Although it was not what he had hoped to do on his first criminal investigation assignment, Thorpe nodded.
Gabe read the young officer's disappointment, and was about to react to it when Captain Garduno walked in.
"You'll want to see this stuff right away, Gabe," Garduno said, dropping some pages in front of Gonzales.
"It just came in from Chief Kerney's office."
"Thanks, Cap," Gabe said as Garduno left the room.
He scanned the material in order, passing each page to Thorpe as he finished.
When Russell handed the last sheet back, Gabe asked, "What information would you act on first?"
"According to Motor Vehicles, the registered owner is Joaquin Sandstevan. His driver's license photo doesn't match with the composite drawing of Rudy, and Wanda Knox's physical description is way off in terms of height, weight, and age. She said Rudy is in his mid-to-late thirties.
Santistevan has a date of birth that makes him twenty-seven."
Gabe nodded.
"What else?"
"Well, the kid got the truck right. The make and model of Santistevan's vehicle corresponds with his description."
"What would you do with this information?"
"Find and talk to Sandstevan," Thorpe replied.
"Why?"
"Eyewitnesses aren't always reliable. Maybe Santistevan and Rudy are one and the same person, maybe not."
"And if they're not?"
Thorpe shrugged.
"It could mean anything. Maybe Santistevan is just a pal or a relative who lent Rudy his truck. Maybe he's Rudy's partner in the poaching.
Maybe Santistevan sold his truck to Rudy, who never bothered to register it in his name."
"Those are all good questions that need answers," Gabe said, holding up his hand to cut Thorpe off.
Thorpe smiled.
"Did I pass the test, Sergeant?"
"Don't get cocky on me, rookie," Gabe said.
"Every day you're on the street, you'll be tested. You start independent patrol next week, and I want you to survive it."
Thorpe coughed into his closed fist to hide his embarrassment.
"Sorry, Sergeant."
"No harm done," Gabe said, handing Thorpe the motor vehicle report on Santistevan.
"Get me a location for this guy. He's got a rural route address in the county.
Do you know how to do that?"
"Through the post office," Thorpe said as he got to his feet.
"What else should you do?"
Thorpe studied the report.
"Run Santistevan's Social Security number, date of birth, and vehicle registration through NCIC."
"That's right. If you get any hits, wants, or warrants, call the reporting department and get specifics." Gabe held out Melody Jordan's follow-up report.
"Have dispatch pass this along to Houge."
"Yes, Sergeant." Thorpe took the file and turned to leave.
"Hey, Thorpe," Gabe said.
"Sergeant?"
"I think you're going to work out okay."
Thorpe nodded his thanks for the compliment, but Gabe didn't see it.
His head was buried in the papers on the table.
After Thorpe closed the door, Gabe looked up and smiled. Coaching rookies was a lot like raising kids.
The analogy made Gabe think about little Lane Knox in California, who was nuts about toy cars and trucks.
At Lane's age, Orlando collected baseball cards. For years, Orlando had dragged him off every chance he got to buy more cards. He had been crazy about them.
There were shoe boxes full of the damn things that Orlando had spent hours poring over, memorizing players' statistics.
Those were good years.
He opened the phone book, turned to the listings for firewood sellers, and started compiling a contact list, which he would give to Thorpe to finish as soon as the rookie returned.
At twenty-six. Agent Ben Morfin looked a good five years younger than his age. When he'd graduated from the academy at twenty-one, his youthful appearance won him a special assignment as an undercover narcotics agent at an Albuquerque high school. During the year he spent back in public school, Morfin had busted a number of pushers and street dealers, which earned him a departmental citation.