The following morning, Joseph Stibbe took a personal day. He left his uniform hanging in the closet and put on a white cotton T-shirt, a pair of dark Indigo jeans and an old pair of caramel-colored Tony Lama boots. His Albuquerque Isotopes baseball cap concealed his eyes. The shock of finding the body at Max Silva’s cabin had thrown him off-balance. The sight was engraved on his memory. He had personally contacted Max Silva early that morning. The State Police would be on his doorstep soon enough. Because Max had a weak heart, Stibbe didn’t reveal too much over the phone. Better to tell him face to face.
It took an hour to make the thirty mile drive from his house in Golden to Max’s home in Placitas, but Stibbe found the experience calming. As he drove through the Town of Golden, he passed in front of the Catholic Church, a building so white it stood out from its surroundings. He turned onto Sandia Crest Road and followed the winding mountainous road for about fifteen miles before stopping at the base of Capulin Peak to relieve himself. He didn’t encounter another vehicle the entire trip. He relished the solitude of the mountain range cradled by the bluest sky he had seen in a long time.
About an hour later he reached the town of Placitas, once a predominantly Hispanic community in Sandoval County about fifteen miles north of Albuquerque. He turned onto a gravel road, which led him to the end of the driveway in front of a pueblo-style flat-roofed house. Max Leyba sat on the porch drinking coffee. He greeted Stibbe with a warm handshake.
“Come in, come in,” he smiled and led him into the house.
They sat in the modestly furnished living room. From where Stibbe sat, he could see panoramic mountain views from every window. Max handed him a cup of coffee.
“Three sugars, two creams—just how you like it,” he said.
Stibbe forced a weak smile. “Max, I didn’t mean to sound so mysterious when I called this morning.” He took a deep breath. “There’s been a shooting at your cabin; a fellow was found dead there yesterday afternoon.”
Stibbe related the rest of his grisly discovery.
Max blew out a long whistle. “A couple of months ago the place was broken into, on three or four separate occasions. Every time I went to check on my cows, there’d be something broken or missing. I was so pissed off about the break-ins that, a month ago, I went to the cabin and set a trap with an old sawed-off shotgun and a chair. The trip wire led from the chair in the middle of the room to the door jamb and then back to the trigger and then to the doorknob. When the door was pushed open, the shotgun was supposed to go off. It was loaded with number seven birdshot. But,” he continued, “I thought I rigged it so it would go off right away and the pellets would hit the inside of the door and scare the intruder away.”
“Yeah,” said Stibbe. “The guy’s knees were pretty messed up.” He told him the State Police or the Sheriff’s office would be contacting him at some point in their investigation.
“Do you think I’m going to need a lawyer?”
Leyba said.
“Probably wouldn’t hurt,” Stibbe said.
After an hour, Stibbe got up to leave. He told his old friend he would keep in touch. Leyba thanked him for coming and shook his hand.
After Stibbe walked out the door, Leyba sat down and covered his face with his hands. “Dios Mio,” he sobbed. “I’ve gone and killed someone.”