Loaded and locked, a thoughtful exhale, just the right sight picture, my index finger so smoothly increasing pressure on the heavy trigger. The rifle bellowed again, bucked against my shoulder, and I saw dust fly.
The felon stood in the sun, a single hole in his forehead. I lowered the rifle and peered more closely.
“Must have gone through the same hole,” I laughed. “The old Robin Hood splitting the arrow trick.”
“Do it again,” Torrez said, and this time he handed me five rounds. “Just shoot until you have a group.”
One after another, I fed the five rounds into the carbine’s magazine. And one after another I let fly at the target. With the first shot, a hole appeared near the bottom edge of the human figure, right under the belt buckle. The second and third kicked dust, no where near the damn paper. Round four blew off the felon’s right ear, and the fifth and final shot exploded a chunk of target frame just above the steel feet. “Oops,” I said, and lowered the carbine, its barrel warm. “Well, that’s impressive shooting,” I said. “Did you do any better?”
He beckoned and I took the opportunity to stow the rifle in the case. The target he unrolled showed a tight group of five rounds, slightly above and to the right of the X in the center chest. Torrez came as close to a laugh as he ever did. “This five shot group is with the correct ammo, sir. The other group is with the .30-30 stuff.”
“I see no other group.”
He reached across and pointed at the hole right beside the lower right staple that secured the target. “I made one.” He took his ballpoint pen out of his shirt pocket. “And this is what’s interesting.” He lightly circled the irregular hole.
“It’s keyholing,” I said. “At what, only fifty feet?”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned away and walked out to the target stand. The hole through the forehead was true, but the other two were skewed, indicating that the bullet had wandered and slapped through the paper obliquely, damn near sideways…reminiscent of how the single slug had smacked Larry Zipoli just above the eyebrow.
“That’s half of it, sir,” Torrez prompted as he saw me settle into a quiet moment of reflection. He pointed at a cardboard box. “I ran both guns through my chronograph.” I knew that the little gadgets used two sensors triggered by the shadow of the bullet as it sped by. Simple stuff for the electronic chips inside the machine to compute velocity in feet per second.
The deputy pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. “The .30-30 cartridges, fired from a standard .30-30 Winchester,” and he jerked his chin toward the second rifle case, “worked out to an average velocity of 2270 feet per second. That’s an average. They were pretty darn consistent.”
“And so?” I relaxed back against the narrow shelf of the bumper.
“When I fired the .30 caliber ammo in the .32…” He held out the notebook. “Take a look at these.” The velocity of each of five rounds was recorded in Torrez’s block printing. The shots ranged wildly, the slowest at 1712 feet per second, the fastest hitting 1925.
“So,” I said, “not only is the damn thing grossly inaccurate, not only does it throw bullets sideways, but it’s also slowed way down. Not fast enough to pass through both the windshield and Larry Zipoli’s skull. What did you get for penetration in that block of firewood? About five inches?”
“Give or take.”
I let all that digest for a moment. I had to admit that the little butterflies of excitement were starting to flutter in my gut.
“That could be how it happened, sir.”
“Yes, it could. You have the right ballistics to match the penetration, you’ve got the yaw of a sideways strike, you’ve duplicated the lack of rifling marks.” I grinned up at him. “Nice work, Deputy. Only one thing’s wrong with this whole scenario.”
“Yup.” Torrez pocketed the notebook. “With the wrong ammo in the gun, we can’t hit shit.”
“How many rounds did you fire at the target?”
“Same as you, sir. Five rounds. One hit. The rest just splattered. The one hit was dumb luck.”
“Not much of a batting average.” I regarded the gravel at my feet. “I’ve got this image of the gunman walking toward Larry Zipoli. He’s carrying the rifle, and Larry puts the grader into neutral. What, we’re going to have a little show and tell? Someone’s bought a new rifle and he’s going to show it to Larry? But then the guy stops some X number of feet in front of the grader and throws up to his shoulder. Larry’s got time maybe to think, ‘Oh, shit,’ and the round comes through the windshield and nails him in the forehead.”
“Maybe.” The tone of his voice said that he didn’t believe it for a second.
“So the statistics say, Roberto. But are you going to go assassinating with a rifle that hits the target only one time out of five? And that’s at only fifty goddamn feet. I don’t think so. I mean, none through the center. None where we aimed. Only a moron would try that. Hell, big and pugnacious as Larry Zipoli might be, he’d have had time to jump down and bury a lug wrench in the guy’s head.” I shrugged.
“And we even found the lug wrench this morning,” Torrez reminded me.
I looked across at Estelle. “Remember what I said about puzzle parts, young lady?” She nodded. “We’re ready to hear ideas.”
Again, she took her time. “It would be helpful to know how many shots people heard.”
I laughed and stood up. “You and me both. And suppose that two reliable witnesses…and isn’t that a goddamn oxymoron—suppose that two people heard a total of ten shots. Are we supposed to think that Larry Zipoli was so stupid that he just sat there smoking his cigar as thirty caliber bullets went zinging all around his cab? And not one of those bullets even grazes the grader…not a goddamn one…until the fatal shot hits dead center?” I shook my head in frustration.
“Except that it’s possible that the first shot just happened to be the successful one,” Estelle Reyes said quietly. She didn’t amplify the comment. I could figure out the one-shot scenario for myself, but I didn’t believe it for a second. I guess I out-waited her, since eventually she added a statement of simple statistical fact.
“The first shot can just as easily be the one bulls-eye as the fourth, the seventh, or the tenth…or the hundredth.”
“Yup,” Bob Torrez said. After all his work, of course he wanted that to be true.
“Pretty goddamn undependable way to kill somebody,” I said.
Chapter Sixteen
My brain was a whirl of disconnected thoughts on the short ride back into town. A tractor-trailer rode up on our back bumper for a while, and I realized that I was putting along, not much more than thirty-five miles an hour in a sixty-five zone. After a few seconds of that, the trucker grew impatient and thundered by, cop car or not. His plates were Texan, his mud flaps big, waving promos for Tyler Trucking in Kansas, his trailer hauling something under the banner of Merlin Foods out of Denver, the cab door bearing the logo for Dutchess Trucking headquartered in Phoenix. That potpourri of places might have made me curious if I hadn’t been distracted with other issues.
He blew through the first speed zone on the outskirts of Posadas, then braked hard to catch the westbound ramp for the Interstate, where he’d be someone else’s problem.
I was about to comment that with all the curious geography displayed on his truck, the driver might have been more careful about basic things like signaling his turns so he didn’t attract undue attention. Had I just been cruising, I would have stopped him for a chat.
My radio chirped even as other concerns rumbled through my brain. Larry Zipoli’s personnel records remained untouched. I needed a quiet corner to settle in and catch up on my reading. I didn’t need another interruption.
Without being told, Estelle Reyes palmed the mike like a veteran. “PCS, three ten.”
“Three ten, contact Dr.
Perrone at Posadas General reference your previous stop,” the dispatcher said. Estelle glanced at me and I nodded.
“Ten four, PCS,” she said and hung up the mike.
“We’ll swing by the hospital on the way,” I said. “We need to do that anyway.”
I saw one of her shapely black eyebrows drift upward and knew what she must be thinking…on the way where?
“I want to chat with Marilyn Zipoli again. A couple of things keep nagging me. Something doesn’t quite fit, and I don’t know what it is.” I paid attention to traffic for a moment—elderly Theodora Baca’s huge sedan pulling across my lane to enter the Posadas Inn’s parking lot. Perhaps it was their iced tea that beckoned her—the only recipe on their little restaurant’s menu that wasn’t close to poisonous.
“And before we do that, I need to spend some time with Zipoli’s records. It’ll be interesting to see what Marilyn has to say about all that. I mean, how could she not know that Larry had a drinking problem. No way she wouldn’t know. Not someone as sharp as she is.”
We passed through the intersection with Bustos, then turned east on the little spur of North Pershing to the Posadas General Hospital parking lot. I parked in one of the slots marked Emergency Vehicles Only, and saw the white Dodge van with the Posadas Auto Parts logo on its broad flank. The keys to old man Newton’s Caddy were still in my pocket.
“Unfinished business,” I said. “When young Nick went to work this morning, he thought this was going to be a normal day. And then it went to shit.”
Despite its interesting collision of aromas, the hospital could be a comfortable spot on a hot summer’s day, and my pace slowed a little to enjoy the ambiance. The sign requested that all visitors report to the receptionist out by the lobby, but she didn’t need to deal with us. The emergency room was empty, and I headed down past radiology toward the new ICU wing—“wing” a grand term for two new rooms and an exterior doorway that led to a tiny sun-dappled courtyard.
Nick Newton sat outside on one of the courtyard’s concrete benches in a shady corner dominated by a fountain based on the Zia symbol. The water pump wasn’t quite up to the task, and the creation managed to look more like a bad leak than an arty fountain. Smoke wafted up from Newton’s cigarette. His forearms rested on his knees, his head hanging as if he wasn’t sure about his stomach’s ability to hold down lunch.
He looked up as we entered the courtyard.
“Sheriff.” He shook my hand without much enthusiasm.
“This is Estelle Reyes,” I said, and Nick Newton’s gaze flickered to the young lady with little interest. “How is your father?”
“Not so good. He’s across the hall in the ICU. What the hell happened anyway? You stopped him out on 61?”
“Actually, Nick, I didn’t stop him. He was parked with the ass end of his car hanging out in the traffic lane. He was semi-conscious in the back seat.”
He muttered an oath. “He probably would just sleep it off if you left him alone.”
“Maybe he would have. Or a semi might have rear-ended him, or he might have come to and fumbled and stumbled his way into an accident. What’s Dr. Perrone say?” I glanced back through the double doors, but couldn’t see beyond the tinted glass across the hall.
Nick waved a hand impatiently. “Some mumbo-jumbo about his heart and liver. Hell, there’s never been anything wrong with him that a little common sense wouldn’t cure.” It sounded more like a father talking about a wayward son than vice versa. “So what’s the deal? I mean when he gets out of here. Is he in trouble with you guys? You charge him with DWI, or what?”
“I haven’t charged him with anything yet, Jack.”
“Yet,” he snorted. “You know, all he’s got is Medicare, sheriff. You have any idea how much this is going to cost?”
He’s got you, I wanted to mention, but that wasn’t any of my business. I managed to look suitably sympathetic.
Nick lit another cigarette. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. Take his car keys, I guess. And then what.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, and dug out the key ring. “The car is pulled well off the highway and locked. You can pick it up any time. The sooner the better. It’s a tempting target out there.”
He looked at the collection of keys, leafing them one by one around the ring.
“So what’s the deal, then?”
“The deal is that right now, you take care of your dad,” I said. “When he’s clear-headed enough that we can talk with him, then we’ll see.” I knew damn well what the District Attorney’s attitude would be. “Make sure he doesn’t get behind the wheel, Nick. Keep those keys out of his reach until we straighten all this out.”
“’Preciate it, sheriff.” He nodded first at me and then at Estelle Reyes. “You’re with the department now?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And what’s this deal about Larry Zipoli?” Nick asked me. “I’m hearing all these weird stories. Like he got shot somehow and fell right out of the county grader he was driving?”
“That’s one version I hadn’t heard,” I replied. “We’re investigating, Nick.”
“Christ, ain’t that a kick. You think suicide maybe?“
“As I said, we’re checking out everything. Did you have the chance to talk with Larry recently?”
Nick took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I saw him yesterday, as a matter of fact. He come into the store to pick up an ignition switch.” He frowned at the memory. “He was pretty steamed about the latest county snafu. You probably run into it. About no open purchase orders? You need somethin’ simple—hell even a new double-A battery or a new screwdriver—you got to have it approved by the department supervisor? In writing?”
“I think that order is one of the things that the sheriff threw in the trash,” I laughed. “But it’ll catch up with us, I’m sure. So all in all, Larry seemed all right to you?”
“Well, sure. I mean, how’s a guy to know, after all,” Nick said. “I don’t think he felt all that hot, if you ask me. His back was giving him hell.” He was tactful enough not to say any more about that—I was fully aware that my own ample gut, although not in the same class as Larry Zipoli’s gigantic, pendulous belly, put plenty of strain on my spine. “How’s Marilyn takin’ it all?”
I shrugged noncommittally and Nick seemed satisfied with that. He nodded toward the door, and I turned to see Dr. Alan Perrone. The physician held the door open for us. Nick Newton took the opportunity to light up again, in no hurry to go back inside to the atmosphere of chemicals, clicking machines, and hushed voices.
“How are you doing, Bill?” the physician asked as we stepped inside. I suppose he had reason to ask, since he’d been in charge of my innards for quite a while and knew where all the leaks, creaks, and odd noises lurked.
“I’m dandy,” I replied. “This is Estelle Reyes.”
Perrone grinned at her. “We’re acquainted.” He didn’t elaborate but shook her hand, adding a genteel bow of the head at the same time, then turned back to me. “I left a message for you with dispatch. Look, it’s highly unlikely that Jack Newton is going to pull through. I mean, miracles do occasionally happen, but I would be surprised this time.”
“You told Nick?”
“Yes. I don’t think he was in the mood to hear it. I understand that you were the one who stopped the old man?”
“No. He was pulled off the road, passed out on the back seat. Ms. Reyes and I happened by.”
“Ah. Well lucky for him. The back seat, you say. That’s interesting.” Perrone heaved a deep sigh. “Look, his liver is shot, he has an enlarged spleen, and fluid is collecting in his lungs. The old heart just can’t manage it all. Half a bottle of alcohol wasn’t just what he needed, although at this stage of the game, I don’t suppose it matters much. Anyway, I wanted to touch bases with you, since th
e whole thing entered the system as a complaint from your department.”
And who the hell knew how the “system” that Perrone referred to would have reacted had we cuffed and transferred Jack Newton to the back of J.J. Murton’s patrol car, and then had the old man expire hours later in the drunk tank. His son could have had a field day at our expense.
“Keep me posted, doctor. I do need to know when he’s out of your custody.”
Perrone’s smile was pained. “I don’t often think of my relationship with patients as ‘custody’, Sheriff.” He nodded again to Estelle. “My best wishes to your fiancé, young lady.”
Now, how the hell did he know Estelle Reyes’ boyfriend who wasn’t even out of school yet? Perrone’s web of informants was damn near as effective as mine—maybe better.
I stood in the sun outside the cool chemical world of the hospital for a moment, leaning against the comfortable fender of the county car. Off to the north, the buttress of Cat Mesa heaved up against a scattering of boiling cumulus, and at that moment I would have welcomed an hour or so sitting in the shade of a piñon, listening to the jays discuss the quality of the current pine nut crop.
“I’m ready for great thoughts.” I looked over at Estelle.
“If I had them, I’d share them with you, sir.”
“The first thing I want is an endless pot of fresh coffee,” I said. “Then we’ll see what the personnel files have to say.”
Chapter Seventeen
If the young lady wanted to be a cop, she would have to learn to like coffee. That seemed only logical to me. There was something about that first snort of caffeinated fumes that jolted the brain into gear—especially if amplified with a little nicotine. I sighed with regret.
Estelle Reyes settled into the chair across from my desk without so much as a drink of water, completely comfortable, completely at ease. My over-weight, over-caffeined, over-nicotined, under-exercised fifty-eight-year-old body could have used some of her discipline.
One Perfect Shot Page 13
