Given a few hours for frayed nerves to mend, there was a good chance that a lot of people would be laughing, Estelle reflected. Two other cars approached simultaneously from opposite directions on Grande, and Estelle groaned inwardly. One was Linda Real’s little red Honda, but the other was driven by Frank Dayan, publisher of the Posadas Register.
Chapter Seven
Satisfied that no person had been in the path of the errant .45 slug, Estelle turned her attention to the most seriously injured—Deputy Dennis Collins. During the various comings and goings of investigators, the young man hadn’t moved more than a step or two from his position by the driver’s door of his county vehicle.
Estelle was proud of him for that—it was exactly the right moment for silent restraint, to speak when spoken to. She knew this wasn’t an easy moment for the normally gregarious, cheerful deputy whose ego, normally large and fully inflated, must have been withered like a shrunken pea. There was no handy excuse for dropping a loaded gun—Dennis knew that, and kept silent.
The last thing Collins needed at that moment was an interview, but it appeared that Frank Dayan was zeroing in on him. The newspaper publisher’s step was slower than usual—he appeared weary and worried, and Estelle knew Frank’s concern wasn’t because of a ruckus in a convenience store parking lot. Even though there was no yellow ribbon to stop him, Dayan hesitated as he approached. He knew better than to cross into a crime scene, even with the absence of a yellow tape. Collins, obviously unoccupied, alone, and on the periphery of the action, was a logical target.
“Excuse me, Frank,” Estelle said as she approached, and Dayan stopped in his tracks.
“Am I—,” Frank started to say, but Estelle gripped him firmly by the elbow, and together they walked up the sidewalk, well beyond Bob Torrez’s truck. Collins did not follow.
“You’ve been over at the hospital?” Estelle asked as they walked.
“Oh, you heard about that?” He stopped. “The most tragic thing, Estelle. Just boom.” He chopped the air with his hand. “Kerri just dropped in a heap. Thank God there were people around who knew what to do.”
“Is there anything that Pam needs?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, but gosh. Who knows with a thing like this. She’s still over at the hospital, of course. I think they’re going to airlift Kerri to Albuquerque.”
“A rough time.”
He groaned a response, then straightened his shoulders and surveyed the parking lot. “What’s going on here?”
“We have a situation at the moment,” she said as they walked. “We’re going to need your cooperation with this.”
“Of course,” Dayan said. “I was just on my way home and saw all the traffic. We have a robbery, or what?” The dapper publisher sounded hopeful.
“I wish it were that simple,” Estelle replied. She weighed how much to tell Dayan, who over the years had proven himself to be discreet when necessary—his newspaper would publish the following Wednesday, and a lot could change in the next five days. Frank viewed any other media—the big metro papers and TV stations in particular—as competition, even though they probably didn’t know his small town paper existed. “It appears that there was an assault on the deputy’s vehicle,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“I saw the damage to the windshield. Somebody took a shot at him?”
“No. Someone threw a loaded beer bottle.”
Dayan grimaced in disgust, and Estelle wasn’t sure if the newspaperman was disappointed that the story was as insignificant as a chucked bottle, or if it was just his comment on rowdy youth. “That’s it?”
“Well,” Estelle said carefully, “we’re continuing to investigate exactly what happened after that.” Frank would be irked at her sin of omission when the full story came out. “There may be some public intoxication involved.”
“Oh,” he said. “These days, isn’t there always. What’s Marge Chavez’s connection? I saw her pulling out when I was on my way down Grande. They throw bottles at her car, too?”
“No. We’re always interested in what witnesses have to say. Apparently she was fueling her car at the time the incident happened.”
“Oh,” Dayan said again. “Any injuries? Collins looks all right.”
“No injuries, Frank. I’ll have something for you a little later, but right now I need to talk with the deputy. With juveniles, things aren’t always clear-cut. Will you excuse me?” She touched him on the arm and he nodded vigorously.
“Sure, sure.” He ducked his head and looked toward the State Police car. “You have someone in custody already, it looks like.”
“More for you later, Frank,” Estelle said again. “Okay? And please…give my best to Pam. If there’s anything she needs, have her call me. I’ll stop by and see her in the morning.”
He smiled at the undersheriff, holding up both hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said. “I’m headed home anyway. It’s been a long day. I’ll talk to you later, all right?” He started back toward his car and then paused. Estelle saw him pull a tiny camera out of his pocket and snap several pictures, of what it was impossible to tell. Given his lack of photographic talents, it might be just as impossible after the photos were downloaded. She returned to Collins, who stood quietly by the door of his truck, watching Dayan.
As she crossed back toward the deputy, she was intercepted by Linda Real. The young woman carried a bulky camera bag, with another camera slung over her shoulder. Linda half turned and aimed a cheerful wave at Frank Dayan, her former boss.
“Hey,” Linda said. “How’s it goin’?”
“It’s going,” Estelle replied. She quickly outlined the gist of the scene for the photographer, whose normally unflappable good cheer dissolved when she heard what had happened to Deputy Collins.
“Bobby’s going to have a cow,” Linda said in her habitual straight-to-the-heart fashion, and Collins winced.
“We’ll just have to see,” Estelle replied. The sheriff’s initial choice of “dufus” as a moniker for his deputy didn’t bode well. She could predict that whatever Sheriff Robert Torrez did, he wouldn’t concern himself with politics or image. That in itself was something of a relief. Equally sure was that he wouldn’t shrug his shoulders and say, “People drop things. Happens every day.”
“Let me show you what we need,” Estelle said, and then turned to the deputy. She looked hard at Collins. “And listen to me, now. After Linda takes a photo of that chip in your truck, the broken glass, and the beer puddles, I want you to go back to the office and write a detailed deposition for me. Exactly what happened, from A to Z. Leave nothing out. Take your time and do it right.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t make anything either less or more than it is. Do you understand what I’m saying? This isn’t the time for creative writing. Right now I’m only concerned with the what, not the why. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Again, Estelle was impressed that she had heard no string of excuses from the young deputy.
She turned her attention to his Expedition. The chip in the white paint of Dennis Collins’ county vehicle was tiny—a little, sharp-edged mark just below the right fender logo, immediately in front of the door. Estelle crouched down and trained her flashlight on the spot.
“Can you make a clear photo of that?”
Linda bent down beside her. “Oh, sure,” she said cheerfully. “Holy macro.”
Estelle laughed at the young woman’s easy good humor. Maybe it was for Dennis’ benefit, but it was welcome regardless. “And as long as you’re doing that, I need a good, clear blowup of Dennis’ .45. There may be some paint or scratches that will show in a print.”
“Oh, it will.”
“I’ll bring the gun to the office in a few minutes. You can do it there.”
“You go
t it.”
“You want my gun?” Collins asked, and he made it sounds as if Estelle were asking him to disrobe in public. He started to reach toward his holster protectively and she caught his wrist.
“Just unbuckle the whole belt, Denny.” She could tell he was counting mentally to ten—maybe even twenty or thirty. Finally, he unbuckled the heavy Sam Browne belt, then refastened the buckle deftly and hung the entire heavy rig over Estelle’s extended hand. She felt a pang of sympathy for his humiliation.
“I know you’re off-shift, Dennis. It’s been a long day, and is going to be longer before it’s over. But wait for us at the office, all right? Finish up the deposition, make sure you dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t.’”
“The sheriff is going to fire my ass,” Collins whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. That was conceivable, Estelle knew. Equally conceivable was that Deputy Dennis Collins would end up being an even better officer than he had been before the incident.
“One step at a time,” Estelle said. “Don’t start making assumptions. I’ll see you in a few minutes in my office. All right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re all right with that?”
“I guess I have to be,” Collins said. He managed a rueful smile. “I’m just glad nobody got hurt.”
“Exactly.”
Linda finished a series of a dozen or more photos of the truck, then stepped back. “You can have it now,” she said. Collins climbed into the Expedition without a word, started it, and backed out of the parking lot. As he drove off, Linda turned to Estelle. “Wow,” the photographer said.
“‘Wow’ is right,” Estelle replied. She opened the trunk of her car and laid the Sam Browne rig inside. Drawing her flashlight, she bent down to inspect what she could see of the officer’s gun without drawing it from its holster. The white paint on the square, sharp corner of the back sight was obvious. “Right here,” she said, and turned both gun and light so Linda could see. “Smacked it right on the back sight.”
“No problems getting that,” Linda said.
Estelle positioned the belt so that the gun was protected from touching anything in the trunk. “Just in case, can you take a picture of the gun now?”
“I can do that.”
Linda tried half a dozen angles, frowning and grimacing as she worked. “We can do better in the lab with the tripod and easel, but this’ll work for now as backup,” she announced finally. When Linda was finished, Estelle shook open a black plastic bag and slid in the belt, heavy with its half-a-hardware load of gun and accoutrements. She slammed the trunk lid shut.
The sheriff and State Trooper Rick Black were conferring well out of earshot of the remaining four teenagers, who still sat like forlorn statues on the store’s sidewalk. Linda headed off toward the fuel pumps to take photos there and at Bernie’s car. The clerk had retreated back inside the store. Estelle wondered what version of the tale he and his teenaged assistant, Stuart Fernandez, were concocting. She shrugged off that thought, since it was something over which she had no control.
Rick Black laughed at something Torrez said, and the two men turned as Estelle approached.
“That one,” Black said, nodding toward his car where a figure slumped in the backseat, “admits to throwing the bottle. All five of ’em have been drinking. Started during the game, is my guess.” He handed Estelle a silver hip flask that had been sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag. “Pretty fancy, eh? That belongs to the driver.”
“More likely to the driver’s daddy,” the sheriff muttered.
“All from Lordsburg?”
“Yup. The kid’s name is Tyler Parker,” Black said. “He turned twenty-one last week. So this ain’t just the smartest stunt he ever pulled. He’s so soused he can hardly stand. If he pukes in the back of my car, things are really going to get ugly.” He grinned. “The other four are minors.”
“Whose Lexus?”
“Registered to Elliot Parker of Lordsburg. The daddy, I would guess.”
Torrez beckoned Deputy Pasquale, who had been working with Linda. The deputy held another evidence bag with the single shell casing inside. “Take these three back to the lockup,” the sheriff instructed, counting off the first three teens. “You take the last one there,” he added to Estelle. “That’ll keep ’em a little bit separated, not that it matters much. They can get comfortable in the conference room while they wait for their parents to get over here to check ’em out.”
Estelle could see in the kids’ hangdog expressions that they were past the defiant stage, ready now to accept the end of the world. Sheriff Torrez and Officer Black had intimidated them into compliant silence.
“I’ll take care of Bernie,” Torrez said after the three young men were secured in the back of Pasquale’s Expedition, with the fourth in Estelle’s unit. “I want that slug out of his radiator, too.”
“It’s lying on the ground right under the car,” Estelle said. “Straight down from the fan housing. I asked Linda for photos before we move it.”
“Well, that’s easy, then,” Torrez said. “I called Stubby to come get the Lexus, so I guess we’re all set.” He regarded the expensive SUV. “Maybe he’ll put a few dents in it for good measure,” Torrez added, although they both knew that Stub Moore, handling impounds for the county, would treat the suspect’s vehicle with loving care.
Some parents in Lordsburg were going to be furious, Estelle mused. Arrested children, impounded vehicle…and it would all be the Sheriff’s Department’s fault, no doubt. The department could expect that someone—a parent, perhaps even Marge Chavez when she had some time to think on it—would make the most out of the accidental discharge. They could almost guarantee that would overshadow everything else. Five drunken youngsters driving an SUV on the interstate after midnight would pale in comparison to that single mistake.
Torrez turned to Estelle. “You’re going to talk with Collins?”
“I had planned to.”
“As far as I’m concerned, he can clean out his locker and be out of here.”
“We’ll want to think about that carefully, Bobby.”
“Look, that slug missed hittin’ one of Margie’s daughters right between the eyes by about three feet. There was no reason to have drawn down on those pissants in the first place. A bunch of drunk kids?”
“He didn’t know that at the time,” Estelle said. “And I don’t think he ‘drew down’ on them. I think he reacted with a mistake. He didn’t see the kid throw the bottle, and for just a few seconds, he thought he’d been shot at. He drew his gun as he slid out of the vehicle, saw he was mistaken, and then, in the process of correcting that mistake, fumbled the gun.”
“You sound like a damn lawyer.”
“I’m sure we’ll hear from them before this is all over. Right now, I’m puzzled why the gun went off.”
“’Cause he had his friggin’ finger on the trigger,” Torrez said.
“Maybe so. If that’s the case, then it’s our training and proficiency program that’s at fault. If it was a fault in the gun, then it’s a problem for our equipment maintenance program.” Program? she thought to herself. Like most small, financially strapped departments, the Sheriff’s Department found it was all too easy to use equipment until it collapsed.
“He’s got eyes and ears to use like all the rest of us,” Torrez snapped, and his tone had sunk to little more than a whisper. Estelle recognized the anger and had already decided to let the matter drop for the moment when Torrez added, “But hey. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll take care of it.” He didn’t explain what the it was but instead turned to the State Policeman, who had remained tactfully silent. “Thanks for your help, Rick.”
“I’ll get my deposition to you ASAP,” the trooper said.
“You pulled in just as Collins got out of his unit?” Est
elle asked.
Black nodded. “I did. I didn’t see him fumble the gun, though. I was watching the kids. I was starting to get out of the car when I heard the gunshot. I could tell by the look on Denny’s face that it had been an a.d.” He shrugged. “I told him to stay put until I had a chance to make sure no one had been hit. The sheriff here arrived just a few seconds later.” He held up both hands. “Not much, but it all helps.”
“Thanks again for your help.”
As Estelle walked back to her car, she saw that the sheriff and Bernie Pollis had the hood of the Chevy open and were bent over the engine. Linda Real joined them, and Estelle saw the flash of the photographer’s camera light up the engine compartment. Estelle dug out her cell phone, pushed the auto-dial, and waited for two rings before the connection went through.
“Gastner.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Estelle said. She glanced in the rearview mirror at the youngster in the backseat, behind the security grill that separated front from back.
Gastner chuckled. “I’ve never fallen asleep as long as a green chile burrito is spread out in front of me. I’m still over here.” He didn’t explain where “here” was, but Estelle knew, to the exact booth, where he was sitting in the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant. “You hungry?”
“No thanks. You’re closing the place down?” They were well past the 2:00 a.m. closing time for the Don Juan.
“Fernando and I were solving all the world’s problems.” Bill Gastner and Fernando Aragon, the longtime owner of the Don Juan, were perfectly capable of sitting and eating the night away—two insomniacs with the best restaurant in town right in the family.
“If you have a minute when you finish dessert, would you swing by my office?”
“Of course I would. But good God, you should be home by now, sweetheart.”
“Sin duda. But we had a nasty little incident.”
“Who?”
“Nobody hurt. I’ll tell you about it when you come over. I’m ten-fifteen, one juvenile.”
The Fourth Time is Murder Page 6