Less Than a Moment
Page 24
Lydia grimaced as she regarded Estelle. “You’re bleeding.”
“Yep.” With an index finger, Estelle rubbed the two small holes in her blouse, the one marked with black ink from her pen. “It’s my chin, I think.” She found another pad and dabbed the blood away. “You’ll stay right here.” She looked hard at Lydia. “Do…not…move…from…this…spot.”
“Yes.” The wound that had torn Lydia’s ear was a superficial mess, but the shock was significant.
Estelle turned away and headed for the porch, even though she knew that there was nothing that could be done for Rolando Ortega. As she approached, Torrez looked at her critically. “You all right?”
“Yes. Just a nick.” She reached out a hand and placed three fingers against Torrez’s chest where the three rounds had stuck his shirt and then were stopped by his vest. The group could have been covered with a playing card.
As if she had put it off as long as she could, she turned slowly and looked down at Rolando. The first two rounds from Torrez’s forty-five had hit him in the center of the chest…and he hadn’t been wearing a ballistic vest. Still, he’d managed to fire the gun at least once more, a wild shot skyward, before Torrez’s third round hit him just above the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, Rolly, Rolly, Rolly,” Estelle murmured. She knelt and rested a hand on the young man’s shoulder. His vacant eyes stared at the porch floor, the puddle of blood, tissue, and brains spreading under his head.
“I called the state,” Torrez said. “And Taber is on the way.” The sheriff twisted his head, working the kink out of his neck. “That pup kicked pretty hard.”
“I think he had practice,” Estelle whispered.
“The Thompson woman all right?”
“Nicked ear. She’s lucky.”
“And she shouldn’t have been here.”
“But maybe we’re lucky in that, Bobby.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lieutenant Edward DelFino set his coffee cup down carefully, pressing to make sure that the thermal cup’s lid was firmly in place. He kept the cup well away from the paperwork. He made an exaggerated effort to make sure that his fingers were well clear of the cup before drawing his hand away. “You’re sure you don’t want anything?”
“No, thanks,” Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman said. She knew that the lieutenant had made the offer out of simple courtesy, but it also established that he was running the show—even though the small conference room was just across the hall from the Sheriff’s Department dispatch, just a few steps from Estelle’s own office. DelFino’s demeanor was almost apologetic.
Breta Baca, DelFino’s partner, was wearing civilian clothes, her long blond hair secured in a tight bun at the base of her skull. Officer Baca was tall and willowy, and despite the tape recorders now in operation, favored old-fashioned yellow pencils and a yellow legal pad. Her facial structure was angular, almost severe, and her plain blue blouse and black slacks kept her appearance formal. She reminded Estelle of the second grade teacher who had tried to cope with Francisco and the other students before fleeing at midyear to take up a career with airport security.
For a small department such as Posadas County, without its own Internal Affairs Division, it was standard procedure to turn over the investigation of an officer-involved shooting to a disinterested agency—in this case the New Mexico State Police. Standard procedure, yes. But still an uncomfortable thing to have to do.
Sheriff Torrez had secured the chip from the Expedition’s dash cam and made sure it was given to investigators, then turned over the rest of the investigation into the fatal shooting to them—essentially putting himself on standard three-day administrative leave.
A cart holding the thirty-two-inch television and its companion computer now rested near the end of the table.
“Undersheriff Guzman, we’ve met several times over the years, have we not.”
“Yes, we have.”
He managed a thin smile. “Although in less uncomfortable circumstances.”
It wasn’t a question, and Estelle didn’t reply. It was difficult to think of the moment of Rolando Ortega’s violent death as an “uncomfortable circumstance.”
“And you know Officer Baca.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. So,” DelFino said, “I’ve read your preliminary deposition, and the statement from both Lydia Thompson and…” he hesitated and shuffled papers. “Esmeralda Lucero.” He let the papers drop and leaned back. “As well as the sheriff’s brief statement.” In twenty-five words or less, Estelle thought.
DelFino’s thin, hawk-like face was sober, and his blue-gray eyes were complemented by his black uniform. “So. Why don’t you tell me what happened.” He tented his index fingers so the tips touched his nose. “And why don’t we start with the reason that the three of you went out to Mr. Ortega’s residence in the first place.”
Estelle did so, keeping the recounting as unembellished as possible.
“So the Thompson woman didn’t actually go out there with you?”
“No, she did not.”
“What was she doing out there?”
“She told us that she was doing some surveillance on the Ortegas. Unofficially, out of personal curiosity.”
“Did she think that Mr. Ortega had something to do with the death of her husband?”
“She may have. I don’t know.”
“But she took it upon herself to do a little recon.”
“Yes.”
“She’s a former police officer, I’m told.”
“Yes. The New York State Police.”
“Both she and her late husband.”
“Yes.”
“That’s impressive. Have you confirmed their employment with that agency?”
“No.”
DelFino frowned. “Why not?”
“I had no reason to. I had just met her, and she was not a suspect in her husband’s death.”
DelFino waited a moment for Estelle to expand her answer. When she didn’t, he said, “You had no reason to believe that she might have been involved in the death of her husband? Statistics say that her involvement was likely, don’t they?”
“As we both know, statistics can say just about anything you’d like them to say, Lieutenant. But no. I had no reason to suspect her of involvement.”
“And somehow, Mr. Ortega came under suspicion related to the death of Kyle Thompson.”
“That’s correct.”
“You had hard evidence?”
“No. We had evidence that the firearm Mr. Ortega used in the shooting might have been the same one involved in a drive-by shooting earlier at the newspaper office. We went out to the residence to collect that gun. Our intent was to perform ballistic tests on the rifle.”
“The sheriff tells me that the rifle in question was actually his own at one time.” When Estelle didn’t respond, DelFino’s eyebrows arched. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“That’s sort of odd. How did it come to be in Mr. Ortega’s possession?”
“It’s my understanding that Sheriff Torrez gave the gun to his nephew on the boy’s birthday three years ago. Quentin Torrez then loaned the gun to Rolando Ortega.”
“Mr. Ortega tried to surrender another rifle to you and the sheriff yesterday? Not the one that the sheriff gave his nephew a number of years ago, and that was then loaned to Mr. Ortega—the rifle that the sheriff suspects was used in the drive-by. Do I have that right?”
“That’s correct. He suspected it could have been used. Without an evaluation of the firing pin strikes on the casings, we couldn’t be sure. I believe you have seen the results of our first tests.”
“And the firing pin strikes, at first glance anyway, do match the ones from the drive-by—at least the ones left behind in the school
superintendent’s vehicle.” DelFino frowned. “What evidence do you folks have that the superintendent’s Navigator was used in the drive-by?”
“One of the victims of the newspaper shootings caught a glimpse of the vehicle. His description is consistent, and it appears that the superintendent’s vehicle was apparently taken from the school lot, perhaps used and then returned to the school lot. And the twenty-five fired casings were found inside.”
“You say ‘it appears…was apparently taken…perhaps used’.” He made a rocking motion with his hands. “Some slack there, Undersheriff.”
“Certainly.”
DelFino frowned. “Let me ask you something. You’ve been around for a lot of years. You’ve been involved in some high-profile cases. I’ve never had the pleasure of working with you, but some of my colleagues have. In fact, a recent retiree from the State Police tells me that ‘if Undersheriff Reyes-Guzman says it’s true, then you can take that evidence to the bank.’ That’s high praise.”
He leaned forward and moved his coffee cup half an inch to one side. “Do you believe the superintendent’s Navigator was the drive-by vehicle? That the cases found inside it were the ones from the weapon used in the drive-by?”
“Yes.”
“Putting the onus on the rifle owned by the sheriff’s nephew and loaned to Mr. Ortega.”
“Perhaps. Until ballistics confirmed the connection, there was no concrete evidence. Supposition, based on circumstances.”
“But no evidence against the nephew himself, somehow. This Quentin Torrez. Although it appears that his actions—showing you the wrong gun, and so forth—could be considered conspiracy of a sort. Trying to protect a friend.”
“That’s possible. But understand that we have no reason to believe that the rifle that Mr. Ortega used on the assault against us was at any time in Quentin Torrez’s possession during the time of the shootings. Evidence supports the idea that Mr. Ortega acted alone. It’s possible that Quentin Torrez had no idea of Mr. Ortega’s intent.”
DelFino supported his head with a fist on each side of his face as he read one of the depositions. “And that’s the rifle that was used in the shootings yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“The three of you are most fortunate.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but reached down the table for several large plastic evidence bags. He opened the first and spread Bob Torrez’s civilian shirt out on the table. Then he opened the second and withdrew Estelle’s uniform blouse. “Three,” he intoned, touching the holes in Torrez’s shirt. “Two.” And he indicated the rents in Estelle’s uniform blouse. He looked up and nodded at her. “Good argument for vests, no?”
“Yes.”
“Your deposition puts Mrs. Thompson about thirty-five yards behind you and the sheriff, out in the driveway.” He pulled the scene drawing from the sheaf of papers. “You and the sheriff were standing approximately ten feet apart, and twenty-three feet from the home’s front door.” He traced the dotted lines on the diagram with the button of his ballpoint pen. “So what happened?”
“Mr. Ortega surrendered a twenty-two rifle to the sheriff, and when Sheriff Torrez said that it was the wrong gun, Ortega grew impatient and turned to go back into the house. He said he was going to get the correct gun. At that point, the sheriff caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm. The sheriff had his handcuffs out. Ortega tore loose from the sheriff’s grip and spun around with a violent kick that struck the sheriff in the neck.”
“Now that puzzles me on several levels,” DelFino said, shuffling papers. “The sheriff is a big man…six feet four inches, the paperwork says. Ortega himself was no midget, maybe six two, six three? But that’s a hell of a kick. You say in your deposition that Mr. Ortega is a member of a taekwondo class here in town. That sort of kick?”
“Yes. Very fast, very hard.”
“And then?”
“And then the boy dashed into the house.”
“The two of you didn’t follow?”
“No. I had my Taser in hand, and the sheriff told me to put it away…that he didn’t want things to escalate.”
“Those were his exact words?”
“No. I believe he said, ‘This don’t need to escalate.’”
“But events did escalate. And that’s where I’m confused. Why did the sheriff grab Mr. Ortega in the first place? You said that the young man turned to go back into the house. And the sheriff grabbed him. Who was holding the…the bogus…rifle at that point?”
“First the sheriff, and then me. He had examined the serial number, and then handed the rifle to me.”
“And during that quick examination of the rifle that the sheriff made, right away he knew, somehow, that it was the wrong gun?”
“Yes.”
“So the kid turns to go back into the house, and the sheriff grabs him. And at that point, the kid spins around and lets fly with some fancy kick that strikes the sheriff on the head.”
“Correct. It appeared to connect immediately below the sheriff’s left ear.”
“Why would the sheriff grab the young man? Or attempt to?”
“I think that the sheriff wanted to go into the house with Mr. Ortega. He would have wanted to be able to inspect any other firearm that Mr. Ortega might have. A few moments before, when Mr. Ortega walked over to the truck to retrieve the first rifle, the sheriff went with him. He stayed within reach.”
“Circumspect.”
“Yes.”
“So the two of them walk to the truck…just a few feet away in the driveway.”
“Yes. Mr. Ortega reached in, lifted the rifle from the window rack, and handed it to the sheriff. The sheriff removed the magazine and ejected a shell from the chamber.”
“Let me understand this. You have a kid…well, a young man, whom you may have suspected of being a felon at this point. And here he is, you say, handling a loaded firearm?”
“Yes. And that’s why the sheriff accompanied him to the truck, and was within reach, was in control of the situation.”
“So how did he lose that control?”
“The sheriff handed the rifle to me, and as he did that, Mr. Ortega turned away from him and strode toward the house. He said something like, ‘Okay, I’ll get it.’ The sheriff commanded him to stop, but the young man didn’t. By then, he was several paces away. The sheriff immediately caught up with him, and grabbed him by the upper right arm.”
“Was he still holding his handcuffs?”
“I believe that he was.”
“Now, in your deposition, you say that just as the sheriff grabbed Mr. Ortega, the young man spun around with a powerful kick. Was there warning that was going to happen?”
“None. Grab, spin, kick with the right foot.”
“Now I have a question.” Officer Baca’s voice was nasal, and an edge made her sound whiny. “At what point in this whole confrontation did you acquire your Taser, Undersheriff Guzman?”
“A second or two after the kick. I dropped the rifle to the ground and drew the Taser.”
“You didn’t fire it?” Officer Baca asked, and DelFino watched Baca with what appeared to be amused curiosity.
“No.”
Baca’s thin eyebrows puckered. “Whyever not, Undersheriff Guzman?”
“The distance was rapidly increasing, and even as I brought the Taser up, Mr. Ortega had reached the screen door into the house, and that formed an effective barrier.”
“You were never close enough to use the Drive Stun feature?”
“No. A contact tase wasn’t a possibility.”
“So let me get this straight. The two of you allowed Mr. Ortega to dash into the house, leaving the two of you standing outside in the yard.”
“Let me dive in here,” Lieutenant DelFino interrupted. “Mr. Ortega managed to make it into the house, despite being order
ed by the sheriff to halt. The sheriff is off balance, maybe even a little stunned, by the surprise kick to the head or neck. The screen door and the rapidly increasing distance made using the Taser impractical. That’s the gist of it. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s focus on one instant,” DelFino continued. “Mr. Ortega was in the house long enough that Sheriff Torrez had time to tell you to holster your Taser so that the confrontation would not ‘escalate.’ Would you say that Torrez was obviously concerned about a possible escalation?”
“I think he was.”
“And why would that be?”
Estelle closed her eyes for a moment, replaying the scene. “Rolando Ortega has a considerable temper, Lieutenant, and in this case, I really think that he felt cornered. Sheriff Torrez has the reputation as something of a bulldog.”
“He doesn’t give many breaks, does he?”
“No, sir, he doesn’t.”
“Have there been times when you saw yourself as something of a tempering influence?”
“Yes.”
“So a few seconds went by after Mr. Ortega disappeared into the house. Neither one of you chose at that point to charge after him.”
“No. That would be like trying to corner a badger, Lieutenant.”
DelFino smiled, and Baca frowned. Did the young woman know what a badger was, Estelle wondered.
“You think he was in badger mode, then?” DelFino asked.
“We may never know exactly what was going through his head, Lieutenant. I suspect that when it became clear that his ruse with the substitute rifle was not going to work, and when he saw the handcuffs in the sheriff’s hands, that he knew he was trapped, and responded aggressively.”