Deadly Deed

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

JUNE 2, 11 AM

GLOBE, ARIZONA

It’s a hot, dusty day in the summer of 1953, probably around 110 degrees, and I am driving to Globe, Arizona, at the request of my editor, Ralph “Specs” Bornheim, at the Arizona Republic. You must be crazy, Gene McLain, to take this two-hour, 87-mile drive from Phoenix in the middle of the summer, I think to myself—a bad habit I have, speaking to myself in the third person, that is. Specs smells a story since he read the wire service about a homeless man being found alongside U.S. Highway 60 just outside of Globe. So, here I am sweating like hell—even with the windows down— instead of having a tall, cool drink in one of Phoenix’s local bars, listening to the local gossip and looking for a story.

Globe has been called “one the friendliest towns in the west.” Everyone is your friend, and people don’t wear politics on their sleeves. It’s a small old copper mining town that has not seen any new development since its inception around 1875. Its main street, Broad Street, is still narrow and lined with the original structures from the mining days.

I seek out the local sheriff and inquire about the murdered homeless man found a few days before on the side of the road. The sheriff informs me that murders simply do not occur in Globe, there’s just a tiny resident population, and people get along. He directs me to the medical examiner’s office, who is also the only local doctor in Globe. I arrive at the medical examiner’s office to find an elderly gentleman working over the body of what appears to be the homeless man.

“I am Gene McLain of the Arizona Republic in Phoenix, and I am here to cover the story behind your homeless man and why he turned up on the roadside.”

The medical examiner is not friendly. I take a seat, intending to wait until he can answer some questions, and pull out my notebook.

“This is not a library. You can’t take up residence here. Leave your card on the desk, and I will contact you when I have completed the autopsy,” was the gruff reply from the medical examiner.

I look closer at the body, and it seems to me that he might be an Indian from the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation, which is just a few miles up the road. It’s hard to tell. The body is covered with dirt, shredded clothing, long hair, and a beard.

“Possibly an Indian, huh?” and I make a note to look into that possibility further.

The reply is harsher this time,

“I will call your paper when the autopsy is complete.”

Well, so much for the friendliest town in the west. It’s been a long drive for nothing. I walk down Broad Street and chat with a few of the locals, but none of them have any idea who the murdered victim might be. This is going nowhere. I stop at the local eating establishment and order a cold Coke. The locals stare—definitely not friendly to a stranger from out of town.

I take a drive out to the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation and speak to several local Indians hanging out in front of a run-down store. They laugh at my question about any local Indians who have turned up missing.

They say, “Indians go missing every day, wander off the reservation never to return. Some get roaring drunk and return a few days later after they’ve sobered up and run out of money to spend in town.”

They don’t put names to the individuals they are referencing, and the conversation seems to have dried up, so why am I standing in the heat like an i***t. The Indians sit down, and the conversation is over.

I return to my old jalopy, roll the windows down, and start the long drive back to Phoenix. At least evening is approaching, and there seems to be a slight breeze coming up. The drive home should be more pleasant.