I went back to the desk and opened the file.
I’d seen some of this before, the reports on the Guadalupe shooting, the plea bargain with O’Keefe. But some was new. Peralta had highlighted a memo from the county attorney noting that O’Keefe should get prison time because he had been arrested at the scene of the shooting armed with a.38-caliber pistol. That was all wrong. I had searched him myself, and there was no gun. Indeed, the next sheet of paper was the evidence log from Guadalupe, with no mention of a pistol in O’Keefe’s possession. On this sheet, Peralta had highlighted all of the items logged in from O’Keefe: cigarettes, wallet, $4.32 in cash. No gun. I had never seen the memo on the gun before.
The file also held a patrol car inventory log. It was routine for deputies to check out the equipment in a car when coming on duty each shift. They noted all this in a log that was filed with the shift supervisor. This one was for unit 4-L-20, dated May 31, 1979, and signed “V. Bullock.” Otherwise, it looked unremarkable. At the start of their ill-fated shift, Bullock and Matson found a cruiser with a full tank of gas, engine fluids OK, siren and lights OK. The trunk held flares, traffic cones, and inflated spare tire. The deputies brought their 12-gauge shotgun, report case, and first-aid kit, all duly noted for the sergeant. What could have interested Peralta about this inventory after all these years?
Beneath that was the beat sheet from May 31, 1979. I hadn’t seen one of these in years: the assignments, car by car, beat by beat. The 3 P.M. to 11 P.M. shift was commanded by Sergeant Peralta. The watch commander for the station in Mesa was listed as “J.B. Abernathy.” I shook my head hard, trying to restore memory. I had forgotten that Abernathy, then a lieutenant, was filling in that month in the East County.
Peralta also had a copy of the radio log from that awful day. With a yellow magic marker he had noted every movement called in by Matson and Bullock. But not the traffic stop that caused their deaths-they never notified the dispatcher they were out with a stopped vehicle. That was against the rules-any stop was supposed to be called in-and it was the cause of our desperate uncertainty that night about who needed assistance. In the wake of the deputies’ murders, that breach had been forgotten. Still, it seemed to be what had attracted Peralta’s attention. Why hadn’t they called in the traffic stop? Were they stubborn old veterans flouting the rules, or was it something else?
Then a letter on departmental stationary, dated May 6, 1979: “Re: Reserve Deputy Harold Matson.” It looked like something out of a personnel file. Some brass hat on Madison Street was upset that the Sheriff’s Office was getting dunned by Matson’s creditors. Most reserve deputies had day jobs or owned businesses. The reserves were a cheap way for the SO to augment its forces and reward political friends of the sheriff. I gathered from the letter Matson had some kind of towing business that had gone sour, and now the lenders were in full cry. It put Matson on thirty days’ probation.
The letter was getting brittle. It resisted turning. And behind it was a note. On it, in Peralta’s handwriting: “Jonathan Ledger-Camelback Falls.”
I let out a long breath. For the first time, Camelback Falls was linked to the Guadalupe shooting. But how?
I was jolted by the soft trill of the telephone. Who in the state of Arizona could think Peralta would be here to answer his telephone? But suddenly the room felt close and breathless. The phone kept trilling. I checked the digital readout: an extension in the building.
I picked it up. “Yeah.”
“What’s taking you so long? Did you find it?” a man’s voice came back. I felt a second of disorientation and exposure. But I pulled my wits back together.
“Yeah,” I said. “Where should I meet you?”
There was the briefest pause on the other end of the line. Then, “Who the hell is this? Who is this?”
“This is Sheriff Mapstone. Who are you?”
He hung up before. I got the last sentence out.
I dialed the operator, asked about the extension. “It’s an unassigned number in the custody bureau,” she said. “Do you want me to ring that number?”
I said no. It was time to go. Past time to go. I closed the file folder, thought about taking it with me. But I locked it back up in the desk drawer. The rear hallway was deserted as I stepped out and secured the door to Peralta’s office.
In the lobby, I ran into Lindsey. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I figured I’d be safe in a police station.” I smiled. “Did you find what I needed?”
She nodded. “No Social Security number, no date of birth, but that doesn’t stop your intrepid cyber-searcher.”
As we walked out into the midmorning sun, Lindsey handed me the address of Lisa Cardiff.
Chapter Fifteen
Outside, we had barely crossed the arid plaza of the county courts building when we were intercepted by Jack Abernathy.
“Give us a minute, Deputy,” he said to Lindsey. The way he said “deputy” made me think he really wanted to say “missy” or “girl,” but maybe I was judging the man harshly based on surface impressions. That had gotten me in trouble before.
But there it was. Abernathy, a high-ranking law enforcement official in the nation’s sixth-largest city, looked like a Southern sheriff who had stepped out of a sequel to Smokey and the Bandit. At best, he was an ancestor mask in the tribe of the police.
In a way, I felt sorry for him. He must have been an embarrassment to the former sheriff, who turned the department into a trendy place of mission statements, media events, and master’s-degreed deputies. And he sure didn’t fit Peralta’s mold. But somehow he hung on. Abernathy was a head shorter than I was. His jowly face was a patchwork of reddened skin, as if he constantly scratched himself. His hair was close-cropped like a dry lawn and going white. All his weight congealed into his belly, which stretched impatiently against the fabric of his uniform shirt. And that Texas in his accent. I half expected him to address me as “boy.”
“Sheriff, we got a problem at the jail.” He nodded toward the massive brown fortress of the Madison Street Jail complex. I waited and he went on. One inmate had attacked another last night, nearly cutting his head off with a homemade knife. Both were leaders in respective African American and Latino (“Mescan” in Abernathy’s butchered language) gangs. Everyone expected reprisals and tensions were high.
“What do you think we should do?” I asked. He pulled his chin back into his heavy neck, seeming surprised someone, even the greenhorn acting sheriff, had asked his opinion.
“Move some of ’em out,” he said. “Disperse ’em to other facilities.”
“Well, let’s do that, and find out how this moron got a knife into our main jail.”
Abernathy pursed his lips and nodded. It went on a long time. A cool breeze was blowing down Jefferson Street from the west. Maybe it would push some of the smog away. Over Abernathy’s shoulder, I watched workers finishing the new Federal Building. It was a massive glass objet d’art. I guess the famous architect intended it to convey openness in a democratic society, rather than the respect and awe inspired by government buildings even into the 1930s. But to me it just looked insignificant and ugly, like a credit-card call center in the suburbs.
Finally, Abernathy said, “How are you feeling after that dude took a shot at you?” It came out harsh and confrontational. I said I was OK.
“I can’t believe Phoenix PD and Davidson’s people, and all Kimbrough’s detectives, can’t find this little scumbag,” he said. I didn’t want to take the time to explain, again, why I didn’t think Leo O’Keefe had shot at me.
“How is Chief Peralta?” he demanded.
“The sheriff is the same,” I said. “In a coma.”
“I ought to go by,” he said, thrusting his hands into his pants pockets. “You know, he and I go way back.”