The Fourth Time is Murder

Chapter Nine

There was no point in scrambling up and down the rock-strewn precipices of Regál Pass in the dark, regardless of how Chris Marsh had died. In addition to being drowned in his own beer, the victim had been dead for at least twenty-four hours, maybe longer. Dr. Alan Perrone was sure of that. The killer wasn’t still lurking at the scene. He was long gone, leaving nothing but puzzles behind.

Some of the answers, Estelle felt sure, would be found at the accident site, and that required a careful, methodical approach-not a fleet of big feet slipping and sliding, ruining evidence.

After a brief phone consultation with Deputy Jackie Taber, who reported that Regál Pass was so quiet she could hear the piñons grow, Estelle walked Bill Gastner to his truck, then settled behind her desk to read Dennis Collins’ deposition. The brief document was a masterpiece of garbled syntax. Estelle read it quickly, saw no gaping inconsistencies, and chalked up the lack of grammatical precision to exhaustion tinged with apprehension. Despite the young man’s bravado that might come to his defense, Dennis Collins would suffer the awful bouts of self-doubt that churned the gastric juices into rebellion and drove sleep away.

Estelle saw that she had two arguments to use when she discussed the young deputy’s future with Sheriff Robert Torrez. That conference would wait, however. Torrez had gone home, as had Collins. Rest would do them both a world of good.

“Estelle?” The voice jerked the undersheriff out of her musings, and she turned to see Brent Sutherland standing in the doorway of her office. “Elliot Parker is on the phone from Lordsburg. He would like to speak with you.”

“Do we know Mr. Parker?”

“He’s the kid’s father. The kid who threw the bottle?”

“Ah. That’s good,” Estelle said. “Even at two thirty in the morning, that’s good.” The boy’s phone call had been straight to Dad. Deputy Tom Pasquale and Rick Black had taken care of booking Tyler Parker into the detention center’s minimalist facilities. The four others, all minors, were waiting glumly in the conference room. State law prohibited incarcerating or even cuffing children unless they were an obvious physical threat to themselves or others, and Deputy Pasquale had confirmed that the county Juvenile Probation Office wanted the kids sent home with parents, the sooner the better. If there were to be charges against any of them, it would wait until the next day, or the next-on whichever mañana the JPO authorities chose to decide.

Mr. Parker was the first irate parent to contact the department-perhaps because his son, of age, had the most to lose. His case didn’t fall under the providence of the JPO, but rather that of the district attorney and Judge Lester Hobart.

She picked up the phone. “Undersheriff Guzman.”

There was a long pause, then, “May I speak with the sheriff, please. This is Elliot Parker.” The man’s voice was carefully modulated, as if he was putting great effort into self-control.

“Sheriff Torrez is not in the office, sir. May I help you?”

“Well, I guess so. Look, my son Tyler is with you folks? Do I understand that correctly?”

With us. Estelle smiled at the quaint phrasing. Welcome to your local county B and B. “Yes, sir, he is. The deputies are working on an arraignment schedule with Judge Hobart.”

“He’s all right, though?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The four others are still with you as well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So they’re all being detained. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, sir. They’re all minors, all under the influence to one degree or another. They will be detained here until parents or guardians arrive to take them into custody.”

“There’s bond, I assume? For my son, I mean?”

“At the moment, no. He is being held pending arraignment.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Parker said. “The judge isn’t going to like that much.” Judge Lester Hobart didn’t like much of anything that jarred his strict routine, Estelle knew…least of all being hauled out of bed to tongue-lash drunken youngsters. She offered no comment about what the judge might or might not do.

“Okay, look,” Parker said. “After my son called, I spoke with some of the other parents. Is it acceptable if I pick the kids up?”

“No, sir. We will release them to parents or legal guardians. That’s all the law allows us to do.”

“How about if I have a signed note.”

Anything for convenience, she thought. “No, sir.”

“So each of these boys is going to have to be picked up by his own parents?” A note of exasperation crept into the man’s tone.

“That’s correct, sir.”

“That might not be until tomorrow sometime. I mean, later today. It’s not a convenient drive over there, you know.”

“I understand that, sir. I’m sure the boys will wait.”

“My son’s arraignment hasn’t been set?”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk with the officers handling that, sir. But it would be better for your son if the arraignment was later in the morning.”

“Now why is that?”

“For one thing, sir, your son is intoxicated to the point that he isn’t making intelligent decisions. I’m sure you noticed that when you spoke with him. It wouldn’t be in his best interests to make an appearance before the judge in his present condition. Let him sleep for a few hours.”

“Huh.” The line fell silent for a few seconds. “Look, what was your name again?”

“Undersheriff Guzman.”

“Okay, look. I’m going to bring the kid’s checkbook over. He’s going to have some kind of bond to pay, won’t he?”

“That’s a possibility.”

“Any idea how much?”

“No, sir.”

“And what’s he charged with again?”

“At this point, assault on a police officer, battery on a police officer, public intoxication, supplying alcoholic beverages to minors, and four counts of child abuse.”

“Jesus H. Christ. Child abuse? Where the hell did that come from? Are we talking about the same case here?”

“Your son is no longer a minor, sir. When an adult commits a crime that either injures or has the immediate potential of injuring a child…a minor, if you like…that’s the basis for charges of child abuse.”

The phone went silent again except for a rhythmic tapping in the background, as if fingernails were drumming on a desk. “Why the battery charge? Did he try and fight the officer?”

“It’s possible that a piece of glass from either the windshield or the bottle struck the deputy in the hand. That’s still under investigation.”

A long, impatient exhale of breath greeted that. “We’re talking felonies here, aren’t we.” Parker’s tone was no longer as assured.

“Yes, sir.” They wouldn’t remain that way, Estelle was willing to bet, but she wasn’t about to discuss or try to predict what Judge Parker and District Attorney Dan Schroeder would agree to.

“All right, then. I’ll bring over his checkbook a little later. He’s going to bail himself out of this one. Maybe that’ll get his attention. He’s working toward buying his own car, you know. This’ll put a damper on those plans, let me tell you. He was driving his mother’s Lexus this time around. Any damage to that?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that’s something. Is he going to be able to drive home?”

“That will depend on Judge Parker, sir. My suggestion would be that the vehicle’s owner comes and retrieves it.”

“I guess. His mother’s not going to like that.” Parker waited an instant for another suggestion and, when one wasn’t forthcoming, added, “I’ll call the parents back and tell ’em that I can’t play chauffeur.”

“That would be good, sir. I appreciate that.”

Parker sighed. “You have kids of your own, sheriff?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then you know all about it,” he said. “May I give you my cell phone number, just in case you need to reach me?”

“Certainly, sir.” She jotted down the numbers as he rattled them off.

“Any time day or night,” he added. “Thanks for taking my call.”

She hung up with a sigh, and made a bet with herself that Elliot Parker’s show of cooperation and understanding would evaporate the instant he learned of the accidental discharge. It was interesting that his son hadn’t mentioned it yet-a sign of just how drunk the boy really was.