Before She Dies pc-4 Read online

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And in the dark, with all the confusion of the headlights, maybe even the spotlight, he might not have noticed that Paul had a passenger until he crossed the highway. Then he saw Linda and fired a third time.”

  Estelle nodded. “I think that’s the way it went, sir.”

  “What did you want the picker for?”

  “I’d like photographs from above, sir. The sun is just right to glint off the lines. If he parks the truck over behind the pole, then we can adjust the angle from there.”

  Nelson Petro idled the truck forward under Bob Torrez’s directions. He parked in the soft sand along the side of the highway, far enough from the pole that no part of the truck would be in the photographs. He extended the truck’s hydraulic outriggers, then swung the boom out and lowered the bucket. For the first time Estelle hesitated.

  “There doesn’t look like there’s room in there for both of us,” she said.

  “Yeah, we’ll fit,” Nelson said. “You just tell me what you want.”

  They squeezed into the red bucket and then with a whine were lofted into the air. Bob Torrez and I backed away, squinting into the sun and watching the performance. Nelson maneuvered the bucket to a point directly behind the string-post and then, with Estelle bracing the camera, lifted the bucket straight up, gradually increasing the angle of sight along the strings. Finally, hovering fifteen feet up and as many feet behind the post, Estelle found what she was looking for. A few minor adjustments and the bucket hung quietly while she burned film.

  She shot photos from several other positions before nodding that she was satisfied.

  “Anything else, just holler,” Nelson said a few minutes later, and then the county truck rumbled back toward town.

  “You want to meet in my office in a few minutes?” I asked. “Or down at the hospital?”

  Estelle looked down at the macadam thoughtfully. “Francis is going to let me know the instant there’s any change in Linda’s condition, sir. I’m going to head over that way. I have a couple of questions to ask the medical examiner, and then I want to follow up with Mr. Pena.”

  “He’s pretty upset,” Torrez said. “I tried to talk with him, but he wasn’t much help.”

  “I’ll give it a try,” Estelle said. She would pry out any information the old ranch hand knew, in one language or another. “And I want to use one of the hospital’s stereoscopes. See what the shotgun casing has to offer.”

  Slim evidence, but maybe the killer had been confident that we’d never find the shell casing in the first place. I found myself hoping he’d stay confident and give us something more.

  Chapter 9

  Sheriff Martin Holman sat in my chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk and his hands clasped at his forehead as if he were deep in prayer. A newspaper was spread out under his elbows. He looked up from the Posadas Register as I entered and dropped one hand to the paper so he could mark his place with an index finger.

  “Ron Schroeder wants to see you.”

  I hung my Stetson on the hat tree behind the door, taking my time so Holman wouldn’t feel rushed about getting out of my chair. He didn’t move.

  “Schroeder knows where I work,” I said.

  “No, no, Bill. This is a summons into The Great One’s presence.” That wasn’t entirely fair, since District Attorney Ron Schroeder was as hardworking as they come-bright, diligent, ambitious-all those traits that somehow never quite seemed to make up for the giant streak of condescension running down his back.

  Holman turned the newspaper so that I could see it and then pushed it across the desk.

  I sighed and fished what was left of my glasses out of my pocket. “Somebody else worked all night, too,” I said, and before my eyes could focus I was already wondering how Dayan had managed to sneak a crime scene photograph when we hadn’t allowed so much as a centipede through the roadblocks.

  But I had forgotten about Sonny Trujillo and the Friday night follies.

  “Not very flattering, Bill,” Holman said. There I was, in perfect focus, spread across three columns at the top of the page. The photographer had popped the flash at the instant that Trujillo’s fat fist made contact with my cheek and glasses. In the picture, my glasses were askew, Trujillo’s mouth was open and bellowing, and there in the bottom left corner, perfectly in focus, was my service revolver. My left hand was clamped around the barrel and cylinder, obviously twisting hard.

  “Nice picture,” I said. I squinted at the caption. “Despite being physically attacked, Undersheriff William K. Gastner managed to wrestle a handgun away from Salvador Trujillo (left) during an altercation at Friday night’s basketball game.” I grunted. “That’s nice. They had to label him ‘left’ so people could tell us apart?”

  “At least the caption doesn’t mention that it’s your own gun, Bill.”

  “There’s always that.” The three column headline below the photograph read Veteran Cop’s Quick Thinking Prevents Tragedy.

  “You may need that headline,” Holman said, and I looked up sharply. “Schroeder said that he needs to see you in connection with Trujillo’s death.”

  I started to fold the newspaper. “I don’t have time for that shit, Martin. You talk with him. We’ve got a murder investigation, for God’s sake. You’d think Schroeder of all people would have his priorities straight on this one. And you’d think that Linda’s own goddamned newspaper might feature something about her, rather than this nonsense.”

  Sheriff Holman held up both hands to slow me down. “Whoa, whoa. The DA said he needs to talk with you when you have time. Not this instant.” He made little rotating motions with his hands, as if I were supposed to turn the newspaper over.

  “That’ll be in about seven years, the way things are going.”

  I turned the folded paper over and a box with a heavy black border at the bottom right corner of page one drew my eye. The shooting late Sunday night had caught the Register right at deadline. The article showed that Frank Dayan was as frustrated as we were. I read it quickly.

  Deputy Killed, Reporter Wounded

  Police are investigating the apparent murder of a Posadas County Sheriff’s Deputy and the wounding of Posadas Register reporter Linda Real last night.

  According to Posadas County Sheriff Martin Holman, the double shooting occurred sometime after 10 P.M. last night on State Highway 56, nine miles west of Posadas. Holman reported that Deputy Sheriff Paul Encinos, 26, was dead on arrival at Posadas General Hospital.

  Ms. Real, 25, is listed in critical condition in Intensive Care with shotgun wounds to the head and neck, Holman said. Ms. Real had been riding with Deputy Encinos as a civilian passenger, Holman said.

  No other details were available, although Sheriff Holman said that several leads were being pursued.

  I dropped the newspaper on my desk and shook my head. “Christ, I wish I had some answers, Martin.”

  “Something will turn up. I really believe that. I have confidence something will break.”

  I shoved my right hand in my trouser pocket and groped with my left for a cigarette in my shirt pocket. Of course there were none there, but old habits died hard. “We’ve got nothing on this one, Martin. Nothing. No gut feelings that tell us where to go or where to look. Nothing. Some stranger could have burned ’em both and been to hell and gone over the border long before Francisco Pena ever happened by.”

  “Estelle can give us full time on this one?”

  I grunted a monosyllabic reply to what I thought was an abysmally stupid question.

  “And you’ll make a note to see Schroeder today or tomorrow? Try to fit in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll see.”

  “There has to be a hearing on Trujillo no matter what.”

  “I know it, sheriff.” I took a deep breath. “It’s hard to put some useless drunk choking to death on his own vomit in the same ball-park as one of our deputies being murdered, and the kid who was riding with him shot to pieces as well.”r />
  Holman shrugged and raised both hands, palms up. “Schroeder tells me that apparently Juanita Smith has decided this is her chance to get back at all of us.”

  “Who the hell is Juanita Smith?”

  “Sonny’s mother.”

  “I didn’t know he had a mother.” Holman grinned and I added, “I mean alive and living in town.”

  “She married Woody Smith a year or so before he drank himself to death. Before that she was living with Sal Trujillo Sr. Remember? Sal and his cousin were the ones…” I held up a hand.

  “Please, Marty. I’m not ready for this. What you’re saying is that this woman, whoever she is, has crawled out of the woodwork and is yelping that her one and only, her brilliant and talented son, was murdered by the gestapo. Is that about it?”

  Holman leaned back in my chair and hooked his hands behind his head. “Basically, yes.” As a sudden dawning spread through his brain, Holman’s eyes grew large and bright and he lunged out of my chair. “Do you suppose…”

  “No, Martin.”

  He waved a hand wildly. “No, no. Hear me out. Do you think that somehow…”

  “One of Sonny Trujillo’s friends decided to avenge his death and saw the opportunity out on State Fifty-six somehow? No.”

  “You don’t think there’s a chance of that?”

  “No.”

  Holman deflated slowly as he scanned my face for signs that I might give in.

  “Why not? It’s as good as anything else you’ve got.”

  “I’ll grant you that, Martin.” I shook my head. “First of all, Sonny didn’t run around with the kind of friends who’d have enough brains to pull something like this. Whoever did it was a cold son of a bitch, Martin. The killer took the time to pick up his damn shell casings, for God’s sake. He shot Paul once from across the highway, then walked up and pumped another into him while Paul was lying on the ground. And then he shot Linda Real, shot her right through the driver’s window. If the glass hadn’t deflected some of the pellets, he’d have blown her head off.”

  “Christ, Bill.”

  I picked up the newspaper, idly folding it. “And then he picked up his casings, Martin. All except one that he couldn’t find.”

  “And you did?”

  “Estelle found it, yes.”

  “Then that’s something, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “Damn little.”

  Holman made his way around my desk and headed toward the door. “You’ve been over to the hospital?”

  “No. Estelle said her husband would let us know if there was any change.”

  “Is someone assigned to the hospital?”

  “Peggy Mears is over there. And I asked for some assistance from the state police. Ray Galiston will be there until four.” I glanced at my watch. “And they’ll send someone else then if they can spring somebody.”

  “If Linda regains consciousness, she might be able to tell us what we need to know.”

  “Maybe.”

  “She’s the only witness, Bill.”

  “So far, yes.”

  Holman stopped at the door with his hand on the knob. “Will there be someone there to question her at any time? I mean, if she should surface for even a minute, whatever she knows might be really valuable.”

  “Right now, that’s not our highest priority, sheriff.”

  Holman looked confused. “I don’t follow.”

  “Paul Encinos is dead. Nothing we do is going to bring him back. Much as I’d like to catch the son of a bitch who killed him, I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize Linda Real’s life. I don’t want two dead. So we’re going to let the doctors alone to do their best. Later, if she can…”

  “She’s got to know, Bill. She’s the key witness.”

  “Only if she’s alive, sheriff.”

  Holman nodded and turned to go. I had a stack of patrol logs and radio logs I wanted to sift through in peace and quiet, but Holman wasn’t finished.

  “Will you give the eulogy?” I stopped short, and Holman added, “At the service. It’s Thursday morning at ten.”

  “I’m not very good at that sort of thing, sheriff.”

  “You don’t have to be good at it, Bill. And I hope that you never get enough practice that you become good at it. But it will mean more coming from you than from me. I mean, I’ll say a little something, but the official department sentiments should come from you. You’ve been in this business for a long time.”

  I nodded.

  “Thanks. Let me know if there’s anything else you want me to do.”

  “There is,” I said, and Holman looked expectant. “Sergeant Torrez has a plaster cast of some tire prints. He’s got about eighty-five million other things to do. It’d be a hell of a deal if you’d take them and find out what kind of tire we’re dealing with.”

  For a second or two, Holman looked as if he wanted to say, “How do I do that?” But he thought better of it. “Where are they?”

  “The deputy has them with him. He’s over at the county maintenance yard, in the old shop building.”

  He nodded. “I’ll pick them up. I’ll be in my office until five, and then I’ll be at the hospital.”

  After Sheriff Martin Holman left, I retrieved a stack of patrol logs along with the radio and telephone logs for the previous week. I spread the paperwork out on my desk, closed my office door, and got to work. I had no illusions that I would find anything of importance in that mass of documentation.

  The logs would show, in terse, repetitive jargon, exactly what I told every new deputy who ever joined our tiny department-and what I told the others on a regular basis. The threat of rural law enforcement lay not in the constant dangers of hoodlum patrol. Leave that to the big cities. We might go weeks, months, even years with nothing but yawns, and then be smashed in the face with fifteen seconds of panic.

  After living in the doldrums, it was easy to be caught off guard.

  Paul Encinos had been caught off guard and it had killed him. His handgun had been found still snapped in its holster. The electric lock on the dashboard of his patrol car that held the shotgun had not been tripped. The deputy never had time to recognize his moment of panic.

  Chapter 10

  Sergeant Robert Torrez was bent over the fender of 308, his brows knit tightly together in concentration as he peeled the backing off a one-inch bright-blue circular sticker.

  “Estelle’s better at this than I am,” he muttered.

  I surveyed his handiwork, impressed. Centered over each mark of pellet damage was a colored sticker. He had used yellow dots for the first shot pattern, blue for the second, and red for the third. In place of the atomized driver’s side window, he had stretched a piece of clear plastic and then, by carefully extrapolating where the pellets had struck other surfaces of the car’s interior, he had dotted the probable locations of the pellets’ entry through the window.

  I turned and looked at the dozen yard-square pieces of brown butcher paper that were laid on the garage floor. Each one had been blasted once with a shotgun. Each was carefully labeled.

  The top six targets had been shot using one of the department’s 12 gauge riot guns, a pump action weapon with a twenty-inch barrel. The shots had been fired at distances beginning at five feet and then extending out in five-foot increments to thirty feet. The diameter of the pattern was clearly labeled.

  The second set of targets had been riddled using the same type three-inch magnum number four buck ammunition, but this time fired from a shotgun with a standard length barrel.

  “You can see a pretty significant difference in spread between the two guns,” I mused, kneeling down with a grunt and a loud cracking of the knees. “What was the choke on the field gun?”

  “Modified,” Torrez said. “There’s a bunch of other combinations I could have tried, but this gives us a pretty clear picture.”

  He picked up the last target in the riot gun series, the one fired at thirty feet, and walked to the car. “If you compar
e the size of the yellow pattern, the one we think was fired from the opposite shoulder of the highway, you’ll see that it’d be pretty easy to imagine a close match.”

  “You sound overwhelmed with confidence,” I said. “None of the other series are that large.”

  “Right,” Torrez nodded. “In order to get a spread like this with a regular field gun, you’d have to be backed off fifty or sixty feet.”

  “You don’t really have very many definite pellet marks on the car to establish that pattern size, though.”

  “Eight, sir. That’s why I said you could imagine a match. I’d hate to have to defend this in court.”

  “Eight pellets out of a possible…”

  “Forty-one. I know that isn’t a very good percentage, but it gives us a starting point. For the round fired through the window, I had only six definites to work with and another half a dozen probables.” He laid down the target and picked up another. “The round fired through the window was really tight when it hit the glass. Just under a foot in diameter.”

  “And with a field gun, you’d still have to be backed away twenty or thirty feet for a pattern that big.”

  “Right.”

  I took a deep breath. “So we’re looking for a sawed-off twelve-gauge three-inch magnum shotgun that ejects its empties to the side.”

  “Or a bottom dumper that the killer held on its side, like the Hollywood hotshots do.” Torrez mimed the stance, right elbow cocked high. I grimaced.

  “In short, we don’t really know very much, do we?”

  “No, sir.”

  I straightened up and surveyed the perforated patrol car and paper targets. “We’re going to be able to figure out pretty much what happened from the time the trigger was pulled for the first time,” I said. “And that just about shoots our wad. We don’t know who, we don’t know why, we don’t know how many people were involved.” I looked at Torrez, hoping that he had some other answers that he’d been saving for last. He didn’t.

  “Howard Bishop and Bing Burkett are coordinating highway searches, airport checks, that sort of thing,” I shrugged. “Good cooperation all around. I imagine that there’s something like a hundred deputies, troopers-even some of the critter cops working every corner of the state. No one’s turned up anything.” I thrust my hands in my pockets. “Did Sheriff Holman swing by and pick up the tire casts from you?”