flashed and the trucks slowed. A voice crackled over the police radio.
“What’s your twenty?” Chief Craig Bolt of the Capitan Police Department asked.
“Highway 54 just north of Carrizozo,” Tim answered.
“Are you ready for a cup of coffee?” Bolt asked.
“Affirmative,” Tim replied. He’d met the chief earlier in the week and liked the man’s straightforward style.
“The pot’s on. Come on over to my office.”
“Ten-four. ETA twenty minutes.”
He put the unit in gear, headed toward Capitan, and cruised into the village where a prominent billboard on the west end of town proclaimed, “JESUS IS LORD OVER CAPITAN.”
Earlier in the week, as they’d driven through the village, Clayton Istee had asked Tim what he thought about the message on the billboard.
“It’s a bit too much for my taste,” Tim said, caught off guard by the question.
“You’ve got that right,” Clayton replied with a laugh. “The way I see it, gods come and go depending on what tribe rules the land, not who lives in the heavens.”
“That’s very philosophical,” Tim said.
“You think so?” Clayton asked, shooting Tim a sharp look.
“Why not?” Tim said with a shrug. “Organized religion isn’t a big deal to me.”
Clayton nodded in agreement and grinned. “Hallelujah, brother.”
Tim pulled to a stop at the Capitan Police Department, which shared space with other village agencies in a prefabricated metal building fronting Smokey Bear Boulevard, the main drag through town. Chief Craig Bolt’s white Ford 4?4 with Smokey Bear’s image on the door was parked next to the blue entrance, which also bore the bear’s likeness.
Over fifty years ago, after a devastating forest fire in the nearby mountains, a young bear cub had been found alive clinging to the trunk of a burned tree. As Smokey Bear, the cub had gone on to become the most famous icon for forest fire prevention in the world. Because Capitan was the place where the legend had been born, Smokey Bear’s name and image was now an indelible part of the town’s identity. Capitan sported a Smokey Bear Historical Park, a Smokey Bear Museum, various businesses that bore Smokey’s name, and the town hosted an annual Smokey Bear Festival and Smokey Bear rodeo.
Smokey’s presence permeated the village, right down to the two life-size carved wooden bears, one black, one brown, that guarded the entrance to the town hall. Although Smokey did draw a fair number of travelers to the village, most stopped for a quick look on their way to somewhere else, and thus Capitan remained a quiet, pleasant, thriving ranching community and not an international tourist destination.
Tim stepped through the door and greeted the chief, who poured him a mug of hot coffee, held it out, and motioned to an empty chair.
About fifty years of age, Bolt was a stocky man five-eight in height with a broad upper body, gray hair cut short, and huge hands that hung down from chunky arms. He had the look of a former weightlifter who’d thickened up a bit but hadn’t gone to seed. According to Clayton, Bolt had put in his twenty with the Las Cruces P.D. before retiring as a lieutenant and taking over the Capitan department.
“Thanks,” Tim said, as he took the mug and settled into a squeaky chair behind a gray, government-surplus metal desk.
Bolt nodded as he raised his cup. “When you work late nights, the only fresh coffee you’re gonna find in Capitan is right here in this office. If the lights are on, the pot is on. Come by for a cup anytime.”
“That’s good to know.”
The Capitan police headquarters consisted of one fairly large room where Tim and the chief sat and two small offices. It was just adequate for Bolt and the two sworn officers who manned the department with him.
“Do you really have a lightning bolt tattooed on your arm?” Tim inquired.
Bolt chuckled. “Who told you to ask?”
“Clayton Istee, Sheriff Hewitt, Chief Deputy Baca, and just about everybody else who mentions your name.”
Bolt rolled up his sleeve and held out his forearm. “Well, there it is. I got it when I was in the army serving with the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division.”
Tim recognized the unit patch insignia. “Impressive.”
“I’m gonna use it as part of my election campaign when I run for county sheriff next year,” Bolt said. “My name, the lightning bolt. Get it?”
Tim nodded. “The chief deputy isn’t going to run?” he asked. In New Mexico, sheriffs had to stand down after two consecutive four-year terms. Usually, the chief deputy would get elected and the two top cops would simply switch jobs for the next eight years. At least, that’s the way it had been up in Santa Fe County during the time Riley had worked there.
“Anthony Baca is also retiring,” Bolt said, showing his gums in a toothy smile. “Both Paul and Anthony are going to support me. So the chances are, if you’re still with the S.O. by then, I’ll be your new boss.”
“That gives me something to look forward to,” Tim said straight-faced.
Bolt huffed in a joking way and raised his eyebrows. “Are you being sarcastic with me, Deputy Riley?”
Tim laughed. “If I am, I better do it now before you get elected.”
Bolt slapped his leg and smiled. “I like your style, Riley. So help me out here, I’m trying to come up with a catchy campaign slogan to go with my name. How does ‘Zap the criminals. Elect Craig Bolt Sheriff of Lincoln County’ sound to you?”
“That’s good,” Tim said, faking some enthusiasm.
“I don’t like it either,” Bolt said with a grimace. “It’s too heavy-handed.”
Tim nodded in agreement. “How about using ‘Bolt the door on criminals in Lincoln County.’”
Bolt’s eyes widened. He whistled and repeated the slogan. “I like that a lot better than what I came up with, a whole lot better. I think I’d like to run it by my campaign manager.”
“Who’s that?” Tim asked.
“My wife,” Bolt said with a laugh.
“Speaking of wives, I’ve been trying to call my wife up in Santa Fe on my cell phone and haven’t been able to get through. Mind if I make a quick call to her on your office phone?”
Bolt waved at the desk phone next to Riley’s elbow. “Have at it. Do you need some privacy?”
Tim shook his head, dialed the number, got a busy signal, and hung up. “No luck,” he said. He finished his coffee, got to his feet, and shrugged. “It can wait. I’ll see her tomorrow when I get back to Santa Fe. Thanks for the coffee, Chief.”
“The pot is always on. Next time you stop by I’ll fill you in on some of the local Capitan characters you need to know about.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” Riley replied as he headed out the door.
Bolt waited until he heard Riley drive away before dialing Paul Hewitt’s cell phone number. “Where are you?” he asked after Hewitt answered.
“Sitting in my truck watching my new deputy drive out of town. So far, he’s doing okay. Goes where he says, does what he says, isn’t slacking off. Now that you’ve had a sit-down with him, what do you think?”
“I think he’s a good one,” Bolt said. “Are we still on for breakfast in the morning?”
“You bet,” Hewitt replied.
“You going home now?”
“You bet,” Hewitt said again.
“Me too.” Bolt hung up, turned out the lights, locked the door, and went home.
In a troubled frame of mind, Deputy Tim Riley resumed patrol. He decided that something was wrong in Santa Fe. Denise should be calling him by now, wanting to know why he was late getting home. A few miles outside of Carrizozo he pulled off to the side of the highway, called the dispatcher, gave her his Santa Fe home phone number, and asked her to contact the phone company and have them check the number. Within minutes, the dispatcher reported that the phone was off the hook at Tim’s Santa Fe residence.
“Okay,” Riley said with a sense of relief, “that explains it. Thanks.”
