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The Ramira Gomez Case

            Sheriff Faulkner planned on having a little sit-down with Deputy Hopkins to see if they could somehow work out their differences.  Before the meeting however, he’s been on the phone with an old acquaintance - the infamous Madame Chybovsky. 

            The sheriff’s about ready to finish the call when the deputy knocks at his office door.  The sheriff waves for the deputy to enter. As he sits down, the deputy hears the end of the conversation.

            “Thanks a lot, Madame Chybovsky; I’m sure them folks will be glad to hear you’ve agreed to come on out here.  So, we can expect you next Tuesday; was it?  Fine; I’ll pick you up at the airport then.  Thanks again.  See you next week.  You have a good day now.  Goodbye.” 

            The sheriff hangs up and puts some folders away in his desk drawer. “Mike, thanks for coming in on your day off to meet with me.”

            “No problem, Lloyd; I didn’t have any plans. But before we start; do you mind if I ask you something?”

            “By all means, Mike; shoot.”

            “Not that I was intentionally listening; but I couldn’t help overhearing you.  You were talking with Madame Chybovsky?”

            “Yup.”

            “The ‘psychic’ Madame Chybovsky?”

            “The one and the same.  So you heard of her?”

            The deputy crosses his leg over his thigh, looks down to the floor and lets out a short laugh. “Oh yeah…I heard of her.”

            “And what’s that supposed to mean, Mike?”

            Looking down at his ankle while wiping off his pants cuff, “What do you mean ‘what’s that supposed to mean’, Lloyd?  It’s not supposed to mean anything.”

            “I don’t know, Mike; it seems to me you have an opinion about Madame Chybovsky…And not a favorable one at that.”

            “Look, Lloyd; I’m not saying anything about her.  If you want to buy into that phony-baloney ‘psychic’ act of hers, by all the means, more power to you.  I just don’t understand why you would bring that flim-flam artist here?  What could she possibly help us…Wait a minute…You’re not planning on having her go out to the Lazinski place; are you, Lloyd?”

            Sheriff Faulkner moves back a little from the desk to cross his legs in the same fashion the deputy has his. “Well, Mike; seems to me you have a lot to say for someone with nothing to say about a person.  But to answer your question; yes, I was planning on having Madame Chybovsky check out the Lazinski’s place.”

            “Why’s that, Lloyd?”

            “Let’s just say there are some strange things going on out there, and I think Madame Chybovsky’s gift may be what’s needed to figure out some of it.”

            “Her ‘gift’?”  The deputy laughs - switching leg positions to wipe off the other cuff - “And what gift would that be…the gift of conning people?”

            “Conning people?  What do you mean, Mike?”

            “I mean she’s bogus…a known fraud, Lloyd.”

            “I see;” the sheriff looks up to the ceiling, then back to the deputy, “and I suppose that’s why several police departments…including the department I was with back in Galveston…used her services to help with some of their investigations?”

            “Yeah, well, we don’t need to discuss those ‘investigations’ now; do we, Lloyd?”

            “Oh let’s; I’m real interested to hear what you’ve got say about this now, Mike.”

            “Okay, fine.  Let’s just say that your Madame Chybovsky is used by departments that want to sway things their way.”

            The sheriff stares down at the desk and says, “You know what, Mike; I don’t know where you get your information from to come up with these theories of yours…but I’ll tell you this…I know first hand what Madame Chybovsky is capable of.  You see, I’ve used her myself before in a case that I was working on back in Galveston, and…”

            The deputy scoffs, “Please don’t tell me you’re referring to the Ramira Gomez case?”

            Sheriff Faulkner looks at the deputy with a stunned expression on his face asking, “How did you know that was the case?  What do you know about it?”

            “I know some things about it?”

            “Some things?  What things?”

            “Just things, Lloyd.”

            “And how is it you came to know about these things, Mike?”

            “Come on now, Lloyd, you’re in law enforcement just like me. You know damn well and good if you’re in the field long enough you’re bound to hear things through the grapevine.”

            “And just what did you hear through the grapevine, Deputy?”

            “Well…for starters…how about the fact that whether it was an accident or not, she was responsible for the death of that little girl; Ramira Gomez, that is…not the girl’s mother.  Of course, when you’re the niece of Hector Nieverro…head of one of the biggest drug cartels in Mexico…there’s no way he’d allow you to be sent to death row…not when he has just about every police department in the area down there in his pockets.”  Sheriff Faulkner quietly sits there listening as Deputy Hopkins continues.

             “Then the grandparents step in and say that they think the father had something to do with it.  Lucky break, huh; now you guys were able to focus on someone else as the primary suspect instead of Nieverro’s niece. 

            One problem though; the girl’s father was a pretty influential businessman in the area from what I understand.  Was pretty generous as far as donations go to the police department as well; huh Lloyd?”  The sheriff still sits there listening to his deputy.

             “So what to do now?  Alas, another lucky break for you guys; their marriage was shaky…and this could get him out without costing an arm and a leg in a divorce settlement.  On top of that, I’m sure when he found out that his in-laws were accusing him of being involved in his daughter’s death, he’d have no problem going along with you guys ‘discovering’ that his wife…their daughter…did it instead of him.  Am I getting close, Lloyd?”  The sheriff gives a little smile to the deputy, but doesn’t speak.  Deputy Hopkins finishes.

             “So enters Madame Chybovsky, ‘psychic extraordinaire’, using her…‘gift’ was it Lloyd…‘speaks’ with the girl; who tells her where all the necessary ‘evidence’ to prosecute the mother is. Case closed; right, Lloyd?”

            They sit there eyeing each other.  Then Sheriff Faulkner breaks the silence.

            “You know, Mike, I had a meeting the other day with the mayor; and he mentioned to me that he thought you should be retiring…being how you have enough time in with the department and all.”

            With a grin on his face, “I bet he does.  And you, Lloyd?”

            “Well now, I told him I thought you were a good officer; and a pretty smart guy.” The sheriff leans back in his chair. “Yup; you’re definitely a good officer.  But let’s see how smart you really are, Mike.”

            “Meaning?”

            “Meaning…things heard through the grapevine can be pretty darn hard to prove.  Making accusations that can’t be proved could damage a man’s career…even if he’s a good officer…if you catch my drift.”

            Deputy Hopkins gets up; then sits on the edge of the sheriff’s desk.  He picks up the sheriff’s name plate off the desk, staring down at it with his back to the sheriff. “You know what, Lloyd; I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what you did…or what that fat blowhard of a mayor thinks…so relax…I’m not making any accusations.  You’re the one who has to live with what you did…Just like he does.

              But don’t threaten me, Lloyd.  We both know the only reason you’re sheriff is because of your history of protecting your superiors’ asses…regardless of how dirty their asses may be.”

            “I suppose we have an understanding then?”

            “Sure, Lloyd; whatever.  Are we done?”

            “I reckon so, Mike.”

            “Good.” The deputy stands, placing the name plate back on the desk, and puts on his sunglasses. “I’ll be going now.  See you tomorrow, Lloyd.”  He leaves.

             Sheriff Faulkner sits with his elbow on the desk, rubbing his chin with his hand’s thumb and index finger, before making a fist and slamming it down on the desk.