Grave Accusations. Paul Dunn

       Springtime

      By the time April rolls around Farmington, New Mexico, winter says a hasty good-bye in its dashing way of fur-trimmed coats one day and sleeveless attire the next. Roaring dust devils cause north-western New Mexicans to chew more earth than chewing tobacco, as the monsoon season has not yet begun. Once overflowing rains turn the swirling dust devils to memory, New Mexico appears to be more of a rain forest than a desert. Flash floods surprise drivers on the interstates and cracked dirt roads. Then, they too are gone and made into another memory as the bone-dry desert sucks in the water and only thirst survives.

      Farmington is known for its oil, stunning landscape, the San Juan River and the Rio Grande. Rocky hills surround the small town, which is right at the tip-top of the state in a region known as the Four Corners. If you go to the right place, you can stand in four states at once—New Mexico, Utah, Colorado and Arizona. While Farmington has its share of the rich, it also has its share of the farmers and ranchers who make their living off the land. Signs along Highway 64 remind you of that bold, unprofessional-looking writing. “Hay 4 Sale” handwritten in red brightens one white sign. Another sign for peaches didn’t have enough room for the whole word so the sign glares “Peach’s” in black letters. Still another sign down the road a piece corrects the spelling error and helps people figure out where the peaches are located by including arrows. Flea markets line the sides of the road.

      Many easterners consider New Mexico to be the epitome of the Wild West, filled with cowboys and Indians. But many Native Americans wear cowboy boots and hats, while a lot of Anglos wouldn’t be caught dead dressing “cowboy style.” A large amount of the population in the state is split between Native Americans, Anglos and Hispanics, with a small percentage of African-Americans. Some New Mexicans try to act as if they’re not inherently racist while also striving to erase that racism inherent in all humans and replace it with a culture of tolerance.

      Despite modern areas, some of the Wild West image still clings to New Mexico with its vast unpopulated stretches of land. Billboards posted around offer a $20,000 reward for information on one or another killer. Traditional Indian dances with colorful dress and painted faces ensure that Native American heritage will not be forgotten. One of the biggest such displays of Indian heritage is the Inter-tribal Ceremonial, held annually in August in Gallup, two hours south of Farmington, where millions of people worldwide come to view the dances. In fact, Gallup features free Indian dances, with all their bright colors and beautiful velvet fabrics, feathers and face-painting, every evening during the summer. While seemingly ages away from Farmington, Gallup would become an ominous part of Paul’s future.

      Along some highways, such as Interstate 40, which runs through Gallup, drivers tune their radios to 530 AM to listen to “Hear New Mexico,” featuring actor Ricardo Montalban describing the sites. Some listen to the broadcast just to hear Montalban’s husky voice or reminisce about his sexy, white suit and manly chivalry on the old television show, Fantasy Island. Others prefer to remember him as the virile villain in the Star Trek film, The Wrath of Khan. Interstate 40 serves as a thoroughfare from the east to the west coast and replaced the famed Old Historic 66, which still exists in Gallup and some other places.

      To Paul Dunn, who was born June 19, 1958 in Albuquerque, New Mexico, those roads led home. He lived in Santa Fe during his early childhood. Then his parents, Jane and Harvey “Buzz” Dunn, and his older sister, Robin, moved to a small farm in Nambe, New Mexico when Paul turned thirteen. There, his brother Mark was born.

      Paul’s boyhood was happy and typical. He went to Pojoaque Junior and Senior High Schools, where he played basketball. After school, he learned to ride horses and take care of the other animals on the farm.

      On Paul’s sixteenth birthday, while working part-time as an attendant at a gas station, he met some New Mexico State Police officers who stopped in for soft drinks. One of the officers invited the eager teen to go riding along with him to see what fighting crime was all about. Paul accepted the offer and rode with him several times. Those experiences shaped Paul’s ambitions and then his career for the next two decades.

      After graduating from high school, Paul took law enforcement courses at New Mexico State University in Las Cruces for a year. In late August 1977, the City of Santa Fe hired him as a jailer. He was working there when, at twenty, he met and married Juliet Martinez. In September 1979, to his great pride, he became a Santa Fe police officer.

      Beautiful, dark-haired Juliet gave birth to a daughter, April, on June 7, 1981. Though their marriage was troubled, Juliet attested to the fact that Paul never hit her or abused her in any way during their marriage. In 1982, Paul moved to Farmington, New Mexico after being hired by the police department at higher wages than in Santa Fe as well as the opportunity for advancement.

      In these years, Paul focused on being the best cop he could be and the best turned out, with polished, high boots and a perfectly pressed uniform with shiny buttons, glossy, well-cut hair and a “can do” attitude. He felt he owed this to the public he served and those who hired him. Though he had some friends, many of his co-workers just tolerated him and in private some labeled him arrogant. Some were jealous of Paul’s unusual, virile quality, which often attracted women’s admiring glances. Few understood that Paul actually felt lesser, but compensated for that by his confident air. Because he sometimes seemed cocky, some people misinterpreted his actions at times. For instance, while other police officers waved at Paul as they drove past him, the motorcop brushed his hand through the air in what some said disdainfully was a regal manner.

      Paul felt it wasn’t arrogance—on a motorcycle one must keep both hands on the handlebars, so to ensure one’s own safety and the safety of others a wave had to be quick. But Paul worked hard to improve his appearance. He spent hours at the gym, practically bursting his muscles in an effort to put more bulk on an already hulkish form as if the better he looked, the better he would feel about himself and the better others would feel about him. He didn’t know why he felt such emptiness. It wasn’t until much later in his life that he would come to terms with the black hole of loneliness in his heart and the ways he had tried, and failed, to fill it.

      One officer’s wife who disliked him didn’t mince words: She called him an asshole. Moreover, his hatred for those who broke the law caused him to get into fights with suspects. When he matured, he called it the “beast” in all of us, the “fighter spirit,” the “evil.” Deeply committed to his job, he worked both patrol and traffic and became an expert in accident reconstruction. To become more proficient, he took courses in firearms training. That was the same year Paul met Monica Sanchez Cortez.

      Monica Sanchez had grown from a lovely child into a beautiful young woman. When she became pregnant at fifteen, Monica married the baby’s father, Patrick Cortez, her high school sweet-heart. Monica divorced Cortez in the early 1980s. Later, Cortez died in a motorcycle accident