Statute of Limitations

by Steven F Havill

  “A whole new day,” Estelle said, and paused near the cone.

  “Oh, you can walk on it. It’s dry. I’m just giving the final buff.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I was sorry to hear about Chief Martinez. He was a cool old guy.”

  And you would know, Estelle thought. Stacy Cunningham had been one of those high-school students whom most teachers had fervently hoped would drop out and go away...the sooner the better. He had done neither. Estelle had had a number of conversations with Principal Glenn Archer and Police Chief Eduardo Martinez over the years about various students who had somehow run afoul of the law, or gotten themselves killed when their cars slammed to a stop before they did. Stacy had been the subject of conversation more than once, but somehow he had managed to survive the pitfalls.

  “We’ll miss him,” Estelle said. “He was a good man.”

  Stacy shifted his weight on the handlebars of the floor polisher. “Yep, he was a cool old guy,” he said. “I wish I’d taken more time to talk with him.” Estelle looked at him with some surprise. With the wash of freckles across his angular, homely face, the unkempt red hair, and too-thin body...and his history...it was easy to dismiss the young man as an empty vessel stuck with a job that no one else had the patience or inclination to do.

  “Yes, he was,” Estelle agreed.

  “He never threw his weight around, you know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Estelle said.

  “He could’ve,” Stacy reflected, and Estelle wondered what incident he was remembering. His face brightened. “Big chief in a small town. But he didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “Do you know when the funeral is going to be?”

  She shook her head. “No, Stacy, I don’t. That’s something that the family will have to decide.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he said philosophically. “I’d like to go, you know? No special reason. But I’d like to. He cut me some slack a few times when he didn’t need to.”

  Estelle nodded, and felt a pang of regret. On several occasions, she had lost her patience with Eduardo Martinez, and more than once had thought—even if she had never voiced it—that Eduardo was content as long as his school zones were enforced. With a kid like Stacy Cunningham, Eduardo had managed a delicate balance that most cops wouldn’t take the time for, keeping the leash just long enough that the kid had survived his howling teens without serious damage to himself or anyone else.

  “Your husband’s already left,” Stacy said as Estelle stepped around the coil of yellow extension cord.

  “I hope so. That’s what I should be doing, is leaving.”

  Cunningham grinned, showing faultless pearly whites that lit up his face. “We got ’em all, don’t we?” He saw the puzzled look on Estelle’s face. “I mean, I was here last night when they brought in Sheriff Torrez, but I guess he went to Albuquerque. And Mr. G is down there in 112.”

  “Ah,” Estelle said. “Mr. G?”

  “Sheriff Gastner. He’s another cool old guy. I was talkin’ to him a little while ago. I don’t think he was supposed to be up, but he decided to cruise the hall for a little bit. We talked for a while. Can’t believe somebody socked him in the head like that.”

  “There’s all kinds, Stacy,” Estelle said, wondering how much information Stacy gleaned from his informal conversations.

  “He’s cool, though.”

  Apparently the two categories were “cool” and “uncool,” Estelle thought. She noticed that current Sheriff Robert Torrez hadn’t yet been categorized.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” she said. “Good talking to you, Stacy.”

  “You take care,” he said. As she continued down the hall, the soft swooshing of the polisher resumed.

  The nurse’s station at first looked abandoned, but a head appeared as Estelle reached the Plexiglas window. The young nurse, homely and overweight with heavy features and too much makeup, was in the process of picking up the contents of a folder that had spilled on the floor.

  “I’m just stopping in to see Mr. Gastner for a bit,” Estelle said, reading the girl’s nametag. “I know it’s a bad time, but it’s important.”

  “We’re going to need to tie him down,” Tabitha Escudero said gruffly, tapping the folder back into compliance. She evidently knew who Estelle was, not surprised in the least that, at two in the morning, Bill Gastner would have visitors. Tabitha’s expression hardened just a bit into that look of control that the medical staff assumed when a civilian was tampering with the hospital’s due process. “But if he’s finally asleep, I hope you won’t wake him.”

  “Absolutely not, Tabitha. Thanks. I’ll just peek in.”

  The nurse fluttered her fingers in dismissal, turning toward a box stuffed with more folders.

  The door of 112 was ajar a finger’s width, and Estelle nudged it open far enough to see the bed. Gastner lay with the unpunctured arm up on his pillow, hand resting on the top of his head. As the door moved, she saw him turn just enough to be able to see her.

  “Hey,” he said, and jerked his arm down in that reflex motion to pull the sheet higher up. “What the hell are you doing nosing around at this time of the goddamn night?”

  “Trying to think, sir,” she said.

  “Well, that’s not a bad thing. Any success?”

  “Trying is the operative word.”

  “So who the hell did you arrest for giving me this headache?”

  “Nobody yet.”

  “Ideas?”

  “I was hoping you’d have a list of grudges,” she said. She rested her hand on his, tapping the back of it with her fingertips.

  “We need to get out of here and go to work,” he said.

  “I was party to one of those escapades a few years ago, as you’ll remember. I don’t think I want to do it again.”

  “Escapades, hell,” Gastner said. “There’s no profit in any of this if the hospital can’t keep me here until my insurance pays all it can pay, you know. It’s all just a scam.”

  “Yes, sir. The scam the last time, as I remember, was whether to do a heart bypass on you, or let you stumble out of here so you could go chase bad guys until you fell on your face.”

  “And as I remember, it worked out pretty well,” Gastner said cheerfully. “Not so good for the bad guys, but good enough for me.” His fingers drifted down to where his pajamas covered the thick scar from the bypass. “They had the chance to carve on me eventually. But...,” and he pushed himself up in bed a little, dragging the tubes and wires with him, “I don’t want to talk about me at whatever it is in the morning. And you don’t either.”

  “Some interesting things, sir.” She turned and pulled one of the white chairs closer, then hesitated. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Why would I mind that?” Gastner said, and waved toward the small cubicle. In a moment, Estelle returned, tucking in her blouse.

  She draped the heavy Kevlar vest over the back of the chair and sat down. “That feels better.”

  “Put it back on when you leave,” Gastner said.

  “You sound like Eddie,” Estelle replied, and held up a hand to stop his rejoinder. “I know, I know.”

  “They never made one of those things that works with someone my shape,” Gastner said.

  “Me neither.”

  He laughed hard, and then grimaced, holding the top of his skull. “Don’t do that.” He rubbed his head, fingers straying down toward the bandage. “Son of a bitch sure hit me hard enough.”

  “He used that piece of rebar that you had in the corner of the yard, sir. The one for the roses? He used it, and then put it back.”

  “No shit? That was goddamn thoughtful of the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “We think he swung, and when he hit you with it,
the tip of the rebar also hit the door jamb. It took a deep gouge out of the wood.” Estelle used her right index finger to represent the length of rebar, and the palm of her left as the jamb. “If that hadn’t absorbed some of the energy, you’d really have a headache.”

  “Or not,” Gastner muttered. “Did somebody tell you that Eduardo died?”

  “Yes, sir. Francis called me.”

  “Makes me feel positively mortal,” Gastner said. “How’s Bobby, as long as we’re checking the list of the lame and useless.”

  “He’s okay. He’ll be home later today. His sister’s driving up to Albuquerque to pick up him and Gayle.”

  “He’s chafing, I imagine.”

  “That’s putting it mildly, sir.” She leaned an elbow on the side of his bed, and it felt comfortable enough that she could have closed her eyes and dozed off. “There’s a window of opportunity during which Mike could have shot Janet before driving over to Lordsburg.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “No, I don’t think he did. But the timing is right. And there’s one other thing. He owns a couple of .22 pistols. One of them is missing. He can’t account for it.”

  “Stolen, then?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why maybe?”

  “For one thing, it was in the dresser drawer of his apartment, which is usually locked. He told Eddie that Janet knew it was there, too. What’s interesting to me is that the gun was gone, but the plastic case that it comes in? That was still there.”

  “Huh. I’m not sure that means much. A thief can grab the gun and stick it under the waistband of his pants. Tough to do that with a bulky plastic case. Mike thought the gun was there until when? When you guys checked his apartment?”

  “Right.”

  “So it was taken recently, then. If it was taken at all.”

  “I think so.”

  “By who, then?”

  “I don’t know. Mike says he doesn’t, either.”

  “Janet wouldn’t have, I don’t think. But she lives with him, so there you are.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s the point?” He scratched his head tentatively. “I like things that go from A to B to C to D,” he said. “Nice relationships. I’ve been lying here thinking, and my brain’s about as responsive as tapioca pudding.” He held up an index finger. “Eduardo has a heart attack, exacerbated by a couple of pennyante thugs who decide his new Buick would be a nice thing to have. Bobby doesn’t pay attention to his doctors, and damn near ends up on the slab, through no one’s fault but his own. Then, some cold son-of-a-bitch shoots Janet Tripp in the head so he can take her cash, and dumps her body in the arroyo as if she’s some bag of household trash. God, that makes me mad.” His eyes narrowed as he glared at the ceiling tile.

  “And it’s in the air,” he continued. “Here I am, minding my own business, trying to let myself into the house, and somebody bends a piece of my own rebar across my own skull.”

  “They didn’t take anything, sir. Nobody went inside your house.”

  “I figured that out for myself, sweetheart. If it had been a burglar, he could have just waited, and left when I surprised him.” He lifted his hand up and regarded his fingers. “Nah. Someone had a grudge of some kind.” He let his arm relax on the sheets and looked steadily at Estelle. “I suppose I’ve made my share of enemies over the years. None recently, as far as I know.”

  “That’s what I wondered.”

  He waved his hand again in dismissal. “I don’t think so. But, hell, I don’t know for sure. All kinds of fruitcakes in this world. We just happened to hit the season right this time. Maybe whoever tried to dent my hard head will hear that he didn’t do the job right, and come back for a second try.” He nodded at the clipboard fastened to the base frame of the bed. “I’ll have him sign in when he does.”

  “That’s not funny, sir.”

  “Well, then go home and bring me back my .45. I’ll keep it under my pillow, here.”

  “Nurse Tabitha would like that—you waving that cannon around, especially without your glasses.”

  “She’s something, isn’t she? Damn near uglier’n me.” Gastner folded his hands on his belly. “Pretty sad deal,” he said finally. “Janet, I mean. You know, I didn’t really know her all that well. Hell,” and he shrugged, “I guess I didn’t know her at all. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, too. Mike’s a hell of a good kid, and what, the couple of times I’ve met her? Janet seemed like a pretty steady sort.”

  Estelle smiled at the use of the word kid. His thirtieth birthday was past history for Mike, and Janet hadn’t been far behind. Bill Gastner had four decades on both of them. She regarded Gastner fondly, amazed once again at his seemingly inexhaustible reserves.

  “You have to wonder why that son-of-a-bitch picked on her,” Gastner said. “Other than just the roll of the dice.”

  “Maybe that’s exactly what it was,” Estelle said.

  “And then again...” Gastner added, then stopped, thinking. “The whole arroyo thing doesn’t square with me,” he said. “Not for an ATM robbery. Why not do what the other guy did to me? Once up behind the head, grab the money, and run. What’s so hard about that?”

  “But, you see,” Estelle said, “whoever hit you didn’t grab the money and run. He wanted to kill you, sir. That’s all there is to it. He didn’t go into the house. He didn’t take your wallet. He didn’t take your .45. He didn’t go into the garage and steal your Blazer.”

  Gastner shifted in the bed so he could look more squarely at her. “That’s interesting.”

  “What is, sir?”

  “Janet’s assailant didn’t have to kill her to take the 350 bucks. He could have wrestled it away from her, or threatened her, or bashed her head against the door. Any of that would have been enough. But he executes her, for God’s sakes. That’s what he did. He goddamn well executed her, didn’t he. And then he took the money and whatnot, and her body. Why the hell do that? And my guy...he wraps a steel bar around my skull, one good shot that would drop an elephant, and then just leaves.” He fell silent, lips pursed.

  “Here’s what you need to do, sweetheart,” he said after a moment. “You know that filing cabinet in my study?”

  “Sure.”

  “The top drawer, first section, includes all the current stuff I’m working on. It isn’t much, and I don’t think you’ll find a damn thing. But maybe it’ll give you a name or two. I haven’t gotten crosswise with anyone in a long, long time. Anyway, do that. And it wouldn’t hurt to put Janet Tripp’s background under glass, either. As many years as she lived in town, you’d think I’d be able to come up with something in the old memory. But it’s blank. I don’t know her, I don’t know her folks.” He waved a hand in disgust. “The minute Bobby gets home, drop this whole thing in his lap. Give him something to do. The more good minds we have working on this, the better. In the meantime,” and he folded his hands again, composing himself corpse-like, “I’m going to lie here and think great thoughts. If I come up with something, I’ll give you a call.”

  “That would be good.”

  “Don’t be a stranger.” He hadn’t bothered to open his eyes, and his speech had taken on something of a slur. She sat quietly and watched him. After a few moments, she saw his lower lip sag just a little as sleep finally came. She patted the back of his hand, rose, and collected her vest. As her hand touched the door, his voice caught up with her. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  “You too, sir.”

  “Put that on. It doesn’t do any good draped over your arm.”

  “Yes, sir.” As she shut the door, she almost collided with Tabitha Escudero. The nurse held a small tray of tiny paper cups filled with medications.

  “Is he going to need something to help him sleep?” she asked.

  Estelle shoo
k her head. “I don’t think so, Tabitha. I wore him out.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Estelle awoke to bright light bouncing off the tile floor as sun streamed in through the bedroom window. As if at a great distance, she heard the incredibly soft, gentle piano music, and for a moment she lay without breathing, listening.

  By moving her head a fraction, she could see the clock on the night stand. She had finally given up at 3:00 a.m. that Sunday morning, stumbling into bed and falling asleep so quickly that her husband had never stirred. Perhaps she had only dreamed of his rising at six, perhaps she had actually drifted close to consciousness when he brushed her cheek with his lips.

  For five blissful hours, the phone hadn’t rung—or if it had, she hadn’t heard it. She watched the clock flick its little digital window over to 8:04 a.m.—five hours more security for Janet Tripp’s killer and for the would-be killer who’d dented Bill Gastner’s head. If they had left town, those five hours would have put another 375 miles between their back bumpers and Posadas, New Mexico.

  Combine those minutes and miles with the hours immediately after the crime, until the time Estelle had finally gone to bed exhausted with frustration, and they could be crossing the Mississippi or dabbling their toes in the Pacific...or be speaking Spanish somewhere south of the border.

  She knew perfectly well that the county was patrolled as well as it could be—State Police, her own deputies (including at least two who were working double shifts), the Border Patrol, even the New Mexico Department of Game and Fish. Every badge and agency within five states, and beyond by computer entry, knew that Posadas County was looking for a killer...or two.

  Estelle groaned with a mixture of fatigue and irritation that she’d slept away too many hours.

  From the front of the house, she heard Sofía say something to Francisco, the older woman’s voice little more than a whisper. In response, the little boy spent ten seconds trilling two notes, a soft tinkling sound, some small adjustment in this magical world he had discovered. And clearly, Sofía Tournál knew exactly which entry keys were the ones to help the little boy continue opening one door after another.