Steven Havill - One Perfect Shot

“It’s one of the tools of the trade,” she said. “I’m comfortable with a camera, sir.”

“Darkroom?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve processed film at school. Only black and white, never color.”

“Which is fine, since we don’t have color facilities. Yet.” I closed her folder and leaned back. “So explain chain of evidence to me.”

“Sir?”

I handed the commission card back to her, worth no more at the moment than such a card given by the sheriff as a courtesy to a county commissioner. It was a long way from that to responding to an incident as a trained, certified police officer. “If you did a ride-along with me today, out at the homicide scene we’ve got going on, what’s the issue with you taking photos? Even if you have a talent that way?”

She hesitated, and I noticed that she didn’t ask, “ What homicide scene?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m not a member of the department, sir. If I were to take a photograph that later might be useful in court, and the attorneys could prove that at some time in the process, the photos had been out of the department’s possession, that would be an issue. You couldn’t say beyond any doubt that when the material was out of your possession, the photographic evidence had not been tampered with or altered. The photos could be called into question if that were the case. The chain of evidence would be broken because at some point, the evidence was not in your possession or control.”

I nodded, impressed. “So you see the issues.”

“I think I do, sir.”

I pushed myself away from the desk and turned to one of the heavy filing cabinets. It took me a moment to fumble the correct key, and Estelle Reyes waited patiently. In the center drawer I found the box I wanted and slid the top off. “Pick a number. I have eleven, twelve, twenty-seven, and thirty.”

“Twenty-seven, sir.” She didn’t ask why.

I picked up the heavy brass seven-point badge with the colorful enameled state seal in the center. “Let me have your commission card back for a moment,” and when she handed it to me, I wrote her badge number in black ink in the appropriate space, then handed both badge and card to her. “Congratulations, young lady. Make us proud.” I shook her hand, and her smile was radiant. “You were already sworn in when you signed that commission card with the sheriff. And you’ll be sworn in a couple more times before you’re through with all the ceremony. And…” I heaved a heavy sigh. “You have a ton of paperwork to complete, or the county won’t pay you. Later today, see Sandy Bacher over in the main county offices, and she’ll skate you through the payroll hoops. And after that, you could stop by the Department of Social Services and apply for food stamps, since with what we pay, you’ll probably qualify.”

I watched as she tucked the badge into her slender black purse. “You know, we’ve never established a uniform for female officers, but I would suggest that your first move is to get rid of the purse. That’s an extra nuisance that might get in your way.” I smiled. “The pants suit looks just fine. We don’t stand on much ceremony around this joint. It’s not quite as simple as the days when you were handed a badge, gun, and the reins to a county horse, but damn near. I’ll talk to Eduardo and see if he has something in mind for a uniform. But I doubt it.”

Holding up an admonishing finger, I added, “Now tell me why you don’t wear that badge in public, or flash it around.”

She hesitated, then said, “After the paperwork, I’m a member of the staff, sir. But not being a certified officer, I wouldn’t want a misunderstanding with the public. For all legal purposes, I’m as much a civilian as anyone else on the street. I can’t respond to an incident as a certified officer would.”

I nodded. “That’s right. All it says is that you work for us in some capacity. That’s all. You don’t use it to try and dodge speeding tickets, or restaurant discounts, or anything like that. The appropriate place is in your wallet. Have you ever been sued, by the way?”

“No, sir.”

“Understand that when you make mistakes, or even when you don’t, you’ll be a favorite target for all the wackos who want to make a quick buck at the government’s expense. We try not to do stupid things to encourage litigation. Walking into situations without preparation, backup, or even proper authority is one way to encourage the wackos. We have a wonderful county attorney, but he can’t work magic if you don’t use your head.”

“Yes, sir.”

I surveyed my desk. “So…that’s enough yakking. We have a long day ahead, and contrary to what I just got finished explaining, I’m not going to have you sit in dispatch today. We have too much to do, and I’m about fifty bodies short of what I need. And this is too good an opportunity for you to miss. Are you ready to go to work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. By the time the day’s over, you’ll be royally sick of hearing me talk. I like to preach when there’s somebody to listen. Most of the time, I’m talking to myself. You’ve had breakfast?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, because in this business, you’ll never be sure where your next meal is coming from.” I started toward the door, then stopped. “One more thing. At all times, what you think is important to me, and to the sheriff. Don’t keep ideas, or intuitions, or hunches, to yourself. Share, share, share. Use your own judgment for when and how to do that. I’ll want to see how you make those decisions. We’re a team, Ms. Reyes. Yes, there’s a chain of command, but since I’m your training officer for the next few weeks, not to worry about that. What you need to know is that we’re not in competition with each other. And that starts today.”

By 7:45 a.m., we had a dozen folks at Highland Avenue, each with a fistful of yellow surveyor’s flags. We fanned out in a line and tramped through the mounds of weeds for the entire length of Highland, from the intersection with Hutton at one end to the intersection with County Road 43 on the other. Five passes offered a walk of about two miles. We moved slowly, eyes locked on the ground. Every time a treasure was discovered, an evidence flag sprouted if in the officer’s judgment the item could be of interest to us.

I kept the search and seize instructions simple. An old, sun-bleached beer can wouldn’t be much of a find. A fresh can or bottle ripe with fingerprints might be. An old, weathered shot shell casing wouldn’t matter, but a fresh, shiny.30–06 casing damn sure would. A rotted cigarette butt didn’t count for much, but a stash of fresh butts demanded scrutiny. And so on.

The catch with all this, of course, was that after a dozen sets of size 12’s had walked through the area, not much that might be evidence would be left. So we had to get it right the first time.

After five passes-two down each side of the roadway and one right down the middle-we had a mediocre collection of flags growing. Satisfied, Sheriff Salcido and I excused everyone except Bobby Torrez, Tom Mears and my ride-along.

With the traffic gone and the prairie quiet, we visited each flag site in turn. The list of interesting tidbits was depressingly short. One set of tire tracks marked the soft, ungraded shoulder eighty-five yards directly in front of the parked Cat. It appeared that someone had swung off the road far enough that when they did so, their vehicle would have pitched sharply. A moment’s inattention, perhaps, quickly corrected.

“Not a chance.” Tom Mears shook his head. “A cast would be a waste of time. All we can get is a measurement of the width of the tire, and even that’s more of a guess.”