Apache Country by Frederick H. Christian Page A

Ironheel needed an attorney, Weddle was all I had.”
    Easton shook his head in disbelief but this
time kept his mouth shut. This was Sánchez’ show, not his.
    “I understand he called you, that’s how you
got to be the one found the body, right?” Sánchez asked
Goodwin.
    “He told me he had to talk to me.
Immediately. He said. there was something very important I needed
to know.”
    “Was it about Ironheel?” Easton asked.
    “I don’t know. He just said get over here
fast.”
    “Did you see anyone near the unit when you
arrived?”
    Goodwin shook his head. “Just … the door was
open, and I went in. And there he was on the floor.”
    “You touch him? Touch anything in there?”
    “Good God, no,” Goodwin shuddered.
    “You getting all this, Billy Charles?”
Sánchez asked the deputy. Cummings nodded and held up his
notebook.
    “Okay, Charlie, go on home,” James said. “We
know where to find you. Oh, and you’ll need to come by RPD tomorrow
and make a statement.”
    “I wish I could be more help.”
    “You did just fine, Charlie,” James told him.
Like shit, his voice said.
    Easton looked out the window and saw Chief of
Police Ab Saunders getting out of his car. A short, broad, balding
man who moved ponderously and perspired heavily, he had on a tan
double breasted suit, and wore a broad-brimmed dark brown fedora
that wouldn’t have looked out of place in The Untouchables. He
always reminded Easton of the guy who used to play the TV
detective, Cannon.
    “Chief Saunders just got here,” he announced,
for the benefit of Sánchez and the deputy. He checked his watch:
10:44. “Guess that’s my cue to fold my tent.”
    They got out of the squad car and went over
to where Ab Saunders was talking to one of the deputies. Saunders
looked up as they approached.
    “Any developments?” he said to Sánchez.
    Easton stood aside as James quickly updated
Saunders. The fat man listened absently, his eyes following Charlie
Goodwin as the lawyer got into his Chrysler 300 and drove out of
the courtyard.
    “What the hell’s Charlie Goodwin doing out
here?” he muttered.
    “He found the body,” Sánchez told him. “We
just got through talking to him.”
    Saunders picked up immediately on the ‘we’
and scowled at Easton, making no attempt to conceal his
disapproval.
    “SO got an interest in this, Dave?” he said.
He sounded peeved, as if Easton was interfering in something that
didn’t concern him. Everyone in law enforcement knew Saunders was
very territorial. The guys at RPD said if a body were found lying
across the county line, Ab would measure it to confirm that more of
the corpse was lying in his jurisdiction than SO’s. Maybe even move
it over his side of the line a little to make sure. In other words,
when push came to shove, what was his was his. Including the
charm-school manners.
    “I came up here intending to talk to Weddle,”
Easton told him. “Walked in on all this.”
    “Talk to him about what, exactly?” Saunders
asked, his voice still edged with animosity.
    “Couple of things I needed to clear up,”
Easton replied, not replying at all. “He was acting for James
Ironheel, our suspect in the Casey killing.”
    “That’s a weird one. Never heard of an Ind’in
killing a white man before. You getting anyplace?”
    “Not yet.”
    “And you think there might be a connection
here?”
    Easton shrugged. “Might. Your guess is as
good as mine.”
    “Yeah, right. Well, thanks, ’preciate all
your help out here,” Saunders said.
    In other words, take a hike. Easton shrugged.
There was nothing anyone could do about the fact Saunders had been
way back in the line when they handed out the graceful manners. And
anyway, strictly speaking, Ab was within his rights: SO might have
an interest but this crime scene wasn’t Easton’s jurisdiction. He
touched two fingers to his forehead as an adios to James and walked
back across the parking lot to his Jeep, wishing he could go
straight back