One Perfect Shot

by Steven F Havill

  “Thanks, but I have some things that need tending to.” I gripped her shoulder and rocked her a bit, making sure I had her attention, and spoke just above a whisper. “We’re going to get through this, Marilyn. That’s the extent of what I know at the moment. We’re going to find out exactly what happened to your husband. Somewhere, somehow, somebody knows something. It’s just a matter of putting all the pieces together. If you happen to think of anything else—any little bit, no matter how insignificant—be sure to give me a call. Don’t hesitate.”

  “And I know what I said, but I don’t blame my neighbor.” She glared toward Raught’s house. “Really, I don’t. I hope you don’t think that I’m just looking…”

  “That’s the whole point, Mrs. Zipoli,” I said. “We are looking. Under every rock, in every dark corner. Tomorrow afternoon, when you’ve had a little time to rest, one of our officers will be by to chat again. As I said, we’ll explore every avenue. I’ll come by myself and talk with Raught. Even if the argument didn’t go anywhere, he might have heard something, somehow. Something useful.” I rocked her shoulder again. “And don’t worry. I certainly won’t tell him that you complained.”

  “Oh, he’ll know.” She looked numb from fatigue and the emotional drain of this impossible day. I watched her go into the house, and then walked back to my county car. The old yellow dog stood so still he might have been a statue.

  “What do you know?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

  Apropos of nothing, I realized that in all the years I’d lived and worked in Posadas, in all the years I’d known who the Zipolis were, in all the years I’d had the opportunity to perhaps greet one or the other on the street or in the bank, in all those years, I had never seen them together.

  Chapter Seven

  I didn’t give much thought to what Marilyn Zipoli had told me about Mr. Raught. Gossip about neighbors was not generally reliable…certainly not the stuff of court testimony, which is where all this would end up eventually. You see the old lady digging in her iris bed, and it’s obvious as hell that she’s burying body parts that used to belong to her husband because, when you saw her, that’s the creative daydream that shot through your head. Surprise, surprise. She was burying iris bulbs. Marilyn Zipoli wasn’t thinking straight, and I wasn’t about to go charging into a man’s life based on her wandering statements.

  Maybe Jim Raught did have a marijuana plant in his back yard. Maybe his idea of happy hour included a big fat reefer. I didn’t care. Some cops would, and I probably should have, the law being something that I was sworn to uphold. What he did with his weeds in the privacy of his own home was up to him, until he sold some of it to a neighbor kid, or baled it to take to Albuquerque.

  I didn’t care what arguments Jim Raught had had with Larry Zipoli, either—unless the argument turned violent. I did care that someone had put a high-powered rifle bullet through a seated, defenseless victim. That was the work of a warped and twisted sniper, and the idea that we might have one of them living in our little village was enough to massage my natural insomnia.

  At midnight, the county building was like a tomb. Two trustees were currently in residence, and both would be asleep upstairs in the lockup, so there was no gentle swishing of the mop on the entryway tiles, no monotonic whistling as Benny Vasquez dusted everything with a treated cloth—he’d even dust me if I held still long enough. The sheriff’s wife drew a pittance salary as the department’s chief matron, and she made sure the trustees—never would she use the word ‘prisoner’—were well fed and comfortably housed. My own theory was that Benny enjoyed his lodging just a little too much. Locked up with Benny was Todd Duncan, a long-haired dope-sniffing loser who was basically good-natured enough, and enjoyed washing county vehicles. Todd enjoyed our hospitality for short stretches every couple of months.

  Even the dispatch center was quiet, and Ernie Wheeler, just now coming on for his shift, would be hard pressed to stay alert through the night. A rookie dispatcher himself, Ernie would have help from Eddie Mitchell, a young deputy who had joined us the spring before from the metro department in Baltimore, Maryland. Why Eddie had given up on the east coast, why he had embraced our hot, bleak little county in southwestern New Mexico, was his business. I couldn’t argue his decision, since I had been bread and buttered in North Carolina, and now couldn’t stomach the thought of a hundred and ten percent humidity and mosquitoes playing the role of state bird.

  And sure enough, the radio came to life as Mitchell fired a license number for an NCIC check. When times were dismally slow, several of the deputies took a moment to swing through the parking lot of the big motel down by the interstate. They’d run numbers until both they and the dispatcher grew weary of the exercise. Once in a rare while, there’d be a hit, and the traveling felon would be just as surprised as the deputy.

  In another hour, the bars would close, and there’d be a little flurry of activity as the last patrons tried to figure out how to drive home without being nabbed for DWI.

  I leaned on the counter until he’d finished with the NCIC check and radioed the news back to the Deputy that the blue older model Olds 98 didn’t belong to a fleeing Bonnie and Clyde.

  “Quiet night, sir,” Ernie said as he swiveled his chair to glance my way. Just twenty-one, Ernie was one of those twenty-one going on fifty fellows, already steady and unexcited by life. I could imagine that in twenty years, Ernie would still be sitting in that chair, working the day shift so he could go home to his comfortable wife and four kids. Neither the wife nor the kids had materialized yet.

  “That’s a good thing.” Now that I had a comfortable perch, elbows resting on the old, polished oak of the divider, I felt no huge inclination to do anything constructive.

  “The new hire is going to be workin’ graveyard?”

  “When we have a new hire, sure enough.” That’s what new hires did, after all. Sheriff Salcido and I were in agreement that we wanted no part of those torturous rotating shifts, where employees worked a few weeks on days, then went to swing, and then to graveyard. The brain never quite caught up and adjusted, and everyone ended up cranky and tired. It had been our experience that there were plenty of people who wanted to work midnight to eight, or who wanted the adrenalin rush of the rowdy four to midnight shift, or who enjoyed toasting in the sunshine of broad daylight. That worked for us. The sheriff worked mostly days, and I worked mostly whenever I wanted to. I didn’t count the hours.

  “So,” I said to Ernie, “Tell me everything you know about a guy named James Raught. He lives over on north Fourth, just a half block off Blaine.”

  “I don’t know him, sir.”

  “You know the Zipolis? Larry and Marilyn?”

  “I know that Marilyn is one of the cashiers at the bank. I don’t know her husband. A nasty deal, sir.”

  “Nasty indeed. Keep your eyes and ears open, Ernie. The truth of the matter is that someone is out there with a high-powered rifle. Don’t go sending the deputy into deep water without everybody being heads up.”

  “Eddie was reading the case folder before he went out. He was going to swing by Highland and talk with Scott Baker from time to time. And with Murton.” The deputies and part-time village officer were talking, and nervous. That was as it should be.

  I regarded the battalion of heavy filing cabinets across the dispatch island. I knew that Jim Raught had no record with us. I didn’t have to paw through miles of file folders to tell me that. Until today, no folder had carried the name of Lawrence E. Zipoli, either.

  With a couple raps of my Marine Corps ring on the divider, I straightened up and nodded at Ernie. “I’ll be out and about,” I said. “The pumps, please.” He reached over and flipped the switch that powered the fuel island outside, and I trudged back out to 310. Fueled, fat, and happy, I idled the car out onto Bustos, in no hurry to go anywhere in particular. With all four windows rolled down and the radio tur
ned to a whisper, I could mosey along and listen to a quiet county, letting the sweet air flow through the car.

  Bustos Avenue cut through the village east-west, and I headed east, driving past the two car dealers and turning on Camino del Sol, a short spur street whose pavement soon gave way to gravel and County Road 19. The Drive-in theater had seen the economic slump coming, and when Consolidated Mining announced that it was shutting down its Posadas operations, the owners of the drive-in jumped ship. Now the parking lot sat empty, the speakers removed, the ocean-wave humps studded with row after row of naked steel posts, a wonderful attractive nuisance for ATV and motorbike riders.

  I shot the spot light across the lot, and bounced it off the towering screen. I was waiting for one of our knucklehead gang-bangers to figure out a way to climb up and spray-paint his turf mark on the face of the old screen. Motorbike tracks criss-crossed the lot, and for the young and reckless, I suppose it was a hoot to ride across the rows of swells, dodging the speaker posts.

  Beyond the drive-in, the mobile home park was quiet. I swung in and maneuvered down the narrow center lane, headlights off so the beams wouldn’t blast through bedroom windows. After the final reclamation at the mine was finished, I wondered how many empty slots there’d be. Three “For Sale” signs already were posted and more would sprout.

  In several units, I could see the spot of color from the television as someone watched the late-late show or an early morning movie. Swinging around the loop end deep in the park, I stopped for a moment and shut off the engine, listening. It’s amazing how sound travels, particularly at night. I could hear the murmurs of the various television sets, and off to the left, a dog inside the last trailer had taken offense at my presence, and yipped up a storm. The door opened and Vernon Chambers stepped out onto the narrow porch. He wore a pair of colorful boxer shorts and no shirt, but didn’t let that stop him. He approached, his slippers scuffing the parking lot.

  “You lost?” He bent down, leaning on the window of 310. The slight breeze washed his too-scant deodorant and body odor into the car, and I was tempted to zip up the window.

  “Vernon, how the hell are you?” Scrawny to the point of emaciation, Vernon managed to look as if he were in the last stages of chemotherapy. He’d looked that way for the fifteen years I’d known him. His trailer court hosted its share of domestic disputes.

  “Well, I’m fine. What’s the law up to?” He asked the question and then I saw his jaw drop a little as the memory hit him. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Say, I heard about what happened down on Highland. What the hell was that all about, anyways?”

  “That all depends on what you heard.” One of my life’s ambitions when I retired was to write the definitive textbook on Rumor and the Pathways of Community Intelligence. A bestseller, for sure, except maybe it’s Unintelligence.

  “Somebody shot Larry Zipoli?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hoooooly shit. You’re kiddin’.”

  “Nope.”

  “Accident, you think? I mean, how in the hell…I mean, who in the hell…”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “I heard he was workin’ with the grader. Is that right?”

  “It appears so, Vernon.”

  “Some one just drove by and took a shot? That’s what I heard.”

  I shrugged expansively as if to say That’s all we know. I let Vernon fill in his own interpretation. “Look, if you happen to hear something about all this, I’d like to know.”

  Chambers straightened up and rubbed a hand across his shrunken, hairless belly. “Shit,” he said, “he was gradin’ the road out front just yesterday. I mean just yesterday.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Just yesterday.” He hitched up his boxers again, not having the butt or the hips to keep them in place.

  “Did you happen to talk with him?”

  “Nope. I went to town just after lunch, and he was makin’ a pass up along the bar ditch. And then a little later, he was on up past Hocking’s place. I don’t know if he had a breakdown, or what. He was down off the grader, talkin’ to a couple kids on bikes. Don’t know who they were, didn’t think nothin’ about it.”

  “And why would you.” Another little piece—Bobby Torrez had seen the grader and its operator down on McArthur in the morning, and now we knew that Larry had tackled the larger county road in the afternoon. I surveyed the double row of blunt-snouted trailers. “Are you losing a lot of folks with the mine gone?” I knew the answer, but it was always interesting to hear Vernon’s take on things.

  “Oh, God. Got three gone now, another couple before the end of the month. This is going to be a damn ghost town, sheriff.”

  I sighed. “I guess.” I didn’t add that a good many folks had lived in Posadas before Consolidated Mining arrived to gouge out the mesa flank north of the village, and a good many would remain after the mine had finished reclamation and locked the gates.

  “Folks run out of work, they either leave or start causin’ trouble. Drink too much—don’t know how they afford it.” He rapped 310’s door sill. “Don’t guess you folks will ever run out of work, eh?”

  “Unlikely, but we can always hope.” I took my foot off the brake and 310 edged forward. “I need to get,” I said. “You take it easy, Vernon.”

  “No other way. Not no more.” He lifted a hand in salute.

  The tires rustled along the freshly graded lane as I worked around the east end of the mesa before skirting the county landfill and then joining the state highway out of the county. Far in the distance, a tractor-trailer on the interstate hit its jake brake to take the Posadas exit, the percussive sound carrying easily on the soft air. The radio mumbled as Eddie Mitchell called in another license number, and I nodded in approval. It was possible, I suppose, for the beat to be so quiet, so muted, that cops just stop looking, relaxing out of sheer boredom. And that’s when it turns and bites. I couldn’t remember the last domestic dispute I’d responded to during the bright, cheerful sunshine of mid-morning. Night time brought out the kinks in human behavior.

  The dash clock said 1:21 a.m. when I turned onto the smooth pavement of County Road 23 and circled back toward town. Deputy Mitchell had stopped a truck south on State 56. That highway encouraged lead feet, and all the critters who slipped through the right-of-way fence and wandered out onto the warm asphalt gave the speeders an obstacle course to enjoy.

  Through the middle of town, I turned north on Twelfth Street and passed the quiet neighborhoods. Hutton Street and its offshoot Hutton Court marked the northern boundary, with Highland just beyond, the first street actually in the county’s turf.

  The village had its own tiny department, and the other Eduardo, Chief Eduardo ‘Danny’ Martinez, welcomed our efforts. But he and two full-time officers couldn’t provide 24/7 coverage, and the chief didn’t pretend that he could. He concentrated on school zones and helping stranded travelers, and that was fine with us. Once a decade or so, a good bank robbery might keep them sharp. And they got lots of practice responding to the ubiquitous domestic disputes.

  A man who hated to think ill of his friends and neighbors, Chief Martinez might be able to give me a different slant on Jim Raught. But he was off in Albuquerque on some family errand, so he was missing all the fun.

  As I drove out Twelfth to Hutton Street to Hutton Court, I punched the lights out and let 310 drift down to a gentle walking pace. Up ahead, starlight glinted off J.J. Murton’s village unit. He was parked facing north, his back to the village, blocking the intersection with Highland. The laid-back police chief was a forgiving boss, but even Eduardo had avoided hiring J.J. Murton as anything more than part-timer.

  I knew that Murton wanted to work for us in the worst way—and would, when hell froze solid. I’d kicked Murton off the interstate once, after he’d decided, as a part-timer with a month’s
experience, to work radar there. One of the state police officers had seen him swaggering toward a vehicle he’d stopped, walking on the pavement with his back to traffic, ready to get himself killed.

  The state officer had hauled around and come up behind Murton, giving him unrequested back-up. And then the officer had stopped by our office and chatted with me. I’d driven out and had a chat with Murton at Chief Martinez’s request. I guess he understood me. I never saw him on the interstate again.

  He still hadn’t learned about facing a probable threat. On this dark night, if Murton was watching in his rearview mirror, he would have seen the shadow of another car sliding up behind him, head lights off. That alone should have kicked his pulse up a notch. But there was something about the odd tilt of the officer’s head, something about the absolute quiet of his patrol car, that gave me pause. All the worst thoughts paraded through my head as I took my time getting out of the LTD. There was a likely possibility, of course, so I didn’t slam the door.

  Ten feet from the driver’s door, I could hear it. The simple son of a bitch was snoring. I admit to a wave of relief—no one had snuck up on Murton and blown out what few brains he had.

  Sure enough, Murton’s head was relaxed back against the door post and headrest, jaw slack, breathing deep and evenly, a little trail of spittle on his chin catching the starlight. For a long moment, I stood by his driver’s door, regarding the sleeping beauty. A whole gallery of possibilities presented themselves. I could just do the brotherly thing by reaching out and shaking him a little by the shoulder. I could return to my car and hit the yelp on the siren, sending J.J. through the headliner. I could call car-to-car on the radio and let him try to cover for his inattention. But sometimes, it’s more fun to be nasty and juvenile.

  I reached in and slipped my finger behind his badge, pulling it gently forward so I could toggle the clasp. It released easily and I straightened up, dropped the badge in my shirt pocket and left Officer Murton to his dreams. I let 310 idle backwards a ways so I wouldn’t awaken the sleeping beauty, and a quarter mile down the road, I keyed the mike.