Before She Dies

by Steven F Havill

  “On that?”

  “On the lug wrench that we found near the scene of the shooting. Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do we, sir.” Estelle said it so quietly I almost didn’t hear her. And then she let the moment of silence hang.

  “Her fingerprints?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pushed against the arms of the chair, rising up an inch or two. “I don’t understand. How does that wrench…” He stopped abruptly, cocked his head, and frowned. “What did Tammy tell you? I mean, she must have a simple explanation for all this. Just because she handled a wrench doesn’t mean…I mean, she could have touched it at any time. It doesn’t mean she had anything to do with that…with what happened out there.”

  “Indeed not, sir. But it’s a connection we need to track down. I was hoping you could tell us where she is, sir. So we could ask her a couple of questions.”

  Woodruff looked relieved, as if he had the right answer. “Well, I assume she’s at her apartment, detective.” He tried for a grin and managed a lopsided grimace. “She’s not an early riser.”

  “She’s not at her apartment, sir.”

  “She’s not?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, a friend’s then. She frequently stays with a friend.” Woodruff shifted in his chair, uncomfortable having to admit that his healthy, wild-hair daughter didn’t live the life of a nun. “But wait, now.” Woodruff looked at me as he tried to rise to the offensive. “I don’t understand any of this. Why would Tammy’s fingerprints be on that…that wrench in the first place? She doesn’t even drive a Chevrolet, or whatever you said it’s from. Hell, you know what she drives.” He chuckled weakly. “Doesn’t drive it too well, sometimes, either.”

  Estelle lifted a page in her notebook. “Mr. Woodruff, is the white over gold 1993 Ford half-ton extended cab pickup that’s registered to your daughter her only vehicle?”

  “Sure. She’d live in that thing if she could, I think.”

  “In the past few days or weeks, has she had occasion to drive any other vehicle?” Woodruff looked puzzled and Estelle added softly, “To your knowledge?”

  “No. Of course not. I mean, as far as I know, no. She drives that truck everywhere.”

  “Who is your daughter seeing right now, Karl?” I asked.

  He frowned and bit the corner of his lip. “You know, for quite a while there she was hitched up pretty steady with Brett Prescott. He’s a nice enough kid.”

  “Gus Prescott’s boy?”

  Woodruff nodded and said with considerable chagrin, “That was Gus’s new truck that Tammy backed into Friday night at the bar. She told me that she’d had some sort of tiff with Brett. She doesn’t talk much to her mother and me about who she sees. Bill, you went through the same thing with your girls, I imagine.”

  “Sure.” I hadn’t, but what the hell.

  “The latest thing I heard was that she went to the fire department’s Valentine’s Day dance with…” he hesitated. “Someone came in the store and mentioned how nice a couple they made. Who the heck was it.” He frowned hard and stared at the dark pine flooring. The lightbulb finally lit and he said, “Torrance. One of the Torrance boys.”

  “Pat Torrance, maybe?” Estelle offered.

  “I think so, yes.”

  Herb Torrance raised beef, sheep, emus, and nine kids on his ranch west of Posadas. Patrick was somewhere in the middle of the nine in age.

  “You don’t know if Tammy has been seeing the Torrance boy regularly, then?” I asked, and Woodruff shook his head. I folded my hands and tapped the tips of my thumbs together while I gazed across the desk at Estelle.

  “I really wish I knew what was going on,” Karl Woodruff said miserably. “I just can’t believe that Tammy would be involved…”

  “Karl,” I said, getting up and walking around the desk, “it’s probably nothing. We’ll talk with Tammy and find that out, I’m sure. A hundred to one that it’s just a fluke, some crazy coincidence.” I patted him on the shoulder. “We don’t even know what kind of vehicle was stopped, or for that matter even if there is a connection between that incident and the shooting.”

  Woodruff looked hopeful and pushed himself to his feet. “Bill,” he said, “will you call me the minute…the second…that you know anything? I’ll be at the store all day, until nine tonight. And everyday. Just call, all right? As soon as you hear from Tammy, as soon as you have the chance to talk with her?”

  “You bet, Karl.”

  We ushered him out of the office and I closed the door. “What do you think?”

  “I think…” Estelle started to say, then stopped. She tapped her notebook. “I think we’ve got several sets of questions, sir. If Tammy Woodruff is the one whom Linda Real recognized, then that’s one scenario.” She cupped her hands and moved them to one side, as if all those questions were floating in a puddle of water. “And one set of questions—like what vehicle was she driving, and why. And did she know the killer? And why hasn’t she come forward to talk to us?” Estelle paused to take a breath and cupped her hands again.

  “If Tammy is not the person Linda saw, and is not the person Linda thinks we all know, then how did Tammy’s prints get on the wrench? And what was the wrench doing out there? And when was it dropped? And does that incident have anything at all to do with the shooting?”

  “And who was with her,” I added. “Who was the person Linda saw?”

  “Just so, sir,” Estelle said. “Who’s with Linda now?”

  “Howard.”

  She nodded. “If you’re going back to the hospital, I’d like to spend some time trying to track Miss Woodruff down. You know, it’s interesting…”

  “What’s that?”

  “You remember our conversation with Victor Sánchez?”

  “Dimly. I was depending on your note-taking skills.”

  Estelle smiled and flipped back through several pages in her notes. “I think it’s interesting that Señor Sánchez mentioned that Pat Torrance was in the bar, drinking himself sick. It’s not unusual that Pat was there, certainly, since his family’s ranch is just up County Road 14 a bit. But it’s interesting that, if Tammy Woodruff was out in that desolate corner of the county, near an establishment that she frequents, near a saloon where her maybe boyfriend is chugging the brew…it’s interesting that either she never stopped at the Broken Spur, or that she did stop but Victor didn’t see her.”

  “What’s really remarkable,” I said, “is that you understand what you just said, Estelle.” I ran a hand through my hair and slumped against the side of the desk. “Now listen. I don’t want you out in that corner of the county by yourself, you understand me?”

  “I wasn’t planning…”

  “Yes you were. If you didn’t find Tammy right away, you were going out to the Torrance ranch to find young Patrick. I don’t want you doing that by yourself.”

  “That’s a logical next step, sir.”

  “Sure, it is. And when you take that next step, make damn sure you have someone else with you.”

  Estelle picked up her briefcase. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, sir.”

  “So you say. Remember one simple thing.” I saw her eyebrow lift in that characteristic expression of attention. “You say Tammy isn’t at her apartment. If she was out on State Highway Fifty-six and witnessed a murder, she may very well be cactus fertilizer right now.”

  Chapter 19

  Deputy Howard Bishop saw me as I rounded the corner by the nurses’ station. He started down the hall toward me at a brisk walk, unusual for a man to whom exercise was a nice nap in a shady hammock.

  “Her mother’s here,” he said.

  I stopped in my tracks. “It’s about time. How long has she been here?”

  Bishop glanced at his watch. “About half an hour. She’s calmed down some.”

  “I can imagine that she’d be upset.”

  “It was quite a show there for a while,”
Bishop mused.

  “No show, I’m sure, Howard,” I said. A twitch in his expression said there was something else, but he settled for a shrug and accompanied me back up the hall to intensive care.

  Helen Murchison stopped me just as I began to push the swinging doors into the ward.

  “Sheriff,” she said. She kept her voice low but it was pure steel. “Now you listen to me.” She drew me to one side. Over her shoulder I could see the ghost of a smile crinkle the corners of Deputy Bishop’s eyes. I’m sure Helen and I made quite a pair, squared off the way we were—she a matronly block of efficiency, dark eyebrows glowering over those wonderful blue, piercing eyes, long thin lips compressed with anger. And there I was, a tired old bulldog with too many hours on the clock.

  “This can’t go on,” she said.

  “What can’t?”

  “The young lady’s mother has arrived,” she said with finality. “And she has been questioning every step we take. She insists that Ms. Real be transferred to the city. She questions every medication and every dosage.” Helen stopped and inhaled deeply, the air hissing past her clenched teeth. “And not ten minutes ago she told me that if Linda loses the sight in her left eye, it will be our fault.” She looked at me, her fierce blue eyes scanning my face. “I suggested that she wait in the ICU waiting room, and she practically struck me.”

  “Does she actually know the extent of Linda’s injuries?”

  “I tried to tell her, but it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise. The woman is…”

  “Distraught,” I said. “Let me talk to her.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  I nodded and pushed open the ICU doors. Linda was awake, and this time she managed to shift the position of her head slightly. She brought me into focus and blinked several times. Mrs. Real stood on the other side of the bed. She was nearly as wide as she was tall, her round face framed by jet black hair teased into a wild conflagration. I nodded at her.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” She raised her nose slightly as if sampling the air. Maybe it had been too many hours between showers for me.

  I took Linda’s right hand in mine and touched her cheek lightly with my left. “How’s it going, doll.”

  She blinked and then, ever so softly, eased a couple of words past wired jaws. “Eh…eh.”

  I nodded. “Linda, I need to talk with your mother for a few minutes outside, all right?” She blinked and I looked up at Mrs. Real. “Just a few minutes,” I said.

  The mountainous woman followed me out into the hall, and I motioned toward the waiting room. “Let’s go have a cup of coffee,” I said.

  “I don’t need coffee,” Mrs. Real snapped.

  I flashed her my most engaging smile. “I do,” I said. “Come on.” I held the waiting room door open for her. “Come on.” She relented and bustled past me, her wake of perfume wide and strong.

  “Now who are you?” she demanded.

  “I’m Undersheriff William Gastner, Mrs. Real. Let’s talk about Linda for a few minutes.”

  “I already spoke with the sheriff,” she said, as if that settled that.

  “I’m sure you did. Now you’re going to speak with me.” I gazed at her, unblinking, for a long minute. “The head nurse tells me you have some concerns about Linda’s care. Now, as a physician, I’m sure you realize…”

  “I’m not a doctor,” she said quickly.

  “Ah. I thought perhaps you were, to know medications and the like so well.”

  “I was an LPN. I retired a number of years ago.”

  “I see. Did they explain the exact nature of Linda’s injuries to you?”

  Mrs. Real looked behind her, located a chair, and sank her considerable bulk into it. She let out a long sigh. “One of the doctors—maybe he was just an aide of some kind—spoke to me earlier for less than half a minute. He was in such a hurry to be elsewhere…” She waved a hand.

  “Linda has made great progress in a very short time, Mrs. Real. She was gravely injured. I won’t kid you.”

  “But if there’s damage to her eyes, then she should be transferred immediately to a facility where she can receive the best possible care.”

  “She’s receiving that here, ma’am. I’m sure that if Dr. Guzman…is that the doctor you spoke with?”

  “No. He was a foreigner of some kind.”

  “Dr. Perrone?”

  “That may have been it.”

  “He’s chief of surgical services, ma’am. What I wanted to say was that if the physicians think she should be moved, she will be. It’s that simple. And I’ll be the one to tell you, if no one else has. Linda is blind in her left eye. Permanently.” I didn’t see the need to tell the woman that Linda didn’t even have a left eye anymore.

  Mrs. Real looked at me incredulously. “He didn’t say anything about…”

  “I’m telling you now, Mrs. Real. Now listen. Linda is very lucky to be alive. Very lucky. I’ll spare you the details, but basically the shotgun blast struck her in the side of the head. She has serious injuries all around the left orbit, and to the sinuses on that side of her skull. Her jaw is broken and there’s damage to lots of the soft tissue inside her mouth on that side.” I held up my hands. “She has a long road ahead, Mrs. Real. But she’s already much stronger. The surgeries went well. I’m sure she’ll need more.” I smiled. “She’s a tough young lady, though.”

  “And you’ve caught the ones who did this?”

  “No, we haven’t.” I walked over to the small coffeemaker and felt the side of the pot. I poured myself a cup. “You sure you don’t want any?”

  She dismissed the offer with a sniff.

  “But we’re going to catch them, ma’am.”

  The woman heaved herself to her feet. “And you stand here drinking coffee when you could be—” she stopped, fuming and groping for the right words, “out there.”

  I sipped the coffee, wondering what the woman had been like a quarter of a century before when she watched her daughter as a tot taking her first staggering steps.

  “Ma’am,” I said, “we have people ‘out there’ working themselves sick. We have some officers who haven’t had any sleep since Sunday night, when this happened.”

  “Well, then maybe you can tell me what Linda was doing in that police car in the first place?”

  “She frequently rides with one of the officers, Mrs. Real. On occasion, she writes an article about the department for the newspaper. Other than that, I don’t know why she spends so much time with us. Perhaps she’s husband hunting.” I regretted the comment the instant I said it, but it was too late. Mrs. Real’s eyes narrowed into slits and her heavy jaw thrust forward—an expression I was sure that Mr. Real, if he still cowered somewhere on the planet, had learned to dread.

  “You had no business allowing her,” she snapped, and she shook her finger under my nose. “No business whatsoever.”

  “Mrs. Real,” I said wearily, knowing already that it was a waste of breath, “Linda is an adult professional. She has the right to observe public agencies such as ours as much as she likes. We extend her the courtesy of riding with officers when she deems it necessary. She signed a waiver of responsibility with the county attorney. It’s her call. We’re as sorry as anyone that this happened.”

  “Now, you say that. But you let…” she began.

  “You might remember, ma’am, that one of our deputies was killed in that same incident. You might bear that in mind. We’re hunting a killer. Your daughter is lucky. Just plain, flat lucky.”

  “She shouldn’t have been allowed,” Mrs. Real said, and she made for the door. There were tears in her eyes and I let her go. She headed straight across the hall like a huge, waddling missile. I closed my eyes and drained the coffee.

  Mrs. Real was still snuffling into a tissue when I slipped back into the ICU and walked up to the bed, yellow legal pad in hand.

  “Oh, just leave us,” the woman said.

  I ignored her and took Linda’s hand again. “Linda,
I’m going to lay a pad of paper under your right hand,” I said. I slid the legal pad between her hand and the sheets.

  “May I interrupt?” A young voice chirped behind me, and I turned to see Patsy Montaño, face sober and brow furrowed with concern.

  “Sure.”

  “I need to check the patient’s drip,” Patsy said seriously.

  Right this instant? I almost replied, but nodded. “You do whatever you have to do.” I watched closely, but Mrs. Real remained rooted. The nurse slipped past her. I leaned over close to the bed. “Linda, if I put a pencil in your hand, can you make a few marks for me?” She blinked and said something like umph. “And penmanship doesn’t count,” I added. I slid the pencil between her fingers and she held it like an old pro, tip poised over the yellow paper. “I’m turning on the tape recorder, Linda. All right?” She blinked.

  I slid the tablet under the pencil. “Linda, yesterday you indicated to me that you knew at least one of the people in the vehicle on State Highway Fifty-six on Sunday night. The vehicle that Deputy Paul Enciños stopped to assist. What was the name of that person, Linda?”

  Even wandering as it did, even with hesitation now and then, Linda’s freehand writing was better than mine at its best. Tammy Woodruff.

  “Tammy Woodruff,” I repeated for the recorder’s benefit. “Was she with anyone else?”

  No.

  “She was alone. All right. Linda, yesterday you told me that the vehicle was already stopped along the shoulder of the road when the deputy stopped. Is that right?”

  Yes.

  “Was the vehicle disabled somehow?”

  The pencil wavered for several seconds, and Linda’s eye closed. I could sense the regret as she wrote, Don’t know.

  “When you say ‘Don’t know,’ do you mean that you couldn’t see anything obvious? You didn’t see a jack, for instance, or a tire, or something that might indicate to you that the vehicle was disabled?”

  No.

  “You didn’t see any of that. Was Tammy Woodruff out of the vehicle?”

  Yes.

  “Did she walk up to the patrol car when the deputy stopped behind her vehicle?”