A Discount for Death

Chapter Twenty-nine

Sheriff Robert Torrez settled into the chair at the end of the conference room opposite the television monitor and folded his hands across his lap. Linda Real popped the zip top on a can of soda. “Anyone bring popcorn?” she asked.

“I’d settle for dinner,” the sheriff said. “Perrone called, by the way. About half an hour ago.”

Estelle stopped rummaging for the TV’s remote. “What did he say?”

“Someone popped Enriquez on the right temple hard enough to fracture his skull. Perrone is sure it happened before the gunshot. The body’s gone to the M.E.’s in Albuquerque.”

“And the gun?”

“That, too,” Torrez nodded. “It’s lookin’ like someone hit George with the barrel of the.41, which would explain some of the hair traces. We’ll see.”

Estelle straightened, remote in hand. She placed it carefully on the TV stand. “If he was struck, his hands would go to his head out of reflex,” she said. “That would explain why his head was back against the chair and his left arm raised.” She mimed the motions of someone clutching the side of his head. “That’s how he was sitting when the shot was fired.”

“That could be,” Torrez said noncommittally. He nodded at the television. “Show time,” he said. “How long is this thing?”

“Three hours,” Estelle replied. She looked down at her legal pad at the list of footage. “But we’re just going to make some brief stops along the way.”

“You want sound?” Linda Real asked.

“Sure.”

A bright image of the Posadas Middle School’s parking lot flashed onto the large screen, and Estelle immediately pressed the Pause button. “Two buses and a van,” she said. Surrounding the vehicles was a swarm of students. The bulky figure of Barry Vasquez could be seen in the back of one of the buses, partially hidden by the yawning door. Tessa Dooley was frozen in mid-stride halfway between the school’s side door and the vehicles.

“This is George Enriquez,” Estelle said, touching the screen with the tip of her pencil. She indicated a dark shadow inside the van. The vehicle’s two doors were open wide, with a variety of bags and boxes already filling the empty space behind the last seat.

“Okay,” Torrez said.

Estelle pressed Play, and the scene jumped into motion. In a flurry of disorganization, the van and buses were loaded, the students forming an unruly ant line back and forth into the school. “This is first thing in the morning,” Estelle said. “They actually started loading about eight-fifteen or so. They were on the way by about five minutes after nine.”

“What am I looking for?” Torrez asked.

“I want you to look closely at the van,” Estelle said, “especially in a couple of minutes when the camera moves in closer.”

For almost ten minutes they watched the loading process. It appeared that George Enriquez was good-naturedly directing the stuffing of the van, starting with the first of the three bench seats in the back, and then filling the remaining space between the final seat and the doors.

“Who was running the camera?” the sheriff asked.

“An eighth-grader named Lori Schmidt,” Estelle said.

“She’s a patient girl.”

“Yes, she is.”

“And she used a tripod,” Linda Real said. “That thing’s rock steady. And it’s a good camera. Nice and clear.”

The scene abruptly shifted to a bus pulling out of the parking lot, with hands waving out the windows. Estelle put the tape on Fast Forward. “There’s a lot of footage of kids doing kid things,” she said. “Lori has a good eye. Lots of smiling faces, lots of neat expressions. She shot about five minutes of tape just of the kids on the bus. Mostly nonsense stuff.”

Estelle pressed Play again, and the border crossing at Regal sprang into focus, the video shot through the window of the second bus.

“This is interesting,” Estelle said. “The van is between the buses. The Mexican border officials know the program, and they’ve seen the same buses before, so it’s nothing new.” They watched the first bus as it was waved through. The Mexican border guard appeared to chat with George Enriquez for a few seconds and then grinned broadly, looking toward the second bus as he stepped back.

“Who’s driving the lead bus?”

“That’s Frieberg,” Estelle said. “You’ll see him later, when they’re unloading. As far as I can tell, he just sat in the bus when they loaded in Posadas. Glen Archer is driving the bus that Lori’s on. In fact, there’s a place where he tells her that she needs to stay seated when they’re on the road. He tells her that about five times.”

The Fast Forward spun the students into a blur, and Estelle abruptly slowed the tape and put it on Pause. “Now. We see one van and one bus, parked in front of the school in Acambaro.” The front yard of the school was packed clay, and every now and then the wind would kick a small whirl of dust through the legs of the students, enough of a breeze that it plastered clothes and ruined perfectly prepared hair.

“Barry Vasquez told me that the bus Frieberg was driving pulled into that dirt lane beside the school and that the other remained out front. The same thing that Archer told us.”

She pressed the remote, and the tape paused, a group of smiling youngsters frozen with their arms laden. Behind them, the doors of the van gaped open. George Enriquez stood beside the back door, one hand on the corner of it as if holding it against the wind. “Lori took just enough film outside to show that they unloaded,” Estelle said. “Then she got out of the wind.” She fast-forwarded and just as abruptly stopped. “I want you to look at this picture in particular.”

Torrez leaned forward, expression puzzled.

Using the eraser of her pencil, Estelle marked a circle around a portion of the scene, including George Enriquez putting two bags into the waiting arms of a stout middle-schooler. The kid’s face was scrunched with determination, as if enough concentration would keep the sand out of his eyes.

“When he steps back, I want you to look right there. Right under the backseat.” She looked back at the sheriff, pencil eraser still touching the screen.

“Okay,” he said.

She stepped to one side and pressed Play. The kid hefted the two bags, George Enriquez said something that the camera microphone couldn’t pick up over the growling of the wind, and then the youngster turned away, disappearing out of view. Enriquez beamed at the camera, tossed a salute for the fans, and turned to slam the two doors.

Estelle stopped the tape, with Enriquez frozen in mid-stride, one arm trailing back toward the van.

“What did I see?” Torrez said.

“That’s right.”

“An empty van.”

“Let me play it once more, and this time look at the space directly under the backseat.” She played the tape backward, and they saw Enriquez waddle back, pull the salute out of the air, and smile. The youngster arrived with the bags and gave them back.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

The scene played once more. “All right,” Torrez said when she halted the tape, Enriquez frozen again in mid-stride. “There’s nothing under the seat.”

“Exactly right.”

“Shit,” Torrez muttered.

“Sir?”

He waved a hand in disgust. “It’s just that I know exactly where this is going,” he said. “This is going to be the biggest damn nightmare we’ve had around here in a long time.” He flicked a go-ahead gesture.

Estelle ran the tape on Fast Forward for what seemed like a long time. They watched kids scuttling at high speed this way and that, long lines of kids in some kind of exotic dance, uncollected crowds of kids doing who knows what, some in-tight and personal shots of enormous smiles, flashing teeth, and the Mexican school principal making a speech that lasted altogether too long.

Finally, the youngsters all flowed to one end of the gym, the grown-ups gesticulating wildly.

“What are they doing?” Torrez murmured.

“You want me to slow it down?”

“No, please,” he said instantly. “Just tell me.”

“They’re sweeping for trash,” Estelle said. And sure enough, the line moved across the gymnasium, backs bending and heads bobbing.

“They don’t have floor mops?” Torrez asked.

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” Estelle said. “Now they’re going outside, and they’ll do the same sweep all around the school grounds.”

“Absolutely fascinating.”

“Just be patient, Roberto.”

“The kid who shot all this must have a permanent black ring around her camera eye,” Linda laughed. “She’s really good.” She glanced at Torrez. “We should hire her, sir.”

“Oh sure. We can’t even afford to pay you.”

“Now,” Estelle said, switching the VCR to the Play mode. Instantly, the humans on-screen slowed to a sane pace. At least a dozen black trash bags, bulging fat, were lugged across the camera, the kids taking the opportunity to wave at the lens.

A smiling George Enriquez, this time with Owen Frieberg standing on the other side of the van’s side door, accepted one bag at a time, stuffing the van full of trash. When the seats were apparently full, they moved to the back doors.

“Watch closely,” Estelle said. The remaining four kids, waddling with their loads, lined up. Enriquez stood on the driver’s side of the door, Frieberg on the other. Enriquez took the first bag from the youngster. As the boy turned away, Enriquez turned and swung the bag up and into the van.

“There,” Estelle said. The scene froze. She moved close and tapped the screen with the pencil. “Right there.”

“Yup,” Torrez grunted.

“It’s there for just an instant, and then the rest of the bags cover them up. I can see two distinct white cardboard boxes under the seat. Maybe a third.” She held her hands up, eight inches apart. “About like so.”

“Christmas gifts for his wife,” Linda said.

“Bullshit,” Torrez said instantly. “If those were gifts, or something legit, he’d have them up on the front seat, not piled under an avalanche of trash.”

“The other problem is, we can’t see under the other seats. The one right by the door,” and she rewound, the figures dancing backward and unloading the van, “right here? The seat’s got a skirt of some kind on the side, so we can’t see.”

Estelle stopped the tape, the blank blue screen staring out at them.

“What do you think?” Torrez said. “What’s the simple explanation?”

“I don’t know. Like you said, if it was something small and simple, why bury it under the seat?”

“Did this camera girl film the group crossing back into the States?”

“No. According to Barry Vasquez, they were waved right on through.”

“So Georgie didn’t have anything to declare.”

“Right. What bothers me the most is that they had an opportunity to make a pickup, if that’s what they did. They forgot ice for the party, and Enriquez told them they’d get it at little mercantile right there in Acambaro. He and Frieberg went and got it. Both trips. Certainly in December, anyway. In May, they didn’t have the van, so maybe it came to them while everyone was busy inside.”

“That doesn’t give us much,” Torrez said.

“No. Except it points to opportunity.”

“It’s not booze,” Torrez said. “The boxes are too small. I don’t think he’s going to try to carry something like grass or coke that way. Hell, the first drug dog that sniffed the van would hit. I don’t care how many tons of garbage were dropped on top of it.”

“The simple fact is that when they loaded the van at the middle school, there was nothing under those seats,” Estelle said. “When they left Acambaro with a load of rubbish, there was.” She turned off the monitor. “That’s all. First there wasn’t anything, and then there was.” She shrugged and watched Torrez’s cheek muscles flex. “There may be a simple, innocent explanation, Bobby. Maybe it was nothing. I just need to know.”

Torrez leaned forward, his chin cupped in his hand. “Our problem is that we think — #8212;well, that’s wrong-we know Enriquez was murdered. But before somebody whacked him, he mentioned your name, or your husband’s, to the D.A. And then he turns up dead.” The sheriff fell silent, as if the three sentences had exceeded his allowed maximum for one outburst.

“Frieberg is eager for us to know that he handled the revolver,” Estelle said. “I can understand that. But we have two connections between Enriquez and Frieberg: this trip to Mexico and the elk hunt thing.”

Torrez shrugged and pointed an accusatory finger at the dark screen. “That’s a little problem right there, and it involves George and Frieberg…again.” He shrugged. “You’re right, Estelle. I want to know what was in the boxes, too. I’m willing to bet that you’ve got some ideas.”

“I wish I didn’t,” she said, and let it go at that.