Convenient Disposal

by Steven F Havill

  Trespass

  and die,

  fucker.

  “PCS, three ten.” She palmed the mike and waited, examining the barbed-wire gate ahead of her. The left side, where the wire closure looped over the polished top of the post, was locked with a heavy chain and padlock.

  “Go ahead, three ten.”

  “PCS, I’m at Mr. Crowley’s gate.” As she spoke, she flipped open the small Posadas telephone directory. There was no listing for Milton Crowley. “Do you have a telephone number for this residence?”

  A momentary pause followed as Gayle either pondered Estelle’s odd question or looked in the file. Estelle hoped that Milton Crowley was hunched over his scanner, forehead furrowed in suspicion. On her increasingly frequent visits to County Commission meetings, she had always known Crowley was in the back tending his video camera, but she had paid him little mind.

  During those meetings, he sometimes posed questions to the commission, or made caustic comments heavily loaded with sarcasm and the not-too-subtle implication that anyone who was part of government was either out to trample his personal rights, or was on the take, or was simply stupid. Without fail, a version of the meeting was reported in the small newsletter that Crowley published and then distributed by mail to his list of like-thinking readers.

  “Ah, three ten, that’s negative. We have no number on file for that residence.”

  “Ten-four. The gate appears to be locked.”

  “You be careful,” Gayle said with uncharacteristic informality.

  “Three ten will be ten-six this location.”

  “Three ten, three oh eight, negative that.” Sheriff Torrez’s voice was startlingly loud, sounding as if he was bending over his wife’s shoulder in dispatch.

  “Go ahead, three oh eight,” Estelle said.

  “Three ten, ten-twenty-one.” Characteristically, Torrez offered no explanation.

  “Ten-four,” Estelle replied. Switching phone for mike, she dialed, knowing exactly what Bob Torrez wanted.

  “Hey,” he said when he picked up the phone. “What’s with the visit to the Cat Mesa fruitcake?”

  “Bobby, it occurred to me that he might have caught something on video from the meeting yesterday that could be of interest to us.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. But if someone had an argument with Kevin, there’s a possibility that something might have been captured on tape during the commission meeting. I don’t know what, but maybe something.”

  “Or not.”

  “Fifty-fifty,” Estelle persisted. “Besides, I’d like to know who was present for the morning session of the meeting, but who didn’t return for the afternoon. Crowley should have all of that.”

  “Maybe so. But you’re dreamin’ if you think he’s going to hand over his tapes.”

  “That’s if he even has any in the first place. Maybe he chucks them after a little while. Or records over the same one all the time. But I’m not going to ask him to hand anything over, Bobby. I’d just want to look at them.”

  Torrez sighed. “You’re lookin’ at his sign right now?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t mince words, does he.”

  “Nope. And that’s just how eager he’s gonna be to talk to you, let alone let you into his house, or give you custody of any tapes he might have.”

  “How far up this road is his house? I can’t see it from here, and I don’t know if he’s home or not.”

  “It’s about a quarter mile from the gate. Is his gate locked?”

  “It appears to be.”

  “Take a closer look. If the lock is just looped through the chain, he’s home. If it’s actually locked, then he’s off somewhere.”

  “Just a second.” Estelle got out of the car and walked to the gate. The big padlock wasn’t snapped shut. “It’s open.”

  “He’s probably home, then.”

  “You sound like you’ve been out here a time or two.”

  “Oh, yeah. A couple years ago, Crowley had some disagreements with the Forest Service over that fence you’re lookin’ at. They loved his signs, too. I guess he compromised and took a bunch of ’em down. Can you wait ten minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then just sit tight. I’ll be right out.” He chuckled. “Crowley does have a scanner, so you might give your twenty as the gate. If he’s within earshot of his radio, he’ll be out before long, I’ll guarantee that. I’m on my way.”

  Estelle keyed the radio. “PCS, three ten is on Forest Road Twenty-six, at the private-property gate. I’ll…” She paused as she saw the figure striding along the two-track toward her. “I’ll be talking with the property owner here. He’s on his way to this location.”

  “Ten-four, three ten. Be advised that three oh eight is en route.”

  Estelle opened the door, leaving the car idling. She slipped the phone into one jacket pocket and carried her handheld radio in her left hand.

  Milton Crowley strode directly to the gate and stopped, one hand resting on the post at the cattle guard. He regarded Estelle quizzically as she stepped from the car. At first glance, Crowley looked like the sort of fellow who would be at home in a commercial for gardening products—homey flannel shirt, buff-colored quilted vest, neatly creased chinos, and waffle-soled boots worn as soft as moccasins. His shirtsleeves were rolled up two folds, revealing hairy, beefy forearms.

  His face was broad, with a high, domed forehead crowned by a receding hairline, the same buzz cut that he’d probably first favored as a teenager half a century before.

  But there was nothing home and garden about the heavy automatic holstered high on his right hip, butt angled well forward, hammer cocked and locked.

  “Good morning, sir,” Estelle said.

  “Yes, it is.” Crowley said carefully. He patted the top of the big juniper post.

  “I’m Undersheriff Guzman,” Estelle said, even though Crowley would know exactly who she was—no doubt even had captured her on film on various occasions.

  “Sure enough you are,” he said pleasantly. He hadn’t changed position an iota, even as Estelle approached the fence. She chose her footing carefully, not because of the rough two-track, but because she wanted the time to consider which approach might work best with Crowley.

  At the county meetings, when she paid any attention to Crowley at all, she’d noticed that he wasn’t into small talk. He didn’t take the opportunity to join the various small groups of politicos hobnobbing between sessions. He didn’t appear to talk with Pam Gardiner or whoever was attending the meeting from the Register. He watched those groups, watched everyone, for only he knew what reason. He was an easy man to dismiss in a crowd, and most of the county bureaucrats and employees appeared to do just that.

  Now, his body language was clear. He stood relaxed, confident, and armed behind his barbed-wire fence. He made no move to drop off the chain, lift off the closure loop, and drag the wire gate to one side so she could either walk or drive past. She realized that this was the first time she had actually talked to Milton Crowley. It would have been easy to stereotype the man as a furtive, anarchistic nutcase, living alone on his little homestead on the bleak flanks of Cat Mesa. But there was absolutely nothing furtive or shifty-eyed about him. Calm blue eyes regarded Estelle, never leaving her face. She decided to try the direct approach.

  “Sir, I need your help.”

  Crowley made no reply, but she saw his right eyebrow drift up a fraction of an inch. At that moment, stereo radios carried first the bark of squelch, and then Bob Torrez’s matter-of-fact voice.

  “PCS, three oh eight is northbound on State Seventy-eight.”

  “Ten-four, three oh eight.”

  Estelle turned the volume up just a bit and keyed the radio’s transmit button. “Three ten copies.”

  The corners of Crowley’s eyes crinkled, and he reached around with his left hand without looking and turned down the volume of his own portable radio.

  “Looks like the big man himself is
on the way,” he said.

  “Sheriff Torrez knows this country a little better than I do,” Estelle said, and stepped up close to the fence. She reached out with her radio and touched the top wire with the stubby antenna. “Sir, I noticed that you were videotaping the county meeting yesterday afternoon. I was wondering if you were there for the morning session as well?”

  “What difference does that make?” Crowley’s tone was businesslike, calmly neutral.

  Estelle took a long, slow breath. She had hoped for a simple “yes,” but even though his reply hadn’t been contentious, Crowley gave the impression that he was practiced at living each moment with his guard held high, ready to scrutinize the most innocuous remark or question for hidden meaning. She glanced at the sign again, wondering what had prompted his mood the day he’d painted the message.

  “The county manager attended the morning session, but didn’t return for the afternoon,” she said carefully. “I was hoping that maybe you had talked to him sometime during that first session.”

  “You’re talking about Zeigler?”

  “The county manager, yes, sir.”

  Crowley smiled and patted the post again. “Can’t help you there.”

  “Sir, did you film both sessions?”

  “It’s a public meeting.”

  “I know that, sir. Your right to film the meeting isn’t at issue.”

  “Goddamn right.” Again, his tone was one of pleasant agreement. It reminded Estelle of talking to the old ex-Marine, former Sheriff Bill Gastner, in one of Gastner’s more recalcitrant moments, and because of that impression, Estelle found herself liking Milton Crowley. She hesitated, weighing how much to take this man into her confidence. As if he had read her hesitation correctly, Crowley withdrew his hand from the post for the first time and crossed both arms over his chest.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you want, young lady? I have things to do, and I’m sure you do, too.”

  “All right. If you recorded the entire session, sir, I’d like to look at the tape.”

  “The county clerk records every meeting. It’s public record.”

  “I’m aware of that. But she doesn’t use video. You do, sir.”

  “If you’re trying to find out who was there, the clerk has a sign-in sheet.”

  Estelle smiled. “Yes, sir, she does. But not everyone signs it.”

  “It’s an open, public meeting,” Crowley said. “People are free to come and go as they please. They aren’t required to sign some silly little attendance list for the county clerk…who has no need of that information in the first place.”

  “That’s true, sir.” She heard the sound of a vehicle, and turned to see Torrez’s white Expedition nose over the rise and stop immediately behind her unit.

  The handheld radios crackled. “PCS, three oh eight is ten-six, Crowley’s.”

  “Your reinforcements are here,” Crowley chuckled, a good-natured grin deepening the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.

  The sheriff took his time, apparently arranging a mountain of paperwork before getting out of his vehicle, no hint of urgency in his motions. When he did get out, Torrez strolled up the two-track toward them as if he had all morning just to soak up the sun.

  “Howdy, howdy,” he greeted. He paused at one point and looked down at a small scattering of deer pellets beside the path. He toed them with his boot, then glanced up at Crowley. “I was up at Copperton Springs the other day. Pretty good herd hanging out there.” Crowley didn’t respond, but he unlocked his arms and his right hand drifted back to the comfort of the juniper post. “How you been, Milt?” Torrez stepped up close to the fence, at the same time taking off his Stetson and running fingers through his tousled hair. He wiped his forehead and resettled the hat. “Things going all right?”

  “As good as they’re going to get, I suppose,” Crowley said.

  “Sir,” Estelle said, “would you consider letting us view the videotape of the meeting yesterday?”

  “Not goddamn likely,” Crowley said, and this time there was some bristle in his tone. Estelle wondered how much of it was for Bob Torrez’s benefit. “If you want surveillance films, you take ’em yourself.”

  Torrez looked up from his examination of the ground near the fence and grinned. “How come it ain’t surveillance when you take ’em?” he asked. Estelle groaned inwardly, but Crowley didn’t rise to the bait. The sheriff rested his hand carefully between two of the barbs on the top strand of the gate. He bounced the wire thoughtfully.

  “This is what we’re lookin’ for, Milt. The county manager went missing yesterday.” He looked across the gate at Crowley and grimaced in frustration. “We don’t know where he went, or with who, or what. Gone without a sign. And it don’t look good.” He bounced the wire again. “It don’t look good.”

  “That’s none of my concern.”

  “Nope, it isn’t. But in tryin’ to cover all the bases, your videotape was just something we thought about. Maybe someone came into the meeting, maybe talked with Zeigler. The commission covered a lot of ground in the morning session.” He shrugged in self-deprecation. “Hell, it isn’t something that I pay much attention to. Other than a few big things, I couldn’t tell you what the commission talked about, or what they decided, or who argued with who, about what.” He shrugged again. “But a video camera don’t miss much.”

  “I don’t turn over my tapes to anybody,” Crowley said. “They’re not for the government’s use.”

  “Would you consider letting us see the tape in your presence?” Estelle asked. “That way, the tape would never leave your custody. If you don’t want us on your property, we could view them at the sheriff’s office.”

  Crowley shook his head deliberately from side to side. “I don’t work for the government,” he said. His expression had lost any trace of affability, the lines of his jaw set hard. Estelle could see clearly that she was wasting her time. “Get yourself a court order.” He drew himself up a bit, unable to resist tossing in the challenge. “And then see if you can serve it.”

  Estelle looked at him curiously, but Bob Torrez just grunted a chuckle.

  “Relax, Milt,” he said. He bounced the wire again, as if dismissing the entire conversation and finding the fence far more important. “I thought the Forest Service was going to put in a solid gate for you.”

  “This one’s just fine.”

  “I’d think messin’ with this wire every time you want to go in or out would be kind of a pain in the ass.” He gave the wire a final flex and then held up his hand. “We got to go. You have a good day, Milt.” Torrez stepped close to Estelle as he passed. “We got some interesting results back from the crime lab that you’re going to want to see,” he said, obviously not caring whether Crowley heard him or not.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A gap in the pinons allowed just enough room to turn the vehicles around, and Estelle noticed that Milton Crowley didn’t bother to remain at the gate to watch them leave. As they reached the intersection of Forest Road and State Highway 78, Torrez pulled the Expedition over and got out. Estelle parked in the middle of Forest Road.

  The sheriff settled on the front fender of Estelle’s unmarked Crown Victoria, arms crossed comfortably.

  “Two things,” he said. “No usable prints on the lug wrench. Mears says that it’s either been wiped or someone used gloves. And it’s sure enough wallboard plaster on the nose, along with some traces of blood and hair. The blood is type AB, same as Carmen’s. We’re going to have to wait on the lab for DNA, but there’s no doubt in my mind.”

  “Nothing new on her yet?”

  “She’s holding her own. Believe it or not, it’s the rap to the back of her skull that’s going to be the hurdle.”

  “We need to talk with the boys, Bobby.” She recounted her conversation with Deena Hurtado earlier that morning.

  “Mauro the little tool smith,” Torrez said. “The little sack of shit isn’t about to admit diddly. He’s probably scared shitl
ess.”

  “And he wasn’t in school yesterday afternoon. Neither was his brother.”

  Torrez made a face. “I see those two around all the time. School just ain’t real high on their list of favorite places. But they didn’t have nothin’ to do with the attack on Carmen.”

  “I don’t think they did either, Bobby, but we need to talk with them. There’s that two-hour black hole between the time when their father left home and then returned to discover Carmen in her bedroom. The boys weren’t in school during that time. I’d like to know what they were doing.”

  “That’s the other thing,” Torrez said, nodding. “The stain on the bedroom wall? You’ll be interested to know what that is.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “How about heavy grease.”

  “Grease?”

  “Yup. ‘Contaminated’ petroleum grease, the lab calls it. In other words, dirty.”

  “You’re talking like automotive oil?”

  “Grease. Old, used grease.”

  Estelle frowned. “That’s bizarre.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “There’s no grease on the wrench handle?”

  Torrez shook his head. “And see, that’s the other thing about the boys. If Mauro was out back workin’ on his car—and that sure as shit is full of contaminated grease—I can’t see him puttin’ on gloves just at the one moment he loses his temper and lets fly with the wrench.”

  “So if the grease came from Carmen’s attacker, it wasn’t on his hands. That’s interesting.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Well, there’s no grease on the wrench. That means the grease wasn’t on his gloves…and if he had greasy hands, it’s a bit much to expect that he would chase Carmen through the house, peeling off his gloves as he went. And I’m thinking about where the grease was on the wall.”

  “Fifty-seven inches off the floor,” Torrez said.

  “Right. Maybe Carmen caught him off balance somehow. If the attacker fell against the wall, he might try to catch himself by throwing out a hand. But not this time, apparently. It might have been on his clothes.” She reached out and touched Torrez on the shoulder of his light jacket. “A shoulder against the wall. I can see that happening.