Dead Weight (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

Jim Sisson’s death hadn’t attracted much press, to Frank Dayan’s relief. His major competition, the Deming newspaper, stumbled across the incident in the course of their routine morning phone call to check the blotter.

The story didn’t make the front page. The episode was tucked under several obits more local to Deming than Posadas. If it had been a hot news week, we wouldn’t have made it at all.

The headline was artfully evasive across two columns:

Most of the grim details were there, with the exception of any speculation about how the “incident” might have happened.

The fundamental conundrum—how a five-and-a-half-foot man managed to be crushed under a fifty-four-inch-tall tire and wheel assembly—was not mentioned, other than the cover-all expression that “investigation is continuing into the incident that claimed the life of James L. Sisson.”

Apparently the use of the word
incident
rather than accident hadn’t been lost on Posadas Chief of Police Eduardo D. Martinez, who waddled into the Public Safety Building with a copy of the Deming paper under his arm. He appeared in the door of my office shortly after 3:00, brow furrowed and mouth working either a wad of chewing tobacco or a rehearsal of what he wanted to say.

The chief was fifty-six, with about the same dimensions in the torso as a fifty-five-gallon oil drum. His large, square face, with dark eyebrows, wide, heavy-lipped mouth that winked gold, and enough chin for three people, would have made him perfect casting as the Mexican bartender in one of those grade-D spaghetti westerns.

I liked Eduardo, even though I’d never been sure just what purpose his tiny department served—especially since he made no effort to grab his share of the law enforcement turf. But state law was clear: Incorporated villages had to have a police department. A decade before, back when the copper mines were open and fat paychecks flowed directly from payroll office to bank to saloons, the police department had kept busy.

But that was before Eduardo’s tenure as chief—back when he was still earning a living driving a road grader for the village street department. Now Chief Martinez and two part-time patrolmen kept themselves busy making sure that we had one of the best patrolled fifteen-mile-an-hour school zones in the state. Eduardo’s philosophy seemed to be that if the kids could cross the street safely, what else mattered?

Chief Martinez was so adept at staying backstage that I sometimes forgot that he was there. If he took offense at that, he never let it show.

He ducked his head and smiled ruefully. “You busy?”

“No, no,” I said quickly and got up, motioning toward one of the leather-backed chairs. “Come on in. Pull up a seat and rest the bones.”

He did so and unfolded the newspaper. “This is sure something, eh?” he said, his soft voice carrying that wonderfully musical border cadence.

“Just about the goddamnedest thing I ever saw.”

“You know,” he said, looking up at me, “when Bobby answered that call, it was the third time yesterday.” He frowned and tried again. “Three times he went out to that place.”

“Out to the Sissons’, you mean?”

“Yes.” The chief nodded vigorously. “You know, there have been days when I went out there myself, three, four times.”

“They put on quite a show from time to time, that’s for sure.”

He frowned again and scooted his chair forward. “What do you think happened?”

I leaned back in my chair and regarded Martinez with interest. The chief was adept at staying out of the way—he had never been the sort to weasel his way into an investigation that another agency was conducting, for limelight or any other reason. In fact, this was the first time that he’d ever taken the initiative to come to my office and ask to be brought up to speed.

The manila folder that included the set of photographs rested at my elbow, and I flopped it open. “Take a look,” I said. “Tell me what you think.” Like any of us, the chief enjoyed a little deference now and then, and instead of just handing him the folder, I selected several photos, reached across, and spread them out on my desk, facing him.

He leaned forward with his hands tightly clasped between his knees, as if afraid that touching the prints might smear the images.

“Linda shot this one before the tire was moved,” I said. “And these were taken at the hospital.”

Martinez grimaced. “Hm,” he said, and blinked.

“Here’s our problem,” I continued. “See the way he’s scrunched up against the wall? There just isn’t very much space there. About four feet or so. And that’s how tall the tire is, give or take.”

“I don’t get it,” Martinez said.

“Me, neither. We picked up that tire with a chain, just the way Jim Sisson might have. We can’t be sure, of course, but the chain marks on the tire,” and I tapped another photo, “indicate that Sisson—or someone—lifted the tire with a chain that in turn was looped around the bucket teeth of a backhoe. From what we could pry out of Grace, old Jim was working alone out back. And that tire is flat, so it’s logical to assume that’s what Jim was doing.”

“And the chain just slipped off?”

“So it would appear. We tried the same thing. Hoisted it up, knocked the chain loose, and let the tire drop. It hit the ground and stopped dead. No bounce. Bob stepped up to it and balanced it in place with one hand.”

Martinez chewed his lip in thought. “He would have to be kneeling down or sitting or something to be caught like that.”

“When we tipped the tire over, it just leaned against the wall. It didn’t slide down. Not until we forced it with the bucket. And that explains the chain marks, there.” I indicated one of the photos.

I leaned back and folded my hands over my stomach. “Bob went out there on three separate occasions yesterday. He never was able to determine what Jim and Grace were arguing about, but apparently it was a doozie. The first call came when a neighbor who happened to be walking by heard a screaming match and the sound of shattering glass. From what we can gather, a large mirror in the living room was the target of a flying object.” I grinned. “And that was the first call. Right after lunch, they went at it again, apparently when Jim returned from a job he was doing at Bucky Randall’s place. The third time was early in the evening, just before dark.”

“When Jim came home again,” the chief said.

“Probably. The interesting thing is that the Sissons wouldn’t tell Bob what the argument was about. Grace still won’t. She took the kids down to Las Cruces, and the city PD there confirms that all four of them are staying with her parents. The city cops are keeping an eye on her for us until we sound the all clear.”

Reaching across the desk, I pulled the photo of the tire hanging from the chain. “We have a video of our little test, Chief. You might want to look at that, too. You asked me what I think happened, and I’m sure of this much: That tire didn’t just drop off the chain and crush Jim Sisson to death. It had help.”

For a long time Chief Martinez looked at the photo as if the still picture might come to life for him.

“Marjorie always gave them troubles,” he said, and glanced up at me. “The oldest daughter.”

“The blond bombshell,” I said. “I remember an episode or two that involved her. But she’s off in college somewhere.”

“Over in California,” the chief said. “But they had three at home, still.”

“Todd, Melissa, and Jennifer,” I offered.

“And when people argue,” he said, “you can bet that it’s about money or their kids. And if I had to bet, I’d find out a little more about that girl.”

“Jennifer, you mean? Or Melissa?”

He nodded. “Jennifer. I see her around town, you know. All the time. Her tail…wag, wag, wag.” He fluttered his hand back and forth but didn’t crack a smile.

“And maybe the argument between Jim and Grace didn’t have a damn thing to do with Jim Sisson’s death,” I said. “There’s always that. He might have been working back there, and someone came in without Grace hearing, without one of the kids looking outside and seeing who it was. We just don’t know. They all say that they didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything.”

Eduardo Martinez settled back in the chair and folded his hands in his lap. “What did Tomas tell you?” he asked, and I didn’t make the connection. Eduardo saw my puzzled expression and quickly added, “Deputy Pasquale.”

“What do you mean, what did he tell me? What
should
he have told me?” Even before the question was out, I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise.

“A couple days ago—maybe it was Monday, I’m not sure—his unit was parked at Portillo’s and he was talking to a group of kids. I stopped there just to pick up some things, you know. It was kinda late.”

Portillo’s Handy-Way, the convenience store a dusty field and one street east of the high school, was a popular hangout for youngsters—or at least the store’s parking lot was. From there they could watch traffic cruising up and down Grande, an excitement that I somehow failed to appreciate.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “When Pasquale worked for you, Portillo’s was one of his favorite haunts, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, it was. And one of the kids he was talking to the other night was Jennifer Sisson. I happened to notice her. The long blond hair, you know.”

“Huh,” I muttered, then took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sure that if she’d told him anything of significance, he would have mentioned it to me.”

The chief reached out and tidied up the stack of photos, then pushed himself out of the chair. “At least you got one thing,” he said. “Whoever done this is pretty good with a backhoe. To do that…that would never occur to just anyone, you know. They’d have to have some experience…They’d have to know how.”

“So it would appear,” I said. “I’ll check with Pasquale about the Sisson girl. And I’ll keep you posted. If you hear anything else, holler at me.”

As soon as the chief left, I stepped into the dispatch room. Gayle Sedillos turned and raised an eyebrow at my expression.

“Find Deputy Pasquale for me,” I said.

“I think he’s at home,” Gayle replied, and then, having correctly interpreted both the expression on my face and the tone of my voice, she added, “I’ll call him in right away, sir.”

“Send him to my office when he gets here,” I said.

Chapter Thirteen

After a few minutes, even the steady hum of the computer became a nuisance. The damn thing squatted on the corner of my desk, its screen-saver program presenting an endless series of twisting geometric patterns. Either the machine didn’t have any of the answers that I wanted or I didn’t know how to ask the right questions. The noise got on my nerves, and I shut the thing off and sat back, letting my head sag back against my chair’s leather rest.

I leaned back and let my eyes wander around the room, wondering what the hell my next step should be. I didn’t like not knowing. And I felt, with those damn anonymous notes piled on top of a messy homicide, as if someone was playing games with us.

With a start, I realized that there was one small mystery I could clear up. I leaned forward and picked up the phone book, rummaged for a moment, then dialed the number of Payson Realty. Maggie Payson picked it up on the third ring.

“Maggie, this is Bill Gastner,” I said.

Her tone went up an octave with a pleasure that sounded genuine. “Well now, Sheriff, how are you? You know, I was just thinking about you.”

I didn’t pursue that, since with the way my luck had been running I was sure that, one way or another, her thoughts would end up as a complaint against someone in my department. Instead I asked, “How’s your father?” George Payson had owned and operated a sporting goods store until a couple of months before, when a stroke had knocked him out of his chair while he was tying a difficult bass fly.

“Oh,” Maggie said, “not good. It’s so sad to see him slipping.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” George and I had had a standing bet for almost two decades over which one of us would keel over first. We’d both almost taken the trophy a couple of times, but at the moment I didn’t feel like winning. “He’s at home still, though, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Maggie said quickly. “I tried to talk to him about a managed care place over in Deming, but that conversation lasted about ten seconds.”

“He’s stubborn,” I said. “Maybe that will keep him going.”

“We can only hope so.”

I hesitated. “Look, the reason I called. It’s none of my business, but I was wondering who bought the Guzmans’ place over on Twelfth Street. I happened to be driving by there last night, and the sign was down.”

Posadas wasn’t the center of the world’s real estate market, and Maggie Payson didn’t have to consult a huge cross-referenced database to answer my question. She didn’t even hesitate to shift mental gears.

“No, that didn’t sell, Bill. Francis and Estelle took their place off the market.”

“Off the market?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll be damned. It’s been a couple of weeks since I talked to her. She didn’t mention anything about that.”

“Well, this is a more recent thing. She called me Friday, I believe it was.”

“Son of a gun. I guess I’ll have to get on the ball and find out what’s going on. We’ve been busy, and time slips away.”

“Yes, you have,” Maggie said, artfully dodging the opportunity to tell me what was on Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s mind, if she knew in the first place. “That was awful about Jim Sisson, wasn’t it? Such a tragic thing. I can’t imagine what Grace’s going to do now. Three kids still at home. I just can’t imagine.”

I heard murmuring voices out in the hall and glanced at my watch. “I’ll leave you in peace, Maggie. Thanks for the information.”

“My pleasure. And say, did you ever get those horses you were thinking about? Those wonderful draft horses?”

“I chickened out,” I chuckled. “I came to the realization that my schedule would never fit theirs…at least not until I retire. Maybe then I’ll rethink the whole idea.”

“We’ve got a really good deal on a nice parcel of irrigated pasturage over west of town, if you need it. Just under eleven acres.”

“I’m sure you do, Maggie. I’ll keep it in mind. And give my regards to your dad.”

We rang off, and the instant the light blinked out on my telephone, a set of knuckles rapped on my door.

“Come on in,” I said, and Deputy Tom Pasquale appeared, one hand gripping the outside knob, the other drifting to the jamb, as if prepared to slam the door shut at an instant’s notice.

“Gayle said you were off the phone,” he began. “Did you want to see me, sir?”

“Yes. Come in. Close the door. Have a seat.” I gathered up the photos that Chief Martinez and I had been examining, shoved them in the folder, and tossed it on the stack of papers to my right.

Pasquale sat down and carefully placed his straw Bailey on the floor and then shifted sideways a little so that the butt of his holstered automatic wouldn’t dig the arm of the chair.

“There are about three things that I need to run by you,” I said. “Chief Martinez said that you had the opportunity to talk with Jennifer Sisson a couple of nights ago.”

Pasquale frowned and visibly seemed to relax. An intelligent kid, he was keenly aware of his past performance, and I knew that no one in the department tried more diligently to do the right thing—at least as long as I was watching.

He thought for a moment and then said, “Yes, sir. I did. I think it was Monday night, as a matter of fact. She was one of several kids messing around.”

“Where was that?”

“Portillo’s parking lot. It was pushing ten o’clock, and I thought it would be a good idea if I could sort of…move ’em on a little.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Jennifer was the oldest in that group, sir. The others were just middle schoolers. And there were a couple of cars with older kids cruising around town, and I knew that the younger kids were waiting to be picked up.” He shrugged. “I figured that if I hung around, that might not happen. It was a quiet night, not much else to do.”

“And the PD?”

“Beuler was on, and he was tied up with a minor fender bender over at the Posadas Inn, sir.”

“Ah.” I leaned my head back again and watched the fan idle in circles. Tom Pasquale waited. “Did Jennifer Sisson happen to say anything to you at the time? Anything that, in retrospect, might fit in with the incident last night? Or with the fight between her parents?”

Pasquale frowned again and ran fingers through his sandy brown hair. “No, sir. She didn’t. But I really didn’t get into it with them, either. The kids, I mean. I just figured that if I parked there for a few minutes, they’d move on.”

“And they did?”

“Yes, sir. We chatted for a bit, and then they headed toward the pizza place.”

“And this was all about ten o’clock, or thereabouts?”

“Yes, sir.”

I rested my chin in my left hand, elbow propped on the padded arm of the chair. “Who were the older kids that were cruising around, do you know?”

Pasquale shook his head. “No, sir. I caught a glimpse of one car that came out of the parking lot of the grocery store. There were a couple of kids in it, but they were behaving themselves, so I didn’t check ’em out.”

“That was while you were parked at Portillo’s?”

“Yes, sir. Kitty-corner across the street.”

“When you talked with Beuler last night, did he happen to mention anything? Anything at all that might tie into this mess? Any arguments that Jim Sisson had with anybody?”

“No, sir.” Pasquale sighed. “We haven’t turned up a thing. Bob is convinced that someone else was there, and that Sisson’s death wasn’t an accident, and that maybe Grace knows more than she’s ready to admit to. But that’s it.” He held up his hands. “We haven’t found a thing yet. No prints, no nothing.”

I grimaced. “Maybe we’re imagining things.”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“You agree with the undersheriff?” I knew that was a silly question, and Pasquale’s answer was prompt.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then it’s footwork time, Thomas. We need to know who was on Jim’s list of recent accounts—maybe some customer got bent out of shape. Who he’s got debts with.” I held out both hands. “Who his kids are seeing. Who Grace is having tea with, or who she’s having an affair with. Whatever.”

Deputy Pasquale nodded and started to reach for his hat.

“A couple other things,” I said, and he relaxed back in the chair. “It’s not my intent to pry into your personal life, Thomas, but…” I stopped. It would have helped if he’d just said,
“Well, then don’t,”
but he sat there quietly, looking uncertain and apprehensive.

“I talked to Carla Champlin yesterday.”

“Sir?”

“And Miss Champlin wants you evicted.”

“Say what?”

I nodded. “She contends that the house you’re renting has been damaged to a point where she’s losing her investment.”

“Sir, that’s—”

I held up a hand to cut him off. “That’s what Miss Champlin said. I pass it on to you for what it’s worth. If there’s a problem, it’s between you and her.”

“Why didn’t she just come and talk with me?” Pasquale said. “I wouldn’t think that’s so hard.”

“She said that she’s tried, on several occasions.” Pasquale looked puzzled, and I spread my hands. “That’s what she says. I’ve known Carla Champlin for a good many years, Thomas. She’s an…interesting…person. You happen to be her target of the month.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

“I wouldn’t presume to tell you, Thomas. Maybe plant some petunias. I don’t know.”

“It’s the motorcycle,” he said flatly.

“The Harley in the front yard?”

He nodded. “I’m trying to buy it from Mears. The other day I had it inside the house. It’s got something wrong with one of the carbs, and I didn’t want to get sand in it, so I rolled it inside and put it in the back bedroom. I put papers down and stuff.”

“And…”

“She happened to drive by when Linda and I were rolling it back outside.”

“I see,” I said, and grinned. “Were you wearing your leather motorcycle gang jacket at the time?”

“Maybe I should have been,” he muttered. “If I owned one.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I told Carla Champlin I’d mention it to you, and I have, so…”

Pasquale nodded and reached for his hat again.

“One more thing before you go,” I said.

“Sir?”

I hesitated again. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but I knew I wasn’t good at dissembling. Tom Pasquale would find out sooner or later, and I wanted it to be from me, not from an article in the newspaper or from someone on the street who couldn’t wait to pass on juicy gossip. I opened the top drawer of my desk and took out the photocopies I’d made of the three letters received by the county commissioners and Frank Dayan.

I reached across and handed them to Pasquale. He read them one at a time with his lips forming the words silently. By the second one, his face had drained of color.