Convenient Disposal

Chapter Four

The sheriff was leaning against the wall, the copier and drinking fountain between him and the double doors leading into the County Commission chambers. His eyes were fixed on the polished tile floor. Like a bobble-head doll caught in a light breeze, his nod was slight but continuous. While he nodded, Posadas Mayor Peter Lujan talked, bent at the waist and intent, one crooked and arthritic finger hooked within striking distance of Robert Torrez’s nose.

The sheriff glanced up as Estelle entered. His shoulders straightened, the nod increased, and he reached out a mammoth paw to rest on Lujan’s shoulder as if searching for the on-off switch. Before he could disengage himself, a group of four men directly in front of the chamber doors dissolved, three heading inside and one making a beeline for Estelle.

“You’ve come to join the fun?” Dr. Arnold Gray said cheerfully. He extended a hand, and his chiropractor’s grip was firm.

“Sure,” Estelle replied. Gray was unshakable in his support of the proposal that the county should provide police services to the village, but his quiet logic hadn’t made much of a dent on Barney Tinneman’s doubts. As chairman of the commission, Gray’s philosophy was to let others talk until the matter was resolved or reached a head. Estelle knew that the issue of the Village of Posadas abandoning its police force in favor of contracted services from the county had been jawed to death during various workshops and public meetings. Half a dozen stories had appeared in the Posadas Register before the village had voted in favor of the move, and waited patiently for the county to reach consensus.

Gray glanced at his watch. “Just about showtime.” He flashed a quick smile as he turned toward the chambers. “I’ll see you inside.”

Sheriff Torrez finally managed to break away from Mayor Lujan and strode toward Estelle-or perhaps toward the outside door behind her.

“What was the deal at the school?” he asked, voice low.

“A girl with a hat pin,” Estelle said.

“You’re kidding.”

“No. A nice, six-inch-long steel hat pin. She had it laced in the inseam of her jeans.”

“That’s slick.” He nodded at the county attorney who hustled into the building at that moment, favored them with a curt nod, and then vanished into the chambers. Torrez looked back at Estelle. “Zeigler found you, I assume.”

“Yes. He said that Tinneman is still a roadblock.”

Torrez muttered something and shook his head. “That old fart just likes to hear himself talk.” He glanced back toward the doorway. “I guess they’re about ready. I was thinkin’ that I probably have some work I have to do, somewhere.”

Estelle laughed. “Be brave, sir.” She took the sheriff by the elbow and steered him gently toward the meeting room. “Is Eddie here?”

“Sure.” Torrez grumbled. “He’s already been on the hot seat.” Estelle found it hard to believe that anyone could make the smooth, quick-witted police chief uncomfortable. “Well,” Torrez added with a sigh, “let’s give ’em a few more minutes.”

The commission chambers were not crowded, but a respectable showing of residents were scattered throughout the small auditorium. Chief Eddie Mitchell had settled halfway back on the right side, one seat in from the aisle. Estelle slipped into that spot, and he looked up from the magazine he’d been reading. Sheriff Torrez settled with a great creaking of leather and clanking of hardware into the seat directly behind her.

Mitchell leaned toward Estelle, his voice a loud stage whisper. “Weighty matters,” he said.

“So I hear.” Estelle scanned the room. “Are we going to have a vote today?”

“Ho, ho.”

Four of the five commissioners were spaced around the huge semicircular table, a welter of microphones, papers, folders, and files marking each spot, including the empty seat where Tina Archuleta would normally sit. To the right, County Clerk Stacey Roybal hunched over her desk, sipping from a thermal cup and studying a thick computer readout, while at her elbow newspaper editor Pam Gardiner leaned on the edge of the dais, probing something in the document with her pencil eraser. Only Roybal’s rimless granny glasses prevented her from looking twelve years old, tiny in comparison with the mountainous editor.

Commission Chairman Dr. Arnold Gray settled in his seat, glanced around the room, hesitated, then hefted the gavel. He leaned and said something to Barney Tinneman, seated to his right. Both men laughed. Gray rapped the gavel twice, and people dove for their seats. Estelle watched Pam Gardiner settle in the front row, voluminous handbag and camera case near at hand.

Gray nudged the microphone a bit. “We’re back,” he said by way of greeting. “For better or worse.” He grinned toward the back corner where a short, sober man stood beside a large tripod-mounted video camera. “You have a fresh tape in that thing, Milt?” The man shifted his feet and looked uncomfortable when several members of the audience snickered. At every meeting she had ever attended in Posadas County, Estelle had seen Crowley filming from beginning to end. He and his camera were a fixture. What he then did with the tapes was a closely guarded mystery, beyond simply owning them as proof should some public servant step out of line. His small ranch was allegedly studded with hand-painted signs threatening trespassers and warning of the dangers of government-whether in the form of tax assessors, the U.S. Forest Service, the Internal Revenue Service, or the Highway Department.

“All right,” Gray continued. “As I remember, when we adjourned, Mr. Tinneman had the floor.”

“Now that’s unusual,” Barry Swartz said. He was seated at the extreme left, beside the county clerk. Sales manager at Chavez Chevrolet-Oldsmobile, he was a burly man with a quick smile who favored the rumpled look.

Tinneman didn’t hesitate. “When we adjourned for lunch, Chief Mitchell was just wrapping up,” he said. “Chief, did you have anything to add?”

Mitchell shook his head.

“Then I have a few more questions both for the sheriff and the county manager.” He hesitated, glancing toward the rear of the chambers. The county manager’s desk was situated in the back of the small auditorium, near the large framed county map. Kevin Zeigler preferred to face the commission from behind the audience, rather than taking a place up on the dais. Frequently needing either documents from his office across the hall or summoned to the phone, Zeigler could come and go from his vantage in the back without disturbing the commission.

“Kevin’s on a power lunch,” Tinneman said with a smirk. He glanced across the dais. “And so is Tina, I guess.”

“She had an errand,” Dr. Gray intoned. “And Kevin will be here shortly, I’m sure.”

“Well, let’s get started anyway.” With an audible sigh, Torrez had lurched out of his seat. There were two microphone-equipped podiums in the commission chambers for members of the audience to use-one near the commissioners’ dais on the far side of the hall, and one in the back, by the double entry doors. Crowley had set up his camera just to the left of the rear podium, where the sheriff chose to go…as far as possible from the commissioners and as close as possible to the exit doors.

With his camera, Crowley could cover either the speaker at the guest microphone, or the commission-but not both simultaneously. He chose to pan the commissioners.

“Sheriff, I’m still confused about this one basic issue”-and Tinneman held up his right index finger while he scanned the papers in front of him.

“He’s confused about more than that,” Chief Mitchell muttered to Estelle.

“My concern is coverage,” Tinneman continued. “Small as the village department is, we’ve always got someone on duty…even if it’s just one person.”

“Actually, that’s not true,” Torrez said, and it sounded more like an aside.

“What’s not true?” Tinneman looked up sharply.

“The village department has three and a half employees,” Torrez said slowly. “The chief already testified to that. One secretary, one chief, one patrolman, and a part-time, noncertified officer who also serves as the animal control officer.”

“We’re aware of that.”

You’re aware of all of this, Estelle thought, wondering how many times the same issue needed to be mauled before a decision could be made.

“You can’t cover twenty-four/seven with two and a half people, Mr. Tinneman. It’s physically impossible,” Torrez said.

“Three and a half,” Tinneman interjected.

“The secretary doesn’t go out on patrol,” Mitchell said from the audience.

“Well, all right,” Tinneman persisted. “But we’re covered most of the time, are we not? During the busy times, like evenings, weekends?”

“I suppose,” Torrez conceded. “If you can predict when ‘busy’ is going to be.”

“Well, see…I want to know how the county can provide better coverage than that from outside the village. That’s all I’m saying. And that’s what I’ve been arguing all along, ever since we first had this notion tossed on the floor.”

“Eighty-five percent of our responses to emergency calls are within the village limits,” Torrez said. “Not counting traffic stops.”

“That’s most of them,” Tinneman said, and Swartz muttered an aside that drew a chuckle from Dr. Gray. Tinneman ignored them. “So in your mind, there’s no trouble picking up the slack.”

“I don’t see it as slack,” Torrez responded. “For one thing, we plan to increase our manpower by two full-time officers.”

“Isn’t it true that there are times now when there is only one deputy on the road? One deputy for the whole county?”

“Yes.”

“One deputy for the entire county?”

“Yes,” Torrez responded patiently.

“So if there’s a call within the village, that leaves no one on the road out in the county?”

“There’s usually a state police officer within range.”

“Usually. But not always.” When Torrez didn’t respond, Tinneman relaxed back in his chair. “Sheriff, who’s on duty for the county right now?” He rapped the dais with a stiff index finger. “Right at this moment? Who’s working?”

“Me, the undersheriff, and one deputy.”

“Is that deputy certified?”

“No. Not yet.”

“So essentially, it’s you two, then.” He swept a finger to include Torrez and Estelle. “And you’re stuck in here. Right now, who’s on duty in the village?”

Mitchell shifted in his seat. “Officer Sisneros,” he said.

Tinneman frowned, looked first to the right, and then to the left as if caught in a profound conundrum. “See, that’s the thing. Is Tuesday afternoon considered a high-crime time around here?” Someone in the audience laughed, but Tinneman held the pose until Torrez responded.

“No, sir. It’s not.”

“And yet we have five officers on duty.”

“No, sir, we don’t.”

“Well, explain to me, then.”

“Myself, the chief, and the undersheriff are always on call,” Torrez said. “We don’t work any particular shift. We’re around when we need to be. We’re here right now because of this meeting. As far as working officers are concerned, cops who are out in cars and able to respond to dispatch, you’ve got Sisneros in the village, and one uncertified deputy in the county.” A flicker of a smile touched the sheriff’s handsome face. “And if something major happens, you’d see the three of us headin’ out this door.”

“And so how is that coverage going to improve with this merger?”

“It’s not.” When Tinneman looked triumphant, Torrez added, “The only way coverage is going to improve is to hire more staff. Merging the two departments saves some money spent on-”

When he stopped short, groping for the right word, Gray leaned forward. “Infrastructure?”

“That’s it.”

“Now here’s the question,” Tinneman said. “Is the amount of money that the village will spend to contract with us instead of having their own department sufficient …”-he lingered on the word-”is it sufficient to provide the extra patrol officers that you say you need?”

“Probably not.”

The silence hung for a moment as Tinneman assumed that the sheriff planned to amplify his answer. When Torrez didn’t, the commissioner shrugged his shoulders. “I just don’t see how we can take this on,” he said wearily.

“No one will ever spend enough to do the job right,” Commissioner Dulci Corona said. She shook her head in disgust.

“Well, that’s not the case-,” Tinneman started to say.

“Yes, it is the case,” Corona snapped, sounding like the grade school teacher she had been for thirty years. “No one wants to pay for police, but everyone will complain when an officer doesn’t show up in ten seconds when he’s called. We have an opportunity now to do something right. We can have a well-organized department that’s responsive in both the village and the county. We just might have to pay for it.”

“And that money comes from where?” Tinneman asked.

“There’s always money,” Corona said. “That’s the county manager’s job. To find it.”

Tinneman glanced back toward Zeigler’s still-empty desk. He ducked his head, turning toward Dr. Gray. “Was Kevin coming back this afternoon?”

Gray nodded. “As far as I know.”

“I have a couple of budget questions I want to explore with him,” Tinneman said. Torrez was already headed for his seat. “Sheriff, do you have your budget with you?”

Torrez hesitated, frowning. He settled into his seat when he saw Estelle raise her hand in response.

“Ah, you’re the departmental budget guru, Undersheriff?” Tinneman asked. He smiled benignly as Estelle rose and walked back to the podium. “Do you need to borrow some paper-work?” He held up a thick document.

“No, sir. I don’t think so.”

Milton Crowley swiveled the video camera so that its glass eye stared at her, and Estelle could hear it adjusting for the distance and dimmer light in the back of the room.

“Undersheriff Guzman, the chief told us this morning that his village department costs something like thirty-seven thousand dollars per person. Do I have that right?” Tinneman riffled through papers, stopped and underlined something with his pencil. “Counting salary, workman’s comp, benefits, vehicles, everything else, right down to the tissue paper in the restroom, it comes to just over a hundred thirty-one thousand for the department. That’s a little over thirty-seven thousand per person, if we divide it out that way.” He looked up at Estelle expectantly.

“Thirty-seven thousand four hundred seventy-three and sixty-nine cents,” Estelle said.

“Exactly,” Tinneman said with satisfaction. “I was going to ask Mr. Zeigler what the comparable figure for the sheriff’s department is. Would you happen to know?”

“If you take the total budget and divide it by the number of employees, the figure is just under forty-two thousand,” Estelle said.

“So the village PD actually costs less to operate than the sheriff’s department?” Somehow, Tinneman made it sound as if this astounding revelation hadn’t been hashed and rehashed in a half dozen meetings and conferences.

“We also run a small jail unit, sir. On top of that, we have civil law responsibilities that the village does not have. We also have a considerable fleet of vehicles. As you know, most deputies now take their vehicles home to cut response time.”

“It’s my understanding, though, that the village is offering right around one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars for the merger, though. That’s not even three officers, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Great deal for the village.”

Dulci Corona tossed her pencil on the desk. “I say that we accept the village offer and kick in enough for the Sheriff’s Department to hire three full-time officers. Let’s do this right.”

“I’d want to see the figures on that,” Tinneman said. “Can somebody give Kevin a call? We need him here. I think he fell into his martini or something.”

“Do you have any more questions for the undersheriff?” Dr. Gray asked.

“No, actually, I want to talk to the county manager,” Tinneman said doggedly.

“I’ll check for you,” Estelle said. Torrez turned and shot her an expression of impatience as she left the podium and slipped out the doors, irritated that she’d made her escape and he’d missed his chance. Across the foyer, Estelle saw Penny Barnes at her desk in the manager’s office.

“Barney wants to talk to Kevin,” Estelle said, and Penny made a face.

“Barney always wants to talk,” she said. “He’s not back from lunch yet?” She reached for the phone, dialed, and waited, then shook her head. “I’ll put a message on his pager.”

“He told me this morning that he had some errands.”

Penny reached forward and pulled the calendar closer. “He wanted to talk to one of the men over at the highway barn about some workman’s comp thing. That’s the only one I know about.” She looked up helpfully at Estelle. “You know…just errands.”

“How about at home?”

Penny tried that number without success. “He’s about the hardest man in the world to keep track of,” she said, snapping off the phone. She tapped a pile of papers at her left elbow. “If you see him before I do, tell him I need to bend his ear, too.”

Estelle reentered the commission meeting to find Dulci Corona once more holding the floor, determined this time to head off Barney Tinneman before the commissioner settled into yet another lengthy examination of things already well known. Gray glanced at Estelle with raised eyebrows, and the undersheriff shook her head and shrugged.

Undeterred, Corona offered the motion that would provide police services to the village. To Estelle’s surprise, and evidently to Barney Tinneman’s as well, Patric Sweeney immediately offered a second. When Tinneman ducked his head and appeared as if he was winding up to launch into another round of discussion, Dr. Gray straightened his shoulders and thumped his pencil down on the table.

“We have a motion and a second. Let’s call the question.”

County Clerk called the roll, and when his name was called, Tinneman wearily shook his head and voted in favor, making it unanimous. Estelle leaned toward Chief Eddie Mitchell, who had already agreed to return to the Sheriff’s Department as its only captain should the politicians actually make up their minds. “Welcome back, sir.”