Final Payment

Chapter Five

“You sure walked into the middle of something,” Dr. Alan Perrone observed. The assistant state medical examiner regarded Estelle from across the stainless steel table. The corpse between them had had the worst of the cactus thorns removed from his face, but he looked anything but peaceful. Startled, Estelle thought. Completely and utterly surprised.

Perrone watched as Estelle examined the skull X-ray. “A 9mm is no hotrod,” he said. “But under most circumstances I’d expect more damage than we have here.” He reached across, then traced a line with his latex-gloved finger. “It entered low in the back of the skull, didn’t veer from the straight and narrow, and stopped just after punching into the back of the orbit. Not a lot of explosive fragmentation. More like a motorized ice pick.”

“He could have managed a few steps after being hit?”

Perrone looked skeptical, his thin, aristocratic nose wrinkling. “Ah, I don’t think so. Separate the medulla from the system and everything stops, right then. There’s enough stippling from hot gas and unburned powder on his neck that I’d guess the gun was just a foot or two behind his head.”

“So if the three of them were walking in a line in front of the killer, this one would be right in front of the gun,” Estelle said.

“That would make sense.”

“The young man was second in line,” she said. She looked across at the sheeted figure on the table behind Perrone.

“He turned, then,” Perrone said. “Right behind the ear, but the trajectory is more crosswise. That bullet didn’t exit, either. Full metal jacket, low velocity. Maybe subsonic. I don’t know.”

Estelle waved the X-ray that Perrone offered aside. She turned around, looking at the bulky form of the woman.

“Same thing,” Perrone said. He moved around the end of the table and flipped the sheet back. The woman had been strikingly handsome, with raven black hair in a tight bun in the old-fashioned style, proud nose, and strong chin. Her mouth was slack, revealing strong, even teeth. For a long time, Estelle stood quietly, letting the image burn itself into her memory. “She turned to face the killer.”

Perrone pivoted and pointed at the older man. “Right behind. Bang. The son-that’s what I guess-he hears the noise, maybe a little gasp, and starts to turn. That positions his skull a little bit sideways, and bang. Down he goes. The woman has stopped by this time, and she turns. Bang.”

Estelle bent a little to examine the bullet hole through the bridge of the woman’s nose. No stippling there, just a nasty, bludgeoning impact as the jacketed slug burst through the thin nasal bones and into her brain.

“The sheriff tells me that no one has a clue where these folks are from,” Perrone said. “Just brought here and executed.”

“Exactly right.”

“I’m not going to be much help,” the physician said. “The full autopsy might reveal something, but I doubt it. If I had to guess, I’d go with south of the border.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Little things. And I could be wrong, too. Whoever their dentist was leaned heavily on gold-and that’s not an absolute, you know. But the tendency in this country is toward porcelain now, especially for the teeth that are readily visible in the smile. They’ve all had good dental care, but even the boy has his share of heavy metal on board.” Perrone stepped forward and pulled the sheet far enough down to expose the woman’s large torso.

“Not poor folks, either. Whoever did this cesarean was an artist,” he said. “The suturing is even, precise-just plain elegant from a medical point of view. No country hack at work.” He shrugged. “But that was two decades ago, if this kid,” and he jabbed a finger at the sheet-covered body of the young man, “is the child in question.”

Estelle reached out and pulled the sheet back in place. “What a sad thing. I hope the twenty years were worth it.”

“We never know, do we?” He tidied one corner of the white sheet pensively.

“And speaking of never knowing, did you work on the boy who crashed the bike up on the mesa? Terry Gutierrez, the college kid who went airborne?”

Perrone shook his head. “Glanced in on him, but Francis worked that one up.” The crow’s-feet around his brilliant blue eyes deepened. He didn’t voice the thought, but Estelle understood perfectly.

“I’ve been too busy turning in pointless circles to talk to anybody, even my own husband,” she said. “These three are off to Albuquerque?”

“First thing in the morning. I’m going to be interested in the toxicology, Estelle.” He made a face. “I’ve always wondered what made one human being more tasty to critters than another. What’s the attraction?”

“And…” Estelle prompted when he paused.

“There are a few little wounds that are consistent with coyote or dog bites. The really serious work hadn’t begun yet, but what little disturbance there was occurred only on the father’s body, not the others. On the unprotected hand, consistent with him lying on his face, the other arm protected under his body.”

“Bobby said that’s how he saw the bodies in the first place. He was watching the coyote.”

“Right. That’s what I understand. I just wonder what makes a coyote choose, that’s all.”

“That I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“Nor I. But the question poses itself, and I find that interesting.” He held up both hands, palms down. “You have two bodies out in the desert. One died with his system so full of booze that you can smell it a mile away. The other died sober. Which one does the scavenger choose?” He waggled his hands. “Marinated or plain?”

“That’s grotesque,” Estelle said, but she couldn’t help laughing. “The alcohol would dissipate, anyway.”

“The flavoring doesn’t, necessarily. It’s still a valid question.”

“Por supuesto. Right now I’ve got too many of those.”

“I’ll have the preliminaries to you first thing in the morning. I can’t guarantee response from the OMI. Late next week, I imagine. You know the drill.”

“I appreciate it.”

The disinfectant-rich smell of the room followed her out into the hall, and she pushed open the steel door to the stark, cold stairwell rather than waiting for the elevator. She emerged on the first floor, behind the nurses’ station. Karin MacKenzie, one of the RNs, looked up from her computer and offered a broad smile.

“Hi there. You look like you’re on the prowl. Of course, if you’ve been down there, small wonder.”

“I just spoke with Dr. Perrone,” Estelle said.

“Then you know more than I do,” Karin replied. “I think your hubby is down by the ICU. You want me to page him?”

“No, no,” the undersheriff said quickly. “May I just cruise down that way?”

“You cruise away. Stop back and we’ll have a cup of coffee. No…tea. You drink tea, right?”

“I do. Thanks.”

Around two corners and down a lengthy hallway, beyond mauve doors labeled for all things expensive, she saw Francis Guzman in conversation with a chubby, balding man whom she recognized as one of the cardiologists from Las Cruces who rotated through the community health system. Francis saw her and reached out a hand to his colleague to hold him in mid-thought as he extended the other hand to Estelle.

“You know Brian Finlan?” Francis said, and the other physician reached out to shake Estelle’s hand.

“Yes,” she said. “Nice to see you again.”

“You’re having a busy day,” Finlan said sympathetically.

“Yes, we are. A great way to end the week.” She turned to Francis. “I need to know where young Gutierrez is,” she said. “The mesa head injury?”

“Bike boy is around here somewhere,” Francis said. “Try one-oh-nine. Observation overnight, and we’ll release him in the morning. His girlfriend was T and R’d, but I would guess she’s with him.”

“Nothing super serious, then.”

“Well, he did a pretty workmanlike job, but all things considered, he’s lucky. Right clavicle, right wrist, and nine stitches in his scalp right where it would have killed him if he hadn’t been wearing that helmet. And two cracked ribs. No spinal complications.”

“Hopefully not a preview,” Finlan said. “You know, sheriff, I was looking over the list of competitors for the race, and about a third of them are flatlanders. I even saw our esteemed former lieutenant governor’s name-and he wasn’t the oldest one in the bunch, believe it or not. So not only flatlanders, but some old guys as well. You get all these folks from sea level pushing pedals up on Cat Mesa at eight thousand feet, and there’s a lot of things we can expect.”

“I know that the race officials were going to include material about that in each competitor’s packet,” Estelle said. “And they’ll talk about it during the prerace meeting, I’m sure. You’re staying for the weekend, I hope?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

She noted a certain professional relish in his tone, similar to Alan Perrone’s when he spoke of marinated versus plain cooking for coyotes.

“You heading home now, or-,” her husband asked.

“In a few minutes. I wanted to drop in on Gutierrez for just a moment. I’ve got their bikes in the back of the truck.” She left the two physicians to their planning and sought out 109, one of the double rooms in the new wing.

The door was ajar, and she could see April Pritt sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, her body leaning over Terry Gutierrez’s, supporting herself on her right arm. There might have been a thin piece of hospital gauze’s distance between their faces.

Estelle rapped on the door, and April sat upright quickly, but not before Estelle could see that there was nothing wrong with Terry’s left hand. He maneuvered it back into a more appropriate patient’s position on the white sheets.

“You guys doing okay?” Estelle said kindly, although it was clearly obvious that they were. “I just wanted to touch base with you.” She stepped into the room, and April rose from the bed. She limped carefully to a straight-backed chair nearby.

“I still have your bikes,” Estelle continued. “I haven’t been back to the office yet, but that’s where I’m headed now. When you are ready to pick them up, just see whoever is sitting dispatch, okay?”

“Thank you sooo much,” April said. “Everyone has been so kind.”

“Well, we’re sorry this had to happen,” Estelle said. She stepped closer to the bed. “I was just talking to Dr. Guzman. He says battered and bruised, but otherwise okay. How are you feeling?”

The young man shifted a little under the sheet. When he wasn’t black and blue, he’d be handsome enough that he didn’t need to show off by trying to fly off cliffs. “Awful. Like I got hit by a truck. Thanks, though.”

“So, you just took a wrong turn…. Is that what happened?” Estelle gazed at him for a long moment-until his eyes dodged away to his girlfriend.

“That’s it,” Gutierrez said. He grinned sheepishly. “Trying to cut the course, I guess. Maybe I was showin’ off a little.”

“A little,” April said. “Like, try a lot, Superman.”

“You two go to Tech?” Estelle asked, referring to the university in Socorro.

April nodded. “I’m a senior. He’s a junior.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

“You’ll take care of notifying his folks?”

“We’ve done that already,” she said, as if parents were mere pesky details. “Are you and Dr. Guzman related? I wondered about that.”

“He’s my husband.”

“Oh. Well, that’s neat. He’s a nice guy.”

“Yes, he is.” Estelle extended a business card to the girl. “The bikes will be at the office. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

“We’re fine,” April said. “We really are. Thanks again sooo much.”

Estelle left the hospital room, making sure that the door closed tightly behind her.