Assumption (24 page)

“Did you see anyone else around that morning?”

“I didn’t get here until three. Wilson, I don’t know what time he got here.”

“Is he here now?”

“Yeah, he’s washing some graffiti off the raceway wall. Do you want to talk him?”

“I do, but first can you show me where he found Terry?”

“Sure, this way.”

Baker led the way past the hatchery and past the little dam. He then walked downhill to a trail that led to a shallow muddy beach of the Red River. Baker with his sneakered feet stepped into the mud as if it were nothing and turned to face Warren.

“Here?” Warren asked.

“Right where you’re standing.” Baker pointed with his chin, then his finger. “Faceup, eyes open like he was looking at the sky.” He turned to watch the river.

Warren looked down at his boots. “You notice anything else around here?”

“I didn’t look. But the state police crawled around here on all fours for hours.”

Warren nodded. With all the rain there would be no sign of blood anywhere, but there was possibly a slight depression from where his body had lain. At least he thought he could see something. He felt something. A column of red ants marched through the sand where Warren imagined the dead man’s head.

“Can I talk to Wilson now?” Warren followed Baker back up the way they’d come. “And you didn’t see anybody else that day?”

“Nope.”

Wilson was walking toward the office with a bright yellow five-­gallon bucket and cleaning supplies when Baker called out. “Some­body wants to talk to you.”

Wilson put his bucket down outside the door.

“This here is Deputy Fragua.”

“We’ve met,” Warren said. Warren had taken Wilson in for public drunkenness some months back. Thinking that his boss might not have known about it, Warren said, “Mr. Wilson helped me get my truck started one day.”

Wilson shook Warren’s hand. “Deputy.”

“Well, I’m going to go in and do some paperwork,” Baker said.

Warren thanked him.

Baker entered and closed the door.

Wilson said, “Thanks for that.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“What can I do for you?” The large man wore the sickly sweet smell of an alcoholic. That odor mixed with the ammonia of the cleaning fluid made Warren feel queasy.

“I want to hear about the day you found the warden’s body. Tell me what you can remember.”

“Not much to tell. I came to work about one, one thirty, cleaned the men’s room, and then took my walk.”

“Walk?”

“Yeah, man, these chemicals I use to clean these toilets smell real strong. They’re real toxic like. So, I always take a little walk between doing the men’s room and the ladies’ room. Just to clear my head, you know?”

Warren understood.

“So, I walk down to the water and there he is. First I thought he was sleeping. Then I saw the blood. Scared the shit out of me. I mean I didn’t know if the guy with the gun was still around or what.” Wilson started to shake a bit. He needed a drink.

“What time did you find him?”

“You know, I told all this to them other policemen.”

“I know. One more time.”

“Like I said, I just cleaned the men’s room, so it must have been two thirty, something around there, could have been two or three. I don’t wear a watch.”

“Were there any vehicles in the lot before or after you came out of the men’s room?”

“Just the warden’s truck.”

“Where was it parked?”

“Over there in the lower lot.”

“Was there sign of anybody else? Litter? Cigarette smoke? Any­thing?”

Wilson thought about it. “I did pick up some trash. Lunch trash, you know. A part of a sandwich. A wrapper from one of them yuppie candy bars, a power bar.”

“What kind of sandwich?”

“I didn’t taste it.”

“Thanks, Wilson. That’s all I need.”

Warren walked through the lower and upper parking lots, listening to the birds and staring at the asphalt. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just listening to the birds, waiting for them to tell him something. One of them must have been there that day.

Ogden’s trailer looked abandoned. The place looked as if it had been empty for years. Warren stopped his rig in the front yard and killed the engine, ate a couple of piñon nuts. He looked around for Ogden’s dog and realized he hadn’t seen him for a while. He got out and walked around the trailer. Then he walked inside. Ogden never locked the door.

Inside, Warren sat at the little table that faced the front window. The surface was messy, but he had seen worse. His own desk was an example. There was a glass tumbler on the table, whatever had been inside, probably orange juice, was dried. There was a Denver Broncos mug next to the sink on a little wooden cutting board. The green tea bag was dried hard to the inside wall. He looked out the window at the sage. Where was Ogden?

Eva Walker came out of her house to meet Warren as he stepped from his rig. She didn’t have to say anything for Warren to know what she was asking.

“I’m looking for him,” Warren said.

“Oh, Warren, he told me he was in trouble. He was scared, I never saw him like that. Oh, Warren.”

“Let’s go inside.” Warren helped the woman onto the porch and into the house. She sat on the sofa and Warren stood. He looked out the window at the sky and the weather. That seemed to be all he was capable of doing, looking through glass, windshields, house windows.

“What’s going on, Warren?”

“I don’t know, Eva.” He was not going to tell her about the three dead bodies up north. “Ogden knows how to take care of himself. You just remember that.” Warren looked at the old woman’s eyes. “Did Ogden mention anyone and anything that was worrying him? I don’t mean just the last time you saw him, but recently. Not even recently, did he ever say anything that made you worry or wonder?”

“No.”

“Notice anything different about him, the things he did, a change in habits, shampoo?”

“Not really. He was coming around a little less. He always said he had a headache.”

“I know I don’t need to say it, but I’m supposed to: If Ogden contacts you, in any way, please give me a call.”

“All right, Warren. Find my boy.”

“I’ll find him.”

Warren went back to the station. The medical examiner’s report was sitting on his desk. Cause of death was what everyone knew, gunshot wound to the chest. But there was a note about lividity. The examiner believed that Terry had not been shot there, but somewhere else and moved there. It also placed the time of death at fifteen hours before discovery. Warren closed his eyes and imagined the crime scene he’d visited earlier. With the rain and the trampling there was no way to tell from sign what might have happened. But given where Terry had been lying, the shooter would have been standing in the river. Why put him there?

“You see that report?” Bucky asked. He was out of his office and holding a chocolate doughnut.

“Yep.”

“I’ll tell you what this is, it’s two gallons of shit in a one-­gallon bucket.” He bit into his doughnut. “The pictures from today are there, too. Positive ID on Derrick Yates. The little guy was a Mexican named Luis Guerrero. A record as long as my arm. Nobody knows the third guy with the flip-­flops.”

Felton stopped by Warren’s desk and picked up the photos. “Hey, I know this guy.”

“Which guy?” Warren asked.

“This one here, flip-­flop guy.” Felton handed the photograph to Warren and he looked at it with Bucky. “They call him Bug or something. Gave him a warning a few weeks back about walking on the wrong side of the highway. I gave him a ride back to the yurts. He was drugged up, but I didn’t see no reason to bring him in.”

The yurts. “That’s something anyway,” Warren said. “Do we have a picture of Ogden around here?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s one in his personnel file,” Felton said.

The midday sky was still blue, but the increased activity of the hawks told Warren that more rain was coming. He bumped over the messy track, the mud having hardened into a real kidney buster, and parked close to the yurt nearest the road. He approached and knocked on the frame of the door.

“What you want?” a man asked. He looked about sixty, but sadly was probably only thirty. He was wearing a brown tweed sport suit coat over a tight Grateful Dead T-shirt. That was all. No trousers, no underwear.

“Do you want to finish getting dressed?” Warren asked.

“I’m dressed.”

“Do you know a guy called Bug or something like that?”

“I don’t know any insects.”

“What about this guy?” Warren showed the man the picture of the man’s dead face. “You know him?”

“No.”

“What about these guys?” Warren showed him crime scene pictures of Yates and Guerrero.

The man said nothing, but he reacted, ran a hand through his greasy hair. “All these people are dead,” he said.

“Yes, they are. Dead. Ever seen any of these men when they were alive?” The man shook his head, but Warren knew he was lying. “This guy’s name was Luis. Did he ever sell drugs to you? He’s dead now, so you don’t have to be scared.”

“Never seen him or the other two.”

“And what about this man.” Warren showed the man a photo of Ogden.

The man seemed more afraid than before, biting his lip, swallowing and looking past Warren at the slope of the mountain.

“You know this man, don’t you?”

“He’s a cop, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know him. I think I’ve seen him around, but I don’t know him.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Around.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A couple weeks ago, I think.”

Warren took his pad from his breast pocket and his pen. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Listen, I don’t want to be involved. Hey, do you mind if I put on some pants?” When Warren nodded it was okay the man stepped back into the yurt, grabbed some jeans from the floor, and put them on.

“This is just procedure. I have to have your name.”

“It’s Jesse, Jesse Harris.”

“Okay, Mr. Harris. I want to thank you for your help. If you see this man, the cop, you give me a call, all right? His name is Ogden Walker. My name is Warren Fragua and my number’s right there on this card.”

Jesse Harris nodded.

“I’m going to go check your neighbors, okay?”

“Okay.”

Warren moved on to the next structure, knowing nothing more than that he was confused. More so with each piece of this ­puzzle, if in fact these were pieces, if in fact this was a puzzle. At the next yurt, two women stepped out just as he arrived. They looked enough alike to be sisters. He was struck by how remarkably clean they appeared.

“Excuse me, ladies, before you go, I need to ask you just a ­couple of questions.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder and faced him.

“Do you know this man?” He showed them the photo of the man he thought might be called Bug.

“That’s Beetle,” one of the women said.

“Beetle,” Warren repeated the name.

“Is he dead?” the same woman asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh my god,” the second woman cried.

The first woman did not cry. “What happened to him?” she asked.

“He was shot.” Warren pulled out the other photos. “What about these two men, do you know them?”

“That one gave drugs to Beetle to sell.” From the first again. She pointed to the photo of Yates. “And that guy, I think he made meth in a lab over in Hondo. I’m not sure.”

“What about this man?” Warren showed them Ogden.

“He came and talked to Beetle yesterday.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the second woman said.

“And Beetle went someplace with him. He came back in and grabbed some shoes and said he’d be back.”

“Did you hear what they talked about?’

“No.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“I think so,” said the second woman. “Around here a couple of times. He beat up a guy once.”

“This guy?” Warren tapped on the picture of Ogden. “This guy beat somebody up?”

“I think it was him.”

“What was Beetle’s name?”

“Beetle.”

“His real name.”

“That’s what he called himself,” the first woman said.

“Where did he live?”

“Around,” the second said. “He slept a lot of places, but most of the time here with us.”

“Here? Are his things here?”

“Yes.”

“I need to look through them. Do you mind if I go in and look through his stuff?”

The women said it was okay. They gave Warren their names and showed him the pile that was Beetle’s belongings. The pile was in the center of the foul and sour-­smelling yurt. Warren picked through the clothes and magazines, mostly humor magazines and a couple of celebrity rags. There was an Idaho driver’s license near the bottom, but the face on it was not Beetle’s. The name on the license was William Yates.

“What about this guy? You know this man?” Warren showed the license to the women.

“That was the guy who got beat up.”

“Where? Where did he get beat up?”

The woman pointed. “Over there, across the road. That was the only time I ever saw him.”

“You?” Warren asked the other woman.

“I never saw him.”

“Thank you.”

“So there is no boy?” Bucky Paz said.

“There’s a man,” Warren said.

“I told you there was no boy in here,” said Felton.

“Not unless it’s a Willy Yates, Jr.,” Warren said.

Bucky turned toward his office. “Warren, come in here.” Bucky flopped down in his chair and spun to face the window. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I do not know.”

“Any guesses?”

“Not one,” Warren said.

“I have a really, really bad feeling,” the sheriff said.

“It’s hard not to have one.” Warren paced away and came back. “Something’s happened to Ogden. I know that.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“No, I don’t.”

Warren sat at his desk, thinking about Ogden, recalling everything he could about his good friend. Ogden was hiding someplace and Warren knew that to find him, he’d have to think like him. Then he saw the small foil-­wrapped candy on his desk. He’d lifted a bag of them from his daughter’s Halloween haul one year and had liked them so much that he’d told Ogden to hide them. Ogden would pull one out on occasion and eat it to tease Warren. Finally Warren asked where they were hidden. Ogden showed him. He had placed them on the far corner of Warren’s desk, in plain sight next to an empty wrapper. Ogden had laughed.