Statute of Limitations

by Steven F Havill

  “I need photos? Why, for when his hair grows back?”

  He laughed. “No. Whatever he was hit with left some pretty characteristic marks. Even the sutures don’t cover ’em up.”

  Estelle looked up into her husband’s dark eyes, her mind churning as if trying to find the right gear. “Whatever he was hit with?”

  Francis nodded. “That’s what Alan and I think. If I had to place bets, I’d say that someone gave him a good one from behind. The wound on the back of his head isn’t like something he might suffer by hitting the edge of that stupid concrete step of his...and if it was, you’d find some hair and blood on that, too.”

  He shook her gently, as if correctly reading the confusion. “You had this locked in as an accident?”

  When Estelle didn’t answer, Francis said, “He’s conscious, if you want to talk with him. Sedated a bit, but conscious. If you want photos, I’ll remove the dressing for you.” He turned and nodded down the hall. “He’s down in OR recovery. We’re going to keep him at least overnight, maybe even a day or two longer, just to be on the safe side. His vital signs are as good as we can expect from someone who thinks the cure-all for any ill in the world is a jumbo green chile burrito.”

  “You really think that someone hit him?”

  “Yes, I do.” He put a hand on either side of Estelle’s face. “And at this point, I’d love to be wrong.”

  “Then let me make a call, oso.”

  To her surprise, Brent Sutherland, the graveyard dispatcher, answered the phone, working his second shift of the day.

  “Brent, we need a unit over at Bill Gastner’s house. Until I have a chance to get back there, I don’t want anyone going in or out, or tampering with anything on the property. If the deputy sees anyone hanging around the place, or scouting it out, I want them detained.” She thought for a second, then added, “In fact, pull Taber off the Highland scene, and if you can’t find anyone else who’s clear, ask one of the State Police to take over for her.”

  “So you specifically want Jackie at Gastner’s?”

  “That’s right. ASAP. Cover Highland with whomever you can find.”

  “Ten four. Mr. Gastner’s okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, I’m on it.”

  “I’m still ten-seven at the hospital, and then I’ll be at Gastner’s. I’ll keep you posted.” She clicked the phone shut, and her husband raised an eyebrow.

  “You have an explanation for all this?”

  “I wish,” Estelle said. “All I can say is that I’ve been trying to talk with Padrino all evening. Now I have a captive audience.”

  “It’s not your fault that he’s here,” Francis said, and Estelle grimaced with irritation.

  “I know that, querido. But if you’re right—and you always are in matters like this—then it’s someone’s fault that he’s here. And that’s a scary thought.” She set off down the hall toward OR recovery, dialing Linda Real’s cell phone as she walked. Dr. Guzman had to quicken his step to keep up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Let’s see how many more people we can fit in here,” Bill Gastner said. He managed a weak imitation of his bulldog frown. “Your hubby is damn quick with those needles, sweetheart.”

  “How are you feeling?” Estelle asked.

  “Like somebody used me as a doormat.” He lifted his right hand, mindful of the various IVs, tubes, and gadgets, and rested the palm on the top of his head. He opened one eye. “Are my glasses around here somewhere?”

  “They’re in the closet with his clothes,” the nurse said, and busied herself searching for Gastner’s trifocals. “Ah, here they are,” she said. “They’re a little bit bent.” She straightened one errant bow, and then slid the spectacles ceremoniously into place, the right earpiece hanging on the outside of the mound of bandages.

  “Thanks,” he grumbled. “Now I can see who the hell is torturing me.” He squinted at the nurse’s nametag. “Anna, give me a few minutes alone with the minions of the law, if you can,” he said.

  “You behave,” Anna admonished.

  “Absolutely,” Gastner said. When she was gone, he looked at Estelle sheepishly. “Sorry about all this.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, sir,” Estelle said. “You scared the ay-ay out of me, that’s for sure.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Do you remember talking to me?”

  “You mean while relaxing supine on my threshold?” Estelle laughed at his exaggerated choice of words. “No, I don’t remember,” he added.

  “You told me that you didn’t fall. You don’t remember saying that?”

  “Well...I’m not always responsible for what I say. We’ve known that for a long time.”

  “And the good doctor Guzman doesn’t think that bash on the back of your head is from falling, either.” She turned as the door behind her opened. Linda Real peeked around the door without entering. “Come in, Linda. He’s ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Gastner said. “Is this another one of those Playboy of the Month calendar shots?”

  “That’s an idea,” Linda said.

  “No, it isn’t,” Gastner snapped.

  “As soon as my husband gets back here to manage the patient, we want to take a photo or ten of the head wound, sir,” Estelle said.

  “Oh.” He frowned and closed his eyes. “Goddamn glad I didn’t get kicked somewhere else. Look, this is what I remember...at least at the moment. I think I know my own name. Bill something. Smith, maybe. I remember clear as a bell trying to find my house keys, and wishing I had fixed that light over the door.”

  “I’ve found myself wishing that more than once, Padrino.”

  “Yeah, well, I remember that. And then, poof. The next image in my mind is of this angelic face close to mine, asking encouraging questions like did I hurt.” He reached out a hand to Linda, and she took it. “How are you doing, young lady?”

  “Fine, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s been a long, nasty day, Padrino.”

  “Yes, it has. One of the worst on record.”

  “You don’t remember falling?” Estelle persisted.

  “No.” Gastner released Linda’s hand and turned back to Estelle, shifting his head slightly to bring the correct portion of his glasses into position. “The thought that occurred to me here a bit ago was that I had had another stroke. While I was lying here, staring up at the ceiling and ruminating, that thought occurred to me.”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “I’m glad we don’t,” he said, amused. “Or maybe I should hope for that. It might be less bother. What, you think someone whopped me on the head, or what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hubby thinks so, though.”

  “Yes, he does,” Estelle said.

  “Then that’s what happened. He’s not wrong very often. Maybe it will all come back to me in a Technicolor flash, especially if they make me eat hospital food.” He looked over at the small wing table that held a glass of water. Looking at it with distaste, he said, “You want to go out for some dinner?”

  “No, you don’t,” Estelle said. She rested both hands on his right forearm. “He said the head wound had distinctive patterns in the bruising, sir.”

  “He being Francis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Distinctive how?”

  “Kind of a diagonal pattern of bruises. That’s why we need pictures.”

  “Huh. Did someone get inside my house?”

  “I don’t think so. The door was still locked.”

  “And you have my keys?”

  “Yes, sir. They were on the ground. Do you remember what time you arrived home?”

  “Christ, now you’re stretching it, sweethe
art.” He pressed a hand over his eyes. “I would guess right about nine. Something like that. How’s that for helpful.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Well, then.” He shifted and let out a little groan. “It sure as hell hurts now, though. Down deep in my head, where the Novocaine doesn’t reach. You know, I haven’t had an argument with anybody in a good long time, at least not enough that they’d want to take something to my head in the middle of the night.”

  Francis Guzman arrived with the nurse in tow, and he immediately circled an arm around Estelle’s waist. “You want to see his ugly head?”

  “Sí.”

  The physician nodded at Linda. “Where’s best for you, young lady?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just so I can get close.”

  “I think,” Francis said to the nurse, “that if we just have him roll on his left side, that’ll be all we need. Linda, you can shoot from over here. Okay?”

  In a moment, the nurse had removed the dressing from Gastner’s skull, and she stepped back to give the others room. Gastner remained grimly silent through the procedure, lying on his side like an old whale.

  A patch the size of a grapefruit had been shaved on the back and crown of his broad skull. In the center was a nasty two-inch laceration, surrounded by a spectacular bruise. The black sutures had closed the wound, but Estelle could immediately see what her husband had been talking about. Small diagonal marks crossed the wound track, like railroad ties set slightly askew.

  “You think you can catch that?” she said to Linda.

  “She can do anything,” Gastner muttered. For a moment Linda worked in silence, trying different settings and different ways to bounce the flash, and then taking another set with available light, finishing off with digital.

  “Okay,” she said. “That’s got it.”

  “Pull up one on that show-and-tell screen,” Gastner said. “I want to see what you guys are gawking at.”

  Francis and the nurse rebandaged the head wound and helped Gastner back to a comfortable position flat on his back. When he was resituated, he held the digital camera for a long time, turning it this way and that as he scrutinized the small review screen.

  “Ouch,” he said finally. “Interesting.”

  “What do you think, sir?”

  “I think somebody didn’t want to discuss the weather with me, that’s for sure.” He turned and caught the nurse’s eye, and she nodded and left the room. “Kick that closed, will you?” he said, and Linda made sure the door was fully latched. Gastner beckoned Francis close. “This is what you’re talking about?” With a stubby finger he pointed at two marks that were particularly clear, even on the tiny screen.

  “Right.”

  “You know what this reminds me of?”

  “What?”

  “Sweetheart, remember when Bruce Corcoran got killed out at the bridge on Highway 56? Among other horrible things, poor old Bruce got whaled along the side of his face by a piece of rebar when a load shifted somehow. Remember that?”

  “Not the details, no,” Estelle said.

  “Well, I do. Rebar has those funny little raised whatchacallits...those little humpy bumps. Gives the concrete something to grip. Little raised ridges.”

  “You think someone hit you with a piece of rebar?”

  “That’s my best guess.” He shrugged and handed the camera to Linda. “I don’t think I was supposed to walk away from that. No argument, no confrontation. Just pow. A half-inch piece of steel rod across the pate. And I take a nose-dive into the bushes. The old fart trips on his own doorstep. The only thing not in the plan was a sharp-eyed doctor ready and waiting in the emergency room.” He reached out to Estelle again. “Good thing you happened by, sweetheart. Otherwise, come morning, I might have been a little bit stiff.”

  He took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. “And I’m talking too much.”

  “I need to talk to you about Mike Sisneros and this afternoon,” Estelle said. She glanced at her watch. “If it is still this afternoon, and not tomorrow.”

  Francis touched her shoulder. “He really should rest for a bit, querida.”

  “Nah, what the hell,” Gastner said. “We can give it a few minutes.”

  After the others had left and she was alone with the former sheriff, Estelle leaned her hip against the side of the bed and regarded Gastner intently. “I left the office, oh, maybe threeish or so. I didn’t pay attention,” he said.

  “How long was Mike there?”

  “He left a little bit before that. Not much.” He grimaced in frustration. “I wish I could remember specifics.”

  “And Janet?”

  “You know, she came and went sometime. How’s that. I just wasn’t paying attention. She came in right after we started...that would be around two. She suggested that maybe she should go get some pizza, but we were all stoked up from lunch. Mike told her not to bother.”

  “Did they talk about going to Lordsburg?”

  “Nope. Mike said that he had to ‘go get ready’ at one point.” Gastner fell silent, deep in thought. “I just don’t know. They might have been going together, or not.... I just don’t know. It wasn’t something that they talked about while I was in the room. Did they mention Lordsburg to Linda?”

  “She said that Mike mentioned it. That Janet wasn’t going.”

  “That she wasn’t going?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, there you are, then.”

  “Can you think of a logical reason why she wouldn’t want to go with Mike to his parents’ home?”

  “It’s his mother and stepfather,” Gastner corrected. “I don’t know if you ever met them? She’s Irene Cruz now. Give me a minute and the stepdad’s name might come to me, other than the Cruz part. Worked for the cable company for a while. Anyway, I don’t know if Janet was close to Irene or not. Or to what’s-his-name, the stepfather.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Estelle said. “I thought I had met Mike’s dad once.”

  “You may well have. Hank Sisneros is alive and well, as far as I know. He used to work for the mine before it closed. Then he ran that little business in back of Chavez Chrysler that used to make camper shells for pickups. Then I don’t know what the hell happened. He moved, like half the rest of the population. To Deming, I think.”

  “Ah,” Estelle said, once more amazed by Gastner’s gazetteer-like memory.

  “Janet might have wanted to have part of the holiday with her own folks,” Estelle said.

  “That’s not likely. They’re long gone, although I don’t remember the exact circumstances.” He closed his eyes again, trying to remember. “Nope...can’t recall.”

  “So as far as we know, she was free to go with Mike, if she wanted to.”

  “T’would appear so,” Gastner said.

  “But she didn’t.”

  “Nope. She stayed home and got herself murdered. Not a good choice. By the way, do you have someone over at my place?”

  “Jackie.”

  “Good enough. What time is it?”

  “Working on eleven.”

  He gazed down at the various hoses and pipes that held him prisoner.

  “I was thinking some chile would taste good right about now.”

  “Francis wants you here overnight, sir. It’s a good idea, too. Just behave yourself.”

  “There’s always delivery.” He grinned at Estelle’s withering look. “You been home to get some sleep yet? Stupid question.” He held up a hand to stop her from leaving. “What’s Mike say, by the way? You told me that Eddie went to Lordsburg to fetch him.”

  Estelle took a deep breath. “That’s next on the list,” she said.

  “Leave him to Eddie, sweetheart. Talk to them in the morning. Tell Jackie what you’re looking for, and
let her go at it. You go home and get some sleep. And when you see her next time, tell your Aunt Sofía that I’m sorry I didn’t get over there this evening. I was supposed to help finish off the menudo.”

  “I’ll have her bring you a bowl,” Estelle said, and saw the look of panic as Gastner jerked the sheet even farther up over the mound of his stomach.

  “God, not here,” he said quickly. “I’m not my usual suave and debonair self just now.”

  She bent down and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “I’ll keep you posted, sir. Don’t do anything foolish. If you remember something that you think I should know, give me a call.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Estelle left the hospital parking lot and drove south on Grande to the “four corners” intersection with Bustos, she found herself pausing at the light, even though it was green. A driver westbound on Bustos arrived at the light and looked across at her, puzzled. When his light turned green, he hesitated, and then accelerated away toward the west. Estelle watched him go. She recognized him, the sort of acquaintance seen at the grocery store a dozen times, perhaps earning a nod and smile when passing in the aisle.

  The dash clock said it was just passing 11:00 p.m., an hour away from the end of that Christmas Day. What was this particular driver doing cruising the streets? Had he just visited Tommy Portillo’s Handi-Way convenience store down the street, grabbing a late-night donut just before Tommy closed at eleven o’clock? Maybe he’d run out of dental floss, just when his back molars had reached their limit of packed cracks. Or was he the one who had bashed Bill Gastner on the back of the head, and now, pleased at how well that episode had played out, drove around the village looking for another easy holiday score?

  If someone had actually attacked Gastner—if Dr. Guzman was right—then that person, if not simply lucky, had calculated perfectly. Bill Gastner hadn’t surprised a burglary in process. He’d simply been walking toward the front-door stoop, keys in hand, ready to go inside. If the attacker had been surprised when Gastner drove in the driveway, if he’d been scouting the home for a possible burglary, he could have melted into the darkness without attacking and Gastner would never have been the wiser. Instead—if her husband was correct—he had struck with vicious accuracy, the sort of blow calculated to kill. Had he then stepped over the body, picked up the keys, entered Gastner’s home, and taken his time rummaging through the house?