Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  “I don’t think so,” Estelle said. “I think the door was broken some other time, some other way.”

  “That’s a possibility. There are a few scrub marks on the door itself. If the state is coming down here, we might want them to take a look at those. And we’re set with the sight line. I was thinking we could use a red dot laser. It might be more accurate than the string.”

  “You can see the red dot outside?”

  “If we’re oh-so-lucky, maybe. It’s dark enough now, that I’d think it would be visible. Boss man has one we can use.”

  Estelle looked skeptical. “Alan is right, I think. Even a fraction of an inch,” and she held up her hands, left hand forming an “O” to represent the hole through the window glass, right-hand thumb and index finger pointing like a gun. “Move the gun position up or down a fraction, and the trajectory of the bullet varies wildly. See how high on the windowpane that hole is? In all likelihood, the gun barrel was pointed up. The bullet’s trajectory goes through the girl’s skull and then up to the windowpane, and then on out.” She shook her head in resignation. “We’d be searching a huge area for a small bullet fragment. For all we know, it struck somewhere up on the hill, and then ricocheted who-knows-where. Some packrat will find it and add it to his nest collection of strange human souvenirs.”

  “It’s worth a try, though.”

  “Sure enough, it’s worth a try.”

  “Estelle?” The sheriff’s disembodied voice was little more than a whisper over her radio.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Forest Service guys are here. And Pasquale has a neighbor rounded up who might have seen something. I’m going to talk to ’em.”

  Opening the front door gingerly, Estelle saw that even tiny Regál could produce crowds of spectators. Outside the yellow tape, she saw Betty Contreras, bundled up against the dropping temperatures as the afternoon wore on, in conversation with Maria Apodaca. Elwood Sanchez and one of his older sons had strolled over, as had half a dozen others—including Al Fisher, who was in animated discussions with one of the Border Patrol officers and another State Policeman.

  Craig Stout was a tall, overly thin young man whose shoulders hunched as if he were self-conscious of his six-foot-five height. Although he and his companion had ducked under the yellow tape, they did not cross the front yard. He thrust out a hand as Estelle approached.

  “Undersheriff? Have you met Robert Tully, our district ranger?”

  Tully’s smile was pained, and he had a hard time taking his eyes off the mobile home behind Estelle.

  “Good to know you,” he said softly. Unlike Stout, whose specialty was law enforcement, Tully was unarmed. He had the soft look of a desk-bound administrator, and after a long look, he turned so that his back was to the trailer.

  “It’s Ms. Suarez? The identification was positive?”

  “Yes, sir. The medical examiner has attended, and we’re waiting on the State Police team before we go any further.”

  “They’re going to bring the van down here?”

  “We’ve requested their assistance.”

  “All right.” Tully took a deep breath, and shook his head in frustration. “So what do we actually know, at this point?”

  “We know,” and Estelle turned to view the small mobile home, “that Connie Suarez is in the bedroom of this residence, shot once through the neck and lower skull. The bullet entered under the left side of the jaw, ranged slightly upward, and exited through the right mastoid process, exploding a large portion of the skull as it did so.” Tully looked even more deeply pained. “We know that death was more or less instantaneous, and that the body was not moved afterward. A Glock 17 was found near the body, and its position recorded photographically as well as carefully measured. One spent nine-millimeter shell casing, headstamped from Federal, was found lying against the south-east baseboard trim.” She took a deep breath, but Tully nodded for her to continue the recitation.

  “The bullet passed through the victim, and appears to have then punched a hole in the upper bedroom window.”

  “You recovered it?”

  “No. I’m guessing that the chances of that are very slim. As much damage as a nine-millimeter bullet can do, it’s still a comparatively small object.”

  Tully grimaced some more. “When was the last time that Fitzwater was here? Do we know that?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Did she live alone? Parents, siblings, anyone like that?”

  “She lived alone, as far as we know—except when Myron was visiting. Her mother used to live with her, but for health reasons, moved to Albuquerque.”

  “But we’re reasonably sure that Myron Fitzwater visited her on a regular basis?”

  “It appears that way, sir. Enough that one of the staff in your offices knew of the relationship, and provided us with Ms. Suarez’ name.”

  Tully put his hands on his hips and turned a slow circle, viewing the little village. “And other folks around here would know as well.”

  “We’re working on that at the moment.”

  “Why the long wait for the State Police van?”

  “As you know, they’re busy folks with limited resources, sir, and it’s a large state.” Estelle said. “It was my decision to call them in before the body is removed. I suspect that DNA evidence, along with blood, fibers, and so forth, are going to be important in establishing who was in this building Friday and through the weekend.”

  “TOD?”

  “The medical examiner thinks that sometime Friday is likely.”

  “The day that Fitzwater didn’t return to the office.”

  Stout retrieved a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Were you able to record the serial number of the Glock?”

  “We were.” She waited until he found the notebook page he was looking for, and then recited the number from memory. Stout repeated it back.

  “That’s Fitzwater’s weapon.” He held up a hand quickly. “Not issued by us. As I told you on the phone, he was not authorized to carry a weapon while on duty, or in a government vehicle even if off-duty. No firearm has been issued to him by the Forest Service.”

  “Has Fitzwater’s truck been moved from where it was found?” Tully asked.

  “Not yet. I know that in light of this investigation, Sheriff Torrez,” and Estelle pointed at the big man as he approached up the two-track in company with Deputy Tom Pasquale, “is going to request that Grant County allow us to impound the vehicle in our yard until the investigation is complete.”

  “Okay, but I want to see the location before that happens.”

  “I know where it is,” Stout said. “About an hour or more north of here.”

  “An hour.” Tully looked at the ground, his brow furrowed. “Spectacular timing, all this. But we don’t want to wait until dawn, do we?”

  “No, we don’t,” Estelle said. “I’ll make whatever arrangements are necessary. The truck won’t be moved until you have a chance to see it.”

  “I mean, I don’t know what I’m looking for,” Tully said, “but just to see. To get the whole scenario in my mind. So…” He regarded Torrez, and a slight smile touched his bland face as he extended a hand. “Sheriff, good to see you again, although not in these circumstances.” Torrez was dressed in jeans that looked as if he’d worn them to work on his vintage truck. To counter that image, he wore one of the black nylon jackets with PCSO in five-inch letters across the back, the sheriff’s badge embossed over the left breast, and his name tag over the right.

  “Your guy was here Friday,” Torrez announced without any preliminary greeting. He looked at Thomas Pasquale as if prompting him.

  “I talked with Flora Gabaldon, the neighbor over there across the way, and she remembers seeing the Forest Service truck here,” Pasquale said. “She says Fitzwater was here most of the day, from mid-morning on.”


  “She recognized him?”

  “Well, I don’t know if she recognized him, for sure, or if it was the truck. She says she sees the white Ford with the government plates fairly regularly. She did say that Connie—Flora knows her really well—was arguing with Fitzwater about something. They were at the front door, and she thought that they were maybe trying to adjust it or something. She said that the guy was kneeling down in front of the door, messing with the lock.”

  “Good vision when she needs it,” Stout said.

  “So Fitzwater most likely was here midday Friday. And then his truck ends up near Newton sometime over the weekend. Tell me how any of that makes sense.”

  “Where was Fitzwater supposed to be working last week?” Estelle asked.

  “He was building some test plot enclosures on a grazing allotment over west of Horsehead Springs. He and Bret Freeman. Freeman didn’t work Friday, so Myron was by himself.”

  “And decided that Regál was more attractive than Horsehead Springs.”

  “Lots of places are more attractive than the Horsehead,” Stout said.

  “Is it possible that later in the day on Friday, he figured that he needed to make an appearance at his scheduled job, and drove up to Horsehead Springs to put the finishing touches on his test plots?” Estelle asked.

  “That’s possible, although that’s still a good ways from where his truck was found.” Stout nodded eastward, toward the state highway. The heavy mutter of a braking diesel engine drifted to them, and Estelle saw the black hulk of a large RV trundling down from the pass. The State Police mobile crime scene unit slowed to a crawl, and Officer Dominguez walked east on the two-track, as if a few feet would make his radio communications clearer. After a pause, the state RV turned right and jounced off the highway, and for a moment it looked as if it were going to drive through the middle of Betty Contreras’ home. The lane was narrow, with orchards and front porches encroaching, but the trooper driving the van did a masterful job. In a few moments, the RV rounded the last, pinched curve past Lupe and Flora Gabaldon’s home and sighed to a stop.

  Estelle saw a ripple of interest pass through the various little knots of spectators. Such a sideshow wasn’t usual in the tiny village. Of particular interest to her was the little gaggle that included Lupe and Flora Gabaldon, Al Fisher, and Maria Apodaca. Lupe, short, stocky, and bandy-legged, was obviously holding court. His hands waved as he narrated his version of events, or posed all the questions that might be swirling around in his old, gray-topped head.

  “Maybe some answers now,” Estelle said. Sheriff Torrez looked skeptical.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He had reason to be skeptical. As winter-early darkness deepened, the sun in a hurry to sink behind the crest of the San Cristóbals, it became evident that only the most unimaginable luck would recover the bullet that had crashed through the window. That slug, even spent, could be almost anywhere, at almost any distance. It might have buried itself in one of the shrub groves, or skipped off rocks until it fell into hiding.

  The more officers scoured the hillside, their size twelves disturbing the ground and scuffing the rocks, the more unlikely the recovery of the treasure became. A metal detector found nothing. Still, officers hope that their flashlight beams might wink a reflection from a brass jacket fragment.

  Inside the modest little trailer, other than a very clear and gory photo of the Luminol-enhanced blood splatter in Connie Suarez’ bedroom, nothing unusual presented itself. There were plenty of hairs and fibers that would prove Myron Fitzwater’s presence in the trailer, but that was to be expected. His fingerprints would be on almost any surface, including the Glock’s slab sides, and, indeed, there was a cluster around the front-doorjamb.

  A profile of prints was lifted from the pickup truck near Newton, all belonging to Myron Fitzwater.

  Connie’s Subaru was locked, but the car’s keys hung on a hook in the kitchen, and when it was unlocked, the open vehicle revealed nothing other than prints on the driver’s side belonging to Connie, with Myron’s on the passenger side .

  It was pitch-dark when Lieutenant Gil Sandusky of the New Mexico State Police approached Estelle Reyes-Guzman and Robert Torrez. He shook his head in frustration, and pushed his black uniform cap far back on his closely shaved skull. His cheek muscles twitched as if he wanted to bite someone’s head off.

  “We’re not getting anything,” he confessed. “I’m beginning to think that maybe, yeah, she walks into the bedroom, thinks about it for a minute, then pops herself. Sure as hell no sign of a struggle—unless Perrone finds something in the post.” He shrugged. “He’s good at that. But I just don’t know.” He looked down at Estelle, who was sitting on the second step of the front door stoop. “You look beat.”

  “I am,” Estelle said.

  “The gun,” Torrez said. “That don’t make sense.”

  “That’s a problem, isn’t it?” Sandusky nodded. “It’ll make sense if she’s the one who pulled the trigger. I’ll get with Perrone and make sure we run every test in the book. If she fired it, it’ll show up. She’s left-handed, I’m told, so an entry on the left side of her neck is certainly a possibility, but you already figured that out.” He shrugged. “We’ve taken samples from the scuffing on the door, but I doubt that’s going to tell us anything.” He thumped his fist on the flimsy porch railing. “I wish I could be more optimistic. We need to find Fitzwater—that’s what we need.”

  “And I wish I could be optimistic about that,” Estelle said. She pushed herself to her feet, but one shoe slipped on the edge of the bottom step, and she lurched and twisted to keep her balance. She stifled a gasp as pain lanced across her right side. “Ay, I’m walking in my sleep.” She shook her head at Sandusky’s quick response with a helping hand.

  With both feet flat on the ground, she pulled out her phone and checked that the text message was still there. It was. I’m home, and the tea water is on. And a long row of X’s and LOL’s for punctuation.

  “You have coverage here for tonight?” Sandusky asked.

  “We do. Deputy Sutherland is going to close patrol the village tonight.”

  The state officer regarded the silent Torrez. “Anything else we can do for you, Sheriff?”

  “Nope, thanks.”

  “We’ll follow through with Perrone,” Sandusky said. “Mears is the one putting the print profiles together from both this site and up north?”

  “Yes.”

  Sandusky nodded. “He’s a good man, Sergeant Mears is.” He grinned. “It’s about time he went to work for us.”

  Estelle punched him lightly in the gut. “Don’t even think about it, L.T.”

  “Come dawn, then. We’ll see what we’ve got. Maybe daylight will loosen up some tongues.” He nodded toward the little gaggle of villagers who had become no more than dark shapes silhouetted against the distant arc lights of the border fence. “Hard to believe all this went down on the sly.” He touched the brim of his cap. “Lemme know.”

  “Thanks, L.T.” She turned to Torrez, but he spoke first.

  “Go home,” he said abruptly. “I got things here.”

  She pulled in a long tentative breath, and felt the muscles complain. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yep.”

  She walked back to Jackie Taber’s Expedition and leaned against its broad flank. I’m on the way, she texted to her husband. She sensed more than heard Lieutenant Taber loom out of the darkness beside her. “I’m stealing your unit,” Estelle said. “I need to go home.”

  “Get a good price for it.”

  “When you finish up here, take Pasquale’s ride. He can hitch a ride back with the Sheriff.”

  “He’ll love that. Sutherland’s coming into the village for the night, though.”

  “Yes. I’ll be back in the morning. We’ll see what other folks have to say.”

  “You bet.
Maybe by then, Mr. Fitzwater will make an appearance.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Jackie. Nothing about any of this adds up to him ditching his truck and taking off on foot.”

  Taber looked hard at her. “So you’re starting to think the same as I am. That he’s lying out there somewhere with a bullet in his head?” She didn’t wait for Estelle to answer, but added, “Get some rest. And have that husband of yours check up on what’s hurtin’ you. Then tomorrow we’ll decide which way to go.”

  Estelle smiled in spite of herself. Lieutenant Jackie Taber didn’t miss much.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Gastneritis,” Dr. Francis Guzman said. Estelle’s left eyebrow lifted.

  “Gastritis?”

  “No. Gastneritis.” He held up an admonishing finger. “You spend enough time, at all hours, without decent food or rest, and sooner or later, something in the system is going to shout out a complaint. It’s a work ethic that I think you picked up over the years from Padrino, and now it’s payback time.” He sat back on the edge of the bed and regarded her sympathetically.

  “It worked when you were a kid, but now that you’re proudly past the half century mark? Payback time.” He spun his finger in a circle. “You don’t get enough sleep, you don’t pay attention to diet…” He reached out and cradled her head in both hands as he looked deep into her eyes. “Let me play doctor. Shed the robe and lie down on your left side.”

  The long, hot shower had beaten some of the weariness out, and she’d ended the sauna session only when the hot water heater had no longer been able to keep up. The bedroom now felt delightfully cool, and her husband’s strong hands warm and smooth.

  She did as she was told, amused but grateful.

  “Raise your right arm up as if you were going to scratch the top of your head,” he instructed. “These rib cage muscles are notoriously slow to heal.” His hands worked their way from behind her armpit, following both the delineations of her ribs and the pattern of heavy scars that tracked them. At one point, where the eighth rib curved anteriorly to blend with the heavy cartilage that in turn swept upward to join the sternum, she flinched in anticipation.