Steven Havill - Bag Limit

“Coffee or something?”

“No thanks. I’m fine.” He waited until I’d finally settled in behind my desk. With his elbows on the arms of the chair, he held his pen in front of his face, one end in each hand, and slowly spun it as if he were searching for imperfections in the gold finish. After a minute, his gaze switched to me.

“I understand that you witnessed some or all of the undersheriff’s initial pursuit of Matthew Baca?”

“Yes. I was parked up on the mountain, just this side of Regal Pass. A little after eleven o’clock. I could see the lights of the Broken Spur Saloon from where I was parked.”

“And you saw the Baca vehicle arrive at the saloon, and then leave shortly thereafter?”

“I didn’t see it arrive. Or at least I didn’t notice it arrive. That might be more accurate.”

“How long had you been parked when you saw the vehicle leave? When you saw it drive out of the saloon’s parking lot?”

“Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five.”

“Do you think that Baca had been at the saloon all that time?”

“I doubt it. The bartender at the saloon said the kid was just in and out. Tried to buy beer, was refused, and left.”

“So you just missed his arrival, then. Somehow.”

“Somehow.”

“Undersheriff Torrez said that he was parked at the old wind-mill about a quarter mile down the road. To the east. Is that your understanding?”

“Yes. I saw his vehicle when he pulled out on the highway with his emergency lights on. I don’t know how long he’d been parked there.”

“So he wasn’t just driving down the highway.”

“No.”

“Does he do that often? Park and watch?”

“Sure. We all do.” I almost added, “As you well know.”

“When the undersheriff began his pursuit of the Baca vehicle, what did you do?”

“I radioed Bob to ask if he wanted me to head the kid off at the pass.”

Schroeder grinned at that. “And did you?”

“No. The undersheriff had dropped back then, and said that there was no point in continuing pursuit. He said that he knew where the kid lived. There was no point in pushing the chase and risking an accident.”

“We’ve been there before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have.”

Schroeder nodded and clicked his pen. “And he turned off his red lights?

“Yes, he did.”

“Would the kids have seen the lights go out, or was Bob too far behind them?”

“I have no idea. They were intoxicated, excited, scared-all those things. And there are lots of trees, curves, the whole bit. My guess would be that they still thought they were being pursued. Otherwise, I don’t know why they would have turned off the highway onto the dirt lane.”

“Your lights weren’t on?”

“No. My engine wasn’t even running.”

“That must have been a hell of a surprise, when they turned into that side road. Did they have a scanner in the car, do you know?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“So they couldn’t have known that you were there.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Would a sober driver have had enough time to stop before hitting your vehicle if he had pulled off the highway in the same fashion?”

“No, not at that speed. We’re only talking a few yards from the highway shoulder to where I was parked.”

“And when the vehicle came to a stop after plowing into yours, Matthew Baca immediately got out of the car?”

I nodded. “Yes. Driver’s side.”

“He didn’t talk to the others?”

“Not that I saw or heard. He got out and stumbled around toward the back of his car. About by the left rear wheel. I got out at the same time and told him to stop, or turn around, or some such. I don’t remember exactly what. He looked like he might cooperate. It appeared that when he saw the lights of the undersheriff’s vehicle as it pulled off the highway into the lane, he bolted.”

“Torrez’s red lights were on at that time? He had turned them back on?”

“Yes.”

“And the kid just ran off into the boonies.”

“Yep.”

“And you didn’t chase him?”

“Nope. Bob followed him for a ways, but didn’t find him.”

Schroeder shook his head in wonder, still gazing at me. “And it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you’d bother organizing a search party for, either.”

“Hardly. The kid’s over eighteen. If he wants to camp out, that’s his choice. It wasn’t a felony that was involved, after all.”

Schroeder smiled briefly. “No, certainly not. So he ran from you, maybe hid somewhere until you guys left, and then made his way home.”

“That would be my guess. When I met two or three hours later with his father and then went into their house in Regal, the kid was there, conked out on the living-room sofa.”

“Where did you see the father? That’s Sosimo, right? The undersheriff’s uncle?”

I nodded. “He was walking down one of the dirt lanes in Regal, headed home. He was intoxicated. That would have been about two AM”

“He was intoxicated to the point he didn’t recognize you?”

“No, he knew who I was. Once he got a good look. I told him we wanted to talk with Matthew.”

“Did he invite you to his house?”

“No. I offered him a ride home, and he accepted. I asked him if I could check to see if Matthew was there. He agreed.”

“Matthew wasn’t awake when you entered the house?”

“No. He was sleeping on the couch in the living room. I put handcuffs on him, and that’s when he woke up.”

“He didn’t struggle?”

“No. He was pissed, though, and looked like he might resist if the opportunity presented itself. I made some comment about Bob carrying him out to the car if he didn’t cooperate.”

Schroeder smiled. “And the threat worked.”

“Yes. We got to the car and he called me every name in the book when he found out that Bob wasn’t there. Other than that, he behaved himself for a few miles, then started working on the back window with his feet.”

“You told him to stop?”

“Yes. And he did, for a while. I called dispatch and told them I was headed in. We were about ten miles from Posadas at the time.” I stopped and frowned, remembering. “I also told Sutherland to let Torrez know that I had the kid in custody.”

“And Matthew would have heard you say that.”

“Sure. And almost immediately after that, he let fly at the window again. It broke and it looked like the kid was going to get his legs out the window, so I pulled over and stopped the car. Another vehicle had come up behind me, and it turned out to be a Border Patrol unit. They saw the kid’s feet out the window and stopped as well.”

“Red lights on?”

“Theirs were. Mine weren’t. I pulled into a little two-track. My unit was perpendicular to the highway.”

“So Matthew Baca might have thought that the undersheriff had joined you.”

“That’s possible, I suppose. In the glare of headlights, he couldn’t have seen the markings on the unit.”

“Did the Border Patrol agents identify themselves?”

“Yes. Casually. We talked, and Scott Gutierrez introduced me to a new officer. Taylor Bergmann. We talked for a few minutes. The kid would have heard the whole thing.”

“The topic of conversation was the chase earlier, and then your subsequent apprehension of Baca?”

“Yes.”

“And during that whole time, Bob Torrez never arrived at the scene?”

“No. He’d been off duty for a couple of hours. As far as I know, he was at home.”

Schroeder frowned and regarded the notes on his pad. “Who made the decision to transfer the kid to the Border Patrol unit?”

“As I recall, Agent Gutierrez offered. He said that they were headed to Posadas anyway. I accepted, since it made sense not to have the kid lying in a pile of broken glass for another ten miles.”