“In order to enter through the outer skin here”—he tapped the circled X on the bottom view of the fuselage just ahead of the wing’s trailing edge—“and then exit here”—he pointed at a second X on the left side of the aircraft, approximately a foot above the left wing root, just behind the vertical line of the pilot’s-side window frame—“and send a fragment into the pilot, we’re talking about a trajectory that would be approximated by this back line.”
“Shooting steeply upward,” I said. “Just a few degrees off of vertical.”
“The old duck shot,” Buscema said grimly. “Almost over the blind.” He tapped the paper again. “The bullet fragmented against one of the frame members and secondarily against a portion of the seat framework.”
“Did you find any other pieces of the bullet?”
“We’re not going to be that lucky.”
“And no evidence of other shots? No other holes anywhere that don’t belong?” He shook his head. “What are the odds of intentionally making a shot like that?”
“Depends on the marksman, of course,” Buscema said. “But if the plane was flying low, it was a pretty big target.”
“But moving fast,” I said.
I sensed someone standing right at my elbow, and I turned to see Bob Torrez. The sergeant smelled of sweat and fried chicken.
“How hard would it be?” I asked him. Torrez spent every hunting season in the field, and I couldn’t recall when he’d ever come close to running out of venison, elk, or antelope steaks. He hunted duck and geese along the Rio Grande bosque and chased quail all over New Mexico and a few prized, secret spots in Arizona.
“I mean, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” I said, “because the shot was, in fact, successfully made. But what are the odds?”
Torrez shrugged. “Who’s got a calculator?” Buscema reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out one of those little things that looks like a case for carrying business cards. He handed it to Torrez. “If we use a hundred and fifty miles an hour for the plane, that means that…” Torrez punched the tiny buttons with the eraser of his pencil “…that it covers two hundred and twenty feet each second, give or take.”
“Give or take,” I said, amused.
“Right,” Torrez said. “A good average to use for a rifle bullet’s velocity is about twenty-seven hundred feet per second.” He punched more keys. “So it takes the bullet a third of a second to fly nine hundred feet, or three hundred yards.”
“And in that third of a second, how far does the plane travel?”
He shrugged. “A third of two hundred and twenty feet. About seventy-three feet.”
“Or about three times the aircraft’s length, if his math is right,” Buscema added.
“And that’s if you’re trying to lead the target for a single shot,” Torrez said. “If someone were firing an automatic weapon, it’d be simpler to just put up a string of bullets and let the plane fly into one or two of them.”
“Huh,” I said, and shoved my hands in my pockets. “I certainly don’t doubt that the math is right. But I think it’s just goddam dumb bad luck.”
“The Boyds shoot a lot,” Torrez said. “Or at least the boy does. They’ve got that little range a few hundred yards off the main county road into their place. I drew Eddie a map so he could take the agents out there without getting lost. I think he’s been there only once or twice before.”
“And they should be back in a few minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. I glanced at Estelle, who was leaning on the table gazing at the aircraft diagrams. “What are you thinking?”
She didn’t look up, but her frown deepened a bit more. “We’ve been trying to come up with a reason for all this,” she mused. “I’m thinking it may be staring us in the face.”
“Meaning what?”
Estelle straightened up, still looking at the schematic. “If we assume that the shot wasn’t just a freak accident, if we assume that it was actually fired at the aircraft with the intent of hitting it, what makes the most sense?”
“That whoever fired the shot knew who was in the airplane, and that whoever was in the plane posed a threat of some kind,” Buscema said. He hooked a chair with his toe and pulled it over, sitting down so he could rest his arms on the back.
“And unless Martin Holman broadcast to the community beforehand that he was going to be making an aerial survey of that area, who could have known it was him?” Estelle continued.
“No one,” I said flatly. “Everything points to its being a sudden whim…an opportunity of the moment.”
“Right. So that means that whoever fired the shot saw this aircraft and made some assumptions.”
“The way it was flying made its intent pretty obvious,” Buscema said. “An organized back-and-forth track, fairly low-level.”
“And the big question is, so what?” I said.
“Seeing something on the ground was the threat,” Estelle said. “It had to be.” She reached out and tapped the schematic. “And it’s an aircraft that locals wouldn’t recognize, unless they’d been down at the airport during the past week. And”—she tapped it again—“look at the registration.”
I took a step closer. “There isn’t anything on the diagram,” I said, but Estelle was already turning away from the table.
“No, but over there—” She pointed at the remains of the Bonanza’s aft fuselage. The large black lettering, torn and bent, was still clear.
“Gulf Victor Mary Alpha,” I said. “With a hyphen between the Gulf and the Victor.”
Estelle nodded. “And even someone without any particular knowledge of airplanes would see a registration number on the rear of an aircraft and assume that it was, in fact, the registration.”
“And so?” I asked.
“Sir, I think that whoever fired the shot saw the one thing that was unique about this aircraft—the large lettering on the fuselage—and made an assumption about who was in the plane. He saw letters, maybe inaccurately, and made an assumption that the aircraft posed a threat to him.”
“It would be easy to think the V was an N—that would make part of the registration NM, or New Mexico,” Buscema said. “And if Detective Guzman is correct, the assumption might have been that the aircraft was an official one. A state plane.”
“And maybe the G represented ‘Game,’” Tom Pasquale said. “And the A for ‘Agency.’”
Despite the edge on everyone’s nerves, I laughed. “Let’s not get carried away,” I said. “Maybe, maybe not. At least it gives us something to think about.”
I dragged the cellular phone out of my pocket and punched the auto-dial button for the sheriff’s office. Ernie Wheeler answered.
“Ernie, have Sergeant Mitchell and the federal agents returned yet?”
“That’s negative, sir.”
I glanced at my watch again and saw that it was pushing seven-thirty. “Have they called in?”
“No, sir. Do you want me to try to raise them? I don’t think the radio repeater carries into some of that area, and Eddie might not have taken the phone from his unit.”
“Do that,” I said and punched off. “They’ve been out there long enough,” I said to Estelle. “If they’ve collected rifle shell casings, the first thing you want to do is a preliminary firing-pin imprint comparison. You can do that with the stereoscope in Francis’ lab. First that, and then extractor marks, just in front of the rim.” Estelle nodded, far more expert with a microscope than I.
“That will give us an idea,” I continued. “In the meantime, Bob, I want you to come with me. We’re going to have a little chat with Mr. Boyd and Mr. Finnegan.” Estelle frowned, but she didn’t say anything. I stepped over to the wreckage and eyed the torn aluminum. “Vince, I want to take this with me,” I said and tried to lift the section of fuselage with the most legible registration. “You got metal shears with you? The skin’s about torn loose anyway. Just this small section. None of the framework behind it.”
“What are you going to do with that
?” Buscema asked.
“A little target-recognition contest,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The instant that Sergeant Robert Torrez switched on the ignition of his unit, the radio barked into life, catching dispatcher Ernie Wheeler in mid-sentence.
“…seven, PCS. Try channel two.”
A few seconds of silence followed, and I reached forward and turned the volume up slightly. By then, we were headed out of the airport parking lot onto State 78.
“Three-oh-seven, PCS. Do you copy?”
Static followed, and I keyed our mike. “PCS, three-ten is ten-eight.”
“Three-ten, PCS, ten-four. Did you copy a transmission from three-oh-seven?”
“Three-ten, negative.”
My telephone chirped and I dug it out of the jumble of papers between the seats. “Gastner.”
“Sir, Mrs. Boyd just called.” Linda Real’s tone was clipped and businesslike, but the words came so rapid-fire that I had a hard time keeping up. “I’ve still got her on line one. Apparently her husband received a telephone call—she doesn’t know from who—and then he left the house on the run. Mrs. Boyd said he was really angry. And he took a gun with him.”
“Linda,” I said, “slow down. Boyd left the house with a weapon after receiving a telephone call? Is that what his wife is saying?”
“That’s right, sir.”
I swore under my breath. “And she didn’t know who called?”
“No, sir.”
“Ask her again.”
I heard mumbling in the background, and about a minute later, Linda came back on the line. “She has no idea. She said that her husband listened and that she heard him cuss a couple of times. And then he said, ‘Thanks a lot,’ and hung up.”
“Is Johnny’s brother home? Edwin?”
“Just a minute, sir.”
I could picture Linda with a telephone against each ear. I watched the highway in front of us as the white lines and the double yellows blended into a high-speed blur.
“Sir, she said Edwin’s not home. He went into town earlier.”
“Probably to the goddam bar,” I muttered. Edwin liked the sauce anyway, and a hurting knee would encourage him even more.
“Yes, sir,” Linda said without a trace of surprise in her voice. “Ernie has been trying to raise Sergeant Mitchell on the radio, but apparently they’re in a dead spot. And he hasn’t responded to the phone. Ernie said for me to contact you while he kept on trying the radio.”
I only half heard Linda’s explanation as my mind raced ahead. Bob Torrez had come to the same conclusion I did, because he accelerated hard. “Linda, tell Mrs. Boyd to stay in the house and to stay off the telephone. We’re going to head up that way. And, Linda?”
“Sir?”
“I don’t want any other traffic getting in our way. Tell Ernie that. Everyone stays put until they hear from me. While you’re there, give me the Finnegans’ phone number. Ernie knows it by heart.”
She did so, and before I dialed, I took a second to tighten my shoulder harness, hoping that Torrez remembered that the intersection of State 78 and County 43 involved a right-angle turn.
While I tried to fit my fat finger on the tiny buttons of the damn phone, I glanced at Torrez. “I wouldn’t put it past old George Payton to have called Johnny,” I said. “Maybe he figures it’s the least he could do for him.”
Charlotte Finnegan answered the phone on the second ring. Her “Hello” sounded like the whimper a child might make peeking around a door into a darkened room.
“Mrs. Finnegan, this is Sheriff Gastner. Let me talk with your husband, please.”
“This is Sheriff Gastner?”
“Yes, ma’am. Is Richard there?”
“We don’t have a very good connection,” she said reprovingly. “I can barely understand you.”
“Mrs. Finnegan, this is Sheriff Gastner.” I slowed down and exaggerated the enunciation as if she could read my lips across the phone lines. “I need to talk with your husband.” I braced my feet against the firewall as I saw the signs announcing the intersection with the county road.
Even as we squawled around the corner and emerged wheels-side-down heading northbound on 43, I heard Mrs. Finnegan say, “Richard went into Posadas, Sheriff.”
“He’s in town?”
She laughed apologetically. “I was rearranging the pantry and discovered I was out of canning lids.”
That stopped me short. I frowned and braced my free hand against the dashboard as we blasted up a series of tortuous ess curves below Consolidated Mining’s access road. “You were what?”
“I was out of canning lids. I know it’s early, but I find that if I don’t do things just when I think of them, why, when I need something, it’s not there. Now Richard came in earlier and mentioned that he needed several rolls of duck tape for morning. You know he’s working on that pipeline. And so as long as he needed that, I just added to the list.” She sounded most pleased with herself. “I believe the Day-Night market on Grande has both the tape and the canning supplies.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Finnegan. When he comes back, tell him I called. Good night.” She sounded like she’d have liked to settle into an all-evening confab, but I cut her off.
“Huh,” I said to myself and dialed dispatch. “Ernie,” I said, “have Tom Mears or whoever is available swing by the Day-Night store. Ask Peggy—I think she’s the one who works there at night—if Richard Finnegan stopped in sometime this evening to buy a few things.”
“That’s it, sir?”
“That’s it.” I switched off and for a few minutes, watched the darkness slide by. “Canning lids,” I said to no one in particular. “He went into town to buy canning lids. Canning lids in springtime.”
“Canning late snow peas,” Torrez said, but he didn’t crack a smile. We roared up the steep section of twisting macadam that passed Consolidated Mining, and a few moments later as we crested the hill above the reservoir, I tried the radio again. But either Mitchell had his radio turned off or he was in one of the many areas in the county where the signal couldn’t reach one of the repeater towers on the west end of Cat Mesa or across the county to the peak of San Cristobál.
“PCS, three-oh-three is ten-eight.”
Deputy Pasquale hadn’t had any more sleep than any of the rest of us, but he was in his element. He couldn’t even say routine numbers without sounding eager.
“He’d be a good one to have at our backsides,” I said and keyed the mike. “Three-oh-three, work your way up County Forty-three to the intersection with the ranch road. Wait on the pavement.”
“Ten-four.”
“Make sure you wait on the pavement,” I repeated, and Pasquale acknowledged. In another couple of minutes, we reached the turnoff, now so well-used by the airplane salvage team that the dusty tire marks of vehicles turning onto the highway from the dirt road had left a pronounced arc on the dark asphalt.
“Kill the lights,” I said, but Torrez’s hand was already moving toward the switch. The moon wasn’t up, and Torrez tapped the little toggle switch down low by the emergency-brake release. The tiny bulb mounted on the back side of the bumper, what he affectionately called his “perpetrator light,” cast just enough glow that he could see the edge of the road in his peripheral vision.
I buzzed down my window, straining to see ahead. We had 3.8 miles before we reached the first intersection, the two-track that wound off to the south, up the back side of Cat Mesa to where Dick Finnegan was fiddling with his spring and his piping. I wasn’t sure exactly what reference Torrez was using to keep the Bronco on the road, but he kept the speed moderate, looking off into the distance as if he could actually see where we were going.
The smell of dry sage was strong as the night air wafted by my face. I realized I was straining to hear more than to see. We reached the intersection, and Torrez stopped and switched off the engine. Both of us sat holding our breath, listening. Not enough wind stirred to rustle the few stalks o
f bunchgrass that hadn’t been trimmed by cattle.
For a full minute, we sat listening, and then I could hear a car coming up 43 east of us. By the way it was being flogged, I knew that it was Pasquale. Why he hadn’t chosen a career driving the NASCAR circuit, I didn’t know, but every once in a while, his prowess—or recklessness—behind the wheel came in handy.
I twisted around in the seat and saw the headlights in the distance sweep an arc across the prairie as he turned into the dirt road without putting the high-slung vehicle on its roof in the ditch.
I picked up the mike. “Stay right at that intersection, Tom,” I said. He keyed twice to acknowledge. “No one comes in or out this road until you hear from me.”
“Three-oh-three, ten-four.”
Torrez started the Bronco and we idled ahead, still listening. Another 2.2 miles brought us to a main intersection, this one a well-worn two-track to the north, and I knew it led to the block house windmill.
“Do you know where this shooting area is?” I asked.
Torrez nodded. “It’s on the same route as we took to the crash site, except there’s a fork up a ways, and instead of bearing left up onto the flat, we stay to the right. It’ll kinda snake around and then it ends up in a little box canyon. Boyd’s got one of his corrals there, too.”
“Then as the crow flies, it’s not far from the Boyds’ house.”
“Maybe two thousand yards,” Torrez offered.
“And about three miles if you have to drive it.” I leaned forward, staring into the darkness. The prairie was spooky, dark shapes looming up out of the darkness to slide by as we passed. The crunch of the tires on the gravel was inordinately loud, a sound that the silence of the prairie amplified to broadcast our presence for hundreds of yards.
“How far are we?” I asked.
“A mile or so,” Torrez said.
“All right. Let’s—” and I damn near choked on the words as the gunshots pealed out over the prairie. They came in rapid sequence, first three and then two more, so fast that the sounds were gone before the next heartbeat. I slammed forward against the harness as the Bronco jarred to a halt. We both held our breath, listening.
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