Convenient Disposal

Chapter Thirty-two

The sheriff relaxed in his favorite thinking posture-boots crossed over the corner of his desk, the old swivel chair leaned back far enough that he could rest his head on the heating duct. He had remained so quiet during the portion of Crowley’s video that she had played for him that at times she thought he had fallen asleep.

“It’s all guesswork, isn’t it?” he said. He reached out and nudged a copy of the Posadas Register toward Estelle as if with that one comment, discussion of the tape was concluded. “You saw that?”

“Not yet.” While Bob Torrez waited, Estelle scanned the front page. It featured a terrible digital photo of Kevin Zeigler on one side of the page and a yearbook photo of Carmen Acosta on the other. Carmen’s picture had been cropped out of a larger group photo and then enlarged. Bannered over the photos was the stark headline:

Girl Assaulted, Manager Missing

Although the article never said so, the implication was easily made that Zeigler’s sudden departure was somehow related to the assault. Details were meager, but Pam Gardiner-or perhaps Frank Dayan himself-had obviously not been content with the release that Estelle had provided.

The article included speculation from several folks, including County Commissioner Barney Tinneman, who made the point that he hadn’t really known Kevin Zeigler all that well…taking the politically safer road of distancing himself immediately when the first sign of trouble arose. The article even featured a wandering, anguished quote from Freddy Acosta, who certainly had no idea “who would do such a thing” to his daughter. Freddy had provided the lurid detail that a hat pin had been used.

“I guess it’s the best we could hope for,” Estelle said. She folded the paper and placed it carefully on Torrez’s desk.

He nodded at the tape. “That’s guesswork, I mean,” he said.

“For now it is,” Estelle persisted. “But there’s a pattern, Bobby. For the first time, we’ve got a motive. Hiring a private company to manage the landfill was Kevin Zeigler’s idea…it’s not something that the commissioners asked him to investigate. If Zeigler could push it through, guess who stands to lose his job.”

“Don Fulkerson, maybe.” Torrez nodded judiciously. “And we don’t know that, either. There’s the chance a private company would hire him.”

“True, that’s a chance. But he has a nice little empire up there on the hill. In fact, it’s a monopoly. Skim the cream off the top, and he can haul a load to the flea market every week. That’s a pretty good deal.”

“He ain’t gettin’ rich,” Torrez said skeptically.

“No, but it’s all his. He says that Zeigler was up there early Tuesday to pick up paperwork of some kind. I believe him. There’s no reason for him to deny that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kevin was trying to make sure he had the most up-to-date paperwork on the tonnage that passes through that place. Kurtz told me that they weigh everything, and charge if the load exceeds five hundred pounds.”

“Depends who you are,” Torrez said. “Do you think Zeigler went back later in the day?”

“I think that could have been one of Zeigler’s noontime errands. What if he didn’t have everything he needed? What if Fulkerson didn’t provide all the data that he wanted? Zeigler was a number cruncher, Bobby-and I don’t think Don Fulkerson spends his days in front of a computer. I think it would be natural to have friction between the two men. I can see Kevin zipping up there at lunch to meet with Fulkerson, to get the correct paperwork before the agenda item comes up. Maybe while he was there, the two of them had an argument, and whether by accident or design, Fulkerson took his chance. I get the impression that there was no love lost between them.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Torrez smirked.

Estelle felt double relief that she hadn’t bothered to pass on Fulkerson’s “Miss Ziggy” comment. “The landfill is closed on Tuesdays,” she said, “so there’s no witnesses. Fulkerson dumps the body, and then he’s left with a problem.”

“No shit, he’d have a problem. For one thing, there’s the truck.”

Estelle nodded. “Don Fulkerson is one of those clever people, Bobby. I think that he has a pretty high opinion of himself. He’s one of those country sages who is quick at contempt for strangers, outsiders, or just plain fancy folks. He doesn’t have a high opinion of Kevin Zeigler. I can easily imagine sparks between those two. And I can see Fulkerson thinking to himself, what would present more of a clever puzzle than us finding Zeigler’s truck right in his own driveway. It would be sure to throw us off.”

“Maybe.” Torrez still sounded dubious, but Estelle could see the mental gears grinding.

“Look-Doris Marens saw the truck. At least she says that she did. And think about the little things. The truck drives by slowly, not in Zeigler’s usual fashion. The driver spikes the brakes a couple of houses early.”

“None of that…,” Torrez said, and waved a hand. “I’d hate to have this case depend on her testimony. I can imagine what a good lawyer would do with her. By the time he was finished, nothing she had to say would be worth a damn.”

“None of it by itself is worth a damn,” Estelle said vehemently. “But together? He drives the truck back to Candelaria Court, and parks it in the driveway. Bobby, I could smell him in that truck. He pulls in, and there’s Carmen Acosta, standing at the kitchen door. She sees him. And the game is up. It’s all over, because what would happen if the most thick-witted cop asks her, ‘All right, Carmen, did you see anyone at Zeigler’s today?’ What’s she going to say? ‘Why, sure. This grubby guy in a greasy coat who sure looks a lot like our landfill manager.’” Estelle snapped her fingers. “Busted.”

“Carmen wouldn’t stand a chance against Don Fulkerson,” Bobby said.

“You bet she wouldn’t.” She balled her fist. “The lug wrench is handy, lying right there on the truck’s floor, in plain sight. He charges after her. Can you imagine him slamming into that door, just as she’s trying to close and lock it? At one point, somewhere in the house, she gets in maybe one good lick with the hat pin before he grabs her hand and wham. It’s all over.”

Torrez tossed the pencil down. “I don’t suppose you saw a nice wound on Fulkerson’s arm or something like that.”

“No. But working up there all day long, they probably cut and nick themselves all the time.”

Torrez swung his feet down and stood up. “I have a serious question for you.” Estelle looked expectant. “Why Zeigler’s driveway, Estelle. Why not just drive back to the county building?” He held up a hand as he answered his own question. “Sure. Too many people. Too many eyes.”

“I thought of this, too. Remember Freddy Acosta? What if Fulkerson saw Freddy, strolling toward downtown? This is a small town, Bobby. It’s a certainty that Fulkerson knows Freddy, and he may even have a rough idea where he lives. He saw Tony Acosta riding bikes with Kevin and William-it’s entirely possible that he knows where they live. Tony told me that when they were out riding, the ‘guy at the landfill’ wolf-whistled at them, and that Kevin then muttered something not very complimentary in confidence to William Page. Well, think about it. Later, Fulkerson sees Freddy, who’s maybe walking right up Bustos, and figures that’s a chance to park the truck without anyone seeing him.”

“Maybe so.”

“And the tire? The tire ends up on the county pile, not at the landfill.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Do you want to place bets about that black paint?”

“You think Zeigler had a flat tire up at the landfill, then.”

“What makes more sense? Sure, the tire should have just been tossed in the back of Kevin’s truck. But it wasn’t, somehow. Forgotten in the heat of argument, maybe. I don’t know. When it’s all over, what if Fulkerson goes back to the landfill and oops…there it is. He’s got to get rid of it. He wouldn’t want it at the landfill. It’s too risky. If it was found, he’d be implicated right away.”

“I don’t know. I don’t see why it would be apt to be found. He could bury it anytime…”

“Because Fulkerson can’t know if Kevin told someone what his errands were. Did he mention to his secretary that he had to go up the hill? The simplest thing is to get rid of it, just in case someone starts snooping around.”

“Tossing it on the back of the pile down at the county barns sure does that.”

“Even if by chance it’s found, Bobby, it directs our attention that way.”

“The last thing he’d do, though, is toss the tire up on the headache rack of his truck when he’s driving around,” Torrez said.

“Maybe he didn’t do that. Maybe that was just an accidental scrub when he was getting ready to toss it across the fence. I can see him doing that. He stops, tosses the tire up on the rack, climbs up there himself, and over it goes. A nice high vantage point for a hard toss.”

Torrez nodded toward the television set. “The only thing on that tape is that Fulkerson comes back from lunch way late, and Zeigler doesn’t come back at all. And when he does come back, Fulkerson is not wearing his coat. Well, it ain’t exactly cold out, either.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s just one more little point. Why should he be late, on the very day when it’s likely that Zeigler’s going to talk about the landfill thing with the commission? It’s not like he has to drive thirty miles to be there, Bobby.”

“Maybe he’s not the punctual sort. Maybe he just likes irritating Zeigler.”

“Maybe.” She ticked off several fingers. “Too many little things that point to him. They’re adding up. Plus, it would be to his advantage to be at the meeting if they started discussing the landfill in Zeigler’s absence. Fulkerson would be in a perfect position to throw a wrench in the whole idea, without fear of contradiction.”

Torrez heaved a deep sigh, glanced at his watch, and leaned back again. “I got one naggin’ question. You want to guess what it is?”

“Just one?”

“Well, let’s start with this one,” Torrez said. “Fulkerson parks the truck in Zeigler’s driveway. Sees Carmen. Does his thing with the handy lug wrench. That’s slick, ’cause folks are going to blame Zeigler, right? Well, then what? Fulkerson is on foot, and the old bat down the street doesn’t see him walk by. No one does. Where’s he go?”

“Do you know where Don Fulkerson lives, Bobby? I didn’t, until I checked this afternoon.”

“Yeah, I know where he lives. I think he’s the last trailer in that mobile-home park off Camino del Sol. He’s got about half of that landfill collected in his backyard.”

“And Camino del Sol becomes County Road Nineteen when it leaves the village limits. He doesn’t even need to go back out Candelaria Court to MacArthur.” She walked over to the small whiteboard bolted to the sheriff’s office wall and quickly drew a simple map. “Right out the back of Zeigler’s property to Arroyo del Cerdo. Cross Bustos out there beyond Sissons’, walk maybe a thousand yards of cross-lots to his place.”

“Yup.”

“His motorcycle was at the landfill today, Bobby. So was his truck. What if on Tuesday, his bike was at his house? I mean, that’s the normal thing, isn’t it? He drops off Zeigler’s truck, runs cross-lots back to his own place, then rides the motorcycle back to the landfill. Maybe that’s when he sees the forgotten tire. He parks the bike and takes the truck. Tire goes on the county pile, he shows up back at he meeting when he’s sure that he’s covered his tracks.”

“Huh.”

“He had the motive, he had the opportunity. And he certainly had the means.”

Torrez studiously regarded a wart on his left thumb knuckle. “You want to go up there?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I want to find Kevin Zeigler, Bobby. Whatever it takes. I’d like to look around up there without either Fulkerson or Kurtz knowing…maybe in the office, around the grounds. Then, if we need to take a crew up there to sift through two days of trash, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Two days? There’ll be more than that.”

“Not if it happened the way I think it did. Bart Kurtz said that they cover the week’s collection on Sunday night when the landfill is closed. It’s closed Tuesday, too. So we have the collection from Wednesday and today uncovered in the pit.”

“Change your clothes, and let’s go take a look,” Torrez said.