“You know as well as I do what will happen,” she said primly. “I’ll give in, and they won’t move, and I’ll be right back where I started, with everybody just laughing at me. Foolish old lady. Well, I won’t have it.”
I took hold of the doorknob and levered it this way and that, judging the fit of the door against the trim.
“You leave my camper alone,” Carla snapped. “It’s locked, and it will stay that way.”
“I don’t think so, Carla. It’s hot out here, and I’m just about out of patience.” I turned to Gayle. “See if there’s a tire iron in the trunk of my car. Something I can pry with.”
She returned in a moment with the folding jack handle, a neat gadget with a hooklike flange on one end for popping wheel covers. The flange slid under the lip of the door, and I moved it so that it was directly opposite the lock. With a hard thrust, the door popped open. I could feel the rush of cool air from inside. I handed the jack handle to Gayle and pushed open the door.
The two stairs up to the driver’s seat were nicely carpeted, and I stepped carefully, one hand on the chrome railing for balance.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Carla Champlin shrieked. “Now you get out of here,” and I looked up into the muted light of the camper’s interior. The shades were drawn, but it wasn’t so dark that I couldn’t clearly see the crazy woman standing beside her dinette table, holding what appeared to be a shotgun with its muzzle pointed squarely at my face.
Chapter Thirty-three
For what seemed like hours, all manner of bizarre thoughts ranged through my mind. None of them were as practical as a simple inner command to duck or dive for cover…to jump down the three steps and cower behind the wafer-thin wall of aluminum that wouldn’t stop a single pellet.
Instead, they were really helpful thoughts, like a review of the FBI’s statistics about how dangerous domestic disturbances were for responding law enforcement officers, or a brief instant when I wondered what Frank Dayan, the Posadas Register’s publisher, would put in the headline if Carla’s finger cramped or slipped.
It wasn’t that I was brave or even foolhardy. I just didn’t have the energy to move, and I couldn’t bring myself to believe that Carla Champlin would really shoot me. Maybe her goal was to force me to shoot her…and if that was the case, she was wasting her time.
“Carla,” I said slowly, searching for just the right words and just the right tone of voice, “what’s that supposed to accomplish?”
“You just get on out of my trailer.”
“Nope.”
She frowned. I looked more closely at the shotgun. She was holding it by the fore-end and by the wrist just behind the trigger guard, her hands clamped around it like a pair of old vises. No finger was near the trigger or even the trigger guard, and the single hammer of the old break-open was down. My heart settled down a bit.
“Carla,” I said, “these tinted windows make it kinda nice. No one outside can see how silly you’re being.”
“It’s not silly.”
“Oh, yes, it is. What’s the old shotgun going to accomplish? Do you think we’re all just going to go away? If you made the mistake of shooting me, what do you think the two deputies outside would do…in the short blink of an eye and long before you could reload that thing?” She frowned again. The blinds were drawn, so she couldn’t see that my two “deputies” were a couple of nervous young gals, neither of whom was armed.
“Look,” I continued, and took a half-step forward so I could lean against the fake wood of the bulkhead. “Here’s the deal. Put that thing down, and you and I will be the only ones who ever know about it. Put it down, crank this buggy up, and go home. Water your plants. Your tenants will be out of the house on Third Street by nightfall. Guaranteed.”
“How can you guarantee that?” she snapped, and the shotgun didn’t waver.
“Because they said they would be. I told ’em they could use my guest room for a while, if it came to that.” I spread my hands.
“Anything to make you happy.”
“What about all the damage?”
I shrugged. “What about it? Hell, I don’t know. Keep their deposit. I assume they paid one. It’s some dead grass and some ruts. That’s not the end of the world.”
“Oh, it’s more than grass and ruts,” she said. “And what about the oil on the floor inside?”
I took a deep breath and glanced at my watch. “I don’t know about the oil on the floor inside,” I said. “I guess you can always take them to small-claims court and settle up there.” I took another step, running a finger along the bottom lip of one of the cabinet doors. “You’ve really got two choices.” I held up the finger. “One, you can refuse to put down that damn gun, and you’ll end up facing a charge of threatening a police officer at the very least, or maybe assault, or reckless endangerment, or a whole bunch of other ugly things. That’s the good news. That’s if the gun doesn’t go off. Of course,” I shrugged, “if it goes off, then I’m going to be pissed, and your problems will be over. You won’t have to worry about tending plants in the state pen.”
I smiled at her without much humor. “How about that, eh? Not much of a choice. The other sounds better. Stash that old piece of junk, go home, be patient, let the kids get their act together. I’m sure that you know that I’ve got better things to be doing just now. So do you.”
I heard a vehicle drive up outside, recognizing both the sound of its exhausts and the manner of its approach. I reached out and tipped the blind to one side. Bob Torrez was out of the car, face grim, and was striding toward Gayle Sedillos, who stood by the open front door of 310.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “You don’t have a whole lot of time left to decide, sweetheart.”
I let the blind fall back and looked at Carla Champlin. Her hands hadn’t moved on the shotgun. The end of the barrel was within a stretch, and I took a quick step and swept it to one side, being just as gentle as I could be while still accomplishing the job. The bead front sight whacked into the door of the cabinet. With my other hand I clamped down on the receiver, my palm over the hammer. I didn’t twist or yank but just held it while Carla decided what she wanted to do.
She didn’t bother to struggle but released the shotgun. I pushed the lever behind the hammer and broke it open. The old 20-gauge wasn’t loaded.
“Whose is this, anyway?” I asked.
“I got it for skunks, years ago,” Carla said, still perky and on the offensive.
“Well, I’m not a skunk,” I said and stepped past her. I tossed the gun on the bed behind the first partition.
“Now what if I refuse to move this?” Carla said. “You can’t force me to drive this away.”
Undersheriff Torrez appeared in the doorway, and by the set of his shoulders I knew that his right hand was on the butt of his service automatic.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Fine, Robert, fine,” I said. “You might as well call the wrecker and have them come hook up.” I turned to Carla. “And if you force us to do that, the tow charge is going to be a hundred bucks or so. Guess who’s going to pay that.”
She took a deep breath and made a petulant face. “Oh, all right.” She made sweeping motions with both hands. “Just both of you get out and leave me alone. I’ll be on my way.”
“We’ll help you maneuver out of the judge’s driveway,” I said. “It’s kind of narrow. We don’t want any plants damaged.”
“I’m perfectly capable.”
“I’m sure you are, Miss Champlin.”
She shook an admonishing finger at me. “And remember what you promised. This evening, at the latest.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
Torrez stepped down out of the RV, still eyeing Carla Champlin, who settled into the driver’s seat, muttering to herself.
I stepped down from the RV and felt the blast of hot air. Even with the air conditioning in the RV, I was glad the confrontation was over.
“Gayle said she had a gun,” the u
ndersheriff said quietly when I was a pace or two away from the doorway of the massive vehicle.
“Broomstick,” I said. “She was going to attack me with a broomstick. I talked her out of it.”
Chapter Thirty-four
I spent a couple of minutes following the RV as Carla Champlin trundled it home. She drove it reasonably straight and true, signaling and stopping at all the right places. Pausing 310 at the curb in front of her house, I watched her wedge the big machine back into its place in the grape arbor. She glanced my way as she darted inside the house, and I waved a hand. She didn’t acknowledge.
But that was OK. I didn’t have time just then for tea and crumpets, or whatever she might serve, even if she had showed signs of wanting to continue her conversation with me. Maybe a little conversation was just what she needed. Maybe Carla Champlin had started her long slide downhill toward the loony bin, and this was the one day that fate had given her to teeter on the edge. She could be hauled back to the world of the reasonable or pushed on over. But I didn’t feel that I had time to stand on the edge with her just then. She was going to have to depend on her own sense of balance.
Instead, I drove directly to the Public Safety Building and discovered I was just about the last one at the party. In the few moments that I’d been following Carla Champlin, Gayle had taken up Dispatch again, and when she saw me she motioned toward the basement door.
“They’re all down there, sir,” she said.
The “they” were far too many large people for the small space outside the darkroom. On the utility table photographic enlargements were lined up in neat rows, and as I walked down the stairs Linda Real was bending over one of the prints, guiding one of those little photo gadgets used to check the focus of a print. The aroma of chemicals from the darkroom was strong enough to make my eyes burn.
At her elbow on one side was Tom Pasquale, with Bob Torrez on the other. Both were trying their best not to knock heads on the spiderweb of plumbing and electrical pipes.
Howard Bishop sat at the end of the table, his considerable bulk balanced on an absurdly small stool.
The only fan was the exhaust unit in the darkroom behind them, and with so many large individuals so long from a shower on a hot day, I was surprised Linda hadn’t keeled over from the rich locker-room effluvia.
“We’ve got a nice conference room upstairs,” I said by way of greeting. But they were too excited to bother with amenities. “What have you got?” I asked, and Linda glanced up from the lens.
“Sir, Sergeant Bishop lifted a neat set of latents from the cabin frame on the backhoe,” she said. “I had just finished processing the initial prints when we got called over to Judge Hobart’s.” She swept a hand to include the dozen or so prints. “They’re pretty clear.”
Bob Torrez braced both hands on the table and scanned the photos. The dusted fingerprints, little more than dark ghosts against the lighter steel, showed clearly enough in one of the photos that I could actually see them, with the tractor’s sunshade in the background blanking out the bright sky.
“It looks like somebody grabbed real low on the frame and hit a sharp spur on the weld joint,” he said. “And then the blood smeared on the metal, maybe when he was getting off.”
“He’s going to grab it in the same place each time?” I asked.
“If it’s a habit,” Bishop said without shifting the position of his chin on his hands. “It wouldn’t start bleedin’ fast enough to smear like that the instant he cut it gettin’ on.”
“Huh,” I said, and pondered the picture. It didn’t mean much to me. “Good enough,” I said. “But I guess I need to see it for real. Anything on the blood type yet?”
“Mears is at the hospital now,” Torrez replied.
“Then let’s ride out and take a look at this thing. Maybe whoever left this,” I tapped the photo, “got careless and dribbled somewhere else.”
“I’ve been over that machine ten times,” Bishop said, and heaved himself to his feet. “Course, we found this on about round nine, so another good look wouldn’t hurt.”
“Who’s out there now?” I asked.
“Taber’s taking the afternoon,” Torrez said, and I grimaced. Jackie Taber normally worked midnight to eight. Like everyone else, her eight-hour workday had gone extinct.
The hot, windless afternoon air was a relief after the basement. The machinery in Jim Sisson’s backyard rested silently, circled by a yellow ribbon. Deputy Taber had parked in the Sissons’ driveway, well back so that she could watch the back and front at the same time.
If Grace Sisson and her daughter objected to the surveillance, they hadn’t told us. Neither had been outside since returning home, at least that we knew of. And friends weren’t exactly standing in line to visit. Maybe the neighborhood assumed the Sissons were still at Grace’s parents’ place in Las Cruces.
I walked up to the backhoe, and Linda Real pointed at the steel frame just above the outriggers. Originally, the backhoe had sported a nifty enclosed cab. Over time, it had shed various parts, with most of the glass or Plexiglas or whatever it was going first. The remaining cage had plenty of sharp spots that an operator would avoid out of habit.
“Under there, sir,” she said, and I cranked my neck around so I could see under one of the braces. The smear was a light brown against the machine’s yellow paint.
Reaching out my hand as if to grab the bar, I said, “So he grabs hold to pull himself up. He cuts himself on the weld somehow.”
“There’s a spur there, if you look close,” Bishop said. “Linda got a good photo of it.”
“I’ll take your word,” I said. “So he grabs here, cuts himself, and then on the way down grabs again and leaves blood.” I shrugged. “Possible. If he got on this side, he’s got a cut on his left hand somewhere.” I held my hand near the bar. “If he grabbed it in the usual fashion, it would nick him right about between the first and second knuckle. If he got on the other side, he’d grab the bar with his right hand.”
“But he wouldn’t leave blood here if he got on the other side,” Torrez said.
I turned to Bishop. “You were on and off this machine a number of times yourself,” I said.
He stepped up close and reached out a hand. “And my prints are right about here,” he said. “I kinda reach on over a ways.”
“Or it could be Jim’s blood,” Torrez said. “I asked Alan Perrone to double-check for minor injuries that would be consistent with this. But that’s going to be a tough call.”
“Impossible,” I said. “What about on the operating levers themselves?” I peered close at the black rubber handles. “Anything there?”
“No,” Bishop said. “We’d expect a pretty good collection there, too. We dusted before I touched them, so at the very least we should have Jim Sisson’s and maybe the killer’s. But they’re clean.”
“Wiped, then. Very clever. Just the sort of thing a person committing suicide would do.”
Bishop actually came close to laughing. “They always slip up somewheres, if you look close enough,” he observed. “Whoever bled on this thing didn’t take the time to wear gloves.”
“If the levers hadn’t been wiped clean, the most logical guess would be that the blood is Sisson’s himself,” I said. “Maybe. So look, we’ll get a blood type, and that’s a start. We’ve got some good prints off the bar, and that’s another plus. Maybe the blood’s enough for a DNA match, if it comes to that. What I want you to do now is go over these machines, this entire area, for the ten-dozenth time. Slow, careful, methodical…every square inch of the machines, the tire, the wheel, hell, even the shop itself. I want to make sure that we looked at everything, too many times.”
I turned to Bob Torrez. “And before we get busy, I need to ask you something.” I pointed at Tom Pasquale. “And you stay close. I need to talk to you in just a minute.”
Pasquale hadn’t said a word in the darkroom, and he’d been a shadow while we discussed the machine. When I spoke to him, he nod
ded as if he’d been waiting for the ax to fall.
Torrez accompanied me back to the front curb where 310 was parked. “I talked to Judge Hobart and Don Jaramillo at lunch today,” I said.
“Jaramillo’s not being much help with any of this,” Torrez said. “I’d expect him to be doggin’ every step of this investigation, but he’s been staying about as far away as he can get.”
“I can think of all sorts of reasons for that,” I said, “but that’s not what interests me just now. He’s just an assistant DA with politics on his mind, and nobody’s going to be very popular with this case, no matter what happens. We can cut around him if we have to, go straight to Schroeder. But what did surprise me is that he mentioned something about asking for a court order to run a DNA test on Jennifer Sisson’s unborn child.”
Torrez frowned and leaned toward me as if he hadn’t heard right. “On the kid? The fetus, you mean?”
“That’s what he said.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Torrez said. “I know I said that to Sam, back there in his office, but that was just to jerk his chain a little bit…make him nervous.”
“I understand that. And I knew that’s what you were doing,” I said. “But did you bring up the idea to him? To Jaramillo?” Torrez’s eyebrow cocked at me in surprise, but he didn’t reply. “Don Jaramillo told Judge Hobart and me that you had suggested to him a paternity test on Jennifer Sisson might not be such a bad idea.”
“Jaramillo’s a liar,” Torrez said matter-of-factly. “As simple as that. I never suggested that to him. Like I said, you were there and heard what I said to Sam Carter. That’s it. I haven’t mentioned the idea to anyone else.” He looked hard at me. “I don’t think we’re going to go around sticking needles in the bellies of teenage girls. If Jaramillo thinks Hobart’s going to go for that, he’s more of a jerk than I think he is. And unless he came up with the idea himself, there’s only one place he could have gotten it-and that’s from Carter himself.”
“That was the conclusion I’d reached,” I said. “If Carter thinks you’re actually going to do a test, he might well start to panic, afraid of what would happen if it ever leaked out…and all it takes is one blabby nurse or lab tech.”
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