Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

The two girls, one whom Estelle knew to be fourteen or so, the other a bit younger, had slipped back into the car’s backseat, where they sat silent and wide-eyed.

“I’d like to hear what happened, Marge.”

“Oh my,” the woman said. “Look, I don’t want to get Denny in trouble, but my gosh.”

“I understand that, and appreciate it, but I need to hear what happened.”

“It happened so fast. Just unbelievable.”

“That’s how these things go. Tell me what you remember.”

“I had picked the kids up after a little party that one of their friends was throwing after the basketball game. I told them I’d come and get them at midnight. It wasn’t a stay-over or anything like that. But then Barbie called and asked for another hour or so. They were watching a movie, and wanted to see the end. And I said all right. Just this once. So I did that, and on the way home, I saw that I had forgotten to get gas.…I’m always doing that, sheriff. Always. My husband has given up on me. He bought me a cell phone to keep in the car just for that reason. So when I run out, I can call for help.” She smiled gamely and dabbed at her eyebrow again.

“Anyway, here I was. The two kids wanted to go into the store to get something, and I said no. For one thing, they don’t need to eat any more junk this time of night, and for another, I was a little apprehensive about those kids across the lot. I knew they weren’t local, and it didn’t take rocket science to know that they were drinking.”

“Where was Mr. Pollis during all of this?”

“Bernie was standing in the doorway of the store. I could see one of the other kids who clerk there behind him, standing behind the counter, I suppose. But Bernie-he was standing there in the doorway, watching the group of kids. He had a phone in his hand. So I assumed there had been some kind of trouble. That’s just about all I saw, until Denny arrived. I had just finished gassing up the car and was around back when he pulls in real fast from the south, there, and boom ! I heard a loud pop and a tinkle, like breaking glass hitting the pavement.”

“You were standing near the trunk of your car?”

“Yes, I was. I was rummaging to see if I had any windshield washer fluid. That’s another thing I’m always running out of.”

Why do people do these things at one o’clock in the morning? Estelle thought. Then again, Bill Gastner would be heading for his next beloved green chile burrito, an incomprehensible habit by most other people’s standards. Compared to that, a little gasoline and windshield washer fluid wasn’t so bad. “Did you actually watch the deputy pull into the parking lot?”

“Well, no. I didn’t. My back would have been to him.”

“But then you heard something?”

“Well, I turned when I heard the bottle-that’s what it sounded like. A loud pop, and then glass spraying on the pavement. He stopped right in the driveway, there, and got out of the car. He had his gun in one hand, and my first reaction was to get back in the car and get the girls out of there. Then I heard another car coming really fast, and saw it was the state cop. That’s when Denny fired a shot. My lord, it was loud. Something hit the pump island here and shrieked off that way.” She first pointed at the pump island, and then waved a hand toward Bernie’s aging compact car that slumped beside the building. “And my first thought was, My God! He’s shooting at us! I jerked around, lost my balance, and cracked my head against the corner of the trunk lid.…It was still open.”

She frowned and squinted against the harsh light. “And look now. They’re arresting that boy.”

Estelle glanced across the parking lot. Sure enough, Rick Black was escorting his charge toward the state patrol car, the teenager’s hands cuffed behind his back. Three of the others still sat on the sidewalk, and a fourth was face-to-face with the sheriff, who towered over him by a full head. With good reason, the boy cowered. Torrez stood with feet planted and both hands on his hips. Don’t hit him, Estelle thought. We have enough problems.

“Mrs. Chavez, you said that you thought you heard something strike the pump island here. Are you sure about that?”

“I’m very sure,” the woman said. The car door started to open and she spun around. “You stay in the car, now,” she said, and Barb, the oldest daughter, did as she was told. “I don’t know exactly where it hit, but I’m sure it did. I mean, my gosh, sheriff, look at this. That’s only a couple feet from where I was standing, or from hitting the back window where the girls were sitting in the car.”

“Mrs. Chavez, we’re going to need photographs, and I’ll need to talk with you again. I’d like to take photos of this area right now, before you move the car. We need to take a measurement or two, then you’re free to take the kids home. It’ll be half an hour or so. If you want to call your husband to come and pick them up, that’s fine, too.”

“He’s in Fort Worth for some kind of regional meeting,” the woman said. “I’m not looking forward to telling him about this.” She looked at Estelle expectantly, as if awaiting instructions.

“Is there anyone else at home?” Estelle asked.

“No.”

“I was going to suggest that an officer take the girls home, but we don’t want to do that if no one is there. Mrs. Chavez, I’ll be as prompt as I can. I appreciate your patience.”

Another Sheriff’s Department vehicle approached from the south and nosed in behind Estelle’s sedan. Deputy Tom Pasquale got out of his SUV, lifted a hand in greeting to Collins, and then sauntered across toward Torrez and the group of kids.

Estelle retrieved her camera and took several dozen photos of the Volvo and the pump island from every conceivable angle. She photographed the automobile’s trunk lid, with close-ups of the offending corner. Marge Chavez wasn’t happy about having her face photographed but grudgingly agreed.…The little nick would be difficult to see in the best of prints, and Estelle wished that Linda Real, with her amazing photographic talents, was driving the camera.

“Go ahead and take the kids home,” Estelle said. “Someone will be in touch tomorrow for a written statement. You might want to stop by the emergency room and have that cut looked at.”

“Oh, heavens no. It’s nothing. My own clumsiness.” Marge folded herself back into the Volvo and in a moment pulled away from the pumps.

The gouge and smear of lead on the pump island’s lower concrete skirt showed that the fat.45 slug from the deputy’s gun had hit a glancing blow just inches off the ground where the concrete began to curve around the corner. Estelle walked over to where Bernie Pollis’ car was parked next to the building. Sure enough, centered neatly just under the Chevrolet logo on the old compact car’s grill was shattered plastic, and an irregular hole the size of a quarter in the mesh of the radiator.

“You want me to open the hood?” a voice said, and Estelle turned at Pollis’ approach.

“Yes, sir.” She watched him fumble with first the cable release and then the safety latch. The engine compartment was dark and smelly, and Estelle played the beam of her flashlight down into the depths between engine block and radiator. The slug had punched through the radiator, nicked a fan blade, and then smacked into the water pump housing before dropping straight down. A large fragment of it lay on the asphalt under the car, in a puddle of antifreeze.

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t touch anything yet,” she said.

“I ain’t touching a thing. Who’s gonna pay for this?”

“I’m sure it will be taken care of,” Estelle said. “Right now, it’s important that nothing’s disturbed.”