“And you might move your car back up the road—right at the turnoff from the pavement. I want all of this closed off.”
He nodded and made for his car. I picked up the mike as we drove down toward the gate.
“Posadas, three-ten.”
“Go ahead, three-ten.”
“What’s Detective Reyes’s twenty?”
“Uh, three-ten, I’m still trying to locate her.” For the first time that I could remember, Gayle Sedillos sounded a little flustered. With good cause, I thought.
“Find her,” I snapped, and hung up the mike.
Todd Baker had moved his unit to the gate, and he met us there. “Stay in the car,” I said to Amy. My guess that maybe a brusque approach might be helpful paid off. She nodded quickly, responding to the desperate need for direction.
No one else had arrived, and I told Baker to stay with Amy Salinger until Estelle Reyes arrived. I didn’t want Amy alone, and I certainly didn’t want her alone at the gate, acting as a greeter for all the law-enforcement personnel who were bound to arrive during the next few minutes.
I started across the hot, packed surface of the boneyard at a fast walk, and after the first fifty feet realized it wasn’t just apprehension that was putting a garter around my insides. I tried for a deep, calming breath, and the pressure under my sternum subsided a bit. I swore pointlessly at the high altitude and slowed my pace, trying to calm my pulse. I reached the shed and turned the corner.
I leaned against the warm metal of the building and looked at Scott Salinger. I had investigated probably a dozen suicides during my years in the military and later as a cop. Some of those incidents seemed to be the result of spur-of-the-moment decisions. If the victim had given himself a few minutes, there might well have been some reconsideration. But others—they showed planning and determination. So twisted had their lives become that nothing anyone could say or do would have mattered an iota. That was the impression I had then.
When a wave of dizziness subsided, I stepped forward and knelt down. The body was in a sitting position, knees drawn up and feet flat on the hard-packed asphalt on which the portable sheds rested. Salinger’s forearms rested just above his knees, as if he had been bracing the heavy revolver with which he had shot himself. The revolver was still in his lap, and his right thumb was in the trigger guard.
I heard footsteps crunching behind me and turned to see Deputy Paul Encinos and the county coroner, Emerson Clark. I pushed myself to my feet. “Hello, Doc,” I said.
He nodded. “That’s his sister out in your car, isn’t it?”
“Yes. She wants to identify the body. I don’t want her to see him like this. When they move him to the ambulance, maybe.”
“Tough stuff,” Clark said. He knelt down and peered at the corpse. While he was examining the body, I turned to Encinos and asked, “Is Reyes on the way up?”
“Last I heard, dispatch was still trying to locate her, sir.”
“Shit.”
“Does this weapon belong to the boy?” Clark asked. He looked at the gun without touching it.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Well,” Clark muttered, “as long as the bullet hole isn’t from back to front, it doesn’t make much difference. But that’s your department, not mine, Sheriff.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Is the young lady handling this?”
“Reyes? Yes, if we can find her.”
“If she’s not here soon, then it’s yours, I guess. Unless you’re going to have Miss Salinger sit out in the car all afternoon,” Clark said. He grinned at me. “Us old buzzards sure get used to delegating, don’t we?” He looked back down at Salinger’s corpse.
“He didn’t want there to be any doubt, did he? Couldn’t have hit any more dead center if he’d laid it out with a T-square first.” He shook his head slowly. “I wonder what was so special about this place that he chose it?” Clark turned and looked down the hill. “Maybe the view,” he said with some bitterness. “Great view of the county dump way down there.” He looked at me from underneath shaggy eyebrows. “Gastner, you’re not saying much.”
“What’s there to say?”
His eyes narrowed. He was pushing seventy-five years old, and life didn’t hold many surprises for him anymore. “And you also look damn near like a basket case yourself,” he said.
By way of ignoring the comment, I said to Encinos, “Cover him up, Paul. Be careful not to move anything. Detective Reyes will want accurate pictures.”
“Do you have any ideas why he did this?” Dr. Clark asked as he watched Encinos spread out the black plastic blanket.
I shook my head. “The last time I talked to the boy, he seemed to have things pretty well sorted out.”
Clark grunted something. “You might want to ask the family if he ever mentioned suicide before.”
“The answer to that is yes. His sister told me that.”
“Well, then,” Clark said. “Unless the medical examiner comes up with something pretty bizarre during the autopsy, it seems pretty cut and dried.” He held up a hand as Encinos was about to finish covering the corpse. He bent down. “I’m no detective, but find me an answer for this before I have to make a ruling.”
He pointed at the heavy caking of blood on Salinger’s T-shirt. “Explosive exsanguination consistent with a close-range Magnum wound produces a lot of blood,” Clark said. “And that’s what we’ve got here.” With his index finger, he carefully pulled the elastic collar of the T-shirt away from Salinger’s neck. “Still, we ought to expect that gravity still rules, wouldn’t you think?”
“What are you getting at, Doc?”
“If he sat here, as it appears, and pressed the muzzle of a heavy Magnum to his chest, as it appears, and pulled the trigger, then we would expect the blood flow to be outward and then downward from the wound, would we not?” Clark looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Now, cotton shirts soak up a lot of blood. You could call it a capillary action of sorts. Like a wick. But this”—and he pointed at the area near Salinger’s right clavicle—looks like a blood track to me.” He shifted position. “There is no reason for blood to flow from the bullet hole in the center of his chest to nearly the top of his collarbone. Not only no reason. It would be impossible, if the body didn’t move after the gunshot.”
He looked at me blandly. “Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“What you see here, unless I’m dreaming, is consistent with the body first lying on the ground, head perhaps slightly lower than the rest of the body.” He stood up again. “Fluids flow downhill, Bill.”
My forehead was wet with sweat, and one eye burned from the salt. “You’re saying he was shot somewhere else and then propped up here?”
Dr. Clark held up his hands in protest. “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that these particular bloodstains puzzle me. There may be a perfectly simple answer. I want that simple answer.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and stared hard at the corpse. “Unattended deaths are just that, Bill, as you well know. Unattended by anyone but the victim. We may never know. But if there is an interesting answer to be had, it would be a shame to ignore it.”
He started to walk off, and then stopped. “I didn’t want to move anything until you have all your photographs. I’m assuming from the lack of blood on the ground behind the body that there is no exit hole in the back. If there is, there also better be a hole in the back of this building. Keep me posted.”
“I’ll walk back with you, Doc,” I said. “Paul, I’ll be right back.”
We almost reached the cars when Dr. Clark extended his hand. I shook and he said, “Sometimes these jobs are shit, aren’t they, Bill.”
“Yup.”
“He was a good kid. I worked on his knee once, about four years ago. Seemed to have the world by the tail then. But I guess things can go downhill pretty fast when you’re that age.”
“Any age, Doc,” I said. He got in his car and left, and I walked over to the patrol car. Amy Salinger
got out of the car, head bowed, and I offered her a hand. She was determined to see her brother, and we made our way back across the boneyard toward the shed.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I said.
“Yes, I do. Until I do, I’ll never believe it’s him.”
When we turned the corner of the building and she saw the black cloth and Deputy Encinos, she stumbled and almost lost her balance. I guided her with one hand on an elbow. I curled a corner of the drop cloth back, just enough to reveal Scott Salinger’s bowed head. Amy whimpered and stepped back. Paul Encinos protectively hugged her shoulders. After a minute, she nodded and turned away.
“Amy, I’m going to have Deputy Encinos take you down the hill. He’ll stop and pick up Father Carey as well. Is that all right?” She nodded soundlessly. “I can’t leave here, or I’d do it myself. I really need to be here when the detective arrives.”
“That’s…that’s all right,” she mumbled.
Paul and I escorted her back to the gate. I didn’t say anything else to her. There was nothing I could say. I wasn’t worried about Salinger’s family. They would have to tackle their own grief in their own way. They’d have help. Right then I was more concerned with why blood would run uphill.
Chapter 18
“Where the hell is Estelle Reyes?” I snapped at Todd Baker. Our department was one of those absurdly small organizations, and Estelle Reyes, still wet behind the ears, was our chief detective—she was also our only detective, if folks like myself and Sheriff Holman weren’t counted. Violent deaths, whether homicide or suicide, call for the kind of expertise that sophisticated departments dish out routinely. For a small, rural department, it was a different story. I knew we’d all have our hands full with this one.
Baker was standing with one foot on the doorsill of his car, mike in hand. Had I been in a better mood, I would have said something about his Broderick Crawford imitation. He looked apologetically at me. “Gayle says Reyes went down to Tres Santos to help plaster her mother’s house.”
I stared at Baker, incredulous. “She what?”
“She’s plastering her mother’s house,” Baker repeated hopefully. “The old lady lives in Tres Santos. Estelle took a day of personal leave, and she and her boyfriend went down there.”
“Oh for Christ’s sakes. Give me that.” I took the mike from him and got Gayle Sedillos back on the air.
“Did you call Reyes?”
“Ten-four, three-ten.”
I wiped my forehead impatiently. “Well? What did she say?”
“She’s on her way up, sir.”
“Wonderful.” I tossed the mike at Baker. “What is that, an hour’s drive or better?” Baker nodded. “Then let’s get to work. I’m not going to sit around here on my ass for an hour. Watch the gate.” The ambulance had arrived, and I took a moment to tell them that they might as well cool their jets. The corpse wasn’t going anywhere for quite a while. Then I grunted into 310 and drove across the boneyard to the shed. I gathered my own equipment from the backseat—it wasn’t much, and it all fitted into a slender briefcase. The little snapshot camera would have to do, because there were answers I wanted and I would have to move the body to find them. If Estelle Reyes found out I had moved a corpse without taking pictures from every angle, she’d bat her long black eyelashes at me, then she’d shoot me herself.
I burned up two rolls of film before I touched the body. The Magnum bothered me, and I worked under the assumption that the gun belonged to the boy’s father, who himself was an avid outdoorsman and hunter. It really didn’t matter to me to whom the gun belonged, as long as Scott’s thumb had pushed the trigger. The boy had often taken his .22 rifle on hunting trips or even casual hikes. That rifle would have done the job, albeit not with the shattering finality of the .357 Magnum. That the youth had deliberately chosen the big handgun indicated to me that his mind had been thoroughly made up about its use. And of course, the coroner had his misgivings with his worry about bloodstains. Maybe someone had throw us all a curve.
I laid out a zip-top plastic bag, and with the eraser of my pencil pushed the boy’s thumb out of the trigger guard until I held the Magnum with the pencil. I gripped the bloody front sight between two fingers and lifted the weapon up. After it was safely in the plastic bag, I filled out an evidence tag and attached it. I felt bad that I didn’t have a big cardboard box. Estelle would give me gentle hell about not using one of her new-school stunts. The gun should have been suspended with stout twine in the box, with no part of the weapon touching the sides—at least until all the lab workup was done. But the evidence bag would have to do.
With both hands, I gently pulled the corpse away from the metal wall. It was like working with a stiff store manikin. There was no wound in the back, no mark on the wall. Something made me hesitate. Holding the body’s weight with one hand, I knelt and looked closely. Scott Salinger’s T-shirt was hiked up in back, with the cloth bunched up several inches above the belt line. The paint flecks on the skin of his lower back were obvious. Photographs, I though, and knew my small pocket camera was inadequate. I let the corpse rest back against the wall and stood up. I ran a hand down the wall of the building and looked at the white dust and flecks that my palm immediately collected.
I frowned. Were people intent on suicide as careful as anyone else when they sat down? To scrunch up the otherwise tucked-in T-shirt and dot the skin underneath with old paint meant that Scott Salinger would have had to plop himself down, first banging against and then actually sliding down the old wall, oblivious to the discomfort, even pain, of such a maneuver. I knelt down again, and had to wait a minute for dizziness to pass. By pushing the corpse forward and to one side, I could look closely at the wall. I could imagine that I could see vertical marks in the dusty paint, but eyes sharper than mine would have to offer a second opinion. It was only because I was waving my free hand at the flies that I looked down and saw the wood. It was sticking out of the youth’s right back pocket. The portion that I could see was about half an inch long and curiously shaped. It attracted my attention first because, in the shade and difficult to see, it looked for all the world like the end of a fat skewed marijuana joint. The idea of Scott Salinger actually being involved with drugs twisted like a knife. Using just my fingernails, I caught the end of the object and pulled it out. It was not a joint. Rather, it was a three-inch length of wood, one long side flat and the other sides rounded. Both ends were rough, like a broken stick. Attached stubbornly to the wood by what had to be glue of some kind was a five-inch-long streamer of blue two-or-three-mil plastic, torn into an irregular banner shape.
Scott Salinger, or someone, had obviously thrust that piece of junk into his hip pocket. I turned it over without touching any part of it except where my fingernails pinched one end. Something, somewhere twanged in my mind, but I couldn’t bring it to focus. I didn’t have much of a grip on the wood, and I let the corpse rest back against the wall so I could grope for a small evidence bag with my left hand. I snapped the bag open against the slight breeze and dropped the wood and plastic inside. Instead of just dropping the light package into my briefcase, I made a point of sliding it into one of the pockets in the lid. With the article safely stowed, I rummaged for an evidence tag.
The contents of my briefcase seemed somehow confused and jumbled. I hesitated. What was I looking for? Dizziness returned, and I reached out a hand for support. Either my own vision was screwball, or the sun kept slipping behind clouds. My arms lacked the strength to hold me up. Even as I stumbled on my hands and knees like a poisoned dog, I heard vehicles. They would find me, of course, but somehow it seemed desperately important to meet them at the corner of the building. I staggered to my feet, unable to breathe. My left hand slapped the side of the building and I lurched toward the corner. My momentum carried me beyond support and out into space. I fell heavily, not unconscious but so weak that blinking took too much effort. I heard feet running on the asphalt of the boneyard, and then, with time confused and
blending, sirens. In a moment of lucidity, I thought, Great timing, Gastner. Great timing.
Chapter 19
Briefcase. The first word to worm its way back into my consciousness. A moment of panic followed. Had I lost the briefcase? And along with it my camera and film? Maybe the detective found it. Reyes. What was her first name? Reyes. Something Reyes. I opened my eyes.
Up on the wall was a softly cheeping machine, tiny lights blinking its intelligence. As if the pulsing lights were a catalyst, my connections came into sharp focus—a damn tube in each arm, bags hanging from poles and chemistry slowly dripping into my system. I lay absolutely still, assessing. Other than being weary and maybe a little buzzed from the drugs, I felt fine. I took a tentative deep breath. My breastbone ached as if somebody had slugged me, but other than that, nothing hurt. Everything seemed to work.
I turned my head and searched for the nurse call. This was no time to be lying around. I had work to do, and fast. But I couldn’t find the damn cord. Wasn’t it usually pinned to the pillow?
“May I get something for you?”
I started and grunted involuntarily as the nurse appeared in my peripheral vision. My voice wasn’t working, that was for sure. I tried again and this time I managed a little faraway voice that sounded like a kid trying to wheedle another cookie.
“I need to talk with Estelle Reyes,” I croaked. I cleared my throat and said it again, a little stronger.
The nurse moved so I could see her, and I recognized Helen Murchison—old and ugly and efficient. She had one gold front tooth that winked when she smiled. She didn’t smile much. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Weak,” I replied. I tried to lift an arm and put it behind my head, but the tubes tangled. “What the hell is all this plumbing for?”
“Well, you’re doing well, Sheriff. You just relax and rest.”
“And you didn’t answer my question. Where’s Perrone?”
“Dr. Perrone will be in first thing in the morning.”
Heartshot Page 13
