“Then we put the body in the back of Kenny’s truck, and covered it with a bunch of old tires. Then we drove out to that old crazy man’s place.”
“Richard,” I said, “tell me something. How was it you chose that spot? With all the other places in the county you could have chosen?”
Staples made a wry face. “That was Kenny’s brilliant idea. He said he’d been out that road a while back, and saw the old man workin’, buryin’ something. Kenny said no one dared mess with the old man’s property, cause he’d as soon shoot you between the eyes as look at you. So he got this bee in his head that that would be the perfect spot.”
“And so you went out there.”
“Yep. We could see the spot, just like Kenny said. The fresh dirt and all. There was even this little cross made out of two sticks tied together. Kenny pulled it out of the ground and says, ‘Old Todd don’t need this to go to hell.’ We dug down and saw it was three dogs that he’d buried. And Kenny gets this great idea. ‘Ain’t no one ever going to figure this out,’ he says. And he makes me dig to hell and gone deeper, figurin’ to bury Todd and put the dogs on top of him. It woulda worked, ’cept this other old fart comes along, sees our light, and comes over, wantin’ to know what we’re doing on his land.”
“Stuart Torkelson.”
“I guess. Kenny, he tries to sweet-talk the guy, tellin’ him about these dogs that we was buryin’ for the old man who lives in the woods up there. I’m tryin’ to block the hole, ’cause there’s parts of Todd Sloan stickin’ out, even though there’s plastic coverin’ most of him. This guy, he didn’t buy it, and he pushes past me and looks in the hole. He swings around and Kenny, he shoots him clean through with this huge old magnum he stole from some place last summer.
“And the old guy screams and spins like a top, landin’ right on top of one of them dead dogs. But he sure surprised me when he stumbles to his feet and starts down toward the road. He fell a couple times and then Kenny caught up with him and shoots him again in the head.”
Richard Staples stopped talking like someone had shoved a cork down his throat. His jaw worked a couple of times, and then the energy that he’d been using to hold himself together ran out. He hung his head and gulped great lungfuls of air until I was afraid he was going to hyperventilate. He threw his head back so hard it cracked the back of the old chair. He didn’t notice. He was clenching his eyes closed, determined not to let us see him cry.
“Jesus, what’s going to happen to me,” he managed.
I tried to keep my tone sincere and kindly. “Absolutely nothing, Richard, assuming you’re telling us the truth. Nothing, compared to what’s going to happen to Kenny Trujillo and Miriam Sloan.”
“He made me pull the plastic around real tight and then bury Todd. And then he had this idea about fillin’ in part of the hole with rocks. He said no one would ever dig past them. And all this time, I’m worryin’ about that dead body, lyin’ down in the field. But old Kenny, he had an answer for everything. ‘They’ll just blame the old Mexican for it, like always,’ he says.”
“And you believed him,” I said. “Until you heard that we’d found Sloan’s body. And then you figured that you were the only witness. You were waiting for Kenny Trujillo to come knocking on your door, weren’t you?”
Staples nodded. “I was going to wait until dark, and then steal my aunt’s car. I was going to split, man.”
“Where to?”
“It don’t matter. But I know Kenny…he’s crazy. He’d make sure I couldn’t talk to no one.”
“When you saw us, why didn’t you just come and talk to us?”
Staples looked at me as if I were nuts, as if the simplest solution were the most bizarre.
“All right, Richard, thank you. We’ll be talking lots more, be prepared for that.” Staples looked resigned…and relieved. “You understand that we have to hold you in protective custody for a while, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One last thing.” I tore off a clean sheet of paper from the pad in front of me. I drew a rough sketch of the Sloan trailer and its location in the Paradise View Trailer Park. “Put an X where you dug the first grave,” I said.
Richard Staples scrutinized the drawing. “It’d be right here along the fence line, right opposite the kitchen window,” he said.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I ain’t about to forget.”
How thoughtful Miriam Sloan had been, choosing a spot where she could watch the morning sun come up over her son’s grave while she fixed bacon and eggs for her boyfriend.
31
Estelle Reyes-Guzman was furious with me in her own quiet way. I refused to let her ride along on the bust. She offered fifteen good reasons why she should go, and I countered with one single stubborn response.
“No,” I said. “It’s not worth risking your hide for the likes of these people.” I handed her the keys to my Blazer. “Go home and fix dinner for Francis One and Two.” When she started to protest again, I added, “And then go over to the hospital and spend the evening with Reuben. He needs you. These creeps don’t. I’ll be along when this is all wrapped up.”
And it might have been wrapped up neatly, too, if Deputy Eddie Mitchell had stayed in his patrol car.
Just as I was coming down the stairway behind Sheriff Holman, I heard Mitchell’s calm voice coming over the radio in the dispatch room.
“PCS, three zero six.”
“Go ahead, three oh six,” Tony Abeyta replied.
“PCS, one male subject has left the trailer and is heading for his truck.”
I shoved past Holman and barged into the dispatch room, damn near running over Mrs. Perna. “Three zero six, that subject is armed and extremely dangerous. You let him leave and then stick to his tail.”
“Ten four, PCS.”
“And three zero two, do you copy?”
“Ten four, PCS,” Paul Encinos replied instantly.
“Three zero two, don’t take your eyes off that trailer.”
“Ten four, PCS.”
Bob Torrez was already out the door, and I could hear the bellow of his patrol car as it charged out of the parking lot. I grabbed the keys to 310 off the board and pushed my waddle up to as close to a sprint as I could out the door. I didn’t expect Martin Holman to follow, but he did and I damn near ripped his legs off as I pulled the car into reverse to back out of the slot.
“Jesus, Bill, wait until I’m in the damn car,” he cried.
“Sorry. We’re kind of in a hurry here.” I picked up the mike just as Paul Encinos’s frantic voice shot over the airwaves.
“PCS, officer is down. I think he’s-” and the transmission stopped.
The taillights of Bob Torrez’s patrol car were already out of sight and I accelerated down the center of Bustos Avenue with Martin holding onto the door grip. A station wagon edged out of a side street and poked its nose halfway out into the avenue before the driver woke up and judged that I was trying for escape velocity. He locked his brakes as I shot past.
Holman reached down and hit the switches for the lights and siren.
“Thanks,” I said, and we slid, tires howling, around the sweeping turn that was the eastbound intersection with Camino del Sol.
“PCS, he’s heading toward town on County Road Nineteen,” Paul Encinos said, and I felt a surge of relief hearing his voice. “I’ve lost him.”
“Three zero eight, he should be coming up on you then. Can you block him off?” I dropped the mike in Martin’s lap as we shot across the cattle guard that marked the end of pavement and the beginning of gravel. I squinted into the gathering darkness ahead, trying to see lights.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Torrez said, and he sounded as if he’d been asked to baste the barbecued chicken at a church picnic. We crested a rise and I saw the bright flash of Torrez’s roof lights as they pulsed across the arroyo. Dancing toward him was a set of headlights, bobbing and weaving crazily.