Twice Buried

29

Marianna Perna was one cheerleader who wasn’t in our corner. As far as she was concerned, little Dicky Staples could do no wrong, which explained for me why the kid was in the fix he was.

“Now I want to know what you people think you’re doing,” she said, and her body English, massive in itself, told me she was going to block the hallway until she got an answer.

Sheriff Martin Holman started to hem and haw and I stepped forward to fix Mrs. Perna with my best Marine Corps gunnery sergeant’s glare. “We know exactly what we’re doing, Mrs. Perna. Let me explain something to you.” It wasn’t lost on either of us that Linda Rael was standing quietly in the corner behind Deputy Tony Abeyta, who was taking a turn at dispatch. Linda was holding a small tape recorder.

“We’re up to here,” and I tapped one of the wattles under my chin, “in a murder investigation…a double homicide. We have reliable information that Richard Staples may be aware of some evidence critical to this investigation. And I’ll repeat that for you…may be aware.”

She started to squawk and I held up a hand and frowned. “We also have information that Richard Staples may be involved in some way with at least one residential burglary.”

“Now I want to know-” Mrs. Perna began.

“First you need to listen, Mrs. Perna. Detective Reyes-Guzman and I visited your apartment today in order to talk with Richard Staples. Our intent was to seek information only. He could have opened the door, chatted with me for five minutes, and that might have been that. But he chose not to do that. For whatever reason, Richard Staples illegally entered the high school gymnasium, using a master key that he had in his possession.” Mrs. Perna looked more puzzled than brazen when she heard that.

“As an employee of the village, you know full well that a master key in the wrong hands is a problem indeed. Young Staples has no business with that key. The conclusion I would reach is one of two: Either he stole the key from someone, or the key was given to him by someone who in turn stole it. It really doesn’t matter at the moment. At any rate, Richard Staples entered the school and was observed by a law enforcement officer looking out of one of the windows.

“We apprehended him in the basement of the school and took him into custody. That, ma’am, is what is going on.”

Mrs. Perna counted to ten and switched targets from us to Richard Staples. “I want to talk with that young man. I’ll find out what he thinks he’s doing.”

She turned and looked down the hall as if that were the direction of the holding pen.

“No, ma’am, you may not talk with Mr. Staples. He is in our custody and will remain so until his preliminary arraignment this evening before Justice Emilio Gutierrez.”

“I have a right to talk with my nephew, and I want to talk with him right now.”

I looked at Mrs. Perna with considerable exasperation, tinged with just a little admiration.

“Sorry, Mrs. Perna. Number one, and you can check with the district attorney if you feel I’m wrong, you don’t have any right to see your nephew just now. He’s no longer a minor and he’s under arrest.” I glanced at my watch. “We’re due at arraignment at six-fifteen. That’s an hour and a half from now. If you would like to wait, you’ll have a chance to see Richard for a few moments while he’s being transported to Justice Gutierrez’s. Beyond that, you’ll just have to be patient. And now, if you’ll excuse me, we have a great deal to do.” I gestured at the two vinyl-covered chairs between the file cabinets. “You’re welcome to wait there if you like.”

Mrs. Perna looked at me and then at Sheriff Holman, who hadn’t said squat during the entire exchange.

Holman nodded and frowned. “You’re welcome to wait out here,” he said. “Excuse us.”

I turned and beckoned Deputy Torrez and Estelle Reyes-Guzman to follow.

The stairway up to the cells was steep, the wood deeply cupped in spots from decades of traffic. On one side of the upstairs hallway were six small, dismal jail cells. About all that could be said for them was that they were secure. In twenty-three years, I could remember no time when all six had been full.

Across the hall were a storage room, a photographic dark room, and the conference room. District Attorney Ron Schroeder, with other fish to fry who probably paid fifty bucks an hour, begged off.

“Lemme know what you need, Bill,” he said. “I’ll be in my office.”

“And miss all the fun?” I asked.

“Such fun,” he said. “I’ll pass.”

Deputy Torrez went down to cell six and after much clanking and door-slamming returned with a somber Richard Staples. I pointed to the straight ladder-backed chair on one side of the oak table.

“Sit there, Richard,” I said. Torrez escorted him to his seat and then joined Estelle and me opposite Staples. After considerable obvious indecision, Sheriff Holman sat at the end of the table, like father at dinner.

I gestured at the tape recorder in the center of the table.

“This interview is being recorded,” I said as I punched the two buttons down. “Has Deputy Torrez advised you of your rights?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to speak louder, Richard.”

“Yes, he advised me,” Staples said and I saw the VU meter on the recorder jump. His former bravado had evaporated. An hour in the dungeon had been the right medicine.

“Richard, I want to make sure you know all the people present.” I pointed at each person in turn. “On my left is Deputy Robert Torrez. This is Deputy Estelle Reyes-Guzman from the Isidro County sheriff’s department.” I saw a flicker in Staples’s expression. Maybe he was wondering what the hell he’d done up north to pull the cops down on him from there. Maybe he was too stupid to know where Isidro County was.

“And this is Sheriff Martin Holman. I’m Undersheriff William Gastner. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Richard, do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me.”

“For breakin’ into the gym.”

“Can you think of any other reason?”

“No.” His tone was sullen again, and I noticed I wasn’t “sir” any more.

“Why were you in the basement, Richard?” Estelle asked. Her voice was soft and silky, and the VU barely twitched.

We waited a full minute while Richard Staples examined the cuticle of his left index finger. A little sound that might have been a sniffle or just a noisy inhale told me that he hadn’t fallen asleep.

“You weren’t hiding from us, were you,” Estelle said. I half expected Staples to say, “Hell, who would?” but he didn’t. He raised his eyes from his cuticle to meet Estelle’s gaze.

“Richard, we need answers that the recorder can hear,” I prompted. Estelle had him locked in, but I wanted the kid to remember that there were other people in the room…and some of them nowhere near as kindly as the young lady.

“No, I wasn’t hidin’ from you,” he said finally.

“Who from, then?”

I saw his jaw tighten and he went back to his cuticle again.

“Has someone threatened you?” Estelle asked.

“I ain’t afraid of nobody,” Richard Staples said without hesitation.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Estelle said. “But you said you weren’t hiding from us. Will you tell us from whom, then?”

He lost interest in his finger and looked off toward the far corner of the ceiling. If he started counting ceiling tiles, we were going to be there all night.

“Richard, what can you tell us about the burglary at Wayne’s Farm Supply last week?” Deputy Torrez said. I tried hard not to grin. His timing was perfect, dropping another bomb in the kid’s lap just when he thought he could bore us more than we bored him.

Staples’s eyes shifted to the table in front of him and he blinked hard.

While he was waiting, Deputy Torrez reached down and lifted his briefcase to the table. He opened it and shuffled papers for a few seconds before selecting the one that had been on top all along. He read it over before laying it on the table in front of him.

“We have information that two male subjects entered the back of the Wayne Supply building sometime between six p.m. Tuesday night and eight a.m. Wednesday morning of last week.”

Torrez looked up and folded his large hands in front of him on the table like a priest about to say blessing for dinner. “We have evidence that tells us what size and brand of shoes one of the suspects wore. We have several sets of fingerprints lifted from the scene. We have a full inventory of goods taken from the scene. Several of the larger tools have not only serial numbers for identification but also the owner’s identification number.”

He paused a moment and regarded Richard Staples with interest. Staples squirmed in his chair and then turned slightly so he could rest his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.

“We haven’t fingerprinted you yet, but we’ll have plenty of time for that after your arraignment,” Torrez continued. “You want to talk to us about that burglary?” Torrez asked.

“I thought this was about the school,” Staples said and even I almost felt sorry for the simple son of a bitch.

“Well, it could be about that too,” Robert said easily. “But what we’ve also got is a statement from another party that links you to that burglary. And we do know, Richard, that there are ties to other residential burglaries in the area as well. We’re talking eight or ten counts.”

Even Richard Staples could count from one to two to ten, and before he had a chance to add up his chances, I said, “Where did you get the school keys, Richard?”

He frowned, thinking hard and fast. “I found ’em,” he said without looking at me.

I nodded solemnly, as if I believed that yarn. I examined my little note pad for a full minute. “So tell me about Todd Sloan, Richard.”

The kid’s head snapped around to me so fast I thought I heard his bones pop.

“I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that,” he said, and damned if there wasn’t a hint of a quaver in his voice.

I leaned back in my chair and my hand fumbled around in my shirt pocket for the cigarette I didn’t have. “Nothing to do with what, Richard?”

“Nothin’ to do with him, I mean.”

“But you know who he is?”

“Course I do.”

“And you heard about what happened yesterday?”

“Yes. Everybody in town’s talking about it.”

“Richard,” I said, “We have information that you associated with Todd Sloan on a routine basis at school and outside of school as well.”

“That ain’t true,” Staples almost shouted. His right eye crinkled shut like he had dust in it. He rubbed it with his right index knuckle. “That ain’t true. I didn’t hang around with that little shit at all. There ain’t no way I had anything to do with him gettin’ killed.”

Martin Holman had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. He let his chair thump down and he leaned forward. I said a quick, silent prayer.

“Richard, you know, then, that we’re actually investigating a double homicide.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Holman knew that if we kept stacking, eventually Richard Staples’s shell would crack. Just like breaking down a customer until he bought the used Oldsmobile.

This time, it wasn’t a quaver in his voice. Staples’s eyes went wide with pure panic. Any eighteen-year-old fool knows how much of his life could be spent in prison on a double homicide rap.

“Now lookit. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with any of that,” he said.

“But you know who did,” Estelle said. Her black, smoldering eyes must have bored into Richard Staples’s brain. My pulse crept up a dozen notches. “Make it easy on yourself, Richard.”

“This is deep, deep trouble, son,” Holman murmured.

Richard Staples frowned hard, his head down. His lower lip twitched once, jutting out a bit and then jerking back in like he’d given something away. And then, almost in slow motion, he caved in until his head was resting on his crossed arms on the table. None of us moved or said anything.

After a full two minutes, the tape recorder clicked and I reached forward, snapped the eject, flipped the tape, closed the cover, and pressed record/play again.

“We’re ready when you are, Richard,” I said gently.

Richard Staples pushed himself upright and wiped at his right eye again. When he chose to speak, he was looking at Martin Holman. Damned if the sheriff hadn’t made the sale.