One Perfect Shot

by Steven F Havill

  “What’s Bobby hunting?”

  Salcido pushed his Stetson back on his skull, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. “He’s sure now that the ammunition used was .30-30. And he thinks that he knows the brand of bullet.”

  “No one found a shell casing, Eduardo.”

  “No, no. Not the casing, Jefito. But the bullet. He says he’s sure it’s a Mountain States brand.”

  “Millions of those around, I suppose. He thinks that George Payton might have sold it originally?”

  Salcido’s shrug was deep and expressive. “Maybe he did.”

  “Or mail order. Mountain States has been in business for years.”

  “But it’s something, you know. If the ammunition was hand-loaded, rather than just off the shelf…” He shook his head slowly, gazing off into the distance. “This is a bad thing. A bad thing.”

  I nodded. “And any little bit is going to help.” I understood what had piqued Bobby Torrez’s curiosity. A box of loaded ammo, bought from the store shelf, would have generic bullets, either made by the ammo brand company itself, like Winchester or Remington, or purchased from a major bullet supplier, like Sierra, Speer, or Hornady. Mountain States was a smaller company, catering to handloaders rather than manufacturers.

  “You were at the school this morning?”

  “You bet. We talked with two of the kids—Matt Singer and Eric Zapia. The other four are ditching school today.”

  “Ditching.” Salcido savored the syllables. “I used to enjoy that. Maybe too much. Didn’t get me anywhere, though.” He flashed a smile. “You’re going to talk with them this morning?”

  “I’m curious, is all. Two of the kids are cyclists, and with weather like this, I’m not surprised that the bikes hold more attraction than school. We’ll start there. The Pasquale kid and Jason Packard.”

  Salcido bent and looked into my car. “What do you think, señorita?”

  “I’m curious to hear what they have to say, sir.”

  “We’re curious, all right,” he smiled, and looked across at me. “All this is muy curioso. You’ll have time to stop by George’s place? Bobby’s there right now.”

  “We’ll make the time,” I said. “Where are you headed?”

  “Home, I think. You know, I didn’t sleep so good last night.” He rubbed his chest over his breastbone. “This whole thing with Zipoli…” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s a bad thing, this not knowing. Something like this happening right in our own back yard.”

  “We’ll figure it out, Eduardo.” I saw my last chance to fill him on the Tres Santos, but he didn’t look as if he needed more weight on his shoulders.

  He held up a hand, and turned back to his car. From the avalanche on the front seat, he rescued a manila folder. “We got this late yesterday.” He handed it to me, and I flipped the cover. The application was generic, filled out in large, block letters that would have been appropriate for a ten year-old.

  “Jerome Jesse Murton. Not a chance, Eduardo,” I said, and snapped it shut. “J.J. Murton shouldn’t even be working for the village. Chief Martinez should have his head examined for allowing it.”

  Salcido’s smile was gentle. “He might fit into dispatch all right. He’s dependable, you know.”

  “J.J. Murton is an illiterate moron,” I snapped.

  “In three years with the PD, he’s never missed a day of work. That’s what the chief tells me.”

  “Whoopee. That means he’s a consistent illiterate moron. There are enough ways for a deputy to step into trouble without someone like Murton at his back in dispatch. Don’t do it, sheriff. You want my advice, don’t do it. Hell, if we get short, I’ll sit dispatch if it comes to that.”

  I handed the folder back. “Anyway, Miss Reyes can step in to dispatch as soon as I finish up some orientation.”

  “You sounded good on the radio,” the sheriff said to Estelle and straightened to pat me on the shoulder. “I guess we have her caught up in the middle of things, no?”

  “And that’s the way it is,” I replied. “It’s good for her to see how all this works. There’ll be plenty of time to swim in all the paperwork later.”

  “But then she goes to academy, and we won’t have her on staff for eight weeks. Maybe more. I was just thinking…”

  “You’ll get into trouble doing that, Eduardo. You want my advice, don’t do it.”

  The sheriff wobbled his head, neither a yes nor a no. “Let’s sit down this afternoon and see where all this is leading us,” he said. I didn’t want to spend five more minutes thinking about the Sleeping Beauty, but it was Salcido’s call. I appreciated that all employers faced the same conundrum—finding employees who showed up for work when they were supposed to, without going missing during the holidays or finding excuses on Monday mornings and Friday afternoons. But critical jobs deserved more than just a warm body.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  We could have jogged over to George Payton’s modest shop in less time than it took to mount up, turn the LTD around, and cross traffic on Bustos to the little avenue behind Pershing Park. “Cross traffic” meant pausing for a second while Mimi Sloan drove through the intersection in her Oldsmobile.

  Deputy Torrez’s new Bronco was parked in front of Shooters’ Supply, taking advantage of a scraggly elm for a spot of shade. I swung in behind the Bronco.

  “You’ve met George Payton before?” I asked Estelle.

  “No, sir. I know who he is, that’s all. I’ve heard Reubén talk about him now and then.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “Where else would Reubén find ammo for that antique of his.”

  “There’s a partial box of cartridges on the mantel above the fireplace,” Estelle said. “The dust on them is about this thick,” and she held her fingers an inch apart. “They haven’t been touched in a long time.”

  “And let’s hope they stay that way.” I perused the junk on the seat for a moment, wondering what I had forgotten. “You want to call us in? Leave us available, though.”

  She did so without fanfare, putting us ten-eight at 101 Baca. General Pershing was honored by the whole park and facing street named for him, while Elfego Baca’s memory was noted with a short cul-de-sac, more of an alley than a street.

  The front door of the shop opened with a single squeal, and George Payton looked up from the large book and brochure that engrossed him and Deputy Torrez. The deputy’s black briefcase rested on the counter.

  “What the hell do you want?” George’s warm, affectionate greeting was par for the course, and didn’t actually mean that he was an abrasive old son-of-a-bitch, which he was, or that he didn’t want to see us—which he probably didn’t. He squinted at me through his coke-bottle glasses. Diabetes was killing him just as surely as high blood pressure and arteriosclerosis were likely killing me, and he leaned his heavy body against the counter, taking the weight off his ballooning ankles. His gaze locked on Estelle as she gently closed the door behind us.

  “Showing your granddaughter around the big city, Billy?” Payton was the only person in the world who still used a nickname that had rested mercifully dormant since the days of Mrs. Lewis, my third grade teacher.

  “George Payton, this is Estelle Reyes.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” George said ungraciously. “I know who she is.” He nodded at Estelle, but didn’t offer a hand. “How’s the old man?”

  “He’s fine, sir,” Estelle replied.

  “So, what, you’re thinkin’ of workin’ at the funny farm now with these guys?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He glanced at me, rheumy blue eyes twinkling, then back at Estelle. “You know, they never come in here unless they want something. And it sure as hell ain’t never to buy anything.” He pulled back a little, surveying the row of handguns on the top shelf. He selected one boxed specimen, pulled
it out, and slid it across the glass to me. “Got you one,” he said. “Came in with a collection yesterday.” The stainless Smith and Wesson Model 66 four-inch appeared flawless, but I didn’t dare pick it up, knowing the instant it nestled in my hand, I’d have to own it.

  “I’ll be back to talk with you about that,” I said.

  “Got about eight other people who want that one,” George said.

  “Well, go ahead and sell it to them, then,” I said. “I’d hate to barge in and cut my place in line.” That earned what passed for a smile.

  “Are you doing any good?” I asked Deputy Robert Torrez. He towered over the three of us, darkly handsome, and most of the time overly serious. His face could stand a little smile cracking now and then if he expected a Hollywood talent scout to pay him any mind. He and Estelle would make a hell of a couple, but nature didn’t need any help, or even suggestions, from me.

  “I was just telling the deputy that I don’t sell much Mountain States inventory,” George Payton said before Torrez had a chance to reply. He put the Model 66 away, and then slid a colorful brochure toward me with the Mountain States logo prominent across the top. “This was in my slush pile. They keep sendin’ me junk, even when I don’t order nothin’.”

  “There’s always a chance,” I said.

  “Hell, they got a good lineup, but I don’t sell five boxes of their stuff a year, all of it special order. And what’s the point of that? All a guy has to do is call their 800 number and order it direct.” He reached out and made a circle around the image of the 170-grain thirty caliber Mountain Slam flat-nosed bullet, just about in the middle of their product line-up. “The young fella is right, though.” He spoke as if Deputy Robert Torrez wasn’t standing right there at the counter. “That’s what you have.”

  “Not popular, or what? Just pricy?”

  Payton shrugged as if he was loathe to sound as if he knew something. “Expensive, mostly.”

  “So who’s likely to use these?”

  George shrugged. “They’re goin’ after some of the cowboy action shooters, maybe. Some of them get pretty serious. Maybe some of the more serious lever-action metallic silhouette shooters who want a bullet just a bit heavier than average.” His finger drifted down the row of illustrations, and stopped over a long bullet labeled for the .38-55 Winchester. “Not too many folks making this one commercially. Or the .40 caliber either.” He swept his finger all the way to the end of the line-up. “How many companies you think make the big .50? You got a handful of folks loading the .50-110, but not many. Now, if you’re going to hand load for some run-of-the-mill old rifle like a .30-30, like what you’re talking about, what’s the point of using premium, custom bullets?” He laughed a sort of choked-up huff, huff. “Especially when you’re going to go ahead and shoot the stuff out of the wrong gun.”

  “Some folks like the best, maybe?”

  George scoffed. “Hell, if I was handloading for an old .30-30—well, I wouldn’t do that anyway—but if I did, I’d just buy some cheap Winchester bulk stuff. That’ll shoot better’n me or the gun, either one.”

  “As I remember, you’re not required to keep records of cartridge component sales.”

  George shook his head and grimaced. “And even if I was…” he left the rest to our imagination. “That’s what this one was asking,” and he jerked his big round head toward Bob Torrez.

  “So…what did you think of Robert’s experiment with the two rifles?”

  “There’s easier ways to shoot somebody,” George said. “You really think this went down that way?”

  “It’s beginning to look like it.”

  “Well,” he said philosophically, and shrugged again. His eyebrow cocked at me.

  “George, it might be helpful if we knew of any recent sales that might fit this pattern.”

  George looked pained. He made his way to the battered swivel chair behind an amazingly cluttered desk and relaxed back in it, hands folded over his belly. “If you think that I’m going to turn over a list of all my customers, you’re nuts. I don’t care how much paperwork you bring over from old man Smith.”

  “That’s not what we’re asking for.” I hadn’t even seriously considered the notion of a warrant from Judge Everett Smith.

  “Well, that’s good, sheriff. Because I’m not going to list everyone I know who shoots a .30-30, or a .32 Winchester Special. I’m not going to give you a list of every Tom, Dick, and Harry who reloads his own ammunition, or who buys components.” His large head shook sadly, as if we’d asked him to trade his soul. “That just isn’t going to happen.”

  “You wouldn’t be giving us much, George. For a village the size of Posadas, what are we talking about—ten people at most?”

  “One’s all it takes, Billy. Word gets around that when you buy something from old George Payton, your personal information is handed over to the cops…I might just as well close the doors right now. Nope, I don’t see that as my job.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to argue the point with George. Anytime someone purchased a firearm, the buyer filled out the yellow form required by the ATF, but that form stayed with the dealer. Other than that, nothing. Minors were prohibited from buying ammo or the like before sixteen or so, but no records were kept of sales.

  “That’s not what we had in mind,” Deputy Torrez said, his voice just a notch above a whisper.

  “Yeah, I could name a couple of guys who own Winchesters, including you and myself—and I suppose you could get a warrant and look through my books for recent sales. It ain’t going to tell you nothing. Trust me on that. You got something screwball going on here, that’s what I think. And by the way,” and he tapped the edge of his desk with his heavy ring. “The last lever gun I sold was a .444 Marlin, and that was months ago.” He caught Torrez’s trace of a smile and nodded with smug triumph. “And yeah, you bought that.”

  “Did you know Larry Zipoli very well, George?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “At all?”

  “Nope.” Apparently he realized how obstinate he was sounding, because he shrugged helplessly. “Look, if I knew something about all this, maybe I’d find a way to let you know. But I don’t. The whole thing is screwy, if you ask me. Nobody is going to intentionally put the wrong ammunition in a rifle. Just maybe in this case it was a dumb mistake that happened to have worked.”

  “Well, we’ll figure out a way to track it,” I said.

  “I suppose you will,” George Payton said helpfully. “Best of luck to you.”

  While we were jawing, Estelle had drifted over toward the overloaded shelves of boxed bullets. Customers who hand-loaded could assemble their own favorite brew, selecting primers, empty casings, propellant and finally bullets. And George was right. With the attention that careful hand-loading required, it was improbable that the finished product would then be stuffed—intentionally—into the wrong gun.

  Maybe that was what the young lady was thinking. Her perusal took her over toward the window, and she stopped by a small bulletin board that was papered with notices and 3 x 5 cards advertising the stuff of shooters and hunters. Some of the notices and ads had been tacked there for so long that they imitated parchment.

  Leaving the deputy to pack up his show-and-tell and make peace with George Payton, I joined Estelle as she jotted notes from the bulletin board.

  “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering what a three-gun match was, sir.”

  “That would be something where they use three guns,” I said helpfully, and saw the aging flyer that held her interest. I turned so that the old man could hear me. “George, how does a three-gun match work?”

  “All sorts of ways,” he said.

  “Like how? Name me one, you cantankerous old bastard.”

  He chuckled with delight. “Maybe long range silhouette with the heavy
guns, then the short range course with center-fire pistol cartridges and a third round with .22s. Usually like that.”

  “By long range, what do you mean?”

  “Starts at fifty meters, with the last stage out at two hundred.”

  “That doesn’t seem so far.”

  George huffed. “You try it.”

  “Scopes?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Can I use a rest. Off a table for support?”

  “Nope. You just stand there and wobble.”

  “Ah. So a competitor needs a variety of hardware,” I said more to Estelle than anyone else. She had placed a finger on the flyer, and tapped gently. I leaned closer so I could read the faded print. “Huh.” She turned her little notebook so I could see the page she’d been working on, and I nodded.

  “George, does Mark Arnett still run these matches? He’s the contact person, or what? I’m talking about this three-gun they had down in Cruces last…” I moved a couple notices to one side to reveal the upper right corner of the flyer and the date. “Last summer.”

  “I’m not sure whether he does or not,” George replied unconvincingly. He knew damn well what Mark Arnett did. He turned toward the door as it opened to allow in a grizzled fellow as huge as two of me, along with an over-weight golden retriever who instantly made a dogline for Estelle, tail flailing.

  “Dodie, get back here,” the fellow snapped. The dog ignored him, and the man grinned at Estelle. “He sure likes the ladies. Just ignore him.”

  She did, and after a quick snuffle of her pants suit trousers, Dodie gave up.

  “Mark would be the best one to check with about future events, though?” I asked, and George looked sideways at me.

  “I guess maybe.”

  Wilbur Haines, never bashful about becoming part of the conversation, thrust out a huge paw toward me.

  “Mornin’, Sheriff. Hey, Bobby.” He pumped hands all around, including Estelle’s. I introduced them, and Wilbur’s beard bounced as he first nodded and then shook his head. The dog tried to wag himself into a big yellow ball.