Read Online Everyone Dies by Michael McGarrity - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael McGarrity
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two Indian casinos, through some badlands where the roadside businesses looked junky and languishing, and got caught in stop-and-go traffic as the road funneled down to the main drag in Espanola, which seemed to offer nothing more than a combination of strip malls, gas stations, fast-food restaurants, and mom-and-pop businesses housed in dilapidated buildings.
On the other hand, the pueblo outside of town had some charm. Located along the river in thick bosque with ancient cottonwoods lining the roadway, the main village was virtually hidden from the outside world.
In a large fenced clearing away from the village, Thorpe found the yard where the adobes were made. It consisted of a metal building and long rows of freshly made mud and straw adobe bricks that were drying in the sun. Bales of straw and mounds of clay were strategically located next to several large, motor-driven mixing tanks used to stir the ingredients to the right consistency. Hundreds of empty wooden forms were lined up ready to be used in the next production run, and a fully loaded flatbed truck was parked in front of the office.
Inside the building he introduced himself to a middle-aged man who didn’t look happy to see a state cop in uniform on tribal land.
“What do you want?” the man asked suspiciously. His face was covered in a film of adobe dust and his large hands were calloused and rough looking.
“I’m investigating a crime in Santa Fe County,” Thorpe said, “and I need to talk to your driver.”
“I’m the manager and the driver,” the man said. “What crime?”
“You delivered to a construction site where a horse was killed sometime yesterday.” Thorpe gave him the location and the contractor’s name.
“I wasn’t at that site yesterday. Trujillo’s next order isn’t due for another week.”
“When were you out there?” Thorpe asked.
“Five, maybe six days ago.”
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
The man shrugged. “Not really.”
“What did you see?” Thorpe asked.
“I had three deliveries to make that day so I got out there real early. A vehicle passed me coming down the ranch road. I figured it was one of the crew off to get something he needed for the job. But when I got to the site there wasn’t anybody around. I unloaded where Trujillo wanted the bricks and left before Bobby and his crew showed up. That’s all I saw.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“A van. One of those big, older models, maybe an eighty-two or eighty-three. A blue GMC with a crumpled front fender on the driver’s side. I got a good look at it because he had to slow way down to get past me on the road.”
Thorpe was impressed. The man had a good eye. “Did you see any passengers?”
The man shook his head. “Nope, at least not in the front. The rear windows had curtains.”
“Who was driving?” Thorpe asked.
“A man.”
“Anglo? Hispanic?”
“I didn’t pay any attention to his face.”
“Can you give me the exact date you were there?”
The man looked through his invoices and read off the date.
“Thanks for your help,” Thorpe said.
“Did you stop at the tribal office before you came here?” the man asked.
“No.”
“Well, you should have. This is sovereign land. You’ve got no jurisdiction to be here without permission.”
Thorpe threw up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry about that.”
The man looked Thorpe up and down. “Dumb rookie mistake.”
“Excuse me?” Thorpe said, taken aback.
“I said you made a dumb, rookie mistake. I spent ten years as a tribal police officer, and met a lot of young state cops who thought they could go anywhere they wanted. Had to throw a few of them off the pueblo a time or two. Would have done the same to you, if I was still in uniform.”
“I can understand your point of view,” Thorpe said, unwilling to apologize twice. He reached for his pocket notebook. “I’ll need your name for my report.”
“Donald Naranjo,” the man
On the other hand, the pueblo outside of town had some charm. Located along the river in thick bosque with ancient cottonwoods lining the roadway, the main village was virtually hidden from the outside world.
In a large fenced clearing away from the village, Thorpe found the yard where the adobes were made. It consisted of a metal building and long rows of freshly made mud and straw adobe bricks that were drying in the sun. Bales of straw and mounds of clay were strategically located next to several large, motor-driven mixing tanks used to stir the ingredients to the right consistency. Hundreds of empty wooden forms were lined up ready to be used in the next production run, and a fully loaded flatbed truck was parked in front of the office.
Inside the building he introduced himself to a middle-aged man who didn’t look happy to see a state cop in uniform on tribal land.
“What do you want?” the man asked suspiciously. His face was covered in a film of adobe dust and his large hands were calloused and rough looking.
“I’m investigating a crime in Santa Fe County,” Thorpe said, “and I need to talk to your driver.”
“I’m the manager and the driver,” the man said. “What crime?”
“You delivered to a construction site where a horse was killed sometime yesterday.” Thorpe gave him the location and the contractor’s name.
“I wasn’t at that site yesterday. Trujillo’s next order isn’t due for another week.”
“When were you out there?” Thorpe asked.
“Five, maybe six days ago.”
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
The man shrugged. “Not really.”
“What did you see?” Thorpe asked.
“I had three deliveries to make that day so I got out there real early. A vehicle passed me coming down the ranch road. I figured it was one of the crew off to get something he needed for the job. But when I got to the site there wasn’t anybody around. I unloaded where Trujillo wanted the bricks and left before Bobby and his crew showed up. That’s all I saw.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“A van. One of those big, older models, maybe an eighty-two or eighty-three. A blue GMC with a crumpled front fender on the driver’s side. I got a good look at it because he had to slow way down to get past me on the road.”
Thorpe was impressed. The man had a good eye. “Did you see any passengers?”
The man shook his head. “Nope, at least not in the front. The rear windows had curtains.”
“Who was driving?” Thorpe asked.
“A man.”
“Anglo? Hispanic?”
“I didn’t pay any attention to his face.”
“Can you give me the exact date you were there?”
The man looked through his invoices and read off the date.
“Thanks for your help,” Thorpe said.
“Did you stop at the tribal office before you came here?” the man asked.
“No.”
“Well, you should have. This is sovereign land. You’ve got no jurisdiction to be here without permission.”
Thorpe threw up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry about that.”
The man looked Thorpe up and down. “Dumb rookie mistake.”
“Excuse me?” Thorpe said, taken aback.
“I said you made a dumb, rookie mistake. I spent ten years as a tribal police officer, and met a lot of young state cops who thought they could go anywhere they wanted. Had to throw a few of them off the pueblo a time or two. Would have done the same to you, if I was still in uniform.”
“I can understand your point of view,” Thorpe said, unwilling to apologize twice. He reached for his pocket notebook. “I’ll need your name for my report.”
“Donald Naranjo,” the man
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