Prolonged Exposure

Chapter 27

That was not the most inspired, thoughtful comment the sheriff could have made with members of the interested public watching and listening. Its very utterance admitted the possibility of some error, however small, on our part.

And I knew damn well how error translated in Stanley Willit’s mind. His dark eyes narrowed and he took a step sideways so that he could see the bloodstain for himself without having to venture any closer.

“Will you make an identification for us?” Sheriff Holman asked him. Willit’s composure paled a shade.

“Shouldn’t her husband do that?” he said.

“He can,” Holman said agreeably. “It would just expedite matters, is all.”

Willit screwed up his courage and nodded. Estelle gently lifted the corner of the blanket and folded first one layer and then the next back, being careful that the dirt was shaken away from the corpse’s surprisingly tranquil face.

Gloria Apodaca’s hair had been wiry, steel gray, worn most of the time up in a bun. I stepped close, staying behind Willit in case he keeled over. He thrust his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath, and bent down. Estelle remained crouched at the gurney’s side, and Willit peered over her shoulder.

“That’s my stepmother,” he said, and straightened back up.

“Thank you,” Estelle murmured. She continued to ease the blanket away from the woman’s head until the corpse was exposed down to midchest. She motioned to me, and I ushered Willit out of the way. Estelle waited until I had bent over, my hands on my knees, before saying quietly, “There appears to be significant bleeding from the back of her skull just above the spine.” She glanced up at me. “I don’t see any other obvious injuries to the face or head, but the ME will have to tell us for sure.”

“Are you saying my stepmother was struck from behind?” Willit said. His hearing was sharp, no doubt honed by years of listening for verbal indiscretions that could be turned into profit.

“No,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman replied. She stood up. “I’m saying that there’s a considerable amount of blood that appears to have come from the back of her head.”

“Same thing,” Willit said.

“Is it?” Estelle’s voice was pleasant, as if Willit actually had information she needed to know.

“What else would explain it?” Willit asked. The two EMTs began to shift position toward the gurney, and Estelle held up her hand. They stopped and waited.

“That’s exactly what the medical examiner will tell us, Mr. Willit,” she said. She turned and completed her photo series, and when she was satisfied, Mrs. Apodaca’s mortal remains were carried off my property and placed in the ambulance.

“I assume that the next step is to arrest Florencio Apodaca,” Willit said, and I turned to look at him with interest. If he planned to dog our heels every step of the way, his presence was going to be tedious at best.

“Mr. Willit,” I said, and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. He cringed but held his ground, and I gave his shoulder a couple of squeezes. The camel hair coat felt smooth, soft, and expensive. “At the moment, we don’t know any more about the circumstances of your stepmother’s death than you do. The medical examiner has to examine the body to determine the cause of death. Then we have to piece together exactly how that death happened. It’s not always a simple process, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

“What do we need to do to speed things along?”

I smiled. “The most constructive thing you can do is to stay out of our way, Mr. Willit.”

“Are you planning to talk to Florencio?”

“Of course.”

“May I come along when you do that?”

“No.”

Willit didn’t like the finality of that, and his eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not a police officer, for one thing.”

“I won’t be in the way.”

“How true,” I said. “Mr. Willit, just what is it that you do?”

“Do?”

“For a living.”

Willit ducked his head, perhaps wishing he could say something that would impress the hell out of us. “I manage a restaurant franchise.”

“Ah,” I said. “And I’m sure you’re very familiar with the operation of that restaurant, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And as manager, I’m sure that you prefer that the operation of that restaurant is carried out in a smooth, organized fashion, with very little left to chance.” This time, Willit settled for just a slight nod. “That’s pretty much how we operate on our own turf, Mr. Willit. We have certain ways of doing things. For example, your stepfather is elderly and frail. Whatever has happened here, however it happened, we’re not going to bust into Florencio Apodaca’s home like a bunch of storm troopers.”

He straightened his shoulders and looked down his patrician nose at me. “Even if he committed murder?”

I squeezed his shoulder again and then released him. “That sort of charge requires evidence, Mr. Willit.”

Willit’s snort was a curious combination of indignant cough and bleat. “I’d certainly say that a bashed-in skull was evidence of a crime, Sheriff.”

Holman glanced at Willit, but the comment was clearly addressed to me. “Perhaps. But we aren’t blessed with X-ray vision, Mr. Willit. I, for one, can’t see that your stepmother’s skull is bashed in, as you suggest. In fact, you seem to be the only one here who has the answers. That in itself makes me a little uneasy.”

“Now wait a minute,” Willit began.

I held up a hand. “Relax, sir. If there’s an injury, it could also happen from a fall down stairs, or a hundred other ways that none of us can imagine.” I shrugged. “We have our procedures, just as you do. That’s all I’m trying to make clear.”

I started to turn away, then stopped and held up a cautioning hand. “Also, Mr. Apodaca has made it clear in previous conversations that he doesn’t much like you, Mr. Willit. It only stands to reason that your presence during questioning would be a hindrance.”

“When will you be questioning him?”

I glanced at my watch. “Directly. If you don’t wish to wait at your motel room and have nowhere else to go, perhaps you’d like to wait in the lounge at the sheriff’s office. That way, you’ll be on hand should we need you, and you’ll be among the first to be informed of any progress we make.” I smiled and tried to keep it sincere.

Willit watched the backhoe pull away, and then he stepped back as Deputy Tom Mears spun a yellow crime-scene tape around the area, fencing in the small grave.

“I’ll do that,” he said, and made his way through the brush toward his rental car parked on Escondido.

Holman nudged me. “Now I remember why the hell we miss you so much when you’re gone,” he said, grinning broadly.

I looked at him. “Oh?”

“And I bet it’s fried chicken,” Holman said without explaining himself. When he saw the blank look on my face, he added quickly, “Willit’s restaurant.”

“Fish,” I said.

“Maybe you’re right. What’s the game plan? Wait for the ME?”

I nodded. “When we know what killed Gloria Apodaca, and when, then we can work on the who. In the meantime, we’ve got more important things to do, like finding a lost three-year-old. Accident, murder, whatever, none of this is going anywhere. It can wait.”

“Amen,” Estelle muttered.

Holman’s eyebrows shot up. “By the way,” he said, and stepped close, as if the trees shouldn’t hear. I saw a smile on Camille’s face as she stood outside the circle of yellow tape, waiting for us to finish up. “Do you know anything about that big RV that’s parked next to Andy Browers’s house? I drove by and saw that, and I ran the plate.”

“Other than that it belongs to a Bruce Elders of Corrales, no, we don’t,” I said, and watched Holman’s shoulders slump a fraction. He had wanted me to say, “What RV?”

“You want me to work on that? I’ve got some contacts up there.”

“Fine,” I said. “Let me suggest a simple approach first, though. Ask Andy Browers.”

“Sure,” Holman said, nodding as if that had been first on his list. “I just thought it was odd, is all. Here he’s got a big camper that fits into the back of his pickup truck, and other than the electric company’s truck that he uses all the time, that’s all he’s got.”

“He owns a motorcycle,” Estelle said.

“That, too.” Holman nodded without skipping a beat. “And here’s a late-model land yacht that must cost seventy-five grand parked next to his house, owned by some guy upstate. It doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s probably nothing, you know? But you’re always lecturing about not ignoring any of the little pieces.”

The sheriff left, and I watched Estelle pack her camera gear and make final comments in her notebook. “Do you want to meet somewhere for dinner?” I suggested.

“Oh please,” Camille interrupted with immediate protest. “Dad, your only ‘somewhere’ is the Don Juan.” She grinned at Estelle. “Why don’t you guys come over when all the dust settles. Let me make something. Fancy pasta maybe. Bring the kids. Bring Erma.”

Estelle sighed and slung the heavy camera bag’s strap over her shoulder. “You know, that sounds like a really nice idea. I’ll give Francis a call and make sure he isn’t tied up, and I’ll probably drop by the hospital for a few minutes. What’s a good time?”

“Just whenever,” Camille said.

It did sound like a wonderful idea at the time.