s little sister?”
She gasped. Her eyes widened and grew moist. She flung herself down on the couch, crushing the bag of chips with her body. Then she buried her face in an ugly green pillow. Her muffled sobs soon filled the room.
“I came here to help you. Believe me.” I reached out toward her shoulder but thought better of it and pulled my hand back.
She lifted her head only slightly from the pillow to look over at me. “I won’t go to jail!”
“Beryl, if you help me, I won’t tell the police. But Ricardo Ramos, Millie Singleton, and Chato Ramos have been murdered. Carmen Flores may be dead as well. I know this must be hard for you, but you don’t want more people to die, do you?”
She sat up and sniffled. I unfolded my handkerchief and gave it to her. She used it to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Then she balled it up and tossed it on the tray table. She said nothing.
We sat there, mute for a few moments. Each tick of her mantelpiece clock rattled in my ears. The Channel 13 early local news came on the silent TV. A photo of Carmen suddenly filled the screen. I grabbed the remote and restored the sound:
“. . . is still missing as the search continues into its second day. Officer Flores is believed to be held by Jason Damien, wanted for questioning in the deaths of three people. Damien has eluded law enforcement since escaping from the New Mexico State Penitentiary nearly six years ago . . .”
Damien’s mug shot replaced Carmen’s face.
“He is considered armed and dangerous. Anyone with information about him should contact the police. In other local news . . .”
I switched off the television. Beryl’s tears hadn’t stopped. “Please, believe me, Professor.” She choked out each word. “I didn’t think it would go this far. I didn’t know Jason would kill anyone. Richard—Mr. O’Connor—told me no one would get hurt. I’m so, so sorry.”
I walked to her kitchen and returned with a tall glass of water. I passed it to her and sat on the couch beside her.
“I want the whole story and I want you to start from the beginning.”
“How did you know?” she said.
“That you were Jason’s sister? An educated guess. I checked his court record and saw he had a younger sister named Beryl, six years old at the time of his trial. She’d be about your age now. The record also said Jason’s attorney was Richard O’Connor. So when you told me he got you your job, it all fit. Why the name change to Rebecca Turner?”
“That was Richard’s idea. He knew I loved old movies, just like his mother. He named me after her favorite film, Rebecca. He said I reminded him of Lana Turner, that I was beautiful, just like her. He also didn’t want anyone to know I was Jason’s sister, especially the other partners at the firm.”
“Is O’Connor more than a boss to you?”
She took a long, slow drink of the water. “When Jason escaped from jail, I was only sixteen. He asked me to help him hide out. There was this rundown cabin we both knew about. In the middle of nowhere, west of Cedarvale down in Torrance County.”
“Go on,” I prompted her.
“I lied to the police. Told them I hadn’t seen Jason and he hadn’t tried to contact me. I took him food and water every week. I helped him in other ways, too; did his laundry, stuff like that. I don’t know how Richard found out where my brother was. Maybe Jason contacted him. Neither of them ever told me.”
“Was this the first time you met O’Connor?”
“No. He was Jason’s lawyer at his murder trial ten years before. That’s the first time I met Richard. He coached me on what to say on the witness stand. I was six-and-a-half-years old.”
“When did you next see him?”
“I met Richard one day out at the cabin. I didn’t recognize him without his beard. He told me who he was and warned me that as an officer of the court, he was legally obligated to report what I’d done.”
“Did he?”
“No. He promised not to report me if I let him take care of me. Richard said he’d get me a better job. He said he’d protect me. And he has, in exchange for the sex . . .”
“How old were you when this started?”
“Our first time was two days before my seventeenth birthday.”
I swallowed hard. “That’s statutory rape.”
“But I let him.”
“Doesn’t matter. Has he ever harmed you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
She shifted on the couch and again drew her knees up to her chest.
“Beryl—”
“Please call me Rebecca.” She looked at her feet.
“Rebecca, the first day I met you, I saw bruises and scratches on your arms. That was two weeks ago. They should have healed. Now you’ve got fresh bruises in the same places, and those marks around your neck…”
“I’m Richard’s little girl. That’s what he calls me. We play these games that he makes up. He has friends who sometimes join us.”
My stomach churned. “I’ll help you put an end to that, if you want.”
“But Richard has a terrible temper. He wouldn’t like that.”
“It’s not his decision. It’s yours.”
“Can you really keep him away from me?”
“I can. But I’ll need your help.” We had to move quickly. If O’Connor had her place watched, or had me tailed, we were already in grave danger.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go in to work tomorrow. Act like everything is normal. I’ll call O’Connor first thing. Tell him I want to come in and discuss a few things about Aunt Nellie’s estate. When I leave his office, I’ll need you to make just one phone call for me. Can you do that?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Rebecca. There’s danger in this for both of us. But if you want to break free…”
<
br /> She looked at me at last. “I’ll do it.”
I tried to reassure her with a smile. Then I left. Before I started up the Hudson, I called C.J to ask yet another favor. He had to shout over the restaurant noise before I could hear him.
“Been worried about you, Gabe. What’s up?”
“I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“Okay if I stop by? It’ll only take a minute, but it’s too complicated to explain over the phone. I’ll be there in ten, okay?”
“You’re on.”
When I pulled up in front of the restaurant, C.J. was standing outside the front door with a white take-out bag in his hand. He walked over to my car. I rolled the window down, but left the motor running.
“Thought you might like some ribs.” He handed the bag to me. “You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”
“I have. Got a piece of paper on you?”
C.J. fiddled in his pocket and handed me one of his business cards. “This big enough? It’s all I have on me.”
“It’ll do.” I flipped it over, copied down three phone numbers from my cellphone directory, and handed the card back. “The first number is my cell. Starting at noon tomorrow, call me every hour on the hour. If I don’t answer, call the second number.”
“Who’s that?”
“Detective Lieutenant Sam Archuleta of the A.P.D.”
“A cop? You want me to call the cops?” C.J. shook his head.
“If you can’t reach me, I’m either in trouble or I’m dead.”
His eyes widened. “Okay. What am I supposed to tell this cop?”
“Have him call the third number on the bottom. That’s a GPS service that I run on my cellphone. They’ll be able to tell Sam where I am, or at least where my phone is. Then tell Archuleta he needs to go to the law office of Richard O’Connor. If a young woman named Rebecca Turner is there, he should take her into protective custody.”
C.J. backed away. “Just like that? You think a cop’s gonna do what I say just like that?”
“Archuleta will. Tell him I’ll explain everything if I’m still alive.”
“Gabe. Cops and lawyers, I dunno. Sounds like you got a death wish.”
Red Gold Page 14
