The body was found along Route 783 just outside the town of Aravaipa. The woman who found it was a Navajo lady; I learned that she and her dogs had been herding a flock of sheep across the road at dawn to beat the morning traffic. She’d roused a dairy rancher and the phone call had been logged in at the Sheriff’s office at 5:44 a.m. I was brought in around noon when one of the Undersheriffs picked me up in a county car; he filled me in on the way to Pete Kyber’s office. “We’ve got a corpse and a witness. Or at least we think he’s a witness.”
“Who’s the victim?”
“Name of Philip Keam. Thirty-something. Reporter for one of the Tucson newspapers.”
“You notified next of kin?”
“Divorced, no children. The parents may be alive — we’re trying to find out.”
Officially the temperature went to 103° Fahrenheit that day, which meant that down along the surface of the plain it was near 140°. The asphalt of the Sheriff’s parking lot was soft underfoot, sucking at my shoes, and I hurried into the air-conditioned saltbox before I might melt. Slipping off the sunglasses I made my way back to the Sheriff’s private office.
Pete Kyber was long-jointed and Gary Cooperish; slow-moving and slow-talking but not particularly slow-thinking. His most noticeable feature was his Adam’s apple. Pete was no relation to the redneck stereotype; he was by instinct a conservationist rather than a conservative. How he and I ever got elected to our offices in that rural county still mystified me.
He watched me sit down; he was gloomy. “We got a bloody one, Mike.”
“I’ll have a look on my way out. What’s the story?”
“Bludgeoned to death. With a rock.”
“No fingerprints?”
“On a rock?”
“Who’s this witness you’ve got?”
“Larry Stowe. Just a kid.”
“Would that be Edgar Stowe’s son?”
“Yes.”
Edgar Stowe ran the drugstore in Aravaipa. He didn’t own it — it was a chain store — but he was the manager. His son Larry would be about 22, I calculated; one of my kids had been in the same high-school class. I remembered the Stowe boy coming around the house now and then, but that was five years ago. He’d struck me as an unremarkable kid, towhead and a bit vacuous.
“What’s Larry got to say?”
“We’re having a hard time getting a straight story out of him. You’d better talk to him yourself.”
“All right. First tell me what you’ve got.”
“Well, Keam was robbed. His wallet’s gone. We called the paper in Tucson to find out what he was doing over here. The city desk man got lathered up and I had to calm him down. But I’m afraid we’ll be knee-deep in newspapermen by this afternoon. Keam was up here investigating a story about land frauds. Digging into the Inca Land Company developments.”
“Ron Owens.”
“Yes.” Pete Kyber made a face to indicate his opinion of Ron Owens — real-estate tycoon, despoiler of the wilderness. I knew Owens, not intimately, and disliked the man as much as Pete did. Usually Owens could be found sporting around in his Lear Jet, flying his pet Congressman to Las Vegas, or partying with his Oklahoma oil chums and expatriate Detroit gangster buddies. The “desert estates” he sold were rickety instant-slum dwellings encrusted on drearily bulldozed scrub acres.
Dozens of lawsuits were outstanding against Owens, brought by home buyers who attested that the Inca Land Company had failed to make good on its advertising and had defrauded them in multifarious ways. Naturally Owens had a phalanx of lawyers, some of whom had practiced in Washington and all of whom were adept at delaying cases until hell froze over. Owens was as slippery as a watermelon seed.
Pete Kyber took me back to the interrogation room where Larry Stowe sat picking his fingernails. Pete said, “Larry, you know the prosecutor here, Mike Valdez.”
“Yes, sir.” Larry was still towhead, still vacuous — his mouth hung open most of the time — and, at the moment, uptight.
“Sure we know each other.” I shook hands with Larry. “How are you, son?”
The kid’s handshake was perfunctory, his palm damp; he had trouble meeting my eye. “How’s Mike Junior doing, sir?”
“Fine, just fine. Finishing up at the University this year.”
“That’s, uh, that’s great, sir.”
“Pete, you want to leave us a while.”
“Sure thing.” The Sheriff retreated and shut us in.
I sat down facing the youth across the chrome-and-vinyl table. “Okay, Larry, would you like to go through it with me?”
He was reluctant but I kept at him with gentle persuasion and finally it came out, sheepish: he’d spent the night with a girl at her parents’ ranch a few miles up the highway and that was why he’d been walking back into town so early in the morning. He didn’t want to involve the girl, didn’t want her parents to know he’d spent the night — he admitted with a nervous laugh that he’d left by the bedroom window with his shoes in his hand.
Once we got past that obstacle he told a straightforward story. He’d been walking along the highway shoulder; it wasn’t yet dawn hut it was a clear night. Down along Mule Deer Creek he’d walked under the cottonwoods where the big corrugated culvert funneled the creek under the road and he’d heard voices raised in argument. Curious and cautious, Larry made his way past the trees into the brush beside the road. He saw a big car parked in the dust — a Cadillac. Larry didn’t know much but he did know cars and he described that one in fabulous detail, right down to the license number, and I made notes as he talked.
Three men stood out on the slickrock and Larry recognized two of them — cowboys he’d seen around Tooner’s Bar, drinking beer and pawing at the waitresses. The third man was a stranger to Larry; of course that was Philip Keam, the reporter from Tucson.
The cowboys were arguing about what to do with Keam. Larry said, “Bud Baker kept saying they ought to beat the guy up and dump him. The other guy, Sammy Calhoun, he was scared, I guess. He kept grabbing at Bud’s arm and saying they better turn the guy loose or they’d get in trouble with the Sheriff. And then I heard Bud say that was what they were getting paid for, to put a good scare into this guy so’s he’d quit nosing around. Then this guy between them, he interrupted the two of them and said, “You two have only got two choices. You got to kill me or let me go, because if you start dumping on me I’ll sign a complaint for forcible kidnapping and assault and battery.”
Larry swallowed; I saw sweat on his forehead. “So old Bud Baker just says, real calm-like, he says, ‘All right, if that’s how you want it,’ and I see him reach down and pick something up and hit this guy over the head with it. He hit him three-four times while he was falling.
“Then Bud and Sammy, they went through the guy’s pocket’s, and I guess they taken his wallet, and after that they run over to that Cadillac and I watched them drive away. It was starting to get light and this Indian woman come along with some sheep, and I stayed hid-up there in the brush till I seen her run for help, and then I run on home. I figured she’d give the alarm, you know, but then I kept, you know, thinking on it, and finally I come down here to see the Sheriff.”
I obtained warrants on Baker and Calhoun; Peter Kyber’s men went out to arrest them. Pete and I picked at Larry Stowe in several sessions, trying to nail down evidential details; his testimony was direct, his memory clear, and I knew we had a first-class witness in him.
We tried to sweat Baker and Calhoun but they’d been coached. They stood mute, refused to answer any questions without their lawyer, admitting nothing. The lawyer was a skinny fellow from Phoenix who drove up in an air-conditioned Corvette. He wore a sharkskin suit and aviator sunglasses. His name was William Farquhart and he had a white toothy smile —“Just call me Bill”— and I loathed him on sight.