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 when a drunk driver crashed into him and his bike. Monica never got over his sudden death. A depressing shadow seemed to spread across her life. Perhaps that is why she clung too tightly to people with whom she was close.
A dutiful daughter, Monica visited her parents’ house every day and kept in touch with her siblings. Though some called her standoffish, others said she had a ready smile and a full stash of candy for everyone who passed her desk in the municipal court.
On a Saturday in the early springtime of 1982, Paul Dunn zoomed into the Farmington Police Station on his motorcycle. His dark blue, perfectly pressed uniform and high, polished boots complemented his blue eyes and brown hair, red highlights glinting in the New Mexico sun. That morning Paul had written an excess of tickets and had to go back to the station for another citation book. “Occupational hazard,” he murmured as he walked downstairs. He noticed the side door to the municipal clerk’s office was open. Puzzled, Paul decided to see what was up. One of the court clerks, Monica Cortez, sat at her desk, tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t know Paul was there until he spoke.
“Are you alright? Is there anything I can do?”
“My cousin’s been in a car accident. He’s seriously injured. I don’t know if he’ll make it.”
Paul listened sympathetically, all the while taking in her soft, dark curls curving around her beige, flawless skin—even tear-stained. She was crying so hard Paul almost couldn’t comprehend her words as he stared at her. He knew she had worked at the courthouse for a long time, but he worked the graveyard shift so he rarely saw her except when he had to appear there. Though Paul and his wife were not getting along, they were still married. So, after Paul murmured soft words of comfort to the distressed woman, he went about his duties.
That afternoon Paul saw fellow motorcop Lawrence “Dusty” Downs, his expressive blue eyes and sparkling dark-blonde hair, as always, perfectly groomed.
“That’s some beauty in Municipal Court,” Paul commented.
“Oh, you mean Monica. She’s dating Hawk, so be careful.”
“Hawk” was their sergeant, Mark Hawkinson.
“She was crying her eyes out. Said it was about some cousin who’d been injured,” Paul said as he went about removing his uniform and putting on workout clothes.
Later, Magistrate Terry Pearson formally introduced Paul and Monica.
Time passed. One day Paul found himself once again in Municipal Court, this time for a hearing. Once more he saw that vision of beauty sauntering toward him, eyes smiling in recognition.
Monica certainly wasn’t oblivious to the attention her looks created, said a police officer’s wife who found Monica too obvious. She didn’t try to hide her body under rags, that was for sure. She never wore an outfit more than once—or so it seemed. Monica bought new, expensive clothes more often than the rest of Farmington combined, joked another officer’s wife. Wherever she went, Monica had to be the best dressed woman and she never dressed in “grubbies,” even around the house. She didn’t cook or clean very often. To those who knew her well, what she did best was look beautiful and sexy. She turned heads—and took many men’s thoughts away, at least temporarily, from their wives.
The only photo of herself Monica allowed people to see was a professional, glamorous portrait she’d had taken. She didn’t like being photographed. Even though she was quite capable with hair, makeup and clothes, Monica wouldn’t settle for anything less than the expensive photo session in which the photographer used special lighting and touched up any facial flaws.
To men who saw Monica, it appeared she was born to defy the assumption that “Gentlemen prefer blondes.” Her voluptuous body was nether fat not model-thin, at least for the 1990s. To some Monica appeared to be a current day, Hispanic version of Marilyn Monroe.
As Monica approached him and smiled, Paul wondered, Is she flirting with me? He couldn’t believe it. Not one to mince words, Paul responded bluntly to her coyness.
“You’re Hawk’s.”
“Hawk and I broke up.”
Despite telling himself that he should walk away, Paul found himself asking to see her again. This was Paul’s first break with his “moral code”—seeing Monica while still married to his first wife. He did not yet know that act would affect the entire course of his life.
Monica’s perfection was not lost on Paul. Raised around Hispanic women, he liked their dark, often sultry looks. Monica’s thick, luscious brown curly hair shone and her sparkling brown eyes twinkled when she smiled. This precipitated Paul’s nickname for her: “Smiling Eyes.” He thought her perfectly formed breasts and tiny waist completed the picture. She was twenty-two, he was twenty-five. Their flirting progressed rapidly from subtle, never obvious touching in front of people and maintaining knowing eye contact. Sexual tension burned between them.
On the first evening they were together, Paul drove to a rustic canyon. Each could see fire in the other’s eyes. It didn’t take long before clothes fell and bodies intertwined in that private haven.
After that, when Paul wasn’t on duty, he and Monica were inseparable. Monica even helped Paul through his divorce in 1984. About the only thing Paul felt wasn’t perfect about Monica was the way she recoiled from his daughter April, who lived with her mother. She was just a four-year-old when Paul and Monica first met. Monica wouldn’t say things directly to April’s face, but she’d loudly whisper to Paul in April’s hearing, “When is she going home?”
That Monica hated April and treated the little girl horribly was something April kept from her father. Years later, April confessed about all the verbal abuse she received at Monica’s hands. Monica always made it clear to April her presence wasn’t wanted. April told Paul she kept quiet because she was protecting him from information that might cause a fight between him and Monica.
Paul couldn’t understand Monica’s jealousy of a child. He tried not to think about it as he and Monica planned for their
