The deputy chief grasped the sailor‘s coat lapels and held him up so that only his toes touched the gravel.
―You thank the Lord there‘s witnesses here, you son-of-a-bitch, or you wouldn't never get back in that car.‖ He unhanded the suspect, stepped back and gut-punched him. The sailor doubled-up and sagged to the ground like an empty sea bag. Scarberry landed a solid kick, just below the ribs, before he turned his back on the suspect and stepped away. ―Get him the hell out of here, Candelaria. Get him outta my sight. You got my permission to kill 'im if he gets squirrelly on you and tries to run. Hell, you got my permission to kill 'im even if he don't.‖
The officers watched Candelaria drive away with the suspect locked securely in the back seat of his police car. Sheriff Jack Elkins followed Candelaria toward the jail in Los Lunas.
―I said we‘d get the son-of-a-bitch, Torrez,‖ Scarberry said, smugly. ―I told you he couldn't get past the roadblocks if you put ‗em up like I told you to.‖
―Yes, you did, Chief.‖
―Now then, I want this case wrapped up tighter than a virgin's vagina. I want so much evidence against this douche bag that he'll take the gas chamber in a plea bargain. You understand me? I want statements. I want witnesses. I want physical evidence. I want circumstantial evidence. I don't want no room for no error.‖
―I understand, Chief.‖ Torrez said through tight lips. He'd been doing, and supervising, criminal investigations for ten of the previous twenty years. He didn't need to be told what police work the DA required for a successful prosecution.
―Now where in the hell is Spurlock? He‘s case agent, ain't he?‖
―I sent him and Vee home a few hours ago to get some sleep. They had been hard at it for twenty hours or so.‖
―These kids ain't tough as old birds like you and me, huh?‖ Scarberry seemed almost friendly. ―Get 'em back out. I want Bunting‘s car searched. Gun's gotta be somewhere and we need to find it. I want a follow-up on that info Finch came up with on the witnesses at that bar down the road.‖
―I'll handle it.‖
―The helicopter‘s warmed up and waitin‘. I'm going home. I want a report from you by tomorrow afternoon. You see any problem with that?‖
―No sir.‖
―Good. If there's any screw-up here, if this guy don't suck cyanide, I'll have your ass and Spurlock‘s too. This is the most important case you ever handled. Comprende that!‖ The deputy chief got into Al North's State Police car without another word. It sped up the Old Road and disappeared at the Cubero turn-off. Torrez raised his hand in a single fingered salute to the disappearing tail lights. Chief Sam Black might have something to say about whom got whose ass, he said to himself.
By midnight on Sunday, November 19, Budville became nearly deserted and returned to somnolence. Mat Torrez walked slowly to his own unmarked state car, one of two left in the trading post driveway. Bobby Gutierrez, assigned to guard the trading post, occupied the other vehicle—Troy McGee‘s unit. Captain Torrez found a paper cup half full of cold coffee on his car‘s dashboard. He‘d bought it earlier at the cafe in Villa de Cubero. He took a pint bottle of vodka from the glove compartment and added a generous dollop to the coffee. He started the engine and let it idle while he sipped the vile-tasting mixture. He keyed the police radio‘s microphone.
―Three-six Gallup.‖
―Go ahead three-six.‖ Two complete work shifts had come and gone. Debbie Smith was back on duty.
―Give Agent Spurlock a 10-21. Tell him to 10-87 with me in room seven of the motel in Villa de Cubero at oh-four-hundred hours. Tell him to bring coffee. Lots of it. Do a 10-5 to Albuquerque. Same 10-49 to Agent Virgil Vee, Valverde, that is. Tell him to stop by the jail in Los Lunas and pick up the mug shots of the suspect. 10-4?‖
―10-4. They get the right one, Captain?‖
―10-4, Debbie. I think so. They tell
―You thank the Lord there‘s witnesses here, you son-of-a-bitch, or you wouldn't never get back in that car.‖ He unhanded the suspect, stepped back and gut-punched him. The sailor doubled-up and sagged to the ground like an empty sea bag. Scarberry landed a solid kick, just below the ribs, before he turned his back on the suspect and stepped away. ―Get him the hell out of here, Candelaria. Get him outta my sight. You got my permission to kill 'im if he gets squirrelly on you and tries to run. Hell, you got my permission to kill 'im even if he don't.‖
The officers watched Candelaria drive away with the suspect locked securely in the back seat of his police car. Sheriff Jack Elkins followed Candelaria toward the jail in Los Lunas.
―I said we‘d get the son-of-a-bitch, Torrez,‖ Scarberry said, smugly. ―I told you he couldn't get past the roadblocks if you put ‗em up like I told you to.‖
―Yes, you did, Chief.‖
―Now then, I want this case wrapped up tighter than a virgin's vagina. I want so much evidence against this douche bag that he'll take the gas chamber in a plea bargain. You understand me? I want statements. I want witnesses. I want physical evidence. I want circumstantial evidence. I don't want no room for no error.‖
―I understand, Chief.‖ Torrez said through tight lips. He'd been doing, and supervising, criminal investigations for ten of the previous twenty years. He didn't need to be told what police work the DA required for a successful prosecution.
―Now where in the hell is Spurlock? He‘s case agent, ain't he?‖
―I sent him and Vee home a few hours ago to get some sleep. They had been hard at it for twenty hours or so.‖
―These kids ain't tough as old birds like you and me, huh?‖ Scarberry seemed almost friendly. ―Get 'em back out. I want Bunting‘s car searched. Gun's gotta be somewhere and we need to find it. I want a follow-up on that info Finch came up with on the witnesses at that bar down the road.‖
―I'll handle it.‖
―The helicopter‘s warmed up and waitin‘. I'm going home. I want a report from you by tomorrow afternoon. You see any problem with that?‖
―No sir.‖
―Good. If there's any screw-up here, if this guy don't suck cyanide, I'll have your ass and Spurlock‘s too. This is the most important case you ever handled. Comprende that!‖ The deputy chief got into Al North's State Police car without another word. It sped up the Old Road and disappeared at the Cubero turn-off. Torrez raised his hand in a single fingered salute to the disappearing tail lights. Chief Sam Black might have something to say about whom got whose ass, he said to himself.
By midnight on Sunday, November 19, Budville became nearly deserted and returned to somnolence. Mat Torrez walked slowly to his own unmarked state car, one of two left in the trading post driveway. Bobby Gutierrez, assigned to guard the trading post, occupied the other vehicle—Troy McGee‘s unit. Captain Torrez found a paper cup half full of cold coffee on his car‘s dashboard. He‘d bought it earlier at the cafe in Villa de Cubero. He took a pint bottle of vodka from the glove compartment and added a generous dollop to the coffee. He started the engine and let it idle while he sipped the vile-tasting mixture. He keyed the police radio‘s microphone.
―Three-six Gallup.‖
―Go ahead three-six.‖ Two complete work shifts had come and gone. Debbie Smith was back on duty.
―Give Agent Spurlock a 10-21. Tell him to 10-87 with me in room seven of the motel in Villa de Cubero at oh-four-hundred hours. Tell him to bring coffee. Lots of it. Do a 10-5 to Albuquerque. Same 10-49 to Agent Virgil Vee, Valverde, that is. Tell him to stop by the jail in Los Lunas and pick up the mug shots of the suspect. 10-4?‖
―10-4. They get the right one, Captain?‖
―10-4, Debbie. I think so. They tell
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