Less Than a Moment
Page 8
“I need to go back over and talk with Bobby. We’ve got a BOLO for the vehicle, but without a positive ID, that’s going to be a long shot. We have everyone we have out on the road. State, Border Patrol, even the Game and Fish. They’ll stop any vehicle they see.”
“You know, I never saw it. Maybe Rik did.”
“Dark and big, like a Suburban or Expedition. We’re doing our best to cover the county. Anything that moves gets a hard look.”
“Good luck with that,” Pam said skeptically. Her eyes narrowed, as if accusing Estelle of keeping secrets. “Your kids are home now, I heard.”
Even violently removed from her news desk, Pam Gardiner was still close to the pulse of things, loath to let a good story slip by.
“Francisco, Angie, and the baby are here, for a little while.”
“You think one or both will hold still for an interview? We like to follow their schedule, you know.”
“I know you would, and we appreciate it. You’ve been wonderful. I’ll twist Francisco’s arm. They’re working on the addition to Bill’s old adobe, and that’s a consuming process.” She reached out and gently rocked Pam’s right ankle. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Before the metro papers find him. That addition that they’re building to Bill’s house—the music room and everything—that’s really quite a story. Choosing a little town like this to settle in? My goodness. You and Francis must be so thrilled by it all.”
“Absolutely.”
Pam frowned with vexation. “My big-city brethren are going to hear about this business, too. I mean, shooting up a newspaper office? What is this, Syria or something? The metro news jocks will be crawling all over the place.” She lifted her right hand and lightly touched her throat bandages. “Haven’t had a sore throat like this since I was a kid with the strep. It’s a good thing I can’t sleep, though. My snoring would wake the dead.”
Estelle’s phone vibrated and she retrieved it from her pocket. “Let me take this.”
“Of course.”
“Guzman.”
Captain Taber’s clipped delivery wasted no time with pleasantries. “They found the truck. It’s parked in the superintendent’s space over at the school. At Central Office. It’s his.”
“It’s Archer’s vehicle? They’re sure? Who’s on it?”
“Sutherland found it. Engine’s still warm, keys are in the center console.”
“Is Brent sure that the superintendent isn’t inside the building? Like in his office doing some late-night budget work? That’s a habit of his, working when he’s not going to get any interruptions.”
“As a matter of fact…that’s exactly where he is. He heard nothing, saw nothing. The good news is that when the deputy opened the driver’s door, he saw that the inside of the vehicle is splattered with spent twenty-two shell casings. He shut it up tight.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” She rang off. “Stranger and stranger.”
“I heard most of that. What I need right now is a pad and pencil.”
“I’ll tell the nurse to hunt one up for you.”
“I just knew that after that last editorial about substitute teacher pay, Glenn would be gunning for me.” She smiled grimly, her hand still touching her sore throat. “Except this all sounds like the work of someone with few or no brain cells.”
“I think you’re probably right.”
Pam lifted an index finger, monitor wires and all. “I take this as a warning, undersheriff. A sign. From now on, expect to see a new me. A new, svelte me. A less-of-a target me.” She cracked a smile. “Of course, on hospital food, it’s not hard to diet.”
Estelle’s phone vibrated again, and she reached out and took Pam’s hand. “I need to go, but I’ll keep you posted. Take care of yourself.”
“I have no choice. Thanks, luv.”
Chapter Ten
Sheriff Torrez’s phone call prompted her directly back to the scene of the shooting, adding the recovered truck’s location at the high school to her list of curiosities to be explored. The superintendent’s own vehicle? That could mean that the shooter most likely was still in town—and that narrowed the field of suspects down to a thousand or so.
“I’m thinkin’ this is interesting.” Torrez held his left index finger over the first hole in the Posadas Register’s window.
Mr. Patience, Estelle thought. Two in the hospital, the assailant’s vehicle in custody, and Torrez moved methodically, examining bullet holes as if he’d never seen one before.
Without moving his left hand, he reached to his right and placed his right index finger over the next hole. For a full minute, he stood like that, then turned to Estelle, expectant. When she said nothing, he prompted, “It’s about twelve inches.”
Leaving the sheriff with his fingers in place on the glass, Estelle took three steps back, looking westward down the row of riddled windowpanes. Torrez nodded and shifted his hands to the span between the second and third holes. “That’s pretty close to twelve inches.” He shifted again and repeated the measurement for the next set. “All the way down the line, mostly. Not much up, not much down.”
“Pretty steady trigger finger,” Estelle said.
“That’s what I’m thinkin’. There’s thirteen holes, bam, bam, bam, spaced real even. Then a space of more’n six feet with no holes. Then all the rest, just like the first. Another twelve.” He jabbed the air with an index finger.
“Maybe he had to change magazines. And if he did, then he’s a nimble-fingered little rodent.”
“Yup.” The sheriff looked both thoughtful and perturbed. “And bullet damage tells me that the shooter didn’t shift the gun much. Maybe he had it resting firm on the windowsill of the vehicle. ” Torrez sighed. “Other ways it could happen, I guess. But we got twenty-five bullet holes, and that’s kinda an awkward number for a twenty-two rifle. Banana magazine, maybe. They can be had easy enough. Or, like you said, two magazines.”
He stroked the glass near one of the holes. “A kid with a gun bein’ that steady would surprise me. I mean, think about that. Kids playin’ like they’re shootin’ a tommy gun? Blam, blam, blam. You’d have a mess of holes, splattered all over. Two shooters keepin’ pace would surprise me even more. I mean, look at this.” He nodded down the row of holes. “Look at that spacing. Whoever done this had some trigger discipline.”
Estelle nodded, not in the least surprised by Bobby Torrez’s interesting phraseology. The easiest way to jerk the taciturn sheriff’s interest chains was to present him with a ballistics puzzle. “Trigger discipline.”
“Yup. We’ll run string from each hole to what we think is the impact point. I don’t know if that’s gonna tell us anything or not.” He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He nodded at Linda Pasquale, who was still photo-documenting the scene. “Give her something to do.”
Captain Jackie Taber appeared in the newspaper office doorway. “Enough completes or fragments to make seventeen,” she announced, and held up a shallow cardboard box in which were nestled a file of plastic evidence bags. “Counting the one recovered from Rik Chang’s shoulder, that makes eighteen.”
“So seven to go,” Torrez said. “We’ll keep takin’ this place apart until we got ’em all.”
“You might have trouble with the last few that hit the outside of the building,” Taber said. “It looks as if one or two of them skipped off.”
“And maybe now from the recovered truck a collection of spent casings to go with them,” Estelle said. “I’m surprised the shooters left the empties behind.”
“Yup, me too. You headin’ over that way?” Torrez said to Estelle. “I got Mears and Sutherland workin’ that up.”
“I want to talk with some neighbors,” Estelle said. “We’re assuming that the shooter took and returned that truck without Glenn Archer’s knowing it. Someone had to see something.”
> “Don’t bet on it,” Torrez muttered. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“They took Archer’s truck because it was at the school. No nosy neighbors right there. They look inside, see the keys in the console, and know they can get it started. Might even have one of those push-button remote things. They could take it, and use it, and return it, no one’s the wiser. There’s what, no more than half a dozen houses within shouting distance of the school’s front driveway? Most of ’em in that neighborhood are older. The adobe’s thick. They ain’t going to hear nothing.”
“You’re giving the shooters credit for a lot of thinking, Bobby.”
The sheriff almost smiled. “You ever seen that ship that Archer drives? It’d make a primo shooting rest. Main thing I don’t like is the coincidences.”
“As in…” Taber asked.
“Who’s the last person we know that might give a shit about what was in the newspaper? Maybe barkin’ to Hennesey about how if the story got printed, he’d lose his job and all that? Be just like him to pull a prank like this.”
“Quentin has the hardware to do this?” Estelle watched the sheriff carefully as the glare from the streetlight played on the planes of his face.
“Yep.” He once again gestured down the length of the building. “Good enough to make this work. I ain’t real fond of coincidences.”
“You want me to roust him?” Taber asked.
“He ain’t goin’ nowhere. Let’s wait and see what Archer’s truck tells us. Give him a little rope and he might hang himself.”
As Estelle expected, a cavalcade of cars surrounded Glenn Archer’s black Lincoln Navigator. Every door of the big SUV hung open, its rear door/tailgate lifted high. A pair of floodlights, their cables snaking to the generator in the back of Lieutenant Tom Mears’s Crew Cab Ram, provided brilliant light that cast hard shadows through the trees lining the school’s front parking lot.
In enough light to earn him a tan, the superintendent of schools sat on one of the cast-iron benches bolted to concrete pads along the bus stop. He was sitting with his head down, hands folded between his knees as Estelle approached, looking more like an eighth grader sent to the office for classroom tomfoolery than the chief executive officer of Posadas Central Schools. Dressed in dark blue sweats and running shoes, he wore a battered baseball cap with the leaping Posadas Jaguars logo.
He looked up at Estelle and offered a wan smile. “I’m never going to be able to trust this truck again. I turn my back, and it’s gone, out vandalizing the village, then it sneaks home, right under my nose.” His expression turned serious. “I’m hearing that Pam and young Chang were hurt.”
“Yes.”
“They’ll be all right?”
“We hope so.” She glanced at her watch. “You’re working very late.”
“That’s when it’s quiet. Or at least it used to be.” He waved a hand at the big SUV. “And that’s what makes this all the more puzzling. Although,” he added with a touch of pride, “that Lincoln is so darn quiet, who’s to notice? I was inside, nose buried in computer printouts when Lieutenant Mears raps on my door. I about jumped out of my skin.”
“What time did you drive down here, sir?”
“Oh, I guess it was ten o’clock or so. Clare is in New Hampshire, visiting our daughter and her family, so I’m a forlorn bachelor for a few days. I couldn’t sleep, and the district has a tangle or two in the proposed budget that I wanted to unsnarl. I figured I might be able to get the PILT mess with the Forest Service straightened out if I spent an all-nighter on it.” He frowned when he looked at his own watch. “And here it is going on two a.m., and do I know where my car has been? No.” He rubbed the reddish stubble on his chin. “I’m hoping they don’t have to tear it apart. I’ve only owned it a couple of weeks. Still smells new.”
“We’ll be as gentle as we can, sir.” She started to turn away, and the superintendent reached out to touch her on the shoulder.
“I hear your oldest and his wife are visiting.”
“Yes. A little time to decompress.”
He grinned at that. “Terrific. I got a kick out of seeing their story in People magazine.”
“Mixed blessings,” Estelle said, and let it go at that. Lieutenant Mears was waiting for her at the driver’s door.
“Twenty-five,” he said as the undersheriff approached. “Every one of ’em. The shooter made no effort to collect his brass. Shooting in the dark like that, he probably didn’t even know where they all went.”
“Prints?”
“It’s going to take some doing to separate out Mr. Archer’s. I mean, all over the steering wheel, the windowsill, the center console. My suspicion right now is that the shooter wore gloves. Maybe wore gloves. I mean, that would make sense.”
“We need the gun.”
“Indeed we do.” Mears straightened up and held the baggie of small .22 cartridge cases out to Estelle. “Generic high-velocity Winchester stuff. Jackie tells me they managed to recover most of the bullets, some intact.”
“Most, if not all.”
“Harder’n hell to get a good ballistics match with twenty-twos. Lead’s soft, usually deforms easily so there’s not much left to match. They recovered the one that struck Rik Chang?”
Estelle nodded. “Much deformed.”
“I’d think so.” He sighed. “We’re about to wrap this up. The only thing hiding under the seats is a stray popcorn or two. They didn’t track any crap inside.” He shook his head and patted the door frame. “Nice ride, this.”
“I’m sure the shooter enjoyed it. One to drive, one to shoot, you think?”
The lieutenant grimaced. “I wish I could tell you. If we knew the gun, we might be able to guess about the trajectory of the ejected empties. That might help tell us whether the shooter sat in front or behind the driver. Maybe. All the casings were on the right side of the vehicle, most down in front of the passenger seat, so I’m guessing the shooter was the driver. He’s got the rifle resting on the windowsill, kinda like tucked under his arm, drives with his left and shoots with his right. No recoil to speak of, and a good brace for the gun. There’s a couple tiny black marks where casings might have hit the roof liner, but that’s pretty iffy.”
“No powder burns?”
“No. If the barrel is sticking out the window, nothing is going to show. That’s what leads me to believe it was a rifle, not a pistol. A gun with a barrel long enough to put the muzzle well outside the window. And most twenty-twos kick their empties out and to the right rear. A few eject straight down, but not many.”
“Something,” Estelle said. “There’s got to be something. You can’t take a truck on a joyride, fire a rifle or pistol out of it a couple dozen times, then return it—all without leaving a trace. I mean, something. A hair or two. Fibers from a coat. Distinctive dirt from the soles of his shoes. Something.”
“I’m thinking we need to impound this vehicle so we can do this right.”
Estelle held up a hand as her phone vibrated. She flipped it open. “Guzman.” For a long moment, she listened without comment. “Give me five minutes,” she said. Then to Mears, she added, “Impound the truck. I’ll be at the hospital.”
Chapter Eleven
Dr. Francis Guzman touched the image, tracing a small circle with his index finger. “MRI shows significant cerebral leakage. My guess is that she’s been growing that aneurysm back here in the occipital region of the brain for a long time.” He pursed his lips and exhaled loudly. “The odd thing is that I don’t think that the aneurysm itself is leaking, at least not where we can see. If that thing pops, she’s gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “What I think has happened is a smaller artery hidden behind the bulk of the aneurysm itself is the culprit. It’s pretty crowded plumbing in there.”
“Still serious,” Estelle whispered.
“Is she awake? Alert?”
“Heavily sedated, Querida.” He watched his wife’s face for a moment. “It’s not good, something like this. At the very least, we’re talking about deep brain surgery, and you know what comes with that.”
“Her chances?”
Dr. Guzman shrugged. “¿Quien sabe? There’s no putting a number to it. Had the shooting incident not occurred, she might have keeled over at her desk while downloading the week’s recipe. Aneurysms are like that—silent killers when they finally decide to pop. The attack, her own wounds…none of that can be dismissed as minor. All of that stress contributes, especially for a woman with her health history.”
“But…”
“First things first. First, she has to survive transport. Then we see what surgeons in Albuquerque say.”
“We can be hopeful.”
“Always that.” He enveloped her in a powerful hug. “We’ll do our best.”
“I know you will,” she said. “I don’t doubt that for a minute.”
They stood quietly for a moment. “You’re thinking it was some juvenile delinquent on a vandalism kick, or are we looking at something else? Some revenge kind of thing?”
“Nothing fits, Oso. At this point, nothing fits. We have a methodical shooter, one who doesn’t fit the profile of some young punk who just wants to spray a building because it’s fun to do.”
“Folks get mad at their community newspaper all the time for some imagined slight or another. Usually, they just cancel their subscription.”
“Exactly.” She sighed and reached up to gently tug her husband’s tightly clipped beard. “Some little thing. That’s all we need.”
“What’s Frank have to say?”
“I haven’t had the chance to talk to him at any length. If he has ideas about who the trigger man is, he hasn’t mentioned it to either me or Bobby. The ‘why’ of all this is frustrating. What good do broken windows do anyone, other than assuring a vindictive newspaper in response?”