Shaunessy Goes West in Winter. by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 4

The winter’s black night sky ached to give way to the hoped for, soon to come morning light. The dense, always threatening, dark clouds again assembled overnight, fully concealing the minimal informative glow that heavenly bodies might have offered in less difficult circumstances, had they chosen to persist in their futile bleak season pursuits. The insurmountable, rocky Sangre de Cristo mountain range waited patiently, as it had done countless past frozen seasons, the peaks having learned to quietly suffer the sub-zero temperatures and 20º in their foothills. “The fiery ball is always somewhere,” the experienced Forest Ranger thought. “Eventually it will get to us if someone or something intervenes in the congregation of naysayers, so confidently instilling everything with their deficiency of brilliance.”

As the sun made his first incursion into the horizon, he saw that today he would again encounter the same old obstacles the ages had deemed appropriate for weeping salutations to any traveler unable to alter their monotonous path. If his illumination allowed it, he would hate them for their persistent unsightly, un-Godly drear, pervasive to the consciousness of all in their domain. “Didn’t they realize their effects? Didn’t they care? Were they just doing the job assigned to them

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generations ago? Or did they enjoy their work and use their free will to establish an affiliation of power and importance otherwise denied to tiny drops of water?”

This particular morning the sun selected the latter question as his primary focus. “The audacity of this multitudinous grouping of miniscule, self-righteous, miserable negations, to again attempt to stop me from doing my work. If I let them persist, they may well next attempt to elevate themselves to the status of a science or religion.”

The orb of the day knew that someday he would burn out and become just another black hole, but today he saw no sense of prolonging his existence just to let these upstarts cripple his warmth. As he rose from the mountain he strained to fire on all cylinders, trying to generate the hottest passion he could. He was no longer a youngster, but once more wanted to show the complacent multitude his abilities.

As the increased level of heat hit the dark clouds they started to dry up and disappear into thin air, much as a vampire caught in a sunrise. The rainclouds initially reacted with disbelief, but as they lost more of their numbers, they decided to bail out and dropped their precipitation to the earth, their tears increasing the fragrances, filling the streams and warming the frigid air.

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The triumphant sun first shone purple, then red and then pink as he consistently decreased his filtration through the dark vapors, finally standing alone and golden, watching the rainbows. As he took his time meandering through the sky he had reclaimed, he said to whoever may be listening; “I don’t know how many more times I’ll be able to do that. But, you have to admit that it was pretty damn good.”

Striker closed the book and put it back on the Barnes and Noble shelf and thought; “This has to be some of the worst garbage I’ve ever read. He must look to the sky for his clues.

I find mine right here in the dirt.” He re-checked the binding and indeed, it did say “Destiny’s Station” by Irradiana Oblikowski, the same title and author that his “new” partner had recommended to him. He was a bit incredulous at his use of the word “new” describing a decrepit fifty-four year old man.

Perhaps “newly acquired partner” was more palatable. He didn’t know any other cops who would have any interest in this kind of story about thinking clouds, mountains and suns and his initial reaction was further trepidation about his “big city” partner.

However, after he gave it more thought, he came to a different conclusion; “I’m going to look very good and down-to-earth compared to this guy. I hope he keeps reading.”

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Since he still had time to kill before he was due at the office, Striker went to the “Mystery” section and perused the jackets. “Let me find something with some semblance of reality,” he thought. He found the majority involved murders and missing people and that fit his bill, despite the fact that nothing like that had happened in Vista de la Feria during his six years on the force. Perhaps, being the pessimist that he is, he always unconsciously thought, that the bodies had just not yet been discovered.

A call was put into the Vista de la Feria Police Department by a construction crew working on the property adjacent to a fifty acre tree farm. The two room crumbling adobe structure on the one acre parcel was one of the oldest in town and was probably unoccupied for the last twenty years. The boarded windows and caving roof sat in defiance to the renovators not desirous of surprises. The backhoe stood motionless under the gray January sky, which continually threatened precipitation and periodically delivered five minutes of a drizzle, just to keep things interesting in the typically bleak Southwest winter.

Shaunessy’s and Striker’s police car brushed through the one time driveway, now host to two foot tan weeds. The officers got out of the car and saw a thin, bearded Spanish man resting against the backhoe smoking a cigarette. As they approached,

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two similar men, dressed heavily and topped by dark blue hooded sweatshirts ambled out from behind the structure, one finishing pulling up his zipper. Differentiating the three was difficult, with their similar sizes, baggy clothes and the hood only permitting the view of half faces; brown with a month’s growth of black beards and mustaches.

Striker called out; “Who’s Pedro?”

The cigarette smoker didn’t move, but answered; “That’s me.”

Striker; “You made the call?”

Ramon; “Yeah, that’s what I’m supposed to do when we find a body in a trunk, right?”

Striker nodded and said; “Yes, sir. Good man. Where is it?”

Pedro walked to the front of the backhoe and pointed at the hole in the ground. The other two came near, looking down, either because this was their usual demeanor, or because the drizzle had again started, or because they wanted another look at the bones, sitting in the cracked-open trunk.

The backhoe’s shovel was a foot underground and rested against the seemingly human skull which impassively stared at the sky through its light gray sockets. Unexpected, but far less bizarre than some Halloween costumes, the group of five stoically viewed it, with nothing bright to say.

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Shaunessy asked; “Who are you working for?”

Pedro took a drag from his cigarette, shrugged and said; “I don't know. The boss tell me to come here.”

Shaunessy said; “Got your boss’s number?” and pulled out a pad and pen.

Pedro said: “357-6363, he’s called ‘Kid.’”

Shaunessy said; “Let me see your IDs.”

Three New Mexico driver’s licenses were popped out of wallets and handed to him. Shaunessy took notes.

Striker said; “Looks like you all got them on the same day last month.”

The silence prompted Striker to continue; “I don’t think you’re legal.”

Pedro grounded out his cigarette in the dirt, grimaced, sighed and said; “Man, we workin’.” His two friends didn’t speak English, but their darting eyes, barely visible from under their hoods, showed that they knew what the conversation was about.

Striker looked at Pedro and said; “Tell your friends not to run,” and then he used his cell phone to call Immigration.

Shaunessy was distraught but didn’t want to contradict his partner. When the call was through, he put his arm around Striker’s shoulder and pulled him back near the car, Striker keeping his eye on the Mexicans.

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Shaunessy said in a low forceful voice; “What the hell did you do that for?”

“They’re illegal.”

“So is a quarter of the fucking state.” When Striker didn’t dignify his observation with a response, Shaunessy continued; “They did the right thing. They’re just working.

What’s the problem?”

“Problem is that the towns that are tolerant wind up with all of them. When the town busts their balls, they go elsewhere.”

Shaunessy recalled that many years ago New York became the only northeastern state to grant welfare benefits immediately upon residence and quickly had a gigantic problem. He wasn’t sure if the same logic applied here, but said; “Oh, man. It just doesn’t seem right. They’re working. If they were hanging out looking for trouble, I’d think differently.”

Striker shrugged, shook his head “no,” then shook it “yes,”

while looking away from Shaunessy. He kicked at the dirt, not clearly indicating what he thought.

Shaunessy felt that he had already put in his two cents and went on to another subject, saying; “Now, where do we get the experts to properly investigate this site?”

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Striker said; “Albuquerque Police Department will send out someone.” He paused and sarcastically added; “Okay if I call them?”

Shaunessy looked at him with a combination of curiosity and respect and said; “You’re a fucker, aren’t you?”

Striker called Albuquerque and then again called Immigration, telling them that he apologized for the previous call. A language problem led to a misunderstanding and the people did have proper credentials. After he turned off the cell phone, he said to Shaunessy; “They did do the right thing.”

Shaunessy nodded to him and slapped his shoulder, thankful that his partner reconsidered and deferred to his opinion. He would have felt like shit if he had to arrest the three.

They walked back to the fidgety trio and Striker said;

“You’re free to go any time, but the backhoe has to stay here.

I don’t want anything disturbed until the experts do their job.”

Pedro said; “We can work here again?”

Striker said; “In a while, yes. I’ll call your boss when the investigation is finished.”

Pedro waved to his two friends and they piled into their brown 1982 Toyota and waved as they drove quickly away.

Striker said; “Think they’ll come back?”

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Shaunessy was tempted to say “Sure,” but caught himself and responded, “I don't know. I still have a lot to learn about this place.”

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