Henry took another fry from Babysan. “That may be the understatement of the century.”
My next words were out before the thought was fully formed. “Take me with you to Khe Sanh.”
He looked back at me and laughed, but he realized that I was serious and so became very serious in turn. “Are you insane? Everybody, including every Marine in Vietnam, the general staff, and LBJ are trying to get out of there, and you want to go in?”
“Yep.”
He looked around as if the guys in the white jackets with butterfly nets might be hovering nearby. He was silent and then lowered his head as if I hadn’t said what I’d said, his eyes just visible below his boonie hat. “Walt, you can get killed up there.”
“Better there than dying of boredom here.”
"Walter...”
“Look, I’ve got a three-day at China Beach, and that is not where I intend to be.”
I read the report with my hand on my chin.
She had been unconscious within seconds, although her heart had probably continued to beat for another fifteen to twenty minutes. As was assumed, the manual strangulation applied by the forearm indicated an assailant much stronger than the victim.
There were small linear abrasions on the neck, but these had been caused by the decedent’s fingernails as she had attempted to dislodge the arm around her throat. The flesh under her nails had been tested and, as I’d surmised, it had turned out to be her own.
Fracture of the hyoid bone and other cartilage was evident, as was hemorrhaging of the thyroid gland in front of the larynx. I read the thing again, from the beginning, and looked up at the man lying in the cell.
It didn’t make sense. Why would a man this size, and with this much strength, use his forearm in a chokehold strangulation when he could’ve practically snapped the tiny woman’s neck with a thumb and forefinger?
The giant had finished the last potpie hours earlier, had carefully replaced the unused spork, and put the empty plastic tray in the others, slipping it forward, halfway through the bars. He was dead asleep now, and his whispery snores provided a steady beat to the conversation Sancho and I were having.
Saizarbitoria had spent a night at home with his wife while I stayed on duty for both Durant and Powder Junction. He’d called the Hole in the Wall Motel and had ascertained that Tran Van Tuyen was actually staying there through Wednesday. He sipped his coffee and then added more sugar from the container on the counter, just like Vic. I sipped my own coffee and pulled the sleeping bag a little closer to the wall where I’d eased my aching back. I yawned and looked at my well-rested deputy. “What about the Veterans Administration?”
He retested his coffee and found it to his liking; he came over and sat on the chair that Ruby had occupied last night. “The administrative staffs don’t work much on Sunday nights, so we might want to call around again.” I nodded and continued to sip my coffee. “But I can tell you one thing...”
"What?”
He gestured with his mug toward the stacked pie pans at the bars with the lone utensil handle pointed out. “He’s been inside.”
“How so?”
“We used to have them get rid of their dinnerware in just that fashion in the extreme-risk unit of the high security ward.”
The Basquo had done two years in Rawlins and knew more about corrections than I ever wanted to. “He look familiar?”
“No, and it’s not as if he’s somebody you’re likely to forget.” The young man tipped his hat back and stroked his musketeer goatee. “If I was guessing, I’d say federal.”
“The hospital was going to send his prints down to DCI. Check it.”
“I will.”
I sipped my coffee and watched the big Indian sleep. “You ever have anybody respond the way I described he did when we left him alone?”
He nodded. “Once or twice.”
“What’d you do with them?”
“Straight to Evanston.”
The state psychiatric hospital. “Check that, too.”
“Okay.”
“We’re going to have to keep somebody in here at all times.” I turned and looked at him. “Otherwise, I don’t think our jail will be able to take it.” He got up and started out. “Vic or Ruby make it in yet?”
He called back from the hall. “Nope.”
I yelled after him as I glanced in the cell. “Call and tell them to pick up more potpies.”
6
“That is one Fucking Big Indian.”
She reaffirmed what FBI really stood for.
Vic was back from her sabbatical in Douglas, but it hadn’t broadened her vocabulary. She sipped her coffee and looked at me; I was trying to decide what all I needed to take with me to Powder Junction, since that appeared to be where I was going to be spending my day. Her feet were propped up on my desk where she had put the shooting trophy she’d won over the weekend.
“You out-quick-drew the entire Wyoming Sheriff’s Association? ”
“Yeah, including that ten-gallon ass-hat Sandy Sandberg and that butt-cheek Joe Ganns.”
Sandy was the sheriff over in neighboring Campbell County, and Joe Ganns was the controversial brand inspector who was reputed to be the fastest gun in the West. “Oh, I bet that made you popular.”
My diminutive deputy from Philadelphia shrugged, and I tried not to notice the muscles of her bare arms in her sleeveless uniform. “Kinda frosted his flakes, but shit, Walt, what is he, a hundred and three?”
It was quiet in the room as I tossed the shooting bag on my seat and piled a couple of hand radios in along with two large bottles of water, the reports from Illinois, and my thermos, a mottled green monstrosity made by Aladdin with a copper pipe handle and worn sticker that read DRINKING FUEL. She finally spoke again. “So, you get to go play in Powder Junction, and I get to talk to all the VAs on the high plains?”
“You wanna trade jobs?”
She thought about it. “No.”
“Call Sheridan first; they’ve got a psychiatric unit in ward five. See if they ever had this guy.”
She made a face, and then the eyes balanced on me like a knife. “How do you know where the psychiatric unit is in Sheridan? ”
I looked at the collection in the duffel. “I visited with a fellow over there back in ’72; Quincy Morton, the PTSD coordinator.”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder?”
“Yep.”
She studied me. “What were you doing, having flashbacks? ”
I sighed and zipped up the shooting bag. “It was different back then; nobody wanted to discuss that stuff, so I’d go over to the VA once a month and drink a beer and talk with Quincy at closing time on Friday afternoons. It helped.”
“Nineteen seventy-two?”
“Yep.”
She continued to study me. “That’s when you came back, got married, and started with the Sheriff’s Department?”
“Yep.”
“I got a question.” It was pretty obvious where she was headed. “You got out in ’70, but you didn’t show back up here until ’72.” I waited. “What’d you do for the two years in between?”
I threw the strap of the duffel over my shoulder, walked to the doorway, and looked down at her. “Who can speak broader than that has no house to put his head in?”
The eyebrow arched in its trademark position. “What the hell is that from?”
“Timon of Athens, Varro’s Second Servant.”
She nodded. “Oh, how could I forget.” She reached over and slipped a forefinger in the pocket of my jeans. “You really are a dark horse.” She pulled, and I shifted my weight toward her. She looked up at me, the tarnished gold pupils softly feathered by the long dark lashes. “So, you gonna have any free time when my brother gets here and reinstitutes the courting ritual with your daughter?”