Double Prey

Chapter Twenty-four

The packrat had been busy. His collection formed a veritable rodent mansion, a vast mess six feet across and eighteen inches high, filling a shelf under the ragged overhang of limestone, dried roots, and a scattering of plants tough enough to survive.

Tony Abeyta used a small army shovel to transfer the rodent’s hard work a bit at a time into the screen shaker. Herb Torrance had found a piece of galvanized screening that had once formed the bottom of a rabbit hutch, and it had taken him no more than five minutes to build a two foot wide, four foot long frame from cast-off lumber, creating a rough version of the archeologist’s site sifter.

Unable to resist the pull of curiosity, Torrance had arrived at the site a few minutes after Abeyta. He and Miles Waddell stood down in the parking lot that the wide spot in the two-track had become, smoking and talking with Bill Gastner. The retiring livestock inspector had assigned himself the task of keeping civilians out of the crime scene, and he’d retreated to the vehicles with Waddell and Torrance. The ranchers provided an interesting comparison, and Estelle saw Linda Real zoom her lens to take their portraits-Waddell slender, elegant, almost effeminate in his precise movements, while Herb Torrance looked elderly and battered, a stoop now in his bony shoulders, a bad knee that gave him a hitch, and a face lined and blotched from too much sun.

The two men watched the operation up slope with interest and a continuous cloud of cigarette smoke.

The quarter inch squares of the sifter were coarse enough that most of the rodent’s collection was caught for examination. The little creature showed an affinity for strips of inner bark from juniper, no doubt a fragrant, soft lining for his bed chamber. The small, stunted acorns from scrub oak, several steel staples that had drifted loose from a barbed-wire fence post somewhere, bits of this and that-the collection was vast and aromatic, at least aromatic from the rodent’s point of view.

On the eighth shovelful shook out on the sifter, Tony Abeyta said sharply, “Hold it a minute.” Doug Posey and Bob Torrez had been manning the crude device, and they waited patiently while Abeyta flicked bits and pieces to one side. The metallic wink that had attracted the deputy turned out to be an irregular bit just large enough that it had jammed in the screen rather than passing through. “Linda?”

Linda Real leaned forward, focused quickly as Abeyta pointed with a pencil.

“Okay.”

The deputy flicked the fragment loose.

“Part of a molar,” Estelle said. She nudged the fragment into a small plastic evidence bag. “A gold cap.” She glanced at the sheriff, whose face remained expressionless. Holding it up, she rotated the bag this way and that. The flavorful root of the tooth had been gnawed down, leaving the glob of gold and traces of adhesive.

The eight shovelfuls of detritus had barely dented the voluminous nest, and Abeyta resumed his excavations energetically, digging deep into the rodent’s favorite stashes. Another tooth followed shortly, this one still embedded in a fragment of jawbone.

Concentrating on the screen’s surface so hard that her eyes started to water, Estelle straightened at the sound of a vehicle, expecting to see Dr. Alan Perrone’s BMW. Instead, two state police cruisers lurched along the two-track, the first a large SUV, followed by one of the ubiquitous black and white Crown Victorias.

“A convention,” Torrez muttered.

“More help with the sifter,” Estelle said cheerfully. The two vehicles parked behind Waddell’s truck. In a few moments, after a short chat with Bill Gastner and the two ranchers, State Police Lieutenant Mark Adams reached the boulder, accompanied by a young officer whom Estelle didn’t recognize.

“Whoa,” Abeyta said, and the shaker stopped. Linda’s digital camera snicked another series, and Estelle bent close, slipping her pen into the mouth of the single shell casing. She tipped the case upward to read the head-stamp markings.

“Forty Smith and Wesson,” she said.

“So there we go.” The sheriff watched her tip the casing into another evidence bag. “Just about impossible to thumb cartridges into a magazine without leaving a print. There are some clear ones on the cartridges in the pistol’s magazine, and they ain’t Freddy’s. I’ll bet on that. ‘Course, with this one, by the time the skin oils dry out, the case gets rolled and licked and kissed by the rat and all his buddies, I wouldn’t like to bet on prints.”

“I’ll take what we get,” Estelle said. “At the moment, the rat’s our ally here.” She saw Torrez smile a greeting at someone behind her, and the undersheriff turned to see Mark Adams as he stepped carefully around the tarp. The lieutenant said something to his companion, who remained by the corner of the boulder.

“Sir, how’s it going?” she asked.

“What in the hell do you guys have going on here?” Adams said. “Hey, Linda. How’s my favorite shutterbug?”

“She’s fine,” Linda replied. “Welcome to the party.”

“This is Charlie Esquibel,” the lieutenant said. “New to the district.” He half turned and made quick introductions, then lowered his voice as his gaze swept over the scatter on the tarp. “So. Do we know who?”

“Nope,” Torrez said. “But we’re gonna know.”

“I have no doubt of that.” Adams knelt on the limestone projection just to the right of the entrance. “Interesting coincidence.”

“Which one?” Estelle asked.

“Fatality in the canyon sometime yesterday, and now this, right in the same neighborhood.” The state policeman looked around at the blue tarp, where Deputy Tom Pasquale, earlier relieved at the homestead site by Jackie Taber, had extended his shift to help instead of going home to bed, where he belonged. “The newspaper said that the jaguar was found over by Borracho. That’s not the case?”

“It was found right here.” Torrez pointed at the tarp. “Those bones above the tape are all the cat.”

Adams regarded the bones with a frown. “So why did the kid lie?”

“Because he found them here, ” Estelle said, “among other things. And right now, it’s the other things that we’re concerned with.”

“Found like what?”

“We found a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic pistol in the carry-all of the boy’s ATV. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it came from here.”

Adams stepped closer to the tarp and leaned over, examining the dusty holster. “In that?”

“No, sir. Not when he found it. Nothing’s been in that holster for a very long time. At one time, it’s likely that the gun was. That’s what makes sense to me.”

He stood up and walked around the tarp, punching Tom Pasquale lightly on the shoulder as he stepped around him. “You stayin’ out of trouble?”

“You bet, sir.”

Adams knelt and gazed at the skull, tipping his head this way and that, his fingers laced together as if to prevent the impulse to reach out and touch. “Somebody put one right through his brain.”

“It appears that way.”

The lieutenant looked up quickly and grinned at Estelle’s reticence. “Perrone’s on his way. We passed him on the way out.” He stood up and brushed off the knee of his black trousers. “What can I do? What do you need?”

“I think we’re set, unless someone hits the bank while we’re all playin’ around out here,” Torrez said.

Adams chuckled. “Mighty impressive ‘playing,’ folks. What tipped you off to this location?” He glanced down the hill toward the two ranchers.

“Freddy was here,” Estelle said. “We wanted to know why.”

“Ah. There’s that.” Adams nodded. “Tell you what, we’ll keep a car central until you tell us otherwise,” he said. “Is there anything from the mobile lab that you need?”

“Don’t know yet, but thanks.” The sheriff nodded toward the angular-featured Esquibel, who had yet to speak a single word. Fresh out of the academy, the young state policeman hadn’t yet acquired the easy self-confidence enjoyed by his lieutenant.

“Not much in the way of clothing left,” Adams mused. “Some little bits of shirt, maybe. Khaki trousers. Turn up a wallet?”

“Not yet,” Estelle replied. “No wallet, no rings, no pocket change, no pocket knife or utility tool. One boot.”

“One boot? You’re shitting me. Really? This is a hell of a country to be hikin’ around barefoot.”

“Coyote dragged one off, more than likely,” Torrez said.

The lieutenant looked down the hill at the two ranchers, both of whom had now settled on the tailgate of Herb Torrance’s pickup, enjoying their conversation with Bill Gastner. “What do the neighbors have to say?”

“That’s still to come,” Estelle said.

“This is Waddell’s land now, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Adams pointed off into the distance. A small, dark shape meandered along the two-track, driving slowly enough that it raised little dust. “Here comes the good doctor,” he said. “Be interesting to hear what he has to say.”