Mexican Hat Page 6

Stiles turned in his saddle, and Kerney gave him the reins to his horse. He walked back into the barranca, crossed the stream, climbed the stairs to the cave, and ducked inside.

  The cave was deeper than Kerney expected. He sank to his knees under the low ceiling, waiting for his vision to adjust to the darkness, and listened for a sound. It came as shallow breathing.

  “Who’s there?” Kerney asked.

  The breathing stopped.

  Kerney raised his voice and asked the question again. He could hear Stiles climbing up to join him.

  “Do not hurt me,” a shaky voice answered in Spanish. It came from a small room at the back of the cave.

  Kerney crawled toward the voice on his hands and knees, answering in Spanish. “I am a policeman,” he said. “No one will hurt you.” He could see the shape of a man pressed against the rock wall, his body shaking. “Policia,” he said again.

  “Policia,” the man repeated, unbelieving.

  “Yes,” Kerney replied softly. Eyesight adjusted to the dim light, he could see the man more clearly. Old and thin the way some men get as the body wears out, he was curled up with his knees to his chest. Kerney reached for his hand. It was wet and trembling. The man’s clothing was soaked. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” the old man moaned, his voice breaking. “I cannot remember.”

  “What have you got?” Stiles called from outside the cave.

  Kerney told him, and Jim crawled in to see for himself. Together they carried the man out of the cave and across the stream into the sunlight. The old man’s lips were blue, his pulse rapid and uneven, and shaking racked his body. He was losing core heat. They stripped off his clothes, and Kerney dried him with a towel from his saddlebags while Stiles fetched a blanket. Wrapped in the blanket, the old man still shivered. Kerney started a small fire, and after warming his hands over the flames, rubbed them on the man’s clammy skin. He kept repeating the process while Stiles checked the soaked clothing for identification.

  “Anything?” Kerney asked.

  “Nope,” Stiles answered. “But these aren’t any cheap threads. We got designer labels here. How did you know he was in the cave?”

  “The steps were wet,” Kerney explained. “It took a minute for it to register. The cave is too high above the stream for any water to reach it. He must have scrambled in when he heard us coming.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Stiles said. He keyed the hand-held radio to call for help, then took his finger off the button. “You don’t see too many people hiking in the mountains wearing expensive city clothes. What’s this old man been up to?”

  Kerney shrugged as he kept rubbing the man with his hands.

  Stiles leaned over and spoke in the old man’s ear. “Who are you?”

  The old man looked at Stiles, his eyes blinking rapidly.

  “Ask him in Spanish,” Kerney counseled.

  Stiles tried again, this time in Spanish.

  “I do not know,” the old man answered haltingly.

  “Where did you come from?” Stiles inquired.

  “Mexican Hat,” the man answered, his teeth chattering.

  “Where were you yesterday? Last night?” Stiles prodded.

  “Mexican Hat,” the man repeated.

  “Damn,” Stiles said, looking at Kerney and shaking his head in disbelief. “What the hell is an old man from someplace called Mexican Hat doing lost in a place where people aren’t supposed to be?”

  “Beats me,” Kerney replied. “Call it in. Let’s get this old guy to a hospital.”

  Stiles switched to the state police frequency, keyed the unit, and made contact. He asked for a chopper from Silver City and paramedics.

  “The only place called Mexican Hat I know of is in southern Utah,” Stiles said, when he was finished talking on the radio. “A small town near the Arizona border.”

  Kerney shook his head. “I don’t think that’s where he came from.”

  “How in the hell did he get here?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Kerney answered. “Let’s get him warmed up.”

  Stiles put away the radio and joined Kerney. Together they massaged the old man until his trembling started to subside.

  “He’s going to make it,” Stiles predicted.

  Kerney wasn’t so sure; there was a nasty bruise on the man’s temple, and his eyes were unfocused.

  The rescue helicopter made good time, and Stiles used the radio to guide it in. It landed as close to the mouth of the canyon as it could. Two men carrying backpacks and a stretcher hiked quickly up the hillside. The old man’s breathing had improved, and a bit of color was back. The paramedics took over, wrapped him in more blankets, got an IV started, and carted him on the stretcher to the waiting chopper.

  “Where are you taking him?” Kerney asked, as he walked alongside the stretcher. The old man wouldn’t let go of Kerney’s hand.

  “Gila Regional in Silver City,” one of the paramedics answered. “You guys did a good job.”

  “Take care of him.”

  “No problem. He looks like a tough old bird,” the paramedic answered.

  Kerney had to pry his hand free as the old man was lifted into the chopper. “You’re going to be fine,” he said, in Spanish.

  “Carlotta,” the old man whispered.

  Kerney leaned closer. “Who is Carlotta? Your daughter? Your wife?” he asked.

  The man looked confused. “My wife,” he said. “You should know that, little one. She is your grandmother.”

  “Where is Grandmother?”

  “Dead.”

  “Was she with you last night?” Kerney insisted.

  The man shook his head sadly. “I’m not sure. You are a good boy, Hector. Take care of my father’s sheep.”

  The chopper pilot waved Kerney away before he could question the old man further. He walked back to Stiles.

  “Did the old man say anything?” Jim asked.

  “He rambled on a bit in Spanish.”

  “Could you make anything out?”

  “He called me Hector and said Carlotta was dead.”

  “So he speaks English,” Jim ventured.

  “No.”

  “Did he use the word muerto for dead?”

  “That’s what I heard,” Kerney answered.

  “Carlotta, who could that be?”

  “His esposa, he said.”

  “Esposa, that means wife. Damn! I should have gone with you. My Spanish is pretty good. Maybe I could have gotten more out of him.”

  “Maybe,” Kerney allowed. “But while we’re looking for that mountain lion, I think we’d better keep an eye out for at least one or two lost people.”

  “Lost or dead,” Stiles replied. He wadded up the old man’s clothes and expensive oxford shoes and stuffed them into the saddlebags.

  The helicopter, a speck in the sky, followed the gravel road that cut across the high valley of the mountains, on a fast track to Silver City through the passes.

  Kerney turned, looked up at the mountain and back at Jim Stiles. “That old man didn’t travel through the canyon we rode in on. We would have seen his sign.”

  Stiles nodded in agreement. “My bet is that he came in on the Mangas road or walked down from Elderman Meadows.”

  “Any way in by vehicle?” Kerney asked.

  “An abandoned road goes to the meadows. Hardly anybody knows about it. It’s not marked on any of the maps.” Jim Stiles pointed at the lowest range of foothills that curved below them, running in a broken wave. “Mangas used to be a village around that bend. The road takes off behind the school and climbs to the meadows. Maybe he tried to drive in and got himself stuck. It happens. Last winter an old couple from someplace back east decided to take a side trip on a ranch road. Storm came up, and two weeks later they found the man dead in a snowbank and his wife frozen solid in the car. You ready to look for that mountain lion?”

  “Think that’s all we’re going to find?” Kerney replied, putting out the sma
ll fire.

  A grin broke across Jim’s face. “This is getting more interesting all the time, isn’t it?” He mounted and nodded at the closest foothill. “We’ll drop below that hill and pick up the trailhead. Shouldn’t be long before we know what the rest of the day will bring.”

  At the trailhead, it took only a few minutes for Jim to find the radio collar under a juniper tree.

  “Cut,” he said, picking it up with a stick. “Somebody killed the cat.” He wrapped the collar in plastic and tied it to the saddle pommel. “We need to find the carcass.” His expression turned sour. “If there is one to find.”

  Kerney walked parallel to the trail, leading his horse, studying the ground.

  “What’s up?” Jim asked.

  “ATV tracks. And some shoe prints. Give me the old man’s oxfords.”

  Stiles dug a shoe out of his saddlebag and tossed it to Kerney. The prints matched perfectly.

  “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?”

  “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 Tularosas.”

  “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 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 Kerney. “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 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 secure 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 and a strong suspicion, from the registration papers found in the truck, that the old man in the cave was Dr. José 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 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 Café 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 Mangas Mountain.”

  “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.”