The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Twenty-one

Madelyn Bolles was engaged in animated conversation with Gayle Torrez at the dispatch center as Estelle left the sheriff’s office, and wrapped it up by signing the document that lay on the counter in front of her. As Estelle approached, Madelyn smiled broadly at the undersheriff.

“You’re all waived,” she said, and handed the county attorney’s release of liability form to Gayle.

“Then let’s go for a ride,” Estelle said. “You’ve already had a tour of sorts with Bill Gastner, I understand?”

“Wonderful,” the writer said. “We did a late breakfast-”

“That’s not surprising,” Gayle interrupted, and Madelyn laughed.

“My impression is that his passions include green chile,” she said. “And we’re going to talk again. Mr. Gastner has a most interesting perspective on life in general and this country in particular.”

“A unique perspective, that’s for sure,” Estelle said. “Join me in my office for a few minutes?” She held the low gate for the writer, and they walked down the narrow hall to Estelle’s office. Madelyn turned in place, surveying the room critically.

“Have a seat,” Estelle said, but the reporter’s attention had been drawn to the east wall, where a series of twelve framed photographs hung, each an eight-by-ten, some in color, some in spectacular black and white. The photos were displayed in a pleasing, staggered arrangement. “That’s last year’s calendar,” Estelle said.

“Literally, you mean?”

“Yes. It’s an idea that our department photographer, Linda Real, had a number of years ago. She started collecting candid shots, and then had the brainstorm to put them together in a calendar. Now she does it every year.”

“My word,” Bolles breathed. “This is the entire department?”

“That’s us. An even dozen.”

“Let’s see. I saw this deputy down south, at Regál Pass. Jackie Taber. And this is the sheriff’s wife. And this is you, of course. That means this must be your department photographer.”

“That’s Linda.”

“Quite a talent. We should hire her away from you.” She turned to look at Estelle when the undersheriff made no response. “I would think that happens a lot in a rural setting like this. You train the talent, and then they move on.”

“That happens once in a while,” Estelle agreed. “We certainly hope it doesn’t happen anytime soon with Linda.”

“This is the Great Stone Face,” Madelyn said, touching the bottom of Sheriff Bob Torrez’s portrait, a photo that captured him with one foot up on the front bumper of his pickup, a pair of binoculars in one hand, and a map spread out on the hood. He was glowering at something, no doubt the shutter of Linda’s camera. “He is so Mr. Outdoor Life,” Madelyn added. “I wonder if he knows just how handsome he really is.”

“You’d have to ask him.”

Madelyn chuckled at that and then took a step to her right, where she frowned at a wonderful portrait of Captain Eddie Mitchell, kneeling amongst a forest of adult legs, talking to a tiny child wrapped in a soiled white blanket, the head of a teddy bear sticking out from the folds. Estelle remembered that circumstance, a mobile home fire in the middle of the night, and remembered how Linda had dropped to one knee so that the camera wasn’t looking down on Mitchell or the child.

“This is a tough-looking hombre,” Madelyn observed. “In a soft moment.”

“That’s Captain Eddie Mitchell. He was the village chief of police before the village dissolved its department and started contracting services from the county.”

“Uh-huh. She could sell prints like this,” the writer said. “Has she ever tried that?”

“You’d have to ask her, Madelyn.”

“Interesting. Interesting organization. So let me ask you something. Who are your dispatchers?”

Estelle stepped closer and touched the three photos of Gayle, Brent Sutherland, and Ernie Wheeler.

“Just the three?”

“Yes. At the moment.”

“How do you cover twenty-four/seven with just three people?”

“We swing a road deputy in to cover when we have to.”

“And the road deputies are…”

“Sergeant Tom Mears, Tom Pasquale, Jackie Taber, Tony Abeyta, Dennis Collins, and Mike Sisneros.” She touched the corner of each photo in order. “We just lost Sergeant Howard Baker to retirement. We’re shorthanded, and just starting the hiring process.”

“And you, the sheriff, and the captain are the supervisors? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Impossible. That would mean that, more often than not, you only have one officer on the road during some of the shifts. One officer for the entire county.”

“That’s correct. But we have a good working relationship with the State Police, as you may have noticed. Thankfully, we have long bouts of peace and quiet.”

“‘Long bouts of peace.’ I like that.” She turned away from the photographs with a final nod of approval, and her eyes roamed the rest of the small, comfortable office. “So.” And she sat down, arranging her jacket and slacks carefully. “There is a wonderful story here for my magazine,” she said. “One-third of your department is made up of women. Your background is a story all by itself.” She spread both hands. “Born in Mexico?”

“Yes.” Omission was a wonderful convenience, Estelle thought. She caught a tiny wrinkling around the corners of Madelyn Bolles’ eyes, and wondered how much the reporter knew-if anything. She was not poised to take notes, and there was no visible tape recorder. She appeared to be simply surveying the ore load of the mine prior to serious digging.

“Sent to the United States to finish your schooling?”

“Yes.”

“Eighteen years old before you became a U.S. citizen?”

“Yes.”

At the third monosyllabic response, Madelyn smiled broadly. “Don’t worry. I’ll get beyond the yes-or-no questions.”

Estelle rested her elbows on her desk, chin comfortable on her cupped hands, and waited.

“Married a medical student who is now a successful family practitioner and general surgeon?”

“Yes.”

“And Dr. Guzman is a naturalized U.S. citizen?”

“Yes.”

“You have two wonderful children, Francisco, aged eight, and Carlos, now almost six.”

“Yes.” Madelyn Bolles had obviously done her homework, and more than that…she had committed the demographics to memory. Estelle wondered how much Bill Gastner had told the reporter, although knowing padrino’s discretion, she doubted that any of the personal data had come from him.

“You’re now thirty-nine years old, which means that you’ve worked for the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department for sixteen years.”

Estelle took a deep breath and lifted her head, laying her hands down on the desk. “Yes, and yes. I’m impressed.”

“Trivia is easy,” Madelyn Bolles said with an offhand wave of her left hand. “Most of the time. But we have to move beyond that. Every single person I’ve talked to so far, including his wife, Ms. Gayle, tells me that your esteemed movie star of a sheriff is going to be the tough nut to crack.”

“Probably true.”

“But that’s all right,” Madelyn said easily. “That’ll be fun. Do you ever read our magazine, Estelle?”

“I confess that I don’t. I’ve seen it, of course.”

“Let me tell you what we do. We specialize in thorough, probing, tough articles about today’s women, Estelle. Not just a superficial profile of some glamorous star, or a page of gratuitous praise for a Nobel or Pulitzer winner. We like to think that we present complete portraits of women who we believe are accomplishing major goals in life, sometimes against considerable odds, women who are inspirations to others in this man’s world. We lean heavily on biography as a way to explain why our featured women are taking the paths that they are. Am I making sense?”

“Yes.”

“I love that.” She regarded Estelle, and the undersheriff could see the assessment going on behind the alert violet eyes. “We’re a highly regarded, much-awarded national magazine, Estelle, and I don’t tell you that just to blow smoke. We don’t take our assignments lightly. We’re thorough, as I said, and fair.” She reached forward and rested her right index finger on the edge of Estelle’s desk, as if the pressure she applied kept the desk from floating off into space. “I have to tell you from the beginning that although sometimes I use a tape recorder, most of the time I don’t. I trust my memory, I trust my instincts. I take my own photographs. When all is said and done, I will let you read the rough draft copy of the article, but will accept only corrections where I might have made an error in fact…not impression or interpretation.”

“All right. But I don’t need to read it. You do what you do.”

“Well, fair enough. But really most important is the way I work. I’d like to leave an open calendar for this.”

“What does that mean?” Estelle asked.

“It means that I won’t be flitting off to something that someone says is more important. I won’t be interrupted. And I’m also saying that this isn’t an afternoon thing, or one or two days. Who knows. I might be in town for two weeks. Maybe more. It depends on how much time we can find to work together-because it really is a collaborative effort, Estelle.” She tapped the desk for punctuation and withdrew her hand. “My intent is not to invade your privacy, although a certain amount of that is inevitable. I want to offer a profile of you, your department, even your family, that’s inspiring to our readers.” She sat back and waited.

“Caramba,” Estelle whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “Why would I want to do all this?”

“Because you recognize that this is a good story. It’s not a question of what you have to gain from it, since I don’t really believe you’re concerned about that. It’s what our readers have to gain. Inspiration is a wonderful gift, Estelle.”

“This is all a good deal more than I expected,” the undersheriff said.

“I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. But I’ll add this, Estelle. It is so worthwhile.” Madelyn sat patiently, without moving a muscle, while the undersheriff mulled over the proposal.

“I have a couple of concerns,” Estelle said. “First of all, I hope you realize that if I agree to all of this, I won’t discuss the department employees with you, except in the most general sort of way. Their personnel files are not public record, and it’s not up to me to talk about them behind their backs. As I said in my e-mail to you, you’re welcome to initiate an interview with whomever you like. Some of the staff will talk with you, some may not.” She shrugged. “Bobby, for instance.”

“Yes,” Madelyn said, and Estelle found herself captivated by this bright woman.

“There’s that,” Estelle continued. “Some of them, I’m sure, will talk with you. One or two might even seek you out. I’ve already told all of them that they’re welcome to cooperate with you, and that if they do so, they don’t have to feel that they have to clear anything with me…or Bobby. They’re entitled to their own opinions.”

“That’s more than fair. Most bosses aren’t so secure.”

“Most important, though,” Estelle said. “I hope you appreciate that the nature of our work, much of the time, is confidential. For instance, at this moment, we’re right in the middle of a homicide investigation. That obviously takes priority. I will not discuss that case, or any other case, or release information to you that I would not release to any other journalist. I think that’s only fair. You’re welcome to watch us work and draw your own conclusions. I’ll tell you what I can, when I can, but understand that there are necessary constraints. I’d really take offense at seeing in print a comment that might be made offhandedly concerning an investigation.”

“Believe me, I understand the legal issues,” Madelyn said. “And rest assured that we are not Police Gazette. I’m not here to scoop the Posadas Register, either. By the time we publish, the daily details will be ancient history anyway. They don’t matter to us, except by way of example.” She cocked her head and toyed with the small gold earring in her left ear. “Frank Dayan is an interesting sort, by the way.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He wants to do more about your son’s accomplishments for his paper,” Madelyn said. “He cheerfully admits that he doesn’t know how. His editor-it’s Pam?” Estelle nodded. “I wanted to talk with her, but I understand that her daughter is in the hospital? That’s so sad, isn’t it.”

“Madelyn,” Estelle said, with no intention of entering into a discussion of publisher Frank Dayan’s relationship with editor/reporter/photographer/single mom Pam Gardiner, “you need to know from the very beginning that I have reservations about subjecting my family to media exposure. I’ve had that conversation with Frank a number of times. That’s why he hasn’t had articles about Francisco in the paper.”

“We can’t very well profile you without talking with your family,” the writer said. “And this isn’t like being on the front page of the Sunday paper, either. In the first place, we’re talking about six months, minimum, before the article even sees the light of day. But your two sons are remarkable boys. I was captivated by that photo of Francisco in concert over in Las Cruces.”

“My two sons are remarkable little boys, and that’s not just their mother talking. They are remarkable. Maybe they will talk to you. Maybe not. We’ll have to see. I won’t tell them that they have to.”

“I look forward to the challenge of winning their confidence,” Madelyn said. “And yours, if you’ll let me. How’s this for a deal?…I will never talk to your children when you or your husband aren’t present. How’s that?”

“It’s a place to start.”

“There’s an interesting question we could address right now, and it might be revealing for both of us.” She steepled her fingers, the tips of her index fingers resting on her lips. “I know what I want out of this article, Estelle. What do you want? Why have you agreed to see me? A moment ago, you wondered that very thing. Why didn’t you just press the delete key when you saw my initial e-mail?”

“Partly curiosity, I suppose.”

“It must be more than that.”

“I’m sure it is. I don’t know how to put it into words.”

“Think on that, then. That gives me an opportunity to do something meaningful for you, Estelle. That’s important to me. I don’t consider this a one-way street that we’re on here.” The writer nodded with finality. “Which brings us to mechanics, Estelle. May I be your shadow, then? This is a lot to ask, I know. If you’re awake and decent, I’d like to be with you.”

Estelle laughed. “That’s going to get tiresome for you, that’s for sure.”

“But here again, let’s set a ground rule we can work with. When you need privacy, I want you to feel free just to say, ‘Go away.’ And I will. No questions asked. But if you don’t tell me to go away, there I’ll be.”

“We’ll see how that works,” Estelle said. “That’s all I can say.”

“Fair enough. Might I make a suggestion, by the way? It’s inevitable that you’ll feel it necessary to introduce me to someone. Might I suggest that a simple ‘this is Madelyn Bolles’ is sufficient? No other explanation? It’s been my experience that most of the time, people will fill in the blanks to their own satisfaction.”

“Pecados de omisión,” Estelle said. “Sins of omission are one of law enforcement’s favorite tools.” The undersheriff glanced at the wall clock. “You’re staying over at Mrs. Melvin’s B and B, is that right?”

“That’s my base ops, yes. Room three, the one with the outside stairway around back.”

“Do you need to check in there today, or are we ready for a ride?”

“We’re ready,” Madelyn Bolles said. “I just need to fetch my laptop and briefcase from my car.”

Estelle rolled her chair back and stood up. “Oh…I noticed that you’ve already become acquainted with one of the state officers. I saw that he had you stopped down by Moore.”

Madelyn grimaced. “Ah, that. I wasn’t paying attention. He said I was driving eighty-four in a sixty-five zone. I’m sure he was right, radar being what it is. A nice enough young man. I don’t recall his name.”

“John Allen,” Estelle said. “He’s new.”

“Well, he’s also forgiving, and that’s what is important in this instance,” the writer said. “I’ll meet you-” Estelle’s desk phone interrupted her by buzzing line one.

“By the pumps outside,” Estelle finished for Madelyn. “Excuse me a minute.” She picked up the phone. “Guzman.”

“Estelle, this is Betty. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Of course not. What can I do for you?” She pulled a pad of paper close.

“I think there’s someone here you should talk to,” Betty Contreras said.