“Worse how?”
Al smiled crookedly, a sly expression that said that he understood more about the situation than anyone else. “I don’t suppose you’ve spent much time in prison, have you?”
“No. And it’s not a ‘prison.’ It’s a modest little county lock-up.”
“Yeah, well, just the same. I couldn’t let him stay there. You know, when we was drinkin’, sometimes—” and Al stopped and shut his eyes. “He talked about maybe doin’ something crazy.”
“You mean something crazy like suicide?”
Al nodded. “I’d try to tell him, ‘Now look, Darrell, you got a good wife, and you got Derry. He’s the best, you know what I mean?’ Yeah, he and Penny fought like cats and dogs, but it didn’t mean nothin’. I mean, that Penny—she could be a real witch when she wanted to be, you know? Damn bully is what she is.” He tried to smile. “I mean, once she was goin’ on and on and on about me and Darrell going on an elk hunt trip up into the Datil country. Just for a day, for God’s sakes. No big deal. I know one of the guides up there. We even invited her along…her and Derry. And that set her off, I don’t know why. And I got mad and said, ‘Jeez, why are you such a bully?’ and I thought sure as hell she was going to hit me. I mean, she don’t like me much.”
“And why do you think that was?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I mean, I know that she doesn’t like Maria much, either. Couldn’t tell you why, ’cause my girl is as sweet as they come. I don’t know. Maybe she just don’t like Mexicans, if you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so. But that Penny, she’s got a mouth on her, you know? The way she goes on, you’d think that she don’t like a single soul she’s ever met ’cept Derry. She’s as sweet with him…” He shook his head. “Go figure. Now I know for a fact that she don’t mean half of what she says, but just the same, you know, Darrell would tell me that one of these days,” and he made a swishing chop with one hand, “he’d be gone. He said he was just going to walk out on her…except for the boy, you know. He loved that kid like there was no tomorrow.”
“Tell me about the handgun, Al.”
“What handgun?” He looked genuinely quizzical.
She slid a photograph across to him, showing the big Ruger in its evidence bag. He flinched but looked hard at the photo. “Is that the one…?”
“We think so,” Estelle nodded.
He leaned back in his chair abruptly. “Well, that’s another fight they had. She didn’t want that thing in the house. But I mean, what’s the danger? Derry couldn’t even pick it up, even if he did find where Darrell kept it.”
“So you knew about it.”
“Well, sure. Darrell, he loaned it to me a couple times to take pig hunting. That brushy river country over north of Tahoka? And once…” he stopped abruptly and ducked his head again, staring at the floor. “Once, he asked me to keep it for him for a while. He was feelin’ kind of down, you know what I mean? That scared the crap out of me. So I had it for two, three weeks. Until he said things were okay.” He shook his head slowly. “Should never have gave it back.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Oh, last year sometime.”
“You two hunted a lot together?”
“Some. Not as much as I’d like.”
“Was the forty-four the only gun Darrell owned?”
He nodded quickly. “Far as I know. He’d borrow something from me if he needed it for a hunt. I got this old Winchester that he likes to use.” He dabbed at his left eye. “If I’d known he was serious—I mean if I’d known he was going to blow his brains out—I never would have given that gun back to him.”
“But you didn’t borrow the gun for this most recent pig hunt that you went on Saturday…yesterday?”
“No, ma’am. He offered it, but I’m not all that good with it, if you want the truth.”
The room fell silent for a moment. “So, Mr. Fisher, tell me what it was that you wanted to talk to me about…that you thought I should know.”
“Look…”He struggled to find the words. “I knew my brother was havin’ thoughts about…about maybe doin’ something stupid. Maybe something that he thought would hurt Penny a good one. He’d have these moods, what do you call ’em? Black moods that he had a hard time climbing out of. But he’d been that way since he was a kid. But I never thought that he’d…” Al stopped and cocked a finger against his own skull. “And I know it don’t sound good, but I blame Penny. She sure as hell pushed him to it. That’s what I think.”
Estelle took a deep breath and turned toward Torrez. “Sheriff Torrez, do you have any questions for Mr. Fisher?”
“Nope.”
She nudged the business card that Fisher earlier had ignored. “Mr. Fisher, did your brother come down to your place in Regál on Friday night?”
“Yes, ma’am. He did.”
“What time did he arrive?”
Al Fisher’s forehead puckered. “I’m thinkin’ right around four or five o’clock. Maybe a little later.”
“He had Derry with him?”
“Yes, ma’am. Maria, she was lookin’ forward to spending some playtime with that little bugger. She thinks a lot of that boy.”
“And what did you and your brother do during that time?”
“Well, for one thing, I was tryin’ to talk him into going hunting with me. Just a quick run over into that brush country. I mean, you should see some of them hogs, Sheriff. Buddy of mine nailed one last month that went seven hundred pounds. That, my friends, is a lot of ham and bacon.”
“But he didn’t want to go?”
“Wasn’t a question of not wanting to. He and Penny had just had a fight, I guess. Darrell wants…wanted…a new truck, one with four doors and a backseat. Penny said no way, José. No way they could afford that kind of money.”
“Talking about a pig hunt kept you busy all evening?”
“Well, not just that. He was helpin’ me out in the greenhouse.”
Sheriff Torrez made a gentle scoffing sound but said nothing. Estelle knew what the sheriff was most likely thinking—greenhouses and the agricultural crops frequently grown in them. Darrell Fisher’s clothing and the atmosphere in his truck had smelled of marijuana—and he certainly didn’t grow it at his small lot on Larson.
“No, he was,” Al persisted. “I got this new little pump, and he was helping me get it all hooked up. He’s really good with stuff like that.”
“What time did he leave that night?”
“Well, dang.” He frowned. “It was late, I know that. And the weather was going all to hell. I know that. I guess they took off sometime around eleven. A little later, maybe. I told him that he needed to clear the Pass before it got any worse.”
Estelle leafed through several pages of her small notebook. “Derry was asleep when they left?”
“Nah. He was fussing some. Kinda cranky. He napped some earlier, but by then, it was past his bedtime, you know? Then Maria had him all wadded up in a heavy quilt…couldn’t even tell he was in there, just about.”
“Hard to put him in the child seat that way.”
“Darrell won’t use one. He claims to know a kid got burned up in one. Car lit up, and they couldn’t get him loose in time.” Al shook his head vehemently. “Just more of Darrell’s bullshit. I mean, I know who he knows, and I haven’t ever heard of something like that. But he won’t use one. Just lazy, is what it is.”
“They had a bike along with them. One of those little ones without pedals? Why was that?”
Al laughed. “You try and separate that little Derry from his Scamper bike, and you’ll see a tantrum, for sure. If they’d let him sleep with it, he would. I got this path through the orchard that Derry likes to ride. Not with snow on it, he don’t. And jeez, not at night, you know? Just easier to throw it in the back of the truck than argue about it, I guess.” He shook his head in
amusement. “Some kids got their teddy bear, some got their baba. Derry, he’s got his Scamper bike. Go figure.”
“Mr. Fisher, thanks for coming in.” She picked up the business card that he had so studiously ignored and handed it to him. “If you think of anything else we should know, I encourage you to call. Twenty-four, seven.” He accepted the card without looking at it and slid it into his shirt pocket. “Thanks for taking the time, Mr. Fisher.”
He hesitated. “We’re going to miss that guy.”
“Of course. I’m truly sorry.”
“I mean, really. Penny don’t know it, maybe, but his passing leaves a big hole in our family.”
“I think she knows that, Mr. Fisher.”
He rose quickly, as if the chair had suddenly become uncomfortable. “I just thought I should, you know? Come in and tell you the way it was.”
Estelle shook his hand once more and watched him hustle out of the room.
“What think you?” she asked Torrez.
The big man stretched and rubbed his face, not a picture of deep sympathy. “I don’t think his brother shot himself in the head, for one thing. And I was just wondering…”
“About the bail money?”
“Yep.”
“Maybe he figured out in advance that his brother was going to need it,” Estelle said. “Maybe he gave Penny a down payment on bail early Saturday sometime, before he left for Texas.”
Torrez looked at her skeptically.
“That’s okay, Bobby. I don’t believe it happened that way either.”
Chapter Thirteen
Darrell Fisher’s sheeted corpse lay on the polished stainless steel table, and Dr. Alan Perrone was busy typing on a laptop when Estelle arrived. Sheriff Torrez looked huge and silly in the surgical gown, waiting not so patiently as Linda Pasquale secured the gown’s ties behind his back.
“I’m using square knots,” Linda quipped. “We don’t want this coming loose.”
“You are so helpful,” Torrez said.
“Here’s the thing,” Perrone said as he rose from his desk. He greeted Estelle with a nod, his otherwise smooth face lined with concern. He turned the laptop so it faced them. Six images were crowded on the screen.
“These were taken after various incidents over the years, from various jurisdictions, and only one of them was a suicide. In each one of these, you can clearly see the imprint of the firearm’s muzzle where contact was made with the body as the shot was fired. It’s like an instant, violent tattoo as the hot gasses escape the muzzle of the gun immediately behind the bullet.” His index moved across the screen. “Two temple shots, a forehead, one under the chin, and two chest wounds. In each case, the imprint is a contact one, and the impression is so clear that a match-up, a comparison, can be made with the weapon used.”
He stepped away from the computer and pulled the sheet down to the waist to reveal Fisher’s pathetic, pale corpse. Estelle was startled at how thin, almost wasted, the victim appeared. “Deflated” was a term Bill Gastner used to use, and it certainly fit. Without the vitality of blood pumping through the muscles, the tissues lay flat and featureless against the bones.
“Between you, me, and the lamppost, I can’t think of a single reason why we would take up a Sunday to conduct an autopsy for a suicide victim.” He rested a gloved hand on the corpse’s left shoulder as if they were the best of buddies. “But I would be willing to bet that Darrell Fisher did not commit suicide.”
“This,” and he turned to the counter behind him, “is the Ruger Redhawk revolver found at the scene. “I’m sure the fingerprints on it, or lack thereof, could tell an interesting story all by themselves. But what interests me are the two wounds left behind by the front sight.” He smoothed the plastic of the evidence bag so the muzzle of the revolver was clearly visible. With his pen, he touched the front sight through the plastic.
“Notice the serrated front sight ramp, with a red plastic insert. The sight base itself is set back a couple of millimeters from the revolver’s muzzle, and the actual blade of the sight is dovetailed into the base. But the blade is set back even farther.” He looked at each of the three spectators in turn. “Keep the image of this front sight in mind, the way it actually sits back a considerable distance from the muzzle. Sergeant Mears is working up the print profiles from the gun, and he doesn’t miss a thing. So.” He stood looking down at Darrell Fisher’s corpse.
“The first of the two obvious wounds is a contact entry wound centered right below the xyphoid process, right on the very distal tip of the sternum. He was wearing a T-shirt, and you can see…” He walked over to a whiteboard on which was clipped the bloodied, scorched clothing. “A corona of burned and unburned powder, blowback flesh and blood, charred cotton fibers. Lots to compare there.”
He returned to the table, bent down, and again used his pen as a pointer. “You can clearly see the scorched imprint of the revolver’s barrel around the wound. But what I find interesting is the imprint of that prominent front sight blade. Remember, that blade sits back from the muzzle. So we’re talking a scenario where the gun is rammed into the victim’s body, high in the solar plexus, immediately below the xyphoid. Not just held, not just touching. Rammed. So hard that the sight blade actually cut the skin through the thin cloth of the T-shirt.” He looked up. “Linda, you’ll want to pay special attention to that when you photo document.”
“It’d be good to hold the revolver barrel right beside the wound. Then the match-up will be obvious,” she replied.
“Absolutely right.” Offering a large hand lens to Estelle, Perrone narrated the injury’s characteristics as she peered closely. “Notice that the front sight blade…the very top of it, the tip…is actually a considerable distance, in the neighborhood of a centimeter, above the outside curvature of the barrel’s muzzle. The bruising and laceration at that point is caused by the sight blade, not by damage as the bullet passes through, and not by blowback of gasses.” He waited while Estelle offered the lens to Torrez, but he waved it off impatiently.
“You going to be able to get that?” the sheriff asked.
“Absolutely,” Linda said.
“All set?” Perrone said when they were finished with the hand lens. “The exit wound,” and with Torrez’ help rolled the corpse on its side, “is directly through the body of the third thoracic vertebra. The projectile, already expanding, would have simply exploded the body of the vertebra. The alignment of the two wounds, entry and exit, suggest to me that the victim was bent over slightly at the time.” He relaxed the body back on its back. “If you think about it, that would be expected if something—in this case, the gun—had been rammed into his midsection. I’ll know more after we do a detailed examination when we open him up. But that’s what I’m betting right now, a preliminary for you to go on. The wound trajectory has to be upward through the chest cavity, unless we find surprises inside.”
The physician turned the corpse’s head to one side, and lifted the jaw. With his index finger, he traced a deeply bruised scratch that began beside the middle of the Adam’s apple and extended upward to the base of the jaw below the right ear. “This wound interests me. A nasty gouge. The skin is broken where whatever the object was raked along his jawline.” He traced the bruised wound with his fingertip.
“That would have hurt like hell,” Perrone added. “And what’s the natural reaction? Say someone took something hard and fairly sharp and rammed it toward your throat.”
“Like a gun barrel,” Torrez muttered. “The front sight blade rammed into his jaw.”
“I can’t imagine a suicide doing that,” Estelle said. “Pull the barrel in close, maybe. Even likely. Hug it there while he works up the courage to pull the trigger. But this looks like someone rammed him in the throat with something. I think Bobby’s right. That something was most likely the gun.”
The physician nodded and continued. “And if that happe
ns, what’s next? The victim’s hands come up in defense. It’s natural. He wants to push it away. But then what? The gun is yanked back out of his grip and rammed a second time into the center mass of the body, unprotected for a brief second because the victim’s hands might still be raised.”
“Alan, did you tell Sergeant Mears all this?”
The physician nodded. “He’s going to be particularly interested in any fingerprints he found facing backward on that gun.” He regarded the body. “No other defensive injuries. Lots of powder residue on the hands, including,” and he lifted the bagged right hand, “serious scorch marks on the palm of the right hand.”
“Could have tried to grab the gun around its cylinder,” Torrez said. “All revolvers have some blow-by between the cylinder and the barrel, some more’n others.”
“That I leave to you to work with,” Perrone said. “Last night we made some guesses about the bullet’s path. After passing through the victim, it burst through the upper portion of the seat and lodged in the rim of the rear window’s lower frame. It seems to me that’s consistent with the angle up through the body. And the damage to the seat and then the window, off to the driver’s left a bit, implies to me that he was turned slightly to the right. To his right.”
The room fell silent, and all four of them regarded the remains of Darrell Fisher. “He could have gotten his act together,” Estelle said after a moment. “Such a waste.”
Never one to spend much time with sentiment, Torrez said, “So when he goes out to the truck, who’d he go out to see? He walks out, climbs in the driver’s seat like maybe he’s going to go somewhere. And then?”
“And he does that carrying that big revolver,” Estelle said. “Why would he do that? What’s the perceived threat? Or the alternative—he wasn’t meeting with anyone. He takes the gun out to his truck and just sits there for a while, thinking things through.”
“I see the rake across his neck sayin’ otherwise,” Torrez said.
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