Privileged to Kill pc-5

by Steven F Havill

“So she could have just walked in and requested a set of paperwork?”

  “I suppose. That’s not normally the way it’s done. Usually the parents come by and request all the information.”

  Estelle Reyes-Guzman reached for the folder and gently leafed through the papers until she extracted one that listed the girl’s schedule. “Maria was taking regular eighth-grade courses, plus art and Spanish II?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Did she speak English, Ms. Hyde?”

  The counselor shook her head. “Very little.”

  “But she wasn’t enrolled in the bilingual program?”

  Hyde shook her head. “She wanted to take Spanish instead.”

  “Is that usual?”

  “No, it’s not. But she seemed very bright. She was also very outspoken…and that’s unusual for Mexican children in our schools. Usually they’re quite shy at the beginning.”

  “And she told you that she had attended school previously in Las Cruces?”

  “Yes.” Patricia Hyde leaned forward and tapped a blue form. “We haven’t sent the r-f-r form yet.”

  “Request for records,” Estelle prompted.

  “Right. Normally we have everything sorted out by about Christmas.” Ms. Hyde’s smile was tight and humorless.

  “Ms. Hyde, did Maria ride a bus to school?”

  “No. She told me that her uncle brought her and picked her up.”

  Estelle frowned. “And the uncle lists a post office box in Las Cruces as an address. Had he moved here, do you know?”

  “I don’t know that. I guess that I just assumed that he had.”

  The counselor’s voice had taken on an edge and Estelle held up a hand. “Please, I’m not being critical of your procedures, Ms. Hyde. I understand that this is a public institution.” She smiled that wonderful, warm, electric smile that lit up her otherwise dark features. “What was it that Mr. Gordon used to say to all the kids who tried to ditch his American History class…‘If you don’t walk through the door, I won’t have to try to teach you.’”

  Ms. Hyde almost smiled, and so did I. Every one of my own four children had suffered through Wyatt Gordon’s classes. If they ever ditched, they had the sense not to tell me.

  “The only paperwork that a student absolutely has to have before they’re allowed to continue coming to school is their immunization record. That’s state law.”

  “Maria had hers?”

  Ms. Hyde shook her head. “She said that her other school had the copy and would be sending it.”

  “Is that something that you check up on fairly quickly?” I asked.

  “Dawn Paddock would.”

  “We’ll check with her,” I said, then added, “in the few days that you’ve had the opportunity to work with her, did Maria seem to have any particular circle of friends? Anyone she talked to?”

  “No, and that’s something we work on. The person who could tell you more is Maria’s Spanish teacher, Roland Marquez.”

  “Do you want me to call him in here?” Archer said, rising from his chair. A knock interrupted us, and Archer crossed to the door and opened it. “Ah, good. Thanks, Denny,” he said, accepting the parking book and copies from the office aide. He closed the door and handed the copies to me.

  “Yes,” I said. “We’d like to meet with Mr. Marquez briefly. But before we do, I have a request.”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t mean to be unreasonable, but when we request information, would it be possible for it to go directly from you to us, rather than by way of the students?”

  Archer frowned and looked perplexed. “I don’t follow.”

  I held up the copies. “The young man who made these. I assume he’s a student?”

  Archer opened his mouth to say something, and before any sound came out, the light came on in his head. “And I’m sorry. I just now realized. The contents of the book aren’t confidential, but there’s certainly no need for anyone to know that you requested those contents.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “He talks, and then and then and then. And pretty soon, if we’re not careful, the killer knows what move we’re making before we make it. I’d rather that didn’t happen.”

  Archer took another deep breath and I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He glanced at his watch. “I really need to say something this morning on the announcements. Any suggestions?”

  I glanced at Estelle and then at the poster on the wall behind her. The bold red letters announced 101 WAYS TO PRAISE A CHILD. “Glen, that’s your department. I’m not much into warm fuzzies or sugar-coating explanations.” I heaved myself to my feet. “You might tell ’em that if anyone goes behind the school and crosses the crime scene ribbon, they’ll be arrested. Other than that, I can’t think of a thing. Unless you think it would work to say, ‘Will the useless son of a bitch who killed Maria Ibarra come to the office immediately.’”

  Glen Archer winced and looked at Patricia Hyde. “I wish it would be that easy.”

  “So do we, Glen. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Let us know if you hear anything.”

  10

  We didn’t spend long with Dawn Paddock. I got the impression that her reaction to our presence was to protect her turf. It was neat turf, with precisely lettered labels and color-keyed folders, filled with whatever information school nurses collect in their off moments between patching up the losers of hallway brawls. But she had never met Maria Ibarra. She had no records, immunization or otherwise, for the girl.

  “You know,” Ms. Paddock said, and stuck a pencil into her hair bun as if that ended that, “we can’t force them to bring in their records.”

  “I understand that,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said quietly. “How long does the school generally give them? Before they’re no longer admitted.”

  “To get their shots, you mean? Well, the state says that if they don’t have up-to-date immunization records, they can’t be allowed in school, period. Not one day. But…” And she hesitated and shrugged.

  “But obviously they are,” I said.

  “If nothing is forthcoming in a week or two at most, then we call the parents and have them come in and pick up their child. We tell the parents face-to-face that the child may not return until we have a note from the physician stating that their immunizations are current.”

  “And that wasn’t done with Maria Ibarra?” I asked.

  “Not yet.” She turned and scanned the files again in the open top drawer of the cabinet, her fingers pausing in the I-J-K section. “As you can see, I haven’t even received the registration papers on the young lady. I don’t have a folder for her. When I do, then the process starts.”

  Estelle was frowning, maybe at Paddock’s cheerful implication that someday she would receive a file folder on Maria Ibarra. “It seems like it should be a straightforward process,” she said.

  “It would be very simple if all children had responsible parents,” Ms. Paddock said. “But they don’t.”

  “Or parents at all,” Estelle muttered, and she turned quickly toward the door. I thanked Nurse Paddock and followed Estelle out into the hallway. She leaned against the wall, her shoulder against one of the lockers. Down the hallway a solitary student disappeared into one of the classrooms and then the place was quiet. Estelle squinted at the floor as if she were counting the polished tiles.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  She blinked a couple of times and then shut her eyes. “I can’t believe this,” she said finally. “A child is murdered sometime early in the evening, but no one calls to report her missing.” She tipped her head back and stared at the white acoustical ceiling tiles. “And then we come here and find that their records of this girl are all but nonexistent. They don’t know who she was living with, or where, or anything else.” She turned to glare at me. “Do you think that they would have bothered to put her on the absentee list today if her body hadn’t been found?”

  “I’m not sure that’s fair, Estelle.”

>   Her laugh was bark short. “Neither is being murdered.”

  The door behind me opened and interrupted my reply. The nurse beckoned. “There’s a call for you on line one, sir. You can take it in my office if you like.”

  Estelle Reyes-Guzman hadn’t moved a step when I rejoined her.

  With a hand on her elbow, I started down the hallway. “They think they found Miguel Orosco,” I said. “I know who they found, and I hope to hell they’re wrong.” Estelle looked puzzled, but fell in step.

  ***

  We drove into the gravel driveway of the Ranchero mobile home park. As the crow flew, the place was less than a quarter mile from my own home on Guadalupe Terrace. But that quarter mile was a world away. The manager of the park, if he was home, didn’t come out to greet us.

  At the far end of the park, beyond the last trailer, I saw Sergeant Torrez’s patrol car. As we idled to a stop, Torrez got out and pointed toward the interstate embankment behind the hedgerow. That wasn’t what he meant, though.

  “Somebody lives back there?” Estelle asked as we got out of the car.

  “The wrong Orosco,” I said wearily.

  Three enormous cottonwoods shaded the postage stamp of land where Manny Orosco lived behind the Ranchero mobile home park, separated from the park’s patrons by a thick, unkempt hedge of scrub elm, locust, and cactus.

  Over the years, Manny had squatted here and there around Posadas, living with his bottle in complete, alcoholic contentment until someone became irritated enough at his presence to evict him. I never thought much about him, guessing that most villages had their own version of Manny Orosco’s adventures.

  The Ranchero manager had started to erect a tall board fence across the back of his property to close out both the eyesore of Manny’s camp and to help cut down on the continuous drone of the interstate. He had three posts in the ground for starters. The fence was a long-term project, so Manny must have been keeping to himself, not bothering the park patrons.

  I could see why the Ranchero manager had started the fencing project. Those cottonwoods were the only touch of grace for the spot that Manny Orosco called home. Behind those trees was a ditch that, before the interstate had been bladed through, had been part of the Arroyo Escondido. On the far side of the junk-filled ditch was the upsweep to the interstate right-of-way. Orosco had found himself a tiny sliver of land on which to squat. A week’s research in the county courthouse might have turned up the original owner of the land, but I wasn’t willing to place bets.

  Orosco’s home was a delivery truck, the tall boxy kind with slab windshield halves favored by tool vendors and package delivery firms. Its driver’s-side glass had been replaced with cardboard, but that didn’t matter. Its driving days were over.

  “You’re kidding,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said. Torrez wasn’t, of course, even if he knew how.

  “I think you’ve got the wrong Orosco, Bobby,” I said.

  “You know who lives here?” Estelle asked.

  “Sure,” I said. A narrow path led through the tangle of underbrush. I stepped into the clearing by the truck and stopped. The old vehicle sat nearly level, a stack of boards supporting each corner of the suspension. Its broad, windowless flanks had faded to a blotchy pattern of muted camouflage.

  “He’s home?” I asked, and Torrez nodded.

  “Eddie Mitchell found him, sir,” he said.

  “That wouldn’t take much looking,” I snorted. “And Eddie thinks this is where the girl was living?” I didn’t wait for an answer, but circled around to the rear double doors. One of them was ajar and I pushed it open.

  Manny Orosco was either dead or sleeping through the first half of another day. He lay on what had once been an army cot, a blanket wadded up under his head. The cot was jammed against one wall. Above his head was a row of metal bins welded to the bulkhead, low enough to knock him senseless if he arose suddenly. But he wasn’t apt to do that. A rap or two wouldn’t have hurt his pickled brain anyway.

  I stepped into the truck, surprised that the place didn’t smell worse than it did. His mouth open and a wet spot on the rough blanket under his head, Manny Orosco lay on his left side, curled up tightly. If he’d had his thumb stuck in his mouth, he’d have looked like a fifty-year-old infant.

  “Mr. Orosco?” I said loudly. I might as well have been talking to the truck. I touched his neck and felt a ragged but strong pulse. His breathing was even and gentle.

  “A late riser,” Estelle said from the doorway.

  I nudged the bottle of cheap sherry that stood corked near the cot. There were a couple of ounces left. “And then he can have breakfast,” I said.

  I stood up, holding one of the wall bins to steady myself. The truck was stuffy and dark. “No running water, no electricity, no nothing,” I said as I surveyed the interior of the truck. I made my way forward, toward the cab. In one corner just inside the sliding front door was a dark mound, maybe Manny’s laundry for the year.

  The front door was closed. I tried the latch and the door slid back easily, letting in a flood of light. I stood for a moment, one hand on the bulkhead just behind the driver’s seat, trying to make sense out of what I saw.

  It wasn’t laundry that was in the corner. The neatly folded blanket rested on top of a pad made from an old, quilted bedspread. It would have made a nice bed for a pet spaniel.

  I bent down with a grunt and picked up a spiral notebook and what looked like a math textbook.

  “Son of a bitch,” I murmured. “Accommodations for one more.” I flipped open the notebook and even my tired old eyes had no trouble reading the neat, angular script.

  “Maria Elena Ibarra, period six. Mr. Wilkie.” I looked up at Estelle and added, “Problem set 5.” I extended the notebook toward her.

  “I thought you said…”

  I dropped the notebook and math book back on the blanket. I felt like I had to vomit, and I stepped quickly out of the old truck, nearly losing my balance. I steadied myself against the warm metal.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I lied. “And I was wrong about Manny Orosco, too. Or Miguel, or whatever his name really is.”

  “What was the girl doing here?” Estelle stood by the back door, refusing to enter. Manny Orosco slept on.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe Manny bought himself a young wife.”

  “That’s not funny, sir.”

  “Indeed it’s not. Neither are any of the other possibilities.” I motioned to Sergeant Torrez. “Call an ambulance to pick up Mr. Orosco. As soon as the docs say he’s detoxed enough to understand you, take him into custody. Charge him with felony child abuse for starters. If the hospital doesn’t think it’s wise to have him go cold turkey in a cell, make arrangements for a secure room at the hospital. I don’t want him crapping out on us.”

  I took a deep breath and pushed myself away from the truck. “As soon as he’s coherent, let me know.”

  “Will you help me here, sir?” Estelle asked. “I’d like to take this place apart one small piece at a time. There have to be some answers in there.”

  I nodded. Some answers would be a welcome change.

  11

  Maria Elena Ibarra had lived inside the old truck for an indeterminate period of time. That’s what an hour of meticulous searching told us. We didn’t know exactly when she’d last been there, or for how long she’d been a full-time resident of one of the village’s more dismal corners.

  After Estelle took hair samples from the bedding, she bagged the quilt and blanket. The material wasn’t fresh from the cleaners, but it was tolerable.

  “She’d have to curl up like a cocker spaniel to fit on that bedding,” I muttered, but Estelle looked almost relieved.

  “At least she wasn’t sharing the cot with the drunk,” she said. “Better to curl up in any corner than to put up with that.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, realizing as I said it that Maria was long past caring.

  Where the gi
rl had attended to the other of life’s functions that most of us performed with some privacy was another question to which there were no obvious answers.

  Hung from the aluminum frame of the driver’s-side window were changes of clothing, kid-sized. The two wire clothes hangers seemed like an unexpected luxury. None of the clothing was freshly laundered, but it would pass casual inspection. “She favored blue,” I said and unhooked the hangers and handed two blouses to Estelle. “What’s the label say?”

  Estelle ruffled the collar and cocked her head. “One is from Price World, and that could be anywhere in the Southwest.” She opened the other collar. “This one was made in Mexico. What about the slacks?” I unhooked the single pair of dark blue slacks from the window track and handed them to Estelle. “Mexican,” she said after a glance.

  “And that’s it,” I said. Estelle handed the sacked collection to me to hold and then bent over and retrieved a small plastic bag that had been shoved down beside the driver’s seat. She opened it and scanned the contents.

  “Not quite all. There are maybe three pairs of socks and a change or two of underwear here.”

  I added that to the collection while Estelle contorted herself downward in the door well so she could see under the driver’s seat. “Here we are,” she said with interest, and then added, “huh.”

  “Do you want another evidence bag?”

  “Yes.” After a minute she turned slightly to one side so she could swing her arm free. I held out the clean evidence bag and into it she dropped a chunk of fried cherry pie, the kind sold in any convenience store anywhere in the country. The wrapper was neatly folded over the open end.

  “I don’t know of a teenager alive who only eats half of something like that and stashes the rest for later,” I said.

  “Maybe she didn’t know for sure when her next meal was coming,” Estelle said quietly. “And maybe no one told her she could get a free lunch at school.”

  “The only food Orosco believed in was alcohol,” I said.

  She nodded and pointed at the piece of pie with her lips, like an Indian. “The date on the wrapper is current. Maybe somebody will remember her buying it.” She shifted position and grunted. “This was her private spot.” She handed me a twenty-four-count bottle of aspirin with less than a dozen tablets remaining.