One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  “I’ll have to find the dupes.” But Bea made no move toward where the duplicates might be kept.

  “If you’d do that, I’d appreciate it. We’d like to take a look inside the truck while you’re finding the personnel files.” That stirred her into motion, and in a moment she returned from one of those walk-in vault closets with a single key and tag on a chrome ring. “I believe this is to his vehicle,” she said, handing it to me. “Now listen…I’m going to have to talk to Tony about those records.”

  “Whatever it takes, Bea. Thank you. We’ll be back with these in a few minutes.”

  She nodded and offered Estelle the ghost of a smile. “Nice to see you again, young lady. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Enjoy her stay? However brief? Not, “Welcome aboard, we look forward to working with you?”

  If Estelle caught the nuances, which I’m sure she did, she replied graciously, “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sure I will.”

  Outside, the sun was brilliant, the earth of the bone yard fragrant with oil, diesel, and a dozen other nifty chemicals. Larry Zipoli’s white Dodge three-quarter ton was backed tight against the fence, nose out, ready to go. I took my time crossing the parking lot, watching where I put my feet. Estelle kept stride, and I wondered what thoughts were occupying her, at the same time thanking my good fortune that she wasn’t a compulsive chatterbox.

  “Most of the time, they trail the truck behind the grader out to the job site,” I said. “But for little jobs around the perimeter of the village, he’s just going to drive the grader.”

  I tried the door handle, and was surprised to find it locked. In a secure bone yard, fenced with razor wire and lighted with sodium vapor lights to noontime brightness all night, what was the point of locking a work truck? Habit, perhaps.

  The key turned easily. This old monster, government low-bid specs anyway, didn’t feature niceties like electric door locks or electric windows. As it opened, the door squalled against slightly bent and dry hinges. An effluvia of odors flooded out, mostly stale tobacco in a variety of forms. Smoke residue blued the glass, and a nifty little cup holder hung from the driver’s side door, nestled in which was a coke can with the top sliced off. It was half full of tobacco juice. The ash tray was pulled out, stuffed with butts. Larry’s tobacco habit spanned the gamut from generic cigarettes to chaw to stogies. The cab’s aroma, exacerbated by the sun through the glass, was ripe.

  A thick log book rested on the seat, and I flipped it open to the last page of notations. Larry had pumped 22.1 gallons of diesel into the Dodge two days before, noting the mileage as 177,671.9. I inserted the ignition key and turned it until the dash lit up.

  “So he’s driven eighteen miles in two days, more or less.” I turned and grinned at Estelle. She was standing at junction of cab and bed, watching my performance. “And that tells us…only that. If it read that he’d covered two hundred miles in a county this small, we’d wonder, wouldn‘t we.”

  Another aroma had interested me from the moment I opened the door, and I turned my attention to the modest lunch cooler that rested on the passenger side floor. I couldn’t reach it by stretching across, so I slid out and trudged around to open the passenger door.

  “Interesting that he didn’t take his lunch with him on the grader,” I mused. Estelle’s left eyebrow raised about a sixteenth of an inch. “Or not,” I added, and opened the cooler. “Well, hello there.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Larry Zipoli’s lunch was well balanced: four empty bottles of dark beer, two empty micro bottles of good bourbon. The cooler still contained two full beers and one unopened whiskey sampler. The blue freezer cube was still cool to the touch.

  “Well, now,” I said. “That’s quite a diet.” I didn’t touch any of the bottles, but could read the labels well enough, and saw a price tag on one of the samplers. “He liked the good stuff.”

  “Do you suppose he had a sack lunch with him?” It was her first question of the morning, and until that moment, her reticence had been striking.

  “He might have, but we didn’t find anything on the grader, and he didn’t toss the remains out the window along Highland. He was back here at the barns over the lunch hour, we’re told. If he was brown-bagging it, then he had ample time to eat here. And these puppies?” I reached out and tapped one of the whiskey bottles with the tip of a pencil. “Motorists toss these out the window all the time. Take a mile walk along any highway, and you’ll find ’em.”

  “But he kept the empties in the cooler.”

  “And why would he do that, I wonder? I mean, the county doesn’t condone employees drinking their lunch, especially in a county vehicle. He didn’t want to risk being seen dumping cans and bottles in the dumpsters here?”

  “Did Mr. Zipoli have a record of DWI?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t recall that I’ve never stopped him, and usually if deputies stop one of the town fathers, or a village or county employee, they talk about it among themselves, generally with some self-righteous delight. I don’t recall any of the deputies talking about Larry Zipoli.”

  The young lady was standing beside Zipoli’s truck, gazing across the bone yard. “If he sat in his truck way over here out of the way, he’d be safe enough to enjoy his lunch,” she said. “If somebody starts to walk toward him, he’s got time to slip the bottle back in the cooler.”

  “If that’s what he did.” I snapped the lid on the cooler shut and lifted it out of the truck. Other than the log entries and the booze, the Dodge offered nothing that jumped out at me and cried, “Look at this!”

  I stashed the cooler in the trunk of 310, and then settled in the driver’s seat, turning the air conditioner up to high for a few minutes.

  “So, now we know something else. Our man has a significant drinking problem if he downed four bottles and two samplers in just one day. Of course,” and I shrugged, “that might be a week’s supply. A bottle of dark beer one day, a whiskey the next-or any combination of the above.”

  “Reuben is an alcoholic,” Estelle said quietly.

  I looked at her. “I know he is,” I said. “And he has been for years, at least ever since I’ve known him.”

  “When I was little and he’d visit Tres Santos, I used to think it was his cologne,” she mused. “I could tell when he had been in my mother’s house. The smell lingered for a long, long time. If Mr. Zipoli had consumed all that alcohol for lunch, I would think that the cab of the road grader would have smelled like a brewery.”

  “Mostly the cab smelled like a body too long in the sun, and stale cigar. All that overlaid over the grader’s own body odor-oil, grease, hydraulic fluid.” I paused, the image playing in my mind. There Larry Zipoli sat, perhaps half buzzed, reflexes slow, big stogie clamped in his mouth, the thick smoke clinging to his skin, clothing, and every surface of the Cat’s cab.

  “So, was this a one-time thing, or a constant problem with him? If it’s a beer a day or so, that’s one thing. If Larry Zipoli was chugging through a six-pack and three samplers every day, then that’s another story.” I chuckled at the image. “How the hell could he grade a straight line? Maybe that’s where we need to go.” I tapped a little tattoo on the steering wheel. “This is a doorway of sorts, Deputy Reyes.” I turned and looked at her, and her expression was intense. She was a listener, not a talker, and I liked her all the more.

  “We go through the door, or we don’t. That’s the first choice. Well, of course we do. We welcome any doors, painful as they might end up being for somebody. A good share of the time, there’s a causative link between the victim and the killer.” I shrugged. “Now, sometimes there isn’t.” My door was ajar, and I lowered my voice so there was no chance of the sound carrying across the boneyard to Bea Summer’s keen ears.

  “Let’s say the killer sees the grader parked along Highland, with the sun maybe on the windshield. He can’t tell if someone is in it or not, and doesn’t bother to check. Maybe he assumes the machine is untended. Those guys do take wor
k breaks after all. Standing some distance away, maybe the shooter can’t hear the grader idling. And at idle, there isn’t much smoke out the stack, not until the throttle is cracked. So he takes a shot just for the hell of it. A vandalism kind of thing. He figures the operator will come back, see the bullet hole, and freak out.” I shrugged again. “It could have happened that way.”

  “In that case, it doesn’t matter whether or not Mr. Zipoli drinks his lunch, or is an alcoholic, or not.”

  “That’s exactly right. And that’s why we go through that door carefully and discreetly. Nothing is gained by spreading Larry’s bad habits all over town. Those who know him well enough, already know that he had a drinking problem. That’s the thing about alcoholics. They don’t think anybody is going to notice. They’ll go to elaborate lengths to hide the habit. The efforts are a waste of time. You can’t hide it, not the smell, not the behavior, none of it.”

  I switched off the car. “End of lecture. Let’s take a look at the files, if Mrs. Summers has those records for us.” I hesitated. “And I hope I don’t have to tell you how confidential all of this is. It’s between you and me. You don’t even discuss any of this with anyone else, unless the sheriff himself has questions for you. Whatever Eduardo Salcido wants to know, he gets to know. But not with the other deputies, not with anyone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have a boyfriend you talk with?”

  Her frown was instant but fleeting, as if I’d stepped on her foot and then as quickly recovered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be very, very careful. What’s he do?”

  “He’s a fourth year medical student at Baylor, sir.”

  “Ah. That’s a long hard road. Local young man?”

  “His family lives in Las Cruces and in Mexico.”

  “Well, good. Anyway, confidential, just like between him and his patients.” She nodded and followed me out of the car, taking just a moment to tuck in her blouse and straighten her summer weight cotton jacket.

  My hand was on the office door knob when a late model pickup came through the bone yard gate without slowing a lick and managed to stop beside my patrol car without spraying gravel against the building. Tony Pino was behind the wheel, with his foreman, Buddy Clayton, riding shotgun.

  “I was hoping Bea would be able to reach you,” I said, and extended my hand. Tony’s grip was a single, perfunctory, limp pump. Buddy managed a little better. “This is Deputy Estelle Reyes,” I said, and let it go at that. Buddy gave her a thorough head-to-toe survey, looked like he wanted to say something cute, and bit it off. Tony had other things on his mind, and got right to the point.

  “We was just over talkin’ to Marilyn Zipoli,” Tony said. “Christ, what a tough time.”

  “Yes, it is. “

  “You got any new ideas since yesterday? Who mighta done something like this?

  “That’s why we’re here this morning, Tony. I need to know from you exactly what happened yesterday. From the first time you saw Larry yesterday morning until late in the afternoon. And I understand that Mike Zamora ran the new hydraulic hose out to him. I’ll want to talk with him.”

  “He’s in Deming, I think.” Pino grimaced and glanced at the blinding blue sky. “Let’s go inside, then,” he said. The cramped office became a crowded place, all of us under the watchful eye of Bea Summers. Before I forgot it, I handed the keys back to her, and then we headed to Tony‘s dark little cave of an office. I noticed that Bea didn’t offer me the personnel file. She’d let Tony field that one.

  Buddy Clayton appeared intent on joining the party, but I stopped him at the office doorway with a gentle hand on the shoulder.

  “Let us catch you in a little bit, Buddy,” I said, and he shot a nervous glance at his boss. Tony waved an impatient hand at him, and I moved a floor fan so that I could close the door. Estelle moved to one side, taking the corner by a filing cabinet that offered handy support for an elbow. Before we were finished with this day, it would be a wonderful test of her discretion, but I had little reason to worry. So far that morning, I had been absolutely unable to judge just what she was thinking at any given time. She could have taken up a career as a professional poker player.

  “Let me tell you what it looks like to us.” I tried to find a comfortable spot on the metal folding chair. “One rifle shot, fired directly from a point in front of the road grader, the shooter standing some indeterminate number of yards west on Highland, or maybe even beyond somewhere. You saw what it did. The slug blew through the center of the grader’s windshield right beside the windshield wiper, and struck Larry in the forehead, just over his left eyebrow.” I paused. “That’s it. You know as much as we do.”

  Tony Pino’s face paled another shade, and he swallowed hard. “Jesus, Bill.” For a moment, he didn’t know what else to say, and I sat in silence, letting him work on it.

  “There’s kids out at the arroyo all the time, shootin’ and stuff. There’s this one place out west of Highland where the arroyo is pretty deep, man. You know all about it. That’s where they go. Most of the time, we don’t have so many problems.”

  “Most of the time.” The arroyo was just outside the village limits, and a sore point with some of the commissioners. Shooting there was legal, since it was a fair distance from the nearest dwelling, and if the shooters stayed down in the arroyo, the steep sides provided some barrier. Some.

  “You thinking that’s what it was?”

  “We’re exploring a couple of different avenues,” I hedged. I’d known Tony for years, and thought of him as an honest, hard-working village employee. But sometimes it was hard to tell what the connections were. “Tony, this is hard for you guys, I know. But I asked Bea if we can take a look at Larry’s personnel files.”

  “Jesus, Bill, I can’t let you do that,” Tony replied without taking a moment to think it over. Well, he could, of course, but I hadn’t used all the keys yet to open that door. “I mean those files are confidential.” I nodded as if that was that, giving myself time to mull my options. I hadn’t said “warrant” yet in this conversation, and once I did, there was no going back. I was convinced that the shot that killed Larry Zipoli had not been an errant slug from across the arroyo.

  “Does…did…Larry have much of a drinking problem on the job?” The blunt question might as well have been a ball peen hammer between the eyes. I saw the blood rush up Tony’s dark face, and he blinked half a dozen times, digesting the question.

  “What?”

  “There’s some indication that Larry liked his booze, Tony.”

  “I…I don’t know anything about that. Larry’s been working for us for Jesus knows how many years. He gets the job done, just like he’s paid to do. Hell, Bill, you’ve known him as long as I have. Where’d all this come from? Did Marilyn say something to you about him drinking, or what?”

  “He had the remains of a pretty good party in the cooler in his truck,” I replied.

  “You were in his truck?” Why that would have surprised Tony, I didn’t know.

  “Sure enough. His daily log doesn’t show many miles, and we need to know what he did yesterday, Tony.”

  “Jesus,” Tony muttered. “We got to get into all this?”

  “Yes.” If not now, then on the witness stand under a D.A’s grilling, I thought, but spared Tony Pino that worry so early in the game. “He started work at the usual time?”

  “Left the yard with the grader right around 8:15,” Tony snapped, his turf thoroughly stepped on. “He was workin’ up on Nineteen the day before, and yesterday he was going to catch up on some work up on Highland. That last frog strangler we got? Did some damage up there. He went out in the morning, and had some damn problem with the exhaust stack, so he brought the grader back before lunch, and he worked on it for an hour or so right here in the yard. And then he went back out and right away blew a hydraulic hose. Louis made up a new one, and got Mike to run it out.”

  “What time was that?”

  “M
aybe Bea could tell you. I was down in María most of the morning. Buddy or Louis might know. They spent most of the morning on that twin-screw that we got in shop.”

  “So Larry would have eaten lunch here in the shop?”

  “I guess so. Hell, I don’t know. He might have drove down to the Don Juan. Sometimes at the Country Club. Maybe he went home.”

  “And then over to Highland after lunch sometime.”

  Tony nodded, thinking it through. “What time are you thinkin’ that all this happened?”

  “The original call to 911 came at seventeen minutes after three. The grader’s engine was running but in neutral. No sign that Larry ever had a chance to move an inch.”

  “Jesus. This is a crazy world. Something like this happening here, for God’s sakes. I mean in the big cities, you know. But here?”

  “We have our moments,” I said. “Did Larry have any arguments with anybody here at work? Were you aware of any friction between him and, well, anyone else?”

  “Larry minded his own business,” Tony said. “He can drive anything with wheels, and is the best heavy equipment operator we got. He can grade a dirt road so it feels like you was drivin’ on pavement, for Christ’s sake. He don’t give a hard time to any of the kids we got workin’ for us now. Some of the young bucks can do some pretty stupid things, you know. Larry, he just laughs it off and does his best to keep ’em on the straight and narrow.” He held his hands parallel. “I can’t even imagine who’d do a thing like this, Bill.”

  “Anything you can tell us is a help,” I prompted. “Anything at all. Did you and Cheri get together with Larry and Marilyn much?”

  Tony took a moment before answering. “Not so much, no. They’re always here when we have some special thing, you know. But other than that, we kinda…”

  “Keep to yourselves?”

  “That’s right.”

  “In the past few years, did Larry have any disciplinary actions against him for anything?”

  “What sort of things do you mean?”