"So, Deputy Barton, I'm told you were the first lawman on the scene of the Navarro killing. Could you please tell me what you saw when you arrived?"
Hotchkiss had descended upon the deputy as he was eating his breakfast in a little café across the street from the jailhouse. The young man swallowed a mouthful of flapjacks, washed it down with a swig of coffee, and answered the lawyer, speaking earnestly and a bit self-importantly,
"I walked into the room, and I saw Navarro lying on the floor in a pool of blood. It was an awful lot of blood. Too much blood. I knew he was a goner before I even checked him."
"So he had been shot?" Heyes prompted,
"Well, yeah," answered the deputy, as if that point was too obvious to mention. "Three times. Two were straight through, but one was still in 'im."
"And was anyone else in the room?"
Mrs. Navarro was passed out drunk as a skunk on the bed, and she was still holding the gun in her hand."
"And you knew she was drunk because…?"
"Well, everyone knows she's a drinker. And I could smell it all over her, too."
"What else did you notice in the room?"
"Else…?"
"Was the room neat or messy? Were there signs of a struggle?"
"Signs of a struggle?"
Heyes hid his impatience behind a well-practiced poker face. "Any furniture overturned, broken glass, bedclothes in disarray?"
"Oh, there was nothin' like that. The bed was unmade, but everything else looked fine. Except for all the blood."
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It was soon after that conversation that Heyes decided it was time to visit the scene of the crime.
"That nosy lawyer is up in the Navarros' room, Mr. Navarro," a young girl dressed in maid's plain dress and pinafore apron whispered to the man with the pencil-thin mustache seated at a corner table in the dining room of the Abilene House. "I mean, the other Navarros. I mean, your – "
"I know what you mean, you simpleton," he snapped at her. "There's nothing for him to see there."
At that exact moment, Heyes was making the same observation. At least there was nothing to see at first glance. The room had been scrubbed clean, the bed stripped down to the straw tick. There was no sign of any pillows or blankets. Heyes got down on all fours and examined the floorboards closely, then pulled a white glove from his pocket and tugged it onto his right hand. He carefully ran his fingers along the ornate brass bedstead, pausing frequently to peer at the white cloth closely. After his fourth swipe, he was rewarded with a few black curly hairs and the unmistakable rust-red smear of dried blood on the end of his gloved fingertips. Heyes carefully removed the glove and wrapped it in a handkerchief which he tucked into his vest pocket.
Then he rose to his feet and looked about the room. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
He tried to visualize the struggle. So the bed is over here, he thought, which means that when Grace entered the room, then Navarro would have been right here… He began to examine the opposite wall of the room closely. The two bullets that went straight through should have been….. But there was no sign of any bullet holes in the wall. He looked around the room again and something caught his eye amidst the paisley design of the rug.
He knelt down and looked more closely, then ran his fingers over the pile. There was a very palpable dent. A swift examination revealed three more, forming the shape of a large rectangle. Heyes rose to his feet, his expression changing as the realization came to him. The bed hadn't been over there; someone had moved it! His keen eyes moved over to the opposite wall and began to scan its surface. He stepped closer and ran his fingers along the floral wallpaper. There! He could feel a slight divot. He peered closely at the spot in the dimness, but it was hard to see anything amongst the busy pattern. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, but this side of the room was in shadow.
Heyes glanced around for a lamp to light, but there was none to be seen. He pulled a box of matches from his vest pocket and struck one against the sole of his boot, then cupped it with his other hand and peered at the divot. Upon close inspection, he could see the edges where a tiny patch of wallpaper had been carefully glued onto the wall, the design of the flowers and leaves painstakingly lined up so only a very thorough observation would reveal them. He shook the match to douse the flame before it burned his fingers. Just as he reached for another match in order to find the second bullet hole, the little maidservant who had let him into the room made a small noise from the doorway. He turned to see her hovering there.
"If you're through, Mr. Hotchkiss," she began in a timid voice…
"Not quite yet. Sally was it?"
"Yes sir."
"Sally, were you working the night of the, uh, the night Mr. Navarro died?"
"Yes sir. I work every night, sir," she answered.
"Has anything in this room been disturbed since that night?"
"No sir," Sally squeaked, her eyes darting about the room. "Just cleaned, sir. We – I - cleaned up the blood, sir. From Mr. Navarro, sir. It was an.."
"Awful lot of blood," he said, in unison with her. "Yes, Sally, so I've heard."
And then it hit him. No lamp. How could you have a hotel room without a lamp? Although it was daylight now, it was already getting difficult to see details. At night this room would be almost pitch black. The lamp must have overturned and broken in the struggle, he surmised. And after "they" – whoever "they" was – cleaned up the broken pieces, they didn't think to replace it with a different lamp. Or maybe "they" decided it would be better not to replace the lamp because it would be too easy to find the spots where, sometime later, the bullets must have been dug out of the wall and the wallpaper patched. "They" had also rearranged the room, so anyone who thought to search for bullet holes would be looking in the wrong wall.
"Thank you, Sally. I've seen all I need to see."
The girl curtsied and waited for him to leave. After he passed by her, he turned back and asked one last question.
"Sally?" he asked, "Who's been in charge since Mr. Navarro passed on and Mrs. Navarro has been in jail?"
"In charge, sir?" she asked timorously.
"Who's been giving the orders, running the hotel, all that?" he clarified.
"Oh, that would be Mr. Clark, sir," she answered. Mr. Frank's brother."
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Later that same day, Kid was again feigning sleep while his partner interviewed Grace.
"But I told you everything already!" she exclaimed in exasperation. Grace was now clad in a forest green day dress, the color deep and rich, but the cut much more modest and ladylike than what she had been wearing when she was arrested. She had been allowed the luxury of a bath at the doctor's office and her "lawyer" had arranged for several changes of clothing to be delivered to the jailhouse, along with some personal comforts: a pillow, a featherbed, a quilt, hairbrush and comb, a washstand with ewer and basin, some towels, even her toiletry items. He had also hung a blanket from the bars between hers and Curry's cells, again for the short-i privacy he insisted on, so now Curry could hear them, but not see them. This screen also provided Heyes the opportunity to hold longer conversations with the Kid through the blanket, unseen by the marshal or the deputy.
Not that they did him much good, Curry thought sourly. When he had groused to Heyes after the upgrades to Mrs. Navarro's cell, asking when was his featherbed gonna show up, Heyes had simply ignored him. Then he had asked when was he gonna give him the rest of the pieces of his gun so they could get the hell out of there, his partner had replied chidingly, "Kid, I'm surprised at you. You're always the one saying we should do good deeds."
"Well, then I'm surprised at you, cuz you're the one always sayin' we shouldn't!"
That had been the end of that discussion. Curry had accepted that his partner was determined to solve the case, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He just hoped he'd do it soon so's he could get out of jail before the Wyoming authorities showed up. He lay on his bunk and listened to the voices drifting through the woolen barrier.
"Mrs. Navarro," Heyes as Hotchkiss said patiently. "I understand you told me everything you remember about the events of your husband's death. But I need to be able to picture it. For example, what was your husband wearing?"
"His socks," she answered drily.
Heyes waited for her to continue, but when she didn't, he prompted, "And…?"
"That's it," was the reply. "I told you he was in my bed with that little tramp, didn't I?"
Heyes looked thoughtful. After a brief pause, he asked, "Can you describe the arrangement of the room – wait." He pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil from his satchel. "Better yet, can you make a sketch?"
Curry couldn't see the drawing, but as he listened to the description of where the door was and the bed and the wardrobe, he visualized it in his mind.
"Heyes," he hissed through the blanket.
"Not now, Kid. We're busy," came the response.
Curry rolled his eyes, then persisted, "Heyes, that wardrobe sounds like a perfect hidin' place. Maybe someone else was in the room."
On the other side of the blanket, Grace's and Heyes's eyes met. As if they were mirrored images, they both pronounced the same name at the same time: "Clark…?"