One Perfect Shot

Chapter Ten

The Posadas County maintenance barns were on north Third Street. If Third had crossed the big arroyo that scarred the north side of the village, it would have intersected Highland in a quarter mile or so. The county barns and bone yard were close enough to Highland that anyone working outside should have been able to hear a rifle shot clearly.

But this was the rural southwest. Shooters abounded, whether slaying beer cans on the mesa, rattlesnakes invading the yard, or ravens ravaging a song bird’s nest. No one took particular notice of gun shots. Shots.

This had been, as far as we could tell, a single shot, in my book one of the most lethal sounds. One bullet was all it took if the shooter knew what he was about and conditions were right. During hunting season, if I heard blam, blam, blam, blam, I could guess that the deer or elk or antelope had probably escaped unscathed, the flurry of bullets kicking dust. But one, solitary, definitive blam…that was a different scenario. A critter dropped in his tracks. Or Larry Zipoli dead before he could move a hand to the gearshift, or duck to safety.

I swung 310 through the boneyard’s generous gate in the chain link and razor wire boundary fence, and drove cautiously through all the junk before reaching the maintenance office, housed at the north end of a long, steel building with four gigantic bay doors. Two were up, two down. In one, a twin-screw dump truck was resting on jacks, its hind-most differential in a thousand pieces. One of the county pick-up trucks was backed into the other open bay.

Parking directly in front of a single door marked Office, I lowered the front windows on both sides, then nodded at the mike without reaching for it. “PCS, three ten is ten six, county barn.”

Without hesitating, Estelle slipped the mike off its hook and repeated the message, her tone measured and pronunciation distinct without being exaggerated.

“Three ten, ten four,” dispatcher T.C. Barnes responded immediately.

“Most of the time, we want dispatch to know where we are,” I said. “There are times when we don’t, too. Half the goddamn county is listening to what we say, so we want to think before yapping. It’s a balance between staying safe and staying discreet. I keep badgering the sheriff to put mobile phones in each car, so we can stay off the radio waves entirely. No dinero. And radios are a tradition, stupid as that sounds.”

I hadn’t made a move to get out of the car yet, and took a moment to make a notation in my log…a document I cheerfully ignored most of the time. Now that my every move was under scrutiny by my ride-along, perhaps it behooved me to do things properly to start her off right.

“We want to talk first with Tony Pino. He’s bossman. He was out at the crime scene yesterday, and he’s shaken by all this.” I paused. “By way of historical interest, Tony’s grandfather was the first mayor of Posadas. Between Eduardo Salcido and myself, we could devise a hell of a trivia game about this little corner of the world-and what I find interesting is that sometimes, that makes folks nervous, thinking we know something about ’em that we shouldn’t. That can be to our advantage.”

I glanced at the steel office door, ajar just enough that anyone inside would have heard the crunch of our tires. “There will be lots of questions. Yesterday when we were buttoning up Highland, we had something of a crowd watching, although watching what I don’t know. Tony’s foreman was there too-Buddy Clayton. They’re going to have questions, and the trick is to make them feel included without giving anything away.” Looking sideways at my passenger I saw the look of noncommittal interest on her pretty face. My lectures hadn’t driven her over the brink yet.

“At this point, they don’t need to know what we know-which I’m sorry to say is diddly squat. But they don’t need to know that.” I slid the aluminum clipboard that included my log sheets under the pile of junk that threatened the center arm rest. “The base line is this: somewhere out there is someone with a high powered rifle who picked an easy target. We need to remember-always remember-that that son-of-a-bitch is still out there, still watching. We don’t get complacent, we stay sharp, we look and listen and watch. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Flat, noncommittal. Her fingers didn’t even stray toward the door handle. Maybe she expected more lectures.

“And that’s whether you’re riding with me or anyone else. And while you’re at it, ponder this cheerful thought. It might be quiet as a tomb in Posadas County for days on end. But we’re just off the interstate, and that connects us to the world. Some creep might have killed a dozen people in Terre Haute, Indiana, and be fleeing west…right through here. Or some hijacker slips custody in San Diego and heads east. Or some dealer is heading north with five hundred pounds of cocaine from downtown Mexico. Here we sit, hopefully not half asleep. It might be quiet here, but elsewhere, maybe not. And we’re all connected.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see what they have to say.” I popped the door, at the same time noticing the lithe, effortless, almost anti-gravitational way that Estelle Reyes moved. Oh, to be twenty-two again. What interested me even more was watching her close the car door. Not a slam, just a gentle nudge against the latch. And all the while her eyes were roaming the boneyard, inventorying who knew what.

I rapped a knuckle on the office door and pushed it open. Two steps and I was greeted by a belly-high counter. A heavy-set woman sat at the first desk, the surface more cluttered than my own, a vast sea of requisitions, time sheets, phone messages, blueprints, job or parts-all the things that keep a busy department busy.

“Well, good morning.” Bea Summers spoke without any of her usual bounce or sunshine. “Tony was trying to call you earlier. I think he talked to Sheriff Salcido.”

“I’ve been out and about,” I said, without adding that I hadn’t checked my answering machine in the past couple of hours. I took a deep breath and let it out in a long, heart-felt sigh. “I’m sorry about all this,” I said. “Rough time.”

“Is there any news?”

“I wish there were. There are a number of things we need to find out from you, if we might.” If we might. I couldn’t imagine that Bea Summers would hesitate to cooperate in any way we asked, but sometimes folks hesitate when it’s the privacy of their turf that’s being violated. We’d find out what we needed to know whether Bea, or even Tony Pino, was agreeable or not, court orders being what they are.

“And by the way, Bea, this is Estelle Reyes. She’s a new hire who’s spending some ride-along time with me this morning.”

Bea didn’t rise from her swivel chair, but favored Estelle with a polite smile. “I know her great uncle, Reuben Fuentes.”

“Ah,” I said. Interesting that Bea hadn’t directed the comment to Estelle, instead speaking as if the girl were a piece of furniture. Maybe the grudge against Reuben extended to the next generation as well. Bea no doubt knew that over the years, Reuben had swiped more base course gravel from county and state piles than anyone else, and had been caught a time or two. I guess that when the crusher fines were stockpiled right beside the highway, the temptation was too strong to ignore. That might be what Bea was remembering.

“So…first I need to talk with Tony. He’s buried under paperwork?”

“Actually, he went over to Marilyn’s for a little bit this morning. Bill, this is all so terrible, so senseless. Tell me it didn’t really happen.”

“I wish I could. Maybe you’d give Tony a shout and see when he’ll be able to break loose. And if it’s not a good time, I would think that you’re going to be able to help us as well or better than anyone else.” She was the office czarina, after all, with her finger on the Highway Department’s pulse.

She nodded and picked up the radio microphone, turning up the volume a little as she did so. “Base to one. Copy?” Silence ensued and she repeated the message without success. “He’s not in the truck. Should I call the house?”

“Well, we hate to interrupt ’em. But look, two things right away, and as I said, you know as much or more than anyone else. Larry’s personnel file. We’re going to need a look at that.” I knew that was thin ice, and Bea’s reaction was immediate.

“His personnel folder?”

“Or whatever version of that you have in this office. There’ll be something in the county manager’s office too, but I need to see anything you have.”

“Personnel?”

“Yes, ma’am. I don’t think that we’ll need to take it out of the office.” Bea could figure out for herself that Larry Zipoli’s life was about to come under the microscope.

She pushed herself to her feet, closing the center drawer of her desk tightly as if concerned that I might peak at her secrets. “This is just so awful. What else will you be needing?”

“It’s my understanding that Larry took one of the department trucks home at night.”

“Yes.” She frowned. “He’s one of the senior men, Sheriff. He needs to be able to respond during emergencies.” Her tone said clearly, with just a touch of petulance, as if somehow I might be judging her department’s procedure, “You already knew all that.” She stepped over to the window and pointed. “The white Dodge Ram, over by the fence. That’s Larry’s.”

“Out at Highland yesterday-he didn’t have the truck out there with him.”

“Well, no. I mean, it’s what, a few blocks? In the morning, he was out on 43, and drove back to find a part before going out Highland. The lower muffler clamp had burned through. He fixed that just before lunch, and that darn old thing still broke down on him and blew a hydraulic hose. One of the boys ran it out to him after lunch.”

“Do you remember the time?”

“Oh, maybe two o’clock or so.”

“As early as one-thirty?”

“Not that early. Maybe even two thirty. Louis had to make one up real quick, and that took him a few minutes, then to run it over.” She nodded. “No, I’d say closer to two-thirty.”

“This is Louis Duenas?”

“Yes…but now wait. Louis made up the hose, but he’s busy working on the truck. I think Mike ran it out.” She nodded. “I’m sure he did.”

“Mike Zamora?”

She nodded.

“We’ll need to talk with him, Bea.”

“Oh, my,” she sighed, and turned to scrutinize the large white board on the wall behind her desk. “He and Dougy Burgess went to Deming to pick up a whole raft of parts from Pitts Diesel. They’ll be back this afternoon. I gotta tell you, none of us are real excited about working today. This whole thing has been such a shock. I mean, Larry? My gosh, I’ve known him and Marilyn for Lord only knows how long. I don’t know what she’ll do now.”

“Bad times,” I said sympathetically. “We’ll all do what we can. I’ll catch up with Mike later, when he gets back. You have the keys to Larry’s truck?” There had been a set of keys that went into the evidence envelope along with the rest of the items on the victim’s person, and I assumed they included one for the Dodge.

“I’ll have to find the dupes.” But Bea made no move toward where the duplicates might be kept.

“If you’d do that, I’d appreciate it. We’d like to take a look inside the truck while you’re finding the personnel files.” That stirred her into motion, and in a moment she returned from one of those walk-in vault closets with a single key and tag on a chrome ring. “I believe this is to his vehicle,” she said, handing it to me. “Now listen…I’m going to have to talk to Tony about those records.”

“Whatever it takes, Bea. Thank you. We’ll be back with these in a few minutes.”

She nodded and offered Estelle the ghost of a smile. “Nice to see you again, young lady. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Enjoy her stay? However brief? Not, “Welcome aboard, we look forward to working with you?”

If Estelle caught the nuances, which I’m sure she did, she replied graciously, “Thank you, ma’am. I’m sure I will.”

Outside, the sun was brilliant, the earth of the bone yard fragrant with oil, diesel, and a dozen other nifty chemicals. Larry Zipoli’s white Dodge three-quarter ton was backed tight against the fence, nose out, ready to go. I took my time crossing the parking lot, watching where I put my feet. Estelle kept stride, and I wondered what thoughts were occupying her, at the same time thanking my good fortune that she wasn’t a compulsive chatterbox.

“Most of the time, they trail the truck behind the grader out to the job site,” I said. “But for little jobs around the perimeter of the village, he’s just going to drive the grader.”

I tried the door handle, and was surprised to find it locked. In a secure bone yard, fenced with razor wire and lighted with sodium vapor lights to noontime brightness all night, what was the point of locking a work truck? Habit, perhaps.

The key turned easily. This old monster, government low-bid specs anyway, didn’t feature niceties like electric door locks or electric windows. As it opened, the door squalled against slightly bent and dry hinges. An effluvia of odors flooded out, mostly stale tobacco in a variety of forms. Smoke residue blued the glass, and a nifty little cup holder hung from the driver’s side door, nestled in which was a coke can with the top sliced off. It was half full of tobacco juice. The ash tray was pulled out, stuffed with butts. Larry’s tobacco habit spanned the gamut from generic cigarettes to chaw to stogies. The cab’s aroma, exacerbated by the sun through the glass, was ripe.

A thick log book rested on the seat, and I flipped it open to the last page of notations. Larry had pumped 22.1 gallons of diesel into the Dodge two days before, noting the mileage as 177,671.9. I inserted the ignition key and turned it until the dash lit up.

“So he’s driven eighteen miles in two days, more or less.” I turned and grinned at Estelle. She was standing at junction of cab and bed, watching my performance. “And that tells us…only that. If it read that he’d covered two hundred miles in a county this small, we’d wonder, wouldn‘t we.”

Another aroma had interested me from the moment I opened the door, and I turned my attention to the modest lunch cooler that rested on the passenger side floor. I couldn’t reach it by stretching across, so I slid out and trudged around to open the passenger door.

“Interesting that he didn’t take his lunch with him on the grader,” I mused. Estelle’s left eyebrow raised about a sixteenth of an inch. “Or not,” I added, and opened the cooler. “Well, hello there.”