Before She Dies

by Steven F Havill

  “You going to go back the way you came, or head on up to Seventeen?”

  I gestured ahead.

  “Just bear left at the gate then. There ain’t no bad spots to give you trouble.”

  I leaned against the fender of the idling patrol car. “Brett, I need to ask you a couple questions.”

  He reached out and put a hand on the black iron of the truck’s stock rack. It was a casual thing, a “let’s pass the time of day” gesture, but his face was watchful. He groped a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it with an old fashioned Zippo lighter. “What about?” he said, exhaling.

  “When was the last time you saw Tammy Woodruff, Brett?”

  He drew hard. “Tammy?” His dark eyebrows gathered. “Friday night, I guess. When she got herself arrested.”

  “At the saloon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I didn’t ask what Brett had been doing there. “And that’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I folded my arms and settled my weight on the fender of 310. “You see much of Pat Torrance?”

  Brett took a long, deep breath as he ground his unfinished cigarette out under a boot heel. I waited while he thought out what he wanted to say. Close as he was to his parents, his reticence told me he knew some things he hadn’t discussed with them.

  He traced a geometric doodle on the fat, fiberglass fender of the pickup. I pulled my jacket tighter and waited. He pulled out another cigarette and let it hang from his lips, unlit, as he flipped the Zippo over and over in his hand.

  Finally he looked up at me, maybe checking to see if I’d left. What he saw was an old, fat, crew-cut Buddha, arms folded, sagging the car’s springs, patient as all hell.

  “Patrick came by Sunday night late. Mom and Dad was already in bed, but they know his truck, so they didn’t say nothing.”

  “What time?”

  “Close to midnight. He told me about the shooting and all.”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  “Yes, sir. He was near to drunk. And scared.”

  “Scared? You know why?”

  Brett chewed his upper lip. He was set to begin another thinking binge, and I told myself to be patient.

  “He thought that maybe Tammy was involved somehow.”

  “In the shooting?” I tried to sound surprised, even though I knew damn well the young lady had been involved—somehow.

  Brett Prescott nodded. “He said he’d seen her earlier in the evening. He said she’d stopped by the bar to show him something. They had some kind of fight and Patrick…he said Tammy left in a huff. Said she was in some new truck and spun gravel all the way across the parkin’ lot, and damn near went into that empty field there just west of the bar.”

  It was like gluing little shards back together to reconstruct a shattered Indian pot.

  “Why should all that scare Patrick?” I knew perfectly well that woman trouble could scare the most seasoned bull rider, but maybe there was something else.

  “Him and Tammy had been together, and he said they’d…I mean that you, the police…he thought that you’d think he had something to do with it. Whatever trouble she was in.”

  “And you don’t know what that trouble was?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “What did Patrick do then?”

  “He just said he was goin’ home, to think some.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since?”

  Brett Prescott shook his head. “Tammy neither.”

  I looked at the kid with sympathy. He’d find out sooner or later about his ex-girlfriend. I didn’t want him thinking I’d been playing games. “Tammy’s in the hospital, Brett. It doesn’t look good.”

  He blinked rapidly. “In the hospital? For what?”

  “She was in a wreck. Up on San Patricio Mesa. One of the deputies found her. They got her out sometime early this morning.”

  He looked at me cautiously. “Up on the mesa? She was with Patrick?”

  “We don’t know who she was with. Her truck went over the side. It was a long ride down, Brett. It looks like it happened sometime in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “She been drinkin?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Ain’t never met nobody like her, sheriff.” He looked up at me. “Had to happen sometime.” He retraced the figure in the dust on the truck’s fender. “Does Patrick know?”

  “We haven’t been able to find him, Brett.”

  His finger stopped abruptly. “You’re sayin’ it was an accident, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t say, son. If you see Patrick before I do, tell him I’d like to talk with him. You’ll do that?”

  Brett Prescott nodded slowly.

  I pushed myself off the fender of 310 and held out a hand. His work-rough grasp was strong. “Maybe you’ll let me go on ahead. That way if I run into trouble, you’ll be behind me.”

  “Sure thing.” He didn’t sound happy.

  Chapter 28

  I knew what was going to happen long before I picked up the microphone and pushed the transmit button. Going missing for several hours wasn’t going to endear me to the line of folks who were no doubt waiting to bend my ear. But the breakfast break had done me good. My head was clearer than it had been in hours.

  I pulled the patrol car to a halt facing the stop sign on State 17. I flipped open my notebook, clicked my pen, and keyed the mike.

  “PCS, Three ten.”

  “Three ten go ahead.”

  I glanced at my watch. Gayle Sedillos was back on the air. She was getting as little sleep as the rest of us.

  “Three ten is ten-eight,” I said.

  She didn’t ask me where I’d been, didn’t ask what I’d been doing. Instead, she replied with a cryptic, “Ten-four, three ten.” The radio went silent.

  I closed my eyes, trying to picture Gayle sitting in front of the radio, telephone to her left, logs to her right, message file behind the microphone stand. I pictured her slender fingers rifling through the little slips of paper. I gave her to the count of ten. When I reached eight, the radio crackled and I grinned.

  “Three ten, PCS.”

  “Three ten.”

  I could imagine her with a fistful of messages, considering which one to pick. Or maybe Sheriff Holman was standing at her elbow…or Captain Eschevera, wondering when in hell I was going to condescend to talk with him…or someone from the hospital… or…

  “Three ten, ten-nineteen.”

  I sighed. “Ten-four. Ten minutes.” Always politic, and always mindful of my irritation at messages that went out over the radio airwaves for anyone to hear, Gayle had taken the simple approach by shagging me back to the office where I could fight my own battles. I pulled out onto the highway and headed for Posadas.

  Gayle saw me coming up the walk from the parking lot and met me at the door. She handed me half a dozen slips of paper, all with While You Were Out printed on the top. I reached out to take them, but Gayle held on to their collective corners until she was sure she had my attention.

  “Sir, Sheriff Holman wants to see you before you do anything else. He said even before you read these.” She released the messages and I fanned them out.

  “Thanks,” I said. “What’s the word on Estelle?”

  “Nasty cut on the left temple, broken bone in her ankle, and a torn left elbow tendon. She was released from the hospital just a few minutes ago. Francis took her home.”

  I nodded and was about to say something when Gayle added, “And she wants to talk to you.” She pointed at one of the notes.

  “But you weren’t supposed to tell me that,” I chuckled. “Thanks, Gayle. His majesty in his office?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I glanced at my watch. I could have counted on one hand the number of times Sheriff Martin Holman had been in his office before seven o’clock in the morning. Nine o’clock coffee with the políticos down at the Posadas Cafe on Third Street,
yes. I pushed open the door of his office.

  He was sitting behind his desk, swivel chair reared back, hands clasped behind his head, polished boots up on the corner of his desk. His tie was pulled askew, and when he heard the door open, he opened one eye and surveyed me without moving another muscle.

  I closed the door behind me.

  “How do you do this?” he asked as the door latch clicked.

  “Do what, sheriff?”

  “How do you stay up all night long, all day long, all night long…” He let it drift off. I sat down in the padded leather chair in front of his bookcase.

  I couldn’t think of an intelligent reply, but Holman saved me the trouble. He tipped his head back and rubbed his right eye with one hand while he held his left hand straight up, as if he had just finished giving blood. “I want to go to bed,” he said, and swung his feet down off the desk. The chair screeched as he leaned forward. For a minute I thought he was going to lay his head down on the desk blotter and pass out. But he stopped just short of that, hands folded in front of him.

  “Tammy Woodruff died en route to Cruces,” he said. “In the Medivac helicopter.” He took a deep breath. “She made it for a whole goddamned day, and then couldn’t hold on any longer, I guess.”

  “Did you talk with the family?”

  Holman nodded and rubbed his eye again. “Got back about…” He glanced over at the wall clock. “About an hour ago, I guess. They’re taking it hard. Especially the idea of an autopsy.”

  “Karl’s aware of the law,” I said.

  Holman shot me a quick glance of reproof. “That doesn’t make it any easier, Bill.”

  “I’m sure it makes it a good deal more difficult, knowing there are lots of questions about the circumstances of the girl’s death.”

  “Francis Guzman is sure it was homicide.” Holman leaned back again and folded his hands over his belly.

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk with him.” One of the messages in my hand was from Estelle’s husband.

  “No,” Holman said, holding up a hand. “I’m telling you. That’s what he said. I talked to him at the hospital.”

  “What makes him think so?”

  “Apparently he believes Tammy Woodruff’s level of intoxication was too high for her to function in any conscious way. She could never have driven that truck. That’s what he’s saying.”

  I chewed on my lower lip, frowning. “So someone took her for a drive. Have you talked with Sergeant Torrez yet? What’s he say?”

  “No word yet. I sent the information out to the scene with Mears so they’d maybe have a little more direction in what to look for. I didn’t want it out over the radio.”

  “Good.” I looked down and fanned the messages. “What’s Schroeder want, do you know?” The district attorney had called less than half an hour before—another banker’s hours habit shot to hell.

  Holman let a hand fall to the desk. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Listen.” He sat up a little straighter and ticked off the points on his fingers. “The DA and the county attorney both want to see you about Sonny Trujillo. Eschevera wants to talk with you about Sonny Trujillo. I’m sure Trujillo’s family is going to sue the county, the department, and you in particular for billions of dollars. Linda Real’s mother wants to sue every one of us as well, but you in particular. More than that, of course, she wants to pin you down and waste half your day caterwauling about Linda, who’s doing just fine, by the way. Except she can’t remember anything else about the incident.” Holman took a deep breath. “And the press, of course. Frank Dayan wants this and wants that, especially now that he figures we owe him.”

  “How do we owe him?”

  Holman grimaced with irritation. “He turned over an entire set of photographic prints from the other night. He’s been one hundred and ten percent cooperative.” The sheriff waved a hand. “And this, and that. Now listen. I don’t want you taking time with any of that shit.”

  I sat back, not bothering to hide the surprise on my face. “I wasn’t planning on it, sheriff.”

  “No, I mean with any of it—not with the county attorney, not with Eschevera, not any of it. I want you full time on the Enciños case. Period. I’ll run all the interference for you that you need. As far as I’m concerned, you aren’t available to anyone, for anything.” He leaned forward. “Estelle tells me that you all are close to this thing. That it’s going to crack?”

  I took a deep breath. “Martin, remember those thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles?” He nodded. “That’s what we’ve got. It’s starting to coalesce around the corners.” I drew lacy curtains in the air with my fingers. “It’s taking some form. But the entire middle section—the picture—is just a jumble of pieces. But one at a time. If Tammy Woodruff’s death was a homicide—if we can find one little piece that tells us for sure that it was—then that’s more of the puzzle.”

  “Gayle said you were out all night.”

  “Yes.”

  Holman waited a moment, and a smile slowly lit up his dark features. He held out a hand. “Do I get to know?”

  “I was talking with Brett Prescott.”

  “That’s the ranch out on Seventeen?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he have to say?” Holman prompted.

  “Prescott was one of Tammy Woodruff’s many flames, sheriff. But they broke up a few days ago. Remember when she backed into the Prescott kid’s truck out at the Broken Spur? Well, that was the wrap-up, I guess. The girl went after Pat Torrance on the rebound. We know that young Patrick was at the Broken Spur the night of the shooting. Brett Prescott says that Patrick came to his house afterward, scared all to hell. And now it looks like a reasonable guess that Tammy was on her way to Patrick Torrance’s place when her truck went over the edge of San Patricio Mesa.”

  “What’s the Torrance kid say about that?”

  “He doesn’t. We don’t know where he is.”

  Holman leaned back, his mouth snapping shut. After five squeaks of the chair, he said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Yep.”

  “Have you put out a want for him?” I nodded and Holman pursed his lips and whistled a tuneless series of notes. “Why do you think she was headed that way?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What time of day was it when she went over the edge, have you figured that out?”

  “No.”

  Holman whistled some more, eyebrows knit. “Then Patrick Torrance is the key.”

  “He may be.”

  “Shit, Bill, we’ve got to have something on this. We’ve got to have something definite.”

  I shrugged. “We don’t. Maybe the Torrance kid is a key, like you say. When we find him, we’ll know.”

  “And what about the truck? The white one that Tammy was supposedly driving Sunday night. The one that Linda Real says that Tammy was driving.”

  “No trace.”

  “Maybe Linda was mistaken.”

  “That’s possible. It’s unlikely, but possible.”

  Holman rubbed his face with both hands as if all the cobwebs of this case were tightening around his brain. “God, I hate this,” he said finally. “I feel like someone is playing games with us. Making us look stupid.”

  “Yep.”

  He shot a withering glance at me. “What’s next?”

  I fanned out the messages. “Before I circle back out to the Torrance ranch, I want to talk with Estelle.”

  “She’s busted up pretty badly.”

  “I know. But her brain isn’t. And I want to talk with Linda Real again, if I can slip into the hospital without a ruckus. And before I do that,” I said, holding up one of the notes, “I’d better return this call.”

  The note said that Donni Weatherford had called at 4:35 A.M. That was puzzling, as was the telephone number.

  “Maybe they left something behind,” Holman said.

  “It would have to be something mighty important to bother calling here at that hour.”

&
nbsp; “Maybe she forgot her husband.”

  I chuckled. “Maybe.” I walked down the hall to my own office and closed the door. After dialing, I waited while circuits connected. After three rings the receiver was lifted and a cheerful young voice said, “Western Court Motel. This is Sally. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak with Donni Weatherford, please.”

  “Just one moment.” I heard muffled voices and paper rustling, and then the cheerful voice said, “May I ask who’s calling, please?”

  “Undersheriff William Gastner, long distance from Posadas, New Mexico. I’m returning Mrs. Weatherford’s call.”

  “Just one moment.” More voices, and then the phone was passed off to someone who sounded official—and tired.

  “Who’s this?”

  I repeated myself, and the voice said, “Give me your phone number there, sir. I’ll get right back to you.” I did, and broke the connection. For two minutes I sat in my silent office, listening to the tick of the gas heater over by the window. When the phone lit up I punched the line-one button.

  “Gastner.”

  “Sheriff,” the tired voice said, “this is Sergeant Stanton Judge with the Weatherford police in Weatherford, Oklahoma.”

  My stomach flip-flopped with apprehension. “What’s up, sergeant? A Mrs. Donni Weatherford asked me to call.”

  “You met the Weatherfords, I understand.”

  “Their van tangled with an interstate guardrail down our way Sunday afternoon. The husband was the only one hurt. He spent a day in the hospital here. When he was discharged, they headed for home. Iowa, I think.”

  “Well, they made it as far as their favorite town. They bought a new vehicle in Posadas, is that right?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what financial arrangement they made, but they bought a new Suburban right off the lot. Or at least made a hefty down payment. He’s a lawyer.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “What happened, sergeant?”

  He cleared his throat and coughed. I could picture him leaning against the checkin counter of the motel, cup of coffee on the counter and a cigarette between his fingers.