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Cimarron Strip all in a row, man. I'll bet I won't see any of them. We're stuck in this damn thing 'til someone gets arrested. Mark my words, Freddy.‖
―It's what we signed on for, Carlos. Bein' a cop ain't the same as selling shoes. Requires personal sacrifice. Know what I mean?‖
Fred Finch meant every word of what he said. At six feet, he was about average height for a State Policeman. He jogged daily, worked out on weights four times a week, and played golf on the weekend, or whenever Scarberry summoned him to the course. He didn‘t drink and didn‘t smoke. Keeping fit, he often said, was part of being a good police officer, part of the discipline required for the job. He carried himself—postured, really—as if his every move was being photographed by a Hollywood movie crew.
Freddy‘d never married and rarely dated. When he did entertain women, the purpose was sex—"fuck 'em and forget 'em," he often said. He held the opinion that healthy young cops kept a string of babes and he liked to project that image. He also liked talking with fellow officers about all the quim he got—a subject second only to departmental politics in popularity. Women, he said, found it hard to resist him. Freddy never figured out that his babes were cop groupies who‘d go to bed with any man carrying a badge and gun.
―Screw your personal sacrifice,‖ Carlos said.
Frank and Delfina Fernandez were a little less off-hand with the narcotics agents than they'd been with the rookies. The officers soon learned that Darlene Concho, a full-blooded member of the Acoma Pueblo Indian tribe, and her sisters and brothers, were orphans. They'd lived with first one aunt and then another before Darlene ran off and joined the U. S. Navy as a teenager.
One of life's little inconsistencies, Freddy thought. People born and raised in the waterless desert of New Mexico join the navy, while people, like himself, born and raised a hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean in Long Branch, New Jersey, do their time in the army. Freddy often recognized life's little inconsistencies. He never dwelt on them.
Darlene, posted to Everett, Washington, after boot camp, met a young sailor, got pregnant, and married, well before her hitch was up. She was released from the navy, but her husband stayed in. That was four years earlier. By Sunday, November 19, 1967, Darlene had two small children and her teenage brother lived with her and her husband. Neither Frank nor Delfina Fernandez could recall hearing the sailor's name. Delfina gave the agents a list of names: people she thought were in Los Cerritos Bar when the gringo drank his whiskey, two shots of Wild Turkey.

CHAPTER III
    At one hundred ninety pounds and six feet tall, Jim Bob ―Doc‖ Spurlock looked every inch a Southwestern peace officer. Secretly vain about his appearance, he kept his light brown hair neatly trimmed and combed even when it didn't show much from under his silverbelly-gray Stetson hat. His fastidiousness included crisply clean and pressed western-style clothing and black Tony Lama boots polished to a high mirror-like gloss.
    Doc came from a family involved in law enforcement and ranching in New Mexico‘s Pecos Valley since the end of the Civil War. As a teenager, Doc earned blue ribbons and belt buckles as an amateur rodeo bull rider and was well regarded as a top ranch hand. He pictured himself as a lawman from the first time his grandfather regaled him with tales of chasing cattle rustlers and armed robbers around the Llano Estacado of eastern New Mexico and west Texas. He joined the New Mexico State Police in 1956. It only bothered him a little that black and gray State Police uniforms, with black Sam Browne belts and black boots, looked more like storm trooper attire than garb of western lawmen.
    Doc's choice of agencies did not please his father. Gordon Spurlock's years of familiarity with New Mexico law enforcement provided him experience in the ways of the State Police and their general