The Territory (Josie Gray Mysteries #1)(6)
*
Eight hours later, Josie sat in the mayor’s office, along with Moss and Sheriff Roy Martínez. Moss had requested a debriefing to discuss the shooting. His office was located in the Artemis City Building, which was connected to the left side of the police department in downtown Artemis. The mayor’s office was located in the back of the long, narrow building, and was walled in brown 1970s-style wood paneling and beige shag carpeting. The conference table, large enough for eight people to sit around, dominated the office. A mahogany desk the size of a twin bed took up the space in the back. Josie could smell the cigar smoke on Moss’s clothing from across the table as he plugged a laptop cord into a wall socket.
Built like a linebacker, with wide shoulders and a squat stance, the mayor held himself in great esteem and was not shy about sharing that opinion with anyone who would listen. Three years ago, when Josie applied for the position of chief of police, she had the support of the city council, the other officers in the department, and Sheriff Martínez. Moss was the hold-up. He had told her to take her name out of the running, that she did not belong, that she was not strong enough mentally or physically for the rigors of the job. It wasn’t personal, he said, but women were not “built” for police work. She had ignored his demand and was appointed shortly thereafter. Josie had never learned who put the political pressure on Moss to hire her, but she knew he resented her presence and would relish her dismissal.
Josie connected her digital camera to the mayor’s laptop, downloaded the images, and clicked through the set as she provided a description of the pictures she had taken, inside and out at the Trauma Center, as the Artemis PD and Texas Department of Public Safety officers processed the crime scene. She explained that she had hit one of the gunmen in the chest and he had died at the scene.
Moss interrupted her. “That is not good. Not good at all.” His eyebrows furrowed, and he stared hard at Josie.
She ignored the comment and pointed to a picture of the gunman she had shot in the arm being loaded into an ambulance. “The Arroyo County Sheriff’s Department took this man, the second gunman, into custody and transported him to the Arroyo County Hospital. The bullet was removed and the wound dressed. He was transported to the jail about an hour ago.” She made eye contact with the mayor. “Our jail. The surgeon said the man needed to remain in the hospital overnight.” She gestured to the sheriff sitting across the table from her. “Martínez fought and won.”
Roy Martínez said, “After the hit on the Trauma Center, I won’t risk another unsecured situation.” Martínez shifted in his chair. A burly former marine, he was a large, muscular man who barely fit between the arms of the wooden captain’s chair. He often looked uncomfortable in his uniform, as if he needed more space to breathe. He cleared his throat and said, “There’s a nurse outside his cell to keep track of his medical needs. He’s a Mexican citizen, so we’ll have to figure out who’s going to pay for this mess.”
“We can’t afford the phone bill, let alone the medical bills for a fugitive,” the mayor said.
Josie pressed the space bar on the laptop and showed the last picture, a wide-angle shot of the operating room. The gurney and body had been removed, but blood splatter remained on the walls and floor. Yellow stickers, numbered one through fifty-eight, were scattered about the room near pockmarks and holes in the white cinder block.
“Fifty-eight bullets used to kill a man who was already half-dead,” Josie said. “It’s a miracle we didn’t lose the entire medical staff.”
Moss stood and walked to the window, then turned to face them. “This has to stop. I will not allow my town to be overrun by terrorists.”
Sheriff Martínez cleared his throat and pushed a finger in between his neck and his brown uniform collar and tugged. He leaned forward in his chair toward the mayor. “Allow? You think the law officials in this town are allowing these people to shoot up the town?”
Moss stared back at Martínez and didn’t speak. His expression changed, as if he were recalculating his next move.
“The city police department has three officers, including myself. The sheriff’s department has four, and they have to run the jail,” Josie said. “You have drug cartels across the border with million-dollar arsenals. You patch one hole in the border, and they just blow through another. They dig under the fence, they go over it in biplanes, they scramble the radar. We’re in their line of traffic right now. And we don’t have a tenth of the officers we need to fight back.”
“Then patch the crack. Blow their asses down the border. I don’t really give a damn, but I don’t want them here,” Moss said.
“Then don’t allow medical transports across the border!” Josie said.
“Do you understand what kind of political hell we’d get if he died because we wouldn’t allow him access to a surgeon?” Moss asked. “A U.S. citizen? The media would eat me alive!”
“We have two thousand miles of border with Mexico, and only a third of it is controlled. I just read a briefing last week from Homeland Security stating that West Texas was put on the national watchlist for high-intensity drug trafficking. We’re a designated port for weapons transportation and terrorist entry.” She let her words sink in. “We need more officers.”
“Whose paycheck do you plan on squeezing? Yours?” He pointed directly at Josie. “I’m telling you, either get a grip on this situation, or I will find someone else who can.”