Michael McGarity
Serpent Gate
Kevin Kerney sat in an unmarked state police car across the street from the Shafier 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 shah pbr 1931. Shafier 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 Pc 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 bream reeked of stale cigarette smoke. Kerney forced down a gag reflex. At six feet one inch, he loomed over me 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 dear.
"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 Pc 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 mat 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 pis tola "Do you think I need it?"
"Of course you do."
Kerney nodded, stepped to the car, unlocked it, got his bolstered 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.