Steven Havill - Scavengers

Naranjo pursed his lips and shrugged. “Robbery, I think. Osuna was traveling back to Asunción late in the afternoon on a Saturday, four weeks ago. Among other errands, he was returning with pay envelopes for his five workers.”

“He had a crew still in Asunción, then?”

“Most assuredly. They have been working on the central fountain in the square. It’s a most impressive project, more than such a modest village could ever afford. It is entirely donated by Mr. Osuna and his company.” Naranjo raised an eyebrow in question when he saw the expression on Estelle’s face.

“You talked to the workers?” she asked.

“Of course. The project on the fountain was nearly complete when this tragedy occurred. In fact, among other things that day, Mr. Osuna was bringing a small marble icon that was to be included as a finishing touch. A sculptor in Ganos had created it.” Naranjo nodded his head sadly. “The workmen were so struck by the tragedy that they completed the fountain project over the next couple of days…even without pay.”

“The icon wasn’t taken?”

Naranjo leaned against the front fender of Estelle’s car with a sigh, as if the short walk had been a bit too far. “It was still in his truck, along with various tools and whatnot. Only the money was taken, including whatever funds Mr. Osuna had in his personal wallet, in addition to the pay for his workers. That’s how the body was discovered, you see. His truck was left by the side of the road, and noticed by a passerby. But with the wind and so on, there were no tracks that were of any use to us. A petty theft that ended most tragically.”

He rapped the hood of the vehicle with the edge of the brown envelope. “Carlos Osuna is-was-a rare man, Estelle. He was wealthy, but shared it. He built grand buildings, but always found time to return to his home to lend the strength of his company to worthwhile projects such as the church in Asunción. Revered would be the wrong word, but Mr. Osuna was certainly highly respected. To lose such a life for no reason is a tragedy that our country can ill afford. The pressures on us to bring resolution to the case are remarkable, but so far…we have nothing.” He took a deep breath. “So you see, when you mentioned your case, the similarities came to mind immediately. We have precious little to go on, as you can imagine. When such a thing is not witnessed, and occurs in such desolate country”-he shrugged again-“who’s to know? Sometimes, though, with patience, if you talk to enough people, sometimes something slips.”

“Who’s to know,” Estelle repeated. “You have no evidence from the scene, then, other than the body? No signs of a struggle, no spent bullets, no shell casings? Things of that sort?”

“Nothing. Troopers combed the area on their hands and knees. We have spent hundreds of hours at the location where Mr. Osuna’s body was discovered. Both sides of the road, in an area of ever increasing radius. But nothing. I think we have spoken to every living soul in Chihuahua.” He smiled. “And prayed to a few others.”

“Did your medical examiner have an opinion about the weapon, based on the wound?”

Naranjo made a face as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “So little there, you know. Because the wound was through and through-and in the first case, only a slight graze-there was nothing, or next to nothing.”

Estelle ducked inside the vehicle and rummage through her briefcase. When she straightened up out of the car, she said, “Fragments, you mean?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You said ‘next to nothing,’ Captain.”

“Ah, well. A tiny piece of lead that had peeled off the core of the bullet when it shattered the skull at entry. Nothing else. And certainly not enough to establish the nature of the rifling, or the caliber of the weapon.”

Estelle nodded. “Maybe in time it will help.” She extended the photos to Naranjo. “These are the photos that we faxed to your office.”

The state policeman frowned as he examined the grim images of Rafael Smith and Lolo Duarte. Again and again he shuffled between the two, and then laid the two photos on the hood of the car, resting his chin on the heel of his hand as he studied them. “Who identified them for you?” he asked finally.

“The rancher who hired them to cut wood.”

“This man in Grant County?”

“Yes. They worked there for the better part of a month before heading back toward their homes in Mexico.”

“Then it shouldn’t be so hard to discover where they lived,” Naranjo said. He rested his index finger on the photo of Rafael Smith. “This man…” He tapped his finger. “I’m sure that I have seen him, you know.” He held up the photo, scrutinizing it. “But he is not someone with whom I am familiar. Maybe he simply reminds me of someone.” He sighed and laid the photo down. “I would think that after all these years, I would know every solitary soul in all of Chihuahua, no?” He shook his head.

“There are a lot of strangers left in the world,” Estelle said, and Naranjo laughed.

“And at my age, with my memory…how does that old joke go? I meet new faces every day, even among my acquaintances.” He picked up both photos. “We have the names and a face. I should think we can find out for you by this time tomorrow. Unless something unforeseen intrudes.” He tapped the photos once more on the hood and handed them back to Estelle. “And now tell me what surprised you so.” He grinned at Estelle’s guarded expression. “When I first mentioned Mr. Osuna’s work on the fountain, I could see the spark in those wonderful eyes of yours.”

Estelle laughed good-naturedly and shook her head in resignation. Her mother hadn’t missed a thing…and certainly not the occasional, interested glances from Tomás Naranjo. Teresa’s five o’clock meeting had been the gentle reminder of the habitual chaperone.

“We have two other names that interest us, too,” Estelle said. “And they were last reported living in Asunción as well.” She gathered up the photos. “And what you’ll find most interesting is that at least one account reported that they had jobs working on the plaza fountain project in Asunción.”

The flirtatious look of pleasant attentiveness vanished from the state policeman’s face. “Two names?”

“The Madrid brothers. Benny and Isidro Madrid. They’re handymen of sorts. For a period in January, they were in Maria, doing a roofing job for their father.”

“Wally Madrid.”

“Yes.”

“An unusual circumstance. You see, my men would have talked to them in the course of this investigation. There was nothing to prick their curiosity.”

“Well, they’ve pricked ours, sir. What is most interesting is that when Smith and Duarte stopped in la Taberna Azul in Maria on the way north to cut firewood, several witnesses place the Madrid brothers at the saloon at the same time.”

“But not when they stopped on the return trip?”

“That we don’t know.”

“And the connection that makes you so uneasy?”

“The son of the tavern owner purchased a heavy caliber carbine in December. We’re certain that a weapon of similar caliber was used in the Smith-Duarte murders. We learned this morning that the son, Eurelio Saenz, lied about the purchase of the weapon. We have evidence that suggests that the rifle was probably fired, at least once, from a vehicle that was being used, or had been used at some time, by the Madrid brothers. There’s a connection there that we don’t understand fully.”

Naranjo’s eyebrows drifted up. “Ah. What does Mr. Saenz have to say?”

“I wish I knew. He denied any information of the rifle, but that was before we had evidence that he was lying. Unfortunately, we had nothing solid enough to hold him on. Early this morning, Eurelio Saenz fled to this country in the company of two men. His mother witnessed the incident, and said that some coercion was involved. She also thinks the two men could have been the Madrid brothers.”