The undersheriff applied some upward force to my left elbow, and I tried to remain graceful as I rose to my feet.
“Are you up for a little walk, sir?”
“Of course,” I said with feigned enthusiasm. For years, various doctors like Alan Perrone and Francis Guzman had been cajoling me to walk, walk, walk. My nature was to sit, sit, sit. It was easier to think when I was motionless. But this intense young lady always brought out the best in me. I glanced toward the county road where a fair crowd had collected—cops who wanted in, Posadas Electric crews ready to assess and repair the damage, rancher Miles Waddell still patiently supported by the fender of his truck, firemen finished with their half-acre burn. The crowd remained stationary, though. They apparently understood that if they started milling about, any semblance of crime scene would be stamped into oblivion.
Taking the damaged power poles in order, we visited each saw cut, crossing first to number five, nearest the tarp-shrouded figure of Curt Boyd, the pole that had kicked across the cattle guard as the whole mess tilted and twisted.
The initial cut was a neat job, the saw ripping through the creosoted pole to within an inch or two of completion.
“That’s not much to support the pole,” I said. “The least little breeze would do it.”
“And no breeze tonight,” she said. “Not until dawn, maybe. Between this,” and Estelle touched the torn fragment that the saw hadn’t finished, “and the wires themselves, would the pole stand? I mean, barring a wind or a push?”
“I would think so, but I’m just guessing. You’d have to ask Dick Whittaker. But if all six weren’t cut all the way through, if they’re just balancing there on a little splinter of wood…”
Superintendent of this portion of the grid, Whittaker was talking to a group of his men fifty yards away.
“I’ll meet up with him in a bit.” Estelle measured the wood with her fingers. “Not much left, but maybe enough.” She looked off to the east. “So. Here we have six cripples, each one held by only an inch, and along comes one little morning breeze…”
“Absolutely. And it could be that the last one they cut sabotaged the whole plan. Over they went, and that last one kicked Curt Boyd.” One at a time, we visited the other four poles, and all showed the same pattern: a clean cut that implied a powerful saw with a sharp chain and a confident operator. In each case, the saw cut stopped short of running through, leaving just a minimal tag to support the pole—a tag that had splintered when the poles toppled.
“Paul Bunyan gave this a lot of thought,” I said. “A whole bunch of power poles standing, just waiting for daytime breezes. Can you imagine that? A bunch of wobbly giants, ready to take the plunge. And by then, our cutter is long gone.”
“His scheme didn’t work quite the way he planned.”
I thought about that for a moment. “It worked until the last one, sweetheart. Maybe he missed a closer look at that last one, with all its nicks and bangs. Or he got a little excited, maybe a little tired and drove the saw just a hair too far. Over she goes, and with that weight off balance, the whole set rips free. A jangled mess.”
“The truck you saw driving north? He couldn’t have just been driving by here out of coincidence,” Estelle said quietly. “If he’d been a innocent witness, he would have stopped the first cop he saw to report this. If the truck whose lights you saw was the cutter, then he took off when the poles went down. And he didn’t take his injured friend with him, he didn’t leave the saw behind, and he didn’t give Kenderman a chance.”
“And no sawdust on Curt Boyd,” I added. The undersheriff stood still, gazing at me, lost in thought. “Boyd sure as hell wasn’t the saw handler. Those things spray chips and oil all over the place. And by the way,” I added, “I didn’t see a truck driving north. I saw a set of headlights. That’s all.”
“Tell me how you see it happening, sir. With Boyd, I mean.”
I took a deep breath. “I see Boyd standing a few feet behind the cutter, maybe holding the flashlight. Maybe he steps forward a little. He’s done this for five poles, and so on the sixth maybe he’s just a little bit cocky…a little bit off-guard. But then the pole starts to lean, to sway maybe, and dollars to donuts he just doesn’t duck and run like hell. That’s what the hell he should have done, of course. Instead he looks up and gapes in fascination. Maybe he tries to shout at his buddy, reaches out a hand in panic. Now in the best of all worlds, because both boys are off to one side, both poles might have tangled past them without catching either one. If the one pole gives way first, I can see the whole mess twisting before the second pole comes loose. See, they hadn’t meant for the poles to fall just then. That’s my theory. I mean, why would they? There’s too much risk. But that weak pole changed all that. It crashes down on the line fence, right on that big juniper brace, and the butt end bucks up before they have time to say, ‘Oh, shit.’ Bucks up and back and catches Johnny’s boy right under the chin on the way up. Pow.”
“What a friend, just to leave him lying out here.”
“Nissan man? If that’s him, what a friend indeed, even though I think it would have been obvious his buddy was stone cold dead. And if he has half a brain, he knows this sort of damage isn’t something that would take until morning to discover. He wants out of there, you bet. He knows folks are going to be on his tail.”
I shrugged. “Seems to me that all this would explain why he didn’t give Perry Kenderman a chance, didn’t try to bluff his way out of a speeding ticket. He’s left a corpse behind, and the death occurred during the commission of a felony—and with that half a brain of his, Paul Bunyan knows he’s in deep shit. And at the same time, he had to know that no matter how fast we could respond, the odds are in his favor. He can be long gone, without a trace, if he acts quickly enough. Road blocks are a wasted effort.”
She knew that as well as I did, but I pressed on. “The killer didn’t spare an extra minute arguing with Kenderman. Shot him and drove away. He’s got time on us. And you’re not going to find someone covered with sawdust at a traffic stop. He won’t be that dumb. Not if he tried to think something like this through.” I watched her dark face settle into a determined frown. “Boyd was a local kid. That’s a place to start. And you know, this is an interstate power line. You won’t go far before you have to talk to the feds.”
“Captain Mitchell has already called them,” Estelle said. “And we’ll have a full State Police presence in a few minutes.”
“Well, then, that’s good. If you want a running start, have Linda photograph the bottom two feet of number five, there, if you can figure out how to reach it, or cut it off, or something. Take some scrape samples at the same time. If Curt Boyd got himself clobbered some other way, then you’ve got a different game altogether. But I’ll bet you a green chile burrito that nasty uppercut to the chin is how he died. Perrone found a sliver of wood in the wound, so nothing else makes sense. Not unless we find a handy bullet hole hiding someplace.”
I took a deep breath and regarded the still-spectacular night sky—not because I loved star gazing, but to stop my motor-mouth from continuing to tell Estelle Reyes-Guzman things she knew perfectly well on her own.
“Two things bother me the most,” she said. “One is the timing. He wanted to cut and run. With the right weather conditions, that power line might not have toppled for who knows how long. When it did finally go, it could have caught vehicular traffic in any number of ways as busy as this road is now. He couldn’t have known who he might end up hurting or killing.”
“Best laid plans. At least it’s not a school bus route.” Miles Waddell’s mesa was dark against the stars, but come dawn the heavy machinery would bellow into life with his observatory project…machinery coming and going that would shake the ground.
“You called dispatch just after one.”
“I did.”
“And Mr. Waddell contacted dispatch at roughly the sa
me time. That’s how dispatch logged it. The sound of the saw woke him, he says. He said he wouldn’t have called, but no one saws wood in the middle of the night. He drove across his mesa from where he was parked to the rim, looked out and saw the fire already starting. He missed the poles actually dropping. And he says he didn’t see a vehicle. That’s how quickly our guy decided to leave the scene.”
“All right. You said two things bothered you.”
She nodded. “Oh, si. We’ve been talking about Curt Boyd’s partner in this stunt. There could be more than one, sir. At least two more could fit in that little pickup. Maybe three.”
Chapter Five
At one point earlier that morning, Miles Waddell and I had been looking at each other from opposite ends of the county. The killer—or killers—had been sandwiched between us, scooting north to the rendezvous with the unprepared Deputy Perry Kenderman. Despite my best intentions to mind my own business, I found myself trying to imagine how I would juggle two wildly different but related crime scenes if that lot fell to me. It was easiest just to say, “Well, I’m retired now. Good luck, guys.”
I admit that I hadn’t particularly warmed to Perry Kenderman over the years. He had his share of family issues that got in his way, and on top of that, when he put on his gun belt, he developed a certain swagger that made me nervous. He had finally attended and graduated from the state Law Enforcement Academy, well below the middle of the scholastic heap. He had been a part-timer for first the village and then for the sheriff’s department largely because I had had grave reservations about his sloppy law enforcement skills. On occasion, it seemed that he made laws up as he went along. I had kept him on a short leash, letting him have minor duties. Sheriff Torrez had hauled in the slack even more. None of that meant that Perry Kenderman should end up lying on the pavement, his brains and blood soaking into the macadam.
On top of that, the volatile Johnny Boyd would have to be told that his youngest son was dead, with no ready answers about why.
“What can I do for you, other than staying out of the way?” By this time, my insomnia was beginning to lose ground, and a toasty bed was inviting. I was hoping the undersheriff would say something politely dismissive, like “We’ll talk later.”
Instead she reached out a hand and gently took my left elbow. “Maybe you’d talk to him.” She nodded toward the county road. I turned and saw the SUV pulling to a stop behind all the other vehicles, the winking lights playing off its red slab sides. Frank Dayan, now owner and publisher of the weekly Posadas Register, scrambled out and immediately drew a bead with his digital camera. What he, or the camera, could see in the light-exploded night was unclear.
“That I can do. ‘Investigation is continuing,’ a department spokesman said?”
“That’s perfect. No one is identified until Bobby gives the okay.”
I nodded. I knew the drill. “Frank will be able to figure out the ‘who’s who’ all by himself. Is there anything special about the power pole damage you want Dayan to know?” For once, the publisher had lucked out. His paper came out on Thursday. An early Thursday morning disaster was perfect for him, a man who lived for the opportunity to scoop the metro papers and TV stations almost as much as he relished a new full page advertisement. And this story was oddball enough that the choppers would flock for exclusive at 10 photos of downed power poles.
“Not from us, sir. He can count that there are six down. That’s as far as we go.” Which meant that if Dayan could pry something out of the Posadas Electric Cooperative, he was free to do so. Estelle squeezed my shoulder. “And when you’re done with him, you need some sleep.”
“Plenty of time for that. Not that you have time to think about it, but when does the Leister contingent roll into town?”
Estelle pressed both hands to the sides of her head in mock agony. “Ay. Sometime Saturday, I’m told. Carlos has been climbing the walls.” She rested a finger on her lips, secret style. “He knows something we don’t.”
“Interesting conspiracy going on there,” I chuckled.
“You’d be amazed,” she said. “And thanks for heading Frank off at the pass.”
I didn’t mind the assignment, since I liked Frank Dayan, and on top of that, knew perfectly well that Sheriff Bobby Torrez wouldn’t mind me taking on the PR task—anything as long as he didn’t have to do it—a great lawman in the field, a lousy bureaucrat in the office.
When I’d been chief deputy, then undersheriff, and finally sheriff of Posadas Country, I’d enjoyed many a refreshing moment while reading young Bobby Torrez’s reports—masterpieces of concise brevity. My favorite had been a report written after an intoxicated prisoner punched Deputy Torrez while being led to an upstairs cell. “Prisoner struck deputy. Prisoner fell down stairs.” Fortunately for us, the prisoner had been so intoxicated that he remembered nothing of the episode, content the next day to attribute his colorful bruises to the blind staggers.
I made my way across to where Frank Dayan stood in company with Deputy Sutherland. Frank could have blended in on a street corner anywhere in the Middle East, even though I knew that he was the first generation of many in his family to stray beyond the city limits of San Antonio. Dark, piercing eyes were mellowed by a wide streak of indecision in his nature, with fine features and whiskers that lent a dark blue, Nixonesque shadow if not shaved four times a day. This uproar had caught him unprepared, and in the glare of pulsing lights, he looked both haggard and chilled.
“Bill, they even rousted you out of bed?”
“I wish I could say that it was their fault,” I said. He pulled off a glove and his grip was soft, but he held on for a moment.
“I thought I was going to need an act of Congress to get through the road block there at the village limits,” he said. “The sheriff sent me out here.”
“Bobby is turning mellow in his middle age,” I said. “But homicides are like that. If we don’t keep a tight rein, things go missing. Like evidence, for instance.”
“Someone said it was Kenderman. Is that true?”
I wondered who the ‘someone’ was, but didn’t bother Dayan with that. His paper wouldn’t be out until later, and by then, the whole world would have the identification.
“The undersheriff asked that I be the department liaison this time around,” I said without answering his question. “The department is spread pretty thin just now.” Even that was a bit of news for Dayan. Some police administrators would have ulcers thinking that the public might find out that the department had a weakness, but what the hell. It was true.
Dayan peered past me, trying to make sense of the tangle. “Do I see three sets of poles down?”
“You do. Dick Whittaker will talk with you about that when he can break loose.”
“How did they do that?” The lens of Dayan’s camera twitched as he went to the maximum zoom, trying to see through the darkness.
“A chain saw.”
He lowered the camera. “A chain saw? You’ve got to be kidding.” He jotted something in his notebook. “At least two people involved, then?”
“Investigation is continuing.”
“Well, you have one lying there,” and he nodded in the direction of the tarped victim. “Right? Do we have an identification yet?”
“Investigation is continuing.”
Dayan looked pained. “Bill…come on. Is this somebody local?”
“We’ll…they…will have that for you later in the day, Frank.”
“Shot, or what?”
I hesitated, actually eager to give Frank something, anything that would reward his answering a winter night’s call. “It appears now that one of the poles might have struck the victim when it kicked off the stump as it twisted and fell.” I held up a cautionary hand. “That’s preliminary supposition, Frank. And it’s supposition from me, your basic ‘unnamed spokesman,’ not from the S.O.” The newspaperman saw all
the pieces tumbling into order.
“You found the chain saw?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Or a vehicle?”
“Not yet.”
“That means that there was somebody else. So they high-tailed it out of here and were stopped sometime later by Deputy Kenderman.”
“I don’t hear a question in all that, but let me caution you that as of now, there is no connection between the two events.”
Dayan grimaced. “You’re as bad as the sheriff, Bill.”
“We have to be careful until we know what we’re talking about.” I was fully aware that this ‘we’ business was becoming too easy. “Just between you and me, off the record, and blah, blah, blah, it appears that’s what happened. They don’t have an actual link yet, so don’t jump the gun.”
“Chainsaws are noisy, though.”
I held out my arms and turned in place. Not a single porch light winked. Had the electricity been on, the sight would have been the same. True enough, chain saws were noisy, but the sound would mellow and fade, the direction hard to pinpoint out on this vast prairie.
“What actual damage was done?” He held up his hands like blinders, trying to see past the kaleidoscope.
“Again, Whittaker will have all the numbers. They dropped three sets of double supports—double poles. They went down, along with all the associated high voltage lines and at least one transformer. Something in all that mess shorted out and started a little fire. The Posadas Fire Department responded promptly and had it out in minutes.” Didn’t I sound like the polished PR man, though.
Dayan took a deep breath. “What’s Waddell say?”
“I haven’t talked to him, Frank.” At least not since the day before, but that was none of the public’s business. Across the way, the rancher was still posted at his truck, but now two other figures kept him company.
“I need to show you something,” Dayan said. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”
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