Convenient Disposal pc-12

by Steven F Havill

  Estelle forced her attention back to the evidence directly in front of her: the Acostas’ kitchen door. A tear in the screen immediately beside the latch looked as if someone had punched through to flip the flimsy lock, but there were so many tears, so many dents and buckles in the door’s aluminum frame that it was impossible to tell what was recent and what was simply the result of several seasons’ worth of rambunctious children.

  The inner door had been flung open so hard that the cheap brass doorstop had broken, and the doorknob had slammed into the wall. A spattering of paint and Sheetrock dust marked the floor below the strike.

  “I think she was tryin’ to lock the door,” Torrez said. With the cap of his ballpoint pen, he touched the brass lock in the middle of the doorknob. It was one of those smooth, difficult-to-grasp things that projected a bare minimum from the knob. “I got one of these that’s a real pain in the ass…it hangs up all the time. I can see old Carmen struggling with it, and whoever’s on the outside just busts right through.”

  He turned and pointed at the small table that sat askew, far too close to the kitchen range. “That got scooted back.”

  Estelle looked from the kitchen toward the small dining room. “And then she headed for the telephone,” she said. The telephone answering-machine combination rested on one wing of an impressive oak hutch in the dining room, but the wireless receiver was in the bedroom, where Freddy had left it when he called 911.

  “Lemme show you something,” Torrez said. He stepped through the doorway into the dining room. “I think she got to the phone,” he said. “Either that, or they struggled in that doorway between the dining room and living room, right about where the phone was. That’s the direction she was headed.” He knelt down and touched a gouge in the wallpaper beside the doorway that led into the living room.

  While the kitchen was smooth-plastered Sheetrock painted in ubiquitous eggshell white, the dining room was mid-’40s fancy, with paneled wainscoting below a painted wood-trim strip. Above the strip, the wallpaper was dark Victorian, the dense curlicues and floral patterns stained in several places from roof leaks.

  Estelle knelt beside the sheriff and peered closely. The overhead light fixture wasn’t much help, and she pulled a tiny flashlight from her jacket pocket and snapped it on, examining the gouge. The mark began three inches above the wainscoting trim, digging through the wallpaper into the Sheetrock behind it. The gouge stopped abruptly with a diagonal bruise across the horizontal painted strip.

  “Took a pretty good lick,” the sheriff said.

  Going to her hands and knees, she bent low, playing the flashlight beam on the old carpet, her face so close she could smell the musty fibers. She could imagine a dusting of gypsum from the wallboard. If so, that trace was mixed with a fair coating of dust, lint, human and cat hair that the vacuum cleaner had missed.

  “The only thing I see in the living room is that busted TV,” Torrez said. “One of ’em got into the TV somehow, but I didn’t see anything else broken except the busted glass.”

  Estelle straightened up, trying to imagine Carmen’s path through the house. Freddy Acosta had said that he entered the kitchen door, then walked through toward his daughter’s bedroom. It would have taken his eyes a while to adjust to the dim light after time spent outside, but he had seen, or almost tripped over, the telephone on the floor, and he would have had to be blind to miss the shattered television.

  And Freddy’s intrusion had been only the beginning of evidence trampling. Beyond the dining room, traffic had complicated matters further. After Freddy’s discovery of his daughter’s battered body in the bedroom and his call to 911, half a dozen emergency personnel had mobbed through the place.

  “Seein’ this mess, he’d head right for the bedroom to check on her,” Torrez said.

  “Maybe so.” Estelle avoided the glass as she crossed the small living room and stood in the doorway of Carmen’s bedroom. On the nightstand beside the bed, a much-loved teddy bear leaned against the lamp base. The bed had been bumped toward the wall, and other stuffed animals had scattered as the bedding and pillows were thrashed. A thick, dark stain marked where the blood from Carmen’s cracked head had puddled.

  “I called Mears, Abeyta, and Taber to give us a hand,” Torrez said. “We’re going to have to spend a good bit of time combing this place.”

  Estelle nodded. “I want that,” she said, pointing at the telephone receiver. It lay beside one of the pillows where Freddy had tossed it. “Did you find anything outside?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “There’s about a thousand prints in the dirt. Could be that half the neighborhood’s gone in or out that door in the past twenty-four hours. And half a dozen Acostas.”

  “We need to make sure we don’t add any more,” Estelle said as she turned from the bedroom. “His tracks are out there somewhere.”

  “His or hers,” Torrez said.

  “His.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Someone slammed the back door open hard enough to punch a hole in the wall? Then swings something and puts a deep gouge in the plaster of the dining room? And on top of that, Carmen Acosta was a tough little girl. She probably weighs, what, a hundred and thirty or forty pounds? And an attitude to match. This wasn’t some tussle with another kid.”

  “Not someone like Deena Hurtado, you mean?”

  Estelle shook her head. “Besides, if the intruder was a kid, Carmen wouldn’t have tried to call nine-one-one, Bobby. I get the impression that she’s a great one to settle her own disputes. For her to call the cops puts the whole thing in a different light.” She hesitated. “But stranger things have happened,” she added. “I don’t want to rule anything out just now. Nos vemos.” She glanced at her watch as she slipped her phone out of her pocket. She walked back across the living room, and before she reached the dining room, Penny Barnes answered the call in the county manager’s office.

  “Penny, this is Estelle,” the undersheriff said. “Did Kevin check in yet?”

  “Nope,” Penny said. “That rascal’s playing hooky.”

  “You’ve tried all the easy places? The maintenance barn, stuff like that?”

  “Everywhere,” Penny said emphatically. “I need his signature on a bunch of checks, and Tinneman is still breathing hard down my neck. They’ve had to cancel a whole bunch of things off the meeting agenda. I don’t know what Kevin was thinking, not letting me know even a little something.”

  “He didn’t leave with someone?”

  “Oh, Estelle, I don’t remember. At lunch, you know, everyone just sort of scoots. He went out saying he had some errands, and was maybe going to stop at the county barn. What’s going on over there, anyway? We’re listening to the scanner, and it sounds like the end of the world or something.”

  “Nothing like that,” Estelle said. “If Kevin had some personal errands to do, who would know, do you think?”

  Penny hesitated. “He probably talks to me as much as anybody,” she said.

  “Who did he talk to this morning? Do you recall?”

  “A million people. You know how it goes.”

  “No one out of the ordinary that you remember?”

  “I know that William Page called the office first thing this morning, before the meeting. They chatted for quite a while…and Kevin seemed upbeat about something. He didn’t say what.”

  “William Page…?”

  “That’s his roommate.”

  “Okay,” Estelle said, “I guess I knew that. Do you happen to know where Page works? It’s Belen, isn’t it? Someplace like that?”

  “He’s up in Socorro,” Penny said.

  “You don’t know where, exactly?”

  “Oh…” A pause followed and it sounded as if Zeigler’s secretary was flipping through a Rolodex. “William Page,” Penny murmured. “William Page.” Estelle waited, and she glanced up as Torrez sidled past her, headed for the front door.

  Penny Barnes came back on the line. “Estelle, I don’t
have it here. I know he has a company in Socorro.” She paused again and her tone changed a fraction. “That’s about all I know. Big help, huh. But they talk all the time.”

  “Can you check Kevin’s desk for me?”

  “Oh…”

  “On second thought, don’t,” Estelle said quickly, hearing the indecision in Penny’s tone. “It’s not all that important. I’m sure Kevin will show up in a few minutes. When he does stick his nose back in the office, please tell him I need to see him? And I mean before he talks with anyone else, okay?”

  “Is everything all right?” Penny asked.

  “I just need to catch him,” Estelle replied cheerfully. “We have a lot to go over after the commission meeting this afternoon.”

  “Which he skipped,” Penny said reprovingly. “That’s the mess he left me in.”

  “We’ll nail him for you,” Estelle said. “Thanks a lot, Penny.”

  “If I find William Page’s card or something, I’ll get right back to you.”

  “Thanks. He probably won’t know anything, but it’s a place to try.” Estelle followed Robert Torrez outside. The sheriff was standing on the gravel driveway with his hands in his pockets. He appeared to be regarding Zeigler’s pickup truck.

  “Zeigler’s front door is locked,” he said as Estelle approached. “I checked earlier. Nobody answered the bell or my knock.” Through the side window off the front step, Estelle could see a neat, thoroughly appointed living room. A mammoth entertainment center faced a large, pillowy, winged sofa.

  She and Torrez circled the house but found nothing of interest, nothing that might hint what Zeigler’s activities might have been, beyond driving off to work in the morning.

  “I have a warrant comin’ from Judge Hobart,” Torrez said. “Not that we need one. Pasquale’s bringing it.” Two more county units pulled into the street, and Torrez left to brief the officers.

  Estelle sat down on Zeigler’s back step and fished her phone from her jacket pocket. After a brief a moment, she jotted down the Socorro phone number for William Page that the electronic voice from directory assistance provided. The phone rang five times before connecting.

  “Hello. You’ve reached the residence of William Page. Either leave a message, or try me at PageLink, Incorporated.” The number he gave was also a Socorro listing.

  Estelle dialed again.

  “Good afternoon,” a cheerful voice responded. “This is Marci at PageLink. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, Marci,” the undersheriff said as if they were old, close friends. “This is Estelle Guzman down in Posadas. Is William there?”

  “Sure,” Marci replied brightly. “Hang on just a sec.”

  In a moment, a soft tenor voice came on the line. “This is Page.”

  “Mr. Page, this is Undersheriff Estelle Guzman, calling from Posadas.”

  There was a pause. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Page, we’re trying to reach Kevin Zeigler. An emergency has come up, and it’s something where we need the county manager’s input. I was hoping maybe he’d called you…that perhaps you knew where he was at the moment.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Page, apparently Kevin had some urgent business out of the office. He left a meeting of the county commissioners at noon and hasn’t returned. He didn’t tell his secretary where he was going. I thought maybe you might know.”

  The line went silent, and Estelle gave Page a few seconds to think before she continued on, keeping her tone conversational. “I thought there was a possibility you might have talked to him this morning.”

  “I did,” Page said. “I called the office and we chatted for a while, yes. It’s my impression that there was quite an important county meeting today.” Page sounded as if he was leaning into the phone, keeping his voice intimate. “But I have no idea where he might be. I’m not clairvoyant. What’s going on, Undersheriff?”

  Estelle hesitated, loath to share any more information than necessary. “Mr. Page, we may need to gain access to Kevin’s house here on Candelaria. There’s been an incident next door.”

  “At the Acostas’, you mean?”

  “Yes. I need to talk with Kevin.”

  “His secretary at the county office always knows where he is,” Page said. “But why do you need to get into the house? Did something happen there?”

  “I don’t know yet. That’s why we need to find him. As I said, Kevin left the county meeting around noon. He didn’t return.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” Page said. “I thought this had something to do with county business. That’s what you made it sound like. Now you’re talking about his neighbors. What happened down there?”

  “It’s an incident involving one of the Acosta children, Mr. Page. Because it’s next door to Kevin’s, and because his county truck is parked here in the driveway, it’s logical that we would want to find out if he saw anything that would be of help to us.”

  “Is his car there?”

  “The little blue Datsun? Yes, it is. But the house is locked, and no one answers. I was hoping that you might be able to help us, since you talked to him this morning.”

  “You’ve got me thoroughly confused,” Page said. “Look, you said that he was next door at the Acostas’?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t say that. He isn’t home. We responded to an emergency call at the Acostas’ address. There is reason to believe that Kevin might have been home, next door, at some time during a critical period in that incident. We have a warrant to search the premises, but I thought it would be helpful-”

  “A warrant? Jesus H. Christ, what for?” Page said.

  “It’s imperative that we talk with Kevin, Mr. Page.”

  “Well, I can see that, but look. If he’s not at home, then he’s not at home, right? He’s off somewhere, running errands. His secretary should know.”

  “His secretary doesn’t know, sir. And his vehicles are both here.”

  “The county has more than one truck, for God’s sake.”

  “I realize that, Mr. Page,” Estelle said patiently. “And I realize he has a cell phone, and he has a pager. And the county vehicles all have radios. Mr. Page, it’s this simple. We need to talk with Kevin, and no one knows where he is. I thought there might be an outside chance you could help.”

  “Look, you don’t need a warrant to get inside the house, sheriff. There’s a key under that tin lizard on the front window-sill. Just use that. What happened next door, anyway? You said one of the kids was involved in something?”

  “That’s how it appears,” Estelle said.

  “And that’s all you’re going to tell me? It sounds like I should come down.”

  “Actually, that would be helpful.”

  “Absolutely, then,” he said. “I can be out of here in ten minutes. Just a second.”

  Estelle heard the telephone mouthpiece covered, and then distant voices. Page came back on the line. “If I leave here at four, I can be in Posadas by seven. How would that be?”

  “That would be just fine, Mr. Page. I’d appreciate it if you’d check in at the Sheriff’s Office when you come into town…before you do anything else.”

  “I can do that. Now let me ask you a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Will you at least wait until I’m there before using that search warrant?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Page. That’s not going to work.”

  She heard what might have been a sigh of frustration over the line. “Look, it just seems to me that if Kevin saw something next door, if he was a witness to something, he would have let you know,” Page said.

  “That’s what I would have thought, sir.”

  “There’s more to this than what you’re telling me.”

  “We don’t know yet what happened, Mr. Page. As far as the county manager is concerned, it may turn out to be nothing at all. If I need to reach you in the next couple of hours, will you have a phone in your car?”

  �
�Of course.” He gave her the number. “I’ll be there by seven,” he said.

  “Be careful on the highway, sir.” She switched off the phone and remained sitting on the small stoop, lost in thought. Finally, she dialed the county office again.

  “Penny, any word from his nibs?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

  Penny Barnes didn’t buy it. “Not a thing, Estelle. What is going on? You know, this isn’t like him. Not like him at all. Did you find his friend?”

  “No, it’s not like him,” Estelle said. “And yes, I talked with Mr. Page. Did you happen to think of anyone else to check with?”

  “No. But I’ve called everyone, everywhere. He hasn’t been at the county barns, he’s not out at the landfill-I even called Jim Bergin out at the airport. Nothing. He isn’t answering his cell, or the radio. I’ve got everyone looking and calling. Like I said, he’s playing hooky somewhere.”

  I hope so, Estelle thought. A still-warm truck with the keys in the ignition, parked next door to an attempted murder, wasn’t her definition of hooky.

  Chapter Eight

  The house key was where William Page had said it was, tucked in a slot in the belly of the small tin lizard on the windowsill. Not allowing her latex gloves to touch the brass doorknob, Estelle turned the key and nudged the door with her left elbow. She could hear Bob Torrez’s breathing behind her. Pausing at one side of the doorway, she inhaled deeply, scanning what she could see of the living room at the same time. Nothing appeared out of place, and the air carried the faint, clean aroma of a well-tended home.

  “He ain’t here,” Torrez murmured.

  “I don’t think so.” Estelle moved fully into the living room, and Torrez followed, shutting the front door and leaving Deputy Thomas Pasquale standing outside on the steps.

  Loath to probe deeper into Kevin Zeigler’s home, Estelle waited. Apparently the sheriff felt the same awkwardness, because he made no move to press by her.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Estelle shook her head, jolted by the intrusion of Torrez’s voice. Her senses told her nothing except that the house was most likely as it had been when the county manager left for work that morning. She turned in place, inventorying the living room. Zeigler was a movie fan, and the room was arranged so that all seats, including the large, plush sofa, faced the enormous entertainment center on the east wall, with speakers surrounding the room.