Less Than a Moment

by Steven F Havill

  Baca coughed discreetly, then said, “Despite all your experience, you weren’t able to defuse the situation, to talk Mr. Ortega down?”

  “No. He didn’t give us the opportunity.”

  “Explain that.” DelFino shot her a quick glance that might have been one of irritation.

  “He dashed into the house, and when he reappeared, he held the rifle at high port. The time that passed was so short that the rifle must have been near at hand, and already fully loaded. When he burst back out through the screen door, he shouted, ‘do you want this rifle?’ But at that point, he did not hesitate. He immediately pointed the gun at the sheriff and fired.”

  “So for all intents and purposes, he came out through the door shooting.” DelFino held both hands out, palms up.

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “How exactly did that go down?” DelFino asked.

  “He cleared the door, shouted ‘Do you want this rifle,’ and immediately fired three times.”

  “Fast?”

  “Eighth notes.”

  “Show me.”

  Estelle reached out and slapped the conference table edge. “Bang, bang, bang. Like that. I heard the bullets strike the sheriff, and then he turned the gun, bang, bang,” and she struck the table again, “and both shots hit me. One of them,” and she touched the blouse pocket, “struck a ballpoint pen that was in my blouse pocket. A piece of plastic nicked me under the chin.”

  “And then the sheriff returned fire.”

  “No. Ortega pivoted a few degrees and fired once more. I believe that was the round that struck Lydia Thompson.” Estelle reached up and pulled her own earlobe. “The shot ripped her ear.”

  DelFino waited, eyes locked on Estelle’s.

  “It was immediately after that shot…that sixth shot, that Sheriff Torrez fired.”

  “How many times?”

  “Three.”

  “And in your judgment, what was the lapse of time between Mr. Ortega’s sixth shot and the sheriff’s response?”

  “A fraction of a second.” She reached out again and with two hands, drumming the cadence of the gunshots: the three pops by the twenty-­two rifle, followed by two more, and then the sixth, followed by three quick slaps of the sheriff’s forty-­five.

  “Just the six in total.”

  “No. The sheriff’s first two rounds struck Mr. Ortega center mass, and he staggered backward a step or two, the rifle pointed upward, where it discharged again. The seventh time. That’s when the sheriff’s last round struck Mr. Ortega in the forehead.”

  “Had that third round not been fired by the sheriff, do you think that Mr. Ortega would have continued to fire? Even though obviously grievously wounded as he was?”

  “That’s impossible to predict, Lieutenant.”

  “The ME’s initial examination shows that the sheriff’s first two shots struck an inch apart, both exploding through Mr. Ortega’s heart. One of the rounds broke the spine behind the heart.” He looked up quizzically at Estelle. “That’s extraordinary shooting, don’t you think? Especially in a panic situation.”

  “The sheriff is an extraordinary shot, Lieutenant. And in the almost thirty years I’ve worked with Sheriff Torrez, I’ve never seen him panic.”

  Baca looked as if she wanted to break in, but the lieutenant interrupted. “Huh. So he could have placed those two shots wherever he wanted.”

  “It wasn’t a situation where we had a planning conference, Lieutenant DelFino. In a situation like that, what is required is to put an immediate stop to the aggressive behavior. You’re well aware of the theories behind the three-­shot response. It is, in fact, part of your own training. Two shots to center mass to disrupt the flow of events, followed by a third shot to the head to terminate the situation.”

  DelFino nodded slowly, as if evaluating every word. Estelle continued, “As you well know, individuals have managed to return effective fire even when their heart has been blown to pieces. They may have five or six seconds, maybe eight or ten, to manage return fire, or return aggression of some sort. Fatally wounded as he was, Mr. Ortega was still on his feet, still brandishing a loaded firearm. The third shot to the head was clearly justified.”

  “Undersheriff Guzman,” Officer Baca said while busily jotting something on her legal pad, “the question remains. Why didn’t either you or the sheriff simply follow Mr. Ortega into the home and disarm him? Why did the both of you simply stand there and wait for him? In this case, wait for him to acquire arms and return on the offensive?”

  “I like that word ‘simply,’ Officer Baca. Nothing that day was simple.”

  “The question remains.”

  Estelle took a deep breath. She knew nothing of Breta Baca’s background, or how many times the woman herself had had to make such critical decisions. “For one thing,” Estelle said finally, “the house was small and dark, and we were standing in the bright morning sunshine. We would have been essentially blind until our eyes adjusted. Mr. Ortega was obviously upset, and as I’ve already told you, it seemed prudent to wait, rather than pushing him into a corner.”

  “But you had a Taser in your hand, and never used it.”

  “That’s correct. At first, I did have the Taser.”

  “And so?”

  “The range was difficult, and the open screen door was in the way.”

  “When Mr. Ortega appeared for the final time, what was your first thought?”

  “That perhaps he had acquired the twenty-­two rifle that the sheriff had demanded from him, and would relinquish it.”

  “But he didn’t do that.”

  “No.”

  “But you didn’t fire your weapon.”

  “No.”

  “Did you draw your weapon?”

  “Yes. But by then the situation was resolved.”

  “Resolved,” DelFino said. “That’s a nice way to put it.” He tapped the pile of papers into tidy order. “Had the sheriff not been there yesterday, how would you have handled this situation?”

  “That’s impossible for me to say, Lieutenant. Things happen because they are driven by events and circumstances.”

  “Would you have fired?”

  Estelle shrugged, then for the tape recorder’s benefit, said, “Impossible to say. As you know from your own experience, Lieutenant, we are trained to react to an armed confrontation in a manner that eliminates the threat. We do not shoot to wound, or disable. We shoot, if we have to, to end the situation. In this case, there is no way of knowing if Rolando Ortega might have been able to summon the final strength to fire his rifle again, or even several more times. He had already shot two officers and a civilian observer. The sheriff reacted as he has been trained to do.”

  “Undersheriff Guzman, it’s my understanding that you have not seen the dash cam footage of the incident.”

  “No.”

  “Let’s do this. I’d like to go back to the beginning, and this time, I want you to spin the whole narrative, without any questions or prompting from me or Officer Baca. All right? Beginning to end. Avoid explanations of why things went down the way they did. Just the what. All right? After that, I want to run the dash-­cam footage. Is that agreeable?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath, then a sip of water, and began.

  Chapter Thirty-­Four

  “Do you have time to speak with Miles Waddell?”

  Estelle looked up as dispatcher Woody Ray appeared in her office doorway. He nodded deferentially. “He’s out in the foyer and wonders if you can see him.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Woody.”

  In a moment, she heard the click of Waddell’s boot heels out in the hall.

  “If you don’t have time just now, just tell me to get lost,” the NightZone developer said. “I know your plate’s full right now.”

  “Miles, it’s good to see you. C
ome in.” She folded several file folders whose contents had been spread across her desk. “You’re a breath of fresh air in a couple of bad days.”

  “Well, thank you for that. Whatever I can do for you, you have only to ask. But look, let me get right to it, Estelle. I’m worried about Maddy Lucero. She’s one of my best, and she’s a wreck.”

  “With good reason to be worried, Miles. What has she told you?”

  “She witnessed the shooting, as you know better than anyone else. She saw what Rolando did.”

  “Yes. We have her deposition.”

  “Christ,” he breathed, and shook his head. “If you hadn’t worn your vest—­both you and Bobby. And Lydia…”

  “But we did.” She knew that her answer was curt, but the last thing Estelle wanted to do, even though she had high regard for Waddell, was wallow in the memory of the past forty-­eight hours. When she had returned home the night after the shooting, exhausted from the adrenaline high and the unrelenting stress of the interviews, she still had had to face Francis. She returned home wearing the clean and pressed blouse that she kept in her office closet as a spare.

  The other, with the two tears, complete with a splatter of blown ballpoint pen ink to mark one of them, was part of the package of evidence that the District Attorney would evaluate after receiving the recommendation of the two investigating State Police officers.

  Earlier, at the emergency room, Francis had examined the pencil eraser–­sized bruise in the middle of Estelle’s chest, then stood for a moment with his eyes closed. Finally, he’d folded Estelle into a hug and the two of them had stood for long moments while the ER nurse discreetly tried to find something to do out of earshot. There had been nothing to say, but the following morning, when they both left for work—­she to slog through the mounds of paperwork, he to work with Alan Perrone on Rolando Ortega’s autopsy—­the parting had been quietly painful.

  Now, Miles Waddell thrust his hands in his pockets. “Maddy came back to work yesterday. Too soon, I think. She managed a few minutes with visitors, then she’d duck into the staff restroom. I could hear her cryin’ when I walked by out in the hall. Carmine said Maddy’s a basket case for sure. She’s tryin’ to hold herself together and not doin’ much of a job with it. We finally sent her home.”

  “She’s been down a tough road, Miles.”

  “Boy, I guess so. Is there anything I can do, do you think?”

  “Be understanding. Be supportive. Give her space and time.”

  “All that I can do, and I know that Carmine is better at it than I am. She didn’t come in to work today, though.” He still had made no move to sit, but he leaned both hands on the back of one of the chairs as if he were going to use it as a walker. “I guess it’s going to be kind of off and on for a while, huh?”

  “I would expect so.”

  “Do we know what actually happened out there? I mean with Thompson?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Some guesses.”

  “But I mean, what happens now?”

  “All the information garnered by the State Police will be turned over to the District Attorney, Miles. He decides if there is cause to turn everything over for Grand Jury action.”

  “Grand Jury? My God, looking to indict who?”

  “To decide whether or not the shooting of Rolando Ortega was justified.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No.”

  “But the sheriff? I mean, my God, what else could Bobby have done?”

  Estelle didn’t answer for a moment, then said quietly, “Only people who haven’t been there, who haven’t been in that position, want to speculate, Miles.”

  He rubbed his belly. “This just turns my stomach. It really does.”

  “Any time there is a shooting, things get complicated, Miles.”

  “I guess so.” He glanced at his watch. “I agreed—­probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done—­but I agreed to sit down with Frank Dayan for a little bit this morning.”

  “Good luck with that,” Estelle smiled. “You’re certainly free to talk with Frank as much or as little as you like. We don’t have that luxury, but you certainly do. He and I met for a few minutes yesterday, so he knows the basics.”

  “I don’t imagine the sheriff has much to say at this point.”

  “I wouldn’t think so, Miles. And I would imagine that Frank Dayan is smart enough not to try. I’ll talk with Frank later today when I know what the DA is going to do.”

  “So, is there anything I should steer clear of?”

  She shook her head. “Just stick with what you know, Miles. What you know. Don’t speculate, don’t go where you haven’t been. Suppositions are generally counterproductive. Let things sort themselves out. Frank needs to do the same thing, but I can understand his urgency. He’s got both his reporter and his editor down at the moment, so he’s worried about them.”

  “They’re going to be all right, though?”

  “Probably,” she said guardedly and shrugged. “Probably. That’s as exact as I can be. In the meantime, any question Frank might have about the shooting, about the investigation, you’d be wise to refer him back to Lieutenant DelFino with the State Police. Frank should not be using you as a spokesman for law enforcement.”

  “Oh, absolutely not.” Waddell nodded vehemently. “You know, I’m eager for things to return to normal, where our most serious threat is a tourist turning his ankle on one of our trails.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “But you’re okay.” He looked hard at Estelle. “You and the sheriff.”

  “We’re okay. And Lydia is a lucky young lady.”

  “I guess.” He shook his head in wonder. “She’s staying with us topside, and I’m good with that. I mean, I expected her to beat a retreat back to the city, but she doesn’t want to do that yet. So, for our part, we’ll make sure she has her privacy, and we’ll see how things progress.”

  Progress to what? Estelle thought, but she didn’t voice the curiosity.

  Waddell pushed himself away from the chair that had been his anchor. “You guys need anything? Anything at all?”

  “The kids are coming back from Hawaii on Sunday. That’s all I’ll need.”

  “How about bringing them up for a fancy-­schmancy dinner sometime next week?” He flashed a smile. “No strings attached. Ride the train out, relax over dinner, see the planetarium show, enjoy the night ride back to town. Get Bill to come with you.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, sir.”

  “You betcha. Will you do it? I even promise not to lean on the maestro about giving a concert sometime…much as everyone would treasure that.”

  “I’ll do my best to persuade the powers that be.”

  He gave her a thumbs-­up, even as he glanced at the clock. “And I promised Frank I’d stop by. Take care of yourself, young lady. I’m sorry you were caught up in the middle of all this.”

  She nodded and stood to accept his handshake that morphed into a hug.

  She did not feel relieved, or jubilant, or celebratory. The pointless death of a young man had left too many questions unanswered.

  Chapter Thirty-­Five

  Maddy Lucero had taken the step toward independence by renting a modest efficiency apartment in one of the two-­story brick units a block from the high school. Built during the mining boom of the seventies, the three buildings were arranged in a horseshoe around a small, dusty, weedy common that featured an aging swing set in which only one seat of the three remained functional, a jungle gym, and a crawl-­tunnel constructed from cast-­off tires.

  Maddy was standing outside her door, leaning against one of the metal roof supports, arms tightly folded across her chest. She watched as Estelle got out of the county car, crossed the graveled yard, and made her way up the stairs whose concrete tre
ads were spalled so badly that the rusted metal framework showed through.

  “The sun’s nice,” Maddy said by way of greeting. “For the past couple of days, I haven’t been able to warm up.” She nodded at the wad of tissues she clutched in one hand. “And I can’t seem to stop the tears, so you’ll have to forgive me.” Her gesture was one of hopeless surrender. “Did you come to arrest me again?”

  “Again?”

  She laughed bitterly. “I call being handcuffed and put in the back of a police car being arrested.”

  “That was for your own protection, Maddy. And ours. We had no idea what was going to happen.”

  “Before you and the sheriff came out there, I tried to talk Rolando out of being such a dumb butt. I really did.” She gestured toward the front door. “Let’s go in, though. Lots of neighbors here.”

  The apartment was bright, leaning heavily on a Mexican motif, favoring Aztec and Mayan geometric designs rather than the more usual and traditional Santos and other nods to the Catholic faith.

  A teakettle burbled on the kitchen range and Maddy crossed to the kitchen and selected a second mug from the shelf.

  “Your choice,” she said, and moved a boxed tea sampler forward within Estelle’s reach. “The State Police said that they might want to talk with me again.” She rolled her eyes and dabbed with the tissue. “They are extremely thorough, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “They won’t tell me how Mrs. Thompson is doing.”

  “She’ll be fine, Maddy.” Estelle tugged at her own right ear. “The bullet nicked her ear.”

  The tears came again. “But she’ll be all right?”

  “Yes.” Estelle fished the tiny recorder from her pocket, switched it on, and set it on the table. Maddy looked at it and her face once more started to crumple. She took a deep breath. “Is this where you tell me I have the right to remain silent, and all that stuff?”

  “You do, you know. You don’t have to talk to me. You can call your lawyer and this goes back in my pocket. But based on what you told the State Police, I don’t think you have anything to hide.”