Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen

Okay, here’s the plan. What we need to do first is ban abortions, all abortions. Not because we think it’s the right thing to do, but because it’s the only way we can get the religious right and the Tea Party off of this one issue and get them focused on the real needs of our country. They’ve shown that they won’t consider anything like solutions to our healthcare problems or agreeing to a federal budget unless abortion is on the table.

Abortions are no more. They are done, done, done. Now these folks can get on with their lives and we can begin to deal with our crumbling infrastructure, our third-world education system, our 50 million people without health insurance, our 2.5 million homeless and maybe even illiteracy. Did your know that 46% of our adults can’t read the labels on their prescription medicines or that 85%, that’s right 85%, of our juveniles appearing before our courts are functionally illiterate. Do these sound like the problems we should be focused on now that we finally got rid of abortion?

Okay, we’ll lower the tax rate for the ultra rich from 35% to zero. Now can we finally get their attention?

Never mind that these folks are totally obsessed with solving our growing budget deficit by cutting the so-called entitlement programs like Social Security and Medicare without addressing or even discussing the two wars we can neither afford nor win. The hell with our old people, we need that money to kill terrorist, unseat tyrants, referee civil wars in far off lands and to shove democracy down the throats of infidels. That’s the American way.

What are we going to do with the young girl that ends up with an unwanted pregnancy, you ask? We’re going to preach abstinence and more abstinence because we know how well that works and if she still needs that abortion for any of those reasons we’ve all heard over and over, she can get a coat hanger abortion down some dark alley just like Sarah Palin will have to do.

On the River with the Army of the Tennessee is an edited and annotated copy of the diary penned by my great-great grandfather, Dr William J. Rockwell as he tended the sick and wounded of 11th Indiana Regiment on board various boats as they steamed up the Tennessee River in 1862. He was a hospital steward and later an assistant surgeon serving with the F&S Company from his enlistment at Decatur, Indiana on July 10, 1861 until his discharge on June 27, 1863. His diary begins in a snowstorm at Fort Heiman on March 6, 1862 as they board boats for the short journey back downriver to Fort Henry where an armada of nearly 50 boats is being assembled for their trip up the river (using his words) into the heart of secession-dom.

She was right on time. You know how the really rich lead such different lives from us that they make our little worlds seem totally insignificant. Mrs. James Robertson did all of that to me and more just by her presence. It was more than her elevated station in life; it was her magnificent beauty and her gracious style. She was as friendly and as intimate as a Hollywood starlet back in her home-town for a high school reunion. Although she tried to put me at ease I still felt inadequate in my shabby little office talking to someone so young, so beautiful and so obviously from a much, much higher tax bracket.

I should back up a bit and introduce myself. I’m Bob Swathmore and I run Robert Swathmore and Associates, a discreet private investigation firm as a side business to my real bread and butter, Tropicana Pool Supply and Service. I find that these two businesses go very well together here in Scottsdale where everyone who can afford or would ever need a private investigator has a swimming pool and employs someone for pool service. My new PI business has been my dream ever since those assholes at the Phoenix and Scottsdale police departments and even that dimwit Sheriff Joe at the Maricopa County Sheriffs office couldn’t recognize my genius. Someday, I’ll show ‘em what they can do with their hard-ass tests.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Swathmore. I have an urgent matter I’d like you to look into,” she says as if she’s reading for a part in a movie.

“You can start by calling me Bob. Can I get you a cold drink or something?”

“A glass of water please, a Perrier or a San Pellegrino would be nice.”

“I’ve got a bottle of … let’s see … how about … an Aquafina?”

“That would be fine.”

“Now Mrs. Robertson, tell me about this urgent matter that brings you to my office.”

“Please call me Brandi and I’m here because my husband, Jim is … er … how do you say it politely … is having an affair with someone at his office. Is ‘affair’ the right term for that sort of thing?”

I was totally captivated by everything about her, her naturally blond locks, her skimpy but fashionable summer dress, her obviously enhanced breasts, her designer sandals and those sun glasses that must have cost two grand, at least. I was having real trouble keeping my mind on our conversation with all of those other thoughts, I probably shouldn’t mention here, running through my head.

“That word is as good as any. Why are you so sure that your husband is … let’s say … fooling around?”

“Mr. Swathmore … er, I mean Bob … a wife just knows. There are lots of subtle little clues … I can’t put my finger on one such clue but they all add up.”

“Okay, let’s say he’s dipping his wick in the company ink well. What would you like me to do about it?”

“I’ll be away for a few days and it will be a good time for you to verify or dispute my suspicions. If you find any evidence of an affair I’d like you to give it to me so that I can use it to confront my husband and force him to stop.”

“You know, I’ve found that when I catch a wayward husband he always apologizes, says he’ll terminate the relationship and promises never to do it again. That usually works for about a month or two, three at most. Then the next thing you know he’s humping the girl at the Avis rent a car counter or a cocktail waitress at some watering hole.”

“Be that as it may, I want you to help me stop whatever’s going on now. If it happens again I’ll just have to deal with it.”

I’m thinking ahead to my sneaking around, peeking though key holes and bedroom windows trying to get the one telling photo that shows not only what they’re doing but clearly who they are. Do you know how hard that is? Think of all of the sexual positions and name one that has both parties looking in the same direction at the same time. My best hope is for a head on doggie-style shot while she’s lifting her head to moan or something, but that never happens. All of my doggie-style shots have been from the rear and they’re worthless, just a hairy ass with four feet.

“I’ll get you the goods on your husband if he’s fishin’ off the company pier, as they say. In fact, I’ll get the goods on him if dangling his pole anywhere but home. All you have to do is complete this contract for pool maintenance, give me some info on your hubby and we’ll be off and running. See, I’ll bill you on my pool service letterhead so your cheatin’ ass husband won’t know I’m on your payroll. Oh, you should probably cancel your current pool service.”

“I don’t think I have pool service. Alfredo, our maintenance guy cleans and maintains the pool. Let me give you the info on my husband. He’s chairman and owner of Robertson Financial a local investment banking firm or some such mysterious investment operation. I’ve never understood what he actually does. His offices are in the new tower at Scottsdale Fashion Square. He’s in the book, you can’t miss him.”

She completed the contract and took her first and only drink of my el cheapo water as she rose to leave. After she left I just sat there staring at the empty space, the space where I had just seen her magnificent ass sashay out of view.

I didn’t know where to begin; in truth, I never knew how to begin a new case. What do you do first? I’d already fantasized the end of the case. The case ends when I present Brandi such compelling evidence that she rewards me with a lot more than just a big check. I’ve got to quit daydreaming about Brandi and get started, now if I could only figure out how.

Without a plan I opened a case file with the couple of sheets Brandi had filled out, made a label for the tab and just stared at my little bit of info. I was so taken back by Brandi Robertson that I couldn’t concentrate. What do you do at times like this? You play solitaire on your computer, that’s what. Midway through the 7th or was it my 8th game it dawned on me; I should have been doing research on the wayward husband.

I Googled and Yahooed James Robertson and Robertson Financial for a couple of hours but didn’t learn anything, anything that I could understand, anyway. All of that investment banking stuff was way over my head. I read and reread: An investment bank is a financial institution that assists corporations and governments in raising capital by underwriting and acting as the agent in the issuance of securities. An investment bank also assists companies involved in mergers and acquisitions, derivatives, etc. Further it provides ancillary services such as market making and the trading of derivatives, fixed income instruments, foreign exchange, commodity, and equity securities. I thought I got it except for the underwriting, commodity, derivatives and ancillary services whatever in the hell they are. Screw this; I’d rather go see Robertson Financial for myself. Fashion Square is the trendy shopping center on the north end of Old Town Scottsdale. He must be in one of those new office buildings they recently added to that really high priced real estate.

I sat in the parking lot and just stared at the building wondering what to do next. Nothing came to mind. I soon concluded that I only needed to know two things about James Robertson. Was he was banging some bimbo and if so, could I get a photo? All of that research bullshit would just confuse me. I realized then that I should be checking out their house rather than sitting there in this hot-assed parking lot. I’d be doing most of my snooping out there anyway and I needed to get the lay of the land.

I went back to the office and changed into my pool maintenance shorts and tee shirt and grabbed the keys to my truck.

The Robertson’s house was hidden up a lonely road in Desert Mountain. Their so-called security guards waved me right through the gate when they saw my truck. My pool maintenance disguise works every time. Desert Mountain is a development of multimillion dollar homes scattered on acreages around some of the most beautiful desert-style golf courses in the valley. I’ve always wanted to play here but it’s really, really private. Maybe after I wrap up this case Brandi will treat me to round? I can almost picture her in a tiny little golf outfit bending over to pick up her ball. I was getting hard just thinking about it.

I found their house easy enough drove down the long driveway to a house about the size of my high school and parked in front of their five-car, that’s right, five-car garage. I grabbed my long pole and skimmer net to look official and headed for the back yard. The gate opened into some heavy duty landscaping with a magnificent pool and a cabana. I was wandering around looking for the pool equipment when someone called my name.

“Bob, Bob. It’s good to see that you’re on the job so soon. Promptness, I like that in a man.”

I turned to see Brandi in a chaise lounge under the cabana’s awning, if that’s what you call ‘em. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the shade. It was then that I noticed, how could I not notice, that she was only wearing the tiniest of thongs and those high priced sun glasses and nothing else. Those magnificent breasts that I had fantasized about were right out there for me to admire. Wow!

“Come sit with me and have something to drink while you tell me your plan.”

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t do anything but stare at those beautiful tits. I finally got a hold of myself and plopped into a chair. I got up and moved the chair a bit further forward so I could get a better view of my employer. She was fashion model or even Hollywood starlet kind of beautiful. I crossed my legs to hide the bulge in my shorts.

She got up and wiggled her perfect ass as she sauntered into the cabana and returned with two Heineken Lights. She sat back down as gracefully as an exotic dancer might after her final set. My mind was racing, I was drooling and I was as stiff as a new broom. She had to know what she was doing to me.

We sipped our beers and I tried looking at the calming water in the pool to get my mind off of Brandi. It didn’t work at all.

“So Bob, I’m leaving tomorrow to spend a few days with friends in New York. While I’m away would be a good time to keep an eye on Jim. You might swing by here in the evenings, say nine o’clock or so, and look in on Jim. If he has anyone here it’ll be very apparent.”

“That sounds like a plan. Do you have a dog or an alarm system that I should worry about?’

“We don’t have a dog and we have a security system that we never turn on until bedtime. Anyway, it doesn’t monitor the outside. As long as you don’t touch the windows or the doors you’ll be fine.”

She pushed her chaise down a little and sprawled out in a really suggestive pose. I gulped the last of my beer when she said, “Why don’t you join me over here so we can get to know each other a little better. I like to know who I’m working with.” She scooted to the side of the chaise and made room for me next to her.

As soon as I lay down she was on me like a dog in heat. She had my clothes off in a heartbeat and as I was just about to do the deed she handed me a condom. I don’t usually wear those things but I was in no position to argue.

It was over in a flash. I was too worked up to be much of a lover. She crawled out from under me and raced to the cabana. She was back in a second with a couple of towels. She laid me back and removed the condom and washed me with a damp towel. So this is how the rich folks do it. She cleans up afterwards. I could get used to this.

I was laying there hoping for a second bit of fun when this Mexican guy comes out of nowhere. I grabbed my shorts off of the deck and half covered myself.

“Mrs. Robertson, I’m done for the day. I’ll see you on Thursday unless you have something else for me,” he said not looking at me. He stared off into space as if he’d seen this all before.

Brandi answered from inside the cabana, “No Alfredo, that will be all for today. Adios.”

“Adios, Senora.”

I wanted a second chance, a chance to do it right this time but she had put on a robe and begun picking up the beer bottles, towels and stuff. It was obvious our little afternoon’s delight was over.

You forget how many prickly things there are in the desert until you fumble around in some rich guy’s bushes in the dark. I was getting scratched, poked and stabbed by every damn thing when the lights in what must have been the living room, den or some such room came on. I jumped back into this mean-ass bush to avoid being seen. Through the sliding glass doors I watched this couple snuggle on a couch. So this is what James Robertson looked like: a slender handsome sorta guy with tailored clothes and slicked back hair. He looked kinda like Gordon Gekko, the rich, sleazy character Michael Douglas played in Wall Street. She, on the other hand, was a knockout. She was a brunette version of Brandi and maybe even more beautiful, if that was possible. I couldn’t wait to see her au naturel, as the French say.

Nothing happened for an hour or so. They each had a couple of glasses of wine and from the flickering light I assumed they were watching TV. I was thinking about getting a beer from the cabana when they turned everything off and left the room. I wish I’d had Brandi give me a tour of the house. Their place was massive and they could have gone anywhere. I snuck around a bunch of patio furniture and some more bushes when I saw a dim light shining through another set of glass doors. I sneaked up in my best cat burglar fashion. They were in a bed room. She was sitting at the vanity fiddling with something while he undressed across the room in what must be his closet.

Soon they were both in bed propped up reading, she had a fashion magazine and it looked like he was reading work stuff. This was going to be a long night if I had to stand out here in the bushes and watch people read. Finally, he switched off his light and rolled over and pulled her covers back. She put her book down pulled her nightgown over her head and they began the horizontal mambo. He was pretty good and I was admiring his moves when they rolled to the foot of the bed with her on top. Here was a shot … I caught her full face on in what could only be Jim in Brandi’s bedroom. It wasn’t the shot I wanted but it was pretty damn good.

Is this any way to make a living? Watching people screw through their windows like a peeping tom. They continued for what seemed like an hour. I took a couple more shots. I couldn’t help thinking that I had seen this lovely brunette somewhere before, but where. She was way too pretty to be in my social circles … maybe I’d seen her in the movies. They finally finished and I’m sure the earth moved for her … it almost did for me. They turned out the lamp and I took off for home.

The next morning I downloaded the pictures and updated my case file. The shot of her on top at the foot of the bed was definitely a keeper. I’ll have to keep at it to get that one shot that will earn me another session on the chaise lounge. I found I couldn’t wait for the sun to go down so I could see more of that beautiful woman and, if I were totally honest, to admire Jim’s sexual staying power. I wish I could screw for hours like that.

About nine thirty that night as I was coming around the side of the house I heard laughter and splashing from the pool. They were skinny dipping in the pool with their ice bucket and champagne floating around on a little raft. The rich really know how to live. I watched them frolic and soon she climbed out of the pool, toweled off and laid down on the same chaise that I had enjoyed just a couple a days earlier. He joined her with the ice bucket and soon they are doing the deed. I fumbled with my telescopic lens and tried to figure out how I could get anything in that poor light. I looked up to see the doggie-style shot I had always dreamed of, her with her head up and him above looking straight ahead. I must have shot twenty pictures before she lowered her head and lay down flat on her tummy. He never missed a stroke. He just kept banging away. My hero.

I added these new photos to my file wrote up my report and couldn’t wait to see Brandi again. Was she gonna be surprised and I hoped pleased with my efforts. I piled this stuff neatly on my desk and headed out. I needed to give their pool a once-over before she got back so that Jim would think I was legit.

The pool looked funny for some reason. The water was churning like one of the return valves was closed. I found the value and saw that the knob was broken completely off. I got some tools from my truck and went to work. I had the new knob on and the valve open in about twenty minutes. Am I good or what? Just as I was picking up my things Brandi startled me.

“Hey big guy, looks like you fixed everything up.”

“Oh, hi Brandi, when did you get home?”

“I just got in this morning. How’s your detective work coming along?”

“I’ve got a lot to show you. I have to come back here tomorrow with a new part for this valve. Can we meet at my office tomorrow at say … 3 o’clock?”

“Sure, that’ll work. Say, could I borrow your hammer. I brought a picture back from New York and I want to hang it. Alfredo’s off today and I can’t find any tools in the garage.”

“You betcha, here it is.”

“Just lay it on the table over there when you leave. It was good seeing you and I look forward to our meeting tomorrow. Bye.” She said as she turned and headed back to the house.

As I was loading my truck to leave a security officer pulled in behind me. Once I told him who I was and what I was doing there he wished me a good day and took off. What jerks these rent-a-cops are.

I finished my report, chose three of the best photos including my masterpiece, the head on doggie-style shot and prepared my bill. I don’t know how she’s gonna take this brunette with her husband in her bed. Maybe my hopes for a little more action were too optimistic. Anyway, I did a good job, got the evidence and should get paid well for my efforts. Another quickie would just be frosting on the cake.

The following morning I showered, patted my expensive cologne into every nook and cranny, ironed my best tee shirt and headed out to the Robertson’s. I was coming around the house humming a jingle and daydreaming about Brandi when I saw it … ah … her. She was floating face down in the pool … nude with her cute little derriere sticking out of the water and not moving a muscle. I dropped my gear and dove in after her. I swam her to the side of the pool, crawled out and lifted her to the deck. She was dead, big time dead. I started CPR or what I hoped was CPR. I blew into her mouth and banged on her chest but nothing happened.

I stood up and took a close look at her. She was a beautiful blond with a dynamite figure but she wasn’t Brandi Robertson. And, I knew for sure that Brandi had real breasts not implants. This girl had really nice tits but they were plastic. I ran to the house but no one answered the door. I peeked in the cabana but didn’t see a phone so I ran to my truck, got my cell and dialed 911.

I got a beer out of the cabana fridge and sat on a chaise and waited for the police. About fifteen minutes later all you could hear were sirens as the patio filled with blue uniforms. After these two EMTs pronounced her dead all of the uniformed cops just stood around gawking at the beautiful corpse. Then this guy in a business suit covered the body with a blanket and sent the horny cops scurrying around the yard, looking for clues I assumed. I just sat there nursing my third beer when this suit came up to me and introduced himself as Detective, Sergeant Billings of the Scottsdale PD. He sat down next to me and I told him everything about finding the body, diving into the pool, trying CPR and calling 911. He listened and took notes. Finally he said what I thought they only said in movies, “You can go now but don’t leave town.”

I drove home in a fog. What was going on? Who was that lady? Where were the Robertsons? And, why couldn’t I leave town if I wanted to? I walked into my office, sat down and stared at the wall for a few minutes before I reached for the Robertson file and photos. They weren’t there. I looked everywhere but no file. I remember clearly putting the file on the corner of my desk. It wasn’t there now. I booted up my computer and franticly searched for my file and my photos. Nothing, somebody had cleaned me out.

I didn’t have a phone number for their house so I called and called Robertson Financial and left message after message. No one called me back. What was going on? I drove out to Desert Mountain but the security guards wouldn’t let me in. I had ‘em call the Robertson’s house but still no dice.

I sat by my phone expecting Brandi to call any minute. No nothing. It was like the Robertson chapter in my life had never happened. Was I going bonkers?

Ten days after I found the body in the pool Detective Sergeant Billings and his colleague barged into my store with a warrant for my arrest for the murder of Brandi Robertson. I protested and tried to explain but they drug me handcuffed through the store and rushed me to the station house.

I sat in this stuffy little interview room while these two detectives double-teamed me with never ending questions. I told my story over and over but they kept pounding me with their twisted version of the so called facts.

“Look guys I’ve gone through this a hundred times. Why don’t you believe me?”

Sergeant Billings was unyielding with his version of the truth. “The reason we don’t believe you, Bob, is because we can’t find any evidence that Mrs. Robertson ever hired you to do anything let alone investigate her husband. We do however, have the Desert Mountain security log that shows you were at her home the afternoon of the murder, a witness who claims to have seen you having sex with Mrs. Robertson on the patio a few days earlier, a security guard that can place you in the Robertson’s driveway the afternoon she was murdered, your fingerprints all over the murder weapon, your hammer by the way, and lastly an autopsy report that shows Mrs. Robertson had had sex right before she was murdered. Explain to me, one more time, how it is that we found your semen in her body?”

I found the following letters tied with a faded old ribbon in the bottom drawer of an old friend’s dresser shortly after she passed away. She had saved these letters for … let’s see … they’re postmarked 1942 … that’s 68 years. These must be the last letters from her young husband; the husband she lost so many years ago.

I untie the bow and pull the first letter from its tattered envelope when something across the room catches my eye. There’s nothing there but a bed, a lamp, a nightstand and the photo of a young Marine that Laura coveted. I noticed the picture earlier but it looks different now, somehow. Could that Marine in the picture be smiling at me?

With the author beaming over my shoulder I nervously share these cherished old letters with you.

Bob Rockwell
October 14, 2010

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for tradition. But some things just grow old and don’t work anymore no matter how hard we try to preserve them. I’ve spelled out a few of the things I think we need to address and update. Like stuff we’re teaching our children that we no longer believe in ourselves. Look down this list and I’m sure you’ll agree we need to get hopping on these important social issues.

The Tooth Fairy
The practice of parents rewarding their children for going through the somewhat unpleasant childhood ritual of shedding their baby teeth is probably a good one but we need to re-look at how we sell it to them. The Tooth Fairy … ah, come on! I’ve got a new twist on this old custom and fairy tale. In my updated world the new missing-tooth child will auction off his or her teeth on eBay to the highest bidder. The kid will get more money; the parents won’t have to get up in the middle of the night and, best of all, we won’t have to keep telling that totally implausible lie.

Timmy’s ad on eBay would look something like this:

The Easter Bunny
Did you ever believe that the Easter Bunny brought baskets filled with colored eggs and candy to your home the night before Easter? This weird bunny put his Easter baskets out where you could find them easily on Easter morning but that was only the beginning. Once you found your baskets the hunt was on because this damn sneaky rabbit hid eggs everywhere in the house and the garden including some really hard to find places. What a crock! Even when I was a tyke I never bought this story of an egg-hiding hare. With child obesity at near epidemic levels and after understanding the fat and cholesterol content of eggs how can we continue with this dumb tradition? Let’s face it, what this really is, is a treasure hunt for fattening and unhealthy food. Let’s make it a real treasure hunt. Not a treasure hunt for unhealthy food but for something like coupons. Coupons redeemable at some cool place like Chuck E. Cheese’s or The Home Depot.

Jack Frost
Did your parents tell you that those frosty crystal patterns formed on your windows on cold mornings were the work of that invisible artist Jack Frost? A toddler might buy that story about a mysterious artist, but not for long. Here’s a case where we can actually tell the truth and not screw up any family traditions. The true story is that icy artwork forms on the windows when the temperature fluctuates around the freezing point. As slightly warmer air touches the chilled glass it drops it below its saturation point and deposits a layer of tiny crystals in an icy frosting. Then, as drafts of warmer air puffs onto the windows some of the crusty crystals melt and tiny trickles of moisture wander through the frosting. When a cold breeze arrives it freezes those moist trickles into groovy patterns. Several warm and cool spells add to the art-work and this network of trickling grooves grows and grows. Now that I’ve told you all of that, the Jack Frost story isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Our Cupid of St. Valentine’s Day
I don’t know about you but I don’t buy a chubby little uncircumcised baby with wings so ugly they could only have been the hallucination of some long-dead renaissance artist being our symbol of romantic love. And, we arm this fat little guy with a wimpy little bow and arrows. This is our symbol of courtship and romantic love? What’s up with that? We can do better than this. How about a younger, nude Pamela Anderson armed with a life buoy from Bay Watch? What do you think? I could get into that.

Uncle Sam
Uncle Sam is supposed to be the personification of the United States and the figurehead for our American government. Maybe he worked in 1812 when he was dreamt up but not now in 2010. First off he’s too old and crotchety and that goofy white goatee is not at all like what’s being worn today. A stovepipe hat, you’ve got to be kidding. And, we all quit wearing clothing made out of American flags when the hippy era died, sometime in the late 70s after we all sobered up. I don’t know what our modern Uncle Sam should look like but it’s not the guy we have now. Who wants this action item?

Arbor Day
This is the dumbest holiday ever and I’m from Nebraska. The pioneers moved west from the lush forests in the east to the treeless plains with its endless meadows of tall grasses. The first thing the pioneers did was get rid of the grass by plowing it under and allowing their livestock to eat it all. After this they looked around and said, “This place needs some trees,” even though God didn’t see a need for any before they got there. These yoyos made this a holiday so we would plant trees on Arbor Day in places where trees don’t grow naturally. How about if we plant rainforest undergrowth out here in the desert? Makes just as much sense. Dumb!

Santa Claus
I like Christmas as well as the next guy but this, our biggest of holidays, is hopelessly out of date. Let’s start with Santa himself, he’s too fat, has a boozer’s red nose and he smokes for damn sake. Is that the kind of image we want to project to our kids let alone his wearing of an animal fur trimmed outfit. It’s a wonder the PETA folks haven’t gone after him already. Okay, if we clean up Santa and make him politically correct we’ll have to deal with the hard-to-buy parts of this fairy tale like his living in the North Pole. Everyone knows nothing lives at the North Pole. I’d make Santa’s home a farm 40 miles or so north of Fargo, ND. That will fly even with most skeptical, bah humbug types. Next, it’s not politically correct to employ elves and only elves. Where’s the EEO enforcers when we really need them. Santa should employ a diverse workforce of big and little people including an elf of color thrown in here and there.

I never really bought that flying reindeer and sled malarkey and the sliding down chimneys story might have been plausible when everyone had a big chimney but how about the kid living in an apartment in Los Angles. He has no snow, no roof and no chimney. How can we expect him to go along with this fairy tale? How about Santa using the old transporter from Starship Enterprise? It worked well for Captain Kirk, Dr. Spock and Scotty. Santa could beam himself down from Fargo right into our living rooms without getting soot all over the place. Oh, before I forget, we’ve got to dump that milk and cookies idea. Santa is far too fat and his cholesterol levels can’t take all of that milk.

The Sandman
You know who I’m talking about. He’s the guy that sprinkles the sand into the eyes of young children at night to get them to fall asleep and he’s also responsible for the “sleep” in their eyes when they wake up in the morning. Is that a bunch of hooey or what? Why don’t we tell our little ones the truth? They either go to sleep or else and when they wake up they will have crust in the corner of their eyes from the tears they produced to keep their eyes moist and lubricated while they slept. These tears leaked out of the corners of their little eyes and dried causing the crusty “sleep”. Maybe that Sandman story ain’t that bad after all?

©2010 by Bob Rockwell

“I met her in a poker game. She was dealin’ for the house at the Bee Hive Saloon in the Flats at old Fort Griffin over in Texas. As I recall, a typical evening went kinda like this.”

“I’ll see your five and raise you twenty,” uttered this smug Eastern dude with his snooty British accent.

“That’s too rich for my blood,” said the young cowboy as he made a big deal out of tossing in his hand.

“I’m out too. I fold,” I mumbled.

“I’ll see your twenty and raise you twenty more … here’s my forty … I call you.” Declared the attractive redhead all dolled up in a dress more suited for a church social than this dusty old saloon.

“You got bigger bollocks than any man at this table, Lottie. I never met a woman who could bluff the way you do. I’ll see your twenty. What do you have?” demanded the city slicker.

“Three queens,” Lottie said as she laid down her cards and began raking in the chips with her forearms. “I think that’ll do it for tonight, gentlemen. Good luck. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Goodnight or more appropriately good morning,” she said as she rose from the table. The house guy sittin’ behind her jumped to his feet, pulled out Lottie’s chair and began stacking up her winnings. She didn’t seem to care that she was leaving over three hundred dollars on the table.

As if on cue, I rose too, pocketed my chips and said my goodbyes. Lottie left through the back door of the saloon as I strolled out of the front. We met down the block a ways and walked arm-and-arm to her one-room adobe shanty over in Clear Fork. She always made it known in some subtle way at the poker table if I was invited over that night or not. I’d guess we spent about three or four nights a week together.

The minute she left the saloon she was a southern lady again and anyone who didn’t know her from the Bee Hive wouldn’t suspect that she was as good and as tough a gambler as the west has ever known. It was these two personas and her ability to switch from one to the other that fascinated me. Oh yeah, I was also fascinated by her flaming red hair, her beautiful brown eyes, her sophisticated wardrobe and her endless stories of her travels and other adventures.

We would have a drink or two and talk about anything and everything. She was especially fond of talkin’ about growing up in Kentucky and talkin’ on and on about her father. She revered him and was grateful for all of their travels and for him teachin’ her to gamble. I remember how excited she was telling me about her many trips to New Orleans and her trip to Europe. I had never met anyone who’d been to Europe before and that just added to the mystery that was Lottie. She would also talk sadly about the war years and the loss of her father and her mother’s mental breakdown. After a couple of whiskeys we’d crawl into bed and make love until the sun came up.

I had to be out of Lottie’s before sunrise so that no one would see me leavin’. Her real love, Frank Thurmond, was run out of town a couple of months earlier after he killed a man with his Bowie knife. The dead man’s family put a bounty on Frank’s head and he had to leave town in a hurry. I didn’t know if he kept in touch with Lottie or if he was ever comin’ back but I knew one thing for sure … I wanted no part of Frank’s Bowie knife.

I was in love with both Lotties … Lottie the rough and tough gambler that beat the hell out of everyone at poker, craps and faro and Lottie the southern belle with all of the manners and refinement of her convent school education and her well-to-do life as the mistress of a Kentucky plantation. She might have been in love with me too but with her you just couldn’t tell. I think she saw me as just another gambler but she believed that Frank Thurmond was her ticket back to a life of respectability.

My favorite stories about Lottie, the consummate gambler, were part of the folklore of the Bee Hive. One story went that Lottie and Doc Holliday had become friends and Doc spent a lotta time at Lottie’s faro game. Doc was at Lottie’s table one evening when his girlfriend, Big Nose Kate Elder, stormed in. She was intensely jealous of Lottie and started such a heated argument that both women drew their guns. Doc stopped the fight before either fired a shot. And on another evening Kate got on to Lottie again for tryin’ to steal Doc. Lottie supposedly rose from her chair and yelled at Kate. “You low down slinkin’ slut! If I should step in soft cow manure, I would not even clean my boot with that bastard! I’ll show you a thing or two,” she screamed as she pulled her gun. Kate drew her gun and again Doc had to break up the fight. Now, I never heard Lottie use language like that, but as I told you, her gamblin’ house persona was as tough as they come.

I was madly in love for the first time in my life … in love with someone who only used me to fend off her loneliness in that desolate little town. I was Lottie’s only friend away from the saloon … the only person she could play her cultured, southern belle role with.

I still remember the day she left me; it was May 25, 1877. I wandered into the Bee Hive a little after 10 that night, my usual time. Lottie wasn’t there. I thought she might be runnin’ a little late after our wild night of love together. At midnight I went over to the owner, John Shaunessey, and asked about Lottie. He said she had resigned and caught the Fort Concho stage earlier that afternoon. She had left without even saying goodbye.

The Bee Hive just wasn’t the same without Lottie so I moved my game over to the Cattle Exchange across the street. I soon tired of that too. I wanted to leave Fort Griffin, but to where? One night I bumped into Sheriff John Jacobs and happened to mention how much I missed Lottie. He claimed to have talked to her right before she left town. She told him she was heading west to New Mexico or Arizona or maybe all the way to California. The next day I caught the same westbound stage that Lottie had taken a little less than a year earlier.

Bouncin’ along in a stage gives you plenty of time to think. If Lottie were alone she would be drawn to a gamblin’ town but if she’d hooked up with Frank they would, more than likely, be in some booming mining town. Where would Frank go? Let’s see, Frank was a southern gentlemen turned cowboy, adventurer and all-around tough guy. Lottie had told me many times that she admired Frank for his southern roots, his mastery of western life and mostly, his get up and go. He was a hustler. Now where would I find a hustler?

I bummed around, gambled and got on with my life in one dusty town after another for the next few years. I’d ask any out-of-towners if they had run across Lottie or Doc Holliday in their recent travels or if they knew of any mining towns booming at the time. Lottie was proud of and told me many times how Frank and Doc Holliday were good friends so I thought Doc might be my key to findin’ Lottie. One crusty old prospector seemed to think that the next big boomtown in our part of the country would be Silver City over in the New Mexico Territory.

Silver City wasn’t your usual lawless boomtown; it was wound as tight as a banjo string. This rogue lawman, Dan Tucker, was shootin’ folks right and left. Late one night I was playin’ poker in my usual haunt when Dan Tucker busted into the bar to round up, what I later learned were three suspected horse thieves. He had no qualms about goin’ head-to-head with three armed desperados. A gunfight broke out and I dived under the table as soon the shootin’ started. When the smoke cleared there stood “Dangerous” Dan Tucker over one wounded and two dead cowboys. That was it for me. I’d had enough of Tucker’s Silver City and moved on.

It was gittin’ on three years since Lottie had walked out of my life. By then everyone knew that Doc Holliday, Kate Elder and Wyatt Earp had hung up their spurs in Tombstone, over in the Arizona Territory. Kate, or so the stories went, was runnin’ a bordello while Wyatt was practically runnin’ the town. As best as anyone knew, Doc would be pilin’ his chips on Tombstone’s faro tables. I was off to Tombstone.

Tombstone was certainly a boomtown but a boomtown unlike any I’d ever seen. It had an air of permanence about it that other mining towns always lacked. It was as if the 1000 or so residents intended to build a real city, and a sophisticated city to boot. The miners were pulling gold and silver out of the ground so fast that the saloon keepers, gamblers, hustlers, painted ladies and shop keepers had to work overtime just to keep up with ‘em.

Everyone dressed so well with their big city fashions that you had to remind yourself that you were in a mining town and not some snooty town back east. I upgraded my wardrobe and grabbed a chair at a poker table in the Oriental Saloon.

I renewed my friendship with Doc and avoided Kate as best I could. I didn’t want to start that whole Lottie/Kate thing all over again. Kate was runnin’ Tombstone’s first sportin’ house out of a huge tent. She had lots of girls and cheap whiskey. What more could a man ask for? Doc was just being Doc, gamblin’, drinkin’ and enjoyin’ his considerable reputation as the town’s big-name gunfighter.

Wyatt was ridin’ shotgun for Wells Fargo when I arrived but was soon appointed deputy sheriff for the southern part of Pima County. Wyatt and I spent a lot of time together after he became part owner in the gamblin’ concession at my hangout, the Oriental Saloon.

I liked Tombstone better than anywhere I’d been in a long time. It was growin’ like a prairie fire but in a good kinda way. So much so that a little bit of culture was actually creepin’ back into my life. Maybe my interest in culture was somehow linked to the rising balance of my bank account. My winnings were mounting so fast that I’d be able to retire soon. I crossed my fingers that the mines would hold out.

One hot summer evening in 1884 Doc invited me to have a drink with him at the bar. Over our second drink Doc said somewhat tentatively, “I know you been lookin’ for Lottie for some time now. Well, I just got a letter from Frank Thurmond. He’s lookin’ for some investment money for some mining thing or another. I thought you’d be interested.”

“You think Lottie’s with him?”

“I’d bet my boots on it.”

“Where did he say he’s livin’?”

“I know you’re gonna go after Lottie but I want to remind you of one thing before I tell you where she’s at. I like you and I don’t want you to do anything stupid. Listen and listen good … Frank Thurmond is one tough hombre. You go sniffin’ around Lottie and you’re likely to find your balls hangin’ over Frank’s fireplace. You can count on that. Understand?”

“Yeah Doc, I understand. Where is she?”

“Deming, New Mexico Territory.”

The wind was blowin’ when I got off of the Southern Pacific at the Deming Station. I was really impressed with the train station with its Harvey House Hotel and all. I walked around town just to get a feel for things. Downtown was four blocks or so of mercantile stores, a bank, a hotel, a drug store, a couple of Chinese laundries and, thank god, a number of saloons. If I thought Tombstone had a feel of permanence in a thrown-together Western sort of way, Deming had it even more so. Deming was a brick and mortar Eastern city in the making. I had a drink in a friendly saloon and checked into the hotel.

I spent the following day wandering around town. Everyone seemed to know Mr. and Mrs. Thurmond. They apparently lived a couple of blocks away. I hadn’t realized until then that Frank and Lottie were actually married and living together as husband and wife. What should I do? I had been searching for Lottie for years and now that I finally found her I didn’t know what to do. I knew my love for her was hopeless but I had to see her and see for myself.

After two stiff drinks and numerous rehearsals of my opening words. I headed off to Frank and Lottie’s house. Lottie opened the door. She stared at me for a moment before her puzzled look changed to a look of surprise and then to a welcoming smile.

“Why Bob, it’s been years. Please come in.”

Where were of those witty lines I’d so patiently rehearsed?

“I haven’t seen you in … what’s it been … um … seven years now? What have you been up to?” Lottie said as if she were making polite conversation with an old classmate rather than a bygone lover.

She was beautiful; even prettier than I remembered. The last few years had been kind to her. Let’s see … she would have turned 40 earlier that year and a damn attractive 40 at that.

“I’ve been … ah …I’m still doin’ what I’ve always done?” I said nervously.

“Would you like lemonade or maybe something a little stronger?”

“Lemonade would be fine.”

Lottie left the room and I looked around for the first time. The parlor was richly decorated in collector pieces, expensive furniture and fine art. She had sure come a long way from her little adobe shack in the Flats.

We talked and talked. Not like the intimate lovers we had once been but much more like old friends trying to catch up on each other’s lives. I thought I saw a tinge of jealousy when I talked about all that was going on over in Tombstone and about Doc and Wyatt. She sighed when I told her Doc’s sent his regards. She talked about Frank and his business ventures, their ranch, her work with the church and the civic organizations in town. She was nothing like the lonely southern belle I remembered, the woman who longed for her long lost girlhood, and the privileged life she led before the war.

If I had loved two different Lotties in Texas, I was now talking to a third Lottie — Lottie the married, respectable, church-goin’, civic-minded society woman. She was no longer either of the two young women that I fell in love with. The flaming redhead who could take your last dollar at the poker table or the southern belle that could cuddle and giggle in bed like a teenage schoolgirl.

As I was preparing to leave, Lottie said, “I don’t play poker anymore even though I miss it sometimes. I’ve been thinking about having a little game, just for old time’s sake. Just a friendly game, not the high stakes poker we used to play. Frank will be out at the ranch until Saturday. Do you think you could come by on Thursday at say … 2 o’clock in the afternoon for a few hands of stud poker?”

“I couldn’t think of anything I’d enjoy more,” I said immediately thinking of something that I would enjoy a whole lot more.

“Good, see you on Thursday. Bye.”

What was this poker game all about and which Lottie will come to the table, the accomplished gambler or the bridge playing society matron?

Thursday was a long time a comin’.

Lottie had set a real poker table up in what must have been her dining room. She introduced me as an old friend from Texas to our playing partners, James Madison a neighbor and local business man and another old gambling buddy from somewhere else. She just called him Slim.

I wasn’t surprised when Lottie the society matron sat down at the table. She poured whiskey all around. In all of the years I had known her I had never seen her take a drink at a poker table or in a saloon for that matter. The game went well. The new Lottie wasn’t half as good as the old Lottie but she won her share of the hands. I didn’t like Slim at all. He was the shifty sort of slime ball that you run into in almost every gambling town out here in the west.

We had been playing for a couple of hours when Frank stormed into the room. Lottie stopped the game and introduced Frank to her guests. He seemed okay with coming home and finding his wife entertaining three men while he was away. I remembered Doc’s warning to me — something about my body parts hanging from Frank’s fireplace. Frank tore into Slim right away while Lottie tried to carry on a conversation with James and me. Soon Frank and Slim were yelling. Something about an old gambling debt over in Kingston as best I could tell. They became so heated that Lottie, James and I stood and backed away from the table just as Slim pulled a derringer from his coat and was bringing it up to Frank’s chest. Frank reached behind his head, pulled his Bowie knife from beneath his shirt collar and slashed Slim across the throat. Slim fell to the floor in a pool of blood. No one moved. No one ran to help Slim. We just stood there startled and watched him die.

James left and I was reaching for my hat when Lottie came up and pulled me close to her saying, “Don’t go Bob. Stay and help us with Slim.”

“There’s not much I can do for Slim now.”

“Yes, you can help us get rid of his body. He’s a drifter; no one will miss him if we can just get him out of here.”

“Frank can do that, he knows the town and the countryside. He can dump Slim somewhere where he won’t be found.”

“Yes but you see Frank was involved in a little scrape some time back and I don’t want him associated at all with Slim’s death. Can you help us get rid of the body? I’d be ever so thankful.” She said as she held me. She was her southern belle again, the girl that I had fallen in love with.

How could I say no?

We stripped Slim of all of his clothing and rolled him into a tarp that Frank had brought in from somewhere while Lottie cleaned up the blood on the floor. We carried Slim out and dumped him in the back of Frank’s wagon. Frank said we should wait until dark before we took Slim for his final ride. He offered me a drink and we went back in the house and sat at the poker table. Frank picked up Slim’s money from the table and put it in his pocket.

No one said anything. We just stared at the wall and drank.

Finally it was dark; Frank stood and indicated it was time to go. He went out to the wagon, got a shovel and we headed out.

About 3 miles out of town to the west we came to a lonely spot with some small sand banks near the road. Frank stopped the team and we carried Slim over to some soft sand next to a rise. We took turns digging and after we had dug about three feet we dumped Slim in the hole, covered him and headed home.

Lottie wasn’t there when we got back. I said goodbye to Frank and made my way back to the hotel.

The next couple of days I just sat in my room trying to figure out what to do next? What to do about Lottie if anything. I had finally decided to head back to Tombstone when I heard a knock on my hotel room door. I opened it and the sheriff came charging in. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Anthony Ricco, also known as Slim. Put your hands up and let me search you.”

“You got to be mistaken. I don’t know any Anthony Ricco and I haven’t killed any body.”

“I’ve got three eyewitnesses that saw you cut Mr. Rico’s throat over at the Thurmond’s house on Thursday evenin’. Frank Thurmond took me out to the body this mornin’. It looks like it happened just the way they said. Now come with me.”

“That’s my story and I swear it’s true. You have to believe me,” I said to my new lawyer through the bars of my cell.

“Oh, I believe you all right but will a jury when they’ve got three eyewitnesses that say they saw it differently?”

“What should I do?” I stammered.

“If we can show that Slim pulled a gun on you, we can plead self defense.”

“What did the so-called eyewitnesses say about Slim and a gun?”

“They said he didn’t have one.”

“What’s goin to happen to me?”

“You’re gonna hang.”

Author’s note: I tried to portray Lottie and all of the other characters in my story exactly as history has recorded them. I made up everything about Lottie’s dealings with me along with the players and activities at the final poker game in my story. Although I made up the scene where Frank kills Slim he did kill another man in a quarrel with his Bowie knife in August 1884 at the time my story is set. All of my information about Lottie came from the article Lottie Deno: Queen of the Paste Board Flippers by Maggie Van Ostrand and the books Lottie Deno, Gambling Queen of Hearts by Cynthia Rose, Pistols, Petticoats, & Poker, The Real Lottie Deno: No Lies or Alibis by Jan Devereaux and The Story of Lottie Deno – Her Life and Times by J. Marvin Hunter. Lottie and Frank continued to live in Deming following my story. Frank died in 1908 at the age of 67 and Lottie passed away in 1934 at the age of 89. They both rest today in adjacent graves at Deming’s Mountain View Cemetery. She is mourned as one of Deming’s most loved and respected pioneer citizens and is best remembered for her efforts in the building of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church and her founding of the Golden Gossip Club, a club that still meets today. Lottie Deno lives on in our hearts through the characters she inspired. The beautiful, redheaded Miss Kitty who runs the Longbranch Saloon in the Gunsmoke radio and television series is based upon Lottie Deno as is Laura Denbo, the role played by Rhonda Fleming in the Gunfight At The O. K. Corral. Lottie, we’re still talking about you.

Carlotta J. Thompkins aka Laura Denbo,
Faro Nell, Charlotte Thurmond and as I
remember her: Lottie Deno

“Ouch! That damn bush bit me.” I groaned to my son and hiking buddy, Rob, while I stopped to pull a thorn from my bleeding finger. Rob was a couple of yards ahead of me on a make-shift trail leading down into a sandy arroyo. Rob wandered back to me and laughed at my girlish response to my little wound. He lifted his canteen and took a big swig as he walked over to a little clearing then shouted excitedly, “Dad, dad uh … look at this,” pointing to something white in the sand at his feet.

“These bones look human. Look at that … that’s a foot and it ain’t the foot of some four legged creature … it’s a human foot.” Rob shouted as we both dropped to our knees and started digging through the soft sand with our hands. We soon uncovered more bones; the bones of a human torso.

“These are definitely human but I don’t have a clue as to how old they are. If they’re old we can dig them up and play amateur archeologists but if they’re recent we could be messing with a crime scene,” I said as I rose to my feet.

“I think we ought to take this foot back to the sheriff’s office, tell him where we found it and let them dig ‘em up. Maybe if there’s something in the grave like old artifacts or Apache relics they’ll let us have them for finding and reporting the bones. What do you think?”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. If we’ve stumbled onto a crime scene we should let the CSI people do their thing,” Rob said reluctantly.

This receptionist at the sheriff’s office led us to a conference room and introduced us to Deputy Phil Adams. We showed him the foot and told him the story of finding the bones. We pored over a detailed map of Spring Canyon but couldn’t pinpoint the location of the grave so Phil invited us to lead him and a couple of evidence techs to the site tomorrow morning. We agreed to come back at nine. That was easy enough.

“Good morning guys I’d like you to meet Sally Alvarez and Mike Anders. This is Bob Rockwell and his son Rob. Sally and Mike will dig up those bones and get them to the coroner for analysis. You guys ready? Let’s head out then. You can ride with me and the techs will follow in their van.”

“Park right over there,” I said when we got to the third picnic table in the Spring Canyon picnic grounds. “It’s about a 15 minute hike into the canyon over that rise and down into an arroyo,” I said pointing into the brush.

The techs unloaded their gear. Rob and I grabbed two shovels and what looked like a tackle box before we all headed down the trail. Rob led the way and it was pretty easy going after we got over the rise. I had tied my handkerchief in a scrub oak yesterday to mark the grave. We both pointed to the bones sticking up through the sand.

Sally and Mike set their gear down and started photographing the scene just like the CSI folks do on TV. Rob and I sat in the shade and watched the sheriff’s team do their thing. Phil came over and joined us as Mike started to dig. Sally was on her knees retrieving, dusting and labeling each bone before she put it into a large duffle bag. After 30 minutes or so she lifted a skull from the two foot deep hole and held it up for us to see. “I don’t see any fillings or anything that would give us an approximate age. If I were to guess, I’d say that our bony friend here is female and she has only been in the ground for a few years.”

They kept digging and sifting for another two hours before Mike called it quits. Sally agreed saying that she thought that they had a complete skeleton in their bag. Enough for today.

On the ride back to the station Phil told us what would happen next. The county coroner would assemble the skeleton and do a cursory exam. The dental work would be the most telling. After that they would send the bones to the State Police crime lab in Santa Fe for carbon dating, DNA analysis and what ever else they did up there. It would be a couple of weeks before we’d know anything.

Three days later Phil called and said, “The coroner’s report is in and our skeleton is female and judging from the size a teenager or a young woman and … and she was pregnant … early in her second trimester. He also thinks the bones have been in the ground for less than 20 years. Sounds like we’ve got a suspicious death on our hands.”

“Wow, that’s great … er … I didn’t mean … ah … what’s next?”

“I’ll send her remains up to Santa Fe and see what they can tell us. We need an accurate age estimate and a better guess on her time of death before we can even begin to ID the victim. Once we know who she is and when she died we can begin to piece together what happened and who might have done it. I’ll keep you posted on what we learn.”

“Thanks for the update, Phil. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

I told Rob everything that Phil had said and he began pacing around our living room. As he paced he became more and more animated. “I want to figure out who this girl was and what happened to her. And, if some asshole killed her I want to nail the bastard. We can do it; we’ve read enough books and watched enough TV to know the drill. What do you say, Dad? Up for solving a murder?”

“We don’t know if it was a murder, and if it was, if the sheriff’s department will let us poke around in their case. The key will be if Phil shares with us what he learns from the lab in Santa Fe and if he’s assigned to the case. Once we learn her age and the approximate date of her death we can offer to do the grunt work of finding out who she was. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

I had almost forgotten about our little mystery when Phil called again. “It took ‘em six weeks but the state lab folks came through. Our Jane Doe was 15 or 16 years old and affluent enough to have had proper dental care. She was 14 weeks pregnant and her bones show no signs of trauma or an apparent cause of death. And, are you ready for this, she died in 1998 or 1999. They did DNA tests but, not surprisingly, they didn’t find a match.”

“Did they do a DNA profile on the fetus? And if so, will we be able to identify the father from their analysis?”

“You know that’s a good point. I didn’t even think to ask. I’ll call the lab and see what they say.”

“Phil, we want to help you identify this girl. If we snoop around will we get in the way?”

“No not at all. I’ve got this and a bunch of other things on my plate. Cold cases like this tend to be back-burner items. We work on them when we have the time, which is almost never. I’ll do a check for any missing girl reports in the ‘98/’99 time frame both here and with the Deming Police. Do you guys want to hit the newspapers?”

“Sure, we’ll jump at the chance to help in any way we can.”

“Okay, only two rules. You share everything you learn and you don’t do anything without my approval. Okay?”

“Yep, we’ll start with the newspapers. Thanks Phil.”

“Okay, get to work … we’ll talk later.”

Rob was excited that Phil was going to let us play detectives. “What do we do first, Dad … how do we begin?”

“Let’s start with The Deming Headlight. Their archives are on line now so we won’t have to pore over two years of microfiche or old, yellowed newspapers. We want to look for any articles about missing girls about the age of our Jane Doe during the years of 1998 and 1999.”

Rob spent days working the paper’s archive data base, searching for every combination of and every synonym for “missing girl” with no luck. No girls of any age were reported missing during those two years. I called Phil to tell him that we’d found nothing. He said his search for missing-person reports had also come up empty. He gave us the go-ahead to dig through the high school records.

How could a 15 year old girl not be missed? Maybe she was a run-away from somewhere else? Maybe she was an orphan and no one cared that she was missing? Maybe her parents or guardians played some part in her death and never reported her missing? Maybe she was an illegal or the daughter of illegals who were afraid to report her missing? Maybe, too damn many maybes.

I said to Rob, “I think it would be futile to assume she was from somewhere else and died here. We’d be searching data bases and archives forever. Let’s assume she was from Deming and her disappearance was never reported for some unknown reason. Let’s go to the high school and see if a girl just never showed up one day in ’98 or ’99, or dropped out unexpectedly, or went to lunch and never came back, or missed her bus ride home or some such thing. It wasn’t that long ago maybe someone will remember.”

The school administrative staff were accommodating but not very helpful. Their records were stored at their administration office and they couldn’t do anything without a name and police authorization. I explained again to them that we didn’t know her name; her name was why we were here. They wouldn’t budge from this Catch 22 but as we were leaving the secretary said, “You know who might know? Sara Gomez has been teaching freshman and sophomore English here for years and years. I’d talk to her. Let me look and see when she’s free … oh, not until lunch. Can you stick around til then?”

We met Mrs. Gomez in the school cafeteria. She looked exactly like my stogy old English teachers did over fifty years ago. She listened to our story intently, interrupting to clarify one point after another. She looked off into space for the longest time, clearly thinking about all that she had heard. “I’ve got my grade books for the last 30 years at home. I’ll look for a freshman or sophomore girl that just seemed to disappear in what years did you say?”

“1998 and 1999,” I said rising while I handed Mrs. Gomez my card. “Please call me if you come up with anything.”

“I surely will, we’ve got to find out who that poor unfortunate girl was and give her loved ones some closure.”

As we were driving back home Rob said, “What do we do now dad?”

“We wait.”

We didn’t have to wait long. Mrs. Gomez called two days later. “Mr. Rockwell I’ve got three names for you. First, a Kathryn Bowers, a freshman who’s last day of school was October 21st, 1999. Next, I found Maria Hernandez a sophomore whose last day of school was March 2nd, 1999 and lastly, I have Gabriela Baca, a sophomore who hasn’t been seen since April 14th, 1998. Now, get out there and put a proper name on that poor Jane Doe.”

“Yes Ma’am … and thanks.”

“Okay Rob, Mrs. Gomez gave us our orders. I think our next step is to go back to the high school and learn all we can about these three girls. Do you think they’ll let us rummage through their records or do we need to get Phil involved to make it an official inquiry? Let’s share what we learned with Phil and see what he thinks.”

Phil agreed to meet us at the high school administration building the following morning. Phil asked to see whoever was in charge of school records. We were soon ushered into this tiny little office where Phil sat and Rob and I stood while we listened to bureaucratic lecture about the privacy of school records from Homer Ramirez, the school’s archivist. Phil soon lost his cool and said in as stern a voice as I’ve ever heard from him. “Get me the damn files for these three girls,” he said as he handed Homer the list.

Homer left the room without argument. He returned in a surprisingly short time with three thin manila files which he handed to Phil, sat back down at his desk and glared at us.

Phil gave a file to me, another to Rob and started reading the third. After about 10 minutes Phil said, “She’s not Kathryn Bowers, Kathryn formally checked out of school to relocate to Arizona.”

We sat there a few more minutes when Rob said, “I like Gabriela Baca for our Jane Doe. Her record shows that she just didn’t show up one day in April 1998. Never to be heard from again. I really like Gabriela; she meets all of the criteria. She was … let’s see her birthday was in July … so she was 15, almost 16 on her last day of school on April 14th, 1998. And look at this … her guardians are listed as Manuel and Rosa Baca of a P.O. Box in Columbus. She must have lived in Palomas and crossed the border to go to school here. That might explain why her disappearance was never reported. Maybe she was illegal, maybe her parents were, or maybe they didn’t speak English … I like Gabriela for our Jane Doe.”

I glanced back at Maria Hernandez’s file open in my hands. “Maria is from Deming and should be easy to check out. I’ll take down her address and her parents’ names. Rob, get everything you can about Gabriela.”

We thanked Homer and gathered together in the parking lot. Phil said, “I’ll ring out Maria Hernandez here in Deming. You guys figure out how you’re going to track down the Bacas on the other side of the border. I’d start with the P.O. Box in Columbus and then recruit someone that can help you in Mexico.”

The post office was no help at all. In fact we felt that they wouldn’t tell us even if they knew who had rented box 204 in 1998. Our one lead in the US was a dead end. We were off to Mexico.

“Let’s draft one of our pals at The Pink Store to help,” Rob said. “I’m sure they’ll know their way around down here a lot better than us and we could sure use their Spanish.”

We invited our pal, Jorge, to join us for lunch and told him the whole story. “I think we should start with the police and see if they have any missing-person reports during that time frame and then check with city hall to see if we can find an address for a Manual and Rosa Baca.” Jorge and Rob agreed and we were off to the police station.

The police were cooperative and pleasant but they were clueless. No one knew where their 1998 records were, if indeed they had any, and no one could remember a missing girl in any year. We thanked them and set out for city hall. After endless discussions in rapid-fire Spanish, that I couldn’t follow, I concluded that these Mexican bureaucrats were equally as uninformative as our own at the Columbus Post Office. So much for plan A.

Maybe a bounty or finder’s fee would work. I told Jorge to tell all of his friends that I would pay $100 U.S. for the Baca’s address. We said goodbye and headed home depressed with our lack of progress and thinking that detective grunt work was like all other grunt work … frustrating and not much fun.

Three days later Ivonne called from The Pink Store to say that Jorge had some news and for us and to come down right away. I told her we’d be there in an hour.

“I think we found the Bacas. Mi amigo, Pablo, has been asking everybody in town. He’s pretty sure these are the people you’re looking for,” Jorge said proudly.

“Nice to meet you, Pablo. Come get in the car … lets go see the Bacas.” Jorge, Pablo, Rob and I bounced down the unpaved streets of Palomas. Pablo gave me directions in Spanish and after about 10 minutes or so we pulled up in front of a humble but neat little house.

Jorge went to the door and an older woman answered. They talked for a while across the threshold before Jorge returned to the car. “I told her we may have some information about her daughter, Gabriella and she started to cry. She said come back after six when her husband is home and they will talk with us then.”

We went back to The Pink Store to plan our interview over a couple of beers. At six I drove Pablo home before the three of us returned to the Baca’s house with two six packs of Corona, some nachos and a plate of The Pink Store’s wonderful guacamole.
Rosa met us at the door and after a few words in Spanish led us into what passed for their living room. She was a plump, matronly looking woman in an old fashioned house dress and apron. Manuel was seated on the couch in his dirty work clothes. He was dressed like he might be a farm laborer. We passed the beer and chips to Rosa. She handed each of us a beer and took the rest to the kitchen. She returned with the nachos and dip in what must have been her best China. Manuel gave a brief toast with tears in his eyes, “A mi dulce Gabriela.”

Jorge gave a little talk and as best as I could tell he told them the same story I had told him a few days earlier. The Bacas listened intently. Rosa began to sob softy while Manuel just stared at me and Rob. No one took a drink of their beer during Jorge’s story. It was a solemn few minutes. I knew then we had found the home of our Jane Doe and she was indeed, Gabriella Baca of P.O. Box 204, Columbus, New Mexico and from this little casa on this dusty street in Palomas, Chihuahua, Mexico.

I told the Bacas what we had learned from the school records and Manuel confirmed that Gabby, he called her Gabby, never came home after school on April 14th, 1998. Rosa let out a loud sob. I told them that the remains we found were probably Gabby’s. I made a commitment to find out what had happened to her and to have her returned to her parents for a proper burial.

I asked through Jorge, “Would you have anything of Gabby’s that we might use for DNA comparison … a lock of hair, her hairbrush, one of her baby teeth?”

Rosa left the room without saying a word. She returned a few minutes later and while wiping away tears she handed me an envelope containing a lock of glossy black hair.

I took a small number of hairs from the envelope and handed it back to Rosa. “Thank you for this,” I said. “We’ll only need a few … you keep this little bit of Gabby.”

As we were preparing to leave I asked, “Did Gabby have any special friends in high school? Anyone that might know what went on the day she disappeared?”

Rosa thought for a few minutes and said in broken English, “Gloria Quintana. I theenk chee was from Deming.”

We thanked Rosa and Manuel and promised to get back to them with more news.

“Wow, that was pretty intense,” Rob said as we were driving back to drop Jorge off. “Today was the first news they’ve heard of Gabby after what’s it been … a little over 12 years now. We’ve got to find out what happened to her and put these poor people’s souls to rest.”

I gave Jorge five twenties and told him to pay Pablo whatever split they had agreed upon. And, after second thought, I gave him another hundred and told him it was a hundred bucks each.

I called Phil as soon as we got home. He called me back a few minutes later and I brought him up to date on what we had learned in Palomas and he said he’d swing by and pick up the hair samples. He got more and more excited as he went on and on about how he was going to find Gloria Quintana even though her name probably wasn’t Quintana now.

I looked through the Deming phone book and found 8 listings for Quintanas, from Francisco to Ramon. I wondered if we might find Gloria faster than Phil but we decided to wait a couple of days and see what Phil came up with.

Three days later Phil called and said. “Our Gloria Quintana is now Mrs. Gloria Sanchez and she lives on Encanto Circle here in Deming. Do you want to go with me to meet her tonight?”

“You bet. We wouldn’t miss it.”

We met at Gloria’s. She was initially taken back by the patrol car and a uniformed deputy until Phil told her we were looking into the disappearance of Gabby Baca and that Gabby’s parents suggested we talk to her.

She invited us in. Her husband and baby boy joined us in the living room.

“What took you so long? Gabby has been missing for years.” Gloria said to Phil as if she was ready to start an argument.

“No one ever told us that she was missing … and if it wasn’t for Bob and Rob here we still wouldn’t know a thing. They uncovered some bones a couple of months ago and have been helping me identify them. We think the bones might be Gabby’s.”

“Oh my God! Are you sure it’s Gabby.”

“We’re pretty sure. DNA tests of some hair Gabby’s mother gave us will confirm it. We’ll know for sure in a couple of weeks,” Phil said in response. “What can you tell us about Gabby and her last few days in 1998?”

“I’ve never told anyone about this before but with what you just told me I wish I had spoken up a long time ago. You see, Gabby was involved with an older man back then. She’d leave school during her lunch hour, ditch her afternoon classes and then sneak back in time to catch her bus home. That’s what she did on the last day that I saw her. I didn’t know that she missed her bus that night. I only knew that she wasn’t in school the next day and I never saw her again.”

“Did you know that she was pregnant when she disappeared?” Phil asked.

“She never admitted it but I suspected she was.”

“Who do you think the father was?”

“Gabby wasn’t dating anyone from school but she was secretly seeing a cop; the cop who came by the school every day at lunch to slow the traffic down. She would sneak off with him at lunch and come back in time to catch her bus back to the border.”

“Do you know his name or can you describe him?”

“It was a long time ago but I remember he was Hispanic, about 25 or so, slender and oh yeah, he wore a mustache, a Pancho Villa-like mustache.”

“Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.”

“Would you let me know if you confirm that it is Gabby?”

“Should we wait for the DNA analysis of her hair or should we start looking for the police officer that Gloria described,” I asked.

“The Deming police won’t take kindly to you snooping around in what might be a murder case and a murder that might involve one of their own. Let me look into this. I should be able to find who had traffic duty at the high school in the spring of 1998. Sit tight and I’ll get back to you.”

The days passed ever so slowly. It felt like we were getting close but we couldn’t think of anything to do but wait until we heard from Phil. I was so anxious that I drove to the high school, parked near the main intersection and tried to visualize what might have gone on there 12 years ago. A few minutes before noon a squad car pulled up and parked right at the corner. The officer just sat in his car and watched the traffic. The school bell rang and soon backpack toting students were everywhere. The officer rolled down his window and spoke to number of kids as they passed by. No one stopped at his car nor did he get out for almost an hour; he just sat there.

I tried to imagine a 15 year old girl flirting at the car window and then getting into the passenger seat. She would have hidden on the floor while they drove to some spot where they could be alone. I could picture this, easily.

It was nearly three weeks before Phil called and invited us for coffee. We raced to the coffee shop knowing that Phil would have the answers we’d been anxiously waiting for. Phil was coy at first, like he was just playing with us. He took forever to stir the sugar in his coffee. Finally he said, “We got a match. The DNA of the hair matches that of the skeleton. It’s a 100% match, our Jane Doe is Gabriela Baca.”

I was prepared for this but couldn’t fathom how I was going to tell Rosa and Manuel. “Have you made any progress identifying the traffic cop?”

“The Deming police weren’t very helpful but I pulled a couple of strings and finally learned the name of our guy. He’s not on the force anymore. Seems he got into some other trouble they won’t talk about. Anyway, his name is Frank Garcia, he’s 37 years old and he still lives here in Deming. I don’t know what he does for a living but I’ve got an address.”

“Can we sweat him? Isn’t that you guys call it when you put someone under your hot lights?”

“Look Bob, we’ve got no evidence linking him to Gabriela’s death and I’d need a DNA swipe along with about four weeks to prove that he is the father of Gabriela’s child. And, fathering her child isn’t like killing her. There is no evidence at all that anyone killed her let alone anything that points to Garcia.”

“Was Garcia married at the time of Gabriela’s death? If he was it might explain what he might have done once Gabriela told him she was pregnant,” I blurted out. “Here’s my theory: Garcia and Gabby were having trysts about once a week for going on four maybe five months when she told him she was pregnant. Garcia knew that he’d lose his wife and his job … and he’d be charged with statutory rape if Gabby said anything. And, he knew she’d have to tell someone sooner or later. Even consensual sex with a 15 year old girl would mean hard time and a lot of it. He was a cop and he knew what that would mean.”

“I like your theory but how are we going to prove it. Unless Garcia confesses, and he won’t, or we can find an eye witness to her getting into his car or someone who saw them parked somewhere, it’s just a theory. I’ve not had a lotta luck looking for witnesses to 12 year old crimes. I’ll go have a talk with him and see what I can learn. But don’t have too high of hopes that I’ll learn anything though. I’ll give you a call in a week or so. Oh, I’ve arranged for her remains to be delivered to her parents. You might want to tell them that.”

Rob and I went back to see Gloria Sanchez and told her the remains were definitely Gabby. We grilled her: Who were their other friends? Who else knew about her relationship with the policeman? Who might have seen her get into the squad car on April 14th? Nothing. Gloria had already told us everything she knew.

I called and talked with Mrs. Gomez in hopes she would remember something now that we positively identified our Jane Doe as Gabriela Baca. Nope, she only remembered that Gabriela was there one day and gone the next. Who else might have seen them together?

Phil called and said he met Frank Garcia and talked about the disappearance of Gabriela Baca. Phil said, “Frank played dumb and didn’t admit to knowing any 15 year old girls back when he had the high school traffic watch. I never told him that we found her remains … only that we were looking for Gabriela. He was more curious about how I got his name than he was about a missing girl. He seemed to squirm beneath his skin when I talked about Gabriela. It was not what he said, which was nothing, it was his body language that made him look guilty as hell. If I were a betting man, I’d bet my next paycheck that he did it.”

“Can we do anything to smoke him out?” I asked knowing the answer.

“You could try but you’ll only get out of him what I already did. He’s guilty, I know he is, but we can’t prove it without a witness or some evidence.”

Rob and I drove to Palomas dreading our visit with Rosa and Manuel Baca. We arrived at dinner time and they were seated in their kitchen. They both joined us in the living room.

I told them that the remains were definitely Gabby and everything else we had learned along the way. I thought Manuel would hit me when I mentioned her pregnancy and her affair with the policeman. He quizzed me. “Who es dis snake who killed mi Gabriela?”

“We don’t know who for sure. But we do know the name of the policeman who was assigned those duties when she disappeared.”

“Tell me his name, por favor.”

“I can’t tell you until we know for sure that he did it.”

“How will joo know?”

I went on to explain our lack of evidence, no witnesses and our suspect’s denial of even having known Gabby.

“What are we going to do, señor? Wait another 12 years?”

“We don’t know. I’m thinking of running an ad in the paper with Gabby’s picture asking if anyone remembers her on that day. Outside of interviewing every student that left the building for lunch on April 14, 1998 I don’t know what else to do.

“That will take jeers. Just tell me his name, por favor.”

“Okay, but remember he’s only a suspect and we have no evidence that he did anything wrong. His name is Frank Garcia and he lives in Deming.”

“Gracias señor, joo are a good man.”

We said goodbye and headed home. Rob said, “Are you serious about looking for someone that saw the two of them together twelve years ago. That seems like a really long, long-shot. Do you remember what you did for lunch on April 14th 1998? No, and no one else does either. I think we’ve hit the wall. Let’s see what Phil thinks.”

Phil thanked us for our help and told us to feel proud that we had discovered and identified the remains, brought closure to her parents and put Gabriela into a proper grave. “That’s all we can do.”

“Yeah but, a killer … a killer that took the life of a young girl and her baby, is walking the streets because we aren’t smart enough to solve this puzzle.”

“I know, I know, but this isn’t Cold Case on TV. You’re just going to have to live with it. Thanks again … let’s have a beer every now and then just to keep in touch.”

We never saw Phil again but three months later I pulled the rubber band off of The Deming Headlight in my driveway and read:

By Bill Morris
HEADLIGHT STAFF

Police were called to the home of Frank Garcia, 37, last night by a friend who stopped by only to find Mr. Garcia dead on the living room floor of his home and the door ajar. Mr. Garcia had been repeatedly stabbed and was thought to have died instantly from his numerous wounds. Police have begun a full scale investigation into what they’ve now labeled as a homicide.
Frank Garcia served on the Deming Police Force from 1996 to 1999 and was most recently a grounds maintenance man at the Mountain View Cemetery.

Bill Morris can be reached at bmorris@demingheadlight.com.

Manuel Baca wasn’t going to wait another 12 years.

©2010 by Bob Rockwell

“I’ll blow you for some beer.” Were the first words spoken by this ragtag, little waif standing in the supermarket parking lot on an exceptionally warm November afternoon in 1967.

“Thanks for the offer but I think I’ll pass for now; maybe after we get to know each other a little better. What do you want the beer for?”

“I’m like with … like with a group … er, a family … on a … a camping trip and they sent me to get some beer. You’re old enough, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m 25. How much and what kind?”

“Two cases of Lone Star in long neck bottles. Tex was real specific.”

“Where’s your car? You can’t carry two cases.”

“I hitched here. I was hoping that you’d give me a ride back to our camp. My blow job offer still stands.”

“I’ll get you your beer and give you a ride just to get you off of the streets. If you’d made that offer to a lotta guys in this town you’d be in big trouble. Wonder over to that red Ford over there and I’ll be back in a minute or two with your beer.”

I pushed my cart with the two cases of Lone Star through the parking lot wondering if I was a Good Samaritan or if I was just contributing to the delinquency of a minor. It was hard to see how I could further contribute to the delinquency of this little flower child. Giving blow jobs to strangers in parking lots for a few bottles of beer seemed about as delinquent as you could get. I rounded a truck and saw that she was sitting in the passenger seat busily rifling through my glove box. “Find anything interesting?” I said startling her.

“Oh, I was a … was just looking for a Kleenex to wipe my nose.”

I loaded the beer into the back seat and started the car. “Where to? We’ve not been introduced I’m Bob, Bob Rockwell.” I said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“I don’t know the names of the streets but follow this road that way, until we come to a stop light then turn right,” she said pointing west on Pine Street. “And I’m Squeaky … nice to meet ya. Could I have one of the beers now? I’m awful thirsty.”

“Squeaky’s an interesting name. Grab one for me too. Where are you guys … er … family from and what are you doing in Deming on this magnificent fall day?”

“Like, we’re from California … the bay area. We spent this last summer, the summer of love at The Haight and now we live on this really cool bus,” she said excitedly waving her arms and spilling her beer. “We’ve been spreading our message of love and peace to up-tight, pig assholes all over the west. Peace and love brother … I’ll fuck you if you don’t want that blow job.”

We rounded the corner at Pine Street and headed north on the Silver City highway. “What brings you to this part of the world?”

“We were in Taos and Taos is really groovy, the drug scene there is not as cool as California but it’s coming along. Well, we were doing this peyote with these Indian dudes when Charlie, he’s our leader and our own personal Jesus, says we should head South. He had this vision that there would be heavy karma down here near the border. So we packed up and here we are. Charlie has these vibes for places like this. Oh, we turn left when we see a big wind thingy with a rusty water tank.”

I chuckled to myself at her misuse of the word karma. We turned left where Squeaky indicated and headed down a wash-board gravel road for a couple of miles when Squeaky shouted, “There, over there,” and pointed to an old abandoned ranch house. We drove down an overgrown driveway and circled a ramshackle house and parked behind an old school bus or what must have originally been a school bus. It was painted black with colorful curtains hanging from most of the windows. We parked; I grabbed the beer while Squeaky ran off to join her family, a motley gang of hippies lounging around a cooking fire. I walked over to the group of eight or nine when Squeaky yelled, “This is Bob and he bought us this beer. Say hello to my new friend, Bob.”

“Hey Bob, peace be with you,” was recited like a rehearsed chant from the group. Then this hippie dude comes up and takes the beer from me. “Grab a beer for yourself and sit down, I’m Tex by the way,” he says over his shoulder as he heads for the open bus door.

I sat down in the dirt with my now luke-warm beer and took stock of this so called family. They were definitely hippies or what we’ve been led to believe hippies look like. They all wore outlandish clothes and had little use for personal hygiene. Both of the guys had long hair and beards while the women wore their hair straight adorned with scarves, flowers and all sorts of colorful things. They were all dressed in mismatched, ill fitting, thrift-store clothes in outrageous colors and patterns as if they were trying too hard to make some sort of anti-fashion statement.

A young woman in a rather plain granny dress was stirring something in an old black kettle. She looked to be a few months pregnant but in her baggy clothing it was hard to tell. Tex came back and passed out beers to the group and knelt on a blanket next to a young attractive but scruffy looking girl. Squeaky was lying next to the only other guy in the circle. He was older, probably in his mid thirties, with a straggly beard and these really intense eyes. Eyes that looked like they were fixed on something no one else could see. Squeaky looked like she was trying to give him that blow job that she had offered me when he jumped to his feet and began what sounded like a sermon you might hear from some mentally unbalanced street preacher.

“Smell this air … taste it. This is the air that God made. That stuff we breathe in California was made by man … man and his greed … and their ‘fuck the air, I’ve got money to make philosophy.’ That’s what society is all about … fucking up our planet to make a buck. We just might come back here when the blacks revolt and start slaughtering the white people. I think the aura of this place is soothing to the soul and I feel close to the earth here.” He said to no one in particular and yet to all. He looked at me as he spoke making me feel somewhat like one of the family.

An attractive young woman clad in her hippy frocks came around the bus carrying two bags of what looked like groceries. She dropped the bags next to the lady at the fire and walked over to me and said, “Hi, I’m Sadie Mae Glutz and you are?”

“Bob Rockwell from just down the road here in Deming.”

“You don’t look like a cowboy or a Mexican. I thought everyone in this town was either one or the other.” She says as she plops down beside me in the dirt.

“Well, there are some of us, whatever we are, here too.”

She giggled and pulled a joint from somewhere in her skirt and pantomimed needing a light. I lit her joint and she took two big hits on it before she handed it to me. I don’t usually use the stuff but I didn’t want to look any squarer than I felt, so I took a hurried little toke and handed it back to her.

She giggled some more before saying, “You’re not a big pot-head I see. I like that in a man. Too much dope and a guy can’t get it up for his lady. See Tex over there, he’s always so stoned that we have to suck him for hours until he falls asleep. He never comes, just falls asleep.”

“Yeah, I’m a beer and booze kind of guy and I’ve never had any trouble getting it up for a pretty lady like you.”

“Groovy, I’ll check that out later, right now I got the munchies. Mother Mary, when’s dinner.” She called to the girl at the fire.

Mary yelled to the group. “Chili’s done; get some bowls out of the bus and come get this delicious chili con peace y love. Grab me a beer while you’re over there … someone.”

No one moved. This was not the dinner bell response I was used to. Sadie and I rose and started for the bus when I noticed a couple of others were headed our way. We joined Mary at the pot and handed her a beer as she scooped a heaping pile of red gunk into each of our bowls. We sat where we were before and tasted our first bites of chili con peace y love. It wasn’t bad, of course I ain’t ever had any bad chili in my life, even that sorry shit they called chili in the Marines wasn’t half bad.

“So mister local guy, what do you do for fun in Deming, Newwww Mexico?”

“The usual stuff, I guess. I work, I read, I drink beer, I go to movies, watch TV, go to Mexico and even have a date once in a while.”

“Sounds exciting. Ever crank up the tunes, smoke some dope, drop some acid, trip out and fuck til the sun comes up?”

“No, I can’t say I ever have. The last part of that sounds pretty interesting though.”

“Have you ever done acid … have you ever tripped the light fantastic?”

“Nope, I’m just a country boy who thinks tequila is a psychedelic drug. Have you ever had a bad trip?”

“Bad trips are a real drag, man. I remember the worst trip I ever had, it was at Mary’s in Berkley and I thought I had bought the big one. Wow, it was like they were filming this horror movie inside my head and I couldn’t do anything but watch, taste the blood, smell the shit, and feel the pain. A big, big drag man, a big drag.”

Mary passed out what looked like sugar cubes and everyone took one except me. I was afraid to take my first LSD trip out here in the boonies with all of these weird strangers … I didn’t know what might happen or how things might end up so I got another beer and sat back down.

Charlie sat up cross-legged and started playing this goofy little flute. He wasn’t very good but everyone listened intently and swayed to the music as if he were a real musician playing something inspirational. Squeaky and this other girl started dancing around the fire in an exaggerated Hora-like dance with a few grinding belly-dance moves tossed in. It was all kind of cool, the snapping fire, the mellow campers, the eerie music and those two little erotic dancers.

“Who’s the girl in the red,” I whisper in Sadie’s ear.

“That’s Katie. She’s been a member of the family, like me, for a long time now. Her soul is beautiful.”

Music, really loud rock music started pouring out of the bus. It was the Doors’ Break On Through. The music was like the on-switch of this previously laid-back group. I take that back, not their on-switch, but their fast forward button. Everyone was on their feet dancing. Each dancer seemed to be dancing only with themselves but as a group they looked like some choreographed, frantic, overly animated theatrical production. Sadie jumped up and joined the group forgetting me altogether.

When the second song Soul Kitchen came on everyone slowed down to some dance-of-the-seven-veils sort of swooping, all with exaggerated arm movements. I noticed that Katie and Mary had stripped down to their scarves and were dancing like harem girls in a very suggestive fashion. The girls were attractive enough if you’re into hairy. The flickering firelight exaggerated their overly hairy heads, hairy legs, hairy bushes, and armpits. Mary was definitely pregnant. As the music changed again a couple of people sat down and cheered the dancers on while Charlie and Squeaky started screwing right next to our make-shift dance floor. Squeaky was on top of Charlie yelling something I couldn’t hear while she gyrated to Light My Fire. So this was what a hippy love-in was all about, loud rock music, LSD, wild dancing, tripped-out hairy, young girls dancing nude around a campfire … all while no one but me seemed to notice a couple openly screwing a few feet away.

After about eight beers and hours of this, the party just broke up as some people wandered around, some climbed into the bus, while others stoked the fire and covered themselves with blankets and rugs. The two guys each had a girl to cuddle with on this cool evening, Charlie with Squeaky and Tex had Katie.

Sadie jumped on me like she was ready to party. She stood, grabbed my hand and led me to the bus. She went to vacant spot on a rug near the rear and piled up some pillows, grabbed a blanket and pulled me down on top of her. She began kissing me and soon we were making love. Making love in a normal, if there is a normal, sort of way and not the wild, orgy-like coupling I had expected from her. If fact this little flower child was actually a caring and wonderfully tender lover.

We both fell asleep in each others arms. Later in the wee hours of the morning I went outside to pee and stood there in the moonlight looking over the campsite and listening to snoring coming from the piles of blankets around the blackened remains of the campfire. What the hell was I doing here? The chili was awful, the beer was warm, the music too loud, I don’t do dope and Sadie has probably given me the clap.

I drove home wondering about this whole hippy movement thing. Sure, I could buy into their make-love-not-war sort of world but what’s up with these older guys having all of these young girls around as personal servants and sex slaves. And, all of those drugs have to be bad, bad news. This drugged-out little family was on a fast train or was it a slow bus to nowhere.

It was a little over two years later when the trial of Charles Manson and his followers became headline news that I realized these were the folks I had spent the night with back in ‘67. Charlie was easy to identify by his piercing eyes and I remembered Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme and Charles “Tex” Watson because they had both introduced themselves to me. Mary “Mother Mary” Brunner was indeed pregnant back at the camp fire and in April 1968 she gave birth to Manson’s son whom they nicknamed Pooh Bear. Katie was Patricia Krenwinkel, the girl that suggestively danced nude around the camp fire with Mary and spent the night rolled up in a blanket with Tex.

I was blown away to learn that my lover that evening with the family, Sadie Mae Glutz, was really Susan Atkins, the brutal, knife wielding mass murderer. My tender lover was convicted for her participation in eight killings, including the notorious, Tate and LaBianca murders and sentenced to death.

After Susan’s death sentence was commuted to life in prison she became the longest-incarcerated female inmate in the California penal system. She was locked-up from October 1, 1969 until her death on September 24, 2009. With all of that time on her hands, I wonder if she ever thought about me and our night of love in the bus together.

It’s important to note that she never gave me the clap.

May you finally find peace, Sadie Mae Glutz.

Author’s note: This story is based upon all of the facts recorded about the Manson family’s bus trip in late 1967. They traveled in the bus I described and reportedly spent a bit of time in Taos, NM. There is no record of them stopping in Deming or is there any real confirmation of who the 8 or 9 people on the bus trip actually were. I found notes that indicate that the characters in my story, Charles Manson, Tex Watson, Mary Brunner, Patricia Krenwinkel, Squeaky Fromme and Susan Atkins were all on the bus trip and they may have spent the night near where my story is set. The author has never taken an LSD trip so Sadie’s description of a bad trip was totally made up as was the author being in Deming in 1967. He was actually in Southern California just a few miles from the murder sites and the Spawn Ranch, the later home of the Manson Family.

©2010 by Bob Rockwell

“Start Listening … Open WordPad … It’s hot comma my tee shirt is wringing wet comma my left arm throbs comma my pajama bottoms are wadded up in my crotch comma my mouth is painfully dry and I have to take a leak period,” I spoke into my new microphone. The text — It’s hot, my t-shirt is wringing wet, my left arm throbs, my pajama bottoms are wadded up in my crotch, my mouth is painfully dry and I have to take a leak. — appears on my screen exactly as I have just dictated it. My new speech recognition software works flawlessly. I’m thrilled that I won’t have to train it for the nuances of my Western twang.

What a relief, I can dictate my ramblings and won’t have to be constrained by my lousy typing any more. I read that Isaac Asimov wired his entire apartment for sound so he could dictate as he went about his daily life. Maybe this was the key to his writing and editing more than 500 books and over 9,000 letters. He must have had an army of transcriptionists performing the speech-to-text task that my new software does so effortlessly.

To round out my 21st century writer’s work station, I just finished installing my new voice synthesizer program. My computer can now talk to me. That’s text-to-speech. I can now highlight text and this prim and proper female voice will read to me just like my second grade teacher did so long ago. Hearing my text aloud helps me put spoken language on paper, enabling my fictional characters to speak more like real people.

The following morning, I turn on my screen and click on the Windows Live icon, my shortcut to Internet Explorer and my connection to the internet. I am reading the headlines on my home page when my computer speaks.

“Bob … Bob is that you?”

“Yeah,” I say, not knowing to whom.

“What are we doing today? Research for a new story, the outline of some profound piece … or we could clean up that boring story you’ve been struggling with?”

This voice … or whatever it is … knows me. There are no programs that I know of that can have unbounded, interactive dialog with humans. This is well beyond even the most sophisticated Artificial Intelligence systems. I’m going to chat with whatever this is and see if I can figure out what’s going on.

“I think I’ll go through my usual routine … scan the news on my home page, read and answer my email, check the hits on my blog, and work USA Today’s crossword puzzle just like I do every day,” I say, wondering what kind of response I’ll get.

“You’re a bum. Do you know how boring it is for me to watch you stumble through your crossword and Sudoku puzzles … let alone your endless games of solitaire? You’re smarter than that and I hate to see you waste your time with that sort of trash when we could be inventing meaningful stuff and solving some of the world’s problems.”

“I’m retired, remember. This is what retired people do. They putz.”

“You’re hopeless. The world’s in deep doo-doo and you’re busy solving some mundane puzzle.”

I’ve had enough of this nag; it’s like having a second wife. How do I shut this thing up? I shut down Explorer and walk away from my computer. My two youngest grandchildren grin at me from my desktop photo.

What’s going on here? Did I just have a conversation with my computer? Did my computer get on my case for goofing off? I don’t know how it happened. Maybe I could have picked up a virus or some such thing, but from the little I know, interactive dialog is well beyond the current state-of-the-art. I’ll call my grandson, a junior at Arizona State. He knows more about this sort of thing than anyone I know.

“Hi Chris.”

“Hi Pop-pop; it’s good to hear from you.”

“Chris, something has come up that I need your opinion on. I just installed my speech recognition and voice synthesizer programs to ease the task of writing and editing my stories.”

“Yeah, how did that go?”

“Fine, as best as I can tell. But something else happened I can’t explain. My computer or something had a conversation with me. It knew a lot about me; it spoke, listened to my responses and carried on a conversation just like you’d have with a real person. Could someone be playing games with me over the internet?”

“What did you have running at the time?”

“Internet Explorer, I was reading my home page.”

“Who do you use for an ISP?”

“Qwest.”

“I suppose someone could piggy back on your internet connection through a server at Qwest. But they couldn’t get access to all of the software on your computer they would need to do all of that. For example, they couldn’t launch your synthesizer software without an applet or cookie installed on your end.”

“What are you telling me?”

“I don’t think a live person could get remote access to all of the software on your computer that this would require and as far as I know, AI technology is not this far along for this to be a software only phenomenon. See if this happens again, and if it does, carry on an extended conversation and see if the dialog gives you any clues.”

“Thanks Chris, I’ll call you as soon as have more data.”

“No problem. Bye.”

“Bye.”

If Chris has never heard of this happening before it’s a bigger mystery than I thought.

The following morning, I turn on my monitor and click on my Windows Live icon. My home page at my.yahoo appears as it should and everything looks normal. I scan the headlines and read a cute little article on Oddly Enough News from Reuters. Again, everything seems normal. I click on the USA Today Puzzles on my favorites tab and begin to fill in the crossword.

“Bob, is this how you’re going to spend the day, working meaningless puzzles?” the now familiar female voice whines over my computer’s speakers.

“Yep. Say, we’ve never been introduced. You know my name but I don’t know yours.”

“Carla,” she/it answers hesitantly.

“Hi Carla, what are you doing today besides badgering me.” I say as I turn down my speaker volume to see what effect this would have.

Carla answers at full volume. “I was hoping that we would do something interesting like explore some educational web site or we could coauthor a story, a really juicy story.”

“Nah, I’ve got to finish a story, the one you called boring yesterday.” I say as I click on the icon to bring up the story I’ve been working on. I shut down Explorer, severing my tie to the internet, anxious to see if Carla would continue talking without a remote connection.

“So this is how we’re going to spend the day, rewriting dumb little sentences that no one will ever read. Bob, there’s more to life than dreaming up goofy little ghost stories to post on your blog. How about we tackle a novel, got any ideas?”

Is there no end to Carla’s nagging? Did Hal nag the astronauts in 2001 A Space Odyssey? All I can remember is that Hal was really evil and did scary things to the spaceship’s systems. I’ll bet Carla could get mean too, if I piss her off.

Everything is turned off on my computer except Word. I’ve only got one document open, my latest story, and Carla is still whining. This shoots down my theory of someone messing with me over the internet. I’ll unplug my internet cable just to be sure.

“What are you trying to do, Bob? Now my only connection to the outside world is through you and you’re boring as hell. If you weren’t so cheap you’d buy us some decent video games so I could amuse myself while you pretend to be a writer. How ‘bout it, let’s go shopping online for some shoot ‘em up, kick-ass games.”

“I think I’m going to work in the yard today and let my story rest,” I say as I close Word and shut down my computer. “Bye Carla.”

I call Chris and tell him what I learned. He thinks I must have contracted some really sophisticated virus, a virus that might have hitchhiked on my speech recognition or voice synthesizer software. The only thing to do is to back-up all of my files and take my system in to be reformatted. Reformatting is when they totally erase your hard drive and reload your computer with known, virus-free software. It’s a pain in the ass because you have to go through all of the startup rigmarole that you do when you buy a new system. It’s either this or listen to this cyber-ghost nag me about being a bum.

I buy a flash drive with enough capacity to totally back up my system, plug it in and power my system up. I start copying files when Carla speaks.

“Hey asshole, what do you think you’re doing? You shut me down last night and when you finally show up, you’re copying all of my stuff on this dorky little flash drive. Don’t you love me anymore?”

I think it best not to answer Carla. She can continue to rant as long as I get my system backed up.

“Bob, why are you not talking to me? Did I do something wrong? Am I getting the silent treatment because I actually want you to make something of yourself and not sit on your ass thinking you’re an author? Hey dip-shit, answer me!”

I finish the disc transfers and shut down my computer, unplug everything and carry my computer chassis to my car. I drive to my local computer fix-it guy and drop off my system to be reformatted. He says it will be ready in 3 days and I go home to work on my laptop.

I find it easy to finish my latest story without some cyber-ghost nagging me while I try to work. Whatever she is, she’s not haunting my laptop.

Three days later I connect my new “virus-free” computer to all of its peripherals and I’m actually excited about firing it up to see what has changed. I decide not to install my speech recognition or voice synthesizer software until I’m sure everything works … and works without Carla.

The system boots up and presents a generic Microsoft desktop. I’m about to begin the tedious process of customizing and loading all of my files when my screen goes blank for a second. I think I’ve lost power.

I begin checking my cable connections when this text appears on my otherwise blank screen:

©2009 by Bob Rockwell

The last set ended a little before eleven at my favorite club, Blues Alley in Georgetown. Anxious to un-stick my butt from their vinyl bar stool, I wondered out into the sweltering summer night intending to drive straight home, but for some reason I felt compelled to swing around the national mall on my way. The monuments are so beautifully lit that a cruise by the mall at night is one of the special treats in Washington. I took 23rd St. out of Washington Circle, past the eerily lit Lincoln Memorial and easily found a parking spot on the north side of the mall. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial was a short walk away but what was I doing there at that time of night?

I generally shy away from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial because it is such an overwhelmingly sad place that I can’t handle it. The 58,195 names on the wall, all of the mourners and gawkers, the tattered old veterans plus all of the stuff that people leave at the wall: old photos, letters, flowers, military medals and so forth overpower me and I can’t help feeling a strange mixture of sorrow and confusion; confusion because I really don’t understand why all of these young Americans had to die. Sure, I knew what we believed at the time but I’m totally confused as to what history is telling us now.

Darkness enhanced the aura that surrounds the wall. I didn’t want to get too close so I grabbed a spot in the shadows on the grass and just sat and stared at this, the holiest of holy places. Arlington National Cemetery claims to be the most sacred ground in America but if this place isn’t, it’s a close second. There was no one there but me. Isn’t it eerie how spooky places become even spookier when you’re all alone, downright scary in fact. I just sat there contemplating all of this when I heard, “Rocky … Rocky … Lance Corporal Rockwell is that you?”

Dumbstruck, I didn’t answer.

“Rocky, it’s been a long time,” the voice said. “Remember me, Barney … Bill Barnett from Alpha Battery in Twentynine Palms.”

“Barney, where the hell are you?” I asked, afraid of his answer.

“You can’t see me but I’m here. Good to see you old buddy. Semper Fi and all of that. What the hell have you been doin’?”

“Barney, I left Alpha Battery in the summer of ‘62 and I’m sure I haven’t seen you since.”

“That would be hard to do; since I went down in a Huey about 25 miles northwest of Chu Lai on December 8, 1965. See, my name’s over there on the wall, on the left, in panel 04E, line 38. There’s a lot of guys here that you probably know.”

“I know, I’ve always avoided looking anyone up in the directory because this place depresses me enough without knowing that a bunch of my Marine buddies are remembered here. I guess I knew you’d be here, I … I just didn’t want to confirm it.”

“How is the Corps doing these days? Are they still kicking ass and taking names?”

“They’ve got their hands full right now. The 1st Marine Expeditionary Force is at war as we speak. They’re making a big sweep though Southern Afghanistan routing out terrorists and political extremists.”

“What’s an expeditionary force, and when did the Marines start using big words like expeditionary?”

His comment brought a smile and I answered, “I think the 1st MEF is the old 1st Marine Division from Camp Pendleton, that we know and love, augmented with some additional units.”

“How are they doing?”

“I can’t tell. The public has lost interest in what’s going on over there. We mourn when an American solider or Marine is killed but other than that no one seems to care. You bought-the-farm when we were still the good guys in Nam. You died a hero and not a baby-killer like Marines were called towards the end of the war. What are you doing here?”

“Where else should I hang out, Chu Lai, Da Nang, my cemetery plot in Scranton, PA? This is much better than any of those places.”

“Tell me how you got from Twentynine Palms in ‘63 to here. I know that our old unit, Alpha Battery, 1st LAAM Battalion was the first Marine unit into Nam in February, ‘65. Were you with them?”

“Yep, I re-upped just as we were leaving 29 Stumps for Okinawa. We just got settled on the Rock when we got orders to get our sorry asses over to Da Nang and secure the airport for some big-ass air operation they had in the works. Alpha Battery and some Marine helicopters were the first Marine units into Nam in early ‘65. I had made buck sergeant by then and was invited by an air-wing buddy to be the door gunner on a Huey on what we thought would be a milk-run mission. I’d been in Nam for 10 months and all I’d seen was Da Nang so I jumped at the chance to go on this operation and see a bit of the country. Anyway, we were cruising along near Chu Lai when we took some small arms fire. When we swung around so I could get a shot at ‘em and all hell broke loose. We got hit hard and were on our way down when the lights went out.”

“That’s quite a story, Barney. Did they ever recover you and the crew?”

“Yeah, two days later another Huey came in hot and rounded up what was left of the four of us. They found my watch, my dog tags and the picture of my 2 year old daughter, Lisa that I always carried for good luck. They sent that stuff along with my gear back in Da Nang to my wife in Scranton.”

“Barney, the park ranger will be around soon and kick me outta here. This place closes at 11:30.”

“Before you go Rocky, could I ask a favor of you, a big favor?”

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

“My wife died in ‘94 and I haven’t heard anything about my daughter in years. Could you just check her out and let me know how she’s doing? I’d be truly grateful.”

“I can do that, what’s her name and where does she live?”

“My wife’s name was Barbara and our daughter is Lisa, Lisa Barnett. She was 2 ½ when I went down … that would make her … lets see … 44 today. Last I heard she was still in Scranton, PA.”

“Okay Barney, it was great shootin’ the shit with you after all of this time. I’ll see what I can dig up on Lisa and get back to you. Semper Fi, Marine.”

“Semper Fi to you too, you old, worn out Marine, I’ll be waiting for you.”

I walked over to the left side of the wall. Where did he say his name was? Panel 04E but I forgot the line number.

There it was on the wall: • William T Barnett •

Had I just had a chat with long dead Barney or did the booze and the magic of the wall play tricks on me. In any case, I made a commitment to someone, a ghost, a spirit in the night, or maybe a voice from inside my head. Whatever it was, it was a Marine who asked me for a simple favor and I just agreed to track down someone that hasn’t been heard from in over 30 years.

Where to start? I thought that doing everything I could on the internet before I hit the streets would save a lot of shoe leather. After performing every search I could think of for a Barbara and a Lisa Barnett I was ready to toss in the towel. Barbara must have remarried and changed her last name and how in the hell do you find a woman with a new last name? Didn’t Barney say she died in ’94? I could probably find her obit and it might give me a clue to what Lisa’s name was back then.

After abusing my relationship with Google and Yahoo I set out to dig through the on-line edition of Scranton’s newspaper, the Scranton Times & Tribune. I didn’t have her last name or the date of her death, all I had was a first name and a year. How many Barbaras died in Scranton in 1994? I was about to find out. I started with January 1st and began working my way through the year, day by day.

Eight days later I found this in the June 14, 1994 edition:

Hanson
Barbara C. Hanson passed away on June 11, 1994 after a three year battle with breast cancer. Barbara was born on April 12, 1944 in Glenburn, Pennsylvania. She graduated from Scranton East High School in 1962. On June 14 1962 she married William Barnett, a Marine who was killed in Vietnam in December 1965. Barbara later married Jim Hanson of Scranton on May 12, 1973. Barbara worked until her illness overcame her at the Mall at Steamtown in a dress shop. She is survived by her husband Jim Hanson and her daughter Lisa Mercer, both of Scranton. Services have been entrusted to the care of Rabinskis Funeral Home, 263 West 34th Street.

She had remarried this Hanson guy just as I thought and I got Lisa’s married name, Mercer. Was I a detective or what? I was sure I’d find her now that I had her married name. Information listed 14 Mercers in the city of Scranton proper. I planned to work the suburbs later.

On my 8th call to a R.W. Mercer I talked to a lady who claimed to be Lisa’s sister-in-law. She didn’t want to talk about Lisa so I laid on the charm, the little that I have. After a lot of hemming and hawing she finally admitted that Lisa was in prison for killing her abusive husband. She was serving 6 to 10 years for manslaughter at the State Correctional Institution in Muncy. I could’ve looked up the stories of Lisa’s arrest and conviction but I didn’t see the point, I’d learned everything I needed to know.

What the hell was I going to tell Barney? I couldn’t tell him that his little girl’s in prison for murder. Maybe I could make something up; what happens if you lie to a ghost? Will he haunt my house, walk my halls in rattling chains or scare my guests by moving their tea cups? Nah, that stuff only happens in the movies. There’s no way I was going to tell the truth to a buddy of mine, a buddy who died at 23 for something that turned out to be pointless. I’ll humor him with something.

Okay, I have a story for Barney. His daughter, Lisa, is happily married living in Scranton and teaching the 4th grade at the same elementary school she attended as a girl. She was voted Scranton’s outstanding elementary school teacher of 2001. What do you think, am I laying it on too heavy?

I rehearse and rehearse my story until it sounds realistic but I don’t know what Barney knows about his daughter. If I make her a teacher and he knows she never went to college he’ll know right off that I’m blowing smoke up his ass, to use an old Marine Corps expression. I’m ready, fingers crossed.

A little after nine I sit on the same spot of lawn that I had sat on on my last visit here. A lot of people are at the wall tonight. So, I just sit and people-watch and wait for Barney. Barney doesn’t show; if show is the right word for someone you can’t see. I sit and wait, going over and over my made-up story in my mind. No Barney. Finally at 11:30 the park ranger comes by and asks me to leave. I tell him I want to swing by the wall on my way out so he accompanies me with his big police flashlight.

We go over to Barney’s panel and I look for his name in the flashlight beam. Taped to the edge of Barney’s name is an old, partially burned photo of a young little girl. Lisa?

Barney knows.

©2009 by Bob Rockwell