Bad Country: A Novel (5 page)

You give your dog liquor? asked Anderton.

They say it’s bad to drink alone, Rodeo said.

The dog drank for a while then walked under the kitchen table, circled three times, lay down and went almost immediately to sleep on the floor. Rodeo lit a propane burner with a wood match and watched the cowboy coffee pot. He slid the .357 magnum out of the leather holster on his belt and placed it on the countertop.

Have there been any rubberneckers around the vicinity this morning, Mr. Garnet? Anderton asked. Has anyone driven out to view the murder scene by your gate? Spectators of the crime scene?

Just you, Mr. Anderton. Coffee?

I have water in my vehicle, Anderton said.

The AZDPS cop opened the folder and extracted a single sheet of color photocopy paper on which was a set of photographs. He stood and moved forward to place the set of images on the kitchen table.

Can you identify any of the objects pictured here, sir?

Why are you asking?

I understand your caution, Mr. Garnet. But this is not part of any official inquiry.

That makes it less likely not more likely that I’ll discuss this evidence, said Rodeo. If this is crime scene evidence you’re showing me, Mr. Anderton?

Anderton tapped one of the photocopied images with a buffed fingertip. This is the object we discovered under the body of the man who was murdered near your property line, the cop said. You’ll remember Sheriff Molina was asking whether it was wood or metal. Actually it’s ironwood. Tourist trinkets are made of this material and sold by the Seri Indians, who traditionally inhabit areas around Kino Bay on the Sea of Cortez in Mexico. Seri are typically diminutive people, as was the vic by your gates.

Rodeo drank his coffee. The traffic cop tapped the page again.

This is a comb, he said. Probably something the Navajo would use making wool. The policeman pointed at another image. And this is a fragment of a water jar, probably an antique one. Virtually all Native American tribes have made water jars over the centuries, so it would take an expert to identify the specific mud used in order to verify the production site. He touched another image. And then this one is a small gourd rattle. Again, a wide variety of Native American tribes have and use these for ceremonial purposes like the sweat lodge ceremony or traditional dances, though mostly they are produced for the tourist trade currently.

Were these objects found at the current murder scenes in Los Jarros? asked Rodeo.

I can’t say, said the policeman. I was just wondering if you had any ideas, Mr. Garnet, about any of these artifacts? Do any of them seem familiar to you?

Why are you bothering me with this? Rodeo asked.

The cop slid the photocopy back into the manila folder.

This is off the record, Mr. Garnet. But sometimes people who apprehend and … The policeman hesitated. Prosecute violent offenders are themselves traumatized by that violence and it … Their violent actions, even if done for good and even legal causes, as in war or law enforcement, may affect them …

Rodeo interrupted. Affect them how?

In negative psychological ways. The policeman delivered this education with due seriousness but he was sweating under his tan.

What’s your point, Mr. Anderton?

On occasion men who are forced to perform violent acts as part of their job, say like law enforcement officers or soldiers, turn to violence themselves as some sort of compensatory psychological mechanism, said Anderton. If you understand what I mean?

You got a degree in criminal psychology or something? asked Rodeo.

No, sir. But my associate’s degree is in criminal justice.

So I guess you have studied up on the Constance Case I was involved in, Officer Anderton? So you know about how I apprehended Charlie Constance and what I did to him and what the case was against him?

Yes, the cop said. And I admire your detection work on that case, sir. But I also know that no one was ever certain how many vics Charles Constance murdered or whether he had an accomplice or not and once you … killed Mr. Constance … whether justified or not … such information could probably never be fully known. The state cop wiped sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. What you did to Mr. Constance egregiously breached standard protocol for apprehending criminals.

Rodeo drank coffee and stared at the AZDPS cop.

So you think because I found and “prosecuted” a serial killer three years ago that I have now, three years later, taken to acting out and serial-killing on my own just to blow off some bad psychological steam, Mr. Anderton? Or else you think that I was Charlie’s accomplice?

The cop was very still.

If that’s your theory about these recent murders in Los Jarros, it’s pretty weak, Officer Anderton.

The trooper eyed the revolver beside the coffee pot.

I don’t have a theory at the moment, Mr. Garnet. I am just trying to analyze the pattern of this most recent series of murders in Los Jarros County. But be assured sir, that I’ll be in touch with you if I construct a plausible theory. The cop stood and backed toward the door of the casita, his eyes on the gun on the kitchen countertop. And I apologize for the imposition if that’s how you interpret my visit here today, sir. Thanks so much for your time, Mr. Garnet.

The Statie left the house and drove off in a new cloud of dust.

*   *   *

Rodeo held open the door of Twin Arrows Trading Post and followed his dog inside the store and to the bar. Luis reached back and poured a cup of coffee from the blue speckled pot into a rusty tin cup and slid it down the countertop. Under the glass-topped counter a slightly new variety of human artifacts from priceless to worthless were now displayed.

Free coffee today, brother. Free beer tomorrow.

Rodeo ignored the coffee as he took his usual seat.

A Highway Patrol name of Ted Anderton came by my house just a while ago to show me some photocopied pictures of some artifacts, Luis. Rodeo described the objects as thoroughly as he could. You deal in Indian artifacts, legal and illegal, so what can you tell me?

Well, the rattle that might be from anywhere in Indian Country, Luis said. Who knows which tribe? You go to sweat lodge anywhere these days and every drunk in the tent has got a sad story and a goddamned rattle of some kind. Pots a lot of us got too. Somebody at the Pottery Center over at the University would have to tell by the type of mud, you know, where something like that comes from. The comb, that’s probably a wool comb from the Dine, the sheep people. An ironwood carving would be from the Seri. That’s them down at Kino Bay and that’s about the last place that pueblo are. Back in the day the Seri they fished from little boats made out of sticks and ate turtle eggs and cactus so they was a pretty backwards bunch, but they gave the Spaniards a hard time and wouldn’t go Catholic and you got to hand it to people who won’t get civilized without a fight. Like your Yaqui, right, brother? They never went down on the Spanish either.

My tribe was too little for the Spanish to bother with, Luis.

Sometimes little is better, Rodeo.

You would know about that better than me, Luis.

I’m not the one living alone, little brother.

You know this kid from State Barracks, Luis? asked Rodeo. Ted Anderton?

I seen him a few times, the storekeep said. He camps out with his radar gun near the overpass and picks up drunk Indians when they try to drive onto the interstate. He comes in here sometimes but don’t ever buy nothing but Doublemint and bottled water. I think he’s one of them Church People. The blond ones.

Mormons?

Yeah. I think this Anderton he’s a Mormon guy, Luis said. That’s why he can’t buy nothing good in here. His church they would excommunicate him if he did.

What’s he want with me?

He’s a badge-and-haircut, brother, so maybe he’s trying to break some case so he can get out of Traffic? Maybe he’s ambitious that way like they all are, brother. All them Anglos are ambitious. Luis paused. He asked me about what you did to Charlie Constance back in the day.

What did you tell him?

I told him to read the papers like everybody else.

Rodeo looked at the AMexica News Wall.

Was there anything in any of the newspapers about Native American artifacts found at any of these recent crime scenes in Los Jarros, Luis?

Not that I read of. So maybe you just learned something, brother. You know Police they always hold some things back, some evidence nobody would know about but the killer. They’re sneaky like that.

Rodeo nodded. You got the folder ready for my job on the Res?

Luis slid a manila folder down the counter. The folder contained newspaper clippings and hardcopies of downloads from the Internet which concerned the death of Samuel Esau Rocha, aged nineteen of Tucson, Arizona.

Is this dead kid one of your relations, Luis?

You know Second Wife Silk Snowball she’s related to half the Indians in southern Arizona someway, the storekeep said. And then my Encarnacion tribe they got Indian-Mexican connections from Texas to California. But this Katherine Rocha woman, I don’t think she’s Apache or Tohono O’odham. I think she’s registered Pascua Yaqui like you so you can be tribal on this and give her a good rate, but I heard that this old woman, she’s a piece of work and tight as Dick’s hatband so don’t take no checks from her.

Thanks for the referral, Luis. I owe you ten dollars.

Story of my life with you, the storekeep said.

Rodeo lingered for several minutes saying nothing. Luis outwaited him.

You seen Sirena Rae lately? Rodeo asked.

Luis pulled a Bull Durham pouch and papers from his faded and stained shirt pocket and rolled a cigarette with his weird assortment of fingers, licked it shut, lit it and put the lighter on the counter. He stared at the Marines’ insignia on one side of the brass then turned the lighter over and read silently the inscription there—W
HEN HE DIES
I
KNOW THIS
M
ARINE IS GOING TO
H
EAVEN BECAUSE HE HAS ALREADY BEEN TO
H
ELL
. Luis took a long drag and sighed out smoke.

Sirena Rae she came by here a few times when you was gone up to the Whites, Luis said. She was dressed like a Hand and driving that big black 4-by from her daddy’s rancho.

What did she have to say for herself? Rodeo asked this almost reluctantly.

Said she’d cleaned up. Said she’d quit stripping for good. Said rehab had changed her life. Said she’d hooked up with somebody in Tuxson for a while.

Who?

Some Anglo professor type from California with family money she said. But that didn’t work out.

Rodeo kept his face neutral.

How did she seem?

Clean and sober, said Luis. But otherwise same’s usual. Luis smoked for a minute and Rodeo stared at the junk under the countertop. Just remember, brother, that as dangerous as she is drunk, that woman she’s more dangerous when her head is clear.

Rodeo nodded.

Stay away from the Sirenas of this world and get you a plain, fat woman who thinks a hot dog and popcorn at Walmart’s is a dinner date. That’s my counsel, said Luis. Sirena she’s messed up more good men around here than Marine Corps recruiters. And she tried to kill your dog. A man shouldn’t forget who tries to kill his dog.

Thanks for the sage counsel, Luis.

The advice around here is like the coffee, brother.

*   *   *

Rodeo left Twin Arrows and drove to the small town of Jarros, Arizona, stopped at the Records Office at the Los Jarros County Courthouse to make a partial payment on his outstanding land taxes, then went to County Jail to give his account of the discovery of the dead man near his property. Despite his greasy looks and a reputation as a lounge lizard, Deputy Raul “Pal” Real was efficient and capable and processed Rodeo’s statement in less than ten minutes.

Ray coming in today, Raul? Rodeo asked.

Not that I know of, pal. What you want with Sheriff?

Just wondered what anybody knows about anything.

Your man was dead probably about five days from yesterday, pal. Autopsy on him will take some days more since our preemminent Medical Examiner Doctor Boxer has got some backlog of unnecessarily deceased just recently.

I was on vacation in the White Mountains for the whole of last week, said Rodeo. And he’s not “my man.”

Not that I asked you where you were, pal. The deputy grinned. But I already did call up to Show Low and got you resided in Kiva Inn on Deuce of Clubs Road most of that week. Motel clerk up there said you was some drunk up there too, pal. What’s with that?

Relatives.

You know what they say, pal. Everything’s relatives.

They get anything off that piece of blue plastic they found on the scene?

Butcher’s apron. Victim’s blood was all that was on it though.

Sheriff leave anything for me? Rodeo asked.

Nope. Came by this morning and then left but didn’t mention you at all, pal. Are y’all dating or something?

Rodeo ignored the dig. Where was Ray headed? he asked.

Going to a job fair in Scottsdale to try and recruit us some new hands. The deputy shook his head dramatically. But even an infamous used car salesman like Apache Ray Molina ain’t gonna have no luck with that pitch since working for Los Jarros County Sheriff’s just too hard a job for too low a pay these days like everybody knows.

Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be on the side of the Law, Pal.

Rodeo left the courthouse and bought a few groceries from Safeway then drove back to his casita and shot his guns for a while. When he was tired of killing tin cans and scaring rabbits, he put some beans to soak in a cast-iron lid skillet on his propane stove and then took a long siesta. Late in the afternoon he got up and poured the soakwater off the beans and started cooking the beans in fresh water with some hogback and then studied gun bibles for a while as he listened to his mother’s LPs, mostly opera neither he nor she had ever understood. When the heat of the day had dissipated, Rodeo put on a pair of ragged gym shorts from his Ranger College days and a pair of old Chuck Taylors and jogged from his house down Elm Street to the Agua Seco Road with the dog lagging behind him. On the way back Rodeo stopped at the pile of concrete building blocks from which yellow crime scene tape now fluttered in shreds. He stood for a minute staring at the killing spot, then he sprinted the last quarter mile to his house where he sat on the side steps of his casita until his breath and the dog returned.