Dead Weight

Chapter Twenty-six

The state’s regional crime lab in Las Cruces was efficient and dedicated, but they couldn’t create what didn’t exist.

On the original letters, the fingerprints were easy to match. The addressee’s prints were clear in each case, and in one instance where I’d been careless with Dr. Gray’s copy, one of my own thumbs had left a record. Sam Carter’s letter bore several prints, both his and an unidentified second party’s.

Taffy Hines had been true to her word. She stopped by the Sheriff’s Department on her way to work and allowed Brent Sutherland to lift a set of prints. He managed the task in the sort of self-conscious, clumsy way that rookies do until they’ve processed about a hundred sets. I looked at the card when he’d finished, pretended that I could see all the little swirls, gigs, and arches, and nodded approval.

Deputy Mears was our resident fingerprint expert, and he’d do a formal comparison when he came in at 4:00. But my eyes were good enough to convince me that the unidentified prints were Taffy’s. That made perfect sense and supported her contention that she’d handled the letter when it was offered to her by Sam Carter.

Other than that, nothing. Whoever had sent the letters, or dropped them off, had been careful…very careful. And that in itself answered some questions. Whoever had sent the sorry little notes had been just as concerned that he or she not be caught as with having the notes read by all the right people.

Even before the morning sun had a chance to heat up the garbage and flies in the alley behind Carter’s Family SuperMarket, Deputies Richard Johnson and Sutherland, who claimed to have nothing better to do once Gayle Sedillos took day dispatch, were sifting methodically through the dumpster, looking for a plain, white number-10 envelope.

I was willing to bet a month’s pay that no postmarked envelope existed. What was the point, I reasoned, in hand-delivering all but Sam Carter’s copy, trusting only that one to the postal service? All of the notes had arrived at their destinations in plain white envelopes, unsealed, unstamped, unpostmarked. I had no reason to suspect that Sam’s would be different.

The garbage excavation was probably a massive waste of time, considering the other drains on our resources at that moment. But I had my reasons. Bob Torrez was heading the investigation into the death of Jim Sisson, and when he needed me to do something specific for him, he’d say so.

Much of my interest in the Pasquale notes, I cheerfully admitted, was ego. I wasn’t about to let someone smear a department of which I was justifiably proud during the final months of my tenure-and I wasn’t about to let someone ruin the career of a young man who’d done nothing wrong, beyond having his name come to mind.

If we found the plain envelope, with no evidence of its having been mailed, I knew damn well what Sam Carter would say:

“Sorry, boys. My mistake. I guess it wasn’t mailed, after all. But it came into my office with the mail, heh, heh, so I guess that’s what I meant.”

And if we found nothing at all? “Well, gosh, boys, I know it was there. You must have just missed it.” At least the three of us provided some comic relief for folks driving to work who glanced toward the rear of the supermarket and saw me standing beside the dumpster, directing the efforts of the two dump rats inside.

We were lucky-or rather the deputies were lucky, since they were the ones who climbed inside to smell the roses. The dumpsters held primarily commercial waste-crushed boxes and the like, with a few little soggy, smelly, rotting surprises.

By 9:15, we’d-they’d-reached the bottom of all three units. Sam Carter had the grace not to come outside to say, “Well, you must have just missed it.”

Brent was exploring one last corner when the undersheriff’s patrol car idled to a stop beside mine. Bob Torrez got out, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Now, this is interesting,” he said, and I shrugged.

“You never know where your next meal comes from, Robert,” I said.

“Oh, yes, I do,” he said, and he didn’t have to elaborate. I knew that Gayle Torrez could manufacture her own brand of magic in the kitchen, and I was surprised that the undersheriff’s waistline hadn’t started to spread after even a short period of marital bliss.

“Any luck?” Bob added.

“No.”

“Do you think Sam Carter is lying?”

“Yes.”

“Any ideas why?”

“Other than the obvious political ones, no. Except it might just be in his nature. I think he’s embarrassed that he got caught being indiscreet.”

Torrez leaned against the front fender of his car and folded his arms across his chest. “Speaking of being indiscreet, I’ve got a couple of things that I need to run by you, when you have a chance.”

I grinned at him and stepped away from the dumpster, trying without success to avoid the greasy chocolate puddle strategically placed in front of it. I swore and stamped some of the muck off my shoes.

“What did you find out?”

He turned and reached inside the car for one of his black vinyl notepads. “First of all, I swung by Vicente Garcia’s, just on the off-chance that he might talk to me, and on the off-chance that the Sissons had some other insurance with State Mutual besides their auto policies.”

“Why shouldn’t Garcia talk to you?” I chuckled. “He’s your cousin.”

“Well, but professional ethics, you know. Vicente did ask me if I was going to get a court order if he didn’t answer my questions, and I told him that either I would or the district attorney would. I told him I’d go get one right then, if it’d make him feel better. I guess that was good enough for him. Besides, it turns out it might be in his company’s best interests.”

“Let me guess,” I said, half-turned to watch Brent Sutherland vault out of the dumpster. “There’s some life insurance.”

“Yep. State Mutual holds the Sissons’ auto, home, business, and life. The whole package.”

“How much life insurance?”

“Not all that big a deal. One hundred thousand is the limit on either spouse.” He flipped open the notebook and scanned his figures. “No double indemnity or anything fancy like that.”

“But still a nice, round figure,” I said. “How old is the policy?”

“They took it out eight years ago.”

I frowned. “Huh. Nothing recent, then.”

“No, sir. They took it out four years after their youngest kid was born. Vicente Garcia said that the kid needed some expensive corrective orthopedic surgery on one leg, and Jim and Grace took out the policy then, in case something should happen to one or both of them. The kid’s needs would be provided for, no matter what.”

“Smart planning,” I said. “If either of them dies, the surviving spouse gets a hundred grand. They had health insurance?”

“Yes, but not with State Mutual. It’s that HMO that the chamber of commerce sponsors.”

“Makes sense. So they were well insured, from A to Z. Someone knew how to plan. Grace and the kids are provided for…at least for the near future. A hundred thousand is no fortune, but it’ll stretch quite a ways, if you do it carefully.”

“Right. Unless there’s a crime involved. Vicente said his company is holding off until we’re finished with our investigation. If it’s murder, then Grace’s only recourse is a civil action against the killer’s estate.”

I nodded. “Interesting. What else?”

Before he could answer, Sutherland and Johnson appeared at my elbow after heaving the last of the boxes back into the dumpsters. I held up my hands helplessly. “Thanks, gentlemen. Sorry it didn’t pay off.”

With exquisite timing, the solid back door of the supermarket opened as the two deputies were driving off in Johnson’s patrol car. Sam Carter raised a finger in salute and minced around the puddles toward Torrez and me.

“So,” he said, “nothing?” He managed to sound disappointed.

“Nothing, Sam. But, as I said before, no big deal. I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.”

“Well, if it turns up…” he said, and let the thought drift off.

“Robert, how are you?” He stretched out his hand, and Torrez gave it a brief, polite pump, letting a nod suffice as an answer.

“Is Kenny still living at home?” the undersheriff asked, and the question was such an abrupt change of subject that for a few heartbeats Sam Carter went blank.

“Kenneth?”

“Yes. Your son.”

The grocer’s mental gears meshed and he nodded. “Oh, yeah. Well…I should say most of the time. When there’s laundry for his mother to do, and when he gets hungry.” Carter smiled lamely. “You know how they are. Why? I mean, why do you ask?”

Torrez tossed the black notebook back on the front seat of his car and then straightened up. He was a full head taller than Sam Carter, and he leaned his elbow on the roof of the patrol car and regarded the chairman of the county commission for a moment.

“He was spending quite a bit of time with Jennifer Sisson. I’d like to talk with him, see if I can clear up a few things.”

Carter’s head jerked with disapproval. “I guess there are probably a lot of girls that he spends time with, and as far as I know, the Sisson girl might well be one of them. I don’t know. But what did you need to clear up? What kinds of things?”

“One of the deputies saw your son that night and Jennifer Sisson as well. There’s a chance that they spent some time together. If there’s even a remote possibility that Kenny knows something or heard something, then I need to talk to him.”

Carter grimaced. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “You guys are really on a wild-goose chase with this one.”

Torrez and I both looked at Carter with renewed interest.

“And now why is that, Sam?” I said.

“Well, Christ, the man got careless and dropped a big tire on himself. Everybody says that’s what happened. Stupid thing to do, working late like that, bad light. Somebody told me they’d been arguing all day, so Jim’s upset. Hell, I can see that. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“Maybe so,” I mused. “But until we clear up all the inconsistencies, then we’re just going to plod along.”

Sam Carter, chairman of the county commission and successful supermarket owner, drew himself up to his full five feet, eight inches and painted on his best sanctimonious face, the one he used in commission meetings when some worthy agency was asking for a budget increase. “Just remember, Sheriff, that you’ve got a widow and four children sitting at home. Don’t plod too slowly.”

“I’m sure they’ll be well taken care of,” I said.

Carter nodded slowly. “I’m asking the Posadas State Bank to initiate an account for them, so we have someplace to put donations.”

“That’s good.” I didn’t bother to add that it was going to be interesting to see just how much sympathy and goodwill Grace Sisson’s acid tongue would reap. “She’s got some close friends, I’m sure.” I knew of one, but Taffy Hines didn’t fit my description of a deep-pocketed financial benefactor.

“Where’s Kenny working this summer? Out of town somewhere?” Bob Torrez asked.

“Yes, he is,” Sam said. “He’s got just a few weeks left until he goes back to school. He’s working with LaCrosse, over in Deming.”

“Then maybe I’ll swing by this afternoon, when he gets home. You might tell him I need to talk with him.” Torrez reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to Carter.

“If I haven’t seen him by the time you do, have him give me a call.”

Carter nodded. “OK. I don’t know what he can tell you, but I’ll mention it to him.”

When Carter had gone back inside, Torrez looked at me and grinned. “You want odds that Kenny Carter knocked up the Sisson kid?”

“No,” I said. “And I wonder if Sam Carter knows.”

“Probably not.”

“Parents are usually the last ones to hear the joyous news,” I said. “And I can’t imagine that Kenny would have gone over to confront Jim Sisson, either. That doesn’t fit what kids do.”

“It’s interesting that he works for LaCrosse, though.”

“Which LaCrosse are you talking about?”

“LaCrosse Construction, over in Deming. Lots of heavy equipment.” He smiled and opened the door of his car. “Good place for a little experience. Maybe the kid’s got some talent with a backhoe that LaCrosse doesn’t know about.”