Authors: Don Bullis
Tags: #Murderers, #General, #New Mexico, #Historical, #Fiction
Bloodville (18 page)
Cato was gone and the recorder tape rewound. Herm stood and stretched. ―I don't know about you Doc, but my work day is over and I'm on my way to the Wine Cellar for an early evening libation. You‘re certainly welcome to join me. Encouraged, in fact.‖
With the beer served and pork rinds in place, Herman began the conversation. ―What‘d you think about one of Albuquerque's more stellar citizens, Mr. Joe Cato?‖
―Hell of an interview, Herman,‖ Doc said. ―You do mighty good work. I lost the thread there a couple times, but you seemed to know how to get back on the track and move on with it.‖
―Cato wants to knock old Billy Ray's dick in the dirt and save his own ass at the same time. He's been getting away with that kind of crap since he was ten years old. The trick is to ignore the jive bullshit he throws into the conversation.‖
White as the murderer of Bud Rice and Blanche Brown?‖ ―He did and he didn't. At one point he gave us Billy Ray with
blood all over the place, the gun in his hand and a jar full of money.
Another place he's saying Billy never even found Budville, that Billy
went all the way to Bloomfield looking for the place. Bloomfield is
two hundred road miles from Budville.‖
―He had the days all screwed up, too,‖ Doc said. ―At one place he
talked about gettin‘ the gun and the next thing I knew he was talkin‘
about the murder and the sailor being arrested all in the same
breath.‖
―That's part of his plan,‖ Herm said. ―Confusion. Be vague. Contradictory. He knows damn well he didn't give us enough on Billy
Stirling to go to Wilcoxson. Cato is over in the jail right now bragging
about how he blew smoke up our butts.‖
―Who‘re those people he talked about?‘ Doc asked. ―You know
'em?‖
―I know Joe Peters and Dave Sipe. Maggots. Both of ‗em. Bob
Drymaple is a big time fence. We popped him a couple of months
ago—possession of stolen property—but he's out on bond. Cato was
there at the time, but we had to cut him loose. I don't know this Wally Webb, but if he works for Drymaple, he don't belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, I‘ll guarantee. Peters‘ll cave. We tie him real tight to Billy Ray, charge him with murder, and he'll give Billy up in a Texas second. Sipe in some ways is the worst of the lot. He stays with his mama, or so he claims. He hangs out at Drymaple's place at night, to protect it from thieves. That's a joke. He'll sell out
Billy, and Peters too, if he thinks it's to his advantage.‖
―Two things that struck me most. He said Billy combs his hair
down over his face for a disguise. That sure ain't the way Flossie or
Nettie described him for your sketch.‖
―I wouldn't put any stock in it, Doc. As I recall, I told the newspapers that the guy who robbed the Pueblo Loan Company did that
with his hair. That's probably where Cato got it. It's just more of his
bullshit. Besides, if he ever meets up with Billy Ray again, he'll be able
to say, ‗hell, Bill, I gave ‗em the wrong description.‘ All part of the
game.‖
―There's the thing about the limp. As I recall, Flossie said the guy
had a slight limp.‖
―That's just about the most useful thing Cato gave us.‖ ―Do you know what we didn't ask?‖ Doc said.
―What?‖
―We didn't ask if Billy Ray's got a tattoo on his belly.‖ ―You're right,‖ Doc said. ―We should have.‖
Doc and Herman had left the bar and gone their separate ways when Sgt. Freddy Finch walked into the Wine Cellar. He flashed his badge before he talked to Adele the waitress. She told him that Herman and his friend had each consumed four beers. Budwister, she said, drank dark draft beer like he always did, and the Anglo in the Stetson hat drank Coors. Finch made a note on a small pad and smiled as he put it into his pocket.
Mat Torrez arranged an expensive dinner in the Crystal Room of the Hilton Hotel in downtown Albuquerque for himself, his daughter, and Karen McBride. He'd grown tired and frustrated walking the tightwire between work in northern New Mexico, work in Albuquerque, trips to Budville to see Karen and a few evenings at home with Nita. The Salazar killing was no closer to solution than it had been on January 3. Nita, Mat thought, had become distant and distracted; she acted as if spending an evening with her father was a chore rather than a treat. She appeared annoyed when he called to say he'd be home for an evening, or a weekend. He didn't consider Nita an adult woman with a serious, and intimate, boyfriend. Fathers are like that about daughters. Karen pressed to become closer to Nita, and Mat couldn't put off introductions any longer. It seemed a simple matter. The three of them would have dinner; Nita and Karen would instantly like each other and they would all live happily ever after.
Mat and Nita arrived first and a baldheaded man in a tuxedo seated them at a round table arranged with elegant crystal and three English bone china place settings. Mat poured the chilled and waiting champagne. They had each sipped a little wine when Karen entered the room. The heads and eyes of other patrons—especially the males—turned and followed her as she walked toward the table. She left a wake of envious stares behind her. Karen wore a silk dress, white with a red and yellow floral pattern. Its bodice showed off her large breasts and narrow waist to good advantage and her skirt swished back and forth like a flag in the wind as she walked. Mat's heart swelled. She was as welcome to him as the warm and gentle breezes of early spring; her smile as bright and clear as mountain sunshine.
Shocked, Nita realized the stunning woman coming toward their table was Karen McBride. She hadn‘t known quite what to expect. Mat had described Karen as younger than himself, and very pretty, but Nita didn't count on the dazzling beauty she saw before her, especially a woman no more than a few years older than herself.
Nita and Mat stood. Nita took Karen's hand uncertainly. ―I am, too, I.... Yes. Nice meeting you, too.‖
Karen kissed Mat on the cheek and they all sat down. Nita tossed off what remained of her champagne and refilled the glass.
―Your manners, Nita,‖ Mat said and he nodded, smiling, at Karen's glass.
―Oh. Yeah, ah yes. Certainly.‖ She filled the glass to overflowing. ―Sorry.‖
―It's all right, dear,‖ Karen said, and she put her hand on Nita's. ―Don't call me dear!‖
Karen withdrew her hand. ―What shall I call you?‖
―Nita. That's my name. Daddy, you didn't tell me.... You said she
was.... But you didn't....‖
―I don't know what else I could have said. I told you she was
beautiful. Did I lie?‖ Mat smiled broadly, his chest out, proud that
such a beautiful woman was his exclusively.
―No, but you didn't say she was, well, as young as me. I thought
she would be, you know, like.... Well. More mature.‖ Nita felt a sense
of confusion and frustration that she finally admitted was odium. She
did not—would not—like Karen McBride.
―Thanks for saying that, but I am a little older than you are.‖ ―How much? Not that it matters. You're still young enough to be
his daughter. My sister. Not my mother.‖
―I'd be happy if we could just be friends.‖
―I hardly think you shacking-up with my father is a strong basis
for friendship between us. I‘m his daughter. You‘re only, only, his
concubine
. Excuse me. I'm going to the powder room.‖
Karen followed ten minutes later only to learn from the ladies
room attendant that young Miss Torrez took a taxi cab and left. Karen
returned to the table but didn't sit down. She said she'd feel better if
Mat went on home and talked to Nita.
―I'm sorry, my captain, the evening didn't turn out better.‖ ―I don't understand, Karen. What happened?‖
―She loves you, Mateo, and she does not want another woman in
your life. Maybe she'll change when she gets a little older.‖ Karen
kissed Mat on the cheek and made her way out of the Crystal Room. About as bewildered as he'd ever been in his life, Mat paid for the
champagne and drove home hoping to have a long chat with his
daughter about the way things would probably be. Nita was not
there. He found a note taped to the telephone—she always put them
there because she knew he‘d call State Police headquarters before he
went to bed—which simply said, ―I've gone out.‖ Signed ―N.‖ Mat
put three ice cubes in a glass tumbler and filled it to the brim with
vodka. Nita stayed out all night.
Spurlock made eight trips from Gallup to Budville, then on to Albuquerque and back to Budville and then Gallup for the sole purpose of taking Flossie and/or Nettie to visit Dr. Jon McArthur, a psychiatrist and/or Mr. Sol Gold, a hypnotist. Doc considered the entire exercise a waste of his time and the department's too. It may have been the only point in the entire case upon which Spurlock and Charles Scarberry agreed, but of course Scarberry didn't know it. The deputy chief had been led to believe the whole thing was Doc's idea and he counted it another reason he didn‘t like the criminal agent. Scarberry tried to convince Flossie not to take the treatments. Cranial castor oil treatments he called them. To his irritation, she insisted on going, if only, she said, to do everything she could to find Bud's killer. Scarberry tried ordering Mat Torrez to order Doc to drop the idea. Torrez referred Lt. Col. Scarberry to Lt. Col. Vigil or Colonel Black.
Doc sat patiently through each session. In the early ones, the hypnotist talked to Flossie about her childhood, young adulthood, early marriage and the death of her first husband twenty-two years before. He learned that Claude Hinkle died on November 4, 1945, while under a 1937 Ford sedan, replacing the muffler, in his garage at Grants. The car slipped off the jack and the differential gear case crushed his chest. Flossie found his body after he failed to arrive at home for supper. He left no survivors other than his wife.
In later sessions they discussed events the night of the murders. Doc listened as Flossie said, almost word-for-word, what she'd said to him and Mat Torrez on the early afternoon of November 19. She did not add one new item of information. Budwister showed up for one session and did a sketch of the suspect as Flossie described him while she was allegedly under hypnosis. A picture, nearly identical to the one he drew in Budville the morning on November 19, emerged. Budwister told Doc that Flossie offered nothing new. The Albuquerque officer doubted she was even under hypnosis.
Nettie Buckley is a 54 year old, widowed, unemployed, disabled, childless housewife. She was seen in psychiatric consultation in able to establish her mental status, her degree of reliability, and over all personality evaluation.
The patient states that she was born in Old Mexico and was originally married to Harry Buckley, who is now deceased over ten years. The marriage produced no children. During her adult years she worked mainly as a domestic, but was disabled as she states, ―because of the sugar (Diabetes) and other sickness problems.‖ She now takes Insulin tablets orally, but has dizzy spells.
During the interview, the patient recounted her aspects and movements during the crimes of November 1967 and appeared to know her own movements but was not very sure of the movements and activities of others.
Closer examination of the patient's personality revealed her to be quite confused, borderline psychotic, and not aware of her surroundings—is barely able to give the presence of time, does not know who the President of the United States is, nor the governor of New Mexico. She may be somewhat mentally retarded, as well. This patient is quite unreliable although she may be able to give evidence from among a group of live suspects, and this would be considered fairly reliable. Otherwise, she is not suitable for hypnosis or regressive hypnosis.
Dave Sipe sat with his feet up on the desk in a shanty on stilts that passed for a sales office at Bob Drymaple's used car lot. He sipped alternately from a can of Coors beer and a pint bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon. Spurlock and Budwister found him just before dark one evening toward the end of February. He didn't get up when the policemen entered the office and he yawned when they showed him their badges. He raised the beer can in a mock salute and started to take a drink when Budwister slapped his feet off the desk causing him to spill beer down the front of his sleeveless, western-cut, shirt.
―Damn, man. Shit!‖
―Show some respect, Davy boy,‖ Herman said.
It surprised Doc to note that Sipe looked almost clean-cut. A minor
case of acne left a few pockmarks along his jaw-line but he kept his longish hair neatly trimmed and his clothing clean. What placed him out of the ordinary were the tattoos that covered both arms. An intricate spider web design emanated from his left elbow, around his arm, and upward to the shoulder and downward to his fingers. His right arm displayed a mixed metaphor of tattoo art. A red ribbon inked around his wrist contained the word MOTHER. Above it, a skull and crossbones and devil‘s head stared at each other. Just below his elbow were four roses in a square cluster. A large black panther, claws on each paw drawing imaginary blood, occupied his upper arm.
―Let me tell you what we got, Davy boy. You been running with real bad company. You should be more careful.‖
―Screw you. I didn't do nothing.‖
―Yes you did. You are an accessory before, during and after the fact, to murder. You also conspired to commit murder, and you aided and abetted in murder.‖
―I don't have to talk to you. I got my rights.‖
―Sure you do, Davy boy. But you ain't under arrest so we can ask you anything we want.‖
―Ask 'til your balls drop. I don't have to answer nothing.‖
―True,‖ Herman said. ―I just thought you might want to make things easier on yourself, you know? Help us out a little. We help you out a little. You've never done any real jail time, Davy boy, but these Budville murders might just change all that.‖
―I don't know nothing about it.‖
―Ok, Davy. We'll just go ahead and get an arrest warrant, and we'll be back in the morning. Then we'll see if your memory improves. You'll like jail. Believe me.‖
―That's a fact,‖ Doc said. ―They's big old boys in there that's hung like seed bulls. They'll want to get real friendly with you. You got a virgin asshole, Davy? I bet you do. They'll like that.‖
Sipe ignored the State Police officer. ―Come back with your warrant, Budweiser. See if I care.‖
―The name is Budwister. You'd do well to remember that.‖
Doc and Herman drove directly from the car lot to the residence of Mrs. David Sipe, Sr. in Albuquerque's far north valley. The house, an attractive, well maintained, white two-story frame structure with an attached two-car garage, was surrounded by a large, neatly trimmed and tidy lawn. The Officers cruised past, drove around the block and parked on the opposite side of the street a half block away. Dusk had become darkness when an ancient Ford pickup with a dealer‘s license plate wired to the back bumper pulled into the driveway and parked. Sipe sprinted up the porch steps and into the house.
