Easy Errors

by Steven F Havill

  “Yeah, right. A bowl of cereal, at best. Let me go get him.”

  Sure enough, Torrez’ pickup was parked next to my unit, the dome light on as he read something in his notes. He looked up as I approached.

  “We have a meeting inside,” I said.

  He looked puzzled.

  “Look, I have things I need to tell you. And I can’t face a day without a decent breakfast. Come on. I’m buying.”

  It’s a challenge to order a monosyllabic breakfast, but Aileen came to the deputy’s rescue.

  “You want the same, Handsome?” She nodded at my as-yet-empty place setting.

  “Yep.” He blushed. Robert Torrez actually blushed.

  “Red or green?”

  “Christmas, thanks,” which meant green on the inside, with red adorning the top…or vice versa, chef’s choice.

  With coffee poured, I leaned forward, elbows on either side of the cup. “Interesting calls last night. Leo Bailey called twice…once to ask what the commotion was over at D’Anzo’s. One of his neighborhood spies saw all the lights, and actually saw fit to call Leo in the goddamn middle of the night, while the tip was hot. Apparently Leo didn’t buy the explanation that I gave him, and went over to check for himself. He recognized his brother’s truck. A brother out of Kansas. That’s where his family is from originally.”

  “Whoa.” Torrez’ eyebrows shot up.

  “Mr. Clifton Bailey, from Fort Riley, Kansas, is indeed Leo Bailey’s younger brother.”

  Torrez looked off across the room. “So what was Bailey doin’ down in the canyon?”

  “Well, we don’t know for sure that he was in Bender’s Canyon. In all likelihood, we can place his truck on County 14 at the smashed stump, although that’s going to take some labwork to do, and we can for sure place him at the Broken Spur, with corroboration from a strong witness.”

  I leaned back as the burritos arrived. Aileen was finished with the deliveries and casting not-so-furtive looks at the deputy. She didn’t try to engage him in conversation—maybe because I was present, or more likely because she knew what kind of answers she’d get.

  When she’d finished topping off the coffee and left, I added, “And that’s all. So far. I didn’t tell Leo anything else. But he’s a smart guy, Robert. He sees a connection.”

  For a moment we ate in silence. Whatever bowl of cereal the deputy had started his day with, it hadn’t made a dent in his appetite.

  “Do you know how to use our sophisticated bullet trap?” That earned a shadow of a smile.

  “I guess.”

  “Then when we’re done here, let’s do that.” He ate a little faster.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Our “forensics lab,” a laboratory if one had a finely honed imagination, was a low-ceilinged concrete basement room sharing floor space with our darkroom for black-and-white work. The heart of our ballistics lab was a much-used stereoptic microscope we’d purchased for ten bucks during a Posadas Municipal Schools junque sale. One eyepiece was held securely with a carefully molded piece of duct tape, and the coarse focus knob lost track of the teeth now and then. But the main lenses were not bad. We didn’t need the unit often, because far better labs—both State Police and FBI—were readily available to us.

  Torrez laid out a series of photos, and placed the spent bullet removed from Darlene Spencer’s brain on one print of the probable ricochet strike. The photo blowup clearly captured the damage from the bullet strike. The bullet had hit the galvanized cross member that secured the spokes from sail to hub, coming in at a sharp angle from down below. It had blown one of the spokes free and then whined off, looking for another target.

  The damage to the bullet that had hit Darlene was sharp-edged, not neatly mushroomed. Torrez grunted something, and moved the bullet a little.

  “Could have,” he said.

  “There’s no neat mushroom there,” I added.

  “Nope. It hit somethin’ sharp, like that,” and he tapped the photo, “before flyin’ on.”

  A plastic evidence bag held an assortment of bullets from Herb Torrance’s cattle tank, collected by both Torrez and myself. He selected one of the larger ones with a moderately mushroomed tip, the sort of results I’d expect to see after the projectile punched through the thin steel wall of the tank, then was cushioned to a stop by the water.

  The base of the ricocheted bullet—the Darlene Spencer bullet—was remarkably undamaged, the rifling marks clear for almost a quarter inch toward the severely deformed nose. When it had hit the windmill—if that’s what it hit first—the sharp metal of the windmill’s sail apparatus had cleaved off a ragged slice of the bullet’s nose. On one side, the undamaged marks extended up the bullet as far as the cannelure, that knurled ring around the bullet that provides some grip when the bullet is crimped in the case.

  Torrez placed the two slugs butt to butt on the microscope’s wide viewing platform, and then, after adjusting the eyepieces, used a dental pick to rock the bullets this way and that. His large hands managed the slender pick as if he were a dental school graduate. The grooves in the bullets, cut by the carbine’s sharp lands, carried signature marks.

  He selected the more powerful of the two objectives, and fiddled with the focus some more. Then more dental pick adjustment. With a patience I didn’t know he possessed, he worked the bullet from the water tank a full revolution, matching its grooves with the one clear imprint on Darlene’s slug. And then back again.

  My back was starting to scream, and I straightened up and arched my spine, to the accompaniment of loud snappings and poppings. I watched as Torrez placed the pick on the counter, and then clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the image.

  “Huh,” he said finally, and up came the dental pick again. After another careful adjustment, he straightened up. “See what you think.” I was amused that he held onto the pick, as if making sure that I didn’t disturb the arrangement.

  The FBI lab is proud of showing perfect images when those images are used to support testimony in court—the Feds have the equipment to do so, including photomicrographs made with pricey comparison microscopes that have twin stages, a pair of identical objectives, and a comparison eyepiece—in addition to the photographic apparatus. All of those bells and whistles allow the images of the two bullets to be merged perfectly, butt to butt, so comparisons can be made.

  What Torrez was trying to do was make a ballistic match using garage sale junk. On top of which, we had no way to make a photograph of the results.

  Still, I could see that the striations left by the gun’s rifling on the two bullets could be aligned to appear, as an FBI tech would gloat, “collinear”…the markings of both the lands and grooves in the barrel leaving their characteristic marks on the soft palette of the bullets’ brass jackets. I was willing to wager that the bullet from the stock tank had come from the same gun as the bullet in Darlene’s brain—not one hundred percent sure, but a good bet. Good bets don’t work so well in court.

  “I think we have step one,” I said. Torrez actually smiled—a full, beaming smile that showed teeth most Hollywood types would pay zillions to match. “Most important at the moment—did you already measure the diameter of these?” I think that I could tell the difference between a forty-four bullet and a forty-five, if both were lying side-by-side in my hand, even though the difference was a mere twenty-two thousandths. But again—court would make its own demands.

  “Four-thirty,” he said without hesitation. “I measured just ahead of the base upset.”

  “Point four three zero,” I said. “And that is…”

  “The bullet diameter of most factory-made forty-four magnum or forty-four special ammo.”

  “That’s the secret,” I almost said. “Ask you something about guns, and we get full, complete sentences in response…”

  Instead, I asked, “Do you own a forty-four?�
�

  “Yep.”

  “Did your little brother enjoy shooting with you?”

  “Sure.” The memory brought a flash of anguished memory to his face.

  I nodded. “I think we’re close enough to establish probable cause to take a much closer look at the two guns from Clifton Bailey’s truck. We need to pick them up, do a tank fire, and compare.” I held up a hand. “And no matter what we find out, or think we’ve found out, no court in the world is going to accept this rinky-dink arrangement for official comparisons. When we’re done, the whole kit and caboodle gets FedExed to the FBI. Then we get a comparison we can use—one that’ll stand up to scrutiny in court.”

  “Okay.” He actually sounded a little bit excited.

  I looked down at the bullets lying under the microscope. “Too many unanswered questions, Robert.”

  “Like who pulled the trigger.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “That’s exactly right. When Alan Perrone examined the three accident victims, he didn’t perform NAA tests, or even the old-fashioned paraffin tests…there was no reason to expect that the test for gunshot residue might be necessary.”

  The deputy grimaced again. “The NAA ain’t going to show anything this long after.”

  “If the gun’s owner pulled the trigger—if he shot the windmill—that’s one thing. Suppose that was Clifton Bailey…or either of his two buddies. But just as possible is that the kids were there, and he hands the forty-four to one of them and says, ‘Here, give ’er a whirl.’ Big gun, big report, big recoil. The expression on their faces would be worth seeing. And see, that could have been any one of the three. We only have evidence of one ricochet. All the other holes were through and through the sails.”

  Torrez squinted at the microscope, deep in thought.

  “You want me to run over and pick up the guns?”

  “Actually, no, I don’t. I want you go run down to Regál and get a copy of the customs log page that shows dates and times for Bailey’s entry into Mexico. Names, dates, times. And anything else either side can give us.” I stopped at the sound of footsteps on the old wooden stairway down to our basement darkroom and lab. In a moment, Sheriff Eduardo Salcido appeared, holding the railing tightly with one hand.

  He regarded Bob Torrez. “So how are you doing?”

  “I’m okay.”

  The sheriff nodded thoughtfully, and listened attentively while I filled him in. When I finished with the whole recitation, he shook his head, still regarding the specimens under the microscope. For a moment, he chewed on an errant strand of his mustache. Finally, he looked up at Robert Torrez. “This is good for you, chavalo.” Torrez didn’t blink at the familiarity. To the sheriff, Bobby Torrez was still a kid, a youngster.

  “It’s good for you to see that it doesn’t matter what the people in the town tell you. Or what gossip you hear.” He waited patiently, giving the young man time to respond. After a moment or two, when Torrez said nothing, Salcido smiled at me. “Tell me where I’m wrong.” The smile left his face, replaced by a painful frown. “If it turns out that Darlene was killed by a ricochet—just a fluke,” and he accented that last word as if it were spelled floook, “no crime has been committed, no? Is that what you’re thinking now?”

  “If Clifton Bailey or his friends knew that the girl was hurt, and left the scene without rendering first aid, or even calling for help, or failing to report an incident, I’m sure the district attorney would want to think of something. Especially since there’s some evidence that the girl lay there all night. She didn’t die until yesterday morning—maybe shortly before we got there.”

  The sheriff looked skeptical, so I added, “On top of that, the damages from vandalizing a windmill and tank are easily more than a thousand dollars. That means Darlene was injured…and then died during, or as a result of, the commission of a property damage felony. Not to mention all the other crap—influence and contributing, unsafe shooting…blah,blah, blah.”

  Salcido mulled that over for a moment. “That was the direction I was hoping you’d take it, Bill.” He jabbed a finger toward the microscope. “That’s going to the FBI lab, no?”

  “ASAP,” I said. “What we see here is just enough to give us some guidance, nothing more.”

  “I like that,” Salcido said. “Before we land on somebody with both feet, we want to be sure.” His gaze swept around the bare, dungeon-like room. “What’s Leo going to say, you think?”

  “I really don’t care what he thinks. How he handles it is his call.”

  Salcido nodded. “I’m meeting with Schroeder this afternoon. He wants an update. He wants to know what direction you’re taking this. Do you want in on that party?”

  “What time?”

  “He says two o’clock. That probably means three.” Salcido laughed abruptly. “He’s more mañana than I am.”

  I turned to Torrez. “You, too. I wasn’t there for the Luminol photo session, you were. And I sure as hell didn’t climb up on that damn windmill.” I stepped around him and gathered up the photos, putting the close-up of the scarred windmill sail on top before handing them to Salcido. He examined them over the top of his glasses.

  “And then,” and he made a straight out jab with his hand, then cutting it sharply to the left. “It ricochets, and off she goes.”

  “I think so, sir.” Torrez sounded a bit more cautious. Maybe it was just those four stars on Salcido’s collar.

  “And Perrone thinks so, too.” The sheriff handed the photos back to the deputy. “Did you talk to Herb about taking that fan off the windmill?” He grimaced. “That’s going to be a job, you know. But if we ever go to trial, it’ll look good in court. Otherwise, half of the jurors won’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course,” I said. “If we have to do that, we’ve got a deputy who knows how to use the county’s cherry picker. And Sergeant Garcia will have the photos from the Luminol session later today, along with the documentation of the guns. I’m headed that way to pick them up right now.”

  “And all this time,” Salcido mused, “this Bailey character is having the time of his life down in Old Mexico, sticking arrows in the pigs.” He looked hard at me. “If Leo gives you a hard time, refer him to me.”

  “He’ll be all right.”

  Salcido hooked his arm through mine. “Take a minute.” He started toward the stairway, and I followed. Clear of the basement, he headed right down the hall to his office.

  “How’s the kid doing?”

  “Torrez is handling things just fine.”

  “He’s keeping his mind on his work?”

  “Appears to be, Eduardo. I couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Keep the reins very, very tight, my friend. Very tight.” His phone rang, but he ignored it. “Remember that at the moment, he has no background to fall back on. No experience to guide him. My biggest fear is that he’s running on raw emotion, you know? If it turns out that all this is something more than just a tragic accident, they’re—whoever they are this week, no?—they’re going to want to see justice done. With enough community pressure, it’s easy to make mistakes. Bobby is working inside this monsoon of grief right now. He’s going to want to pin all this on somebody. You,” and he stabbed a finger at me, “you and me do our best to make sure that we do what’s right.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Take your time and do everything just right. What’s the kid going to do now?”

  “He’s going to touch bases with the border office in Regál. Their log will show the names, dates, times…all that sort of thing, for when the pig hunters went down to Mexico. We know what time Les Attawene picked up Bailey’s damaged truck at the Spur. We know that Bailey and his friends couldn’t have crossed into Mexico before six a.m. That gives us some work to do. They may have stayed at the inn, or they may have stayed with relatives. I need to narrow that down. All o
f that time, we were busy with the crash down at the interstate, and its aftermath. We didn’t even find the girl until the next morning. By that time, Bailey may have heard what happened. He may have heard about the three kids.”

  Salcido linked his hands together as if they were doors closing. “That’s good. But let me ask you this…why not just have Customs and Immigration send you a fax with all that information? Isn’t that easier?”

  “We could do that. But Torrez needs the face time. Right now, he’s in sort of a monosyllabic mode. I want him to meet with officers face-to-face. Ask questions. See what they remember about Mr. Bailey and his buddies.”

  Salcido pondered that, and finally gave it a nod. “What do you want me to do?”

  “At this point, nothing. You have the rest of the county to look after. By this afternoon, I should have an update for the DA. For one thing, we’ll have the bullet comparison for him. Granted, it’ll be our own amateur hour version, but it’ll give us support.”

  “That’s if they match, my friend.”

  “True enough. If they don’t match…well, I don’t know. Maybe one of Bailey’s friends has a forty-four as well. As far as we know…” and I shrugged, “there are a limited number of people who were in Bender’s Canyon at the time when Darlene was shot.” I counted fingers. “The four kids, and now it’s looking more than likely, the three adults—Bailey and his two buddies. My gut feeling is that some permutation of those seven people will give us the shooter.”

  He nodded and gently shook his fist toward the stairway to the darkroom. “Tight rein, Bill. Keep him close. You know how quickly things can go wrong.” Then he held up one finger. “Who went to Deming this morning with film? Was that Avelino?”

  “Yes. And Torrez went down yesterday.”

  He nodded. “When you have a minute,” and he smiled suddenly, “I need a firm estimate about how much a colorlab would cost us. You know, one of those machines like the box stores use that spits out color prints for you? This driving back and forth wastes our time and our manpower, no?”