The Burnt House

36

L ED BY CURLY on one side and Kruse on the other, Martin Hernandez, in his jail jumpsuit, looked like a walking orange. His girth appeared to measure half his height and his face was grizzled and gray. His gait was a slow shuffle due to age and leg chains. They placed him down on one of the bolted chairs and cuffed an ankle to a table leg. He sat back, crossing his arms in front, his buttocks spread over the seat.

Kruse said, “You gonna behave, Martin, or do I have to put on the handcuffs?”

“I’m gonna be a free man, sir.” His voice was high and raspy. When he smiled, there wasn’t much tooth matter left-a couple of pegs in front and a couple of molars in back. “I’m not gonna do nothing to stop that from happening.”

“Now, that’s thinking smart.”

“Can I trouble you for a smoke, sir?”

Kruse looked at Decker. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Thanks,” Hernandez said to Kruse.

“Thank him,” Kruse said of Decker. “Now, I’m gonna take you at your word, Martin. I’m gonna figure you to behave properly. Am I wrong for thinking that?”

“Not wrong at all, Officer Kruse.”

“This man wants to ask you a few questions. You answer them honestly and to the best of your ability, okay?”

“Okay, I can do that.” When Hernandez spoke, he forced out sound from his throat. “A smoke will help. Maybe a cup of coffee, too. My throat.” He cleared phlegm. “It gets dry when I talk.”

“So why are you smoking, Martin?”

“Man’s gotta have something to do here, sir.”

Kruse laughed again. “That’s true. Okay, I’ll be back with your smoke and coffee.”

Decker regarded the con. A multilane highway of scars ran across the man’s neck, all of them keloid bumpy and shiny white. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had gone wrong with the man’s vocal cords.

Curly told Kruse, “I’m going to get back to my beat. Call me when you need me to take him back.”

The two men walked out together, leaving Decker alone with Hernandez. The man’s face, though speckled with liver spots, had few wrinkles. Several small open sores had rooted at his left temple, looking nasty enough to be the big C. His hands were worn and callused, his nails were yellow and thick and cut way below the tips of his fingers. He was missing part of his right thumb.

“When are you getting out?” Decker asked him.

“Two years, three months, eighteen days, and about sixteen hours. I served my time. I deserve to be a free man. That’s what the law says.”

“Are you going to continue with your work with the dogs?”

“Zactly right.” Hernandez’s head bobbed up and down. “We understand each other. Those dogs that we got…they were one step from the green room, if you know what I mean.”

The green room was the gas chamber. “You saved them from death.”

“Zactly right. The program over here…it was their last chance. We train them so they can be adopted out.”

“That’s nice.”

“It was their last chance…I was.”

“You identify with the dogs?”

“Zactly right. Everybody deserves a second chance. They’re not bad dogs. No one understands them. That’s the problem. They bite ’cause they’re scared. They bite ’cause they’re lonely. They bite ’cause they don’t got anyone who loves them.”

“They also bite because they’re not trained and disciplined.”

Hernandez smacked his lips together. “But there’s discipline and then there’s just plain meanness. Yeah, you gotta be sure of yourself if you work with untrained dogs, but you don’t crack a stick over the dog’s head to just get him to listen.”

“But the animals have to be taught to respect your authority.”

“Zactly right. It’s a good lesson in life…to learn to respect authority. It took me a while ’cause I didn’t have anyone to teach me properly.”

“You had the stick cracked over your head, Mr. Hernandez?”

“Zactly right. My daddy was a mean drunk and he didn’t raise me right. If he’d showed a little mercy and a little less stick cracking, I would have been a better person.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Hernandez?”

“I do.”

“Boys? Girls? Both?”

“Boys.”

“And you raised them with a little mercy?”

“I raised them not to be fools.”

“Were you a stick cracker?”

“I wasn’t much of anything because I’ve been incarcerated for a long time. It’s going on forty-three years. Most of the raising went to my wife, God rest her soul. I miss that woman. She did good, considering what she had.”

Kruse returned with two cups of coffee. He placed a cigarette between his lips. After he lit it, he gave it to Hernandez.

The con took a deep drag. “Ah, this is living.”

“You smoke it slow, Martin, you’re only gonna get one.”

“I will, Officer Kruse, I’ll do just that.”

Kruse said to Decker, “There’s someone monitoring the cameras twenty-four/seven, so you shouldn’t have any problems. Just look up at the videos and call when you need us to take him back.”

“Thanks for all your help.”

“No problem.” Kruse smiled. “Be good, Martin, you don’t have that much longer to go.”

“I know that, sir, I think about that every day.” After Kruse left, he said, “That’s the truth. I do think about it every day.”

“I’m sure you do.” Decker sipped the coffee: as thick as mud and bitter.

“It ain’t easy for an old man to be here,” Martin complained. “The cold in the winter goes right through to the bones. My lungs aren’t too good. I always worry about pneumonia, you know. Then sometimes, I’m glad to be sick because the infirmary is better than the cell block, know what I’m saying?”

“I get it,” Decker answered. “Where are you going to live when you get out?”

“Can’t go back to Santa Fe.” He took another puff on his cigarette. “I’ll get skinned alive. I dropped two people in a robbery. I suppose you know that.”

Decker nodded.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen. But you get all junked up on drugs and adrenaline and someone moves when they ain’t supposed. I had nothing against those two boys, but things just happen when you’re junked up, know what I’m saying?”

“So where are you going to go live when you get out?”

“I’ll go down south-Las Cruces, Silver City, Carlsbad. Places are hotter in the summer but not so cold in the winter.”

“Do you know anyone in those cities?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Don’t know a soul.” He finished off his coffee. “That’s okay. All I need is a good place for the dogs to run around and a nearby watering hole. I’m a friendly sort. I can make friends.”

“You seem like a friendly sort.” Decker watched the old man smile at the compliment. “Have you kept in contact with anyone on the outside?”

“I know a few people, sure.”

Decker saw his eyes narrow slightly, and switched topics. “Your wife used to visit you a lot?”

“Three, four times a week. I told you. She was a good woman.”

“Did she bring the boys in to visit?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you still in contact with your sons, Martin? Do they ever visit you?”

The old man shrugged and smoked. “Once or twice, mebbe.”

The man was a smooth liar, not that Decker expected anything different. But even cons have different capacities for prevarication. Decker waited until Hernandez’s cigarette was down to the butt. Then he looked up at the camera and asked for another smoke.

“That’s kind of you, sir,” Hernandez said.

“I can be a kind person.”

A few minutes later a uniformed guard came in with a lit cigarette. Decker took the smoke and when Hernandez reached over to grab it, Decker pulled his arm back, out of the old man’s reach.

“Your boys ever come visit you?” Hernandez was silent, his eyes on the trail of nicotine smoke. Decker smiled and took a puff on the cigarette. “Your boys ever come visit you?”

Hernandez shrugged. “Guess you checked the logbook.”

“Guess I did.”

“Then you know. So why are you asking me?”

“Because Raymond Holmes isn’t your son’s baptized name.”

“Nope, he changed it.”

“Why did he change it?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

“I just might do that. When did he change it?”

“A long time ago. You can ask him that, too.”

“Give me a rough idea when. Twenty years ago? Thirty years ago?”

“I think he changed it ’bout thirty years ago…right after it happened.”

“After what happened?”

Hernandez stared into space. Decker took another puff. “You’re wasting precious tobacco.”

“Well, I don’t know zactly what happened, sir. I wasn’t there.”

“What happened according to Raymond Holmes, your son?”

“Yeah, Ray’s my son.”

“You might as well tell me what happened, Martin. You can tell me Ray’s side of the story.”

“What do you need with my side? Just ask Ray.”

“Ray won’t be as…credible. You’re more credible, Martin. You tell me what he told you.” The old man reached for the cigarette. Decker said, “First you tell me what happened.”

“He didn’t tell me much, sir, and that’s the honest truth. All he said is that it wasn’t supposed to happen. But you know how it is. When you get junked up on drugs and adrenaline, things just happen that weren’t supposed to happen.”

Decker nodded. “I see.” He gave the con the cigarette. “Tell me what he told you. I can’t use what you tell me at a trial because it’s hearsay. Do you know what that is?”

Hernandez took a deep drag on the smoke and didn’t answer.

“I heard what happened from you, Martin, not from Ray. It’s hearsay. That means whatever you tell me, I can’t use it directly against Ray because I didn’t hear it directly from Ray. So you tell me what he told you, okay?”

“You’re confusing me. I don’t want to get him into trouble.”

“Martin, the boy is already in trouble. Big trouble. If it wasn’t supposed to happen, tell me what went down.”

“They were arguing.”

“Who are they?”

“Y’know…Beth and Ray were arguing.”

“About what?”

“What do people always argue about?”

“Money?”

“Zactly right. Ray kept telling Beth that it was just a loan and that he was gonna give it back. But she was real mad. She wouldn’t listen. She said if he didn’t pay it back, she was gonna tell on him.”

“Where did Ray get the money from?”

For the first time, Hernandez looked genuinely confused. “I don’t know. All I know is Ray said he borrowed some money and he was gonna pay it back but that damn girl wouldn’t listen.”

“All right. They were arguing. Then what happened?”

“It was all her fault. He was gonna pay it back.”

“So what happened next?”

“I don’t know zactly what happened next, sir. All I know is that Ray said it was an accident. That it wasn’t supposed to happen. But once it did, he knew he was in deep shit.” Hernandez furrowed his brow, conjuring up the memory. “He was planning on paying it back, but Beth was gonna rat him out. It was that damn girl’s fault.”

Decker said, “She was yelling and screaming at Ray, wasn’t she?”

“She was. He didn’t mean to hurt her. He just wanted to shut her up.”

“He did more than just hurt her, did he?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I know that, but it happened anyway.”

Hernandez sighed. “He was gonna pay it back. She just wasn’t giving him a chance.”

“What happened after he hurt her…or should we say after he killed her?”

“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Martin said defiantly. “I’m getting out in a little over two years whether I cooperate or not. You can’t stop me. That’s the law!”

“You’re absolutely right, Martin, I can’t stop you. It is the law.” Decker took in the con’s eyes. “But you know if I put in a good word for you, there is that chance that maybe you can get out sooner.”

That gave Hernandez pause-for about two seconds. He shrugged. “Well, the damn boy’s in trouble anyway. I suppose what I have to say ain’t gonna help him. But it probably won’t hurt him much, either.”

“Exactly right,” Decker said.

Hernandez leaned over, his breath strong with tobacco, his voice an annoying scratch. “It weren’t supposed to happen. It just did.”

“I realize that.”

“The boy was trying to make a clean start! He was trying to do good, to erase the slate and start from the beginning. That’s why he needed the money. To get himself back on his feet. He told me he really was gonna pay it back. The girl was just too damn impatient. She fucked everything up.”

Decker’s head started spinning. Make a clean start? Get himself back on his feet? “Was Manny in jail?”

“No, no.” Now Hernandez was very confused. “No, Manny was never in jail.”

And then he realized what Hernandez was saying.

Manny Hernandez was never in jail.

Belize Hernandez was a different story.