Steven Havill - Scavengers

Linda Real remained silent, watching Estelle sift through the photos. “Either way…” the undersheriff started to say, then shrugged. “If Jackie hadn’t found her ‘pattern,’ John Doe would be all we’d have, and we’d be stumped.”

Linda laughed. “I’m glad to hear we’re not stumped,” she said.

Estelle straightened up. “Just temporarily confused.”

“They finished sifting the grave site, by the way,” Linda said. She shook her head. “Nothing except blood-soaked prairie soil. No fragments, no nothing.”

“As expected,” Estelle said. “The bullets that killed both of them are still out on the prairie somewhere. Even if we knew to the inch where all the participants were standing when the shots were fired, it’d take a million dollars worth of man-hours to hunt for the bullets. And even then, no guarantees.”

She sighed and dropped the photo back on the counter. “And speaking of hours,” she added, glancing at her watch. Her mother and the two little boys had trundled off to bed, but Estelle’s system had refused to shut down on demand. “You’re working more tonight?” she asked.

“Tom’s on until midnight,” Linda replied. “I wanted to finish up here, so I thought I might as well come in, too.”

“And be sure that you put in for every minute that you work,” Estelle said, and when she saw the doubtful expression on Linda’s face added, “Let the county share a little of the load, even if it’s just scraping to find the money to pay you guys.”

“Mostly, I was just cleaning up my mess,” Linda said.

“Regardless,” Estelle said, and handed Linda the remaining photos to be slipped with the others into an envelope. “I need to find Tom and talk with him for a minute,” Estelle said. “Jackie is off tonight, isn’t she…or at least is supposed to be.”

Linda flashed a lopsided grin, as familiar as anyone with the odd hours that members of the small department chose to work. Estelle saw that the harsh light of the darkroom overheads accentuated the scar traces on the left side of Linda’s face, the last physical memories of a long night six years before when, as a newspaper reporter riding along with one of the Posadas deputies, she had caught a shotgun blast in the face, neck, and left shoulder. The deputy had been killed, and Linda Real had suffered through nearly two years of therapy and rehabilitation, face scarred and blind in her left eye. Her remarkably resilient spirit had refused to be crippled.

Instead of resuming her career as a reporter, Linda had chosen to seek employment with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, bringing along her considerable photographic talents.

Long before the shooting incident, Linda Real’s crush on the young, brash deputy Thomas Pasquale had been a source of department amusement. Finally, in what then Undersheriff Bill Gastner had described as “a tribute to what little common sense Pasquale possesses,” the friendship between Linda Real and Thomas Pasquale had blossomed into something more. Now, they split the rent on a small house on Tenth Street.

“By the way,” Estelle said, turning toward the strips of negatives hanging in the dust-free drying bag, “did you happen to run that roll I shot for Bill?”

“That was next on my list,” Linda said.

“A strange case he’s working on. It looks like Eleanor Pope is running a donkey motel over at her place on Escondido.”

“I know her.”

“She works at the HairPort,” Estelle said.

“No, I don’t mean from there. She and I shared a little time a couple of weeks ago waiting at the insurance company, and we got to talking.” Linda ducked her head. “She lugs around one of those oxygen tanks that emphysema patients sometimes have to have? She seemed like a nice lady.”

“Maybe she is,” Estelle stepped out of the darkroom and ducked around one of the furnace ducts. “I’m not sure about the pictures, though. A bizarre setup she’s got going there. The light was really hard, so I’ll be interested to see if anything came out. If they didn’t, we’re going to have to reshoot. Bill wants them to twist a warrant out of Judge Hobart.”

She climbed the stairs slowly, feeling the stuffy basement air lighten as she reached the well-lighted first floor. Ernie Wheeler looked up as she emerged from the Hole.

“Sheriff Torrez called a few minutes ago,” he said. “He didn’t want me to interrupt you, but he asked that you call him back when you have a chance.” He held up a Post-it note with the Virginia telephone number.

“He’s homesick,” Estelle laughed.

“He sounded like it,” Ernie agreed. “And Bill Gastner was just here.” He nodded toward the back door. “He walked out that door about ten seconds ago, so you can probably catch him.”

Estelle stepped quickly toward the door, saying over her shoulder, “Would you find Tom Pasquale for me? I need to talk with him if he’s not in the middle of something.”

Without waiting for a response, she stepped outside and saw her old friend’s stout figure moseying toward the white pickup truck parked in the spot reserved for Judge Hobart.

“Sir?”

Bill Gastner turned around at the sound of her voice and stopped, hands thrust in his pockets. “Hey, there,” he said.

“We were in the darkroom. You should have come on down.”

“The less time I spend in the Hole, the better,” he said. “Too many stairs, for one thing. I need to save my knees for the Boston Marathon, or something equally important.”

“Linda is going to process your roll of film tonight.”

He nodded. “Good. You heard that Bobby called?”

“Yes. Did you happen to talk with him?”

Gastner scratched his scalp and then resettled his cap. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said. “He was wondering if he should take an early exit from his school and fly home.”

“I hope you told him to stick it out, sir.”

He chuckled. “He thinks he’s missing all the fun stuff. But I told him we’d save some for him. He didn’t believe me. He wanted you to give him a call.”

“So Ernie said. Are you in the middle of anything right now?”

“Do I look like I’m rushing off somewhere?” Gastner grinned. “I would have stayed for coffee, but there wasn’t any. The goddamn tea generation has hit this place.”

“You’ll learn to like it, sir. It’s good for you.”

“No, I won’t. And no, it’s not. And you’re looking better, by the way. You homeward bound now, or is something on the wind?”

She nodded. “I was about to track down Pasquale. I think he’s got one of the pieces to the puzzle. And I’m not sure he knows it.”

Gastner smiled broadly at that. “Sometimes Tom Pasquale can be a surprise,” he said.

“That’s for sure. Would you like to ride along?”

“Let me check my social calendar,” Gastner replied. He glanced quickly at his wristwatch. “Sure. Why not?”

Estelle turned toward the door in time to nearly catch it in the face as Ernie Wheeler thrust it open.

“Pasquale is down near Maria,” he said quickly. “He’s got a vehicle stopped on Sixty-one, and wants a female officer.”

“Tell him we’re on our way.”

Gastner remained silent as they settled into the unmarked Crown Victoria that Estelle favored. They were just pulling out of the parking lot when the radio crackled.

“Three ten, three oh six.”

Estelle gestured at the mike, and Gastner picked it up. “Three ten is just leaving the parking lot,” he said. “ETA about eleven minutes.”

“Ten-four.” Pasquale’s perfunctory reply. “We’re at the junction of the power line service road and Sixty-one. PCS, I need wants and warrants on New Mexico one three three Echo Baker Nora.”