Out of Season
( Posadas County - 7 )
Steven F Havill
Steven F Havill
Out of Season
CHAPTER ONE
My polished-mahogany desktop was almost the way I’d left it earlier that Friday afternoon-unmarred except for the computer terminal and its ancillary junk: the old leather-edged desk blotter, one black felt-tip pen, and an empty wooden in-and-out letter tray.
In an effort to call my attention to them, a sheaf of papers had been dropped into the middle of all that organization. I wasn’t in the mood for paperwork, but as I sagged back into the comforting curves of my swivel chair, I recognized Sheriff Martin Holman’s precise penmanship on a Post-it note spotted to the front of the first sheet.
I dug my glasses out of my pocket, slipped them on and saw that the papers were a Posadas County Sheriff’s Department job application.
“I think you should talk with her,” the sheriff’s note said.
“Talk with whom?” I muttered aloud and scanned the first page of the application. “Well, for heaven’s sake.”
I leaned back in my leather chair and started reading at the top. So engrossed was I that the telephone buzzed half a dozen times before my hand drifted over to pick it up.
“Gastner,” I said, still reading.
“Sir, this is Linda Real calling.”
I let the application fall in my lap. “An unexpected surprise, too,” I said. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. Sir, Sheriff Holman said you might be in the office this afternoon, and he said he’d pass my application along to you.”
“I am, and he did,” I said, and leaned forward, spreading the application out on the blotter. I rested on my elbows, frowning. “In fact, I was just going through it when you called.” As I said that, I turned the page to read the section that included medical history and the attached physician’s report. “I didn’t know that you were back in town.”
She chuckled. “I think my mother got tired of me hanging around,” she said. “Anyway, I got kinda burned out in the big city. It’s not very user-friendly.”
“I can imagine.”
“Do you think I could come in and talk with you? I know it’s a Friday afternoon and all, but…”
“I think that would be a good idea, Linda,” I said. I didn’t bother to add that Fridays didn’t hold much attraction for me one way or another. The clean desk was not the result of an end-of-the-week wrap-up with an exciting weekend vacation looming. All that tidy organization was just a momentary lapse, a giving-in to a brief episode of spring cleaning. In a week’s time, I wouldn’t be able to see the wooden surface. “Where are you now?”
“I’m at Estelle’s.”
“Ah,” I said, sensing a conspiracy. Estelle Reyes-Guzman, the department’s chief of detectives, had another week or so before she and her physician husband, Francis, left Posadas for the wilds of Rochester, Minnesota. “Have her bring you over, if you’re both free.” I glanced at the wall clock. “Better yet, let’s meet for dinner.” Only a limited number of opportunities remained for Estelle to feast on New Mexican green chili before she had to face raw fish, or sauerkraut, or whatever else the Minnesotans called food.
There was a pause. “Did you have a chance to read Dr. Guzman’s report?”
“No. I see it, though. By the time we meet, I’ll have the whole thing memorized.” I kept my tone light.
“I’d really like to have the opportunity to respond to some of the things he said in that,” Linda Real said.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Well, then, how about it? Dinner?” Somehow, talking between mouthfuls of food seemed more gentle than me sitting on one side of a big old desk with her on the other side, hands folded in her lap, looking wee and small.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll meet you at the Don Juan at about six. If Estelle can come, that’s fine. Francis too, if he can make it. We’ll see what we can do.”
She thanked me and hung up, and I slipped the phone back in its cradle. Breaking bad news to a stranger was far easier than letting down someone whose life I had once held in my hands. I leafed through the application to the blue medical attachment, a requirement if a positive answer was given for line 17: Do you possess any physical limitation(s) that might compromise your performance in the position for which you are applying?
Dr. Francis Guzman, the official on-call physician for our department, had been his usual plainspoken self, but I could imagine him trying to word the statement so that it told the unvarnished truth and at the same time, created a minimum amount of friction with his detective wife.
On Feb. 21, 1996, Ms. Real suffered extensive gunshot trauma to the head and neck, resulting in complete and permanent blindness in her left eye, and complete and permanent deafness in her left ear. Following a complicated and difficult convalescence, she continues to receive physical therapy for limited muscular movement and strength in the left shoulder.
In addition, a lengthy series of orthodontic reconstructive procedures are required to correct injuries to both upper and lower left dentition.
Although Ms. Real’s recovery has been in many ways remarkable, it should be noted that her physical capacity, including strength, dexterity, endurance, and sensory perception, is well below standard for employment in a law-enforcement capacity.
Since the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department routinely expects dispatch personnel to perform a wide range of duties, including some corrections and booking procedures, Ms. Real’s physical limitations should be carefully reviewed prior to employment.
I tossed the application on the desk and sighed. I liked Linda Real. When she had been on the staff of the
Posadas Register
, she’d been eager, more accurate than most reporters I had known, and a bright, smiling face during her daily rounds.
Two years before, as the county neared budget time, she’d embarked on a series of articles about the funding of various agencies, including ours.
What should have been a simple evening ride-along with an officer had turned into a nightmare. Linda caught a faceful of double-ought buckshot, and the deputy with whom she was riding was killed.
I knew that all the common sense in the world was telling me that the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department shouldn’t hire Linda Real. Sheriff Holman either hadn’t been able to make up his mind or just couldn’t say no. Perhaps he thought I would let Linda down more gently than he would-but there was small chance of that.
I frowned and stood up. I was more than a little irritated with Estelle Reyes-Guzman, too. She should have been able to talk Linda down some other road. In fact, what had prompted the young woman to even consider working for us in the first place would no doubt have made a fascinating psychological study. Estelle should have known better than to encourage Linda, and Sheriff Holman should have just looked them both in the eye and said “No.” Now the mess was in my lap.
Gayle Sedillos, our senior dispatcher, appeared in my office doorway. On more than one occasion during the past few days, I’d noticed the current issue of
Bride’s
magazine on the radio console. I didn’t pester Gayle about it-and so far, I didn’t have a clue as to what appropriate wedding gift I was going to find. Short-timer or not, Estelle would have to help, that was all there was to it.
“Sir,” Gayle said, “we just had a telephone call about an aircraft in possible trouble. Tom Pasquale is on that side of the county, and I asked him to head out that way for a look.”
“By ‘in trouble,’ what did the caller mean?”
Gayle shook her head. “It was Mrs. Finnegan who called.”
“Oh. That explains that.” Charlotte F
innegan spent most of her waking hours “seeing things” and traveling to places that didn’t exist. I didn’t know if she suffered from Alzheimer’s or was simply tuned in to an alternative universe. Whatever the case, her husband Richard was a man of infinite patience. They lived on a small ranchette just inside the Posadas County line on County Road 43, a desolate stretch of overgrazed country where Charlotte Finnegan could certainly do no harm.
“You might call Jim Bergin and ask him if there’s been any traffic in or out of the airport in the last few minutes. Or if he’s talked to any transient aircraft on the radio.”
She nodded and started to turn away, then stopped. “The sheriff was going to leave a job application on your desk,” she said. “Linda Real’s.”
“I saw it.” I could see that she wanted to say something else, but I frowned one of my scowls and she changed her mind. Taking the electric razor out of the top drawer of my desk, I went to the rest room and chopped off the late-afternoon stubble and double-checked to make sure that I hadn’t left a trail of lunch down the front of my shirt.
The lighting in the Don Juan de Onate restaurant wasn’t the best, but I wanted to look sharp if I had to do battle with a couple of women.
CHAPTER TWO
The battered, sagging booth seats in the Don Juan de Onate restaurant had recently been replaced with genuine molded-plastic benches that were about as comfortable as sitting on ice. The goddam things were bright yellow. All Fernando Aragon needed now was a kiddy playland outside to complete the transformation.
I forgave Fernando all that because the food was unchanged. His wife Rosie and daughter-in-law Arleen still cooked the same amazing nuclear concoctions on which my system had depended for the past quarter century.
I slid across cold plastic and rested my right arm on the windowsill, tapping a nervous rhythm on the freshly painted white trim while I looked outside. There wasn’t much to see other than asphalt and dust. The wind was gusting from the southwest, fitful and without a trace of humidity.
Bustos Avenue was already grimy and littered with tumble-weeds and ragweed tops, Posadas at its dismal, dry, early spring worst. In another few weeks, we’d be pounded by a storm that would dump a couple of inches of rain in an hour and the desert would sprout a new harvest of things with thorns, spikes, and pollen.
Within a minute, the waitress appeared and slid a cup of coffee across until it rested at my left elbow. She placed a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa in front of me and smiled. Shewas a lot prettier to look at than the dusty street and empty parking lot.
“Did you want to wait for the others, or order now, sir?”
“The coffee’s fine, JanaLynn,” I said. “Are you ready for the big wedding?” Sheriff Holman referred to the pending knot-tying as “the department event.” He was probably right. Sergeant Robert Torrez, a thirty-six-year-old bachelor and fifteen-year veteran of the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, had finally proposed to Gayle Sedillos, our chief dispatcher. Gayle was twenty-eight and had been with us since she turned eighteen.
JanaLynn was one of Torrez’s multitude of cousins, and I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she were somehow related to Gayle as well.
“If it was up to Bobby,” JanaLynn said, “they’d just elope.”
“His mother would kill him,” I chuckled.
“So would I,” JanaLynn said and turned to go, adding, “I’ll be back in a bit with a refill.”
Three chips were all I had time for. Estelle Reye-Guzman’s van pulled into the parking lot, and I watched as she and Linda Real got out. I don’t know what I had expected, but Linda’s quick step matched Estelle’s as they crossed the macadam. They impressed me as two women with a purpose, and I took a deep breath.
Before the incident, Linda Real had been a vivacious, raven-haired dynamo. She worked long, odd hours and, like the rest of us, was none too careful about what or when she ate. As a result, her face had few sharp angles and she chose loose-fitting clothes to suit her pudgy frame.
From a distance, it looked like she hadn’t changed. She was wearing one of those slouch hats that would have been at home in the 1930s, pulled low and rakish. The wind tugged and fluttered the brim, and she clamped her right hand on the top of her head.
Then the corner of the building blocked them from view, but when they opened the outer door, the change in air pressure made the inner door thud loudly against its stops. I pushed the basket of chips a little farther away and wiped my mouth with my napkin. Linda’s application rested in a manila folder on the bench beside me.
The two women appeared around the gold-embroidered velvet partition that divided the two rear dining areas. Estelle, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail, wore jeans, a University of New Mexico sweatshirt, and a light blue jacket…and she looked about eighteen rather than the thirty-one-year-old mother of two that she was.
I pushed myself along the yellow bench, but Estelle held out a hand. “Don’t get up, sir” she said and slid all the way in on the other side.
I continued to my feet anyway. “I’ve got to collect a hug from this gal,” I said. Linda Real grinned, a little lopsided perhaps, but game enough. Her perfume was strong and outdoorsy, and her hug lasted well beyond a perfunctory social courtesy.
“Have a seat,” I said. “It’s really good to see you.” I watched as she slid into the booth beside Estelle. She didn’t take off her hat. “JanaLynn’s around here someplace,” I added and sat down.
Indeed she was, and after she’d come and gone, I leaned forward and folded my hands in front of me. “So,” I said to Linda, “what do you think about this one heading off to the wilds of Minnesota?”
She grinned at Estelle. “Exciting. What a change.”
“Yeah,” I said, and then to Estelle, I added, “Your mom’s still doing all right?”
“She’s fine, sir. She told me today that she’s actually looking forward to the move.”
“Remarkable woman,” I said, still wondering how a tiny, elderly woman who, until a few months before, had lived alone in an equally tiny adobe house in rural Mexico, could find the strength to contemplate such a monumental change in life style.
“Tell me how you’ve been,” I said to Linda.
This was no time for pretending, and I gazed at her steadily, taking in the details of her battered face. Linda remained silent, enduring my scrutiny. Both Estelle and I had been with her the day she’d been released from the hospital. After that, she’d gone home to Las Cruces to recuperate. Time had slipped by, and I hadn’t seen her since then. Every now and then, I would receive a note from her and the tone was always upbeat. In the meantime, I’d had a surgical bout of my own and she’d sent me one of those funny, insulting cards that had made me laugh until I hurt.
She was a brave kid. Surgeons had managed to save the orb of her left eye, but the pupil was fixed and the iris dull. A dent the size of a quarter disfigured the outer corner of the orbit, with a heavy scar extending up into her eyebrow. The passage of time and some skilled makeup had blended most of the scarring on the side of her face and around her ear with her natural skin tone.
She didn’t offer to say how she’d been, but I could guess it hadn’t been fun. “The application says that you’re still facing more surgery.”
Linda nodded. “Dental work,” she said. She cocked her head slightly and her fingers traced a line down one side of her jaw. “They had to wire all this together. Apparently there were three or four pellets in a cluster, and they did a real tap dance. They busted off three lowers and two uppers. One of them went across and busted a tooth on the other side.”
I grimaced. “When’s the next round of surgery scheduled?”
“I’ve got two new permanent crowns waiting for me,” Linda said. “There’re a couple of procedures yet to go that involve building something that looks like the Brooklyn Bridge, but I think it’s all on an outpatient basis.” She didn’t move her jaws much when she talked, but her diction was clear and precise.
“Those are what Dr. Guzman refers to as ‘lengthy orthodontic procedures’?”
“Lengthy is in the eye of the beholder,” Linda said easily.
“I think that what’s at issue is the job description,” Estelle said, cutting right to the chase. JanaLynn arrived with our food, and we waited while she placed the steaming, fragrant burrito grandes in front of Linda and me, and a taco salad for Estelle.
Linda Real hadn’t lost her appetite, and even though she was forced to process the food entirely on the right side of her mouth, she attacked the meal with gusto.
“Job description?” I asked.
Estelle frowned as she worked loose a corner of the flower-petal taco shell. “If a dispatcher does nothing but dispatch, I don’t think that a physical handicap matters.”
“Depending on the handicap, of course,” I said. “But let’s look at the facts. Our department is a small one. Hell, not small. Miniscule. With twelve full-time employees to cover seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, everyone has to be a jack-of-all-trades.”
Linda started to say something, but Estelle leaned back and put her fork down. “And you’ll remember, sir, that’s one of the things we talked about that needs to change.”
“Sure enough,” I said. I knew exactly what she was driving at, and in a normal world with normal budgets and legislators who had their heads screwed on straight, there would have been no argument.
“Especially where the dispatcher is concerned,” Estelle pointed out.
I poked at my burrito and rearranged an ocean of sour cream. “If you were working dispatch, what’d be your job?” I asked Linda.
“Radio. Telephone. Fax. Computer. Some filing. Talking with walk-ins.” She leaned forward eagerly, fork poised. “And I’d really like to continue working with photography. I think I can make a contribution there.”
I nodded. “I have no doubt of that. And in a perfect world, those things you mentioned would be the bulk of what a dispatcher’s job would be limited to. But this world is far from perfect. Sometimes the person working dispatch needs to tend to someone in the lockup. That’s what Francis was talking about when he mentioned duties beyond the radio. And there are times when the officer working dispatch needs to assist in booking procedures, too.”
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