guy about sixty, solid, gray. He looked reliable. Webster waved him
back into his seat and McGrath laid the four glossy mug shots on his
desk in front of him.
“You know these guys?” he asked.
The sheriff slid the photographs nearer and looked at each of them in
turn. He picked them up and shuffled them into a new order. Laid them
back down on the desk like he was dealing a hand of giant playing
cards. Then he nodded and reached down to his desk pedestal. Rolled
open a drawer. Lifted out three buff files. He placed the files
underneath three of the photographs. Laid a stubby finger on the first
face.
“Peter Wayne Bell,” he said. “Mojave kid, but he was down here a lot.
Not a very nice boy, as I believe you know.”
He nodded across to his monitor screen on a computer cart at the end of
the desk. A page from the National Crime Center Database was glowing
green. It was the report from the North Dakota cops about the identity
of the body they had found in a ditch. The identity, and the
history.
The sheriff moved his wrist and laid a finger on the next photograph.
It was the gunman who had pushed Holly Johnson into the back of the
Lexus.
“Steven Stewart,” he said. “Called Stevie, or Little Stevie. Farm
17Q
boy, a couple of bushels short of a wagonload, know what I mean? Jumpy,
jittery sort of a boy.”
“What’s in his file?” Webster asked.
The sheriff shrugged.
“Nothing too serious,” he said. The boy was just too plain dumb for
his own good. Group of kids would go out and mess around, and guess
who’d be the one still stood there when I roll up? Little Stevie,
that’s who. I locked him up a dozen times, I guess, but he never did
much of what you would want to call serious shit.”
McGrath nodded and pointed to the photograph of the gunman who had
gotten into the front seat of the Lexus.
This guy?” he asked.
The sheriff moved his finger and laid it on the guy’s glossy throat.
Tony Loder,” he said. This is a fairly bad guy. Smarter than Stevie,
dumber than you or me. I’ll give you the file. Maybe it won’t keep
you Bureau guys awake nights, but it sure won’t help you sleep any
better than you were going to anyhow.”
“What about the big guy?” Webster asked.
The sheriff jumped his finger along the row and shook his grizzled
head.
“Never saw this guy before,” he said. That’s for damn sure. I’d
remember him if I had.”
“We think maybe he’s a foreigner,” Webster said. “Maybe European.
Maybe had an accent. That ring any bells with you?”
The sheriff just kept on shaking his head.
“Never saw him before,” he said again. “I’d remember.”
“OK,” McGrath said. “Bell, Little Stevie Stewart, Tony Loder and the
mystery man. Where do these Borken guys fit in?”
The sheriff shrugged.
“Old Dutch Borken never fit in nowhere,” he said. That was his
problem. He was in Nam, infantry grunt, moved out here when he got out
of the service. Brought a pretty wife and a little fat ten-year-old
boy with him, started growing citrus, did pretty well for a long while.
He was a strange guy, a loner, never saw much of him. But he was happy
enough, I guess. Then the wife took sick and died, and the boy started
acting weird, the market took a couple of hits, profits were down, the
growers all started getting into the banks for loans, interest went up,
land went down, the ion collateral was disappearing, irrigation water
got expensive, they all started going belly-up one after the other.
Borken took it bad and swallowed his shotgun.”
Webster nodded.
The little fat ten-year-old was Beau Borken?” he asked.
The sheriff nodded.
“Beau Borken,” he said. “Very strange boy. Very smart. But
obsessed.”
“With what?” McGrath asked.
“Mexicans started coming up,” the sheriff said. “Cheap labor. Young
Beau was dead set against it. He started hollering about keeping
Kendall white. Joined the John Birch types.”
“So he was a racist?” McGrath said.