Red, Green, or Murder

by Steven F Havill

  “Hardly,” he replied, reaching hastily for the bottle. He squinted at it, looked heavenward, and turned around muttering, “Don’t ever, ever get old, either one of you.” I knew exactly what he’d done. The eyes see the target, but the hand and the attention drift a bit. I did that very thing at the supermarket, sometimes arriving home with a truly puzzling substitution for what I’d intended.

  “It’s too late for me,” I said.

  “Lest you think the wrong thing,” Trombley said as he bent down to scan the inventory, “I do have a system of checks that would have prevented my mixing the wrong stuff in a batch for a patient. But…” and his voice trailed off. Estelle stood quietly in the corner, watching him.

  “What’s the haloperidol used for?” I asked.

  “It’s a heavy-duty tranquilizer,” he said, still looking. “Various psychotic disorders call for it by injection. Sometimes by caplet or tablet. Wouldn’t do much good in a patch. Well, damn.” I heard the crack of his knee joints. “This is where the histamine diphosphate should be,” he said, “and I don’t understand why it’s not.” He tapped an empty spot on the shelf. He exhaled an irritated mutter, and I glanced at Estelle. Her face remained expressionless.

  “Okay,” Guy said, “Excuse me for a minute.” He slipped past me and headed back for his work bench. “Bill, the coffee’s ready.”

  “Perfect,” I said, and wandered after him, taking in the sights. Other than dark corners, mops, utility sink, and piles of boxes, there wasn’t much to see. I stepped up to his work counter. From here, he could look down on the tops of his customers’ heads. I wondered if the superior position was necessary for him.

  The pharmacist was bent over the keyboard, but without looking away from the computer’s screen lifted a hand to point at the coffee maker. “Cups are down below. Help yourself. Pour me one, too, if you will. No additives. I like to use the green cup with the sunflowers.”

  “Done.” As I stepped past him, I looked over his shoulder at the computer screen. He was scrolling down through what appeared to be an inventory list.

  “We don’t just run out of drugs,” he said, rapping keys and waiting with obvious impatience. “We just don’t. That’s supposedly one of the great things about these damn gadgets. When I invoice out a prescription, all of the information goes in and modifies the inventory list here, right then and there. Then the order list is modified for restocking.” He straightened up enough to take the cup I handed him. “Just like a hardware store,” he added. “Just as if we were card-carrying members of the twenty-first century.”

  He shifted his half glasses to bring the screen into focus, adopting that characteristic scrinched up, bared teeth expression that goes with trying to read fine print.

  “Huh,” he grunted. “The last time I compounded Histolatum… that’s the particular application that I use with histamine diphosphate and caffeine citrated…” He scrunched his face up some more, putting a finger on the computer screen to follow a line across. “The last time was May 10,” He stood back. “In the drug business, that’s ancient history.”

  “So it’s been the better part of six months,” I said.

  “Does the chemical have a shelf life?” Estelle asked. She stood on the lower level, looking up at us like an expectant customer.

  “Sure it does,” the pharmacist replied. “Probably a couple of years. And the computer knows all about that, too. The reorder would have been automatic. This shows,” and he touched the screen, “that the inventory for histamine diphosphate was virtually new in May when I compounded that prescription.”

  “And none since then.”

  “No.” He beckoned. “Now, let me check again,” he said. “Let’s give senility its due. I might have reshelved it improperly.” Once more, we trooped after him and watched while he searched the shelves. He shifted boxes and bottles this way and that, even surveying well beyond the “H” section. After a few moments, he stood up and held up both hands in surrender. “It’s gone.” His eyes continued to scan the shelves. “Now, I have to ask,” he said. “You’ve come here in the middle of the night, asking for a chemical that I see now is obviously missing from my inventory.” He turned to gaze at Estelle. “I’ve told you nothing about histamine diphosphate that your husband or Louis couldn’t. So I’m assuming that you’re looking into illicit use.”

  “Who else has access to this room, sir?”

  “Access?” He held up his hands in puzzlement. “I work back here. The kids,” and he waved a hand toward the front, “They never do. Other than taking trash out to the dumpsters, there’s no reason for them to ever be back here.” What an interesting way to describe the place as wide open, I thought.

  “You have an assistant, though,” I said.

  “Of course. Harriet Tomlinson has worked for me for years, as you well know. But she does none of the compounding. I’m the only one who does that.”

  “Is this area ever unattended?” Estelle asked. The sweep of her hand indicated the pharmacist’s counter including the computer, the general area of drug storage, and the small back work room.

  “When we’re open, either Harriet is here in the back at the prescription counter, or I am,” Guy said flatly. “But I’m the only one who actually does any compounding back here. Harriet cleans up once in a while.”

  I knew that his first remark wasn’t true, just as was Fernando Aragon’s protestation that he would never use canned chile as part of the burrito grande. On many occasions here, I had dropped off a prescription to have it filled, and it had waited for half a day. Guy might be off at the links, or at a Rotary luncheon, or who the hell knows where. Harriet had her own errands. There the prescription sat, waiting for the return of one or both of them.

  There were times when it would be simple enough to stroll toward the back of the store, and then, while the register attendant was dealing with another customer up front, slip around the corner to this small room.

  I stepped to the compounding room’s door and peered out. The door that led outside to the alley was steel, with no dents or gouges around the locks. In addition to the keyed deadbolt, it had a hefty sliding steel bar.

  “Nobody has broken in,” Guy said. “If they had, you or the village police would have heard about it.” He watched Estelle, who had pulled her small digital camera out of its belt holster. “Now what?”

  “Sir,” Estelle said, and knelt down close to the shelving. “I’d like to take a photo of this area.” Even I could see what intrigued her. A jar of something had once taken up the tiny space between the haliperidol and what I could see now was labeled as hydrocortisone powder. Someone had removed that jar, leaving a nice little dust-free circle about the size of an ink bottle.

  “In May,” the undersheriff asked, adjusting the camera for the odd light. “You said May was the last time you compounded the histolatum?”

  “Yes.” Guy Trombley’s answer was considerably more guarded now, his manner less casual and affable.

  “Would it be a violation of privacy to ask who the patient was?” I asked.

  “Of course it would be,” Guy said, and coughed again. He looked at me over his half-glasses, and his fishy blue eyes were amused. “But if I can’t trust you two, then the world might as well stop spinning right now. The patient has passed on, anyway. You remember Norma Scott? She passed away here a while back, first part of the summer. She was the last patient I compounded the histolatum for. The MS didn’t kill her, though. She had a massive stroke.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I don’t remember.” Every once in a while, I heard about someone in Posadas whom I didn’t know, and it always surprised me.

  “Well, that’s the last time I’ve prepared that particular compound. Months ago, now.” He watched Estelle take several more photos of the empty spot on the shelf. “Where’s this all going?”

  There were a couple dozen ways I could have answered that simple question, but at this point it was convenient to reme
mber that none of this was any of my official business. No one was injecting cattle with histamine diphosphate. “I wish I knew,” I replied.

  “Now wait a minute,” Guy said. “If this affects me or my store—or my drugs—then I have every right to know.”

  “Yes, you do, sir,” Estelle said, and pushed herself back to her feet. “We have evidence that histamine diphosphate was involved in an incident earlier. We’d like to know where the chemical came from.”

  The pharmacist regarded Estelle without expression. “And?”

  “And that’s all I can tell you at the moment, sir.”

  “What kind of ‘incident’, sheriff?”

  I wondered how Estelle was going to side-step that question, since I couldn’t imagine that she wanted to discuss George Payton’s death while the investigation was so preliminary.

  “At any time in the past week or two, can you recollect anyone other than yourself or Mrs. Tomlinson back here?” she asked.

  “No, I can’t.” Guy’s impatience grew. “That door,” and he pointed at the compounding room’s entrance, “is always closed unless I happen to be working back here. None of the clerks ever come in here. They have no need to. And you still haven’t answered my question. What prompts all this, anyway? What’s important enough to justify skulking about in the middle of the night? You mention an ‘incident’, and that’s all you can tell me?”

  “We’re not skulking, Guy,” I said. “But you know the drill.”

  “Well, in this case, I don’t know the drill, Bill. Somebody’s been in here, and it looks like they helped themselves to a dangerous chemical. My God, man, I don’t think I can impress on you enough just how lethal this stuff can be. I mean, it makes rattlesnake venom look like weak tea.”

  “We understand that, sir,” Estelle said patiently. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it. At the moment. We’re asking your cooperation and discretion in this.”

  Guy looked across at me, then back at Estelle. “And if it turns out that I had a moment of brain fade and just shelved the chemical incorrectly?”

  “Then I hope you’ll tell us immediately,” Estelle said. “And if you should find it, please let us know before you touch the bottle, sir.”

  “Because?”

  “Because we’ll be looking for fingerprints, sir.” She handed him one of her cards, but he waved it off.

  “For heaven’s sakes, I know where you live, work, and even play,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, holding the card out until he took it with considerable impatience. “If something comes up, or you remember something else, please feel free to call that cell number any time, rather than going through dispatch.”

  Guy Trombley scrutinized the card, slowly shaking his head. “Is this involving something going on over at the school?”

  “We certainly hope not, sir.”

  He huffed a sigh. “Well, I hope to God not. Teenagers today are a new breed to me.” I saw his jaw set a fraction, and his gaze wandered toward the front of the store. I supposed he was already indicting his counter help.

  “We’ll get back with you, Guy,” I offered. “Give us some time.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I left the undersheriff at her office just as the clock flipped to one a.m. She didn’t need me hanging around, pretending I was still sheriff. And maybe with no distractions she’d be able to break away for home, where Irma Sedillos, the ever-patient nana, was tending the roost.

  With a full cup of coffee from the Handiway, I headed south again. As I passed the county road that led toward Borracho Springs, I looked for Deputy Jackie Taber’s county unit, but didn’t see it. That didn’t surprise me. She would find a discreet spot and blend with the night shadows, hiding even the bright white paint of her Bronco.

  A few minutes later, I followed the winding driveway through the scrub and the cacti to Herb Torrance’s H-Bar-T. The lights were on in the house, and the Chrysler was parked in the circular drive with Herb’s older Chevy pickup pulled in behind it.

  A pair of cats streaked across the yard and disappeared through the fence. By the time I’d parked behind the pickup, Herb had appeared at the door and beckoned. Apparently sleep was eluding him, too.

  “Jesus, Bill,” he said. “What a goddamn day.” Socks the cow dog tried to wedge his head through the rancher’s legs, and Herb pushed him back. “Git,” he snapped.

  “How’s the boy?”

  “Dale’s all right. You know,” and he held the door open wide for me, a boot still in the dog’s face. “When the sheriff called sayin’ that you’d found Patrick, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I guess I’ll stop by the hospital in the morning.” He looked sharply at me. “He’s all right, ain’t he?”

  “We don’t know yet, Herb. Someone did for him, that’s for sure. It looks like a skull fracture, with some bleeding on the brain.” I shook my head wearily. “And you can save your drive to town. They airlifted him to Albuquerque.”

  “Son of a bitch.” He reached out and took my cup, and I followed him into the kitchen. “Torrez said you found him over to Borracho Springs.”

  “Yep. We need to locate his folks,” I said. “I thought you could help me with that.”

  “Well, now, I think I can. Now I don’t have the phone number or nothing like that, but I know they work for the Martin farms over to Hatch. They were seasonal for ’em, but they went to full time here not long ago. Got their papers and such.” He poured my coffee carefully. “You want me to call ’em?”

  “Actually, I think Estelle or Bobby should, Herb. They have all the details and can answer any questions that Pat’s folks might have. I’ll pass on the information about the Martins to them, and they can make it official.”

  “I’m with ya on that,” Herb said, and the relief in his voice was obvious. “His folks will sure want to know.” He heaved a great sigh. “Well, shit.” He took a long pull of the coffee, looking out into the distance. “This is sure as hell a fix, ain’t it.”

  “We’ll do what we can, Herb. We have a description, we know exactly when the thieves crossed the border with the truck, and we have a guess about where they might be headed. That’s a start.”

  “I suppose,” he said. “Naranjo be any help, you think?”

  “We’ll see.” There was no point in sounding mindlessly optimistic. How efficient the Mexican police would be was anyone’s guess, and Herb knew that. He also knew that our various agencies couldn’t just charge cross the border, taking the Mexican law into our own hands. The political line in the dirt didn’t mean diddly damn to the coyotes, cacti, or creosote bush, but the humans who lived along both sides of the border knew that the line sure as hell complicated their lives.

  Even in their rural district, Captain Tomás Naranjo and his officers lived with a nightmare of drug cartel violence that made our incident seem like an unimportant blip on the statistical chart. But he’d do what he could, deft, politic, even subtle when he needed to be. The captain possessed an interesting sense of justice that wasn’t necessarily driven by the letter of the law—either Mexican law or ours. That’s what I was depending on in this case.

  “You know…” Herb took his time lighting a cigarette. He regarded the blue heeler, who had settled in the living room, near the door. “I don’t give a shit about the truck.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I want those sons-a-bitches behind bars, Bill. Or buried out in the desert somewheres. Whoever hammered that boy? You know, Pat’s a good kid. A good kid. Been good for my Dale. Kind of steady, you know? Anything I can do to help, well, you just speak up.”

  “You know I will.”

  “Fill up?” He reached for my cup again, and I obliged. “Where are you headed at this hour, anyways?”

  “I wanted to chat with Victor,” I replied.

  Herb’s laugh turned into a racking cough, a
nd he had to wipe his eyes. “Good luck with that,” he managed. “He can be just about the most goddamned unpleasant son-of-a-bitch I know.”

  “Just misunderstood,” I said, and Herb laughed again.

  “He don’t think much of cops.”

  “Victor has his reasons.”

  “Suppose he does. His son and all.” Herb didn’t delve into that miserable night several years before when Victor’s eldest son, Carlos, had been killed, but even long before that, Victor had perfected his impression of a miserable, short-tempered saloon keeper.

  I left the Torrance ranch, and for a few miles the night was dark and quiet. Sidewinder personality or not, Victor enjoyed a thriving business at his Broken Spur saloon. I counted eight vehicles in the parking lot, and for Posadas County during the wee hours of the morning, that qualified as hopping.

  Victor’s Cadillac—one of those older models that looked as if someone had chopped off the hindquarters with a cleaver—was parked behind the back kitchen door and the double-wide trailer where the saloon owner lived with his youngest son. Victor Junior worked in the kitchen of the Broken Spur, trying hard both to do as he was told and stay out of his father’s way.

  I shut off the SUV and headed for the back door of the kitchen, knowing damn well that my entrance there would prompt acid comments from Victor. Pulling open the door, I saw his son at the sink, doing something with carrots. His father stood in front of the huge gas stove, watching eggs fry in pools of sizzling butter. He glanced at me as I entered.

  “We got a front door,” Victor said almost affably. “You lookin’ for handouts or what?”

  “Those eggs look tempting.” He flipped them expertly, then reached out with the stainless steel spatula and chopped a series of rows through a pile of hash browns. At the same time he reached up and pulled a plate off the rack. Four strips of bacon joined the eggs and potatoes, and he slid the loaded plate on the prep table.

  “Order up,” he said, and Victor Junior jumped to deliver the goods.

  Victor wiped his hands thoughtfully. He turned and looked at the clock, his expression not lost on me. Minutes before closing, he didn’t want interruptions.