Double Prey (18 page)
Providing security for a crime scene—simply
being
there to prevent disturbance—could be deadly boring. It was certainly expensive. Estelle was reminded of that expense when she crested the little hill beyond where Freddy had launched his final flight and saw that, across the next swale, the county manager had arrived, looking voluminous even in her khaki trousers, khaki shirt, and bright yellow baseball cap. Stopped in the middle of the two-track, the manager had parked nose to tailgate with Jackie Taber’s older Bronco, the last vehicle of its type in the sheriff’s department fleet. Behind Leona Spears’ county vehicle was a blue Toyota sedan. The spirits living in the old homestead were enjoying lots of company, but Estelle reminded herself not to say something like that to Leona—the county manager would take her seriously.
Estelle parked squarely in the middle of the road at the crest of an undulation, the homestead a hundred yards ahead of her, the site of the ATV crash behind her. But the sheriff, following a hundred yards or more behind her, didn’t follow suit. Instead, he parked far behind her, within a dozen feet of the rock that had torn the front tire of Freddy Romero’s four-wheeler.
“Now I know why Bobby let you go first,” Bill Gastner laughed. “Brunhilde is waiting for you. And Frank. What a pair.”
“Ah,” Estelle sighed. “Nothing is ever simple.” She glanced across at her passenger.
“You want me to run interference? Make myself useful?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. Leona is going to see all the overtime requests anyway. She’ll be curious for some answers. And Frank…you know what day of the week it is.” Sure enough, Frank Dayan had often chided the local law enforcement agencies—only half kidding—that they conspired to break major cases just
after
his weekly edition of the
Posadas Register
had hit the streets. That gave the big metro papers, television, and radio a week’s edge on the little local paper.
Listed as
publisher
on the masthead of the paper, Frank Dayan was no number cruncher who refused to jump into the trenches. He waged his scoop war with ferocious dedication, still finding the time to solicit a hefty advertising schedule. His editor, Pam Gardiner, rarely left the office herself, choosing to remain at her desk for long hours, making sense of the news and photos that Frank produced. A part-time reporter covered sports, but little else.
County Manager Leona Spears had cornered Deputy Jackie Taber, and the two of them had a map spread on the hood of the deputy’s Bronco. Frank leaned on the fender, both hands cradling his little digital camera with which he managed somehow to take amazingly fuzzy pictures.
Estelle waited beside her own vehicle for a moment while Bobby Torrez took his time. For a time he stood beside his truck, surveying the prairie with binoculars. Eventually, as Linda’s little Honda, and then Tom Pasquale and Doug Posey lined up behind him to turn the prairie into a parking lot, the sheriff waved at them to park behind his unit, and then ambled forward.
“He had to shoot from either here, or way up ahead, up the slope behind the homestead,” the sheriff announced as he reached Estelle and Bill Gastner. He made a rolling, wave motion with his hand. “Hills get in the line of sight otherwise.”
Still out of earshot of the county manager and the newspaper publisher, Torrez stepped off the two-track and looked down at the tracks and gouges in the arroyo bottom’s gravel.
“How much do you want Dayan to know?” he asked. His tone didn’t carry the usual dismissive note that he was fond of using when referring to the media, whether it be Frank Dayan’s modest little weekly paper or the largest metro television station or daily. He was perfectly content to leave the media with the undersheriff.
“If Miles Waddell is right—if that skeleton is the remains of Eddie Johns—then we need to know who saw Johns last. This trail is years old, Bobby. Some newspaper coverage might be useful.”
“I’m thinkin’ we don’t need to let all of it out yet.”
“I agree a hundred percent. Maybe someone fired at least one shot at Freddy—whether by accident or design, we don’t know, but I wasn’t going to discuss any of that with Frank.”
“Leona either.”
Estelle nodded, but didn’t chide the sheriff that his circumspection regarding the county manager was unwarranted. Despite her ebullient nature, Leona Spears could be the soul of discretion when the occasion warranted.
“Good morning!” the county manager warbled when they walked to within earshot. She beamed at Estelle, and then offered her hand to Torrez with a mock frown. “And how are you, sir?” Leona swung on Bill Gastner and embraced him in a hug before he had a chance to flee. “You’re looking fit.”
“You may be the first person ever to tell me that,” Gastner laughed. He nodded at Frank Dayan. “How’s Frank?”
“I’m having a good time trying to figure out what’s going on out here,” the newspaperman said. “What a shame about the Romero boy.”
“It is that,” Gastner agreed. As he spoke, Torrez beckoned at Jackie, walking away from all the civilian ears. In the meantime, Linda Real and the two other deputies had strolled across the swale, and while Linda’s bright smile and bubbly personality engaged the county manager, Jackie led them around to the rear of her Bronco.
The deputy’s voice was a husky whisper, and Estelle had to lean close to hear her. Jackie pointed up the flank of the mesa. “Absolutely nothing, sir,” the deputy said. “I combed every conceivable spot where someone could engage that area of the two-track where Freddy went off.” She shook her head. “Nothing. No shell casings, no cigarette butts, no fresh tracks. A big zero.”
“Well, we’re going to comb it some more,” Torrez said. “That busted up bullet recovered from the tire didn’t leave us with shit. We gotta come up with
something
. ” He sighed and surveyed the mesa flank. “If it ain’t here, it ain’t here. That’s just the way it is. But I want to be sure. How far up did you go?”
“All the way to where the rim rock pallisades meet the vegetation,” the deputy said. “I couldn’t imagine why anyone would need to climb higher. Or even
that
high.” She pointed toward the ruins of the homestead foundation. “If he parked there for whatever reason…”
“To wait for Freddy,” the sheriff interrupted.
“Well, maybe. But if he did that, then he wouldn’t have to walk very far up the slope to find a vantage point.”
“If we line up the nick in the front brush guard with the cut in the wheel rim, that doesn’t give us much of an angle,” Estelle said.
“I don’t see why the shooter didn’t just stroll down the two-track to meet Freddy,” Jackie said. “Why bother with all the ambush stuff?”
“Some folks find face to face hard to manage,” Estelle said.
“He wanted it to look like an accident, that’s for sure,” the deputy said.
“Impossible,” Gastner said. “There’s no way you could lie in wait up in the trees, fire a shot or two, and assume that it’s going to startle the kid enough to lose control of his rig. For one thing, with the noise of that four-wheeler, he wouldn’t even
hear
the gun go off. Even if he wasn’t wearing his helmet.”
“And what would make him swerve?” Estelle asked.
“
Seeing
someone with a rifle, pointing his way. That might startle him a little.”
“That means the shooter wasn’t very far upslope,” Torrez added.
“And one other thing,” Jackie said. “And you might want Linda to work some magic with it…where someone backed up alongside the foundation over there? His truck had an oil seep.”
“Seep?”
“Just a drop or two. Maybe power steering fluid, maybe from the oil pan drain plug. But it’s from up front if he backed in.”
“That narrows it down to about every truck in the world,” Torrez grumbled. “If he wasn’t parked there long, it’s a hell of a lot more than a
seep
. Look, we got,” and he turned, counting heads, “we got seven people. I want us to sweep from just back beyond the homestead all the way east to where Freddy cleared the top of the rise. Just to be sure. Bill and I are going to take either side of the two-track. Everybody take a lane and take your time.”
Another hour of looking so hard that it made the eyes water produced nothing of immediate interest. Tom Pasquale found a well-tarnished 1961 quarter. Leona Spears picked up an unfired twelve gauge shotgun shell that had nestled in bunch grass for so long that the red hull had faded to dull pink. Adding to the haul were bits of glass, scraps of discarded cardboard, and an oil filter now full of blow sand. Further up the hill, Jackie Taber discovered a nest of nine .22 caliber rimfire shell casings and the bottom cushion of an easy chair. But no one discovered anything that might suggest an event as recent as Freddy Romero’s crash.
Through the entire process, Frank Dayan waited patiently, occasionally snapping a digital photo of them at work or drawn into discussion.
“You’re a patient man, sir,” Estelle said as she strolled back to the vehicles.
“I figure that if I block the road long enough, someone is going to give me the interview of a lifetime,” he laughed. “You ready to do that?”
“I wish I had more to tell you.” She pulled out her notebook. “The body of a man was discovered in a small cave up on the flank of the mesa,” she said, and watched Dayan’s eyebrows shoot up.
“
In
a cave?”
“That’s correct. It would appear that the body has been there for a number of years. It’s now skeletal remains, widely scattered by the critters.” She watched Dayan fiddle with his pocket micro-recorder, and when he was satisfied that it was working, he rested it on the hood of Jackie Taber’s Bronco. “The obvious question is
who
, of course, and we’re not ready to talk about that. When we have a positive I.D., I’ll let you know.”
“Illegal?”
“His death? Almost certainly,” Estelle smiled, knowing full well what the newspaper man had meant. “We don’t have an I.D., Frank. Until we do, we won’t know if this is an illegal immigrant who got caught up somehow, or something else.”
“So you have an unidentified body. Who made the discovery? I mean, who the heck is out
here
to do that. Lost tourists?”
“We found him, sir.”
“
We
? The S.O., you mean?”
“Yes.”
Dayan frowned, and Estelle could almost see antenna twitching. “Jackie tells me that this is where the Romero boy went into the arroyo.”
“That’s correct, sir. He went off right back there.” She pointed toward the rise.
“How far from here to the cave where the body was found?”
“One point three miles.”
“The two incidents are related somehow?”
“I’d be interested to hear how that might be possible, sir.”
“Well, it’s just odd, that’s all. There isn’t much out here other than barbed wire, cows, and an occasional rancher and his pickup truck. What was the Romero boy doing over here, anyway?”
“Riding his four-wheeler, sir. Probably a little faster than he should have been.”
“That was quite a find he made over by Borracho Canyon. Lots of folks are excited about that. Nobody that I’ve talked to can remember when the last time a jaguar was seen in this country.”
Estelle nodded silently, looking down at the little recorder, gauging her response, considering carefully what she wanted to tell Frank Dayan—what she wanted to feed to the
Register
. Although the newspaper’s next edition wouldn’t appear until the following Wednesday with counter sales, and then in the mail on Thursday, Frank would no doubt mention any juicy tidbit to someone. And then word would spread like wildfire.
“We were presented with new evidence about the cat that led us over here, Frank. It appears that Freddy Romero didn’t find the jaguar over at Borracho at all. The cat’s skeleton was in the cave just down this road. That’s where he found it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Apparently, Freddy was interested in recovering the rest of the carcass. He didn’t want anyone else disturbing the site. So he made up the story about Borracho.”
“But it was over here all along? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in the process of following down that lead, you discovered the other skeleton.”
“That’s essentially correct.”
Dayan looked confused. “How did you know where the cat skeleton actually was? Did you talk to Freddy before his crash?”
“No, we didn’t. But certain information came to our attention.”
“Ah.
Certain information
. That’s intriguing, Estelle. So that leads us to all kinds of questions, doesn’t it. Perrone was out here, wasn’t he?” He nodded toward Jackie. “I heard some radio traffic. Is he going to be able to determine cause of death, you think?”
“It appears that the victim was shot, sir.”
“You have that already?”
“Well, there’s what appears to be a bullet hole through the skull, Frank. At the moment that’s pretty much the sum and substance of what we have.”
“That’s what Nate Underwood told me. A hole through the cat’s skull. Isn’t
that
something.” He smiled with anticipation at the story, and then his face sagged. “How much of this are you going to be able to sit on until next Friday?”
“I’ll do my best,” Estelle replied.
“The cave’s on Herb’s property?”
“No. Actually it’s on the Waddell ranch.”
“You’ve talked to him?”
“Yes.”
Dayan grinned at the finality of her response. “Charges pending?” He held up a hand quickly. “No, let me.
Investigation is continuing
. ”
“ Exactly.” She reached out and took Frank by the arm, shaking it gently. “We can really use your cooperation in this, Frank. ‘Investigation continues into the ATV crash that claimed the life of Freddy Romero.’”
“That’s what you want me to write? Pam’s not going to like that.”
Then she ought to be here
, Estelle thought. Editor Pam Gardiner had her own slate of problems and issues, but hotly pursuing news outside of the office wasn’t one of them. “Investigation also continues into the discovery of a human skeleton in a cave southwest of Posadas.”
