Perri O'Shaughnessy - Presumption Of Death

“Explosives, guns, something kids might find. I wasn’t sure Coyote would come back, once Child Welfare and the D.A. got together and went after him. The remote location, his use of a rifle-these were factors in my decision.”

Crockett’s metal desk shook. About six feet from them, electricians were installing a ceiling fan in the hot office. The phone on the desk rang but Crockett didn’t answer.

He had a honker like a ship’s prow that you only noticed when he turned his head, thin lips, and a brow ridge that hung like a balcony over the etched face. The brown eyes never wavered. The bony casing of his head must house a lively brain.

Ticklish situation, Paul thought again. Crockett needed enough information to get an immediate search warrant, information Paul could provide. But Paul had made an unauthorized entry into the tent. Some unsympathetic joker might call it a burglary. For that reason, they had already discussed what he would say on the tape.

“So you went in. To secure the tent until the police could arrive,” Crockett said for the benefit of the tape. He continued to treat Paul with the wary respect of a former ally, but Paul still had to be careful. Deputy D.A.s, defense lawyers, and at least one judge might decide to review the record of this interrogation.

“Correct.” The recorder clicked, reminding Paul to stay succinct. He had already decided not to mention scraping something off Coyote’s van on an earlier visit. It had turned out to be nothing but mud, anyway.

“And what did you observe?”

“Two rooms. The outer room contained a cot with bedding and a camp-stove setup. Kitchen gear on a folding table. I observed a.22 rifle and a large buck knife in a leather sheath on the table.”

“Did you pick up the rifle?”

“I checked it, yes. Held it with my shirtsleeve. It contained three shells. I ejected them and put them in a baggie and put them in my pocket.”

“You carry baggies?”

“They make good pooper-scoopers.”

“Out in the woods you need that?”

“My friend, Ms. Reilly-it’s her dog. She’s one of those Sierra Club types. Find half-digested blueberries from a bear sitting in a pile on the road and she might even be moved to take a photo of it. Her own dog who never ate anything but dry kibble does it in the road, it’s gotta be picked up.”

“Sierra Club,” Crockett said, shaking his head. “So. This baggie. What condition was it in?”

“Unused,” Paul said. “I might add that the baggie has not been out of my possession since that time, nor have I touched the shells since that time.”

“And you’ve just handed over the three shells.” The baggie with the shells sat on the desk next to Crockett’s coffee cup.

“Yes.”

“What else did you see in that first room?”

“Three gallon cans of kerosene lined up against the far wall. I lifted each of them, again using my shirtsleeve. They were almost empty.”

“Any uses for kerosene you could see there?”

“He did have kerosene lamps, but three gallons constituted overkill for that purpose, in my opinion.”

“Okay. What else?”

“I pushed aside a blanket that separated the two rooms. Looked like the kid lived in front, usually, and Coyote-Robert Johnson-had the back room. Bigger cot, tools and hats and clothes lying around, big trunk at the foot of it.”

“And you felt a compelling need to check the trunk. For explosives or whatever.”

“I felt there was a definite possibility I might find more weapons or hazardous materials.”

“And that was your sole reason in opening the trunk?”

“Yes. I found a suede leather jacket on top. Underneath that I found a brown paper bag containing a quart bottle of whiskey and another smaller paper bag, which I opened. It contained conchos.”

“Conchos?”

“Small silver medallions used in Southwestern jewelry, especially attached to leather belts.”

“Describe them.”

“Tarnished silver, two of them, holes in the center for attaching them to something, chased with fancy filigree designs, about an inch and a half across, round but with an indented pattern around the outside edge.”

“You saw these conchos before?”

“Yes. I recalled that the body found after the most recent arson fire in Carmel Valley wore a belt decorated with conchos. I decided to report this to you as soon as possible as I felt there might be a relationship.”

“Like what? Like he took them off the body?”

“You tell me.”

“What did you do then?”

“I left the tent. There were reinforced holes on the main door flap and holes on the side. A bicycle cable looped through the flap holes and a combination lock was lying on the floor just inside the tent. I attached the cable and lock and pushed the lock shut and spun the dial. I tested the flap. It seemed reasonably secure and there were no openings where a human could get in without cutting through the lock or the tent.”

“And then what did you do?”

“We brought Nate to the sheriff’s field office in Carmel Valley. I took Nina home. Our dog needed veterinary attention. I drove back out to the animal hospital in the Valley.”

Crockett’s eyes closed and a small silence settled around the men. Having said what he needed to say, Paul waited.

“You left those conchos in the tent? You took nothing from the tent but the rifle shells?”

“Correct.”

Crockett repeated the date and time of the interview and turned off the tape. “You are one lucky son of a gun. Because if those conchos match the burned conchos on the belt of the victim, the Cervantes kid-”

Paul smiled.

“If you’d messed with that evidence-”

“Never touched ’em. Used the baggies.”

“They’re gonna match,” Crockett said. “So it was Cervantes and this Coyote fella, this Robert Johnson.”

“I’m with you on the Coyote part,” Paul agreed.

“Come on. Who else is this loner Coyote gonna know on that short street? What’s the name of it?” He shuffled through the reports in front of him. “Siesta Court? We know he was close to Danny Cervantes. We know Cervantes went up the mountain that night with Willis Whitefeather.”

“Yeah, I don’t quite understand the sequence, but I told you before and I’m telling you again, Whitefeather was an innocent bystander.”

Crockett said, “I already told you I’m not gonna talk about those charges with the D.A.’s office. Have your girlfriend talk to Jaime Sandoval about it. I can’t support letting Whitefeather out at all, where we are now.”

“I understand. So go through the tent yourself, pick up Coyote, and see what he says.”

“Come back in a couple of hours after we have your statement typed up. You sure you told me everything the kid brother told you? About kids getting taken?”

“Yes. But don’t forget the other thing,” Paul said, “the other thing that really surprised me, during this phone call that Nate overheard. Coyote was talking to somebody about getting paid for this hit. Now. He couldn’t have been talking to Danny Cervantes, because Danny Cervantes is dead. He couldn’t have been talking to Wish Whitefeather, because I know and you know you monitor those jail calls, and so does Wish. So what that says to me is, there’s another party paying for the party.”

Crockett got up and offered Paul his hand. “Who the hell knows?” he said. “It’s the ramblings of a sick kid, maybe, about something that has nothing to do with the arson fires. Maybe the conchos don’t match.”

“The kerosene cans ought to help. Maybe you’ll find some bank records or something.”

“What with one thing and another, I think we have plenty for the search warrant. Then we’ll see. Maybe lots of charges to file.”