Serpent Gate

1

Kevin Kerney sat in an unmarked state police car across the street from the Shaffer Hotel in Mountainair, New Mexico, waiting for Robert Cordova to show up. Kerney had tracked Cordova to the state mental hospital in Las Vegas, only to discover that he had run off two days earlier. Cordova was a schizophrenic with a history of disappearing from the state hospital as soon as he was stabilized on medication.

A hospital psychiatrist had told Kerney that Cordova had no permanent residence and usually went back to his hometown of Mountainair after running off. Eventually he’d show up at the health clinic in town, looking for cigarette or coffee money, or he’d be found wandering the streets in a full-blown psychotic episode.

Kerney had already checked for Cordova at the clinic. The secretary hadn’t seen Robert, nor had the other locals Kerney spoke with, but everybody he questioned noted Cordova liked to hang out in front of the Shaffer Hotel.

Twenty minutes into Kerney’s wait, the information proved to be right on the money. A scruffy-looking man with an untamed beard and tangled dark hair came scurrying down the street around the corner from the state highway that ran next to the hotel. Filthy high-top sneakers with no laces slapped against his bare ankles as he hurried to a low fence in front of a small park and gazebo adjacent to the hotel. He stopped dead in his tracks and wheeled to face the fence.

Before the man turned, Kerney got a good look, consulted a mug shot, and made a positive ID. A runt of a man in his mid-thirties, no more than five foot four without an ounce of fat, Cordova wore tattered jeans that hung low on his hips and a soiled plaid shirt, too large for his skinny frame, that ballooned around his waist. It was a chilly early November day and Cordova wasn’t wearing a coat.

Cordova interlaced his fingers at the back of his head, stuck both thumbs in his ears, did an abrupt about-face, and started marching from one end of the fence to the other in a rigid measured cadence, as though he were a sentry on patrol.

The fence bordering the park was a stunning piece of folk art. The railings, posts, and two gates were fashioned out of hand-formed concrete imbedded with an amazing array of icons depicting two-headed animals, fanciful birds, stylized fish, and human figures, all made with odd-shaped colorful stones. Smack in the center of the fence, a long serpent with an arrowhead tail writhed and coiled, its head sporting a sharklike fin, the base of its neck sprouting incongruous insect legs.

On the railing above the serpent, the artist had signed and dated his work, using pebbles and hand-cut fragments of shale to spell out BUILT BY POP SHAFFER 1931. Shaffer had also built the hotel he’d named after himself.

Kerney stayed in his unit with the motor off and the window open watching Cordova parade up and down, his thumbs jammed in his ears, shaking his head vigorously.

Cordova’s bizarre behavior made Kerney hold back from making an approach. He didn’t know much about Cordova’s mental condition other than that the man heard voices and talked to Jesus Christ a lot. Kerney didn’t want to fight his way through Cordova’s delusions; he needed Cordova to be rational when he questioned him.

Six months ago, Cordova had been interviewed about the murder of Patrolman Paul Gillespie. He’d been completely incoherent at the time, in the middle of a psychotic break. After the interview, Cordova disappeared and could not be found again for further questioning. Kerney hoped he could learn something from Cordova that might help him get a handle on the case. He was running out of leads on an investigation going nowhere.

The murder had stymied the state police and the FBI. Officer Gillespie had been found shot once in the head with his own handgun at the Mountainair police station on the opening night of the annual town rodeo. Virtually every resident of Mountainair and the surrounding area had attended the event, including Gillespie, who was on duty at the time. He was seen leaving the rodeo grounds during the calf-roping finals. An hour later his body was discovered by Neil Ordway, chief of the two-man force.

A month after Kerney’s friend Andy Baca had been appointed chief of the New Mexico State Police, he had reached out for Kerney, given him a badge, and sent him down to Mountainair to find Gillespie’s killer. For almost four weeks Kerney had been making the eighty-mile drive from Santa Fe to Mountainair, spending his days running down every possible lead. So far, he had nothing to show for the effort.

Cordova suddenly stopped marching, pulled his thumbs out of his ears, and ran a hand over the serpent icon in the fence. To Kerney it seemed almost like a caress. Cordova turned, looked in Kerney’s direction, raised his face toward the weak November sun, and smiled. His body relaxed and his face lost some of its tightness.

Kerney thought maybe the time was right to approach Cordova. He got out of the car, and as he crossed the street Cordova extended his hand like a pistol, sighted with one eye, and pulled off an imaginary round.

Are you a cop? Cordova called out as he walked toward Kerney in a tough-guy strut.

Kerney stopped and nodded.

Cordova smiled broadly. His teeth were chipped and badly stained. His beard had dried gobs in it, but Kerney couldn’t even guess what the substance might be.

Cordova put his wrists together at his waist. Cuff me and take me to jail. I’m hungry.

Cordova gave off a ripe odor of vomit and urine, and his breath reeked of stale cigarette smoke. Kerney forced down a gag reflex. At six feet one inch, he loomed over the man. He stepped back in an attempt to get away from Cordova’s rankness.

How about I buy you a pack of smokes and a meal? he countered, nodding in the direction of the hotel.

I said I want to go to jail, Cordova said crankily, craning his neck to look at Kerney. I’m a fucking mental patient. You’re supposed to take me to jail.

Maybe later, if you cooperate.

Cordova stared in disgust at Kerney.

Behind the dirt, the beard, the unruly hair, and the chipped stained teeth, Cordova’s eyes looked clear.

How come you limp? Cordova asked.

I got shot, Kerney answered, thinking back to the incident that had ended his career as chief of detectives with the Santa Fe PD. An old friend and fellow officer had failed to back him up on a stakeout. The end result was one dead drug dealer, permanent damage to Kerney’s right knee, and a partially destroyed gut.

Were you a cop when it happened?

Yeah, I was.

Cordova threw a couple of jabs in the air at an imaginary opponent. I’d never let that happen to me. I’d fuck somebody up if they tried that shit.

I bet you would, Kerney replied. Do you want that meal and pack of smokes? He inclined his head toward the hotel.

What do you want? Cordova asked.

Just to talk.

They won’t let me in there.

They will if you’re with me.

Cordova grunted and looked Kerney up and down. Kerney’s jacket was open, and Robert didn’t see a gun. "What kind of cop are you, anyway? You’re not even wearing a pistola."

Do you think I need it?

Of course you do.

Kerney nodded, stepped to the car, unlocked it, got his holstered sidearm, and strapped it on his belt. Better?

Yeah. Now maybe they’ll let me in the restaurant. Can I order anything I want?

Anything. I’m buying.

Robert held up two fingers, both stained nicotine yellow. Two packs of smokes.

Name your brand, Kerney replied as he walked Robert to the hotel entrance.

It was mid-morning and the hotel dining room was empty except for a young, round waitress who sat reading the newspaper at the lunch counter along the back wall. Kerney got Cordova settled at a table by the window that gave a view across the street of an empty single-story building and vacant lot.

What about my cigarettes? he asked, as he grabbed a menu, crossed his legs, and started wiggling his foot. The loose, filthy sneaker slapped against his heel with a dull smacking sound.

After we eat, Kerney replied.

Robert grunted in dissatisfaction.

Kerney waited for the waitress to notice them. The ceiling was another folk art masterpiece by Pop Shaffer. Dark wooden beams and handmade chandeliers were painted with an intricate tapestry of Native American symbols and mythical figures, some of which looked like they came strictly from Pop Shaffer’s imagination. Kerney’s gaze jumped from image to image; it was almost too much to take in at one sitting.

Tired of waiting, Kerney cleared his throat. The waitress turned, glanced at Robert, nodded to Kerney, slipped off the lunch counter seat, and walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

She’s calling the cops, Robert predicted.

Why would she do that?

Because the last time I was in here, I threw an ashtray at her.

Did you hit her?

Nope, she ducked. Aren’t you going to ask me why I did it? His foot wiggle accelerated a bit.

Do you want to tell me?

Cordova smiled wickedly. Nope.

The waitress reappeared and walked to the table. She stood as far away from Cordova as she could, using Kerney as a shield.

I can’t serve you, she said to Kerney.

Yes, you can. He held out his open badge case. This is police business.

I know who you are, the woman said, looking over the top of her eyeglasses. Her watery brown eyes blinked rapidly. She had stringy brown hair pinned back in a bun, most of which had unraveled against her neck. Her testy expression made her double chin more noticeable.

I still can’t serve you.

Kerney smiled pleasantly. Tell your boss if we don’t get served, I’ll have every state health-and-safety inspector I can think of down here tomorrow morning, crawling all over the place looking for violations.

Cordova grinned in delight as the woman turned and walked stiffly back to the kitchen.

That was bad, he said to Kerney. You put her down, man. I never had a cop do anything like that for me before. They usually treat me like shit.

No sweat, Robert. What do you want to eat?

The waitress returned and grudgingly took Robert’s order of two cheeseburgers, a double order of french fries, and coffee.

Robert didn’t talk while he waited for his meal to arrive. His gaze stayed locked on the pass-through window from the kitchen. He licked his lips and tapped a finger anxiously on the table. Kerney wondered when Robert had last eaten.

When the food came, Robert wolfed down the meal, hamburger juice dribbling into his beard. His foot didn’t wiggle when he ate.

Finished, Robert picked at his broken teeth with a long fingernail, belched, and smiled. Thanks, he said.

You’re welcome.

Robert rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Now I need a smoke.

In a minute. I need to ask you a few questions.

What about?

How well did you know Paul Gillespie?

He was a motherfucker. I’m glad he’s dead.

Why do you say that?

Robert’s brown eyes turned angry. I went to high school with him. He was always hassling me. Pushing me around, picking fights, teasing me—stuff like that. It got worse when he became a cop.

How did it get worse?

Robert started to respond, glanced out the window, and clamped his mouth shut. Neil Ordway was walking toward the hotel entrance.

How did Gillespie mistreat you?

He didn’t do nothing, Cordova said, sneering in the direction of Ordway as the cop entered the dining room.

A middle-aged man with a square face, thinning blond hair, and a pinched nose, Ordway stood over the table and looked at Kerney and Robert. He grinned without showing his teeth. It made his cheeks puff out.

What can I do for you, Chief? Kerney asked.

I came for Cordova. Seems he’s run away from the Las Vegas funny farm again.

Fuck you, Robert said, his eyes hooded. I’m not going back there. I’m never going back there.

Don’t make this hard on yourself, Cordova, Ordway said, wrinkling his nose. Jesus, you smell like shit.

I’ll take care of the situation with Cordova, Kerney interjected before Robert could reply.

Ordway pulled out a chair and sat. Are you going to drive him back to Las Vegas?

I said I’ll take care of it, Kerney repeated, holding Ordway’s gaze. Ordway didn’t flinch.

Robert leaned across the table, cleared his throat, and spat in Ordway’s face.

Ordway blinked, rubbed a sleeve across his face, and grabbed a fistful of Robert’s shirt. You’re going to jail for that, shithead.

Robert grinned and nodded in agreement.

Kerney clamped down on Ordway’s arm. Let him go, he ordered.

Ordway locked his gaze on Kerney. Whatever you say, he said with a grin, releasing Cordova.

Free of Ordway’s grip, Robert tipped over his chair and scampered out the door.

Ordway laughed as Robert disappeared from sight. Well, it seems like he’s run away. Isn’t that a damn shame.

Maybe you can tell me where to look, Kerney said calmly.

Your guess is as good as mine. But if you think Cordova can help you, you’re way off base.

I’d still like to talk to him.

He’ll turn up again. He always does.

Kerney changed his tack. I know you gave Gillespie excellent performance reviews, but did you ever have to discipline him for failure to perform his duties?

No.

He was never late for work? He never had to be corrected about policies and procedures?

Sure, occasionally. It wasn’t a big enough deal to require any official action.

There was no evidence of conduct unbecoming an officer? No citizen complaints lodged against him?

No.

Did Gillespie show signs of having a drinking problem? Was he closemouthed about what he did on his free time? Did he have a pattern of calling in sick after his days off?

I never saw him under the influence, either on duty or off.

Did he have money problems?

You’ve seen his financial records. He lived within his means. Ordway shook his head and stood up. You know what? I think this case has got you stumped, and you’re looking for a way to save face. Questioning Paul’s character isn’t going to get you spit or make you any friends in this town.

Kerney got to his feet. It sounds like Gillespie was a perfect cop.

He did his job.

I’ve heard that the town council isn’t very happy with your performance.

The hometown hero, who took their high school football team to the state finals way back when, was murdered. They think I should have made an arrest the day he got shot. They don’t give a tinker’s damn about the lack of a suspect.

That puts you under a lot of pressure, I bet.

Not anymore. I’ve resigned. I’m out of here at the end of the week. He turned on his heel to leave.

Chief Ordway, Kerney called out.

Ordway stopped at the door and looked back at Kerney. What?

The waitress stood anchored behind the counter at the far end of the dining room, tilted slightly forward, intent on every word.

If you find Robert Cordova, don’t mess with him. Tell me where he is and I’ll pick him up.

Sure thing, hotshot.

Kerney watched him leave, thinking Ordway had been a cop long enough to know that without a suspect, the victim became the prime focus of attention. But politics in small towns were played based on blood ties, and Ordway was the outsider, imported because Gillespie hadn’t met the state training and experience qualifications for the chief’s position. What if Gillespie had been a bad apple and Ordway had turned a blind eye to it, not wanting to fire the hometown ex-hero of the high school gridiron? It would be really stupid to admit that he let an unethical or crooked officer remain on the job in order to keep the town council placated. Such an admission would end Ordway’s career in law enforcement.

From what Kerney had seen of Ordway during the past four weeks, he would be no great loss to the profession.

He dropped some bills on the table to cover Robert’s meal and the tip, and smiled at the waitress. She lowered her gaze and got busy wiping down the immaculate countertop.

 • • • 

A railroad town established in the early part of the century, Mountainair sat among the foothills to the Manzano Mountains. A state highway dissected Main Street, curved in front of the local elementary school, and continued past a gas station, motel, and some abandoned commercial buildings before making a straight run west toward the mountains. Main Street, a two-block-long strip with some retail stores, a post office, and a National Park Service building, boasted no trees, no traffic lights, and no pedestrians. Some of the buildings were vacant, and barren display shelves behind plate-glass windows created a rhythm of continual decline.

Kerney drove the strip several times looking for Robert, who was nowhere to be found. He stopped next to the post office and spotted Neil Ordway’s police car parked in front of the town hall and police station.

The police station, which housed the police dispatch office and the magistrate court, had a concrete front with a thunderbird design perched above an ornamental pillar that separated two entry doors. Ordway’s office took up the second floor of the adjacent town hall.

Kerney wondered if Ordway had snagged Robert in spite of his warning to leave the man alone. He switched his police radio to Ordway’s frequency. If Robert was in custody, Kerney would know it when Ordway left to take him back to Las Vegas. He would keep looking until then.

Mountainair had no distinct neighborhoods to speak of, except for a string of middle-class, ranch-style houses and a few restored Victorian cottages near the high school. Even there, scattered between neat yards and tidy homes, an occasional empty lot with an old foundation or a sagging, weather-beaten house open to the elements broke any impression of a well-defined neighborhood.

Kerney did a slow patrol and checked each empty house before heading across the main drag, where the pavement quickly turned to dirt, and a string of houses, several churches, some shacks, sheds, and uninhabited cabins sputtered to a stop at a fence to an unused pasture.

Kerney kept looking, found nothing, returned to the main drag, and stopped at the grocery store to buy two packs of cigarettes. Ordway’s cruiser was still parked outside city hall when he came out. He headed east on the state highway in the hope that Robert might be hitchhiking out of town. He drove to the Estancia cutoff before giving up and turning around to scout the road west of town. He shut down the hunt near the Abo Ruins National Monument and made his way back to the village.

He topped out at the hill on the outskirts of Mountainair just as a small herd of pinto horses swooped up a shallow arroyo and trotted along the highway fence. It was a pretty sight, and Kerney slowed to watch until the horses disappeared into a draw.

Mountainair had faded with the demise of dry land farming and the decline of railroad traffic. But its beautiful setting pulled tourists in and kept the place alive. It was a gateway to the wilderness that spread over the southern end of the Manzano Mountains, which were brushed at the summits with the first dusting of snow.

To the south a heavily forested mesa sheared off half of the horizon, and thick, slow-moving clouds in the blue-gray November sky rolled toward the village. Kerney had been taught by his ranching father to read the weather, and the day promised moisture sometime soon.

Mountainair was not completely unfamiliar to Kerney. After finishing a brief stint as the interim sheriff of Catron County in the southwest part of the state, Kerney had looked at a section of land for sale in the high country outside Mountainair. It was summer grazing pasture infested with cocklebur, hound’s-tongue, and prickly pear cactus—sure signs of overgrazing. It would take years to bring it back, and Kerney needed land that he could put to use immediately to produce income and make the mortgage payments, if he was ever going to get back into ranching.

With only enough money for a modest down payment, everything else he’d looked at was either way out of his price range or too small in size for raising cattle.

Kerney’s parents had lost their ranch in the Tularosa Basin when White Sands Missile Range, a top-secret testing facility in the heart of south-central New Mexico, had expanded. The day they moved, military policemen and federal agents escorted the family off the spread to the Rocking J Ranch, where Kerney’s father had taken a job as foreman.

That was the day Kerney’s dream of owning a ranch was born. He had kept his hopes alive for almost forty years. While living on the Rocking J, during his college years, in Vietnam as a platoon leader near the end of the war, and throughout his career in law enforcement, Kerney had never let go of the dream.

He wondered if he would ever be able to achieve it. It didn’t look promising.

He pulled up in front of Pop Shaffer’s hotel to find Ordway using a side-handle baton in a wrist lock on Robert to force him toward the squad car. The waitress watched the action through the plate-glass window of the dining room.

Let him go, Kerney ordered, slamming his car door to get Ordway’s attention.

Butt out, Kerney, Ordway said. This is my business.

Kerney quickly closed the distance to Ordway.

Move, Cordova, Ordway commanded. He applied more force to the hold. Robert gasped in pain and lurched toward the police car.

I said, let him go, Kerney repeated, grabbing Ordway’s shoulder.

Sure thing, hotshot, Ordway said as he pulled free, released Robert, and swung at Kerney with the baton.

Kerney kicked Ordway in the nuts. He dropped the baton, fell to his knees, and grabbed his groin.

After disarming Ordway, Kerney looked for Robert, who stood next to him, bouncing on his toes in delight.

Kick him again, Robert said, as he threw uppercuts into the air.

Wait for me by the fence.

Fuck you, Robert replied, still punching the air. You lied to me.

What?

You promised me some smokes, man.

They’re in my car, on the passenger seat. Go get them. Then wait by the fence.

Okay, Robert grumbled, moving away.

Kerney moved behind Ordway, stood him up, put the baton against his throat, and applied some pressure. You’re not a man who takes advice easily, he said.

Fuck you, Ordway gurgled.

I could file charges against you, Kerney said. Unlawful arrest. Use of excessive force. Do you want that kind of grief?

Ordway thought about it and shook his head.

I didn’t think so. Kerney released the pressure, pushed Ordway out of kicking distance, and circled around to look the man in the eyes. Take my advice, Ordway. Find a civilian job. I don’t think you’re cut out to be a cop.

Ordway’s expression turned ugly when Kerney locked his handgun, baton, and car keys inside the police cruiser.

That should slow you down, Kerney said to Ordway. Get in my car, Robert.

Why?

I thought you wanted to go to jail.

Robert beamed. Can I smoke in your car?

No, but I’ll stop along the way so you can have a cigarette or two.

That sucks.

Humor me, Kerney replied.

 • • • 

Kerney let Robert sit up front wearing no cuffs. He fought off Cordova’s bad smell by running the air conditioner