Convenient Disposal pc-12

by Steven F Havill

  The telephone hadn’t rung since early evening, when she’d talked briefly with Sheriff Robert Torrez. The minutes and hours ticked away with the only progress being Carmen Acosta’s slow healing, three hundred miles north. The medical staff still would not hazard a guess about how long it might be before Carmen could remember the incident at all. The grim odds were that the blow to the back of her skull had smashed all remnants of the episode from her mind.

  Moving the sheet and blanket as little as possible, Estelle slipped out of bed. Her eyes now accustomed to the dark, she crossed to the chair, slipped into her nightgown and robe, closed the bedroom door behind her, and padded out to the living room.

  In a moment, the sharp image of Dr. Arnold Gray was calling the county meeting back into session. Estelle plugged in a set of earphones and settled into the rocking chair beside the sofa.

  She saw herself enter and take a seat near Mitchell and Torrez. The commission immediately resumed its discussion of providing services to the village, and more than once, one or another of the commissioners would ask about Kevin Zeigler’s absence. As if to punctuate the problem, Milton Crowley would swivel the camera each time the county manager’s name was mentioned, and even once touched the zoom lens to zero in on Zeigler’s empty chair, as if to say, “Aha, see? This is your government in action.”

  Tinneman made a wisecrack about Zeigler’s power lunch, and then Sheriff Torrez rose from his seat and strolled back to the microphone. For the next few minutes, discussion continued, with Torrez answering questions using just enough volume that the commissioners could hear if they paid rapt attention.

  Estelle found herself pressing the headphones against her left ear to hear the sheriff. Eventually, their questions for Torrez wound down, and the undersheriff took her place at the small podium.

  As she walked to the podium, the camera swung to follow her. Because she had been standing so close to its lens, what the video picked up behind Estelle was fuzzy. Clearly, though, Zeigler’s desk was still empty.

  Estelle pressed the remote Pause, and then rummaged through her briefcase to find the agenda for the meeting. Item 17 was open for discussion at that moment. Several less weighty items were scheduled to follow, taking the meeting to its projected five PM adjournment.

  Scanning down the list of action items, Estelle could see that a presentation to the commission by a representative of Baynes, Taylor, and O’Brien of Albuquerque was scheduled to present final paperwork for a bonding issue. Dedication of a portion of a little two-track on the western side of the county as a county road joined a host of other similar items-the sort of day-to-day workings of local government that some folks found fascinating, others found stultifyingly boring, and a few, like Milton Crowley, claimed were cloaks for governmental conspiracy.

  Item 28, headed Discussion Items, included such blockbusters as sharing a road grader with the tiny unincorporated village of Newton, a hamlet that lay outside the northern Posadas County limits by about a hundred yards; communication from The Country Patriot, which Estelle knew to be Milton Crowley’s newsletter; the preliminary report from the county manager about the feasibility of hiring a private contractor for solid-waste and landfill services; and an entry simply titled Resolution of Litigation. The meeting would conclude with an executive session for Personnel Matters and Pending Litigation.

  Estelle wasn’t surprised by either the personnel session or mention of litigation-that was standard procedure for the county. Employees were hired, evaluated, fired. The county sued and was sued on a regular basis, whether over something as simple as determination of an old fence line, violation of a vendor contract, or failure to pay back taxes. The constant flow of civil paperwork kept Sergeant Howard Bishop busy.

  Setting the county meeting back into motion, Estelle listened to herself respond to questions until the tape reached the point where Commissioner Tinneman petulantly repeated that he wanted to talk with the county manager. At that point, it appeared that Crowley wasn’t sure whom he wanted to capture on tape. The camera actually wavered a bit with indecision. He swung it hard to the left and recorded Estelle as she left the commission chambers, then panned back to where Zeigler should have been.

  Dulci Corona’s sharp voice could be heard on the tape, and in a moment, the camera’s view returned to the podium. After a few minutes, it filmed Estelle’s return as she walked down the aisle and sat beside Mitchell. In a flurry of activity, the final vote was pushed through. The camera caught Tinneman’s discomfiture, then captured Estelle leaning toward Chief Mitchell for a final comment before she rose to leave and the commission moved on to other matters.

  With a quick stab at the remote, Estelle stopped the tape and ran it in reverse, watching Dr. Gray’s gavel spring up from the desk and herself waddle backward to her seat. She kept rewinding until she reached the point where she had left the chamber to inquire about the missing Zeigler, then replayed the tape.

  When Crowley panned the camera to the left to catch her exit on tape-and what was so important that he would film that particular moment? — the rear of the chambers was also visible, all the way across the spotty audience to Kevin Zeigler’s desk and microphone. A number of people hadn’t returned from lunch, including Commissioner Tina Archuleta and Posadas Register editor Pam Gardiner. The seat where Don Fulkerson had been sitting, directly in front of Zeigler’s desk, was also empty. Predictably, several new faces had joined the audience as well, including an elderly couple at the far side of the chambers. The husband stood his walker in the outside aisle.

  Estelle ran the tape forward again. Fifteen minutes after the session resumed, Tina Archuleta returned, grimacing with apology as she took her seat. The others ignored her, except for a pleasant nod of recognition from the commission chairman. Crowley filmed her arrival from the moment the door opened, panning as she walked down through the audience.

  The meeting plodded onward through two breaks, and as if concerned that his high-density tape would run out too soon, Crowley became more conservative with his recording, cutting off the video during discussion that he considered to be of no consequence. Estelle wondered how he decided, since not a great percentage of what he taped appeared to be much higher on the consequence scale.

  At 4:02 PM by the video camera’s timer, Crowley panned left once more, as the old man with the walker stood to briefly address the commission about the condition of his undedicated two-track that had once been a county road but no longer was and should have been. In the row behind him and close to the aisle, Don Fulkerson had returned, but Ralph Johnson had left, leaving Fulkerson to doze alone.

  Estelle glanced at the agenda. The discussion item concerning the contracted services was looming on the agenda’s horizon, and Fulkerson had timed it well. Estelle sat forward a little in the rocker and frowned at the screen, but the light in the back of the commission chambers was uncertain, turning individual audience members into shadows.

  With Zeigler absent, the commission dropped several agenda items and adjourned early to executive session. The camera panned across the audience, many now standing and milling toward the exits, apparently deciding not to remain and wait for the commission to return from session. The noise level rose as people took the opportunity for chatter and the exchange of gossip tidbits. As she watched their images-some smiling, some sleepy, some bludgeoned numb with boredom-Estelle wondered if someone in those chambers knew exactly where Kevin Zeigler was.

  The camera must have been its own form of intimidation, since not one of the audience stopped to talk with Milton Crowley. Maybe sometime in the past, they too had read the sign on his fence, and didn’t care to trespass on his personal space.

  Far in the back of the house a toilet flushed, its noise muffled by Estelle’s earphones. Estelle looked at her watch. She had another hour before Francisco would appear, bright-faced and with mouth in gear.

  The tape went blank, then flickered and sprang into life as the commissioners filed back into the hall after the
executive session. Dr. Gray pushed them through what little business remained, and at 5:03 by the video timer, he rapped his gavel to end the meeting.

  Crowley continued to videotape, the camera intruding into the various private conversations that took place in the natural course of a meeting’s end. Finally, the tape ended.

  Estelle sat back in the rocker, tapping the remote on her thigh after pressing Rewind. She had seen nothing to pique her interest, other than Zeigler’s absence. The huge, numbing possibility loomed clearly. What if…what if? she thought. What if she was stumbling blindly down the wrong road entirely? What if Kevin Zeigler’s disappearance had nothing whatsoever to do with his work as county manager? Estelle realized with growing frustration that she could say the same thing about every other avenue, too.

  For nearly an hour, she sat in the rocking chair, doodling on the legal pad. In half an hour, she’d blackened in enough semicircles to represent a fair-sized pile of discarded tires, with a little one standing at the top.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Behind Kevin Zeigler’s home on Candelaria Court, a neat but homely concrete wall four feet high defined the backyard. On the concrete slab patio, two white wire chairs and an umbrella table occupied one side, and a fancy propane barbecue grill dominated the other. Two large ceramic pots sat empty at each far corner of the patio, as if Zeigler had planned something colorful but had never slowed down enough to add potting soil, seeds, and water.

  Estelle sat at the umbrella table and watched the morning sun boil up over the eastern prairie. The light breeze out of the north was cool, a delightful mix with the promised unseasonable heat of that early November morning.

  Earlier, during the few moments with her family, she had reveled in their simple presence. She had enjoyed little Francisco’s excitement as he bundled his cache of aluminum foil into his backpack. The bus had picked him up, and Estelle had driven Carlos to Little Bear, leaving her mother a few treasured minutes alone with Dr. Francis-next to her daughter, the old woman’s favorite person on the planet.

  But during all of the morning rituals, something nagged in the back of Estelle’s mind. Now, she sat quietly at Zeigler’s table in his backyard, the insulated cup of hot tea held between both hands, the metal of the table refreshingly cold to the touch. To the north, the prairie rumpled into a series of dips and rolls. The sun shadows created a dramatic dark scar out of Arroyo del Cerdo, and Estelle watched the patterns change, letting her mind roam.

  The early-morning report from Albuquerque listed Carmen in guarded condition, but physicians had been optimistic. Although still in a restless semicoma, the teenager’s vital signs were strong. Estelle had felt a sharp twinge of sympathy as she tried to imagine what sort of images might still be rampaging in the girl’s mind…a torture that would likely continue for years, surfacing without warning to drag Carmen through the experience yet again.

  Freddy and Juanita Acosta remained in the city, but Armand Acosta, Freddy’s cousin, had driven to Albuquerque and picked up Mauro and Tony, returning to Posadas on Wednesday evening. Armand’s home on MacArthur was four doors from Sheriff Robert Torrez’s, and Torrez said that he had kept an eye on the place during the night. The boys hadn’t roamed. Torrez, who knew the Acosta tribe well, was certain that Armand and Tawnya would make sure that all four youngsters would be in school. Whether the two boys would stay there for the entire day was open to question.

  Somewhere on Candelaria, another car engine started, and Estelle arose and stretched. The first bell at school would ring at 8:07 AM, in five minutes. She strolled back around the house, ducking under the yellow tape, and drove to the high school across town, arriving a minute before the bell. The parking lot and courtyard were flooded with students savoring the last few moments of freedom. Here and there, Estelle saw duty teachers, some standing with colleagues, some mingling with groups of students.

  The undersheriff sat in the car, watching. Like a large flock of birds, the students began moving toward the school an instant before the bell rang, as if they could somehow hear the silent transistor circuits click into place. Two minutes later, the parking lot and grounds were empty, the day officially begun.

  Estelle got out of the car and walked to the front doors. One of them opened, held for her by a tall, incredibly thin young man with a pageboy haircut and terrible complexion. “Hi,” he said, and immediately turned his attention to a mammoth backpack that rested on one of the wooden chairs, all zippers yawning open.

  Margie Edwards was trying to hand something to the high school principal, Charlie Maestas, while Maestas talked to two animated young ladies. Maestas saw Estelle, held up a hand to silence the chatter, and then shooed the two from the outer office.

  “I’m sorry I missed you the other day,” Maestas said, extending his hand. His suit appeared to be two sizes too small for his short, blocky frame, accentuated by his habit of buttoning the jacket over his rotund body. His grip was moist and perfunctory. “Come on in,” he said, holding open the door to his office.

  Estelle nodded and smiled at Margie, then stepped inside. Maestas closed the door and immediately walked to his desk as if he needed to be in place before a conversation started.

  “I need a few minutes with Mauro and Tony Acosta, Mr. Maestas,” Estelle said.

  “No problem…if they’re here,” Maestas said. He tapped the keyboard of his computer and waited. “What can you tell me?”

  “About what, sir?”

  He shot a quick glance at Estelle, and then his eyes shifted back to the computer screen. “We’re all concerned,” he said, tapped the keyboard again, and straightened up. He brought his hands together in a silent clap and held them that way. “Yesterday at the administrative council meeting, Ms. Dooley gave us a rundown of what happened at the middle school with Deena Hurtado.” He paused as if he expected Estelle to add something. When she didn’t, he said, “Is this hat pin thing the newest trend? Is that the latest fad? If they’re on campus, we need to move on it.”

  “I don’t know, sir. I don’t know how widespread they are. I would hope that it’s limited, but we just don’t know yet.”

  “Sit, sit,” he said impatiently, waving toward a large chair in front of his desk.

  “Actually, sir, I need to see the Acosta boys.” She glanced at her watch. “We’re running sort of tight today.”

  “Ah, well,” Maestas said, with more than a hint of disappointment, “I can understand that.” He glanced back at the computer screen. “Who first? Or do you want them together?”

  “I’d like to talk with Mauro first,” she said.

  “He’s in Metals One right now, with Mr. Fernandez. I’ll call for him.”

  “It would be helpful if you wouldn’t use the PA, sir. Maybe you and I could just walk down there and get him.”

  “Sure, we can do that. You want to use this office for home base?”

  Estelle smiled with just a hint of politic apology. “I’d like to talk with him outside, I think. We might just take a little walk.”

  “All right,” Maestas said, frowning. “Have you been in touch with his parents?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s the sister?”

  “Holding her own, I think. We won’t know if there’s any permanent damage for some time.”

  He looked askance at Estelle. “You don’t think the boys had anything to do with this business, do you?”

  “I hope not,” she replied.

  “Mauro and Tony are the sort of boys-” he hesitated, searching for just the right thing to say “-who really need to be here. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “I believe so.”

  He nodded sharply. “Let’s go find ’em.”

  The metals shop was at the far end of the school complex, taking up what looked like it had once been a large garage, complete with two huge overhead doors that yawned open. Nine students were clustered in a small classroom off to one side, most of them attentive as Mr. Fernandez explained something
on the chalkboard. Estelle remained just outside, and in a moment the principal appeared with Mauro Acosta in tow.

  The ninth grader walked as if he were a hunchback, baggy pants sagging under a long-tailed, checkered flannel shirt. His olive drab army belt flapped a foot too long.

  “Hello, Mauro,” Estelle said. “I’m Undersheriff Estelle Guzman. I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged and glanced at Maestas.

  “If you need me for anything, you know where I am,” the principal said. He reached out and patted Mauro on the shoulder. “You too, guy.”

  “Let’s take a walk,” Estelle said. As they strolled along the metal building, Mauro shuffled with his hands in his pockets. It appeared to Estelle as if he had to constantly work at keeping his trousers in the perfect position of suspense. Between the gravity-defying trousers and carelessly tied shoes, running wasn’t on the agenda.

  Estelle paused at a runty elm tree just inside the chain-link fence. The ground around the tree’s base was littered with cigarette butts.

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t have a chance to talk to you before you had to go to Albuquerque,” she said. “The doctors say that your sister is making some progress.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, avoiding eye contact. He managed an assessing glance at Estelle, his gaze running down her figure, and he hunched his shoulders a bit more to make sure he was giving away no secrets.

  “I need to know about the hat pins, Mauro.” His eyebrows twitched. “We know that you sharpened the one that your sister had with her. We also know that you sharpened at least one for Deena Hurtado.”

  He shook his head slightly and regarded the distant horizon.

  “I don’t imagine that Mr. Fernandez knows much about that, does he?” The boy remained silent, and Estelle stepped closer, lowering her voice. Mauro was her height, and she shifted to stand directly in front of him, forcing him to look at her. “None of that is of much interest to me just now, Mauro. You’re a smart young man. You know as well as I do what the consequences are if you’re caught carrying a weapon on school property. Even if it’s just a quickie sharpening job for a friend.” She gave him the chance to reply, but he remained silent. “So now you know,” she said. “Tell me about your neighbors.”