Lies Come Easy

by Steven F Havill

  The sheriff hesitated, as if he really had to think about the consequences of gratuitously giving out information, even to his own undersheriff. “We got both Darrell Fisher’s truck and the Forest Service unit that Fitzwater was drivin’ in county impound.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Well, okay. Mears has been given both of them the old fine-toothed comb. Somebody always leaves something.”

  “We can hope. But Sarge said earlier that Fitzwater’s government vehicle was clean.”

  “Too clean. He and Craig Stout worked it over, and I mean, it’s clean. Somebody wiped it down. No prints. The only thing left was marks from the wipe rag, a swipe or two along the windowsill of the driver’s door that marked the dust.”

  “That doesn’t do us much good.”

  “Nope. It just shows intent. That’s one thing.”

  Estelle, who had time to change out of her pants suit and shed several pounds of hardware, looked at the four covered dishes on the kitchen counter. Carlos had evidently been hard at work. She had been in the process of lifting the foil when the sheriff’s call had interrupted her.

  “‘That’s one thing’ means there’s something else.”

  “Yep. Darrell Fisher’s truck wasn’t wiped.”

  “We didn’t expect that it would be. He was in it, with parts of his chest splattered all over the inside.”

  “Sure enough. The inside. The slug that blew him apart lodged in the cab metal just below the back window. It didn’t break the glass.”

  “And so…”

  “What was in the back?”

  “What was in the back?” Estelle asked herself. “Nothing was there. Well, almost nothing. An empty quart oil can, as I recall. A chain saw, chain saw wrench, and file. A small gas can. Lots of wood chips.”

  “You got a good memory.”

  “What have I forgotten?”

  “Whatever was in the back got pulled out. Smeared along the truckbed. Probably took some of the chips and shit with it.”

  “Like the deer carcass. Why would they have the deer carcass in Darrell’s truck? It’s a short carry down the hill to Lupe’s. And you can’t drive the truck up there to the tank anyway.”

  “It snowed on the truck a little before whatever it was that was in there was pulled out of the bed.”

  Estelle didn’t respond for a moment, trying to decipher Torrez’ mangled syntax. “And you know this how?”

  “There’s a couple of smear marks. That ain’t the important thing. There’s a blood smear way over against the fender well. Some of it’s in the metal seam there.”

  “Tom recovered that?”

  “Yep.”

  “And that’s where my husband happens to be at the moment.” She reached across and picked up the small adhesive note that had waited for her by the phone.

  “Perrone’s out of town.”

  “Smart man. Did Francis identify the blood type?”

  “First two guesses don’t count,” Torrez said.

  “O-positive.”

  “Yep. We’ve been down that road before. Autopsy records show that Darrell’s blood type was AB-negative, so it ain’t his. He didn’t cut himself sharpening that chain saw.”

  “Prosecutor will laugh us out of court.”

  “Yep. But it’s something,” Torrez said with satisfaction. “Francis says that Mears recovered enough blood that the State Police lab can run a DNA test. Compare with the oak staff.”

  “And if they’re the same…”

  “Then at some point, after he got himself whacked, Myron Fitzwater’s body was put in the back of Darrell Fisher’s pickup. Probably wrapped in a tarp.”

  “And dumped who-knows-where. Let’s put a clock on it. The weather got rotten Friday night, but not until after dark. I see Al Fisher shooting the deer sometime around three, maybe four. He’s field-dressing it, and Myron Fitzwater walks into the scene. Maybe he and Connie were out for a late afternoon walk. Maybe he happened to hear the twenty-two.”

  “Could be any number of reasons why Fitzwater went up there. Maybe it was just as simple as him seein’ Al walkin’ up the hill, gun in hand. Nothin’ illegal about that, but Myron butts in anyways.”

  “And why wouldn’t Connie call authorities when Myron didn’t come home? Because she was already dead. Al kills Myron, and chases Connie down the hill to her trailer. He took a second to grab Myron’s handgun, which the young man was foolish enough to wear. One shot, and Connie’s down.”

  “Could have happened that way.”

  “Helpful brother comes down for an evening visit. The body goes in the back of his truck, and Al drives the Forest Service truck. By then it’s dark or nearly so. Who’s to see? Up over the pass, and then up County 14 toward Newton. Pretty clever, and Al Fisher is nothing if not clever, Bobby. Dump the truck a ways out, and investigators are supposed to assume the body is nearby.”

  “So what’s your guess about the body?”

  “I wish I had one. The snow’s long gone, so we have no tracks. We have no witnesses to step forward. Al knows what happened. That’s it.”

  “But he ain’t likely to say.”

  “Something clever, guaranteed.”

  “So, after all this, the two of them come back to Al’s for the rest of the evening, and watch the snow fly. And all this time, Connie Suarez is lyin’ in that trailer, brains blown out. And all this time, Darrell has the little kid with him.”

  “I don’t think so. I think Maria was telling the truth when she said that she spent the evening playing with Derry while the brothers were out and about.”

  “Then she knows exactly what time the two brothers came home.”

  Estelle fell silent. “Yes. She would know. And I have to wonder what else she knows.” She thought about Darrell Fisher, talked into this gruesome undertaking by his brother. Darrell had been a soft-bellied, weak-spined wuss, she had already decided. Could he have kept to himself what the brothers had done? Certainly Darrell might have considered suicide…according to others, he’d been down in the dumps for a long time. And just as likely, his guilty conscience might have urged him to tip off the authorities. Al Fisher might have tried to talk his brother out of it, might have argued with him, might have threatened him. Could he have pulled the trigger? By then, he might have had lots of practice.

  “We need to talk with Maria,” Bob Torrez said. “And it’s best if we do it now, before Al takes it into his head to split. She might give us something. When you talked with her last time, did it seem like she was holdin’ back?”

  “I didn’t get that sense. But some folks are better at hiding the truth than others. You’re at the office?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let me swing by and pick you up.”

  “Nah. I don’t fit in that bomb of yours. One of the Expeds is here. We’ll take that. I’ll be by in a few minutes.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “You wonderin’?” Sheriff Torrez sat relaxed as he drove his department Expedition, one hand on the steering wheel, his left hand tapping a silent rhythm on the doorsill.

  “About a lot of things.” Estelle wasn’t especially comfortable at the steady ninety-miles-an-hour that Torrez favored with the big SUV, and she had pulled her shoulder harness as tight as she could against the padding of her ballistic vest under her down jacket. “What if Al Fisher really did kill Myron Fitzwater? I could see that happening. Fisher is hard at work dressing out the deer, and Fitzwater arrives and starts throwing his weight around. Al grabs his little twenty-two and bam, bam.”

  “Except that probably ain’t what happened. Somebody clubbed him.”

  “So it would appear. Maybe after Fitzwater got whacked with the oak club. I don’t see the point of hitting somebody in the head with a stick after shooting the victim a time or three.”

  “That’s what you’
ve been thinkin’ on?”

  “Yes. A sequence-of-events scenario.”

  “Who you got swingin’ the stick in that scenario?”

  “Exactly,” Estelle said. “If Fitzwater was haranguing Al for shooting the deer, his back might well be turned on somebody. About half of the residents of Regál might be a good fit for not liking Myron Fitzwater.”

  “Lupe Gabaldon ain’t as frail as he makes out to be,” Torrez said. “Butchering a deer ain’t exactly the hardest chore in the world, but doin’ it right—and Lupe does it by the book—that takes some effort, with all the cuttin’ and wrappin’.” As they crossed the Rio Guijarro, just northeast of the Broken Spur Saloon, Torrez pointed ahead. “Lookit there.” He reached down and flipped on all three toggles on the emergency equipment panel, turning the Expedition into a rolling light show. Even as Torrez slowed down, Bill Gastner’s cherry red SUV flashed by.

  “Take a minute or two and let ’em know what’s goin’ on,” Torrez said. “We ain’t going to be long.” He swung a hard U-turn to give chase, but Gastner had already pulled off onto the shoulder. Torrez eased the Expedition up a car-length behind, lights still pulsing.

  Francisco was the first one out of the SUV, and he hailed his mother before she had both feet on the ground. “Merry Christmas, Undersheriff,” Francisco shouted. “Did that guy with you happen to mention that this is a holiday?” He swept Estelle up in a fierce hug. “Dang, you’re a walking hardware emporium,” he said. “What do you weigh, about two hundred with all that stuff on?”

  “The price of law and order.” She freed an arm and stretched out to embrace Carlos. “How was Mexico?”

  “Desolate,” Francisco replied without hesitation. “But it was good to see all the Diaz family again.” He put a hand over his mouth. “Too much mulled wine, probably. Padrino is our designated driver.” He waved at Sheriff Torrez, who lifted a single index finger in acknowledgement.

  “It’s just so amazing that you’re all here.” She looked at her watch. “It’s just coming up on one now. The sheriff and I have this little excursion that we need to do, but I’ll be home for dinner. I hope.”

  “We’ll hold the food until you turn up,” Carlos promised.

  “And in January? I’m taking a week off before the Aspen concert, and a week after. No more interruptions.”

  “Sure, Ma,” Francisco laughed. “We’re headed back to Padrino’s now for a little bit to talk about things.”

  “Have your wits about you, hijo. He can be very persuasive.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Let me say hello, then Bobby and I need to hit the road.” As she approached, the driver’s side window lowered and Gastner’s elbow appeared. “You’re a brave man, Padrino,” she greeted him, and smiled widely at the two young women, the motion-sensitive Tasha riding up front.

  “It’s been an interesting day,” he replied. “It’s been way too long since I had time to chat with the Diaz flock. Román’s looking good, even.” He grimaced. “Hell, what am I saying? He’s three years younger than I am.”

  “I look forward to hearing all about it—all of it. But right now, we need to roll. You’ll plan on dinner with us tonight?”

  “Absolutely. Are you two making some progress?”

  “We think so.”

  “Then be careful. And save a few minutes out of your day for these guys,” and he nodded toward the rear seat as Carlos and Francisco piled in. “And tell Robert to get a life.” His smile was only half amused as he reached out and patted her hand. “I can say that because I’ve been right where you’re standing now, with what seems like the whole damn world coming apart. See you this evening. Be careful.”

  She lifted a hand in a salute more wistful than she would have liked. As she walked back toward the Expedition, she could hear radio traffic, too muffled to understand. As she settled in the seat, she said, “I wonder what a nine-to-five, five-days-a-week job would be like?”

  He snorted in amusement. “You wouldn’t like it.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Most of the time, anyways, we ain’t got nothin’ to do. Then something comes down to make up for it.”

  She watched Gastner’s SUV grow smaller in the distance as Torrez swung the Expedition around. “Christmas Day with unexpected and cherished company would be a nice time to have ‘nothin’ to do.’”

  “You’re breakin’ my heart,” Torrez chuckled.

  “Wait until the day that Gabe comes home unexpectedly from college with his beloved in tow.”

  Torrez laughed again—something of a record for him. More than once, he checked his rearview mirror, and by the time they reached the Regál Pass sign, he nodded in satisfaction. “Company,” he said, and picked up the mike.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The sheriff drove to the south end of the church parking lot and turned right, just before the fence and its right-of-way. The dirt road jounced west until they reached the complex owned by Danny Rivera and his wife, Irene. In addition to a half-dozen other vehicles in various stages of disrepair scattered about the property, both Danny’s one-ton Ford dually pickup and a brawny companion, Al Fisher’s diesel Ram with the water tank in back, were parked directly in front of the overhead door.

  “That’s Al’s truck, ain’t it?” Torrez said. He twisted around and glanced back at the Riveras’ double-wide trailer where a small sedan was parked. “And that’s Irene’s buggy at home.”

  Neither Danny Rivera nor Al Fisher were outside the shop, and Torrez didn’t slow. A few yards on, they passed an abandoned trailer that had belonged to Danny’s grandmother, the late Serefina Roybal. Tumbleweeds had packed around the skirting and in one spot were piled high enough to obscure part of the bathroom window.

  “How many illegals you figure spend the night in that place?” he mused.

  “There are plenty of other abandoned places in Regál,” Estelle said.

  “Most of the wrecks don’t come completely furnished like this one. I don’t know if Danny’s even turned the water off or not.”

  The grapevine-decorated walls of Solomon Apodaca’s hacienda passed on the left, and by then Estelle caught sight of two more vehicles coming down off the pass. Torrez reached for the mike.

  “Three oh nine, three oh four, park it just beyond Lupe’s driveway.” Both Pasquale and Jackie Taber acknowledged. “Tom, stay with your unit. Jackie, we’ll want you over at Fisher’s rock house.”

  Torrez hung up the mike, and as if reminding himself, added, “The deal today is that everybody goes home in one piece.” Estelle looked at him in surprise. “Charge-in Torrez” was being unusually circumspect.

  In a hundred yards or so, they reached Fisher’s odd little house, looking as if it were being devoured by the boulder behind it. Maria Apodaca’s Outback was parked with its nose inches from the boulder, as if trying to push the rock back uphill.

  The approaching traffic made just enough noise that White Fang’s acute hearing tripped her bark switch, and she stood with her tiny body balanced on her hind legs, front paws up on the large planter beside the front door. The door behind her opened, and the little dog spun around and dashed inside, still yapping. Maria Apodaca appeared, dressed in a bright red sweatshirt over red exercise pants.

  “Give me a few minutes,” Estelle said. She got out of the truck and saw that Jackie Taber had parked a few yards back down the lane toward Suarez’.

  “Al is over at Danny’s,” Maria greeted. She tried to smile, but her effort looked more pained than anything else. She lifted a hand in greeting as Jackie Taber approached. “Merry Christmas, you all.”

  “May we come in for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. I mean, Al’s not here just now.”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk with you, Maria.”

  “Oh.” She shooed White Fang back with one foot. “Sure. Come on in. You want
some coffee or tea or something?”

  “No, thanks.’’

  “I kinda knew you would be back, Sheriff.”

  “Maria, we talked with Al about the deer he shot and then gave to Lupe for butchering. He didn’t mention that you were with him up on the hill at the time.”

  “I mean, I…”

  “You were there when Myron Fitzwater showed up.” It was not a question, and Maria closed her eyes for a few seconds, then sat down on one of the leather Mexican chairs and clasped her hands between her knees. She said nothing. She looked miserable. Over under the table, White Fang whimpered and shivered but stayed safely put.

  “Myron was ready to make an issue of Al’s shooting the deer?”

  Maria looked down at her hands, and each finger touched the tip of her thumbs as if she were counting to make sure they were all there. Finally, she looked up at Estelle.

  “I am so, so sorry,” she said. “This whole thing has been a nightmare, from beginning to end.”

  Giving the girl small rungs to grab as she faced scaling the cliff seemed the most productive approach.

  “I can understand that, and I’m sorry, Maria,” Estelle said softly. “What you can do right now is help us understand exactly what happened. You were there, you know what passed between Al and Myron.” And Connie Suarez, she wanted to add, but little admissions first. Estelle pulled her micro recorder from her jacket pocket. “And any conversation we have will be recorded, Maria. For your protection, if nothing else.”

  The young woman nodded. “Myron said he was going to confiscate the deer carcass, because Al had shot it on federal lands, with an illegal weapon, out of season, all kinds of things. Al told him that he didn’t have authority to do any of that, and to stop being such a prick. That’s exactly the word he used.” She shook her head and frowned. “I don’t know why the Forest Service lets Myron do those things. I mean all the enforcement stuff. He can’t do that, can he? Why doesn’t he get in trouble?”