One Perfect Shot pc-18

by Steven F Havill

  “The first shot can just as easily be the one bulls-eye as the fourth, the seventh, or the tenth…or the hundredth.”

  “Yup,” Bob Torrez said. After all his work, of course he wanted that to be true.

  “Pretty goddamn undependable way to kill somebody,” I said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My brain was a whirl of disconnected thoughts on the short ride back into town. A tractor-trailer rode up on our back bumper for a while, and I realized that I was putting along, not much more than thirty-five miles an hour in a sixty-five zone. After a few seconds of that, the trucker grew impatient and thundered by, cop car or not. His plates were Texan, his mud flaps big, waving promos for Tyler Trucking in Kansas, his trailer hauling something under the banner of Merlin Foods out of Denver, the cab door bearing the logo for Dutchess Trucking headquartered in Phoenix. That potpourri of places might have made me curious if I hadn’t been distracted with other issues.

  He blew through the first speed zone on the outskirts of Posadas, then braked hard to catch the westbound ramp for the Interstate, where he’d be someone else’s problem.

  I was about to comment that with all the curious geography displayed on his truck, the driver might have been more careful about basic things like signaling his turns so he didn’t attract undue attention. Had I just been cruising, I would have stopped him for a chat.

  My radio chirped even as other concerns rumbled through my brain. Larry Zipoli’s personnel records remained untouched. I needed a quiet corner to settle in and catch up on my reading. I didn’t need another interruption.

  Without being told, Estelle Reyes palmed the mike like a veteran. “PCS, three ten.”

  “Three ten, contact Dr. Perrone at Posadas General reference your previous stop,” the dispatcher said. Estelle glanced at me and I nodded.

  “Ten four, PCS,” she said and hung up the mike.

  “We’ll swing by the hospital on the way,” I said. “We need to do that anyway.”

  I saw one of her shapely black eyebrows drift upward and knew what she must be thinking…on the way where?

  “I want to chat with Marilyn Zipoli again. A couple of things keep nagging me. Something doesn’t quite fit, and I don’t know what it is.” I paid attention to traffic for a moment-elderly Theodora Baca’s huge sedan pulling across my lane to enter the Posadas Inn’s parking lot. Perhaps it was their iced tea that beckoned her-the only recipe on their little restaurant’s menu that wasn’t close to poisonous.

  “And before we do that, I need to spend some time with Zipoli’s records. It’ll be interesting to see what Marilyn has to say about all that. I mean, how could she not know that Larry had a drinking problem. No way she wouldn’t know. Not someone as sharp as she is.”

  We passed through the intersection with Bustos, then turned east on the little spur of North Pershing to the Posadas General Hospital parking lot. I parked in one of the slots marked Emergency Vehicles Only, and saw the white Dodge van with the Posadas Auto Parts logo on its broad flank. The keys to old man Newton’s Caddy were still in my pocket.

  “Unfinished business,” I said. “When young Nick went to work this morning, he thought this was going to be a normal day. And then it went to shit.”

  Despite its interesting collision of aromas, the hospital could be a comfortable spot on a hot summer’s day, and my pace slowed a little to enjoy the ambiance. The sign requested that all visitors report to the receptionist out by the lobby, but she didn’t need to deal with us. The emergency room was empty, and I headed down past radiology toward the new ICU wing-“wing” a grand term for two new rooms and an exterior doorway that led to a tiny sun-dappled courtyard.

  Nick Newton sat outside on one of the courtyard’s concrete benches in a shady corner dominated by a fountain based on the Zia symbol. The water pump wasn’t quite up to the task, and the creation managed to look more like a bad leak than an arty fountain. Smoke wafted up from Newton’s cigarette. His forearms rested on his knees, his head hanging as if he wasn’t sure about his stomach’s ability to hold down lunch.

  He looked up as we entered the courtyard.

  “Sheriff.” He shook my hand without much enthusiasm.

  “This is Estelle Reyes,” I said, and Nick Newton’s gaze flickered to the young lady with little interest. “How is your father?”

  “Not so good. He’s across the hall in the ICU. What the hell happened anyway? You stopped him out on 61?”

  “Actually, Nick, I didn’t stop him. He was parked with the ass end of his car hanging out in the traffic lane. He was semi-conscious in the back seat.”

  He muttered an oath. “He probably would just sleep it off if you left him alone.”

  “Maybe he would have. Or a semi might have rear-ended him, or he might have come to and fumbled and stumbled his way into an accident. What’s Dr. Perrone say?” I glanced back through the double doors, but couldn’t see beyond the tinted glass across the hall.

  Nick waved a hand impatiently. “Some mumbo-jumbo about his heart and liver. Hell, there’s never been anything wrong with him that a little common sense wouldn’t cure.” It sounded more like a father talking about a wayward son than vice versa. “So what’s the deal? I mean when he gets out of here. Is he in trouble with you guys? You charge him with DWI, or what?”

  “I haven’t charged him with anything yet, Jack.”

  “Yet,” he snorted. “You know, all he’s got is Medicare, sheriff. You have any idea how much this is going to cost?”

  He’s got you, I wanted to mention, but that wasn’t any of my business. I managed to look suitably sympathetic.

  Nick lit another cigarette. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Take his car keys, I guess. And then what.”

  “Speaking of which,” I said, and dug out the key ring. “The car is pulled well off the highway and locked. You can pick it up any time. The sooner the better. It’s a tempting target out there.”

  He looked at the collection of keys, leafing them one by one around the ring.

  “So what’s the deal, then?”

  “The deal is that right now, you take care of your dad,” I said. “When he’s clear-headed enough that we can talk with him, then we’ll see.” I knew damn well what the District Attorney’s attitude would be. “Make sure he doesn’t get behind the wheel, Nick. Keep those keys out of his reach until we straighten all this out.”

  “’Preciate it, sheriff.” He nodded first at me and then at Estelle Reyes. “You’re with the department now?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And what’s this deal about Larry Zipoli?” Nick asked me. “I’m hearing all these weird stories. Like he got shot somehow and fell right out of the county grader he was driving?”

  “That’s one version I hadn’t heard,” I replied. “We’re investigating, Nick.”

  “Christ, ain’t that a kick. You think suicide maybe?“

  “As I said, we’re checking out everything. Did you have the chance to talk with Larry recently?”

  Nick took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I saw him yesterday, as a matter of fact. He come into the store to pick up an ignition switch.” He frowned at the memory. “He was pretty steamed about the latest county snafu. You probably run into it. About no open purchase orders? You need somethin’ simple-hell even a new double-A battery or a new screwdriver-you got to have it approved by the department supervisor? In writing?”

  “I think that order is one of the things that the sheriff threw in the trash,” I laughed. “But it’ll catch up with us, I’m sure. So all in all, Larry seemed all right to you?”

  “Well, sure. I mean, how’s a guy to know, after all,” Nick said. “I don’t think he felt all that hot, if you ask me. His back was giving him hell.” He was tactful enough not to say any more about that-I was fully aware that my own ample gut, although not in the same class as Larry Zipoli’s gigantic, pendulous belly, put plenty of strain on my spine. “How’s Marilyn takin’ it all?”


  I shrugged noncommittally and Nick seemed satisfied with that. He nodded toward the door, and I turned to see Dr. Alan Perrone. The physician held the door open for us. Nick Newton took the opportunity to light up again, in no hurry to go back inside to the atmosphere of chemicals, clicking machines, and hushed voices.

  “How are you doing, Bill?” the physician asked as we stepped inside. I suppose he had reason to ask, since he’d been in charge of my innards for quite a while and knew where all the leaks, creaks, and odd noises lurked.

  “I’m dandy,” I replied. “This is Estelle Reyes.”

  Perrone grinned at her. “We’re acquainted.” He didn’t elaborate but shook her hand, adding a genteel bow of the head at the same time, then turned back to me. “I left a message for you with dispatch. Look, it’s highly unlikely that Jack Newton is going to pull through. I mean, miracles do occasionally happen, but I would be surprised this time.”

  “You told Nick?”

  “Yes. I don’t think he was in the mood to hear it. I understand that you were the one who stopped the old man?”

  “No. He was pulled off the road, passed out on the back seat. Ms. Reyes and I happened by.”

  “Ah. Well lucky for him. The back seat, you say. That’s interesting.” Perrone heaved a deep sigh. “Look, his liver is shot, he has an enlarged spleen, and fluid is collecting in his lungs. The old heart just can’t manage it all. Half a bottle of alcohol wasn’t just what he needed, although at this stage of the game, I don’t suppose it matters much. Anyway, I wanted to touch bases with you, since the whole thing entered the system as a complaint from your department.”

  And who the hell knew how the “system” that Perrone referred to would have reacted had we cuffed and transferred Jack Newton to the back of J.J. Murton’s patrol car, and then had the old man expire hours later in the drunk tank. His son could have had a field day at our expense.

  “Keep me posted, doctor. I do need to know when he’s out of your custody.”

  Perrone’s smile was pained. “I don’t often think of my relationship with patients as ‘custody’, Sheriff.” He nodded again to Estelle. “My best wishes to your fiancé, young lady.”

  Now, how the hell did he know Estelle Reyes’ boyfriend who wasn’t even out of school yet? Perrone’s web of informants was damn near as effective as mine-maybe better.

  I stood in the sun outside the cool chemical world of the hospital for a moment, leaning against the comfortable fender of the county car. Off to the north, the buttress of Cat Mesa heaved up against a scattering of boiling cumulus, and at that moment I would have welcomed an hour or so sitting in the shade of a piñon, listening to the jays discuss the quality of the current pine nut crop.

  “I’m ready for great thoughts.” I looked over at Estelle.

  “If I had them, I’d share them with you, sir.”

  “The first thing I want is an endless pot of fresh coffee,” I said. “Then we’ll see what the personnel files have to say.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  If the young lady wanted to be a cop, she would have to learn to like coffee. That seemed only logical to me. There was something about that first snort of caffeinated fumes that jolted the brain into gear-especially if amplified with a little nicotine. I sighed with regret.

  Estelle Reyes settled into the chair across from my desk without so much as a drink of water, completely comfortable, completely at ease. My over-weight, over-caffeined, over-nicotined, under-exercised fifty-eight-year-old body could have used some of her discipline.

  I passed paperwork across to her as I read through Larry Zipoli’s file, keeping my thoughts to myself. A half hour later, I tossed the folder toward her so she had someplace to put the stack of papers that she’d accumulated on her lap.

  “None of this leaves the room,” I said. “Ever. Not to anyone.” Her nod was almost imperceptible, and I suppose I had no reason to be concerned. The day I’d spent with her hadn’t featured much more conversation than if I’d been driving around Posadas County by myself.

  I folded my hands across my gut and relaxed back, closing my eyes. “So here is a man with a dozen infractions,” and I paused and looked at the note pad on my blotter. “Eleven separate incidents over the course of fifteen years.” I held up my hand and ticked fingers. “He wrecks a county dump truck and that’s put down to a ‘shifting load’ by the investigating sheriff’s deputy-who died of cancer a dozen years ago, by the way. You got to wonder how a few cubic yards of gravel shifts suddenly, but there you go. But Larry earns a letter of reprimand from Everett Carlyle, who was superintendent then, a year before Tony Pino got the job.” I closed my eyes again, seeing the parade of paper work as it drew a picture of an employee who might be a wizard with machines when sober, but a genuine liability when soused.

  “Tony Pino is covering his own ass,” I said. “That’s what it amounts to. Ten of those incidents were on his watch. He sticks a letter in the file, but beyond that, what does he do? Does he turned Zipoli over to the county manager? To personnel? To any goddamn body? No.”

  “Is he required to, sir?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that,” I said. “Common sense would say ‘yes.’ But Tony never does. Larry Zipoli wrecks a truck, a couple of years later parks his county pickup in a bar ditch, ruins a taxpayer’s culvert with the road grader, is reported by a concerned citizen for drinking beer during his lunch hour-and we could fairly ask how many incidents there might have been that didn’t earn the goddamn letter from Pino.”

  “Why didn’t he fire Zipoli long ago, sir?”

  “Good question. The reason might be as simple as Tony Pino’s will power. Firing a long-time employee for something like this is damn hard to do…at least for some folks it is. ‘Well, he’s learned his lesson.’ That sort of thing. Except alcoholics don’t learn any lessons until tragedy forces the necessity. Zipoli could work magic with a road grader or back hoe even when half sauced. It could be as simple as that. Pino is short-handed, and can’t afford to lose an experienced employee. So he turns his back on all this stuff.” I waved a hand at the stack of papers. “No major catastrophes in the record-just a potpourri of little incidents.”

  “It’s interesting that Mr. Pino continues to document all the incidents even though he’s disinclined to do anything further,” Estelle said. I enjoyed hearing the way her melodic Mexican accent touched the syllables. It made an awkward word like “disinclined” sound damn poetic. “I would think that puts considerable liability on him.”

  “One would think so,” I agreed. “A lawyer would have a field day with all this during a trial for civil damages.” I stretched back. “You know what’s interesting? We don’t have a damn thing on Larry Zipoli in our department files. Not a damn thing. That’s how lucky he’s been-or how lucky the unsuspecting public has been.” I straightened the folder. “Going on twenty years on the job, and not a single ticket or violation. That’s a talent all by itself.”

  For a long moment, I remained silent, staring at the front cover of Larry Zipoli’s personnel folder. “I need to talk with Marilyn Zipoli again.” I rested my hand on the folder as if it might levitate off the desk. “This is the kind…” I stopped when Eduardo Salcido appeared in my office doorway. His expression was one of resignation.

  “I’m tired of talking to people who don’t know shit,” he said, and the mild profanity surprised me. He leaned against the door jamb, his hands thrust in his pockets. “I got two-two people who agree on what they heard or saw.”

  “That’s better than none, I suppose.”

  “How can you shoot a high-powered rifle in a quiet neighborhood and not have half the town hear it?” A bemused grin lit his features. “I tell you, jefito-we got to let people know when something is going to happen…tell them when they’re supposed to pay attention, so they can be good witnesses.” His frustration was understandable, of course. Nothing is more infuriating to investigators than witness behavior-those witnesses whose senses are simply tur
ned off as they cruise through life, or those on the opposite end of the scale, who invent juicy tidbits in their eagerness to be of help to the police. And every shade in between.

  “Who are the two?”

  “You know the Deckers?”

  “Sure.” Hugh and Tody Decker were active members in the Posadas County Sheriff’s Posse, a group of civilians who liked to dress up and ride horses in parades. The posse hadn’t chased a killer on the lam since the 1890s, but they were handy for managing traffic control during the Posadas County Fair.

  “Tody says that her husband had just gone outside for something, I don’t know what. He came back in the house complaining about the shooting.”

  “The shooting?” I asked incredulously. “You mean he claims he saw it?”

  “No. He told his wife he heard a shot.” He nodded at my expression of skepticism. “Well, that’s what he said. He looked off that way, and claims that he saw a person walking toward a car parked right at the intersection of Highland and Hutton.“

  The sheriff wagged an index finger. “Tody says she remembers exactly when that was, because Hugh had a dentist’s appointment in Deming, and she was worried about him being late. She looked at the kitchen clock while Hugh was fussing around trying to find his binoculars.”

  “He found them, I hope.”

  Salcido held out both hands in disappointment. “He saw the person get into his car. That’s all. He decided it was someone taking a shot at a coyote or snake or something.”

  “He saw the gun?”

  Salcido shook his head.

  “Make and model of car?”

  “A small sedan, he said it was.”

  “That’s a goddamn big help.”

  “Well,” Salcido sighed, “it’s something, you know. It rules out all the pickup trucks with the gun racks in the back window. That’s half the town, Jefito.”

  “What time was all this? What did Tody say?”

  “She said it was just after two. If she’s right, that cuts down the window of opportunity.”