Nothing but Trouble_ A Kevin Kerney Novel - Michael Mcgarrity [30]
“Do you think the dead man fell or was pushed?” Kerney asked.
“It’s hard to say,” Sapian replied. “If he was riding in the panel van as you suggest, you’d think there would be skid marks or other evidence to indicate that something happened to cause the rear door to pop open and the victim to fall out. On the other hand the coyotes pack their customers in trucks like sardines to maximize their profits. The victim could have been leaning against the door and it just gave way.”
“That may not be what happened,” Kerney said as he walked to the spot where the body had landed on the highway. “He hit facedown, and the only bruising and blunt-force trauma was on the front of his head and torso. There’s nothing here or on the body that shows he either tumbled or slid along the pavement.”
“That doesn’t prove murder,” Sapian said.
Kerney looked at Sapian. “You’re right, but homicide can’t be ruled out either.”
Sapian shrugged. “Maybe the autopsy will tell us something.” “Yeah,” Kerney said as he stared at the bloodstained pavement.
“You did the best you could to save him,” Sapian said.
“He was just a kid.”
Sapian nodded solemnly. “When I was first married, I’d come home from work and my wife would ask me how my day went. Some days I’d just say that she didn’t want to know. Once she asked and I told her. She doesn’t ask that question anymore.”
“There are days it just gets to you.”
“I know that feeling, Chief,” Sapian replied, eyeing Kerney’s blood-splattered face, hands, and shirt.
“I look a mess, don’t I?” Kerney said. “Is there anyplace nearby where I can clean up?”
“Not until you get to Hachita. But there’s a ranch a few miles north of here. Sign on the highway says Granite Pass Cattle Company. I’m sure the owners wouldn’t mind if you used one of their water tanks. I’ll give them a call, if you like, so you don’t get run off for trespassing.”
“Who are the owners?”
“Joe and Bessie Jordan,” Sapian replied. “An older couple, pretty much retired now. Joe’s gotta be pushing eighty. Their manager, Walter Shaw, and their daughter run the operation.”
Kerney smiled at the thought of seeing Johnny’s parents and sister. “Joe, Bessie, and Julia.”
“You know them?”
“You could say that,” Kerney replied. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give them a holler for me.”
A mile in on the ranch road the mesquite and greasewood shrubland gave way to open range that swept north and south along the flank of the Little Hatchet Mountains. Just off the road on the edge of a grassy pasture stood a rodeo grounds, complete with an elevated crow’s nest. A sign on it read: JORDAN ARENA.
The arena, enclosed by sturdy railroad ties and wire, had chutes at one end, gates at the other, and electric light poles outside the perimeter. Not that many years ago ranch rodeo arenas were a common sight in many rural areas of the state. Once or twice a year ranch families and working cowboys would come together to socialize and show off their skills in friendly competition. Folks would back their pickups against the fence and set up folding chairs in the truck beds to view the action. Events usually consisted of team penning, wild-horse catching, team branding, team roping, and wild-cow milking.
Kerney was glad to see that Joe and Bessie Jordan were keeping the old tradition alive.
Behind the holding pens was a stock tank fed by a windmill. Kerney stripped off his shirt and stuck his head and arms into the clear water, raised up, and started scrubbing off the dried blood with his hands. His moist skin dried almost immediately in the arid heat of the day. He stuck his head in the tank again and splashed water on his chest, shoulders, and back. He came up for air and a voice behind him said, “Remember when we used to go swimming in the stock tanks on Daddy’s Jornada ranch?”
He turned and looked at the woman who stood in front of a three-quarter-ton flatbed truck. “Hello, Julia.