One Perfect Shot

by Steven F Havill

  “Who does he hang out with mostly?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The Pasquale kid, some. He used to be pretty tight with Jason Packard, but they don’t see so much of each other any more.”

  “Friendships come and go pretty easily,” I said, and Arnett nodded.

  He leaned forward, both elbows on the table, hands raised. “Look, is all this somehow related to that thing that happened to Larry? Is that what you’re gettin’ at?”

  That thing. “We’re talking with everyone who spent time with Zipoli in the past few days or weeks, Mark. Somebody out there saw something, heard something. Even a rumor at this point would be welcome. Mo was riding his bike with the other two boys—Tom and Jason—on the same day that Larry was killed. Maybe just hours before. So.” I shrugged. “And our curiosity grows when Mo takes off, when he goes missing without leaving word with his folks.” I leaned against the table. “Look, I’m a parent too, Mark. If my kid took off with the family car and I didn’t know where the hell he went, I’d be upset too.”

  “Shit,” Arnett muttered, and twisted around to look at Estelle. He looked her up and down and then turned back to me. “Can you tell me exactly what happened with Larry?”

  I shrugged and replied, “It’s pretty simple. He was sitting in the county road grader, and someone put a rifle bullet through the windshield.” I touched my left eyebrow. “It keyholed and hit him right there. He never had a chance to move from his seat.”

  “Jesus. Who the hell would do a thing like that?”

  “That’s a good question. If one of those kids is in danger, for instance…”

  “Why would they be?”

  “We don’t know. We don’t know who saw what.”

  He bit his lip. I imagine that his thoughts just then were agonizing. “What do you know about the weapon used?”

  “Rifle, thirty caliber. The bullet is a 170-grain flat point.”

  He cut right to the chase. “How the hell did you recover it?”

  “During autopsy.”

  “Come on, now. It had to have been fired from a hell of a distance not to blow right on through his skull,” he said. “What’s Bobby say?”

  “Deputy Torrez tells me that in all likelihood the shot was taken from about fifty paces.”

  “That close? Shit. A thirty caliber high-powered rifle would have blown his skull all to hell, and then just kept on going.”

  “Seems likely, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s all you know?”

  I smiled gently. “I know that we don’t know where Mo is right now, Mark.”

  “He’s probably home by now, if he knows what’s good for him. But look, you’re implying that he had something to do with all this? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” I said. “I want to talk with him. That’s all. If he saw something, that’s one thing. I’d hate to think that he was in danger somehow. Do you mind if we follow you over to the house?” I didn’t tell him that his little bastard was the center of interest for a BOLO.

  “Hell no, I don’t mind.” He rose quickly. “Right now?”

  “That would be good.” I held out a hand toward Estelle. “Do you have any questions for Mr. Arnett at this point?”

  “No, sir. We’ve talked to the neighbors and some of the other youngsters, so the sooner we can hear what Mo has to say, the better.” Maybe Mark Arnett felt a little better thinking that his son wasn’t flying solo.

  “What’s Raught say?” Mark asked. “Hell, right door-to-door like that, he’s got to know what’s goin’ on.”

  “One would think,” I said, cutting off that avenue.

  “Odd duck, that guy.”

  I didn’t pursue that comment, but held the door for Arnett as we left the conference room. “We’ll be along in just a minute, Mark.”

  “You want to talk with the wife again? I can stop by the church and pick her up.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, but suit yourself.”

  He nodded and made for the front door. I leaned on the dispatch counter. “Find Bob Torrez and have him meet me at the Arnetts’.”

  Barnes looked blank for an instant. “Bobby doesn’t come on until four, sir.”

  I glanced up at the white board on the wall behind the dispatcher, where all the little magnetic roundels on the calendar, one for each deputy, showed how desperately shorthanded we were. Perhaps T.C. didn’t think that I paid attention to the duty schedule when I made it up each month.

  “Have him meet me at Mark Arnett’s ASAP,” I said gently. “And then call the sheriff and ask him to swing by as well.”

  “I think Sheriff Salcido went to Las Cruces, sir.”

  “All right. Have him reach me as soon as he comes back, then.” The sheriff hadn’t told me that he was heading out of town, but then again, he didn’t need to. In fact, one of the things I liked about Eduardo was that he let me work without reins. I didn’t have to explain to the sheriff where I was or what I was doing every moment of the day. I extended the same courtesy to him.

  “He had a doctor’s appointment,” Baker added.

  I nodded, and my hand drifted to where my gall bladder was currently trying to tell me something. Some things just have to learn to be patient.

  As I pulled the county car to the curb by Arnett’s driveway, we saw Mark Arnett standing with both fists balled on his hips, garage door agape. He swiveled to regard us, his anger index escalating toward the top of the charts. The little Pontiac was still conspicuously absent.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I retrieved a small plastic evidence bag from my briefcase.

  “At what point do you have to call for a warrant?” Estelle asked.

  “When our friend,” and I nodded toward Mark Arnett, who apparently believed that if he glared long enough, the Pontiac would reappear, “decides not to cooperate. I’m hoping that won’t happen.” I made gloving motions. “So, kid gloves.” I counted her question as great progress.

  With the car door open, a heavy, throbbing exhaust note attracted my attention, and I looked down the street to see Bob Torrez’s pickup cruising toward us. A ’69 Chevy 4x4, it had been battered, bruised, and wrung out by a string of contractors when he had rescued it a couple of years before. He’d scrounged various parts here and there, and referred to the truck as his “junk yard dog.” He’d been on the team for a drug sting in Cruces the year before, and the truck had gone undercover with him.

  Torrez eased the pickup to a stop behind my unit. A half a dozen lengths of PVC pipe were lashed to the headache rack and hung back over the tailgate.

  Mark Arnett approached us, hands now hidden in his back pockets. “What do you want to do?” He nodded at Torrez as the deputy joined us. “Bobby, how’s it goin’?”

  I handed the plastic evidence bag to Arnett, and he examined it for a second or two before asking, “What’s this?” He looked up at me. “I mean I know what it is. What’s the deal?”

  “That’s the bullet that killed Larry Zipoli, Mark.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.” He turned the bag this way and that, then donned a pair of half glasses and examined it some more. “Looks like a Mountain States,” he offered. “Didn’t come apart, did it.”

  “Nope.” I was impressed that someone could just look at a projectile—not even an entire cartridge—and make an educated guess about its manufacturer. Bobby Torrez could, of course, but his gunny knowledge was legendary.

  Arnett pushed his glasses up on his nose and squinted. “This son-of-a-bitch don’t have rifling cuts.” He looked up quickly, a little disappointed when he saw that he wasn’t telling us something we didn’t know.

  I asked, “You use these?”

  For a long moment, Mark Arnett didn’t answer, then he handed the bag back t
o me. “I use ’em in silhouette matches from time to time. Expensive as hell, for one thing. But they shoot tight, and I like the extra weight. What’s with this, anyhow?”

  “You want to show us the ones you use?”

  He frowned at me as if I had threatened him with a cattle prod. “Now wait a minute. What are you saying, sheriff?”

  “What we’re trying to do is find out as much as we can about the circumstances of Mr. Zipoli’s death, Mark. To do that, we go to the experts whenever we can. Nobody in Posadas knows more about ballistics and the shooting sports than you do, so here I am.” I shook the bag a little, hoping that flattery would get us everywhere. At this preliminary stage, I didn’t want to waste time with a warrant, but I knew that in all likelihood, that was on the horizon.

  “I want to know as much as I can about these little bastards, Mark.” I poked a finger at the evidence bag when I said that, and then shook it for emphasis. “I want to know about this. What can you tell me?”

  “Other than that each one costs about half a buck? Not a whole lot. I mean, you got what you got, except I don’t understand why there’s no rifling marks.” He peered at the slug again, rolling it this way and that under the plastic. “Not even a scuff.”

  “Worn out barrel?”

  He scoffed. “Had to be damn near a shotgun, then. And that wouldn’t give the kind of accuracy you’re talkin’ about—unless the whole thing was some kind of gross accident.”

  “We weren’t thinking along the lines of accident,” I said.

  Mark regarded me for a long moment, then jerked his head toward the door. “Well, come on inside and let me show you.” He started to turn toward the house, then stopped short. “But none of this is going to find my boy, Sheriff. That’s what’s important to me right now, not some damn bullet. I need to find his ass before he gets himself into a round of trouble.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I said. “We’re going to find him, Mark. Take my word on that. Zipoli’s death has upset a lot of youngsters…neighbor kids, family friends, neighbors, you name it. Right now, Mo doesn’t know what to think. When he’s done chewing it all over, he’ll be back.”

  Mark nodded dubiously. “I got the feeling that you know more about this than you’re telling me, Sheriff. You guys are looking for my son. Is he involved somehow? Is that it? Are you going to tell me what I need to know?”

  “I wish I could, Mark. I wish Mo was standing right here, right now, explaining himself to you. But he’s not. So we do what we can.”

  Arnett sighed and shrugged. “Come on in.” We trooped into the house after him, taking the side door from the driveway. A steep stairway plunged down from the first landing, another shorter one angling up to the kitchen. We headed down into the basement.

  A pool table sporting a rich green cover occupied much of the floor space, with a stereo system mounted on one wall that looked as if it was capable of busting windows. A selection of chairs, a rack of pool cues, an apartment-sized fridge and a variety of other toys jammed the basement—not a bad haven for a contractor after a day simmering on a hot roof. I skirted the stereo and eyed a CD case lying on a shelf. I flipped it over and saw that the recording included Frankie Lane’s “Mule Train,” along with a selection of other favorites.

  “Is this Mo’s?” I glanced down the table of contents. “‘Liberty Valance,’ ‘High Noon’…this is all good stuff.”

  Arnett’s laugh was immediate and disgusted. “Hell no. If you can understand the words, it ain’t his. Borrow it if you want.” I put the CD back, making a mental note that such wonderful things existed and that I should own a copy. Arnett reached up to the top of a door frame at the far end of the room and found a key—one of those magical hiding places that no one could possibly discover—and unlocked both knob and deadbolt.

  When he snapped on the light, I saw a neat room about a dozen feet square, with a large safe in one corner. The safe was concreted in place, sunken up to its ankles, not about to be hauled away by some ambitious burglar. It must have taken Mark Arnett and a crew of friends a lot of sweat and several cases of beer to install the unit.

  Twisting at the waist, I took the opportunity to scan the room, fascinated. Arnett’s inventory of ammunition reloading components was neatly organized on shelves above the work bench, and revealed a significant investment in this hobby. A series of reloading presses were bolted to a three-inch thick laminated table top, and on the opposite side of the room, three steel wall cabinets were mounted at a convenient height.

  I bent slightly and examined a wooden loading block on the bench that held a hundred cartridge cases, little pudgy bodies that necked down sharply to a small caliber bullet. Of the hundred cartridges, thirty were finished. Bob Torrez glanced at them and knew exactly what he was looking at. I looked at the ammo, not recognizing a damn thing.

  “I have a bench rest match next week,” Arnett explained. “Up in Ratón.” He saw the puzzlement on my face. “Those are six millimeter PPC’s. That ain’t what you got from Zipoli.” He reached past me. “This is what you want to see.” The unopened red box of Mountain States bullets that he slipped off the shelf featured a fifty-six dollar price tag from George Payton’s shop. He split the tape and opened the box, setting it down on the counter. I lifted the slip of paper that covered the bullets and regarded the shiny array of brass-jacketed slugs, each with a crisp lead tip. “Just like you got there, sheriff. 170-grain flat point, .308 caliber.”

  I picked one out of the box, fumbling, then caught it before the slippery little thing skittered across the counter.

  “Moly coated,” Arnett explained. “Fancy stuff.”

  I nestled the brand new bullet on the plastic bag that contained the recovered slug. A microscope might disagree, but to my eye they were identical—or had been before glass, bone and brain ruined the one’s aerodynamic shape.

  “Three Ten, PCS on channel three.” The damn radio was so loud it startled me. I hauled it off my belt.

  “Three ten.”

  “Deputy Reyes has an urgent phone call. Ten-nineteen.”

  I glanced across at the young lady and saw the excitement in her eyes. This wasn’t the time or place to ask how many other roads she was planning to investigate all by herself, the ink of her contract barely dry on the dotted line.

  “Ten four. It’ll be a few minutes.”

  I heard a jingle of keys, and turned in time to see Deputy Torrez extending his hand toward Estelle. “Take my unit,” he said. I nodded agreement. Maybe she understood my expression as permission, but in fact it was amusement at the image of this slip of a girl behind the wheel of Torrez’s rusted, battered heap. She left the basement.

  “You thought some about the gun involved in this shit?” Arnett watched Estelle’s backside as she ascended the stairs, but his question was clearly directed at Deputy Torrez.

  “Some.” The deputy’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper, and I guessed that his reticence was an issue of rank. We hadn’t had time to discuss who was going to say what to potential witnesses, so his natural inclination was to let me spill as many beans as I saw fit.

  “You got the shell casing?” Arnett pressed.

  I didn’t hedge my answer. “No, we don’t have it. But I can’t see why the rifle would be anything other than something with a tubular magazine. Winchester, Marlin…some lever action like that? I mean, what would be the point of using flat-nosed bullets like these,” and I patted the red box of Mountain States slugs, “in something other than a gun with a tubular magazine?”

  “Or in a smooth bore. No point. No point all.” Mark’s reply was immediate and emphatic. “That’s the weakness for lever action rifles, sheriff. I’m sure Bobby told you all about that. ‘Cause the cartridges sit nose to tail in the magazine tube, the tips of the bullet need to be flat so they don’t strike the primer of the bullet ahead during
recoil.”

  “That could ruin your whole day.”

  “Damn straight. But that flat nose also means the long-range ballistics aren’t worth a shit—like pushin’ a brick through the air.”

  “So we’re left with a major conundrum,” I said. Mark Arnett didn’t know about Bob Torrez’s extensive session out in the gravel pit, or the conclusions we had already reached. “Why no rifling marks? How does that happen?”

  “Beats the shit out of me.” He turned to the safe, punched in numbers and twisted the handle. The door opened to reveal a neat row of a dozen long guns, with a half dozen handguns hanging by their trigger guards from rubber-jacketed hooks.

  He selected a rifle and hefted it out of the safe. “My dad bought this at a Sears store in Cruces in 1939.” He jacked the lever open and peered into the empty chamber, then held the rifle out to me. “First rifle he ever bought.”

  “A Winchester,” I said.

  “Just a plain old Model ’94,” he said. “There’s millions of ’em on the planet, but this one means a lot to me.”

  Holding the rifle gingerly by the butt plate and the barrel just shy of the muzzle, I turned the Winchester to read the caliber stamped on the barrel just forward of the receiver. “.30-30,” I said. Arnett snapped on a bore light and held the curved tip of the little flashlight into the rifle’s open chamber.

  I angled the rifle so that I could peer down the bore. The sharply-cut spiral grooves of rifling winked in the bright light. They’d slice nice crisp tracks in any bullet headed outbound. “Sweet,” I said, the old gunnery sergeant genes tweaked by seeing a nice clean weapon. Shifting my grip on the rifle, I took the bore light from him and turned it this way and that, examining the bore more carefully. “Not a speck, soldier. Outstanding.”