Heartshot pc-1

by Steven F Havill

  “State cops?” I asked, pointing.

  Estelle shook her head. “Television. And we’re going to have to be careful on that score. A couple of news units have moved in. Even one of the big papers from Albuquerque. A wire-service guy tried to pump Holman today at the office.” She smiled wryly. “It’s the first time I ever saw him squirm and try to dodge publicity. And Channel Three flew in late yesterday.”

  “Just what we need. The sheriff hasn’t said anything about bringing in other agencies on this?”

  “No, sir. In fact, late yesterday, he stopped me as I was leaving the office and told me that all he wanted from me was progress…not to worry about what other people thought. He told me to leave the public relations to him.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Good for him. And he’s going to have his hands full. I gathered from the newspaper that not too many people are accepting the suicide angle.”

  “The natural tendency is to link it all together,” she said. “There’s a lot of talk on the street, and none of it is suicide, as far as the Salinger death is concerned.”

  “And so what are the city news hounds playing? The ‘small town reels under big-city problems’ angle? The ‘once pastoral village goes to shit’ story?”

  Estelle nodded. “Exactly. And we’re being pushed.” She grimaced as she swung the car into my tree-shaded driveway. “Holman hasn’t learned to bark yet…especially at the press. He’s too concerned with image. But give him time. And we may be able to use all the publicity to our advantage. But let me outline what I’ve got. You’ll be interested.”

  That was an understatement. I heaved myself out of the car. Even the cottonwoods smelled good. As I fumbled for the keys, Estelle turned this way and that, looking at the adobe house. “Beautiful place.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Built in 1914. I bought it in 1965, just before I retired from the service.”

  The front door was heavily carved wood in territorial style, and it swung open silently, like the door to a bank vault. Estelle Reyes had never been to my home, in recent years, few people had been. They’d probably carve “Gastner the Hermit” on my tombstone. What the hell.

  “Come on in,” I said. “I’ll put on the coffee.” We walked down the long hallway to where it opened into the kitchen, and off to the right, two steps down, into the living room with its enormous dark ceiling beams. Sunshine flooded through the big kitchen windows and bounced off the colorful Mexican tile countertops.

  “Sir, this is fantastic.”

  “I like it.”

  “Did you do the work?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, and rummaged for the coffee. “I’m allergic to handyman stuff. Every time I pick up a tool, I end up bleeding or bruised. No, I made a lot of money in the service, and we managed to save a chunk. We figured this place was payback for living in government tin for twenty years.”

  “It makes my trailer look…look like scrap paper.”

  “Hey, you’re young. You and Francis will find something that suits you. Give it time.” I put on the water. “And the last thing you want is for a dream to become an albatross around your necks. You’ve served enough civil papers to see that.” I took a deep breath, glad to be home. “But the hell with all that.” I indicated the kitchen table. “Let’s see what you found out…before the alarm goes out, and we end up with company.” I winked at Estelle. I knew that walking out of the hospital was stupid, even juvenile, but those are the breaks. None of their medicine had made me feel this good.

  Like a gambler dealing cards, Estelle Reyes laid out a display of reports, photos, and evidence bags on the table. I pulled up a chair. “First of all, the Magnum was fired twice,” Estelle began. “The ballistics lab report talks about two completely different powder residues. You can see here”-she held up a large close-up photo of the Magnum’s cylinder area and pointed with a pencil. “That is a collection of unburned powder grains, all flat, disk-shaped. That right there, in the juncture of the top strap and the barrel’s forcing cone, is an unburned powder particle that is almost rod-shaped. The chemical residue supports that conclusion.”

  “What kind of powder was responsible for the left-arm powder burns?”

  “The disk-shaped powder. There were particles imbedded in the skin. It’s a fast-burning powder commonly used in factory loads for handguns.”

  “But not home brew, you mean?”

  Estelle turned the report over and read a paragraph to herself. “Right.”

  “And the other powder was consistent with Magnum performance, obviously.”

  “Yes. And it matches the kind of powder that Mr. Salinger said he has used for years. What puts the cap on it is the lead residue. There was a trace of lead along the lands in the barrel. I can’t imagine how a brass- or copper-jacketed bullet could leave lead. The medical examiner also said the checkering on the grips would have left a deeper imprint had Scott actually held the gun when the Magnum was fired the first time. Especially since, with the expected apprehension and all, he probably would have been gripping it tightly.”

  “Prints on the gun?”

  “Only Scott’s. And some of his had been smudged. As careful as he was, though, the killer got through in a hurry.” Estelle dug out another photograph. The image of a.357 Magnum cartridge casing had been enlarged to nearly poster size. The quality was incredible.

  “Did you take this?”

  “I wish I had,” Estelle said ruefully. “No, the lab gave it to me. Look here.” Her pencil tip touched the right side of the ten-inch-tall nickel cylinder in the photo. The dust that adhered to the partial fingerprint showed a clear pattern.

  “I see it. Not the boy’s?”

  “No. And no match yet to anyone else. Plus, it’s only a fragment. But I’m working on it. I think the killer got a case of nerves. He was sharp enough to know that two empties in the Magnum would draw attention. So he used one of his own cartridges. The Magnum is a common caliber, and you can shoot thirty-eights in it as well. Bob Torrez gave me a demonstration of all this. I think the killer removed a live Magnum round, put in one of his own, fired off to one side with Salinger’s hands pressed to the grips. That would make the nitrate test positive in case we were smart enough to bother with the test. He took out the empty casing and put the unfired Magnum round back in. Closed the cylinder, wiped the gun a little, and he was all set. But he started to hurry. He forgot that he had handled the cartridge. He left that fat and clear partial for us.”

  “I hope the son of a bitch remembers that and doesn’t get a minute’s sleep right up to the time we knock on his front door. What about the bloodstain?”

  “As obvious as can be,” Estelle said, nodding. “The bump on the head with a bit of asphalt caught in the hair, the shoulder scrape…all consistent with going over backward.”

  “The killer must have moved quickly then. There wasn’t much blood that went the wrong way.”

  “The medical examiner told me that he guessed the killer took enough time to look quickly around. He saw the row of buildings and took his chance. He didn’t drag the body. If he had done that, evidence would have shown on the victim’s shoes. I don’t think you can drag soft running shoes across rough, broken asphalt and not leave something imbedded in the shoe material.”

  “No weakling, then.”

  “Well, no, but Scott only weighed about a hundred and fifty. With a little adrenaline pumping, most normal adult males could pick up that much weight and stagger a few steps.”

  “And then he dumped the kid behind the building.”

  Estelle nodded, and finally sat down. “What’s to lose? It was a spot hidden from the road. Even if someone had happened along before the killer finished his business, the odds of the back of the buildings being checked were small.”

  I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “What was going on?”

  “Something that the killer or killers were ready to murder to protect.”

&nb
sp; “I can’t picture the boy turning down that road in the first place. Everyone knows where it goes. His favorite spot was the mesa top. And from the paved road, you can’t see the boneyard, or the dirt road where it runs beside it. You have to drive down in there. He obviously did that, and then very deliberately parked his Bronco. Now, did someone intercept him up on the paved road and force him to drive down there?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Did you turn up any prints on the Bronco other than Scott’s?” She shook her head. “Then why? Why did he drive down there?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “And if they were concerned with not being seen, they would just have let him drive on by, like all the other county-road traffic.”

  “Right.”

  “So that leaves two logical choices.” I got up to fetch the cups and coffee, and lit a cigarette. “One is that he was meeting someone down there. He wasn’t into anything illegal. I’d stake my life on that. Maybe he was meeting someone with the intent of talking them out of something. Who the hell knows. Or, he somehow got wind that something was going on and just decided to show up.”

  “Carrying a three-fifty-seven Magnum?”

  I grimaced. “That’s the thing that’s been bothering me all along. Why that gun?” We both fell silent for a minute, looking at the photographs and sipping the coffee. The cigarette didn’t taste very good, and I snubbed it out.

  “I don’t think the gun had anything to do with his initial decision to stop there.”

  I looked at Estelle with interest. “Why not?”

  “I talked with both his parents and sister today.” She clenched her teeth. “Rough. You were right about jerking chains. You know, I’ve known Amy Salinger ever since we were in high school together our senior year. We were never in the same circle of friends, but I always thought she was a neat person. I couldn’t play games, seeing the way they hurt. I just tried to stick to general questions that wouldn’t give our investigative direction away. Sir, that family is swimming in guilt so deep, I felt like grabbing them by their necks and shaking heads. I guess it’s natural. Finally, though, Ryan Salinger came right out and asked me if we were investigating this as a murder.”

  “And you said…”

  “Yes.” Estelle shuffled some of the documents and put them back in the briefcase. “You should have seen the look on his face…on all their faces. It was like they’d been waiting just to hear that from us. They’re eager to help. Any way. Anything.”

  “What’d Salinger say about the Magnum?”

  “Only that it was his, the ammunition was his, handloaded by either him or the boy…he doesn’t remember which. Last deer season, he let Scott pack it. Had a shot and missed. Got a deer with the rifle. After that, he let the boy take the gun hunting or plinking whenever he wanted. The only stipulation was that it would be cleaned and then put away unloaded in the wooden case in the den.”

  “And they were convinced it was suicide before you talked to them?”

  “I think so. That was my impression. All Ryan Salinger asked me was whether we were going to be talking to the newspapers.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I told him that anyone with any interest in the case would have to talk to you. Or Sheriff Holman.”

  “Good. I’ll get together with Holman sometime and we’ll work out a statement. In the meantime, I appreciate all your legwork. And by the way, what about the wood and plastic? The junk that was in Salinger’s back pocket?”

  Estelle pulled the evidence bag out. She read the brief report. “The wood is spruce. Its shape is consistent in cross section with the leading edge of an airplane wing.”

  “Model airplane, you mean.”

  She nodded. “Yes. The plastic is a commercially available heat-shrink material used in model building as a covering. There are several brands, and the folks at the lab weren’t willing to guess which one this was.”

  We looked at each other, thoroughly puzzled. “Huh,” I said finally.

  “Huh is right,” she said, but before she could say anything else, the telephone on the counter jangled. “You want me to get that?”

  I shook my head and held up a hand. “You know who it is as well as I do. Someone wants to cuss me out for leaving the hospital. To hell with ’em…at least for a little while. I’m tired of all the goddamned interruptions.” I nudged the plastic and spruce with my index finger. The phone finally gave up. “We were talking about that.”

  “I don’t see the connection between this and Scott Salinger’s murder. No way. Was somebody flying a model airplane around up there? So what? You don’t kill someone for stopping to watch you fly an airplane. I guess you could cause someone to crash a model, and he might punch your lights out, but murder?”

  “Strange place to fly it, too.”

  “If you assume that’s what happened. We don’t know where Salinger picked up the scraps. They might have been in his back pocket for hours…who knows. Or why.”

  “We’re not even sure that he knew. Was he into model airplanes? Did you ask anybody?”

  “I asked Amy. Just sort of off-the-cuff. He was into sports…football, baseball, wrestling, you name it. And hunting. He wasn’t much to build models. Never was. A plastic car once in a while when he was younger…that was it.”

  “Do you have photos of this stuff?” I fingered the wood through the thin plastic of the evidence bag. Estelle Reyes nodded. “I want to keep this, then,” I said. “Let me do some checking.”

  The telephone rang again. I looked heavenward. “You didn’t call in, either,” I said. I got up from the table with a grunt and picked up the receiver on about the eighth ring. It was J. J. Murton. The simple son of a bitch actually started the conversation by asking, “Are you home now?”

  I let that slide but cut him short. “I can imagine that Holman wants to see me, J.J. When he comes back into the office, tell him I’m home…and expect to stay here for a while. And I’ll be sound asleep for about four days, so I don’t want to be bothered. You got that?”

  “I ain’t sure what he wanted,” J.J. offered, hoping that I’d fill him in.

  “Couldn’t guess. If it’s about the Salinger case, tell him that Detective Reyes is working on it. Nobody needs to bother me.” I hung up abruptly and turned to grin at Estelle Reyes. “J.J. is trying to think again.” She was too polite to say anything about Murton.

  Instead, she began gathering the evidence and putting it back in the briefcase. “Do you still want to see the Salingers?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That would be better than a phone call. Bring them over here, if you would. And I do need to see Holman.” I glanced at my watch. “Maybe you could set it all up for tomorrow morning. That’d give me time to get this place in order, maybe even catch a little rest. I got a couple things I need to think about and sort out.”

  Estelle Reyes left the manila envelope that contained the plastic-and-spruce-model parts with me, and promised to check in first thing in the morning. I walked her out to the car, and when she was behind the wheel, I closed the door and leaned my forearms on the windowsill. “I think we’re getting close, Estelle, I really do. I feel it.”

  She nodded and asked, “Are you going to need anything?”

  I shook my head. “Just some time to let things gel in my mind.” I straightened up and patted the car’s roof. I watched the Ford back out and kick up dust on the main road. With my hands in my pockets, I ambled back inside, forehead wrinkled in thought. Something was lying at the back of my mind, nagging. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I closed the heavy front door and turned the dead bolt. Back in the kitchen, I tossed the evidence envelope on the counter and poured another cup of coffee. I tried a cigarette, and it tasted as bad as the first.

  “Damn, what’d they do to me?” I muttered. I looked at the envelope again. Nothing was clear to me. I didn’t want to make a false move out of ignorance and spook somebody out of the country. What the hell, I thought. Slee
p on it. And when it all came clear, the world was the wonderful pitch-black of three-thirty in the morning.

  Chapter 23

  I fumbled the telephone, dialing a couple of times before getting it right. Eventually the phone rang, and I tried to picture my son’s household in Corpus Christi being jarred awake. Buddy should be up, I thought. Four rings. How could he get to the 4 A. M. flight briefings at the Naval Air Station if he didn’t get out of bed? After eight rings, I had just about decided that maybe my youngest son had found some leave time after his return from Spain and the family was off somewhere camping.

  “Hello?” The voice was thick with sleep.

  I immediately flushed with acute embarrassment. “You’re going to be late for your briefing, Buddy,” I said, trying to sound jocular.

  There was a silence while a sleeping brain tried to digest that. “Who the hell is this?” Lieutenant William C. Gastner, Jr., asked. He was awake and ready to punch somebody, and then before I could speak again, he said with some disbelief, “Is this Dad?”

  “This is Dad.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Well, shit!”

  I laughed. “I jerked you out of bed, obviously. You aren’t flying today?”

  “No. I flew in about twenty-three hundred hours last night. But the hell with that. Dad, how the hell are you? I talked with Camille after I got in. She said you were doing much better. I was getting things arranged so I could zip over that way.”

  “Ah, wait until you can come with everybody,” I said. “Hell, it’s no big deal. Over and done with. I just got in a little over my head, is all. Overtired.”

  “Right,” Buddy said a little skeptically. “I can believe that. Camille said it’s been a hell of a summer in Posadas.” His voice dropped a tone or two. “She was sorry as hell she couldn’t get there right away.”

  “Don’t start that,” I chided him with a laugh. “If a man wakes up in the hospital and sees his family standing around him wringing their hands, he knows right away the doctors told everybody he’s dying. It scares him so bad, he dies.”