The holster and belt slipped off the vertebrae as Estelle eased them out of their place on the cave floor. They felt wispy light, all of the life long dried out of them. She repeated the numbers to Torrez, who simply held out both hands, palms up. “The three vertebrae will be the same numbers,” she said.
Piece by piece, she worked her way into the cave. Bits of bone were mingled with scraps of clothing and desiccated carcass. With each discovery, she reached back and touched in the data. The grid on the computer screen became an explosion of yellow numbers, a random scatter that didn’t coalesce into any recognizable pattern. After an hour, her neck and shoulders aching, she paused and gazed at the computer screen. “There’s no way to tell how the body lay in here originally. We can’t tell if he was curled up, flat on his belly, or what.”
“He?” Torrez asked.
“That’s a fifty-fifty guess,” Estelle said. “Someone wearing a gun like the one Freddy found? I don’t see many Annie Oakleys around Posadas County.” She picked up an artifact that was easily recognizable, despite years of critter chewing. “Or that wear size twelves,” she added, and passed the pathetic remains of the boot and its contents out to the sheriff. He took it without comment.
“You see the skull yet?” he asked.
“It’s in the very back. I’m working that way.”
“That’s where the answers are.”
“Sin duda. ” Reaching the back of the chamber, even though it was only five feet across at the broadest point, was a chore for a gymnast. Unyielding geology dug into her hips and bumped her head and shoulders as she maneuvered, trying to disturb the gray dust as little as possible. Each time she moved, another small piece was revealed and she forced herself to remain patient and methodical as she worked her way in.
Finally, the gray mound that she recognized as the skull was within reach. Whether the skull had rolled thanks to gravity, or whether a resourceful coyote had played soccer with it, was impossible to tell. It had come to rest with its face against the back wall of the little cave, just inches from the air vent. A little more coyote play, and it might have tumbled into the bowels of the earth, gone forever.
None of the neck tissue remained, and as she brushed off dust, the harsh light revealed gnaw marks on the occipital mounds. Mixed now with dust and other detritus, a thin wisp of hair the size of a dime remained on a patch of skull above where the left ear had once been.
“A-nine.” But she paused before passing the skull to the sheriff, considering how she might hand it backward without yielding her progress into the chamber. A large rock jutted out of the ceiling, forcing her head low.
“You got claustrophobia yet?”
“I’m close,” Estelle said.
“Can’t put a name with the face,” Torrez said drolly as he watched her rotate the artifact. She stopped when she saw the ragged hole low on the left frontal bone, immediately over the orbit. The skull was badly fractured around the quarter-sized hole, and a half turn revealed the smaller entry fracture on the posterior surface of the parietal.
“Okay, ” she whispered to herself.
“This guy didn’t crawl in here to die of old age,” Torrez said.
“A-nine,” she repeated, and managed an awkward underhanded pass to the sheriff, running her hand down along her leg.
Other voices outside the cave were muted, but the arrival of the skull prompted a rush of conversation, most of it Miles Waddell’s articulate tenor.
Estelle kept her voice down. “Waddell shouldn’t be here. Not now.”
“Bill’s keepin’ him back. There ain’t anything outside the cave anyways.”
“Nos vemos. I’d like to see Alan out here now, though.”
“You got it.”
She waited for a moment, letting her pulse back off from its pounding, spiked by bad air, the dust, the confines of the rock sarcophagus, the adrenalin rush of the discovery. How much had Freddy seen?
For another hour, she combed the cave floor, sending fragments back to the sheriff. Some, like the left side of the lower jaw, were sizeable, even though the right half was missing, a treasure that some creature had grabbed as a trophy. She could imagine the coyote or skunk scuttling away with his find, maybe attracted by the wink of a gold tooth filling.
By lying flat, she could worm her way toward the rush of cool, musty air that forced its way up the chimney. A flashlight revealed only fissures where the limestone had fractured and slumped, streaks where moisture had followed those fissures, and dust-always the fine gray powder that covered every surface.
“What are you doin’?” Torrez asked. He tapped the sole of her boot.
“Thinking.”
“There’s more comfortable places to do it.”
“Sin duda.” She turned her flashlight in an arc, probing the small corners where the glare of the spotlight didn’t reach. She moved several rocks that lay loose, finding nothing. “I need a sifter. We need to sift whatever we can scrape up from the floor in here, and then we need to go through the packrat’s nest back behind you.”
That brought a moment of silence from the sheriff.
“C-six, three,” she said. That fragment, probably bone, had been roughly the size of a dime, and perhaps an eighth of an inch thick-a tiny piece that her fingers, clad in the thin surgeon’s gloves, had found almost by accident as her hand relaxed for a moment. “And if that’s a piece of the skull, that means he was in this cave when he was shot.”
“Or shot himself,” Torrez amended.
“I would bet against that.”
“Not to mention one little thing…it’s hard as hell to shoot yourself in the back of the head. I mean, you can do it, but not too many folks try.” He coughed gently. “Maybe it’s the idea of seein’ their own face explode out right in front of their eyes.”
Estelle shifted and examined the ceiling with care…dust, loose rocks, stains here and there that were most likely bat guano. An earth tremor of insignificant magnitude could rearrange this place in an instant-and probably had over the years.
“It would be no small trick to push a body up in here. Close to impossible. But if the victim willingly crawled in, and then pop. Right in the head.”
“Could.”
“I need a sifter screen,” she repeated.
“Lemme see,” Torrez said. “You going to stay there, or are you comin’ out?”
“I’ll stay put.”
Five minutes later, she glanced back over her shoulder to see the sheriff working his way back in, mask hanging down under his chin.
“Doug Posey’s going to run over to Torrance’s and see what he can find.”
“He’s going to go back past Waddell’s well and take the county road?”
“I’ll tell him to.”
“I don’t want any more traffic down through the canyon. Not until we have the chance to take a careful sweep through there.”
“He knows that,” Torrez said. “You need to back out of there for a while.”
He tapped the sole of her right boot again.
The sun felt unusually hot and welcome as Estelle emerged out from under the overhang. Head clear of the overhanging rocks, she turned and saw Linda Real with camera poised, a wide grin on her face. Always the shutter-bug opportunist, Linda rapped off four or five exposure before Estelle could raise a hand in self-defense.
“The earth insect look,” Linda said. “I love it.”
Estelle removed the respirator, aware for the first time of how hard the rubber seal had been digging into her face. Her cheeks ached, but fresh, unfiltered air tasted wonderful.
Bill Gastner stood at the far end of the blue tarp, hands on his hips. He held out both hands toward the bones, as if they might suddenly reassemble themselves. “Let the fun begin, Madame Undersheriff.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The packrat had been busy. His collection formed a veritable rodent mansion, a vast mess six feet across and eighteen inches high, filling a shelf under the ragged overhang
of limestone, dried roots, and a scattering of plants tough enough to survive.
Tony Abeyta used a small army shovel to transfer the rodent’s hard work a bit at a time into the screen shaker. Herb Torrance had found a piece of galvanized screening that had once formed the bottom of a rabbit hutch, and it had taken him no more than five minutes to build a two foot wide, four foot long frame from cast-off lumber, creating a rough version of the archeologist’s site sifter.
Unable to resist the pull of curiosity, Torrance had arrived at the site a few minutes after Abeyta. He and Miles Waddell stood down in the parking lot that the wide spot in the two-track had become, smoking and talking with Bill Gastner. The retiring livestock inspector had assigned himself the task of keeping civilians out of the crime scene, and he’d retreated to the vehicles with Waddell and Torrance. The ranchers provided an interesting comparison, and Estelle saw Linda Real zoom her lens to take their portraits-Waddell slender, elegant, almost effeminate in his precise movements, while Herb Torrance looked elderly and battered, a stoop now in his bony shoulders, a bad knee that gave him a hitch, and a face lined and blotched from too much sun.
The two men watched the operation up slope with interest and a continuous cloud of cigarette smoke.
The quarter inch squares of the sifter were coarse enough that most of the rodent’s collection was caught for examination. The little creature showed an affinity for strips of inner bark from juniper, no doubt a fragrant, soft lining for his bed chamber. The small, stunted acorns from scrub oak, several steel staples that had drifted loose from a barbed-wire fence post somewhere, bits of this and that-the collection was vast and aromatic, at least aromatic from the rodent’s point of view.
On the eighth shovelful shook out on the sifter, Tony Abeyta said sharply, “Hold it a minute.” Doug Posey and Bob Torrez had been manning the crude device, and they waited patiently while Abeyta flicked bits and pieces to one side. The metallic wink that had attracted the deputy turned out to be an irregular bit just large enough that it had jammed in the screen rather than passing through. “Linda?”
Linda Real leaned forward, focused quickly as Abeyta pointed with a pencil.
“Okay.”
The deputy flicked the fragment loose.
“Part of a molar,” Estelle said. She nudged the fragment into a small plastic evidence bag. “A gold cap.” She glanced at the sheriff, whose face remained expressionless. Holding it up, she rotated the bag this way and that. The flavorful root of the tooth had been gnawed down, leaving the glob of gold and traces of adhesive.
The eight shovelfuls of detritus had barely dented the voluminous nest, and Abeyta resumed his excavations energetically, digging deep into the rodent’s favorite stashes. Another tooth followed shortly, this one still embedded in a fragment of jawbone.
Concentrating on the screen’s surface so hard that her eyes started to water, Estelle straightened at the sound of a vehicle, expecting to see Dr. Alan Perrone’s BMW. Instead, two state police cruisers lurched along the two-track, the first a large SUV, followed by one of the ubiquitous black and white Crown Victorias.
“A convention,” Torrez muttered.
“More help with the sifter,” Estelle said cheerfully. The two vehicles parked behind Waddell’s truck. In a few moments, after a short chat with Bill Gastner and the two ranchers, State Police Lieutenant Mark Adams reached the boulder, accompanied by a young officer whom Estelle didn’t recognize.
“Whoa,” Abeyta said, and the shaker stopped. Linda’s digital camera snicked another series, and Estelle bent close, slipping her pen into the mouth of the single shell casing. She tipped the case upward to read the head-stamp markings.
“Forty Smith and Wesson,” she said.
“So there we go.” The sheriff watched her tip the casing into another evidence bag. “Just about impossible to thumb cartridges into a magazine without leaving a print. There are some clear ones on the cartridges in the pistol’s magazine, and they ain’t Freddy’s. I’ll bet on that. ‘Course, with this one, by the time the skin oils dry out, the case gets rolled and licked and kissed by the rat and all his buddies, I wouldn’t like to bet on prints.”
“I’ll take what we get,” Estelle said. “At the moment, the rat’s our ally here.” She saw Torrez smile a greeting at someone behind her, and the undersheriff turned to see Mark Adams as he stepped carefully around the tarp. The lieutenant said something to his companion, who remained by the corner of the boulder.
“Sir, how’s it going?” she asked.
“What in the hell do you guys have going on here?” Adams said. “Hey, Linda. How’s my favorite shutterbug?”
“She’s fine,” Linda replied. “Welcome to the party.”
“This is Charlie Esquibel,” the lieutenant said. “New to the district.” He half turned and made quick introductions, then lowered his voice as his gaze swept over the scatter on the tarp. “So. Do we know who?”
“Nope,” Torrez said. “But we’re gonna know.”
“I have no doubt of that.” Adams knelt on the limestone projection just to the right of the entrance. “Interesting coincidence.”
“Which one?” Estelle asked.
“Fatality in the canyon sometime yesterday, and now this, right in the same neighborhood.” The state policeman looked around at the blue tarp, where Deputy Tom Pasquale, earlier relieved at the homestead site by Jackie Taber, had extended his shift to help instead of going home to bed, where he belonged. “The newspaper said that the jaguar was found over by Borracho. That’s not the case?”
“It was found right here.” Torrez pointed at the tarp. “Those bones above the tape are all the cat.”
Adams regarded the bones with a frown. “So why did the kid lie?”
“Because he found them here, ” Estelle said, “among other things. And right now, it’s the other things that we’re concerned with.”
“Found like what?”
“We found a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistol in the carry-all of the boy’s ATV. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it came from here.”
Adams stepped closer to the tarp and leaned over, examining the dusty holster. “In that?”
“No, sir. Not when he found it. Nothing’s been in that holster for a very long time. At one time, it’s likely that the gun was. That’s what makes sense to me.”
He stood up and walked around the tarp, punching Tom Pasquale lightly on the shoulder as he stepped around him. “You stayin’ out of trouble?”
“You bet, sir.”
Adams knelt and gazed at the skull, tipping his head this way and that, his fingers laced together as if to prevent the impulse to reach out and touch. “Somebody put one right through his brain.”
“It appears that way.”
The lieutenant looked up quickly and grinned at Estelle’s reticence. “Perrone’s on his way. We passed him on the way out.” He stood up and brushed off the knee of his black trousers. “What can I do? What do you need?”
“I think we’re set, unless someone hits the bank while we’re all playin’ around out here,” Torrez said.
Adams chuckled. “Mighty impressive ‘playing,’ folks. What tipped you off to this location?” He glanced down the hill toward the two ranchers.
“Freddy was here,” Estelle said. “We wanted to know why.”
“Ah. There’s that.” Adams nodded. “Tell you what, we’ll keep a car central until you tell us otherwise,” he said. “Is there anything from the mobile lab that you need?”
“Don’t know yet, but thanks.” The sheriff nodded toward the angular-featured Esquibel, who had yet to speak a single word. Fresh out of the academy, the young state policeman hadn’t yet acquired the easy self-confidence enjoyed by his lieutenant.
“Not much in the way of clothing left,” Adams mused. “Some little bits of shirt, maybe. Khaki trousers. Turn up a wallet?”
“Not yet,” Estelle replied. “No wallet, no rings, no pocket change, no pocket knife or utility tool.
One boot.”
“One boot? You’re shitting me. Really? This is a hell of a country to be hikin’ around barefoot.”
“Coyote dragged one off, more than likely,” Torrez said.
The lieutenant looked down the hill at the two ranchers, both of whom had now settled on the tailgate of Herb Torrance’s pickup, enjoying their conversation with Bill Gastner. “What do the neighbors have to say?”
“That’s still to come,” Estelle said.
“This is Waddell’s land now, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” Adams pointed off into the distance. A small, dark shape meandered along the two-track, driving slowly enough that it raised little dust. “Here comes the good doctor,” he said. “Be interesting to hear what he has to say.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Making his only concession to the remote location, Dr. Alan Perrone loosened the top button of his white shirt, pulling his tie down a bit. He talked briefly with Bill Gastner before heading up the hill, and Estelle noticed that he didn’t bother with a medical bag.
He stopped halfway up to chat with Mark Adams as the two state police officers made their way back down. When he reached the little plateau behind the boulder, he stopped and held up both hands in mock impatience. “You couldn’t have found a spot a little farther out from anywhere? Here I was complaining yesterday about the canyon.”
“We try, sir,” Estelle said. “We try.”
“Well, this guy sure as hell is dead.” The medical examiner thrust his hands in his pockets, his gaze flicking from one end of the tarp to another. “And that’s the extent of my expertise.” He knelt and reached out with his right index finger, stopping just short of one of the long bones. “Critters have been helpful.” He looked up, toward the crevice in the rocks. “How deep?” He pushed himself to his feet, and as he approached the disturbed nest, the sheriff and deputy Abeyta shifted to make room. He held up a hand. “I’m not going in.” He knelt again, peering into the depths of the overhang, then looked toward the cave entrance.
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