“Actually, he lives in El Paso.”
“But it was the grandfather, this Nathan Baum, who drove all the way from Orlando to pick up the kid in San Diego, and then was going to do what…drop her off in El Paso or something?”
“I believe that’s essentially correct.”
“And I’m supposed to understand all this?”
“I don’t think anyone does, sir.”
“Do we know yet why he opened fire on you?”
“Sheriff Torrez has a theory, sir. He’s working on it.”
I covered my tired eyes with both hands. People pulled triggers for all kinds of reasons, but the most common was that during a moment of stress, they didn’t know what the hell their trigger fingers were doing. “Sheriff Torrez is working on a lot of things at the moment.”
“Yes, sir, he is.” She settled her hand on the doorknob and studied the carpet, an industrial shade of brownish green that no one was supposed to notice. “The district attorney and an investigator from the State Police would like to talk with you now, sir.” She smiled, a delightful expression that she should have used more often. “Don’t blame the messenger. But they’re set up in the conference room, and wanted me to tell you they were ready, if you were.” What a deferential invitation to the rack that was.
I glanced at the clock. They hadn’t wasted any time. “Have you talked with them yet?”
“No, sir. I suppose shortly.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t keep us quarantined,” I muttered. I made sure my computer file was saved and closed, and pushed up from the desk.
“Thank you, sir.”
“For?”
“Stopping when you did.”
“I wish I could claim that it’s my wide heroic streak,” I chuckled. “But it was pure reflex. I didn’t even think about it. And I’m glad I didn’t.” I followed Jackie out of the undersheriff’s office. “Let’s see what his nibs wants from us.”
Chapter Nine
Dan Schroeder looked as if he’d spent the night out on the prairie, far from coffee or comforts. No doubt Sheriff Robert Torrez had kept the district attorney busy. With two and a half corpses, that was to be expected, especially since it was virtually guaranteed that the riddled Mr. Baum would sue us for about the national debt, even though the whole sorry affair was his fault. If he died, the family could have a field day. Schroeder was a good prosecutor, but lawsuits scared him…about half as much as they scared the county legislators.
Usually impeccably turned out, this morning the district attorney was a bit on the scruffy side. Even a hint of peach fuzz touched his cheeks below the black bags under his eyes. He nurtured what little hair he had left in one of those 50s buzz cuts, so that wasn’t out of place. With his straw-colored suit, Schroeder reminded me of a college singing group’s lead tenor—slim, bland-faced, too blond to be true.
He had positioned himself at the end of the small mahogany conference table, a collection of papers and photos spread out before him. A second officer—I couldn’t recall his name—regarded me with beady blue eyes caved under a forehead whose supra-orbital ridge looked as if it had borrowed some simian heritage.
Without lifting his head from his hand, elbow planted on the table, Schroeder looked up as I entered.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, and Schroeder unwrapped himself, rising as if every joint in his body had failed him. I skirted the table and shook hands.
“Thank…” he started to say as he attempted to generate some grip. He cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming, Bill.” He waved a hand under his nose. “Excuse my frog. Something out in the prairie set off my sinuses.” He turned to his partner. “You’ve met Paul Mellon, I’m sure.”
Mellon. I’d known Paul Mellon since he was a rookie state policeman patrolling out of the Quemado district, trying to find things to do. He’d become desperate for action a time or two, wandering south to my turf. Most memorable—and it brought a smile for me just then—was his traffic stop of a young off-duty Deputy Robert Torrez just west of Posadas. Bobby’s aging, smoking, disreputable Chevy pickup looked as if it belonged hidden behind a barn somewhere, and Bobby himself was a perfect match. Fresh off an interagency drug interdiction deal, the young deputy was unshaven, long of mane and short of temper. The traffic stop with Mellon hadn’t gone so well.
A big, raw-boned man, Mellon rose with grace and extended a mammoth paw. As he did so, a smile chased all of the intimidation from his features. Dimples, even. The deep-set blue eyes twinkled.
“Sheriff, it’s always a pleasure,” he rumbled. With that voice, he could have been a television evangelist. I took my time settling into one of the oak chairs, reminding myself that no amount of bonhomie would disguise why we were all here. I had shot a man, and when I did that, I had set in motion the vast complex of legal proceedings. I made a quick resolution to mind my manners.
“Lieutenant Mellon will be the lead investigator this time around.” Schroeder scribbled a note on his legal pad. “Are you all right with that?”
Was I all right with it? Schroeder was trying to be his soothing best, why I don’t know. No elections loomed on the horizon. Both Bobby Torrez and Estelle Reyes-Guzman were conspicuously absent from this little deal, but figuring out why wasn’t rocket science. Schroeder would make every effort to assure that his ass was covered, and Mellon’s presence, rather than members of the Posadas department, would assure objectivity—perhaps.
“You bet,” I said. Lieutenant Mellon apparently didn’t believe in paperwork. The table in front of him was bare save for one little yellow pad. A BIC lay capped beside it. Maybe the state cop had already made up his mind, and expected to hear nothing new.
“Tell us what happened,” Schroeder said.
I launched into my recitation without preamble, probably sounding rehearsed. I didn’t consult my notes, since the episode was engraved in my memory. “After having breakfast at the Don Juan, I was driving southbound on Grande. I observed a large RV northbound on Grande, and saw it pull into the Posadas Inn parking lot. One of the sheriff’s department units followed, lights on. By the time I reached the scene, Sergeant Taber was out of her car, and the door of the RV was also open. I saw that Sergeant Taber’s hand was resting on her service weapon, and her left arm was raised as if she was issuing commands of some sort. That’s all I saw as I passed the scene. I did a U-turn on Grande, and looped back into the parking lot.”
Mellon leaned forward, cupping his hands together. “Why did you stop, Sheriff?”
The courtesy title was ubiquitous. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Once a sheriff, always a sheriff.
“It appeared that there was some sort of confrontation. Sergeant Taber’s hand was on her weapon, commands were obviously being given. It was not possible to determine how many people were involved—how many might be inside the RV.”
“Did you hear Sergeant Taber radio for backup?”
“I did not.”
“Was your radio operational?”
“It was not.”
“So you didn’t hear whether or not Sergeant Taber called in for backup?”
“No.” Ask a third time, it would be the same answer.
“At what point could you clearly see that Mr. Baum was holding a weapon of some sort?”
“As I pulled to a stop in the parking lot. He was standing in the doorway of the RV holding the shotgun.”
“You immediately recognized it as such?” Mellon sounded a little skeptical.
“Yes.”
He picked up the BIC and took his time removing and stowing the top. “When you pulled into the lot, did you actually see Mr. Baum pick up the gun?”
“No. He already was holding it at high port when I arrived.”
“When you first drove by, was he holding the shotgun?”
“I couldn’t see all of him, I couldn’t see it.”
“But by the time you pulled in, you could see the shotgun clearly?”
“Yes.”
“Aimed?”
“Not directly at Sergeant Taber. When I first saw it, it was in the hunter’s ‘at ready’ position, barrel up slightly and to the left.”
He made a “go on” gesture, the pen oscillating between two huge fingers.
“I got out of the car, and had time to hear the sergeant shout, ‘Put the weapon down.’ Or some such. Without warning of any kind, Baum fired. That knocked Taber off-balance, and she stumbled backward directly in front of her patrol unit. Baum started to turn toward me, and my assumption was that he was turning to fire again. I drew my weapon and fired five times.”
“Five?”
“That’s what the revolver holds.”
“Not six?”
“I keep an empty chamber under the hammer. So five.”
“Ah, the old west.” The crinkles deepened around his eyes. “And at any time did you see motion or activity in the RV? Did you have reason to believe there might be someone else inside?”
“No.”
Mellon drew a little squiggle on his pad. “You believed that your field of fire was unobstructed?”
Well, so much for resolutions. I felt my blood pressure surge with the wave of irritation. “I didn’t have time to attend a goddamned NRA safety seminar, Lieutenant. I had a clear and threatening target. I saw no one else, no shadows, no motion. I most certainly felt threatened by the shotgun, and at that point didn’t know the extent of the sergeant’s injuries. I had the clear shot, so I took it.”
Mellon reached down beside his chair and rummaged in his briefcase for a moment. He brought the crime scene drawing up and spread it on the table. I saw that fine red lines marked the supposed trajectory of my five rounds.
“A twenty-seven-inch group.” He touched the red lines that formed the pattern of my shots. “At twenty-five feet with a stubby magnum, from a draw, rapid fire and under duress…hell of a performance, Sheriff.”
I didn’t know what Mellon was fishing for, or if his compliments about my shooting were specious or genuine. I settled for silence.
“You were wearing your gun at the time, or carrying it in the vehicle?”
“Belt holster.”
“So, concealed carry.”
“No. I was wearing a short jacket, but I made no attempt at concealment.”
“You have a c.c.p.?”
“I don’t consider that germane.”
Mellon frowned at his empty pad. “This is apt to go easier if you just answer the questions, Sheriff.”
“It’ll go how it goes.” I knew full well that one of the functions of the interview was to make me angry so that I’d say something stupid and reveal my inner self. So be it. “Whether or not I have a concealed carry permit has nothing to do with the way I might, or might not, have responded in this situation.”
Mellon’s intense, beady little eyes regarded me for a moment. Eventually he dropped the BIC on the table and folded his hands. Apparently whatever mental tussle he was engaging in resolved itself.
“At any time, did you issue verbal commands to Mr. Baum?”
“No.”
“He pointed the shotgun at you and you fired.”
“It appeared that he was moving in that direction. If I had to put numbers on it, I’d say that the muzzle of the shotgun was halfway through the arc from the sergeant to me. So yes. I fired, and I fired before he had the chance to bring the gun fully to bear.”
Mellon paused again. Dan Schroeder had maintained his studious silence, letting the investigator have the run of the place. “How old are you, Sheriff?”
“Seventy-four.”
“Do you still carry a current sheriff’s department badge and commission?”
“Yes.” Whether they were honorary or functional hadn’t been asked.
Mellon waited a few seconds for me to pad my answer, and when I didn’t, allowed a trace of a smile to deepen his dimples. He drew another little squiggle on the pad. “When you first saw the RV coming northbound on Grande, did you recognize that there was more than one person onboard?”
“No.”
“And so your actions yesterday were based entirely on what you saw as you drove by, and then by the events that transpired after you stopped.”
“Yes.”
“And what was your intent when you fired your weapon?”
I almost grunted, “Duh,” but I knew what Mellon was fishing for, so I gave it to him. “My concern was to end the confrontation, to do whatever was required to take Mr. Baum and his shotgun out of action before he fired a second time.”
“Thinking in retrospect now…were you able to revisit this incident, is there anything that you would have done differently?”
“Not a thing. I might make a resolution to practice my marksmanship.”
Mellon actually chuckled, showing a line of uniform overly-white teeth. He tore off the doodled page, smoothed a fresh one, and the pen hovered. “Let’s run through this one more time,” he said.
Chapter Ten
It wasn’t just “one more time,” and by the third recitation, my blood pressure had spiked and my hands were clamped tightly enough that I was in danger of squeezing the arthritis right out of them.
Lieutenant Mellon had found himself a bone, and he wasn’t about to let it go. I knew the drill, though, and took several deep breaths to help wait it out. He was entirely justified, and I knew it. I didn’t have to like it.
“When you first drove by the scene, Sergeant Taber was issuing some sort of verbal commands,” he said slowly.
“It appeared so.”
“You had time to drive a few feet, turn your vehicle in a U-turn on Grande, and then pull into the parking lot of the motel.”
“Yes.”
“And on top of that, you had time to pull to a complete stop, and then get out of the vehicle.”
“That’s right.”
“How many seconds was that, do you suppose? The whole episode.”
“Not very many. A few.”
“A few.” Mellon tapped the pad. “And it wasn’t until you arrived and got out of your vehicle that Mr. Baum brought the shotgun to bear, and then fired the single shot. Until that time, Sergeant Taber had control of the situation.”
“Control? You don’t know that, I don’t know that, and I wouldn’t be a damn bit surprised if the sergeant didn’t know that either. Had she not seen a weapon, or heard confrontational language of some sort, there would be no reason for her to back away, hand on gun in a defensive posture. If Mr. Baum had piled out of his RV waving his hands and obviously perturbed, the scenario could well have gone down differently. The fact that Sergeant Taber appeared to be at the ready, hand on weapon, indicates that she perceived a clear threat.”
Mellon mulled that for a few seconds and jumped to another road. “I understand you tend to spend the nighttime hours out and about. In fact, I’m told you even witnessed the incident out on the prairie where the young man was killed after cutting a power pole.”
“Yes. From twenty miles away, if you want to call that witnessing.”
“How did that happen, exactly? You on top of the mesa…pretty desolate place for one o’clock in the morning.”
“There is no law, or even code of behavior, that dictates where and when I have to be anywhere,” I snapped.
Mellon smiled and held up a placating hand. “So you’re out in the boonies, just looking for something to occupy your time. At one o’clock on a February morning.”
“You should try it. It’s good for the blood pressure.”
He ignored that. “When you saw the flashes of light, you immediately drove down the mesa, alerting dispatch as you did so?”
“Not immediately, no. I watched for a while. Wh
en it became apparent that there might be a prairie fire, and when I saw a vehicle headed northbound that could have been at the scene, yes. Then I called the S.O.”
“Why did you feel you needed to do that?”
I took a few seconds to frame my answer, then replied, “Something had obviously happened out on the prairie. There appeared to be a vehicle speeding away from the scene toward town. That’s what I reported to dispatch. The whole scenario deserved a look by somebody.”
“By you?”
“No. I just sort of gravitated toward town. I was starting to feel the chill a little, and a cup of coffee seemed like a good idea.”
“You weren’t headed out to investigate those flashes of light?”
“Hell, no. I figured that if the incident actually turned into something—which it did, obviously—that investigators would want a deposition from me. Which they did.”
“At what time did you decide to drive out to the electric-line site to see for yourself, then?”
“I didn’t decide that. Sheriff Torrez asked me to.”
“He was where at the time?”
“On west Bustos, out at the scene of the Kenderman shooting.”
“And you arrived there shortly after the event.”
“Yes.”
“Now who asked you to go there? To the site of the officer’s shooting?”
“No one. I went on my own. By that time, I was listening to dispatch, another deputy had responded, and I knew something had gone down. As it turns out, I was probably the only person to see the suspect’s truck northbound from the power-line site, heading into town. I told dispatch he was headed toward town, and dispatch asked Officer Kenderman to intercept. So…” I let the rest of it go. Had I not called the sheriff’s office, Officer Kenderman might still be alive. But that’s not the way it worked.
“I see. And hours later, as you were heading home after a very long night, you see another deputy in what you assume is jeopardy, and you stop to render assistance.”
“Sure enough. Except I wasn’t heading home. I was on my way out to talk with a rancher friend of mine.”
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