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| >> Static Item >> Short Story >> Mystery >> ID #1467012 |   |
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{c}A Cowboy From Out of the Blue
It was still chilly in the October morning when I pulled off Old Route 66 in Grants at the New Mexico Women’s Correctional Institute and parked in an official visitor’s slot in front of the off-white buildings. The fat red-faced guard at the gate, looked at my I.D. and smirked, “Should I announce you as Mr. Lone Wolf or Mr. Vigil?” I sighed. “Just tell the Warden that Detective-Sergeant Vigil of the State Police is here.” The word came back to pass me through. A younger version of the guy at the gate met me inside, introduced himself as Assistant Warden Oliver, and escorted me to the warden’s office. The warden was a surprise. In a field where men dominated, it was a woman. She was a sharply dressed women in her fifties with iron-grey hair pulled back into a severe bun, but her eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses were friendly and intelligent as she sized me up. “Detective, I’m Warden James. I appreciate you getting here so quickly from Albuquerque. They must have pulled you out of bed.” She won me over immediately. You get the crummy jobs when you’re the new boy in the State Police Special Investigations Unit, not to mention the only Native American on the force. We passed a little time in ‘getting to know you’ chit chat, and I accepted a cup of coffee. Finally I decided to get down to business. “Warden. I’m a little surprised that you called S.I.U. in. I’d think a killing here would be investigated by your own staff.” “No one told you the unusual circumstances?” “Nothing. Just that someone was dead, and I needed to get here ASAP.” “Then I’ll simply show you the crime scene. Let’s see what you make of it,” she said with a droll smile. Something in her manner warned me I was about to be surprised. I followed her out of the office to a large recreation yard surrounded by prison buildings. In an area blocked off by saw-horses and yellow tape, a tarp-covered form lay among several broken roof tiles from the building above. “We haven’t moved anything,” she said as we stepped under the tape and neared the body. “I thought you should see it first.” I nodded and pulled back the tarp. She was right. I was surprised. “Cowboy,” I muttered, “what the hell are you doing in the rec yard of a women’s prison? {c}***{c} Tied around the corpse’s chin and head was a ‘piggin string’ like rodeo cowboys use in calf roping. Further inspection of the body reinforced my first impression of a young cowboy. His sun-weathered face sported a white band on his forehead where his missing cowboy hat normally rode. He was over-dressed for a warm Indian Summer day in a heavy sheepskin-lined coat over a flannel shirt and well-worn jeans. His boots were old, cracked with age and scuffed at the heel. He had the authentic look of a real cowboy. There was no ID on the body, although his jeans pocket showed wearing from a missing wallet. While taking his prints, I noticed his fingernails were torn and bloody, probably from where he’d scrabbled to hold on to stop his fall. The back of his right hand was smashed like someone had hit it with a hammer. It was easy to locate where he went off the roof because tiles were missing along the edge. Nothing indicated whether he’d simply slipped or if he was pushed. Or what he was doing there in the first place. I released the body to the coroner with instructions to send the body for autopsy in Albuquerque. Then I went back to the Warden’s office. “Any ideas about who might have killed him,” she asked. “No. But when I find out how he got here, we’ll know who killed him. I need to question anyone who might have some information.” The warden sat still, tapping a pencil on her desk until she came to a conclusion. She directed Warden Oliver, “Bring in Big Sam.” We sat across from each other and I made a few comments about the crime scene while awaiting my first interview. I expected a senior guard. What I got was a black lady in prison garb. On first impression, I thought she was fat, but then I reappraised her large frame and powerful arms and legs and realized she was carrying a lot of muscle on a big frame. Her easy manner in the presence of the prison executives showed formidable confidence as to her place in the system. I had no doubt that Big Sam ran the prison outside of the walls of this office. Warden James introduced us. “Samantha Washington, Detective Vigil. Sam’s a trusty and knows almost everything that goes on in our little community.” Big Sam and I eyed each other, wondering just how much confidence we’d have in whatever we said to each other. “Ms. Washington, I’m investigating the death of the man found in the recreation yard. Do you have any information on his death or how he came to be here?” “Ain’t no man, outside the guards, ‘lowed to be here. I’d of knowed if someone snuck one in.” I got the distinct sense that if someone brought a man inside these walls without Big Sam’s knowledge and consent—and without paying a toll—then both the sneakee and the sneakor would have been in peril for their lives. But after following up with a series of questions, I was convinced that Big Sam was just as puzzled as the Warden about the sudden appearance of the dead cowboy in her domain. Since the inmates were locked down during the night, it seemed they all had unbreakable alibis. The rest of the day I spent interviewing all the guards who’d been on duty during the night. I came up empty of any information; not one heard anything, saw anything odd, or knew anything. The system of lockdown routine on the entrances and corridors proved that at least eight guards would have had to be in on any plan to get the cowboy into the joint. But at first light, a guard spotted the body in the yard. By evening, I’d had enough, thanked the wardens for their help, and drove back to Albuquerque thinking I had something bigger than a ‘locked room’ mystery on my hands. This was a whole locked down prison facility murder. {c}**** After two days, I’d made no progress on IDing the victim. The AFIS check on the fingerprints came up with nothing. That meant he wasn’t a felon, or an employee of varying governmental or private organizations or unions. Big deal. That left several million possible white males in their thirties. Missing persons failed to show anyone even faintly matching the description. Then the phone rang, and the Medical Examiner, Doc Hickson, asked me to come see something he’d found during the autopsy. The morgue was cold, clammy and smelled faintly of putrescence and formalin. Doc Hickson was old, fat, and crotchety, a cynic and thought he was a comedian. So I wasn’t surprised when he smiled and said, “Vigil, I thought I’d seen every weird thing in the way of death, but this beats them all.” “How’s that?” I said. “First, I found this…,” he held up a business card in his gloved hand, “…in his mouth when I took off that piggin’ string keepin’ his mouth closed.” The card read: R. Y. Hensleigh, TOF Limited. Executive Search Consultants with an address and phone number in Dallas. The cowboy didn’t look like an executive to me. I turned the card over and found the number 5,000 written on it. Not much help and even more of a mystery, but I copied everything down. “What else?” “The contents of his stomach? His last meal? Among other things he ate shrimp…” He looked at me expectantly, and I knew he was holding back, waiting for me. “What’s so weird about that?” “He ate them tails, heads, shells and all.” “Must’ve still been real hungry,” I cracked. “since he was eatin’ that card when he died …but is there anything in the forensics that might help tie down where or how he died?” “Well, the fall didn’t kill him…” When I looked up in surprise, he cackled and continued, “…it was the sudden stop.” “Real funny, Doc,” I said. Anything else of note?” “His hand was broken by something like a hammer hitting it several times. And there was a sliver of rattan under a fingernail, but that could have been there before the event. Still, it might place him at a location.” The rest of the autopsy info was normal and not of interest, so I left the morgue and went back to the office. The first thing I did was put in a call to Dallas. A cheerful voice answered, “R. Y. Hensleigh.” “Mr. Hensleigh, this is Sgt. Vigil of the New Mexico State Police…” He interrupted me with, “I don’t care what your traffic spotter in the plane says, I wasn’t even in the car, and if I was, I wasn’t driving and if I was driving, I hadn’t been drinking…” “Mr. Hensleigh, I’m not calling about traffic tickets. I’m investigating a murder in Grants last week.” “A murder.” There was a long silence. “I’m sorry, Sgt. Vigil, but I doubt I can help you there. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Grants. You must have the wrong man.” “The victim had your business card on him. Have you been to New Mexico lately?” “I was there for the Las Cruces Rodeo. I sponsor a couple of cowboys on the rodeo circuit and try to make it to some of their rodeos. But it can’t be either Rick or Kenny. I just spoke to them today.” “What about other cowboys in Las Cruces. You give out a card to any of them. We’ve been unable to identify the victim so far.” “Gee, I give out a lot of cards to cowboys at rodeos.” “This one had the number 5000 on it. Does that mean anything to you?” “Sgt, now that you mention it. A bunch of us went to dinner, and I met a young fella there who I had another connection to and didn’t realize it ‘til we got to talking over dinner.” “What was that connection, sir?” “Well, I collect Western art. He’s an artist, one of the new young ‘Working Cowboy Artists of America’. “Do you know his name?” “Sure. Curtis Porter. He’s works on some little ranch south of Las Cruces. I bought one of his paintings at an Albuquerque gallery last year for $5,000.” “That sounds like a lot of money for a new young artist.” “Well, if it’s him, he is…was…a very good artist. Much better at art than at the rodeo or business.” “Go on?” “Well, Sgt. I hate to criticize Curtis, he wasn’t stupid, but just real naïve and hadn’t been around anywhere, if you know what I mean. Why, at dinner, I ordered everyone shrimp cocktails and he…” “Ate them heads, tails, shells and all,” I finished. “That was found in the autopsy.” “Damn, I hate to hear that.” “Mr. Hensleigh, right now you are the last person I know that saw Curtis Porter alive. Do you know why he might have gone to Grants or anyone who had a motive to kill him? “I was getting to that. It wasn’t any of my business, but he seemed real surprised when he found out I’d paid $5,000 for his painting. He was under the impression that his works were selling for about a tenth of that. You might try asking Michael Rowland at the Sagebrush Art Gallery in Albuquerque. I think Curtis planned to talk to him.” “Thanks, Mr. Hensleigh. I appreciate the information.” I hung up and headed for the Sagebrush Art Gallery. {c}**** The Sagebrush Art Gallery was off Old Town Plaza, the historic center of colonial Albuquerque, in an adobe building that could have been original except for the large glass display windows full of bronze sculpture, Indian pottery and typical New Mexican art. Inside were more of the same obviously expensive art works with a Georgia O’Keefe landscape showcased on a massive free-standing sandstone plinth by track lights. A stylish Mexican-American saleslady immediately made me as someone that didn’t quite fit the ambiance and snootily inquired if she could help me---meaning help me find the door out of the gallery. I flipped my badge out and asked for Mr. Rowland. She sniffed as though she knew I had no business to discuss, but led me through a hall to an open office in the back. She silently pointed me in to where a man behind a desk was talking on the phone. The desk appeared to be an antique carved wooden door from a colonial home or church. Very expensive and very nice. Rowland gestured for me to sit down across from his desk. Rowland was a big man, over six feet tall and brawny. Not the type I’d expected to be running an art gallery, but then I don’t like being stereotyped either, I reminded myself. Instead of sitting, I wandered around the room, looking at the books, artwork and pictures on the wall. You can learn a lot about someone from what they read, their tastes and their hobbies. At last, Rowland got off the phone, and asked, “What can I do for you?” “Mr. Rowland, I’m Sgt. Vigil with the State Police.” “I’m always willing to help out.” He reached in his desk and pulled out a checkbook. “What’s it for, and who do I write it to?” “Actually, I’m not here for a donation, I’m trying to locate someone who may be a client of yours, Curtis Porter?” “Sure, Curtis is a client of mine. Fine young artist. Lives somewhere in the middle of nowhere near Las Cruces. What do you need him for?” “Just routine. His name came up in connection with an investigation. Do you have an address and phone number?” “Let’s see.” He rummaged on a rolodex. “Here it is. No phone. We send him mail to a P.O. Box 31f in Las Cruces. Curtis isn’t in trouble is he?” “No sir. When was the last time you saw him?” “Gosh, it must have been months ago. He came by to pick up a check for a painting we’d sold for him.” “Is his work expensive? You said he was a fine artist?” “Well, you know how it is. Young artists have to prove themselves in the marketplace before they really get to cash in.” “Any difference in the local market as opposed to other areas? I might want to buy something as an investment if he’s that good and just getting known. Could I get a hometown discount.” A guarded look came over his face. “Not really. But I can’t discuss Curtis’ finances with you.” “I suppose not. Well, I’ll drop him a line to that P.O. Box. Thanks for your help.” “Any time.” The affability was back in his voice and manner as he came around the desk and put his hand on my shoulder. “I think we have some of his paintings in the gallery. Ask Isabella to show them to you. We just raised our prices on his work, but we might have one we’d let go for under $5,000.” He winked at me and I winked back. I pointed to the pictures on his wall. “Did you compete in the Balloon Festival last week?” “I used to, but it takes too much time. Now I just help out with the Dawn Patrol, getting the flying info for the contestants before they take off in the morning.” He was animated, talking about his hobby. “Isn’t it kinda scary, taking off and flying in the dark? You might have to set down in a bad location” “Nah, I have some lights and a gas balloon. Those babies can stay up for hours without a problem.” “Mr. Rowland, I’m gonna have to ask you to come to the office with me for some more questions…and to wait while I get a warrant to search your balloon.” “What…what are you talking about?” “Sir, I think you murdered Curtis Porter last week.” “Why would I do that? He was a client and making me money.” “Because he found out you were cheating him on the money you received for his paintings.” “You’re crazy. I haven’t seen him for months.” “My guess is that he came to you the night he discovered the theft. Somehow you talked him into going along in your balloon on Dawn Patrol. He was wrapped up in cold weather clothes, and it gets cold at altitude. When you couldn’t talk him around, you tossed him out of your balloon.” “You have no proof of that,” he said in a weak voice while his face turned pale. “Not yet, but I think we will. I’m betting that we’ll find traces of his blood on the balloon where he tried to hold on. There was a sliver of rattan under his fingernail which will probably match your balloon’s basket. With any luck, we’ll also find the hammer you used to crush his fingers.” Rowland collapsed into a chair. “How did you find out?” he asked. “I thought no one would ever even find the body in that desert, and even if they did, they couldn’t connect him to me.” “Curtis Porter turned out to be a very smart young man as well as fast with a piggin string. In the seconds while he was falling to his death, he took a card out of his wallet and sent us a message we couldn’t miss--a clue from a cowboy out of the blue.
© Copyright 2008 wildbill (UN: wildbill at Writing.Com).
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