Chapter Three
Eagle Pass, TX.
Caught between sleeping and waking, Whicher feels the jolt against his boot.
He opens one eye, wary.
In the waiting room at the Maverick County Sheriff's Department, Marshal Reuben Scruggs is standing by him. He's holding his hat in one hand. He swipes it again at Whicher's boot.
“Come on. We got to haul ass.”
Whicher eases a leg off the chair in front. He pushes himself upright.
“It's nearly eight o'clock. We got to go.”
“Eight?”
“Randell Creagan's not here.”
Whicher puts a hand to his own hat. It's tilted forward, he sits it back level, throws his boss a quick glance.
Scruggs's face is pinched-looking. Half the night out in the desert, the rest hanging round waiting on interviews, trying to sleep on hard-backed chairs.
“They tell you he's not here?”
“Finally,” Scruggs says.
“What now?”
“We're going to roust this little prick, Creagan. Or get the hell out of Dodge.”
“He wasn't anywhere among the group arrested last night?”
“Nope.”
“Did they let you in to see anybody?”
“If you’re fixing to use the bathroom, make it right quick. I want out of here.”
Whicher nods. He strides from the airless waiting room—sun already streaming through the blinds.
In the bathroom, he hangs the Resistol on a coat hook. Stretches out his six-one frame. He runs the faucet, throws a handful of water on his face. Grabs a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser, dries himself off.
The light in the bathroom shines harsh across his broken nose. Wide set eyes—hazel to green. At twenty eight, the bags are just starting to show from lack of sleep. He runs a hand through his short, dark hair.
He buttons his shirt, pulls the rolled tie from his pocket. Fixes it in place around his neck.
He takes the hat from the hook. Out in the waiting room, he scoops his suit jacket off the seat back.
“Ready?” Scruggs says. “Grab your keys. You're driving.”
At the junction with east Main, Whicher makes a right—heading south on the four lane.
In daylight, the town of Eagle Pass is spread out over wide-spaced lots. A mix of scattered housing, scrub-filled building plots.
“I head south—down the highway?”
“Head down it,” Scruggs says. “I'll tell you when to turn.”
Whicher eases the Chevy through the light traffic. Past the fast food joints, the big-box stores.
“I spoke with Sheriff Owens last night.”
“About Creagan?”
“Owens didn't know squat about him.”
“He too much of a low-life?”
“For the Sheriff of Maverick County?” Scruggs says. “Maybe so.” He scowls out the window. “Anyhow, I kept my foot in. It turns out somebody in the sheriff's department heard of Creagan. Man has an address here.”
“He's living here?”
“Not living—he keeps an address in town. Son of a bitch has rat holes all over the damn place. Don't live permanent any one of 'em.”
Whicher stares out at the brittle light of a late spring morning. Mid-May—the whole of summer still to come, with all its oppressive, primal heat. “If Creagan likes to move around, what are the odds he'll be there now?”
“One way to find out...”
The younger marshal hits the blinker, switching lanes, passing a slow moving eighteen-wheeler. “Anything come back on the pickup—the shooter's pickup from last night?”
“Not a thing.”
“It can't just disappear.”
“South Texas is a big ol' place.”
Whicher chews on his lip. No license plate, not even a make.
Scruggs sits up straight in the passenger seat. “Let's get this business with Creagan squared away, we already spent too much time on it.” He points through the windshield. “Get in the turn lane—make a left.”
Whicher steers the truck into the center of the highway. He makes the turn by a gas station, into a smaller road. The lane is beat up asphalt, one-floor houses, aging cars.
“You okay?” Scruggs says.
Whicher hears the note in his boss's voice.
“I mean, after last night. Finding all the victims, and such. Not easy, sometimes.”
“I'm okay.”
Scruggs puts a hand to his collar, pinches the skin between a finger and thumb.“I have a hard time believing some of what happened last night. Removing five bodies. Just like that...”
“We know where they were taken?”
“Carrizo Springs. According to Sheriff Elwood Owens.”
Carrizo Springs—forty miles away, the Dimmit County seat. Whicher thinks of it, he'd been through a handful of times. Local sheriff was a man named Cole Barnhart. Big political operator. The place itself was small, an outpost town—a fraction of the size of Eagle Pass.
“I reckon Dimmit got 'emselves a problem,” Scruggs says.
“How's that?”
“No way the bodies should have been gone. County don't run to a medical examiner. They're supposed to wait on a justice of the peace. In place of the coroner.”
“They didn't do that?”
“Not according to Sheriff Owens.” Scruggs leans forward in his seat, reading numbers off of mailboxes. “See that house there? Near the intersection...”
“Twin porches?”
“That's the one. Single house divided into two apartments. Creagan has one of 'em. Pull over, let's take a look.”
The marshal slows the Chevy to a stop at the curbside. He eases the strap of the shoulder holster against his shirt.
“That thing bothering you? Why you want to wear it, anyhow?”
“Habit, I guess. Riding tanks.”
“Don't look real comfortable.” Scruggs stares out the windshield at the house.
“Faster if you need it in a hurry.”
“Nothing parked outside,” Scruggs says. “I guess he could be inside.”
Along the lane, across from the intersection is a sedan. Garnet red Caprice. It's parked beneath a bunch of live oak set back from the road.
“See that?” Scruggs says.
The car stands out—sleek among the weed filled lots. Light reflecting off the windshield, no seeing inside.
“Something don't look right.”
Scruggs opens the door, steps down in the roadway.
Whicher follows, pulling his jacket across his shoulders.
Beneath the live oak, the door of the Caprice opens. A man in a city suit steps out. Dark glasses. White blond hair. He reaches for something inside a pocket.
Whicher's hand moves toward the holster.
“Name's Vogel,” the man calls out, “Dane Vogel.” He pulls out a leather badge-holder.
“Reuben Scruggs. US Marshals Service.”
The man named Vogel moves forward from the car—light on his feet, faint grin at the edge of his mouth. He holds out the badge.
Whicher sees the brass eagle and shield.
“FBI?” says Scruggs. “You looking for Randell Creagan?”
“Are you?”
Scruggs folds his arms over his chest. “Don't think I know you. You're not out of the Houston office?”
“No, marshal.”
“San Antonio?”
The grin stays in place. “I didn't say.”
“Well,” says Scruggs. “I guess you didn't.”
Whicher takes a step to the Caprice.
“I’ll tell you what,” Scruggs says. He turns—looks at the house. “I have a bench warrant out of the Laredo court. For Randell Creagan.” He taps the breast pocket of his jacket. “So, me and my partner are going on in there. And see if we cain't find the son of a bitch.” He grins back at the FBI agent. “What do you say to that?”
“No need.”
“No need to serve a warrant?”
“No need to go in. Nobody's home.”
“Y'all been watching the place?”
“I didn't say.”
Scruggs compresses his mouth, looks down at the ground.
Inside the sedan, Whicher sees a second guy, Hispanic, chewing on a stick of gum. His hair is long, curled, pulled back in a pony tail. Gold rings hang from both ears.
“Nobody home, huh?” Scruggs says.
Agent Vogel stares from behind the dark glasses.
“If it turns out, I could've served this here warrant, and y'all got in the way of my doing that, I guess the Laredo court can get its explanation from you.”
The FBI agent inclines his head a fraction.
“Good,” says Scruggs. He turns, starts to walk back toward the truck.
Whicher follows, lengthening his stride.
They reach the Chevy. Climb in. Whicher settles at the wheel.
Down the lane, Vogel eases back into the Caprice.
“Head back to the jail,” Scruggs says, “I need to pick up my truck.”
Whicher twists the key in the ignition. He drops into drive, pulls out from the curb, steering a U.
“We'll stop by the Sheriff's Department in Carrizo Springs. Then get back to Laredo.”
“What was that all about?”
Scruggs doesn't answer.
The pickup rumbles back down the lane, sun lighting up a row of battered agave.
Scruggs crosses a shined boot over one knee.
Whicher pulls out into traffic, heading north on the highway.
“The guy inside the Caprice,” Scruggs says. “Hispanic—looked like a pirate? Can't recall his name but I reckon I seen him before. San Antonio office.”
A stop light ahead flicks from red to green.
Scruggs sits back in the passenger seat. Tapping a hand on one knee.
“There something I'm not getting, sir?”
“How's that?”
“You don't seem too concerned.”
“You think Creagan was back there?”
“They told us no.”
“Well then.”
Whicher dips his head. “It felt like they kind of bounced us out of there.”
“Reckon they were watching the place?”
“I'd say so.”
Up ahead is the turn for the Maverick County Sheriff's Department. Whicher checks the rear-view, switches lanes.
“I'm a criminal investigator,” Scruggs says. “The job you're training for. I don't like chasing bail skips. Nickel and dime no-shows...”
“Like Randell Creagan...”
“I'm in the middle of two major cases—up to my ass. I get a job like Creagan, I'm not real interested. I do it, best I can. But like I said—I'm not real interested.”
Whicher throws a sideways look at his boss.
Scruggs is leaning all the way back in his seat, a light in his eyes.
“A lot of strange things are going on,” he says. “Six people shot to death. Five of 'em in one house. Their bodies taken up, like that...” He snaps a finger and thumb. “Top it all, the fence I'm trying to bring in turns out to be under surveillance by the FBI.”
Whicher powers the Chevy across the on-coming lanes of traffic. The Maverick County Sheriff's Department up ahead.
“So, what now?”
“Now?” Scruggs says. “Now, I'm interested...”
Carrizo Springs. Dimmit County, TX.
In Carrizo Springs, the courthouse square is full of trucks and cars—Border Patrol plus two sheriff's departments, Dimmit County and Maverick. Whicher pulls in off the highway running through the town, swings around back of the square, finds space by a store-front bail bond office. He grabs his jacket, sets his hat straight. Locks the truck, heads for the courthouse building.
It's two-story, stone built, classical revival—straight out of the nineteen-twenties. Watered-green lawns surround the place, sabal palms tall as the roof.
He crosses a path beneath the shade of a hackberry. Heads toward a set of scrolled, stone columns framing the door.
Inside, there's a square lobby—central reception. Scalloped-back lights reflect on the polished floor. Law enforcement people are standing around talking—uniform, civilian, there's a headquarters buzz. Deputy Hagen, from the Channing Ranch is near the counter. Beside him, the six-five frame of Marshal Jim Gale.
Whicher sweeps an eye over the gathering, looking for Scruggs. Driving down, they'd separated.
Gale catches sight of him. “Sheriff Barnhart be wanting to talk with you...”
Whicher steps to the counter.
“Seeing how y'all found the bodies,” Gale says.
“They have them here?”
“Two blocks south. Over in the hospital morgue.”
Whicher takes in the assembly, maybe thirty people. “Any word on the pickup? The shooter?”
Gale shakes his head. “Nothing I heard.”
Two Border Patrol agents are at the side of the lobby. In dress uniform—olive-green shirts and pants. Whicher recognizes the tall man in the campaign hat—Raul Talamantes.
“Why the circus?” Whicher says.
“Sheriff's looking to brief the press. Everybody wants a piece. Like they done in LA.”
Marshal Scruggs steps in view from a corridor in the rear. He's moving fast, black hat jammed down on his head.
He reaches the counter. Looks at Gale. “What are you doing here?”
“Dimmit County's part of my district,” Gale answers. “'Case you all forgot.”
“Sheriff Barnhart here?” Scruggs cracks the knuckles in his right hand.
“Got a bone to pick?”
Scruggs stares around the lobby “You familiar with the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure?”
Gale squints at him.
“On moving a body,” Scruggs says. “There wasn't a damn thing left, the time my deputy went on back to that ranch. I intend to hear why.”
Inside Cole Barnhart's private upstairs office, Whicher sits by a dark-wood Spanish bookcase. He reaches for a cigarette. Taps it on the pack.
A twenties-era ceiling fan turns smoke from the sheriff's cigar.
The sheriff himself leans against the sill of an open window. King Cole—Whicher takes the man's measure.
He's the top side of two hundred fifty pounds—dressed in a billowing white shirt, Western cut slacks. He wears a Mexican palm straw cowboy hat. His face is freckled, hair sandy, eyebrows pale.
Raul Talamantes stands at the rear of the room, dress uniform stiff. Deputy Hagen sits watchful at a corner of the sheriff's desk. Scruggs is in the middle of the room.
“Maybe it's only me loses sleep over a phrase like 'inadmissible evidence'.”
The sheriff looks at him.
“None of them victims should've been moved.”
Cole Barnhart brings the cigar to his mouth. Allowing Scruggs center stage. Knife thin, sober-sided. Isolated.
“Any defense attorney is going to jump all over it.”
The sheriff dips his head. “Marshal, I want to thank you for raising this.”
“Evidence from a scene can get thrown out, this kind of slack procedure.”
The sheriff crosses his arms, resting them on his gut. “Man of your standing,” he nods, “federal investigator. I take it very serious.”
“Don't matter who's saying it—it's written into the laws of this state.”
“Exactly right, marshal. Of course.”
Whicher studies the sheriff—four times elected, sixteen years with his boots under the table. Time enough to root out every skeleton, every corner of the county, in politics, in business, all walks.
“Who sanctioned the removal?” Scruggs says.
Talamantes speaks up from the back. “We had to move them, marshal. It wouldn't wait.”
Scruggs catches the sheriff with a look.
“Let me tell you how it stacks up my side of the table.” The sheriff tips his ash against the window ledge. He leans his big bulk forward. “We've had twelve cases of rabies confirmed this year...”
“Rabies?”
“A bunch of others suspected.”
Scruggs looks at him.
“Across the whole of south Texas, we've seen over a hundred cases—this year alone.”
“Rabies in animals,” Scruggs says.
“Two human fatalities,” the sheriff counters.
“That land is full of it,” Talamantes says, “that ranch land. They got coyote, fox, skunk, wild dog. Plus the house is crawling, mano. It's crawling with bats.”
Whicher pictures standing in the abandoned house—wings cutting, swirling above his head.
“Agent Talamantes knows that acreage better'n anybody,” the sheriff says. “Border Patrol are in and out of there all the time.”
“Rabies in animals don't mean people are going to get it,” Scruggs says.
The sheriff nods. “But anything gets bit, there's a possibility of transfer.”
Scruggs flicks a hand against the edge of his suit jacket, dismissing it.
“Infected animals bite,” the sheriff says. “Hell, they'll bite anything. We don't know how long the victims were out there. Small bites or scratches, can be hard to see. ”
“It's really that big of a deal?”
“I got a bunch of public health veterinarians lecturing me.” The sheriff waves his cigar in the air. “Anybody handling them bodies is exposed, the virus stays active. Any exposure, the county has to monitor, vaccinate, isolate. Till we find out there ain't no infection.”
“You mean, they'll take people out of circulation?”
“I have a county to cover. Not enough folk to do it.”
Whicher takes out a lighter. He sparks up the cigarette.
The sheriff turns to him, pale eyes blinking slowly. “You were first on the scene?”
Whicher nods.
“How long you figure they'd been there?”
“Not long.”
“Hours? Minutes?”
“Not as long as an hour.”
“You touch any of 'em? Did you check for a pulse?”
“No, sir.”
“You didn't?” The sheriff hutches his shoulders. “Alright, then. We might not have to quarantine you.”
Color's rising in Scruggs's face.
The sheriff clamps the plug of cigar to his mouth, whips it away again. “If word got out we let a bunch of dead wetbacks lay around half the night, a place condemned with rabies—I'd have a riot on my hands. I need to respect the dead, and comply with the public health obligation.”
“And compromise a major homicide investigation?” Scruggs says.
Deputy Hagen rises from the desk. “Everything got done right, marshal. We collected evidence with due diligence, photographed it all.” He turns to Sheriff Barnhart. “We took good care of it, Raul and me.”
“What about the victims?” Whicher says. “Have any of them been identified?”
“The Hispanics could be from anywhere,” the sheriff says.
“There was no ID?”
“Not a thing,” Hagen says.
“What about the Caucasian?”
“That one we do know,” the sheriff says. “Local kid, late of this county. Name of Todd Williams.”
“How about the runner?” Scruggs says. “The man shot out in the brush?”
“Webb County officers took the body to Laredo. You need to check with them.” The sheriff watches from the window. Cigar at his mouth, blue smoke curling.
“I'll tell you what,” Scruggs says. “I'd want a whole lot tighter grip—an investigation big as this thing's going to be.”
“Hold your horses, marshal.” The sheriff steps from the window. He leans over the desk, stubbing out the cigar in an antique brass tray. “Before any investigation, I have to balance resource against the likely outcome.”
“Meaning?”
“I'm about to go brief the radio and newspaper folk. But y'all might as well hear it now. I'll put together an investigation—but only so far as it concerns the death of Todd Williams. As to the rest...”
“You won't investigate?”
“We'll look into the death of Williams—we find out who killed them wetbacks, so much the better. It's likely the same killer, so the chances ain't bad.”
“But?”
“We may never find out who any of them wets were. With no ID. They could be from anywhere—and I do mean anywhere.”
“I can't hardly believe I'm hearing this.”
“I cain't do a tenth of what I'd like to do, marshal. If it ends up an open verdict, that's just the way it's going to have to be.”
“There must be some way to ID the Hispanics.” Scruggs looks to Hagen and Talamantes in turn. “Y'all are certain there was nothing out there, nothing at the scene?”
Both men shake their heads. Talamantes runs a hand across his mustache.
Whicher thinks of the turquoise bead. Winking out of the dark at the foot of the wall. He puts a hand against the leg of his pants—it's still in there, he can feel it at the bottom of his pocket. Preserving evidence was the crime scene priority, everybody at Glynco told him that. Did they miss it, or leave it?
Hagen and Talamantes cleared everything from the ranch in double-time.
He stares out the window at a brick cantina across the square.
What else happened?
What else did they miss?