Prolonged Exposure pс-6

by Steven F Havill

  “Are you saying my stepmother was struck from behind?” Willit said. His hearing was sharp, no doubt honed by years of listening for verbal indiscretions that could be turned into profit.

  “No,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman replied. She stood up. “I’m saying that there’s a considerable amount of blood that appears to have come from the back of her head.”

  “Same thing,” Willit said.

  “Is it?” Estelle’s voice was pleasant, as if Willit actually had information she needed to know.

  “What else would explain it?” Willit asked. The two EMTs began to shift position toward the gurney, and Estelle held up her hand. They stopped and waited.

  “That’s exactly what the medical examiner will tell us, Mr. Willit,” she said. She turned and completed her photo series, and when she was satisfied, Mrs. Apodaca’s mortal remains were carried off my property and placed in the ambulance.

  “I assume that the next step is to arrest Florencio Apodaca,” Willit said, and I turned to look at him with interest. If he planned to dog our heels every step of the way, his presence was going to be tedious at best.

  “Mr. Willit,” I said, and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. He cringed but held his ground, and I gave his shoulder a couple of squeezes. The camel hair coat felt smooth, soft, and expensive. “At the moment, we don’t know any more about the circumstances of your stepmother’s death than you do. The medical examiner has to examine the body to determine the cause of death. Then we have to piece together exactly how that death happened. It’s not always a simple process, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

  “What do we need to do to speed things along?”

  I smiled. “The most constructive thing you can do is to stay out of our way, Mr. Willit.”

  “Are you planning to talk to Florencio?”

  “Of course.”

  “May I come along when you do that?”

  “No.”

  Willit didn’t like the finality of that, and his eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not a police officer, for one thing.”

  “I won’t be in the way.”

  “How true,” I said. “Mr. Willit, just what is it that you do?”

  “Do?”

  “For a living.”

  Willit ducked his head, perhaps wishing he could say something that would impress the hell out of us. “I manage a restaurant franchise.”

  “Ah,” I said. “And I’m sure you’re very familiar with the operation of that restaurant, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And as manager, I’m sure that you prefer that the operation of that restaurant is carried out in a smooth, organized fashion, with very little left to chance.” This time, Willit settled for just a slight nod. “That’s pretty much how we operate on our own turf, Mr. Willit. We have certain ways of doing things. For example, your stepfather is elderly and frail. Whatever has happened here, however it happened, we’re not going to bust into Florencio Apodaca’s home like a bunch of storm troopers.”

  He straightened his shoulders and looked down his patrician nose at me. “Even if he committed murder?”

  I squeezed his shoulder again and then released him. “That sort of charge requires evidence, Mr. Willit.”

  Willit’s snort was a curious combination of indignant cough and bleat. “I’d certainly say that a bashed-in skull was evidence of a crime, Sheriff.”

  Holman glanced at Willit, but the comment was clearly addressed to me. “Perhaps. But we aren’t blessed with X-ray vision, Mr. Willit. I, for one, can’t see that your stepmother’s skull is bashed in, as you suggest. In fact, you seem to be the only one here who has the answers. That in itself makes me a little uneasy.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Willit began.

  I held up a hand. “Relax, sir. If there’s an injury, it could also happen from a fall down stairs, or a hundred other ways that none of us can imagine.” I shrugged. “We have our procedures, just as you do. That’s all I’m trying to make clear.”

  I started to turn away, then stopped and held up a cautioning hand. “Also, Mr. Apodaca has made it clear in previous conversations that he doesn’t much like you, Mr. Willit. It only stands to reason that your presence during questioning would be a hindrance.”

  “When will you be questioning him?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Directly. If you don’t wish to wait at your motel room and have nowhere else to go, perhaps you’d like to wait in the lounge at the sheriff’s office. That way, you’ll be on hand should we need you, and you’ll be among the first to be informed of any progress we make.” I smiled and tried to keep it sincere.

  Willit watched the backhoe pull away, and then he stepped back as Deputy Tom Mears spun a yellow crime-scene tape around the area, fencing in the small grave.

  “I’ll do that,” he said, and made his way through the brush toward his rental car parked on Escondido.

  Holman nudged me. “Now I remember why the hell we miss you so much when you’re gone,” he said, grinning broadly.

  I looked at him. “Oh?”

  “And I bet it’s fried chicken,” Holman said without explaining himself. When he saw the blank look on my face, he added quickly, “Willit’s restaurant.”

  “Fish,” I said.

  “Maybe you’re right. What’s the game plan? Wait for the ME?”

  I nodded. “When we know what killed Gloria Apodaca, and when, then we can work on the who. In the meantime, we’ve got more important things to do, like finding a lost three-year-old. Accident, murder, whatever, none of this is going anywhere. It can wait.”

  “Amen,” Estelle muttered.

  Holman’s eyebrows shot up. “By the way,” he said, and stepped close, as if the trees shouldn’t hear. I saw a smile on Camille’s face as she stood outside the circle of yellow tape, waiting for us to finish up. “Do you know anything about that big RV that’s parked next to Andy Browers’s house? I drove by and saw that, and I ran the plate.”

  “Other than that it belongs to a Bruce Elders of Corrales, no, we don’t,” I said, and watched Holman’s shoulders slump a fraction. He had wanted me to say, “What RV?”

  “You want me to work on that? I’ve got some contacts up there.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Let me suggest a simple approach first, though. Ask Andy Browers.”

  “Sure,” Holman said, nodding as if that had been first on his list. “I just thought it was odd, is all. Here he’s got a big camper that fits into the back of his pickup truck, and other than the electric company’s truck that he uses all the time, that’s all he’s got.”

  “He owns a motorcycle,” Estelle said.

  “That, too.” Holman nodded without skipping a beat. “And here’s a late-model land yacht that must cost seventy-five grand parked next to his house, owned by some guy upstate. It doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s probably nothing, you know? But you’re always lecturing about not ignoring any of the little pieces.”

  The sheriff left, and I watched Estelle pack her camera gear and make final comments in her notebook. “Do you want to meet somewhere for dinner?” I suggested.

  “Oh please,” Camille interrupted with immediate protest. “Dad, your only ‘somewhere’ is the Don Juan.” She grinned at Estelle. “Why don’t you guys come over when all the dust settles. Let me make something. Fancy pasta maybe. Bring the kids. Bring Erma.”

  Estelle sighed and slung the heavy camera bag’s strap over her shoulder. “You know, that sounds like a really nice idea. I’ll give Francis a call and make sure he isn’t tied up, and I’ll probably drop by the hospital for a few minutes. What’s a good time?”

  “Just whenever,” Camille said.

  It did sound like a wonderful idea at the time.

  Chapter 28

  At 5:00 P.M. that Wednesday, Sheriff Martin Holman officially announced the end of the mesa search for little Cody Cole. Four days and thousands of man-hours had produced nothing other than the t
orn jacket.

  The event even attracted a live-news crew from one of the major television stations, and we watched the announcement on television while Camille put the finishing touches on enough food to feed an army.

  “At this time, I regretfully announce that search efforts for three-year-old Cody Cole have been terminated,” Holman said. I could see the front door of the Public Safety Building directly behind him. He was frowning, and he looked directly at the reporter, rather than into the camera. “In the absence of further leads, the risk to search teams both on the ground and in the air makes continued operations unacceptable.”

  The reporter tipped the microphone back and asked, “Sheriff, what does your department intend to do now that the search has been halted?” The cameraman was alert, and he panned to show the wind blowing the young woman’s hair, giving her that tousled, on-the-scene look. Martin Holman was perfectly coifed and neatly pressed, as usual.

  “The Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, in cooperation with the United States Forest Service, the New Mexico Department of Fish and Game, the New Mexico State Police, and other agencies, will continue to monitor developments from a central command post in Posadas.” He took a breath. “Limited search activities will continue on Cat Mesa until further notice, although without the involvement of National Guard aircraft.”

  “What do you think happened to the child?”

  Sheriff Holman wasn’t ready for that question, and he hesitated for just a fraction of a second. “I don’t think that speculation is productive,” he said.

  “Do you think that Cody Cole is still on Cat Mesa?”

  “As I said, speculation isn’t going to find the missing youngster,” Holman said, and nodded to end the interview.

  The reporter persisted. “Sheriff, if you felt there was any chance at all that the child was still alive on the mesa, would you cancel the search?”

  “History is being made,” I said. “Martin Holman gets to field a question so stupid, even he should be puzzled.”

  Holman managed a pained expression for the camera, then said, “Thank you.” He stepped out of camera range.

  The television reporter signed off, and a final pan of the camera established that her channel had the scoop. “It’s quite a day when live-news cameras come to Posadas,” I said.

  Camille laughed and clattered dishes. “They should have been out at the grave site earlier. That would have been photogenic. Marty could have refused to speculate on how the old lady’s skull got bashed in, too.”

  “We don’t know that’s what happened yet,” I said.

  “Bet you twenty bucks.”

  “No.” The telephone rang and Camille glanced around at me. “You want to get that? My hands are full.”

  “Even money says it’s Martin Holman, wanting a review.”

  “No bet.” Camille chuckled.

  I picked up the phone. “You did really well, Sheriff,” I said, and was greeted by silence at the other end.

  After a few seconds, Holman said, “Did you catch the news?”

  “Yes. Like I said, you did really well. You sounded like one of those people who work for the Pentagon.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment, but I’ll pretend it is. Listen, two things. First of all, is Estelle there yet?”

  “No. She and Francis are going to come over in a few minutes, though. We were going to see if we could actually squeeze in a dinner. Do you and Meg want to come, too?”

  “No thanks. Let us take a rain check. But I wanted to pass along some preliminary comments from the medical examiner.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Express service. First of all, as far as the ME is concerned, it’s a definite homicide. It appears that Gloria Apodaca was killed by a single blow to the base of the skull. A really hard blow, the ME said.”

  “What was the weapon?”

  “You don’t sound surprised,” Holman said, ignoring my question.

  “I’m not easily surprised anymore, Martin-except by the notion that Florencio Apodaca has enough gumption to swing any tool hard enough to crush in a skull.”

  “The ME thinks that the murder weapon was something like a shovel.”

  “Well, that makes sense, if Florencio did it. A shovel handle makes for a lot of speed at the blade.”

  “You’re saying ‘if Florencio did it.’ Do you have doubts?”

  Camille left the kitchen, and I switched ears so I could turn and look toward the front door. Estelle and Francis Guzman appeared in the foyer. “We need to talk with the old man now, Sheriff. But of course I have doubts, until we see some evidence. Who knows. Maybe Stanley Willit was here last week and killed her, then planned this performance.”

  “That’s unlikely.”

  “Of course it is. But it’s possible. Maybe one of Florencio’s children. Maybe the son who owns the wood shop.”

  “What wood shop is that?”

  “It’s a long story. All I’m saying is that we need to be very sure of ourselves. There’s no doubt in my mind that Florencio knows what happened, and who swung the shovel, or whatever it is. But whether he did it is another question.” Estelle and her husband stepped down into the living room, and I could see Camille making hand signals about appetizers. “We need to move on this, though. Estelle and I can go over there this evening. Talk to the old man, see what he says. He may loosen up and spill the whole story.”

  “I’d like to make another suggestion, Bill,” Holman said. The tone of his voice sank a notch into his administrative mode, the tone he used when he was feeling self-confident and forceful.

  “What’s that?”

  “Let’s let Sergeant Torrez and Deputy Pasquale go over there this evening. They both speak Spanish, if that’s a help, and Bob is about as steady as they come. He’s not going to do anything rash, and he sure isn’t going to let Tommy Pasquale out of his sight.”

  I started to say something, then thought better of it. “All right,” I said instead.

  There must have been some hesitation in my tone, because Holman added, “I think sometimes we underuse Torrez. Certainly underestimate him, anyway. And Pasquale needs the experience.”

  “Fine.”

  As Holman began to speak again, I caught Estelle’s eye and looked heavenward. She grinned. She and Francis were relaxed on the couch, stretched out, with their feet up on the ancient slabwood coffee table. “And you know, eventually you and I are going to have to sit down and discuss how we’re going to reorganize things around here with Estelle leaving in May.”

  “She told you, eh?”

  “Yes. I can’t say I’m very happy about it. She’s going to be difficult to replace.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Maybe they’ll get sick of the north country and be back. I give them one winter up there.”

  “Yep,” I said, and shifted my weight to the other foot. “What was the second thing you wanted to tell me?”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Another reason I wanted Torrez to visit the old man this evening. Stanley Willit was showing me some papers a few minutes ago. Interesting stuff. Bank records, mostly. It appears that his stepmother was in the process of transferring funds out of her and her husband’s joint account. She had established a separate account, and what’s more, Willit has a signed power of attorney for all of Gloria Apodaca’s affairs should she become indisposed.”

  “Or dead,” I said.

  “Or dead. Convenient, isn’t it? That would block Florencio from accessing those funds under joint tenancy. At least for a while, anyway.”

  “Did you explain all this to Torrez? So he doesn’t walk into this mess without some prior knowledge?”

  “No, but I plan to.”

  “And make sure that Willit does not accompany the officers to Apodaca’s,” I said.

  “He seems content next door,” Holman said.

  “In the district attorney’s office?”

  Holman chuckled. “He asked if he could use the county’s
law library. I think he’s trying to figure out who to sue next.”

  Normally, all one had to do was suggest the idea of litigation involving the Sheriff’s Department to Martin Holman and his forehead began to sweat. He evidently thought Stanley Willit was as much of a fruitcake as I did.

  “Well, it was my land that provided the burial site, so no doubt he’ll sue me. And Florencio did the burying, or says he did, so he’s on the list, too. And you’re the one who said ‘Oops’ when we exhumed the body, so you’re on there, too.”

  “Did I really say that?”

  “Yes, you really did. Perhaps it would be prudent to tell Mr. Willit that the county offices are now closed, including the DA’s law library. Let him go stew in his motel room.”

  “I’d rather have him where I can keep an eye on him,” Holman said.

  “Tell Bob to call me if he gets in a bind,” I said. Camille was holding up a bowl of guacamole dip.

  “One last thing,” Holman said. “I put Tom Mears on the Cole situation. He said he wanted to keep somebody up on the mesa anyway, just in case. I told him that was a good idea. He’ll be following up leads from here. We’re spread pretty thin, but the Forest Service is going to help out, I think.”

  “Good idea. Keep me posted.”

  I hung up, my ear hot from the receiver.

  “That was the sheriff?” Camille asked, and she handed me a small glass of red wine.

  “His nibs,” I said. “The changing of the guard.”

  “The changing of the guard?” Camille asked, and then she saw the expression on my face. “Oh,” she said.

  “He’s sending someone over to talk with Mr. Apodaca?” Estelle asked.

  “Torrez and Pasquale,” I said, and took a long swallow of the wine.

  “They’ll do fine,” she said. It would have been nice, I thought, if she had hesitated just a bit before saying that. Francis Guzman, who over the years had grown as perceptive of my various moods as anyone, pushed himself to his feet.