Steven Havill: Out of Season

I grimaced. “When’s the next round of surgery scheduled?”

“I’ve got two new permanent crowns waiting for me,” Linda said. “There’re a couple of procedures yet to go that involve building something that looks like the Brooklyn Bridge, but I think it’s all on an outpatient basis.” She didn’t move her jaws much when she talked, but her diction was clear and precise.

“Those are what Dr. Guzman refers to as ‘lengthy orthodontic procedures’?”

“Lengthy is in the eye of the beholder,” Linda said easily.

“I think that what’s at issue is the job description,” Estelle said, cutting right to the chase. JanaLynn arrived with our food, and we waited while she placed the steaming, fragrant burrito grandes in front of Linda and me, and a taco salad for Estelle.

Linda Real hadn’t lost her appetite, and even though she was forced to process the food entirely on the right side of her mouth, she attacked the meal with gusto.

“Job description?” I asked.

Estelle frowned as she worked loose a corner of the flower-petal taco shell. “If a dispatcher does nothing but dispatch, I don’t think that a physical handicap matters.”

“Depending on the handicap, of course,” I said. “But let’s look at the facts. Our department is a small one. Hell, not small. Miniscule. With twelve full-time employees to cover seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, everyone has to be a jack-of-all-trades.”

Linda started to say something, but Estelle leaned back and put her fork down. “And you’ll remember, sir, that’s one of the things we talked about that needs to change.”

“Sure enough,” I said. I knew exactly what she was driving at, and in a normal world with normal budgets and legislators who had their heads screwed on straight, there would have been no argument.

“Especially where the dispatcher is concerned,” Estelle pointed out.

I poked at my burrito and rearranged an ocean of sour cream. “If you were working dispatch, what’d be your job?” I asked Linda.

“Radio. Telephone. Fax. Computer. Some filing. Talking with walk-ins.” She leaned forward eagerly, fork poised. “And I’d really like to continue working with photography. I think I can make a contribution there.”

I nodded. “I have no doubt of that. And in a perfect world, those things you mentioned would be the bulk of what a dispatcher’s job would be limited to. But this world is far from perfect. Sometimes the person working dispatch needs to tend to someone in the lockup. That’s what Francis was talking about when he mentioned duties beyond the radio. And there are times when the officer working dispatch needs to assist in booking procedures, too.”

“But always with another officer in that case, sir,” Estelle observed. “And if the dispatcher needs to go into the lockup, it’s just to check quickly on the general situation, not to enter the cells.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “That’s the way it should be. There should be nothing that takes the dispatch officer away from the communications console. I know that. And when it happens, we’re setting ourselves up for disaster.” I took a sip of coffee. “I’m sure you both remember Sonny Trujillo. The kid who choked to death in one of our cells? Gayle Sedillos was all alone when that happened. Granted, she probably shouldn’t have been. But we were busy with another case, and we were shorthanded.”

Estelle nodded and turned to Linda. “We get caught sometimes, Linda. We put ourselves in a position where we hope that the dispatch officer can get to the radio or telephone immediately. It doesn’t always happen. It hasn’t always happened.”

Both women looked over at me and I shrugged. “Linda, you’re an intelligent, gifted young woman. I have some idea about what you’re going through. But you know, for the life of me, I don’t understand what attracts you to the dispatch job. It’s deadly dull ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of the time. The starting salary we pay is less than welfare. On top of that, any new dispatcher will have to work graveyard…” I let it trail off and raised an eyebrow at her expectantly.

“I don’t think I could explain why I want to do it,” Linda said softly. “It’s just something I’m comfortable with in my mind.”

“Comfortable with…”

She nodded. “I’ve watched Gayle Sedillos work, and she seems so confident and professional. Part of a team.”

I looked down at my diminishing burrito. “Let me ask you something straight-out.” I put down my fork and pushed the plate away. “Does your wanting to work for us have something to do with the incident two years ago? With the shooting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think that if I’d been through what you have-and what you’re still going through because of it-I’d sure as hell distance myself from anything to do with police work.”

Linda bit her lip. “What happened to me could have happened anywhere, anytime. I could have walked into a convenience store at the wrong time. Or stopped my car at just the wrong intersection at just the wrong time. Or a thousand other scenarios.”

“So you’re not trying to put something right? Not trying to get back on the horse that bucked you off?”

“No, sir.”

“There’s a certain personality profile we look for, Linda. You mentioned Gayle Sedillos. She’s about as good as they come. Levelheaded, commonsensical, quick-thinking, a good communicator.”

“I think I’m all of those things, sir.”

“I won’t argue that.” I took a long breath. “And as you suggest, you’ve got some camera skills that we’re going to need when Estelle leaves us. Let me ask you something else. In the event that the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department were to hire you-”

JanaLynn appeared around the partition, pointed at me and then mimicked holding a telephone to her ear. “Hold that thought,” I said. “Excuse me for a minute.”

From the booth where we were sitting, I would have guessed that the restaurant was empty. As I walked around the first partition, I was startled to see a fair sea of heads as dinner-hour patrons picked up. JanaLynn reached under the counter by the cash register for the telephone and handed it to me.

“Gastner.”

“Sir,” Gayle Sedillos said, “Officer Pasquale reported that with binoculars he can see something that looks like it might be wreckage, and he’s on his way to the site.”

“How far off road?”

“He thinks at least three miles, sir. Over north of the Salinas Arroyo fork. He said he’d try to find a route to get him close enough to confirm before dark.”

I glanced at my watch. “Any fire?”

“He says not, sir.”

“Well, he doesn’t have much time. Did you call Jim Bergin at the airport?”

“Yes, sir. Bergin said there was only one aircraft currently aloft in the area, and he’s trying to contact it now.”

“You mean a local flight?” I glanced out past the front doors as the wind scudded up the street.

“Yes, sir. Apparently Philip Camp departed Posadas at sixteen-ten for just a short ride. He hasn’t returned.”

“Phil Camp? That’s Marty Holman’s brother-in-law.”

“Yes, sir. Jim Bergin said that Sheriff Holman went with Camp.”

Linda Real wasn’t finished with her meal, but she’d have to get used to interruptions. I wasn’t sure why I invited her along, other than that it was as good a time as any to see what her instincts were.

She and I headed for the airport, and as we drove up Bustos Avenue toward County Road 43, I could tell by the way she sat, stiff-spined and leaning forward slightly, that she was eager to be doing something other than sitting and waiting for damaged cells to mend.