Absolution (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Madison
Bend was a little bigger and busier than Logan had thought it would be.  Main Street was broad and long, with a hotel, diners, bars, a newspaper office, stores and more than one bank.

The Sheriff’s Department was a two story red brick building with a cacti garden running along its frontage at either side of the walkway to the main door.  Logan saw flashes of movement in the pebbles as the shadow of the vehicle alarmed a few small lizards, which darted for cover in the way they would if the shadow of a hawk or other predator had blotted out the sun.

Clay parked the 4x4 in his marked slot next to the walkway and got out.  Waved a hand in greeting to a senior citizen ambling by with an old lame dog on its leash, and waited for Logan to join him.

“This shouldn’t take too long,” Clay said as he pulled the door open and ushered Logan into the building.

In a bright and uncluttered office, Clay poured them both coffees from a pot that Logan assumed, rightly, was always plugged in.

Clay wrote the statement down in longhand, and after two cups of coffee it was completed.  Logan read it and signed and dated each of the four pages.

“Are we done?” Logan said.

“For the most part,” Clay said.  “But I may want to talk to you again.  Is that a problem?”

“Yeah.  I didn’t plan on being here in your town, and don’t particularly feel the urge to stay for too long.  I’ve told you all I know.”

“Give me a couple of days, Logan.  We’ll pay for you to stay at one of the hotels in town.”

“Why?”

Clay shrugged.  “I may just find the pickup and the guy you saw in it.  You could ID him.”

“Like I said in my statement, I got a glimpse of a face; just short gray hair and a thick mustache.  If you put six guys like that in a lineup I wouldn’t be able to pick one out.”

“You know that we can only work with what we’ve got.  And at this moment in time, you’re it.  And you know the procedure.”

Logan said nothing.  Just stared at Clay.

“So you’ll accept our hospitality?” Clay asked.

“Forty-eight hours,” Logan said.  “And then I’m gone.”

Clay gave him a thin smile.  “Appreciate it,” he said.  “If you were still in law enforcement, what would
you
make of what we found?”

“I’d probably think that the vic was involved in something heavy, and had seriously upset the wrong man.  He’d been tortured, mutilated, and then killed in a pretty bizarre manner.  The two guys in the pickup were most likely just muscle carrying out orders.”

Clay thought about it.  “So why not just double-tap him in the back of the head and vanish the body?”

“Could be an attention-getter.  Sending out a message.  Letting others know what could happen to them,” Logan said.  “But that’s conjecture.  I don’t know who the players are in this part of the world, or what a homicide like this could be related to.”

“We have a drug problem, like most places, and we’re near the border.  You light a bonfire in your backyard here, and if the wind’s blowing south, the smoke will end up in Mexico.  A lot of illegals are coming across all the time, and that’s big business.”

Logan didn’t want to know.  He had no intention of becoming embroiled in a murder case.  Two decades of being a cop had not deadened his empathy for victims and their families, but that was behind him now.  He had made the decision to walk away from it all.  It dismayed him that on occasion he got sucked into situations and took on a degree of responsibility, knowing that if he just turned his back on it he would feel a certain amount of unfounded guilt.

The Santa Rosa Hotel was on the corner of Main and Vantana; originally an eighteenth-century long bar and brothel, but now a respectable hotel with mid-priced rooms that were a little up market to the economy motels that Logan customarily chose to stay at.

He was shown upstairs to room eleven by Jeff, a teenage boy in a maroon uniform that was too short in the sleeves and pants.  He took the keycard from the youth, handed him a five dollar bill and let himself into the room.  It was spacious, with a king-size bed, and the large bathroom had a walk-in shower room.

Tossing his hat and rucksack on the bed, Logan undressed, dropped his clothes in a heap, after emptying the pockets, and headed for the shower.  He planned on asking Jeff to get his grubby, sweat-stained clothes laundered.

Fifteen minutes later, Logan hit the street wearing a clean, cream cotton shirt, tan chinos and his Timberland boots.  He carried his rucksack by one strap over his right shoulder.  Walked a couple blocks, past a bank, general store, newspaper office, a bar and a small park, before coming to the Cochise Café.  Inside it he found an empty booth and slid his rucksack along the bench seat.  Took all of ten seconds to look at one of the menus that was in a wooden holder next to the salt and pepper pots, and when the waitress came over he ordered a medium rare sirloin steak with a couple of eggs over easy and fries, and asked for a pot of strong coffee.

As he ate, Logan thought about the body on the railroad track; decided that being tied to the rails and watching a locomotive speed towards you was a particularly appalling way to check out.  The two guys in the pickup obviously knew the area, so were most likely from Gila Bend, Ajo, or even here in Madison Bend.  He would think Ajo.  That was the direction that they had driven off in.

He talked himself out of ordering a piece of home-style apple pie for dessert, refilled his coffee mug and closed his eyes and brought to mind the image of the red pickup and the passenger.  Just replayed it slowly and let his memory look for anything he may have committed to it subconsciously.  He couldn’t bring up the plate number; a cloud of sand and dust had billowed up to obscure it.  But it was a Dodge Ram, and he thought that the sun had reflected a slash of light from its offside front fender.  What would cause that; missing paint?  Had he seen a slice of bare metal, or just chrome work?

As he emptied the pot, a short, overweight guy with long, fair, lank hair and wearing a dark shabby suit entered the café, looked around, settled his gaze on Logan and made a beeline for him.

“Mind if I join you?” the stranger said.

“Yeah,” Logan replied.  “There are plenty of empty booths.”

“Sorry, I should’ve introduced myself.  I’m Roy Darrow of the Madison Bend Courier.”

“A reporter?”

“And owner,” Roy said, withdrawing a business card from his coat pocket and holding it out for Logan to take.

Logan ignored the card.  Just gave the journalist a hard look and waited.

“I understand that you came across a body out near 85,” Roy said, seemingly undaunted by Logan’s cool attitude.

“Whatever you understand is by the way,” Logan said.  “I suggest you go pester the sheriff, because I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“I’m just doing my job, Mr. Logan.  I report the news, to provide a service to the community.”

“I’m not part of the community,” Logan said.  “I’m just passing through, and I’d be obliged if you got out of my face.”

“Okay, Mr. Logan.  But you reported the homicide.  You didn’t just walk away from what you found.  And you should know that no one will be apprehended.  It will just end up being unsolved like the last one.”

“The last one?” Logan said.

Roy sat down.  “You want more coffee?”

Logan bit.  He was intrigued.  Decided that he had nothing to lose by listening to the man’s story.  He nodded, and Roy called out, “Janie, could we have another pot of coffee over here, please?”

Logan took the business card that Roy had placed on the tabletop.  Read what was on it and put it in the breast pocket of his shirt.  The waitress set the pot of coffee down between them and took away the plate that Logan had eaten off.

Roy hunched forward and spoke very quietly as Logan filled the mugs.  “Six months ago a body was found tied to a cactus just south of Ajo in Growler Valley, which is in the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument.  And I mean
body
.  It was minus the head and hands.  Some hikers found it next to a dirt road.  It was big news for a couple of weeks, until a school bus was in an RTA on I-19 and seven children and the driver were killed.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because the body in the desert was never identified, and from what I hear the one you found today was missing teeth and fingertips, and the features had been disfigured.”

“Who told you that?”

“A reliable source, Mr. Logan.  That’s all I can tell you.”

“Drop the Mr and say what’s on your mind.”

“Okay…Logan.  I think that they were both killed and mutilated by the same person or persons unknown.  You were a cop, so you can see the link.”

Logan didn’t take kindly to a total stranger knowing anything about him.  The newspaperman’s source was obviously the sheriff or one of his deputies.

“I think we’re all done here,” he said.  “I don’t know why you’re talking to me about it.  I reported a crime, end of story.”

“With your experience, I thought you’d have a take on why two bodies were left to be found, but not in any state to be identified.”

Logan took a mouthful of coffee and then said, “I’m a civilian.  I have no reason or inclination to even speculate on what has happened in your neck of the woods.  The Sheriff’s Department and the State Police will investigate it.”

“Trust me; it’ll go unsolved, Logan.  I hear things that I can’t substantiate.”

“What things?”

“That there’s an Indian guy; an Apache who operates out of Ajo and makes megabucks out of illegals and drugs coming across the border.  And word has it that he pays a lot of…people to turn a blind eye.”

“People?”

“Whoever he needs to, including border control officers and cops.  It’s big business.”

“And you think that your sheriff might be in his pocket?”

“I don’t know.  Clay Manders seems to be an honest man.  He’s well liked in town, and I have no reason to believe he would be party to anything like this.  But his counterpart in Ajo is an unknown quantity to me. He’s only been in the job twelve months, and doesn’t talk to the press unless he has to.”

“Do you have a name for the Indian in Ajo?”

“Yes.  Zack Slater.  He ostensibly runs a construction company, but rumor has it that the business is a front.”

“And Clay knows all this?”

“Everybody knows, but Slater pays his taxes, and on the surface is squeaky clean. And anyhow it’s out of Clay’s jurisdiction.”

“Okay, Roy.  This has been interesting, but it’s where I bail out.  I told the sheriff that I’d stay in town for forty-eight hours maximum, and that’s what I plan on doing.  I’m what most people like to think of as a drifter these days, and maybe I am.  So excuse me if I don’t start looking for trouble that I don’t want or need.”

Roy got up.  “You’ve got my card,” he said.  “Thank you for your time.”

Logan watched the little man go to the counter and pay a woman at the register before walking out on to Main Street.

Damn!  He felt old stirrings.  He had always got a rush when he started an investigation into a homicide, and had viewed each one as a personal challenge.  He had never stayed detached; always approached it as a war against the perpetrator, and had closed a great many of the cases that had been assigned to him.  But that was back then, before he had made the decision to walk away from the endless stream of murders that were committed in New York City on a far too regular basis.

He asked for the check, only for Janie to tell him that Roy had taken care of it.  He left the diner and headed back towards the hotel, deciding to grab a couple hours’ sleep, then maybe have a beer or two in one of the local bars.

It was nine a.m. the next morning when the phone on the night table trilled.  He picked up and was connected with the sheriff.

“Morning, Logan,” Clay said.  “Didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, Sheriff. I was about to hit the street and go get some breakfast.  What can I do for you?”

“Call in at the department when you’ve eaten.  I’ve got some mug shots I’d like you to look at.”

“Will do,” Logan said, and cradled the phone.

It was an hour later when he was walked through to Clay’s office by one of the deputies that had attended the crime scene.

“Take a seat,” Clay said.  “I’ll fix us coffee while you look through this rogues’ gallery.  I’ve put every ugly face that fits the description of the guy you saw in the pickup in this file.”  He tapped the thick manila document wallet with his index finger.

Logan took his time, went through the photos twice, but didn’t recognize any of the faces.  “Sorry, Sheriff,” he said, squaring the photos off on the desktop and pushing them back into the file.

“Worth a try,” Clay said.  “You can leave town whenever you care to.  Do you want a ride anywhere?”

Logan shook his head.  “No, I’m fine. I hope you get a result, especially as it looks to be linked to the guy that was decapitated and tied to a cactus south of here.”

“And how would you have heard about that?” Clay said.

“It’s a small town.  People talk.”

“And you think that the two murders are related?”

“I know they are, and so do you.”

“Looks that way.  But unless we get a DNA profile that we can match to someone, or find the missing teeth or fingers, then the guy on the track will stay a John Doe, just like the one near Ajo that we nicknamed Cactus Jack.”

Logan shrugged.  “Best of luck with it, Sheriff.  I’ll be hitting the road in an hour.”

“Heading where?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  I might go take a look at Tombstone and play tourist for a couple of days.”

Clay stood up and walked Logan out to the street and said, “Perhaps we’ve got a serial killer started up in the area.”

“I don’t think so,” Logan said.  “You need to dig deeper and identify them.  Someone knows that both of them are missing.  They’ll have had family and friends.  There should be a missing person report on…Cactus Jack. And the one I found will no doubt already have been missed by someone.”

“They did what they could to ID the first vic, but came up blank.”