Lieutenant Romero felt the frustration building. He was going on sixteen hours of meetings, phone calls, interviews and dead-end tips. He swallowed another mouthful of bitter coffee, almost spitting it out on the case file open before him. Sheriff Bobby Medrano had assigned several auxiliary personnel to help him catch up with his case load, and it was an extra task to bring them up to date.
Medrano’s office was on the second floor of the Santa Fe County Adult Correctional Facility complex. The windows looked out on the exercise yard, where prisoners could spend two hours each day. The County Jail housed a garden variety of street criminals, locals convicted on DUI charges and other equally petty misdemeanors. The average stay in County Jail was thirty days, but some convicted criminals stayed as long as two years, a much better fate than being incarcerated across the highway at the state penitentiary where the horror of becoming someone’s “girlfriend” loomed. Sheriff Medrano ran the jail with an iron hand, having been taken to task one too many times for his officers’ misconduct.
He was born in Belen, New Mexico and had been in law enforcement for the past twenty-five years. After graduation from the College of Santa Fe with a degree in accounting, he spent time serving on the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s reserve program as a volunteer. For a few years he worked for the State Highway Department as their head accountant, but decided law enforcement was his calling. After a stint with the New Mexico State Police, he became a Santa Fe County Sheriff’s deputy and was eventually elected Sheriff in a heated election against the incumbent Sheriff, Jerry Purcell.
Medrano much preferred the old County Jail in Santa Fe. This new location was ten miles from the State Police offices and fifteen from the courthouse downtown. His deputies spent a lot of time going back and forth, delivering prisoners to District Court for arraignments and trials rather than focusing on solving crime. Yes, downtown had been more convenient, but he imagined the County would probably sell the building to some big hotel chain. Santa Fe needed another massive hotel in the downtown area, just like he needed a hole in his head, he thought as he rubbed his temples.
Medrano sprawled behind his desk in the leather swivel chair. Lieutenant Romero sat across from him. Medrano got up and walked toward the window.
“Getting a lot of heat, you know, Rick. You’ve got a full plate. Maybe we should call in the FBI.”
“FBI? Give me a little more time, huh?”
“I’ve spent the last two weeks fielding calls from the County Commissioners. All these missing women worked in and around Santa Fe.
There’s people calling all the time.” Medrano slid the file across the desk.
Romero nodded. He opened the file and pulled out a few of the papers. “We’ve got a report from the forensic psychologist. She interviewed friends and family of the women. We’ve picked up four potential suspects, people they were last seen with. They all have solid alibis. No tips on the hotline have led anywhere.”
“In addition, Lieutenant, there have been two shootings in the same area. Are we getting any closer to solving them?” the Sheriff said. “I don’t see why you don’t want more help on this. Maybe Santa Fe PD can send us some men.”
“Damn it, Sheriff, I’m working on it.”
“Yeah, but you aren’t making any headway.”
“The second shooting seems to involve a dispute over a woman. Don’t think there’s any connection to the McCabe case,” said Romero.
“You know McCabe’s a good friend of mine.
I’d like to see that one solved,” he said.
“Workin’ on it, Sheriff.”
“We’ve got fifteen missing women in our files. Recent reports point to sightings of four of them in your jurisdiction. Don’t you have a spare officer you can assign to check them out?”
“They all hung out at the Mine Shaft or one of those joints along Highway 14,” Romero said.
He didn’t understand why Medrano was on his tail like this. People weren’t just sitting around out there, waiting to spill the beans to an investigator.
Medrano gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t say this to the media, but we’re stumped. All those missing women and one dead. We’ve pulled the records of every parolee and sex offender in the state and come up with shit.”
“I hear you,” said Romero.
“Need some action here, Rick. Bring me something I can take to the bank. Keep looking into those women last seen in your area and who shot McCabe. In a weird stretch of the imagination, there might just be a connection somewhere. Check with the crime techs again. See if anything has shown up there. Have you conferred with that new gal we put on? The profiler?”
“Hadn’t even thought about her.” Romero knew Medrano well enough to see he wasn’t buying that. He had a sly, shit-eating grin on his face. The gossiping elements must be at work. On his way out, Romero stepped into the evidence room and talked to one of the crime scene techs. Nothing new there.
Late afternoon, Romero left the complex. Cloudy skies made it appear later than it was. Maybe I’m losing my touch, he thought as he turned onto the highway. He cruised along Highway 14, the Turquoise Trail. There was little traffic as he passed the Garden of the Gods. A group of tourists stopped to pose for pictures next to the monolithic rock formations. He turned onto the county road leading to the Crawford Ranch. His vehicle shook violently as he drove on the ungraded surface. He slowed down to fifteen miles an hour and still felt all his joints rattle. Would have to have the vehicle lubed as soon as he got into town. That pounding was sure to squash the grease out of the joints.
A half hour later he stood at the gate of the Indian ruins and unlocked it with the keys McCabe provided. He sat down in Medicine Rock cave, stretching out his legs. He needed a cigarette or a drink, or both. Something here that we’re missing, he mused, but what the hell is it?
According to his last conversation with McCabe, the Indians who occupied this property hundreds of years ago were prehistoric primitive tribes. It was unlikely that McCabe would find anything other than historically important relics. Yet he couldn’t come up with a viable reason for someone taking a shot at McCabe. Did they want to scare him off or did they want him dead?
He looked toward the Crawford Ranch. Was the answer over there? Why had Bart Wolfe also been shot in this location? How did Charlie Cooper fit into the equation? Did he have to be on the ruins to check them out or couldn’t he just stand at the fence between the two properties? He would have been able to see a vehicle or even someone walking around the ruins. Knowing Charlie, his idea of ‘checking something out’ would be to stick his head out the door, crane his neck and look toward the sky.
It was getting dark. Romero felt a creepy feeling run up his spine. Freaky. He had the sensation of being watched, as though a crowd of people were sitting in the bleachers waiting for him to make a play. A burst of wind erupted from nowhere, stirring up a dust storm.