The Fourth Time is Murder

by Steven F Havill

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The four others are still with you as well?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So they’re all being detained. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re all minors, all under the influence to one degree or another. They will be detained here until parents or guardians arrive to take them into custody.”

  “There’s bond, I assume? For my son, I mean?”

  “At the moment, no. He is being held pending arraignment.”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Parker said. “The judge isn’t going to like that much.” Judge Lester Hobart didn’t like much of anything that jarred his strict routine, Estelle knew…least of all being hauled out of bed to tongue-lash drunken youngsters. She offered no comment about what the judge might or might not do.

  “Okay, look,” Parker said. “After my son called, I spoke with some of the other parents. Is it acceptable if I pick the kids up?”

  “No, sir. We will release them to parents or legal guardians. That’s all the law allows us to do.”

  “How about if I have a signed note.”

  Anything for convenience, she thought. “No, sir.”

  “So each of these boys is going to have to be picked up by his own parents?” A note of exasperation crept into the man’s tone.

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “That might not be until tomorrow sometime. I mean, later today. It’s not a convenient drive over there, you know.”

  “I understand that, sir. I’m sure the boys will wait.”

  “My son’s arraignment hasn’t been set?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk with the officers handling that, sir. But it would be better for your son if the arraignment was later in the morning.”

  “Now why is that?”

  “For one thing, sir, your son is intoxicated to the point that he isn’t making intelligent decisions. I’m sure you noticed that when you spoke with him. It wouldn’t be in his best interests to make an appearance before the judge in his present condition. Let him sleep for a few hours.”

  “Huh.” The line fell silent for a few seconds. “Look, what was your name again?”

  “Undersheriff Guzman.”

  “Okay, look. I’m going to bring the kid’s checkbook over. He’s going to have some kind of bond to pay, won’t he?”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  “Any idea how much?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And what’s he charged with again?”

  “At this point, assault on a police officer, battery on a police officer, public intoxication, supplying alcoholic beverages to minors, and four counts of child abuse.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. Child abuse? Where the hell did that come from? Are we talking about the same case here?”

  “Your son is no longer a minor, sir. When an adult commits a crime that either injures or has the immediate potential of injuring a child…a minor, if you like…that’s the basis for charges of child abuse.”

  The phone went silent again except for a rhythmic tapping in the background, as if fingernails were drumming on a desk. “Why the battery charge? Did he try and fight the officer?”

  “It’s possible that a piece of glass from either the windshield or the bottle struck the deputy in the hand. That’s still under investigation.”

  A long, impatient exhale of breath greeted that. “We’re talking felonies here, aren’t we.” Parker’s tone was no longer as assured.

  “Yes, sir.” They wouldn’t remain that way, Estelle was willing to bet, but she wasn’t about to discuss or try to predict what Judge Parker and District Attorney Dan Schroeder would agree to.

  “All right, then. I’ll bring over his checkbook a little later. He’s going to bail himself out of this one. Maybe that’ll get his attention. He’s working toward buying his own car, you know. This’ll put a damper on those plans, let me tell you. He was driving his mother’s Lexus this time around. Any damage to that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, that’s something. Is he going to be able to drive home?”

  “That will depend on Judge Parker, sir. My suggestion would be that the vehicle’s owner comes and retrieves it.”

  “I guess. His mother’s not going to like that.” Parker waited an instant for another suggestion and, when one wasn’t forthcoming, added, “I’ll call the parents back and tell ’em that I can’t play chauffeur.”

  “That would be good, sir. I appreciate that.”

  Parker sighed. “You have kids of your own, sheriff?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then you know all about it,” he said. “May I give you my cell phone number, just in case you need to reach me?”

  “Certainly, sir.” She jotted down the numbers as he rattled them off.

  “Any time day or night,” he added. “Thanks for taking my call.”

  She hung up with a sigh, and made a bet with herself that Elliot Parker’s show of cooperation and understanding would evaporate the instant he learned of the accidental discharge. It was interesting that his son hadn’t mentioned it yet—a sign of just how drunk the boy really was.

  Chapter Ten

  Estelle opened one eye and stared at the alarm clock until it swam into focus. That focus came with a start as the numbers coalesced into 6:07 a.m. She wanted to leap out of bed, eager and ready for a new day, but her body expressed no interest in the challenge. A blink of the eyes and the clock skipped to 6:38.

  A large, furry face loomed over hers. “How are you doing?” A gentle, soft hand brushed the hair away from the side of her face.

  “Mumfh,” she managed. Her husband sat down on the edge of the bed. One hand moved to the back of her neck, gently massaging to find the aches and the tension.

  “Hijo wants to know if you’re awake,” Francis said. “He’s getting impatient.”

  “Is mamá up?” Her voice sounded far away.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then I am, too,” Estelle said. “Tell him to go ahead.” She sighed deeply, enjoying the flood of warmth that Francis’ strong fingers brought. “When did late nights become such torture?”

  Her husband laughed. “The nights aren’t so bad. It’s the next morning payback that’s a bummer.”

  “I need to find out if the Lordsburg gang made it home,” she said, starting to squirm toward the edge of the bed. “And we have an arraignment this morning.” Her husband didn’t move from the edge of the bed, effectively blocking her way.

  “I’m sure your staff is perfectly capable,” he said.

  “I’m sure of that, too. But I have a dozen things to do besides all that. How’s Kerri? Did you check this morning?”

  “Yes, I did. And she’s doing remarkably well. That was around five o’clock. The surgery went routinely.”

  “See?”

  “See, ¿qué?”

  “See,” Estelle said, “you got up and the first thing you did was go to work. In a manner of speaking.”

  “That’s because I knew you’d ask.”

  From the living room came the first sounds of her older son’s morning ritual, a methodical scale that sounded as if he was thinking hard about each individual note as the piano’s hammers struck the strings. The penetrating aroma of coffee drifted in, along with the faint clank of dishes.

  “Irma?”

  Francis nodded. Irma Sedillos, Sheriff Bob Torrez’s sister-in-law, had become an extension of the family, more than a dependable nana for the children. Irma was fond of referring to the household as the Guzman corporación, and she understood her role as corporate manager. In addition, Irma had become a companion and best friend to Estelle’s mother, ninety-five-year-old Teresa. Estelle knew that the time would
come when the twenty-six-year-old Irma would say yes to her longtime fiancé, beginning her own family. Until that time, they would continue to treasure the young woman’s competence and friendship.

  The pace of the piano scales increased as if the musician were turning a rheostat, and Estelle listened as she lay under the comfort of her husband’s warm hand.

  During the past months, a new aspect of her son’s musical journey had manifested itself. Rather than continuing his joyful romping on the piano keys, often dissolving into the giggles and nonsense of a little boy, Francisco had crossed a threshold, embracing a new world of tightly disciplined practice. He could focus on something as simple as a two-octave scale for long moments, the metronome in his mind as unrelenting and exacting as the wooden and brass one that ticked away on the corner of the piano, a musical version of Chinese water torture for everyone else in the house.

  As his fingers warmed up, so did the pace, and he shifted effortlessly from one key to another, this time alternating scales of sharps and flats as he worked his way around the circle. As his fingers warmed to the task, he pushed the tempo, always accelerating to the ragged edge of losing control and then remaining on that plateau until he was confident to push again.

  Carlos appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Irma is making waffles,” he announced, and then darted away, mission accomplished.

  “And of course, you’re going to take some time to enjoy that,” Francis said skeptically.

  “Maybe a little bit.” The idea of the thick, moist, golden brown waffles awash in richly fruited syrup made her stomach churn again—as had Bill Gastner’s offer of a green chile burrito at two in the morning. She knew that Irma would have hot water ready for green tea and, along with several strips of bacon, that would have to do.

  “You’re headed down to Regál this morning?”

  “Yes. This is a nasty one, querida. Jackie has been sitting the pass all night.” She twisted to look toward the window. “What kind of day do we have?”

  “Brilliant,” her husband said. He rose and opened the double shade, letting in a flood of sunshine, and then stood regarding her for long enough that she looked at him quizzically.

  “You slept pretty well last night,” he said finally. “Not so much tossing and turning.”

  “I’m fine, querido. Stop fussing.” She reached out a hand, enjoying his grip. He eased her upright, and she swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Out in the living room, the piano practice continued unabated—and would until the waffles hit the plates. Her cell phone jangled, strident and off-key with the piano, and as she reached for it, Francis shook his head in resignation.

  “The first thing to do is stomp all those into the ground,” he said.

  “And go back to smoke signals,” Estelle added. “Then all the asthmatics would complain.” She flipped open the phone. “Guzman.”

  “Good morning,” Jackie Taber said. “I was hoping you’d be up.”

  “I am.” She released her husband’s hand, and he padded out of the bedroom. “What have you got?”

  “It’s been quiet,” the deputy said. “The sun’s coming right up the canyon, and it’s exquisite.” Jackie’s appreciation didn’t surprise Estelle. Deputy Taber was the only officer in the department who kept a thick sketch pad and a box of pencils in her patrol unit. More than once, it had been the young woman’s recognition of pattern and contrast that had helped at a crime scene.

  “What are you thinking?” Estelle asked.

  “Well, first of all, I found the beer can. I think. About a fling down the hill, over to one side in the scrub. Same brand as in the truck, everything else consistent. I protected it from the weather, and put an evidence flag to mark it.”

  Estelle felt her pulse kick up a notch. “Anything else?”

  “The driver’s name tag. I found that. It found itself a little home down between some rocks, but right in line with the crash trajectory.”

  “You recovered it?”

  “Marked it. We need camera girl out here. I already told Brent.”

  “Good. Was the name of the company on the tag?”

  “Yep. Global Productivity Systems. GPS. Does that ring a bell with you?”

  “No, but there’s no reason it should. There are a lot of companies out there. What was the name? Marsh?”

  “Barry Roberts. How about that. We got two people in the truck, or what?”

  “Ay,” Estelle whispered. “Jackie, we’ll be out shortly.” She glanced at the clock, and closed her eyes, running down the list of names. “I’ll get someone out there to relieve you.”

  “Not to worry,” Jackie said. “I’m having fun. If someone wants to bring out some coffee, that would be nifty. Captain Mitchell is already headed this way.”

  “Ay, estoy torpe esta mañana,” Estelle groaned. “I’m sooooo slow.”

  “The mountain will keep,” Jackie replied. “Any word this morning on Pam’s daughter?”

  “Francis checked on her this morning. They think she’ll be okay. The surgery went well.” Went well. It was so easy, she thought. Crack somebody else open to repair defective parts, and it all goes well. Kerri Gardiner, fifteen years old and full of the self-conscious self-image that plagued the teen years, might not think so when she had her first look at the scar down the middle of her chest that the “went well” left behind.

  “That’s good to hear,” Jackie said. “See you in a bit, then.”

  Estelle rang off and sat on the edge of the bed for another moment, deep in thought. Jackie Taber had already located two important bits at the crash site. More might surface. Christopher Marsh had not died alone. He’d been helped. Estelle pushed off the bed and headed toward the bathroom.

  It took great planning and thought to move about this planet without leaving some kind of track, she mused. Marsh’s crash had been an accident—a deer had waited until the wrong moment before crossing into the truck’s path. What had happened next had been a crime of opportunity, and those so often left room for error.

  The hot water felt good, and she stood under it with her eyes closed, letting the steam turn the shower into a sauna. In slow motion, she began the ritual of stretches that helped tame the ache in her right shoulder and side, bending with her arm arched over her head, letting the hot water beat her skin, then twisting carefully to full extension, locking her hands behind her back and tugging.

  After fifteen minutes, she turned off the water and sucked in a deep breath. “It went well,” she repeated aloud. “Oh, sí.” The mirror was steamed over, and she didn’t bother with it. She didn’t need to see the massive scar that circled around the right side of her own torso, from armpit to the lower, medial margin of her right breast. The scar had faded over the months, from livid roadway to a narrow track, just as her husband had said it would.

  If the memory of those moments would fade, all would be well. But just the reverse happened as her mind dredged up the details that she thought had been lost, rerunning the tapes at the most inopportune times.

  She dressed quickly, shook her short black hair into some semblance of order, and hurried out to the kitchen to begin the day with a moment, a concentrated shot, of normalcy.

  Halfway through the first small square of waffle, a sweet chunk of magic about the size of a playing card that Carlos convinced her to try, Estelle’s cell phone rang.

  “I can answer that,” Francisco chirped, and he started to reach for his mother’s holstered cell phone. Estelle fended him off with a mock threat from her fork as she rose from the table. That earned a glance from her mother, who usually kept her thoughts to herself when the children were present. Tiny, wrinkled, and now so bent of spine that she sat no higher in her chair than did six-year-old Carlos, Teresa Reyes lifted an arthritic index finger for emphasis.

  “They ask too much of you,” she said, and t
hen nodded as if to add, and that’s that.

  “Sometimes they do,” Estelle said, “but I’m late.” She walked into the living room and opened the phone on the third ring. “Guzman.”

  “Hey,” Sheriff Bob Torrez said, his soft voice carrying no urgency. “You okay?”

  “Sure,” Estelle replied, surprised that the taciturn sheriff would ask. But he was used to her being places before he was. “I conked out for a while.”

  “I’m headed out to the pass. You headed that way?”

  “Yes. I just talked with Jackie. She’s found a couple interesting things.”

  “Yeah. I talked to her, too. Linda?”

  “She’s been called.”

  “Okay. I’m headed to Regál right now,” the sheriff said. “And hey…Sutherland’s got a bunch of paperwork that came down from Catron County. They’ve got a situation goin’ on up there that maybe has a tie with us. You want to stop by the office on your way and check it out?”

  “What kind of situation? Are they asking for an assist, or what?”

  “Little bit, maybe. If you think there’s anybody we can break free, that’d be good. I’ll see you in a bit, then.” The connection broke.

  Chapter Eleven

  The manila envelope from the Catron County Sheriff’s Department was folded into the undersheriff’s mailbox. With the time-consuming investigation pending down in Regál Pass and the sticky situation surrounding the accidental discharge of Deputy Collins’ handgun, Estelle’s first impulse was to leave Catron’s problems for later. She already had the feeling of looking uphill at a huge snowball that was perched on the brink.

  She pulled the envelope out of the box and was about to open it when she saw a civilian push himself out of one of the chairs in the foyer beyond the dispatch island.

  “Undersheriff Guzman?” The man approached her, skirting Brent Sutherland’s workstation and stopping by the electrically operated half gate that blocked access to the offices behind Dispatch. Neatly dressed in a dark business suit, he looked like a successful salesman who had had a bad night’s sleep.