Death in the Woods
A Juan Gomez Mystery
by Brandon Smith

Juan Gomez turned his battered light blue pickup into the parking lot of the Hickory Inn coffee shop at the north end of Mt. Siles, Illinois. He drove slowly to his usual breakfast spot, parked, and got out. Even after three years living near the small town in the rolling hills of northern Illinois, he still automatically locked the door of his battered pickup before closing it; then peered through the window to make sure the passenger door was locked.
Shaking his head at these lingering habits from living in Los Angeles, he dropped the keys in his pocket and headed into the restaurant. Old Doc was at the end stool, crewcut Ralph, who owned a used car lot, an insurance and a real estate agency, sat next to him. The third stool was reserved for the mayor, who normally only showed up on Tuesdays. The fourth stool was hidden under its usual occupant, Sheriff "Fats" Johnston. Teeter, in his coveralls and White Sox cap was next. He and his sons and grandsons owned or rented most of the land at this end of the county. On the other side of him was Earl Smith, his red hair slicked back to cover the bare spot. There were three vacant stools past Earl, but the last one was Bob's, the cook. A cup of coffee sat on the counter there, next to a deep plastic ashtray which featured its normal lit cigarette crimped in one of the slots. 
Over against the wall, the middle booth was filled with four workers from the furniture factory, younger guys who were rapidly becoming regulars, though they'd only been coming in for a couple of months, just since the factory had been reopened.
Sally looked up from behind the counter, smiled and greeted Juan by name. She poured a cup of coffee and set it on the counter in front of the stool next to Bob's. Juan touched his cowboy hat in salute, making the gesture include everyone, and slid onto the stool.
The others nodded in return and the Sheriff continued with the story he'd been telling about the speeder he'd chased down yesterday afternoon out on North John's Road. When he was done, silence descended, the companionable silence of people long used to each other's company. A few minutes later the workers paid and left, then Doc, Earl and Teeter discussed the weather with Fats for a few minutes. Doc was of the opinion it'd rain that afternoon, Teeter was sure the system would sweep south. Earl declared that rain or shine he had to fix the wife's washer today. He shoved his cup forward and backed off his stool, starting an exodus that included both Doc, Teeter, and the Sheriff. 
As they were leaving, Ralph leaned forward and spoke down the counter, "Got a job for you, Juan, a tree."
"And?" Juan replied. The Sheriff laughed from where he was paying at the cash register. Ralph turned a little red and glared at the Sheriff.
"Come on, Fats," Ralph said, "how was I supposed to know that was Teeter's land?" 
The Sheriff chuckled again. "You're all right, Juan, you cut what ever he wants. This time I'll know who to arrest the first time!" He went out the door, still laughing.
"This tree's next to the house at the old Kollonis place," Ralph said, getting up and coming over to stand next to Juan. "I own it, so there's no problem. I don't even need the firewood, so you can have the whole thing."
Juan looked at Ralph, then took another sip of coffee without replying.
"Twenty bucks," said Ralph.
"Next to a house?" Asked Juan, "Maybe leaning over the house?"
"OK, fifty bucks, Juan."
"I gotta look at it first."
"Now?"
"Sure, why not?" Replied Juan. He put a bill on the counter, nodded to Sally, and followed Ralph. It was nice being retired, able to let his day be built on impulse. They drove south out of town, toward Wild Berry Creek.
Ralph's new Bronco turned into a dirt lane marked by a small for sale sign. Juan followed Ralph down the lane bordered by cornfields just shy of harvest. Juan waited while Ralph opened the gate. From where he sat, Juan could just make out the roof of a house beyond the cornfields in amongst a clump of trees. Beyond the house was a small pasture and a large wooded area sloping down towards Wild Berry creek. Looking over the woods he could see more pasture, cornfields and another farm, maybe a mile away, part way up the opposite ridge. Ralph pulled through the gate but didn't stop to close it.
Juan stopped his pickup next to the house near Ralph's Bronco. The house hadn't been lived in for some time. Ralph came over and explained that the last tenants had gone bankrupt two years ago and that the only income he was getting from the place was the cornfields by the road. He told Juan that he was going to fix up the house and sell the place to a hunter from Chicago. The wooded part of the land had deer as well as turkey, Ralph said. But first the tree had to come down.
The huge cottonwood towered over the front porch. It was so close that part of the porch floor and roof was buckled where the trunk had grown into them. The top part of the tree featured a half dozen bare snags. Two of them were big enough and close enough to the house that they would have to be roped, cut, and lowered with pulleys.
Juan walked around the tree, estimating size and angles. He broke off some bark near the base and looked at the insect population. It was obvious that the tree was dying of old age. Juan leaned against the tree, almost hugging it, and silently asked if it was ready to come down. 
Juan walked over to where Ralph was waiting by his Bronco, "This is a hard one, Ralph. Climbing, ropes, the works. Two hundred dollars, plus I get the wood."
"You drive a hard bargain, but OK. When can you start? Can you do it today?"
Juan looked closely at Ralph, wondering. He had expected at least three or four back and forths, ending up at no more than a hundred. "Sure, Ralph. I can start in a couple of hours," he said. "I've got to go home and get some ropes and my nephew."
"Here's fifty for starters," Ralph handed Juan a bill and got into his Bronco. "I'll come by around noon to see how you're coming along."
Juan watched Ralph drive back out the driveway. He paced off some distances and did some mental arithmetic before he got in his truck and left.
As he drove along the gravel roads to his sister's home where his trailer home had been parked these last three years he wondered why Ralph was so eager to pay so much. The last job he'd done for Ralph had gotten him only forty dollars. 'Course that oak had been out in the open and could be felled in the direction it already leaned. He smiled to himself remembering the sequence of events that led up to Ralph forking over another hundred dollars to Teeter in the Sheriff's office. It hadn't been funny at the time, but was now part of the town's history, and his ticket to lots of little jobs since then.
That had been a few months after he'd arrived in Illinois, come to help his sister Camilla cope after the accident that had killed her husband. When Juan had stepped into the arrival lounge at the airport and first saw his fourteen year-old nephew, he knew he wasn't going back to California. Young Steve had needed an Uncle, and Juan had needed out of the whirling world of senseless crime on the streets of greater Los Angeles and away from the high tension bureaucratic infighting in the county sheriff's office. 
Juan had returned to LA a couple of weeks later, put in his papers, packed the few belongings he'd accumulated, and moved to Mt. Siles. At first he'd been content to live on his half pension, but with Steve in school most of the day and Camilla back at work in the bank where she'd been for fifteen years, he made himself useful by cutting firewood for Camilla, then for her neighbor, and soon doing custom cutting jobs. His skills with a chain saw, picked up when he'd worked as a logger for a few years before going into police work, turned out to be in demand. 
As he drove into the yard he wasn't surprised to see Steve sitting on the porch, leaning back against the wall, staring off across the cornfields. There was a mug of coffee on the floor next to a spiral bound notebook. The notebook was Steve's latest project -- The Poem. Juan had actually seen him writing in it more than once. Steve had said it was going to be a poem that would make white people love the earth. He'd been working on his Native American heritage with more effort these last few months, and Juan was happy to have a good reason to recall the things his own father and uncle had taught him. It was refreshing to find how easily it came back, even after nearly 25 years working in a police organization.
Juan was succeeding at that task, but it was hard. Steve wanted to know all the ancient rituals and skills, but he was still too full of himself to be able to be still long enough to feel the earth. Juan shook his head, wondering how someone could sit all day long on a porch, staring off into the distance, yet not be able to sit ten minutes on the ground. In the three years he'd been working with Steve so far, five minutes was the record.
"Get your stuff, Steve, we got work," Juan told him after he'd parked the truck in front of the porch.
"What, kill another tree? How can you call yourself an Indian, cutting down trees like that?"
"You'll be a frozen Indian this winter if we don't get some more firewood. Besides, I talked to this tree. It's old and ready to come down." Juan walked over to the shed and got out the ropes, his big chain saw, and his special lightweight limbing saw. He put them in the bed of the pickup, along with the axes, mauls, chains and other implements of sylvan destruction. 
Steve had gone inside. Juan knew he'd be out in a few minutes. For all his mouthiness, Steve was a good kid and respected Juan and truly wanted to learn what Juan could teach. Steve came out shortly, dressed for work and carrying a cooler with sandwiches and beer.
On the drive back to the Kollonis place, Juan explained the job and promised Steve that they'd explore the woods below the house if they had a chance and Ralph gave them permission.
Juan pulled into the driveway and let Steve get out to open the gate. After Juan pulled through, Steve closed it and was walking up to get in when he suddenly shouted.
"Look! A deer track! Come see!"
Juan shut off the motor and climbed down to the dusty road, eyes automatically reading the story there. He walked in front of the pickup and squatted down, examining the ground. Steve came around and told him the track was over by the side of the road. Juan stood and followed Steve.
"Yep, that's a deer track. Now, how old, male or female, which way was it going, and when?"
"Uh, well, it was going that way." Steve pointed in the correct direction. Juan squatted next to the track and explained in detail why it was a two year old male who had been ambling along the road yesterday evening. He looked at Steve.
"I know," said Steve, "if I want to learn how to track I have to lay in wait somewhere and watch the animals walk by, then go out and study their tracks." He hung his head. "OK, I'll start tomorrow, using that tracking box you set up, really."
"It's up to you, Steve." Juan stood up and walked back in front of the pickup and squatted again. Steve started to get in the cab, then came around and squatted next to his uncle.
"What is it?"
"Lot of traffic for an abandoned farm. Looks like a big semi rig has been in here." Juan stood and got back in the truck. At the house Juan explained what they were going to do and paced off his distances again. Just as he was about to climb into the tree to start limbing he heard Ralph's Bronco. He waited at the base of the tree and looked at Steve, who was squatting next to the porch, staring intently at the ground.
"Steve," he said, "do me a favor. Leave the tracking to later. And don't say anything to Ralph about what I said about big trucks."
Steve got up and looked at his uncle, a puzzled look on his face.
"I don't know, just a feeling." Juan said. "Us Indians shouldn't always tell white folks everything we know." He smiled and Steve returned it with a shrug and a smile of his own.
Ralph's Bronco soon came in sight and parked next to their pickup. He got out and walked over.
"Good to see you again, Stevie, how's the novel coming?" Ralph said.
"OK. This is a good break from writing." Steve replied. Juan had smiled to himself. At last Steve was learning to be a bit more polite and a bit less defensive about his lack of progress on The Poem. He hadn't even corrected Ralph that it was a poem, not a novel.
"Gonna be any problems, Juan?"
Mindful of the unusually generous two hundred dollars, Juan replied, "It'll be tricky. Got to pull those two big limbs out, then take the top down before we drop the rest. Might do some damage to the porch roof."
"Well, try not to completely destroy it. I'll be putting new roofing on, but I hope you can avoid crushing the structural posts."
Juan pointed to the corner post that had been pushed out of kilter by the tree. "That one will have to go. It's got severe water damage at the top anyway."
Ralph stepped up into the porch and peered at it closely. "Right. Well, do what you can."
Ralph headed back towards his Bronco, then turned and said, "By the way, if you see a little yellow foreign car, tell them there's no hunting and no trespassing here. Joe Lewis, over at the next place, said he thought he saw one turn in here this morning."
"No problem, Ralph." Said Juan.
"Thanks," said Ralph. He turned back toward his Bronco and took a couple of steps when they heard the report of a heavy rifle from down in the woods.
Ralph turned back. "I guess I get to tell him myself." He got into his Bronco and bounced down the road that led into the wood a few hundred yards below the house.
Juan and Steve had just finished getting the ropes set up for lowering the first of the big side branches when Ralph's Bronco came bouncing back. He got out and staggered over to the porch, pale and sweaty.
"You look like you seen a ghost, Ralph," said Juan. 
"Terrible, terrible. Some kid. Hunting accident, must have been. Terrible." Ralph sat on the porch.
"Should I go for the rescue squad?" Steve asked.
"No, too late for that. Kid's dead, shot himself in the face. Accident. Cleaning his rifle." Ralph had said. "God, what a mess! Fats should be here pretty soon. I called him on my car phone."
In spite of himself, Juan's detective habits kicked in. No one hunts in the middle of the day -- deer only move in the early morning and late afternoon. Besides, with deer season only a few weeks away, why anyone would be foolish enough to poach on a property like this. It was clearly posted, as were all the surrounding farms. True, the 80 or 90 acres of woods below the house supported a few deer, as did the other patches of woods scattered around the surrounding area. Any shooting would have been heard on at least two other farms, even if the idiot hadn't known they'd be up at this house working. Why, anyone driving down the driveway to the house would have seen the farm across the valley. Juan closed his eyes, recalling the tracks he'd studied earlier. There had been a smaller vehicle, but he'd have to look some more to place it in sequence.
He shook his head and looked up to hear Ralph describing another hunting accident to Steve, who was listening with all ears. Juan told himself to stop worrying about it. He was retired now, cutting a few trees for people and trying to give his nephew some purpose and drive.
Fats arrived in his squad car a few minutes later. Ralph told him what he had seen. He'd driven down the road, found a little foreign car. He'd hollered some, and then walked around a bit. He found the victim lying up against a tree, a rifle laying across his body and cleaning gear next to him. He'd been careful not to touch anything, he said.
Fats took some notes and then stood a while, looking around.
"Don't make sense, poaching on a place like this," he said, almost to himself.
"That's city folks, Fats. They don't think," said Ralph.
"They sure don't," chimed in Steve, "just want to shoot their big guns and prove their manhood."
Fats looked at Juan. He shrugged, but didn't say anything.
"I guess I'll go take a look," said Fats. "When the doc gets here, send him on down."
Fats walked over to his squad car, opened the door and stood looking down the road. It was not really a four wheel drive road, not for a country driver. Juan followed his gaze, the unbidden thought coming to his mind that not very many city folks would drive a car down a road like that. Fats closed the door and came back.
"I think I'll walk. You wanna come with me, Juan?" Fats' eyes made it clear it was more than an idle question.
"Sure, sheriff. Why don't you go ahead and rig the ropes for that big branch, Steve."
"I'll come and show you," Ralph started to get up. Fats motioned him back down.
"You stay there, Ralph. You don't look too good. Ask the doc for something when he gets here."
The sheriff looked like his nickname, but he was no slouch when it came to walking. He led the way and Juan had to step lively to keep up. After they were out of earshot, Fats asked Juan what he was thinking.
"I dunno, sheriff. I had the same thoughts you did about anyone hunting out of season on a place like this."
"Why did you retire, Juan?" Asked Fats, "According to Joe Benson, you were the best detective in Southern California. You could have gone for the full pension at 30 years, but you retired at 25."
Juan was silent for a few steps. He wasn't surprised the Sheriff had checked him out, only that he'd waited three years to talk to him about it. It had been hard to quit a good job. The truth sounded weak, but he offered it anyway.
"When Camilla called, I had just arrested a fourteen year old girl for killing her boyfriend with a knife. She had been proud of it! All I was doing was picking up pieces. Camilla gave me a chance to build something before it broke."
Fats looked at him, but didn't say anything as they passed into the trees, a mature oak hickory forest. The road curved to the left, following the contour. Juan soon spotted where the big trucks had been going. They turned to the right, down a gentle slope through the trees. The turnoff had been blocked by a large pile of dead bushes and branches. He stopped and looked at the barrier of dead brush.
"What are you looking at?" Asked Fats.
"I noticed a lot of heavy truck tracks up at the gate. This is where they went." He pointed.
"We're looking for a little foreign car, and I think I see it up there."
They continued on and found the car.
"Well, isn't that interesting." Said Fats, "No plates."
They walked around it and found the body only a few feet away, leaning up against a tree as Ralph had said. A cheap Chinese SKS "hunting" rifle lay across the body and a cleaning kit was scattered on the ground next to the body. It was obvious to both men that death had been quick, instantaneous. A 7.62 NATO round through the eye doesn't leave much to chance.
Fats stood over the body. "How can anyone be so careless?" He reached down to pick up the rifle.
"Wait!" Exclaimed Juan. Fats jerked back, hand going to his holster.
"What? What is it?" He asked.
"Something's not right, Fats. Look at this." Juan pointed at the ground. "He was dragged to the tree. And look at all these footprints."
Fats gazed at Juan, started to say something, then grunted. He looked back at the body, then looked around the woods.
"Like I said, doesn't make sense to be hunting down here. And now that I think about it, doesn't make sense to be cleaning a rifle down here either." Fats paused and looked back at the little yellow car. "Even city folks wouldn't go hunting in a vehicle like that -- where would he put the deer?." Fats turned back to Juan. "As for these footprints, Ralph did say he was down here. They could be his." 
Fats looked over at Juan. "I thought you were retired."
"I am," Juan replied, "but old habits come back in a hurry when my instincts say something's not right. Take a look at that cleaning kit and rifle, Fats. See the little packet of cleaning patches?"
"Yeah. They're the small kind, no good for this rifle. So? City slicker. What d'ya expect?"
Juan thought about pointing out how there were a lot more guns in the city these days. Instead he said "I wouldn't even expect a city slicker to have a cleaning kit, let alone sit down out here in the dirt to clean a rifle. If our boy was into guns, and did want to clean it, he'd have set out a cloth or something to put the parts on. Just looking at the way the cleaning kit is scattered around, I'd say it was put there after he was shot."
Fats looked at the scene, making a few noises deep in his throat. Finally he looked over at Juan.
"OK, Juan, I see your point. Time to take closer look." Said Fats. "Why don't you study the tracks while I go look at the car. Chief Benson did say you were the best tracker he'd ever seen."
Juan wandered around the area, up and down the road, pausing frequently to squat down and study the ground. He passed by the car where Fats was searching a couple of times, going back up the road as far as the brush blocked turnoff he had noted earlier. Then he went back to the body and spent a long time studying the area. He was peering closely at the bark on the side of the tree opposite where the body lay when Fats came back.
"What'cha got?" Asked Fats.
Juan stood up and looked at Fats. "The victim arrived here and parked his car there yesterday afternoon. He walked up to that place I pointed out, where the trucks came in, and went down there, spent some time down there and came back. Last night, maybe before dark, someone arrived and parked right behind the car, a little bit further forward than where he parked this morning. This someone and the victim talked to each other over by where the other vehicle was parked. Here the marks show me that the stranger dragged the victim, who was probably unconsious by that time, over to this tree and tied him to it. See the marks here on the bark, this straight line of broken bark here?"
Fats came over and looked. "Yeah, that could be a rope mark, I suppose. How can you be so sure about all that movement and stuff?"
"I've been doing this a long time, Fats. Believe me, I got the movements right." Juan paused, then went on in a matter of fact voice. "Do you know anyone else with new Firestone tires on a Bronco sized vehicle who is the same height and weight as Ralph, and who also has a habit of standing hip shot to the left?"
"OK, Juan, I'll buy it for now. What then?"
"Well, over there, behind the yellow car, Ralph's Bronco was there at least three different times. Near as I can tell, last night, this morning, and again just a little while ago. Or, anyway, a vehicle with the same tread and wear pattern as the Bronco Ralph's driving now."
"What are you saying, Juan, that Ralph killed this kid?"
"No. Ralph was talking to me and Steve when the shot was fired. The story these tracks tell me is that Ralph was here last night, as well as early this morning. The oldest tracks, the ones from one last night, tell me that the victim was tied to the tree. The tracks from this morning are a bit harder to read, as there has been an effort made to hide them, brushing at them with a leafy branch. The most recent tracks, the ones made by Ralph when he came down after the shot, show that he did a bit more than stand over the body."
"Where's the killer's tracks, then, if Ralph couldn't have done it?"
"I don't see any other tracks -- just the victim, Ralph, you and me."
Fats was silent for a moment. "And the car was clean -- no registration, nothing in it to identify the victim. Just some dirty clothes in a backpack. Have to tow it back to town and get the state boys to come look at it."
Juan walked over to the car and squatted by the front bumper, peering at the place where the license plate should have been. Fats came over and looked over his shoulder.
"Even I can see there were plates on there not too long ago, Juan. Can you tell how long ago?" Fats murmured.
Juan got up and went around to the back of the car. "The plates were on when he drove down here. See how clean this is? No dust from the driveway." 
"Can you find them?"
"Probably." Juan stood and looked around. Most of the immediate area was pretty open, but down the hill about a hundred feet there was a thicket of brambles, mixed wild blackberry and multiflora rose bushes. He headed toward it. Fats followed, noticing how carefully Juan walked. 
"Yeah, someone came this way." Juan said.
"Ralph?"
"Can't say, just a broken branch here, and over there, see the way that rock is turned over?"
Fats looked, trying to see what Juan was talking about. 
When they got to the edge of the thicket, Juan dropped down on his hands and knees, then down on to his stomach and began worming his way into it along a rabbit trail. Fats shook his head and waited. He was surprised at how quiet it was. How could anyone crawl through brambles without making noise, at least a few curses from being stabbed by those vicious multiflora rose thorns.
Fats gazed back toward the car, turning over possibilities in his mind. If Juan was right, then Ralph knew a whole lot more about this than he'd said. But Juan himself gave Ralph an absolutely iron clad alibi for the killing itself. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was a suicide -- no, that didn't make sense either, no note, too much care to remove identification. Fats hadn't handled many murder cases in Mt. Siles. A couple of family affairs, one robbery. Fats was thinking about why big trucks would be on an abandoned farm when Juan suddenly appeared, carrying a bundle wrapped in a plastic tarp.
"What've we got, Juan?"
"Something tossed into the middle of that thicket, Fats. From the look of the broken twigs, I'd say it was tossed there about the time Ralph came down to investigate that shot we heard." Juan set the bundle down.
Fats kneeled next to the bundle and slowly unwrapped the poncho and spread out the items, using care to handle them by the edges. There was a rope, a bloody cloth that might have once been a bandanna, a pair of New York license plates, an attaché case, and a tripod with peculiar looking device mounted on it.
He pulled out a handkerchief, picked up the tripod, spread its legs and set it down. He leaned over it and examined the device on top. It was a wood platform about three inches wide by twelve inches long. There were three large diameter hose clamps mounted more or less evenly spaced along the length. Just behind the middle one was a pair of clear plastic boxes with electronic looking components inside. One of them had a loop of wire sticking out one end and the other had an antenna about six inches long sticking up from it. The two boxes were connected by several wires.
Fats leaned close and sniffed at the device. "Cordite," he muttered, "a radio, and I wonder what this is?"
"My guess is that it's a servo motor that reels in that wire and pulls the trigger." Juan put in. 
Fats sat back on his heels and looked at Juan, "I'd say you're right. In which case we have a carefully planned murder. You don't throw one of these things together in a hurry."
Juan was silent as Fats leaned forward again and pulled the attaché case closer. Still using the handkerchief, he opened it and started looking through it. He pulled out a thick file folder and handed it to Juan while he picked up a wallet and began going through it.
"Forty, fifty, seventy dollars and some," Fats counted, then "And here we are, New York Driver's license issued to John Goldona."
Juan had opened the folder and had skimmed the first page. He read aloud, "Environmental Protection Agency, Memorandum of investigation progress: Acme Chemical Company, Pennsylvania, a bunch of mumbo jumbo and then signed John Goldona."
Fats tossed the wallet back into the case and Juan handed him the folder. Fats leafed through the pages, reading several of them closely.
"So, it appears John Goldona was following trucks carrying toxic waste from Pennsylvania and found a bullet." Fats closed the folder and put it back in the case.
He sat back on his heels for a few seconds, looking back up the road in the direction of the house. He got up, "OK, Juan, let's take a look at where you said those trucks were going." 
Juan led the way, cutting through the trees to the other side of the brush barrier he'd pointed out earlier. A few dozen yards down the rutted trail a curve brought them out onto a sea of churned up mud and dirt. They stood looking at it. 
"Even I can see a bulldozer's been in here," said Fats, "loaded on a low boy over there and trucked out."
Juan chuckled, "That's about all I can see, too, Sheriff. If I had x-ray vision, maybe I could tell you what has been buried here."
"I wonder how much Ralph got paid to let them bury their stuff here?"
"So you think Ralph did it?"
"Yeah," Fats said. "I've never liked him much, but he had made a real effort to be a good citizen. I always tried to be nice to him, figuring used car salesmen and insurance agents are just that way. I guess I was right all along."
"Now what?"
"Yes, Juan, that is a problem. I've got why and how, but you and your nephew provided the who with a perfect alibi. Come on." Fats turned and headed back. Juan followed.
After a few minutes, Juan said, "I've got an idea, Sheriff." 
"Let's hear it." 
"My guess is that Ralph still has the signaling device on him."
"The what?"
"The radio transmitter that sent the signal to the tripod that pulled the trigger," explained Juan.
"Why would he keep it?"
"A lot of new cars come with optional remote lock controls these days, right? I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he has one for his new Bronco, set to the frequency that sets this off. Besides, all we found in the bundle was a receiver, no transmitter."
Fats looked at Juan, then turned and walked quickly back towards the poncho. He kneeled again and carefully went through everything.
"No, I don't think there's anything here that could have set it off." Fats said. He sat back on his heels. "OK, this is what we'll do..."
The next morning Fats and Juan were standing next to Juan's pickup when Ralph pulled into the Hickory Inn parking lot. Ralph came over to them after he parked.

"Morning Sheriff, Juan," Ralph said pleasantly. "Wasn't that a mess, yesterday?"
"Sure was." Juan said. They chatted a few moments about other hunting accidents, poaching, and the weather. Then Fats slipped in the bait:
"Juan was just telling me how he still locks his truck even when he's just getting a paper. I see you've gotten used to our ways now, Ralph." 
"Sure have, Sheriff. Nice living in a town that's safe. And a lot a credit to you, too."
"Well, still, you probably ought to keep a new vehicle like yours locked up. Awfully tempting, a brand new one like that."
Ralph laughed. "I've got just the thing, Sheriff, one of these remote car door lockers. Watch." He pulled out his key ring and aimed it at his Bronco and squeezed the little black box attached to it.
A rifle shot boomed across the parking lot and Ralph went pale.
"I'll take that, Ralph, and I'm arresting you for the murder of John Goldona."