Mexican hat (8 page)

"Looks like we found his trail," Kerney said. "But which came first? The old man or the ATV? The tire tracks match the ones I saw at a black bear kill."

"You're sure?"

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"Same wear on the rear tires. Same tread pattern." Kerney looked up the trail. It disappeared into a shadowy climax forest of ponderosa pines, bare of undergrowth, entrenched in the rich soil. The land rolled up and up, lofty trees masking deep ravines. He looked back to find Stiles leaning out of the saddle studying the ATV tracks.

"You're not the only one who has seen these," Jim said. "I took plaster casts of the same treads at a bighorn sheep kill up in the Tu-larosas."

"You're positive?"

"Yep. I had the state crime lab analyze the casts. Two different brands of tires, front and back, with the same wear on the rear wheels. Looks like we got ourselves a serious poacher here."

Jim pulled a camera out of his saddlebag and gave it to Kerney. He shot some pictures while Stiles rode his horse slowly up the trail. He finished and climbed into the saddle just as Stiles called back at him.

"Come on. I want to show you Grandfather Elderman's meadow. It's a damn pretty sight. And who knows what else might turn up?"

Kerney got on his horse and followed Stiles toward the climax forest. "You like this stuff, don't you?" he called out.

Stiles turned and nodded his head vigorously. "Hell yes, I like it," he called back. "Who doesn't like a good mystery?"

THE MEADOW looked like an outstretched hand with elongated fingers cutting into the forest at the base of the mountain. On the peak, the Mangas fire lookout station surveyed hundreds of square miles of national forest. Spring wildflowers, hot yellow and pale blue, scattered

Michael McGarrity

color throughout the native grass that fluttered in a mild breeze. ATV tire tracks flattened the grass in two lines, running straight toward the center of the meadow.

Jim reined in his horse at the edge of the meadow and waited for Kemey. "Bet you a dollar we don't find the carcass," he said when Kerney pulled up next to him.

"Why do you say that?"

"Every part of a cougar is valuable. The blood. The bones. The skin. If it's a male, even the testicles are worth significant money. It all gets ground up, cut up, boiled, or mixed with other ingredients and sold as medicine and folk remedies on the Asian market.

"Did you know poachers are killing all the tigers in China and India?" Stiles continued. "Most are about done in. It's at the point now that any big cat is at risk, the demand is so great."

"What about the black bear?" Kerney asked. "A lot of that animal was left behind."

"It's still the same MO. The poachers only take what's valuable. The gallbladder is worth its weight in gold. It's used to make an aphrodisiac. With bighorn sheep, they go after the horns. It gets ground into powder and used for a medicine to treat a dozen or more illnesses."

"So this is poaching for pure profit," Kerney replied.

"Big-time," Stiles agreed, moving ahead. "What we're gonna look for is evidence of the kill. That's the best we can hope to find."

In the middle of the field they found what Stiles expected, the remains of a partially eaten, hamstrung rabbit used to lure the cat, and a small patch of dried blood where the lion had fallen after the kill. Kerney took pictures and Stiles bagged all the evidence.

"That should do it," Stiles said as he finished. "We have enough

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blood samples for a DNA comparison." He stuck the evidence in a canvas tote bag and tied it to his saddle. "I'll get this up to the Santa Fe crime lab tomorrow."

"How much would a poacher stand to make on a kill like this?" Kerney asked, passing the camera back to Stiles.

Stiles stuffed the camera in the saddle bag. "Two or three thousand dollars, easy. But the profit is in retail sales. Whoever markets the product overseas stands to make four or five times that amount." He pointed behind Kerney. "The old wagon road I talked about comes out over there, at the side of that mountain. Want to take a look? Maybe we can find out how that old man got up here."

First, they found the body of a young man thirty yards from the kill site. A coyote had chewed away most of the face and feasted on the chest cavity. When they turned him over, they saw the exit wound from the bullet hole. Kerney took a wallet from the dead man's pants and scanned the contents.

"Who is he?"

"The man's name was Hector M. Padilla," Kerney said. "A Mexican citizen."

"Hector," Stiles repeated. "Well, I'll be damned. Isn't that what the old man called you? Let's see what other surprises we can find before we call the state police."

Then they found the truck.

ALL THAT COULD BE DONE to sccure the crime scene and conduct a preliminary investigation was accomplished quickly. Kerney found himself frustrated by their lack of equipment but at the same time pleased with Jim Stiles. He worked efficiently, made few mistakes, and had good cop instincts. They had a confirmed identity of the dead man

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and a strong suspicion, from the registration papers found in the truck, that the old man in the cave was Dr. Jose Padilla.

Positioned on a small rise with a clear view of the body, Stiles had a rifle in hand just in case the coyotes came back for another meal. He could see three of them moving in the tall grass, fifty yards away. Kerney sat down next to him. As they waited for the state police to arrive, he started asking Stiles questions.

"What do we know, so far?"

Stiles grinned. "Are we debriefing?"

"Why not?" Kerney replied.

"That's great. I haven't had anybody to debrief with since I transferred to Reserve. It gets boring analyzing things by yourself."

Kerney laughed. "I know that feeling. Let's build a scenario of what may have happened."

"Okay," Stiles said. "Hector and Dr. Padilla, citizens of the Republic of Mexico, drive up to the meadows, for God knows what reason, and get the truck hung up in a gully. Hector Padilla decides to hike out and get help, leaving the old man to wait in the truck. Why he decides to walk to the meadow instead of heading back down the road is a mystery. It's a shorter route, but how would he know about it? He runs into the poacher and gets himself blown away. Probably the old man would have been murdered too, if the killer knew he was in the vicinity."

"That makes sense. What about the killer?"

"He's got to be one of the locals."

"Why do you say that?"

"Elderman Meadows is protected. Off limits. Has been for years. It's prime elk breeding ground."

"Okay," Kerney said. "Not much traffic. Known only to locals

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and off the beaten path. What about the lion? You said it was relocated. Would the killer know it was here?"

"The word is 'translocated.' It's a technical term we Game and Fish types love to use. You've got to use it if you want to be politically correct."

"Okay, translocated. Tell me how the killer knew about the lion."

"We don't publicize translocations. Just a few of the area ranchers are informed so they don't start shooting when they see a cougar."

"Who knew?" Kerney prodded.

"Phil Cox and his father. The Johnstons, over by Allegros Mountain. Al Medley. Vance Swingle. Ray Candelaria down in Bear Canyon. Law enforcement personnel. That's it."

"Did any of the ranchers protest?"

Stiles shook his head. "Not a one. I know these people. They'd be on the telephone yelling at me in a minute if there was even a remote possibility that a lion was taking their stock. Demanding permission to kill it."

"People talk," Kerney suggested.

"True enough. We can't keep a project like this completely secret. That would be impossible. But I don't think folks sit around in Cattleman's Cafe talking to tourists about wild mountain lions."

"So it's a local," Kerney agreed. "Are there any prime suspects in other cases we can check out?"

"Not really." Stiles tugged at his ear. "How did these guys find the road up the mountain? It hasn't been used in decades. You can barely see the ruts. In fact, you can't see a damn thing at all from the highway."

"The Forest Service map in the truck was folded open to Man-gas Mountain."

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"I missed that," Stiles admitted. "That could mean these guys wanted to come here. Why?"

"Beats me," Kerney replied.

"Let me ask you a question. Are you ready for the shit to hit the fan?"

"What does that mean?"

"Last unnatural death we had in the county was this Texan who bought a ranch over by Spur Lake. The guy goes out rabbit hunting last summer and kills himself with a shotgun. Almost the whole damn county turned out for that one."

"Were you there?" Kerney asked.

Stiles laughed. "Damn right. Wouldn't have missed it for the world," He looked up at the sky. "Give it a while and this meadow is going to look like an annual convention for the Forest Service, the local cops, every EMT, and every search-and-rescue volunteer in Catron County."

"What do you suggest we do with our guests?"

"I'll tell you what I'd like to do. Let the sons of bitches figure it out for themselves. None of them are worth spit as investigators."

"Not even Charlie Perry?"

Stiles groaned. "That prissy, uptight asshole? If he gets his hands on this case, we can kiss it goodbye. It will disappear into the woodwork. By the time the party's over, you'll wish we had just kept our mouths shut and done the investigation on our own," Stiles predicted.

AN HOUR AFTER the arrival of an assorted cast of characters that included the county sheriff, three of his five deputies, a rookie state police officer who had never seen a dead body before, two Game and

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Fish officers who were general nuisances, and the officious Charlie Perry, who arrived with Carol Cassidy and several others, Kerney admitted that Jim's prophecy had come true. Finally, when the search-and-rescue team arrived like a posse on horseback, hoping maybe somebody else might be lost and in need of their services, Kerney gave up, found Stiles, and broke him loose from his Game and Fish buddies. There were tight pockets of people scattered across the meadow holding earnest conversations about who was going to do what.

"This is a disaster," he bitched, pointing to the three helicopter pilots standing next to their aircraft, scanning the meadow with binoculars.

"I told you so," Stiles reminded him. "Think about it. What else is there to do in Catron County for recreation? Drink? Watch videos? Go to church? Poach game? That gets boring after a while. It can't be sex. The birth rate keeps steadily dropping. This is much more fun. In fact, it doesn't happen often enough to suit most people."

"How can you stand it?" Kerney asked. He watched the state cop line up the search-and-rescue team and send them across the meadow in a field sweep, looking for evidence.

"These are my friends and neighbors," Stiles said solemnly. "Good people, one and all. Look. Fred Langford just walked right over the poacher's nest without blinking an eye,"

"Thank God we took pictures," Kerney said, grimacing. "Who's the medical examiner?"

Stiles answered with a straight face. "Petra Gonzales. She was a dental assistant in the Navy. She's almost finished with her train-ing."

Kerney stifled a snicker.

"This is just round one," Stiles commented. "Wait until they

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start fighting over who gets to be in charge. I bet they divvy it up. The state poHce will give it to an investigator out of Socorro, the sheriff will make local inquiries which will lead absolutely nowhere, Charlie Perry will assign it to himself, and we'll get to write a report on the poaching incident that everybody will want for their files. End of story."

"And who's interviewing Dr. Padilla at the hospital in Silver City?" Kerney asked.

"Nobody, yet," Jim answered. "They'll get around to it as soon as Petra announces Hector's death was a murder."

"Can we trust her to do it?"

"The exit wound in Hector's back is pretty hard to miss," Stiles reassured him. "If you want more, we'll have to do our own investigation."

"We?" Kerney queried.

Stiles grinned. "Why not? You got something to lose?"

"Not really."

Stiles slapped him on the back. "Neither do I. Besides, my uncle is the chairman of the state Game and Fish Commission. How's that for job security?"

"That should keep you on the payroll." Kerney looked at the sky. Maybe four hours of sunlight left, he figured. Enough time to get back to the Mangas campsite before dark. "What are we waiting for?" He started for the horses.

"You got a plan?"

"First we talk to the lookout at the fire tower, then we visit everybody who lives on the road to Mangas. How many cars travel that road in a day?"

"I'd say no more than ten," Stiles answered, quickening his

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pace to keep up with Kerney. "The highway department says it's one of the lightest-traveled roads in the state. They want to make the Forest Service maintain it. Only five families live on that road."

"Maybe somebody saw something."

"Is this real police work, Kerney?" Stiles was grinning from ear to ear.

"Yeah, but don't get your hopes up."

Carol Cassidy stopped them before they could leave the meadow. She greeted Jim Stiles and turned her attention to Kerney. "Are you taking off?"

Stiles answered before Kerney had a chance. "Yep. We'll leave it in the hands of the experts."

Carol laughed, an amused, throaty chuckle. "It is like a zoo out there," she agreed. "If I knew what to do, I'd put it right," she added, looking directly at Kerney, waiting for him to volunteer.

"Ma'am?" Kerney said, as innocently as possible.

Carol laughed again. "I can see that you two will make quite a team." Her expression became thoughtful. "What would you have done, Kevin, if this crime had happened in Santa Fe when you were chief of detectives?"