Double Prey

Chapter Eight

“He never moved,” Dr. Alan Perrone said. The medical examiner had taken his time at the site, as if he had nowhere else to be than this desolate arroyo bottom, now starting to shimmer in the harsh sun. He glanced up at Linda Real. Her cameras had been busy. “You have what you need so far?”

“Sure do.”

“Let’s roll him over then.” He looked up at Estelle, at the same time pointing at Freddy Romero’s neck just under the ear. “If he was wearing the helmet, it wasn’t buckled on,” he said. He made a flipping motion with his hand, and Estelle helped him turn the body over. “I don’t think we’re going to have any surprises, but you never know.” Understanding the need for comprehensive documentation, Perrone worked patiently with Linda at each stage of the process, as if he were her assistant, never rushing, never demanding.

The ATV framework had smashed into the back of Freddy’s head. Had he been wearing the helmet, the wreckage would have caught him below its margin with the full weight of the four-wheeler behind the blow. Fancy paint job or not, the helmet would have done Freddy little good.

“My guess is that it crushed the cervical vertebrae and the occipital both,” Perrone said. “He never knew what hit him.” The victim’s expression was almost serene, as if he’d been enjoying the flight until the switch had been turned off.

Perrone commented on the shattered right shoulder, the broken left ankle, and finally the obvious lividity. After being smashed into the arroyo bottom, the victim hadn’t moved a centimeter. Blood had settled, the stagnant puddling in the lower tissues blotching the torso. “We’ll see more of that during the post,” Perrone said, and sat back on his haunches. “Sad business, as always. Your neighbor, am I right?”

“Yes,” Estelle replied. “Butch’s older brother.”

“Christ,” he said. “Francis was telling me about the fang in the eye. This family is having all their bad luck in one day.” He twisted and regarded the crumpled ATV. Even damaged, it was obvious that the machine was a veteran of many rough miles, the paint faded, the tires worn and irregular, the engine encrusted with oil varnish. “He wasn’t a newcomer to this.”

“No. I think he’d rather be out exploring than just about anything else. He should have been in school yesterday. Instead…” She let the thought go unfinished.

“Well,” Perrone said, pushing himself to his feet, “I’m finished here.” He looked up at the arroyo rim where Bill Gastner kept the two paramedics company. “No alcohol at the scene, apparently?”

“None that we’ve seen so far. There were two unopened cans of beer in the truck. None opened.”

Perrone nodded absently. “We’ll see. Right now, it looks like he made a simple mistake and overcooked it.” He reached out with his foot and gently nudged the exploded front tire with his boot. “Everything is going just hunky-dory, and then events conspire.”

They heard another vehicle, and a second white Expedition eased into view.

“That would be himself,” Perrone said. “Let me get out of here before the circus blocks me in.” He reached out a hand and touched Estelle on the arm. “I’ll let you know ASAP. But don’t expect any surprises.”

“Thanks, Alan.”

She saw the sheriff’s vehicle backing up, away from the paramedics’ unit. In a moment, Robert Torrez appeared in the arroyo bottom and trudged with no particular urgency down the center of the arroyo, where cattle tracks chewed the gravel. Fifty yards away he slowed to an amble, looking at this and that as he approached. At one point he stopped and turned to face down the arroyo toward the southwest. He scanned the edge of the cut, taking in the rise of ground where Bender’s Canyon trail skirted the edge, the sudden swell on top of which Estelle’s vehicle was parked corking the road.

He turned without approaching any closer and regarded the wreckage of the ATV and Freddy Romero.

“He was comin’ this way?” His voice barely audible.

“It appears so, yes. They didn’t keep you long today,” Estelle remarked.

Torrez grimaced. “Wasted trip. The DA knew that they were going to plea yesterday. He could have said something then.” He shrugged and crossed over to where Estelle was standing, towering over her by a foot. His dark features were impassive, but the eyes constantly surveyed the area, inventorying who was present, noting what might be out of place. His standard uniform of blue jeans and casual western style shirt hadn’t been modified even for a court date.

“The ATV caught him on the back of the neck,” Estelle said. “The accident is straight forward, I think. I just don’t know why he was over here.”

“There ain’t a postage stamp of ground where this kid hasn’t been,” the sheriff said with a touch of admiration. “You said his truck is over at the springs?”

“Yes. Right at the fork where 122 joins the county track. Ramps are down from the tailgate. He left his phone in the truck, along with a small cooler. Two cans of beer. None open.”

“Huh,” Torrez grunted. “So what’s with that, I wonder. He coulda just parked out on 14 and been half way here.”

“I just don’t know, Bobby. Our next step is to follow his tracks farther on up the trail. I’d like to know where he went…where he turned around. Whatever he was doing, or scouting, or hunting, it appears that he was on his way back. Maybe.”

“His folks know?”

“Not yet. APD is working on that.”

“What a day for them.”

“Did you read the article in the paper about the cat skull?”

Torrez nodded but offered no comment on the story.

“That’s an interesting coincidence, I think,” Estelle added. “Freddy told the newspaper that he found the skull way up above Borracho Springs, up in a cave just below the top ridge. That’s a long way in, up above the springs. That was earlier in the week. Now, I can see why he would want to return to that area…maybe find something else. Maybe he wants some claws or something.”

“But he didn’t do that,” Torrez said. “You can’t get a four-wheeler up in that country anyway.”

“No, and this time, he didn’t hike in. In fact, it doesn’t look like he went up into the mountains at all. He parked his truck below the campground, but the four-wheeler tracks say that he drove directly over here.”

“I don’t go along with the cave bit, anyway,” the sheriff said. “I’ve been up above Borracho all kinds of times. I don’t know of any caves up on the ridge, like the kid was claiming. Maybe some rock shelves or undercuts. Maybe that’s what he meant.” Torrez stepped over to the rig and knelt down. “And no place to drive this rig, either. You know this kid better than I do. Was he a hiker?”

“I don’t know. I see him working with all the machinery-the bikes, ATVs, the boat, even that dreadful motorized skateboard that my two urchins think is the greatest invention on the planet. I know Freddy liked to play golf with his dad. The whole family liked outings at the Butte for fishing and water skiing.” She sighed. “They’ve been neighbors for eight years, and I’ve never been in their house.” She slid her hands past one another, two ships passing.

Estelle knelt and examined the victim’s well worn, even tattered, trainers. They weren’t the sort of footwear that would stand up to much hiking through rugged country.

“Well, he did what he did,” she said, and Torrez shrugged again.

“It probably don’t matter,” he said. “What happened here looks pretty obvious. Are you ready for transport?”

“Yes.” The sheriff glanced once more at the mangled ATV, then walked back up the arroyo far enough that he could make himself heard by the two EMTs up on the trail without raising his voice. They disappeared behind the ambulance and shortly reappeared with one of the light gurneys. They climbed down into the arroyo using the same trail taken by the sheriff.

“You sure find some spots,” Matty Finnegan said. She pivoted at the waist, taking in the desolate country, then glanced at Estelle. “Or maybe I should say he found the spot, huh. Who called this in? Some rancher drive by?”

“Luck on our part,” Estelle replied. “We followed his tracks.” She didn’t explain why.

“Yesterday his brother? Now Freddy.” Matty grimaced. “What did they do to deserve this run of luck.”

Torrez interrupted her musings. “When you’re done, I need a hand with the ATV.”

“That’s us, the wrecking crew,” Mattie muttered good-naturedly.

“Ten seconds,” the sheriff said. “That’s all it’ll take.”

The abrupt noise of the body bag zipper prompted a flinch. A life finished, Estelle thought. Just like that. A life reduced to memories and the sound of one long zipper. She glanced at her watch, wondering if the Albuquerque Police Department had had time to make contact with George and Tata Romero.

“Hey,” the sheriff prompted quietly. Estelle turned to see him standing by the ATV, the two EMTs ready. “Give us a hand now?” He made a flipping motion with his hand. “Over that way. Everybody make sure they got hold of something that ain’t sharp.” The five of them managed the wreckage more easily than Estelle had imagined. It thumped back on its wheels, the one mangled and bent, both handlebars and luggage rack twisted.

“God, we’re good,” Linda Real said.

“And we’re out of here,” Mattie called. The EMTs set off down the arroyo with their burden, and Estelle watched their progress. The bagged figure on the gurney looked too small to be Freddy Romero.

“Stubby’s going to be able to get his rig in here somehow?” Linda referred to the driver of the county’s contract wrecker. The question jarred Estelle back to the task at hand. The sheriff pointed at the arroyo bank.

“Winch it right up there,” he said. “No problem.” Linda stepped back and took a series of photos of the wrecked machine. In the sunshine, the oil and gasoline were still fragrant. Torrez pulled the short.22 rifle out of the nylon boot. He popped the magazine out, and Estelle could see the bright noses of the cartridges. The sheriff jacked the bolt, but the chamber had been empty. He pushed the cartridges in the magazine, so there was no play to allow more to be added, and shook his head. “No luck huntin’. All ten still there.” He slid the rifle back into the boot, but kept the magazine, bouncing it thoughtfully in his hand.

Estelle’s attention was drawn to the plywood box that was bolted to the rear rack, its lid held in place with two stout bungee cords. The box had taken the brunt of one of the flips, but the three-quarter inch plywood out of which it was constructed had suffered only digs and gouges. The latch was secured with a twist of wire.

The sheriff loosened the wire and swung the lid back. A package of Oreo cookies had been reduced to crumbs and chunks that cascaded down into the box. Below the cookies, three bottles of water had nestled, two of them apparently exploded with the force of the crash.

“Cookies and water,” Estelle remarked. “The outdoorsman’s diet.”

“Works.” Torrez reached past Estelle. “Stop a minute.”

She had already seen what had prompted his interest. “Linda, please?”

As Linda Real stepped close, Estelle added, “Get a good close up of this in situ for me.”

“The oily rag?” Linda asked.

“Yep,” Torrez said. He stepped aside slightly, allowing the sunshine to fall fully into the battered carrier. The photographer’s camera snicked a series as she moved in and out, her last three photos taken so close that only the cloth would be in the frame.

“Got it,” she said.

Estelle gently pulled the wrapped object out of the carrier, holding it in the palm of her right hand. Through the cloth, she could feel the familiar hard steel. The cloth had once been a T-shirt, and she unwound it as if about to reveal a treasured diamond. The handgun was encrusted with a uniform coating of dust and dirt, including a liberal assortment of what looked like animal droppings adhered to the smooth metal.

“Here,” Torrez said. “Hold it still.” He slid a pencil into the bore, marked where it stopped with his thumb, and withdrew it, laying it along the pistol’s slide. “Still got one in the chamber.”

“This isn’t something Freddy was just carrying,” Estelle said. “It’s been in the elements for a long time.”

Torrez bent down a little and scrutinized the handgun. “Smith and Wesson. Not a bad piece. Be interesting to know if that bad boy’s been fired.”

“And at what.”

“Hunters, maybe. Remember the revolver that power walker found along the roadside over east of town? We had all kinds of theories about how that ended up there until we found out it belonged to some kid who’d been shooting from the roadside. He laid the gun on his jeep, and then got preoccupied with something else. Drove off and sure enough, the gun bounced off. That’s most likely with this. Some hunter got careless. If it wasn’t stainless steel, it’d be just a hunk of junk right now.”

“It wasn’t Mr. Romero’s,” Estelle said.

“Not likely. He was nervous enough about his son drivin’ around with that. ” He touched his toe to the.22 carbine in the nylon boot. “He called me to find out how many laws Freddy was breakin’ by carrying that on his ATV. Made him kinda nervous that the kid was doin’ that.”

“You need anything?” Bill Gastner’s voice interrupted them.

“If you’d find me an evidence bag for this.” Estelle held out her hand so Gastner could see the gun. “In my briefcase.”

“You got it.”

While she waited, she carefully wrapped the gun in the cloth, mindful of where the charged weapon’s barrel pointed.

“Let me take that and have Mears get started on it,” Torrez said. He strolled with no urgency to the arroyo bank and reached up to catch the plastic bag that Bill Gastner dropped to him. “How are you doin’?” he asked the older man.

Gastner knelt with one knee in the dirt, surveying the scene below him. “I’m okay,” he said. “What’s with the gun?”

“Don’t know yet,” Torrez replied. “We’re gonna know. That’s for sure. She got any masking tape in that briefcase? That and a marker.”

Gastner returned with the two items, and Torrez peeled off a long strip, wound it across the outside of the evidence bag and wrote LOADED in large, block letters.