Convenient Disposal

by Steven F Havill

  “I’m truly sorry,” Estelle said. The words were painful through swollen, stitched lips—and meaningless, too, she knew. Page reached up and covered her hand with his own.

  “Thanks for what you did,” he whispered, and dropped his hand. She had called him from the hospital shortly after 3 AM, more than five hours before. He had sounded disoriented, both jarred from a rare, deep sleep and trying to understand Estelle’s curious diction. The generous local anesthetic that Dr. Alan Perrone had used when he’d repaired her face hadn’t yet worn off when she had made the call. A few minutes before, District Attorney Dan Schroeder had told her that she sounded like a mumbling drunk. She certainly felt like one.

  Since 4:30 AM, Page had kept her company at the county landfill. Estelle made sure that Page stayed out of the way, refusing to let him down into the pit later, when Zeigler’s body had been discovered. Aching from the beating she had taken, dizzy from the painkillers, Estelle slumped against Jackie Taber’s unit, content to leave the investigation to Eddie Mitchell, Sgt. Tom Mears, and a host of volunteers. But it was impossible not to watch from a distance.

  Page and Estelle had talked little, and that was just as well, since Estelle had collapsed down from her adrenalin high and slumped pale and exhausted against the car. Dr. Perrone had objected to her going anywhere but home to bed, but it had been her husband who had negotiated a compromise. Even as he’d slipped the tetanus booster shot into her shoulder, Francis had looked again at her battered face.

  “Pretty sexy, this new look,” he said. “Here’s the deal,” and he tossed the empty syringe into the “sharp objects” recycling canister. “You go do what you gotta do, okay? As long as you don’t drive. I’ll come up and get you when everything is cleaned up here. And you’ll come home then, no arguments. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she had agreed.

  Estelle had been driven from the hospital to the Sheriff’s Office, where she had met with both Mitchell and District Attorney Schroeder. And then Deputy Jackie Taber had driven her to the landfill, understanding both that Estelle needed to be present for the excavation…and that she probably shouldn’t be.

  A dozen people had rummaged through the landfill by hand, first under the bright lights of two generators, then in the growing light as the sun first blasted the pit edges and then worked down the west bank. Shortly after 6 AM, a backhoe arrived, and it seemed to Estelle that William Page had flinched every time the bucket’s steel teeth curled into the mixture of earth and refuse.

  At 8:16 AM, Sergeant Howard Bishop had swung the bucket of the backhoe clear and shut off the engine. The remains of County Manager Kevin Zeigler had been found near the east side of the landfill pit, under a foot of cover soil. Sheriff Torrez’s mangled Expedition had landed directly on top of the county manager’s final resting place.

  Now, in the bright morning sunshine with ravens commenting from a safe distance, the noise of machinery had died. It was compassionate handwork as Zeigler’s remains were photographed, measured, and inspected by Coroner Alan Perrone before finally being transferred to black plastic and then to a gurney.

  Estelle turned a bit to keep the heat of the sun off her battered face. The local anesthetic had worn off and she now realized why Dr. Perrone had shaken his head dubiously when she’d refused more than one of the potent painkillers he’d offered as a follow-up. Her lip felt like a grotesque balloon, and the broken incisor ached. She shifted her weight, favoring her sore right leg.

  Linda Real approached at a jog. Estelle watched her, marveling at the young photographer’s energy. She had been shooting still and video since she’d raced to the scene in a heart-pounding ride the night before with Chief Eddie Mitchell, beating even the first ambulance.

  William Page saw Linda approaching and turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to face the thought of the images her cameras contained. “I’m going to follow the ambulance down the hill,” he said heavily. “Is there anything else you need from me? Some statement of some kind?”

  “I don’t think so,” Estelle said, extending her hand. Page’s grip was lifeless at first, then he squeezed her hand and held it.

  “Thanks again.” He nodded and Estelle watched him walk off, head down, hands in his pockets.

  “Are you okay?” Linda asked. All morning, a procession of people, from cops to EMTs to the district attorney, had asked Estelle the same thing. “You look like you hurt,” the photographer added.

  “I do,” Estelle said. She nodded at Page’s retreating figure. “Not as much as he does, though.”

  “Yep,” Linda said, not knowing what else to say. They watched the ambulance carrying Zeigler’s corpse leave. “Eddie said that Kevin wasn’t shot,” Linda said. “Doc Perrone says that it looks like the back of his skull was smashed in.”

  “I’d bet on the pipe,” Estelle said. “That’s what Fulkerson hit Bobby with last night. He took us both by surprise.” It had been simpler to deal with Don Fulkerson. Eight hours before Zeigler’s body was discovered, one of the huge county wreckers had lifted the battered hulk of the dozer at the other end of the pit just far enough to pull Fulkerson’s corpse free. The dozer now rested forlornly back on its tracks, its cab framework crushed flat, its exhaust stack lying across the dented hood.

  Estelle’s radio barked static, and then Deputy Collins was on the air, sounding both officious and still awestruck after learning that Estelle had hit Fulkerson seven times to Sheriff Torrez’s zero.

  “Ah, three ten?”

  “Go ahead,” Estelle said, keeping the handheld radio well away from her face.

  “Undersheriff, Mr. Dayan is still out here at the gate. He wonders if you can give him a few minutes.”

  Linda ducked her head in amusement and made a face. “Nah,” she said.

  “Let him in,” Estelle said. She tried to smile at Linda, but flinched instead.

  “I was thinking,” Linda said, helpfully holding out a fresh tissue to Estelle. “When we put together our new department calendar? I was thinking one of the shots I took of Bobby might be good. Like when the EMTs were trying to figure out how to pad his butt?”

  Estelle laughed, then yelped in pain, half doubled over. “Por Dios,” she gasped. “You’re a sadist.” The calendar idea had been a Christmas gift brainstorm two years before. The department’s twelve employees made it one a month, using candid shots collected during the year by both Linda and Estelle.

  “I think that’d be neat,” Linda said. “Maybe it’ll cheer him up. He’s got to be feeling kinda down knowing you hit a moving target seven times and he didn’t connect once.”

  “It’s not something to be proud of,” Estelle said. “Besides, the sheriff was indisposed with a broken arm, broken leg, and broken butt.” She frowned at Linda in mock reproof. “So don’t be giving him a hard time, hija.”

  Linda beamed her crooked smile. “Here comes Mr. Photo,” she said. Estelle looked to see Frank Dayan striding across the landfill apron toward them. “Good luck.”

  Dayan carried a small digital camera with which he would take amazingly awful photos for the front page of the Posadas Register.

  “Damn,” he said, frowning at Estelle’s battered face. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be, Frank.”

  His gaze shifted to the remains of the sheriff’s Expedition, now resting on a flatbed car hauler at the far end of the pit. Fulkerson’s pickup hadn’t been moved. “Is it all true?” he asked, turning back to Estelle. He pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket and flicked it on.

  “That depends on what the it is,” Estelle said. Taking a step back, she settled against the front bumper of Jackie Taber’s Bronco.

  “Look,” Dayan said. “They found Zeigler, right? Is that part true? They said the ambulance that just left had him…”

  “That part is true.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes.” She pointed toward where a handful of officers still stood, down in the pit. “He was buried under about a foot of dirt,
right where Chief Mitchell is standing.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “A very preliminary examination indicates a blow to the back of the head, Frank. You’ll want to talk to Alan Perrone later.”

  “And Fulkerson?”

  Estelle nodded, and Dayan held the recorder a little closer.

  “I’m told he was shot.”

  “That’s correct. Shot first, and then the bulldozer he was operating tipped over and crushed him.”

  Dayan shaded his eyes and looked at the dozer in the distance. “Wow.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who shot him?”

  “I did, Frank.”

  “What was he doing with the dozer?”

  “Trying to kill the sheriff and me.”

  “Ah. He actually managed to hit the sheriff with the dozer, then?”

  “No, he did not. The sheriff was first struck by Mr. Fulkerson with a length of pipe, breaking his arm. He then fell backward into the pit, breaking his leg in the process. He also sustained a single gunshot wound to the hip.”

  “You’re saying that Fulkerson shot at you, too?”

  “That’s correct. He used a .223 caliber semiautomatic rifle.”

  Dayan looked sympathetic. “You guys were really lucky, you know that?”

  “I think so.”

  “You were up here on suspicion that Zeigler might have been murdered and his remains buried here?”

  “That’s exactly right, Frank.”

  “Why would he do it? Fulkerson, I mean?”

  Estelle shifted position painfully. “Right now, we think that it has to do with Kevin Zeigler’s intent to negotiate with a private contractor for landfill services.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No. I’m not. We think that on Tuesday, shortly after noon, the two of them met here, and that some sort of argument ensued.” She shrugged helplessly. “And that’s all we know.”

  “Wow. I talked to the DA a bit ago. He said that he was really proud of the job you did.” Estelle didn’t respond, and Dayan added, “Is Bob going to be all right, do you think? I hear he’s a mess.”

  Estelle reached out and touched Dayan on the arm in lieu of smiling. “You can quote me on that,” she said.

  “We’re going to bring out a special edition as soon as we can,” Dayan said. “I think we can be on the streets tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Have at it,” Estelle said. She looked toward the gate and saw the large figure of her husband crossing the landfill apron. “I don’t have a whole lot of time, but I’ll tell you everything I know for sure. But we need to talk fast. My ride’s here.”

  “The girl,” Dayan said. “Carmen Acosta. Fulkerson attacked her?”

  “We think so.” She pushed herself away from the Bronco. “We’ll be waiting on DNA confirmation of blood evidence left at the scene, Frank. Everything points that way, though. We think that Fulkerson returned Zeigler’s truck to his house. Carmen saw him.”

  “So he tried to kill her?”

  “Why not? He’d already killed once.”

  “What about Bart Kurtz?”

  “At this time,” Estelle said slowly, choosing her words with care, “Mr. Kurtz is not suspected of any involvement.”

  “He didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  “That’s not what I said, Frank. Replay that little tape, there.” She patted his arm.

  “Okay, let me get the basics now, and then maybe I can give you a call this afternoon?”

  Estelle shook her head. “Phone won’t work, Frank. I’m on administrative leave. That’s standard procedure after a shooting. Talk to Captain Mitchell, or District Attorney Schroeder.” She turned as her husband reached them and let Francis envelop her in a gentle hug. “Come on,” she said to Dayan. “Walk with us to the car. I’ll tell you all I can. After that, talk with Eddie. He’s going to be running things for a while.” She paused in sudden inspiration. “Bobby should be coherent by this afternoon. He’d enjoy a visit.”

  “The sheriff doesn’t talk to us,” Dayan said.

  “Oh, he will, I think. Just tell him that if he doesn’t, Linda Real has some photos of him that she’ll let you have.”

  Dayan looked both hopeful and surprised. “Really?”

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