Sheriff’s Deputy Lieutenant Rick Romero drove south on Highway 14, lights flashing and siren blaring. A blue and white ambulance tailed him. A Santa Fe native, Romero had worked as a detective for the Sheriff’s Office for the past fifteen years, slowly moving up to his rank as Lieutenant.
In his early forties, Romero’s muscular physique resulted from working out regularly at The Body Factory, across from the National Cemetery in Santa Fe. With his brown hair and green eyes, he scarcely resembled a stereotypical Hispano of northern New Mexico, frequently referred to as beaners, La Raza, and sometimes spicks.
Over a year ago the Santa Fe County Commission approved the installation of a substation for the Sheriff’s Department in the town of Cerrillos, about twenty miles south of Santa Fe. A day seldom passed without emergency calls about domestic disturbances, local merchants apprehending shoplifters, or a pack of coyotes camped out in front of the church. The new office prevented deputies from driving twenty miles from Santa Fe to investigate minor complaints.
The powers that be selected Detective Rick Romero to manage the satellite, not only because of his stature in the department, but because he was the single individual the Sheriff most trusted, regardless of the fact that his brother was locked up in the adult corrections facility across the street from the Sheriff’s Department. In spite of other personal shortcomings, Romero was a trained forensic specialist with the ability to follow a crime investigation through to the end. His relentlessness had pitched him into hot water more than once in his career.
Romero was headed back to his office in Cerrillos when he received the call about the shooting. Often the site of drug busts, carjackings, and marital disputes, Cerrillos was an area he knew like the contours of his face. The small village had a colorful history from the mining boom in the late 1800s. The nearby mountains had long been considered a prime source of blue-green turquoise. The newly designated substation and increased police surveillance was a welcome addition to many of the residents, but not all. Drug dealers and users now had to watch their backs.
The elementary school on Highway 14 had just dismissed classes for the year, and parents’ cars were streaming in a long line from the school drive onto the highway. Romero knew that drivers tended to ignore police vehicles, acting as though hypnotized by the flashing lights, so he cranked up the siren even louder to warn them to pull over to the side of the road. Police and emergency vehicles could only travel ten MPH above the speed limit. He was clocking seventy on the flat stretch of road. The ambulance had picked up on his tail and ran close behind him, sirens screeching in tandem. He took a left turn onto the county road. His cruiser fishtailed violently as the tires caught the pitted, washboard road. He knew it would be impossible to drive at a speed faster than twenty, so he slowed down until he turned at the railroad trestle, where he found the roads weren’t much better. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a leisurely drive. He had never been this far off-road. Didn’t even know anything existed past the turnoff.
The dirt road continued for another five miles, rocks spattering the underside of his vehicle. Traveling faster was still not an option. Up ahead the road forked, splitting the county road into two. A bright blue sign on top of a metal post read Crawford Ranch Road and directed him to take a right turn. He drove another three miles until he saw the ranch house and the Indian ruins.
Jemimah checked her watch. Thirty-five minutes had elapsed since she made the first call. Still no sign of a vehicle. She focused on McCabe, checking his pulse frequently, terrified each time that there would be none. Breathing still and shallow. Hadn’t made another sound.
Finally, a siren wailed in the distance, drawing closer. The silver Santa Fe County Sheriff’s SUV pulled into the side road, drove through the gate and came to a screeching halt.
Lieutenant Romero stepped out of his vehicle and hurried over to Jemimah. “What’s going on here, Ma’am?”
She pointed to the injured man lying motionless about ten feet away. “Over there. Looks like he’s hurt pretty bad.”
The ambulance ground to a stop behind the SUV. Two EMTs jumped out, one with a stethoscope around his neck. The other ran to the back of the ambulance to grab the gurney and eased it down the rocky drive. One of them slapped an oxygen mask over McCabe’s mouth and placed the canister next to him. He listened for a heartbeat while the other started an IV, balancing it precariously on its stand, and then applied bandages around the wound. The EMTs lifted the injured man onto the gurney, placed the paraphernalia on the side and wheeled him over the rocky driveway to the back of the ambulance. The EMT slammed the door shut and the vehicle headed back toward Santa Fe, leaving a trail of thick dust. Romero walked over to Jemimah and pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket.
“Sorry to take so long introducing myself. First things first. I’m Lieutenant Rick Romero of the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s office,” he said.
“McCabe’s a lucky man you were in the vicinity. I need to ask you a few questions and then get over to the hospital to see how he’s doing.”
“All right,” Jemimah said. “I think I’ve stopped shaking enough now to answer coherently.”
“Tell me what you saw. Any particular reason you were in the area?” Romero asked.
“I was riding along the fence looking for a way to go back to my place without cutting all the way across over to Galisteo. I live a short walk south of here—near those mountains. I didn’t realize everything was fenced off. I was just coming around the hill there when I heard a shot. I heard one earlier, too,” Jemimah said.
“Do you know Mr. McCabe?” he said.
“Acquainted, that’s all. Met him at a fundraiser in Santa Fe a few months ago.” Jemimah handed him her card. “You can reach me at this number most days.”
Romero glanced at the card before putting it in his Dayminder. Jemimah Hodge, PhD, Forensic Psychologist. On the back of the card it read: Exploring the Criminal Mind.
Jemimah told him how she discovered McCabe in front of the cave. “I figured it was just somebody out shooting at beer cans.”
“Okay, Mrs. Hodge ...”
“Miss.”
“Miss Hodge. Just what is a forensic psychologist?” He asked with a half-smile, thinking, another Anglo woman moving to the southwest to launch a career ... probably from California.
“I profile perverted, sadistic killers. Know any?”
“Not at the moment—at least, I hope not. And here’s my card. If you think of anything else pertaining to this situation, I’d appreciate a call.” Romero said.
Jemimah mounted her horse.
“Oh,” and Romero added, “I will be in touch in a couple of days.”
He lingered a bit longer than necessary. She had a feeling he was about to ask her for a date. As she rode through the gate, she could feel his eyes on her, evidently watching her hips move in rhythm with the horse’s gait. Jem wondered if there was a single man in this so-called Land of Enchantment who didn’t have anything other than sex on his mind.