Texas Monthly

In northern New Mexico, sprawled along the highway between Santa Fe and Tows, is the town

of Espanola, its gorgeous country, desert and worn hills, but still I was a little uneasy.

I've been told the town had a sketchy reputation that it was plagued by gangs who peddled

heroin and meth.

I've been warned not to go out at night unless I had to, but I wasn't here for the night

life.

I was just here to talk to one man.

On that rainy afternoon in October, mine was the only car at my lonely motel in a vast

dirt parking lot with mud holes the size of Buick's.

I waited, wondering if he would really show, wondering what he would be like after all

these years.

I was standing on a second floor walkway, looking the other direction, went out of nowhere.

I realized a man had materialized at the foot of the stairs.

He was on the small side, maybe five-six, and built like a fire hydrant.

He had a gray, zizi-top beard and brownish gray hair that fell to his chest, and as he

trudged up the steps toward me, I saw he was wearing suspenders over a t-shirt covered

with what looked like dog hair.

This is Michael Woods, Susan's a strange husband.

The man everyone in Stephenville immediately suspected when she was killed.

Michael is in his mid-60s now, wrinkled and worn.

Over the years, I've interviewed my share of people who have been through things, abuse

...