Steven Havill - Prolonged Exposure

“I thought I’d stay for a few minutes and give Ernie a hand,” she said. Ernie Wheeler, our other senior dispatcher, didn’t need any hand. He was as steady as they come.

I glanced at the clock and saw that it was after seven. “Don’t wear yourself out,” I said. “Something may break tomorrow. We’ll need you sharp.”

Gayle nodded and turned to go. “And Estelle just called,” she added over her shoulder. “She wondered if you were here yet.”

“I’m here,” I said. My daughter had indeed overheard the conversation up on Cat Mesa that promised a visit to the office, and as part of a compromise package with Camille, I had agreed to spend most of the day resting. At first, it had seemed like a waste of time, but then I got a lot of thinking done.

I looked at the papers Gayle had handed me. One of the slips was from Marjorie Davis, asking if I’d call her at home when I got in. After twenty-five years of watching reporters work, I knew damn well what the problem was. It wasn’t just that the youngster was lost on the mesa.

The Register had a midweek edition coming out, and that meant Ms. Davis was staring at a deadline, with editor/publisher Frank Dayan staring at her. If something broke and they missed it, all the metro dailies around the state would beat the little Posadas Register to an important local story, and the Register would end up looking lame and late playing catch-up the following Friday.

I dropped the note on my desk blotter, near the phone, and grinned. The double whammy was that Wednesday was the day the grocery stores ran their full-page ad spreads. That meant lots of readership for the right story, if it broke in a timely fashion.

“Marjorie, Marjorie,” I said, and looked at the other notes. One was from Sam Preston at Preston and Sons Real Estate, and I knew what he wanted. The third was from Stanley Willit, with an out-of-state area code. Gayle’s neat handwriting recorded that he’d called at 4:45 P.M. I had been in the middle of a nap at that time, and if Willit had managed to find out my home phone and had rung the house, my daughter Camille hadn’t admitted to fielding the call.

I got up and walked out to the newly designed skylight area that included the dispatcher’s console, electrically controlled access doors to the rear lockup area, the sheriff’s office, and the personnel lounge.

“I thought you were going home,” I said. “But as long as you’re here, this Willit person…” Gayle nodded. “Is he related in some way to the Apodacas? Holman mentioned that he’s been calling.”

“I think so,” Gayle said. “I think he’s actually Mrs. Apodaca’s stepson from a previous marriage. I think that’s what Sergeant Torrez said.”

“That makes as much sense as anything, I suppose,” I said. “And Bob would know.” Gayle smiled. Bob Torrez kept track of things like family trees. He had plenty of practice with his own. “Did he say why he wanted to talk to me?”

“He didn’t say, sir. He just called a little while ago. I guess maybe it’s because it’s your land that’s somehow involved.”

“Well, let’s call him and find out,” I said. “Maybe he wants some kind of memorial marker erected, or some such.”

Gayle nodded.

“Or a neon-lighted mausoleum,” I added, and Gayle nodded again. “This is an interesting world we live in,” I said, and walked back to my office.

I settled back in my leather chair, pulled the telephone within reach, and dialed. A male voice answered on the fifth ring.

“Yello?”

“Stanley Willit, please. This is Undersheriff William Gastner from Posadas County, New Mexico.”

“This is Willit.”

I waited for a couple of seconds, giving him a chance to collect his thoughts, since he’d been the one who had called first. The line stayed dead, though, so I said, “Mr. Willit?”

“Yep. This is Willit.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Who’d you say you were?”

I took a deep breath and repeated myself, adding, “I’m returning your earlier call.”

“Oh, good.”

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Say, can I call you back in just a couple minutes?”

“Sure,” I said, and started to give him the number. Before I’d gotten through the area code, I’d collected a dial tone. With a shrug, I punched another line and dialed Marjorie Davis’s home number. She answered on the second ring.

“Marjorie? This is Gastner.”

“Oh, good, I was hoping you’d return my call.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Can I be direct with you?”

I chuckled. “Do you mean there are times when you’re not?”

“Well,” she said, then let it drop. “Was there some special reason why Estelle had her little boy with her up on the mesa this morning?”

“You’d have to ask her that, sweetheart,” I said. “But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d think it’s because they’re related, somehow. They hang out together a lot, she and the kid.”

“Come on, sir. Please.”

“Marjorie, let me suggest the obvious. Give Estelle a call, and ask her.”

“I did. Erma Sedillos wouldn’t let me talk with her.”

I chuckled again. “I guess I could have predicted that. And by the way-not that it’s any of my business-what are you planning to do with the pictures you took of my daughter and the youngster? Is that front-page stuff?”

“Frank wants to use it.”

“Well, then, far be it from me to suggest to you and Frank how to do your jobs.” I kept my tone gentle and even jocular, but an uneasy feeling settled somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

Gayle Sedillos appeared in my doorway and held up two fingers, and I nodded. I covered the receiver with my hand and mouthed, “Go home!” She waved a hand in agreement.

“Marjorie,” I said into the phone, “Estelle will be here in about half an hour. I need to take another call, so why don’t you either ring back or, better yet, come on down in person. We’ll figure something out.”

“Do you think she’ll talk with me?”

“I don’t know, Marjorie. I gave up trying to read Detective Reyes-Guzman’s mind a long time ago.” That wasn’t strictly true, of course.

I punched the button for line two and prepared myself for Stanley Willit. But in the past two minutes, he’d become a new man.

“Undersheriff Gastner, Stanley Willit. Listen, sorry to cut you off like that, but in this crazy country, you just never know.” He waited a heartbeat or two for me to agree, but I let the line hang silent, and he continued. “I don’t know if you remember me or not, but Gloria Apodaca-that’s Florencio Apodaca’s wife-is my stepmother.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “So I understand.” Sgt. Robert Torrez’s lineage chart for Posadas relationships maintained its reputation for accuracy.

“Gloria Apodaca’s second husband was Howard Willit. He owned a big furniture store in Las Cruces for years and years. Howard Willit was my father. His wife, my real mother, died when I was born, and just a short time after that-oh, I suppose I was two or three years old-he married Gloria.”

“I see.”

“Then about 1945, my dad was killed in a car crash up in Alamogordo. About a year after that, Gloria sold the store and all of my father’s holdings and moved to Organ. You know that tiny little village just east of Cruces? Up in the hills?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where she met Florencio Apodaca, and they got married sometime in 1948. I don’t remember exactly just what the date was. I was about twelve years old, I suppose.”

“And then your family moved to Posadas?”

“No, no. We lived in Organ for, gosh, close to fifteen more years. Florencio had a business where he made old-fashioned-style Mexican furniture. You know, that adobe hacienda casa stuff. He had himself quite a business going, when he wasn’t drinking himself unconscious. Then we moved to Deming, and then when I went off to the military, they moved a couple more times. They finally settled in Posadas around 1970 or so.”