The Pot Thief Who Studied Billy the Kid (Pot Thief Mysteries) Page 10

  “Geronimo and I were in that little grove of trees by the irrigation ditch. Several people gave us quizzical looks, and it occurred to me that perhaps the area under the trees was part of the communal property of Casitas del Bosque. So I decided to check with the closest resident to make sure I wasn’t going to be asked to leave by the neighborhood patrol.”

  “Yeah, I remember. That was Dolly’s house. You asked her if it would be okay if the two of you had a picnic under the trees, and she said okay but give her a minute to put her shoes on.”

  “Right. But what I meant by ‘the two of us’ was Geronimo and me. She just misunderstood.”

  “Anyone would have. Who goes on a picnic with a dog? So why are you telling me this again?”

  “Because I want to tell you something nice about Frank Aguirre. Dolly told me his will directed that he be cremated and his ashes dumped into the irrigation ditch that flows by that little grove.”

  She shook her head. “Geez, Hubie. Most people want something a little more noble or romantic, like having their ashes scattered on a mountain top or in their favorite trout stream. Who would pick an irrigation ditch?”

  “Frank Aguirre, that’s who. He wanted his ashes dumped in the irrigation ditch so that they would be absorbed by tree roots and aspirated into the atmosphere as oxygen to help make up for all the carbon dioxide he had put into the air with his long lectures.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “That’s what Dolly told me.”

  “I think I would have liked him.”

  23

  It was past four when we turned off the highway just west of the low water bridge. I watched Cerro Roto and kept the topo map aligned with the land features. It was easier than the first trip because I had been there once, and also because I was able to navigate while Susannah drove.

  The terrain for most of the drive was rough – dunes, lava, arroyos, brush and cactus. About a mile before reaching the rim, the land rises slightly and flattens into a meadow. I guess that’s where elk graze until someone puts an arrow into them. For those that survive the bow season, they have the guys with the big guns to look forward to later in the fall.

  Susannah handled the truck like she’d been driving off road for years, which I suppose she had. When we reached the site, she maneuvered the truck into position as I directed.

  I put my good foot in the loop on the bottom of the rope and slipped the rope though a safety harness around my waist.

  “I don’t think you should do this,” Susannah said.

  “You’re the one who convinced me I should do it.”

  “I still think it has to be done. I just don’t think you should do it. I think I should do it.”

  “I know. You’re less squeamish than I am, you aren’t afraid of heights and you don’t have a cast on your leg.”

  “How did you know I was going to say that?”

  “Because that’s what Tristan said when he offered to do it.”

  “Well, he and I can’t both be wrong.”

  “Okay, you’re right. Either one of you is better suited for the task than I am. But this is not about who’s best for the task. It’s about who the task is best for. I need to do this.”

  She gave me a hug. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Hold the praise until we see what happens.”

  I took the shard out of my shirt pocket and stuck it in my back pocket so that it wouldn’t break on the way down.

  “Why do you taking that shard with you?”

  “I’m sure it’s an ancient body. After I verify that, I’m going to leave the shard in his hand.”

  “Why?”

  “Because after I dismissed the idea of sticking a cross on his grave, I wondered whether something else would be appropriate. The shard is the best I can do.”

  I got down on my stomach and inched backwards until my foot and my cast were in midair. Susannah activated the winch, leaving about three feet of slack. I scooted back until my legs were over the rim and my torso still on level ground. The rope was taut.

  “You can start letting it out very slowly,” I said. “When it goes slack, you’ll know I’m safely on the ground.”

  “Or came free from the harness and are in the bottom of the gorge,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  The edge of the precipice had been worn smooth over the ages by the water that runs over it when it rains. Once my hips slipped over, all I had to do was keep my head up and my elbows out to avoid bumping my jaw when I went all the way over.

  Then I closed my eyes and waited for my feet to make landfall.

  Despite the cast, I managed to remain upright when I landed. I unhooked myself from the rope and looked around.

  Nothing had changed.

  I took the rebar out and started searching for pots. The soil wasn’t compacted, so the iron slipped in easily every time I pushed it. I followed my usual grid pattern and spacing and hit only three things, all of which turned out to be rocks. No pots. Not even another shard.

  Now it was time for the unpleasant part.

  I moved the big stone and started digging with my gloved hands.

  Thirty minutes later, I re-harnessed myself to the rope and gave it a tug. I heard the winch start. I looked straight up during the trip for two reasons.

  First, I was afraid to look down.

  Second, I needed to use my hands and arms to slip over the ledge with as few bumps and bruises as possible.

  Once I was on high ground, I scrambled to my feet and unhooked the rope.

  “Wind the rope up and let’s get out of here,” I said.

  After we were moving she said, “I can tell from your voice and the look on your face that digging up that guy again really unnerved you.”

  I took a deep breath. “I didn’t dig him up.”

  “You chickened out?”

  “No. He wasn’t there.”

  She slammed on the brakes.

  “What do you mean he wasn’t there?”

  “There is no body down there. It’s gone. Would you drive, please? I want out of here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until we figure this out. Otherwise we’ll just have to make another trip. Better to go back now and find the body.”

  “There is no body to find.”

  “You must have dug in the wrong place.”

  “I dug under the big stone that was right over the body. When I didn’t find the hand at first, I figured I was off by a few inches, so I kept widening the hole. It got wider and wider until it was big enough to bury this truck in. I dug at least four feet in every direction.”

  “You didn’t dig deep enough.”

  I shook my head. “I dug deeper.”

  She was thinking. I wanted out of there, but it was obvious she wasn’t leaving until she had satisfied herself that the body really was gone.

  “There’s only one explanation. Someone moved the stone. You were digging in the wrong place.”

  I shook my head again. “You remember how you told me I should look for pots before I dug up the hand because once I touched the hand again I might be in no mental shape to look for pots?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I took your advice. I probed every square inch of the ground with my rebar using my six-inch grid pattern. And the bar sunk down with ease except for three rocks I hit.”

  I could see her relenting. “You’re positive the body isn’t there?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve been digging pots for over twenty years. I know how to find things under the ground.”

  She slipped the truck back in gear and we started rolling.

  Our tracks were still visible, so I didn’t have to navigate. And she could go faster because she didn’t have to wait for instructions. She was thinking as she drove.

  When we hit the paved road, she said, “Here’s what must have happened. Remember we considered the possibility that whoever took your Bronco wasn’t stealing it but just wanted to strand you? It had to be the murderer
. He saw the truck with the rope hanging over the ledge so he knew there was someone down there. He was afraid you would discover the body, so he moved the truck hoping you would die down there and his victim wouldn’t be discovered. But when you made it out safely, he knew you might go to the police, so he had to move the body to another hiding place.”

  I had been thinking along the same lines. I didn’t have a better theory, but I did see some flaws in the one she offered.

  “Look, Suze, the place is difficult to get to. You just drove it round trip, so you know that. On my first visit, I arrived at dusk because I wanted to dig at night. So what was the murderer doing out there when he saw me?”

  “I don’t know. But someone who saw us driving across that rough terrain could ask the same question – what are those two idiots doing out here? We just have to assume he was there. We can find out the reason later.”

  “Okay, but if he wanted to kill me to keep me from finding his victim, why would he merely strand me? Stranding someone down there is not a death sentence. Even I got out, and I had a dog and wounded coyote to worry about.”

  She had to think about that one for a minute.

  “Maybe he didn’t strand you as a means to kill you but to preserve the opportunity. He didn’t want to risk going down the narrow trail at night, so he stranded you knowing you wouldn’t risk going up that trail at night either. Then he could lie in wait for you in the morning and kill you when you came up.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe he overslept.”

  “The theory has too many holes in it.”

  “So what’s the alternative? It was just a hand, and your coyote was so hungry he came back and dug it up?”

  “After moving a huge stone?”

  “They’re stronger than they look, Hubie. Especially when they’re hungry.”

  “I think we can ignore the coyote thesis for now.”

  “There is one person who knew you would be out there.”

  “Yeah, Alvar Nuñez. I thought of that, but it doesn’t work. If he buried a murder victim down here, he never would have told me the location of the cliff dwelling in the first place. Not telling me is a lot easier and more effective than luring me out there and then trying to kill me. And while he must have been pretty certain I would go because of the interest I displayed in finding more pots like the one he brought, he had no way of knowing when I would go. We already said the place is so remote that the chances of crossing paths with someone out there are almost nil.”

  “Yeah, but you and your coyote met up, and what are the odds of that?”

  “Can we just forget the coyote?”

  “No need to be sensitive about it,” she said.

  “Sorry. I have to admit I can’t think of any reason for someone to dig up and move the body unless he’s trying to conceal a murder. But I can’t see how to make that explanation fit with the Bronco being moved and me being out there. I think these events are unrelated. Someone buried a body there, got nervous that it might be discovered, and dug it up to put it in a better hiding spot. It was just a coincidence that it happened between my two visits.”

  “There are no coincidences, Hubert.”

  We drove along in silence. We were at a traffic light in Española when Susannah started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I figured it out. I know what happened. The key is the hole in the hand.”

  “How is that the key?”

  “An angel came and rolled away the stone, and the body ascended into heaven.”

  I just stared at her.

  “Well,” she said, “it makes as much sense as any other theory, and at least there’s historical precedence for it.”

  24

  On the morning after my return from digging in an empty grave, Tristan drove me to my lawyer’s club on the condition that he could order a macchiato. I told him ten in the morning was too early for a cocktail, and he told me a macchiato is a coffee.

  Layton Kent occupies a conspicuous table overlooking the eighteenth green. Layton is rather conspicuous himself, weighing in at three hundred pounds. Oddly, he doesn’t seem fat, merely large. That look derives, in part, from his hand-tailored suits which fit so perfectly. You can’t get those off the rack at the Big & Tall Shop.

  His size is further masked by his being, for lack of a better word, sleek – slicked back hair, spa-smooth skin and manicured nails.

  His other clients are the prominent and well-to-do of Albuquerque. He helps them shelter their wealth and defends them when they run afoul of the law. Unlike the Archaeological Resources Protection Act, the laws his other clients break are ‘white collar’. They do not dirty their hands in the honest toil of digging.

  Nor are they ever arrested. When it is discovered that they have committed stock fraud or violated banking regulations, the matter is resolved in a conference room paneled with exotic wood species from an endangered rainforest. An agreement is worked out whereby they pay a small fine without admitting guilt. Then both sides repair to the club for drinks.

  I am neither well-to-do nor prominent. Well, maybe I’m a bit prominent insofar as I have been arrested for murder a time or two, but that is not the sort of prominence that would qualify me to be a client of Layton Kent, esquire.

  He stoops to represent me because his wife, Mariella, is a discriminating collector of ancient pottery, and I am her primary source for those goods.

  She is also said to be descended from Don Francisco Fernandez de la Cueva Enriquez, Duque de Alburquerque, the man after whom our city is almost named. I say ‘almost’ because, as you may notice, the first ‘r’ is missing.

  Like the body that was formerly above the Rio Doloroso.

  I don’t know where either one of them went.

  In addition to being my best customer, Mariela de Baca Enriquez Kent is a socialite by virtue of her lineage, her money and – the only one that counts in my opinion – her class.

  Tristan and I trailed Phillip, the captain, to Layton’s table.

  “These gentlemen claim to have an appointment with you, Mr. Kent,” he announced in a tone that made it clear he doubted our claim.

  “Thank you, Phillip. You may seat them and send someone to take their orders.”

  Layton then turned to us. “Hello, Tristan. It is a pleasure to see you again. I trust your studies are going well.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Mr. Kent. My studies are going well. Thanks for asking.”

  Instead of greeting me, Layton said, “You are fortunate to have this young man as your nephew, Hubert.”

  I agreed. The waiter arrived. Kent’s club offers an array of specialty coffees. Their lattes are delicious. I ordered one with skim milk and no sugar. Not what I really wanted, but I was dieting.

  Layton scrunched his nose on hearing my order but said nothing. He is normally a full cream and sugar man.

  Tristan ordered his macchiato.

  “An excellent choice,” said Layton, “I think I’ll have the same. The macchiatos here are not merely the espresso with a drop of milk offered by the chain coffee mongers. Our baristas place thick milk foam in a small cup then pour the espresso through the foam in a stream so thin that only a small dark spot shows on the foam. That, of course, is the macchiato that gives the drink its name.”

  “Ah, the mark,” said Tristan. “I’ve read about it but never seen one done that way.”

  I feared they would soon be discussing the macchiato’s bouquet, its notes on the palate and the finish.

  Layton asked me to explain my difficulty, and I did so.

  He listened silently as he always does then closed his eyes.

  After two or three minutes he said, “Hubert, you remind me of Braxton Goabling, a professor I had in law school. Goabling subscribed to the belief that the best way to prepare your mind for the ordinary was to exercise it on the extraordinary. He assigned bizarre cases for his students to analyze. You are my current Goabling. Except you
r cases are not pedagogical fictions. They are, contrary to all reasonable expectation, completely and shockingly real.”

  I doubt if he does this with other clients, but he often begins his analysis of my cases with a preamble of the sort just quoted. I do not comment on them.

  “To summarize,” he said, “while digging for pots on BLM property, you discovered a human hand which you took to be the hand of a prehistoric person. Not wanting to disturb the grave further, you covered the hand. Some days later, you began to wonder if the hand might belong to a contemporary person. I put aside the question as to whether the person in the ground was a murder victim as that issue has no bearing on your legal situation. You decided to return to the site for the purpose of examining the hand to determine the age of the body. But the body had been removed. You now seek advice on your legal liabilities and obligations.”

  I nodded.

  “With regard to your first visit, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act contains a provision regarding the inadvertent discovery of a burial site. That provision specifies, and I think I am quoting precisely here, ‘The person who makes the discovery must immediately notify the responsible Federal official by telephone and provide written confirmation to the responsible Federal official’. ‘Immediate’ is an imprecise term. You were stranded for two days and required medical attention after you were found. Then you were given reasonable arguments by Miss Inchaustigui to the effect that it was a modern grave. So I believe if you report the finding now to the BLM, they will judge you to be in compliance.”

  “Since they don’t know when I was there, I could just tell them I found it yesterday.”

  “I will not comment on that suggestion. You would normally have a legal obligation to report finding the grave. But the obvious legislative intent of that provision of NAGPRA is to allow the authorities to protect the remains. You now know that the remains are no longer there. Thus, the intent of the provision cannot be accomplished, rendering your reporting responsibility moot. You are required to report where a grave is, not where it used to be.”

  “So I don’t have to report it.”