Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“Yeah,” he said, but sounded far more subdued than he had before leaving the Sheriff’s Department to respond to the call. Just beyond the Expedition’s front wheel on the street side, she saw the neck portion of a broken beer bottle. Fresh liquid puddle around it. A large sunburst of cracks scarred the windshield.

“What happened?” She stepped close so that the deputy wouldn’t need to raise his voice. Everyone in the parking lot was on his or her feet, and there was one officer with each group. Estelle focused her attention on Collins. He turned his back on the group with Black, and Estelle saw complete defeat on the young man’s face. The deputy, just turned twenty-five and the department’s most recent academy graduate, normally was not at a loss for words. He enjoyed the day shift, was adept at working with the media, and coordinated nearly all of the department’s efforts in the various public schools. He never complained when overtime, or covering another deputy’s shift, extended his workday, as it had now.

“As I came down the street, I could see those folks were over there by the Volvo getting gas,” he said, and then took a deep breath before continuing his recitation. “Bernie Pollis was standing in the doorway of the store, and those punks…” He turned to nod toward the group corralled by Officer Black. “They were gathered around the Lexus. I drove wide to give myself some time to look the situation over, and then turned into the parking lot. That’s when there was an explosion, and my windshield went opaque. My first thought was that someone had fired a shot at me. A little speck of glass winged off the steering wheel and hit the back of my hand.” He held up his hand. “It’s nothing.”

Estelle looked at his hand, then turned and examined the windshield. The bottle had been an impressive shot, fired by someone with a better than average throwing arm.

She turned back to the deputy, whose story didn’t jibe with the expression on his face. “And then?”

“I bailed out of the unit, and I don’t even remember doing it, but I drew my weapon. I had to have done it as I was sliding out of the unit.” Estelle glanced down and saw that the large automatic was holstered-hammer cocked, safety on, in exactly the condition that the deputy had been trained to carry it.

She held up a hand to stop the flow of words, a well of dread already rising in her gut. “Slow down,” she ordered. “Is anyone else here injured?” She saw the woman across the parking lot wave off Torrez’s attempts at first aid. “What’s going on over there?”

“I think she cracked her head on the trunk lid,” Collins said morosely. “That’s what I think happened, anyway. The bullet didn’t hit her.”

“ You fired a shot?” She glanced across at Black, who now had the five young people sitting along the sidewalk beside the store.

“I didn’t mean to,” Collins said. “That’s what I was saying. I got out of the unit, saw that it was just a bunch of kids over by the store, and probably not an armed robbery or something. Then I saw the glass scattered all over the place and smelled the beer. I heard another vehicle, and that’s when Rick Black pulled in. I holstered the weapon. I mean, I went to holster it, but I guess I fumbled it. I dropped the gun.”

Silence hung heavily between them for the count of ten. “That’s when it went off?” Estelle asked, incredulous. She didn’t add, That’s not possible, because she knew perfectly well that with the right combination of bizarre circumstances, nearly anything was possible.

“Not when I dropped it. It bounced off the side of the truck. You can see the mark right here.” He turned and pointed at a tiny ding in the white paint just below the name badge on the fender. “I made a grab for it. You know…like anybody would. I caught it, and that’s when it went off.”

“Just once?”

“Just once. Christ, that’s enough.”

“Yes, it is. Where did the bullet go?”

“Bernie says that it ricocheted through the grill of his Cavalier, over behind the store.”

Estelle twisted and looked back to the spot where Collins had to have been standing when he fumbled the gun, on the street side of his vehicle, close to the door. A straight line between there and the Cavalier, which Estelle couldn’t even see from where she stood, would pass through the Expedition’s fender, its engine block, and the opposite fender, then through the corner of the store itself. Not possible.

Before she could ask Ricochet off what? Sheriff Torrez caught her eye and beckoned. At the same time across the parking lot, Black pulled one of the youngsters to his feet, spun him around, and cuffed him. The bottle thrower had fessed up, she guessed.…Either that or in a moment of misplaced bravado the kid had said the wrong thing.

“Hang tight a minute,” she said to Collins. “Stay right here.” The sheriff met her halfway across the lot, and storm clouds touched his dark, handsome features. “Is everyone all right over there?” Estelle asked. She saw the woman pat her temple again with a folded handkerchief.

“She just cracked her head on the trunk lid,” Torrez said. “That ain’t the problem. Dufus over there,” and he nodded grimly toward the deputy, “dropped his goddamn gun. The bullet hit the base of the gas pump and then ricocheted into Bernie’s car.…At least Bernie says it did. I ain’t looked at it yet. You can see a little dent and smear of lead on the lower skirt of the pump.”

“Did you call Linda?”

“No.”

“We need her over here ASAP,” Estelle said. She knew that the sheriff understood the situation as well as anyone-that a discharged weapon, even an accidental discharge where the bullet struck no one and caused no serious property damage, was cause for serious concern. In this case, the repercussions could go far beyond the department having to pay for some broken plastic and a punctured radiator. The woman had apparently injured herself, perhaps when the gunshot startled her. This was not a situation where an oops, sorry, folks was adequate.

Estelle also knew-as did Bob Torrez-that if they interviewed each of the dozen people currently in the parking lot, and some of the curious spectators now gathered on the sidewalk across the street, there would be as many versions of the incident as there were people. There were unlikely to be many versions that favored Dennis Collins.

Finally, beginning with these very first moments, when everyone was trying to sort out what happened and why, Estelle was determined that wheels would be set in motion to reduce the likelihood that something like this would ever happen again.

“You want to talk to her?” Torrez asked, turning to glance at the woman by the Volvo. “She’s a little hot under the collar.”

“As well she should be,” Estelle said. “And yes, I want to talk to her.”

“I’ll see what Black’s got goin’,” Torrez said, and stalked off. He didn’t look Collins’ way, didn’t say a word to the deputy. That in itself told Estelle that they were going to face another interesting challenge in the hours ahead.

As she approached the Volvo, she recognized the woman, who looked up at Estelle and shook her head in disbelief. The undersheriff recognized Marge Chavez, wife of the service manager at the Chevrolet-Oldsmobile dealership.

“Are you all right?” Estelle asked. She reached out and touched Marge on the cheek to turn her head slightly so that the glare of the parking lot vapor light caught her full on. A tiny nick marked her temple at the end of her right eyebrow.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Marge said. She was a pleasant-faced woman, wearing a housecoat over what appeared to be flannel pajamas and loose slippers. “But my God, this whole thing just about did me in.”