Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“Hey,” Linda said. “How’s it goin’?”

“It’s going,” Estelle replied. She quickly outlined the gist of the scene for the photographer, whose normally unflappable good cheer dissolved when she heard what had happened to Deputy Collins.

“Bobby’s going to have a cow,” Linda said in her habitual straight-to-the-heart fashion, and Collins winced.

“We’ll just have to see,” Estelle replied. The sheriff’s initial choice of “dufus” as a moniker for his deputy didn’t bode well. She could predict that whatever Sheriff Robert Torrez did, he wouldn’t concern himself with politics or image. That in itself was something of a relief. Equally sure was that he wouldn’t shrug his shoulders and say, “People drop things. Happens every day.”

“Let me show you what we need,” Estelle said, and then turned to the deputy. She looked hard at Collins. “And listen to me, now. After Linda takes a photo of that chip in your truck, the broken glass, and the beer puddles, I want you to go back to the office and write a detailed deposition for me. Exactly what happened, from A to Z. Leave nothing out. Take your time and do it right.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t make anything either less or more than it is. Do you understand what I’m saying? This isn’t the time for creative writing. Right now I’m only concerned with the what , not the why . Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Again, Estelle was impressed that she had heard no string of excuses from the young deputy.

She turned her attention to his Expedition. The chip in the white paint of Dennis Collins’ county vehicle was tiny-a little, sharp-edged mark just below the right fender logo, immediately in front of the door. Estelle crouched down and trained her flashlight on the spot.

“Can you make a clear photo of that?”

Linda bent down beside her. “Oh, sure,” she said cheerfully. “Holy macro.”

Estelle laughed at the young woman’s easy good humor. Maybe it was for Dennis’ benefit, but it was welcome regardless. “And as long as you’re doing that, I need a good, clear blowup of Dennis’.45. There may be some paint or scratches that will show in a print.”

“Oh, it will.”

“I’ll bring the gun to the office in a few minutes. You can do it there.”

“You got it.”

“You want my gun?” Collins asked, and he made it sounds as if Estelle were asking him to disrobe in public. He started to reach toward his holster protectively and she caught his wrist.

“Just unbuckle the whole belt, Denny.” She could tell he was counting mentally to ten-maybe even twenty or thirty. Finally, he unbuckled the heavy Sam Browne belt, then refastened the buckle deftly and hung the entire heavy rig over Estelle’s extended hand. She felt a pang of sympathy for his humiliation.

“I know you’re off-shift, Dennis. It’s been a long day, and is going to be longer before it’s over. But wait for us at the office, all right? Finish up the deposition, make sure you dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t.’”

“The sheriff is going to fire my ass,” Collins whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. That was conceivable, Estelle knew. Equally conceivable was that Deputy Dennis Collins would end up being an even better officer than he had been before the incident.

“One step at a time,” Estelle said. “Don’t start making assumptions. I’ll see you in a few minutes in my office. All right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re all right with that?”

“I guess I have to be,” Collins said. He managed a rueful smile. “I’m just glad nobody got hurt.”

“Exactly.”

Linda finished a series of a dozen or more photos of the truck, then stepped back. “You can have it now,” she said. Collins climbed into the Expedition without a word, started it, and backed out of the parking lot. As he drove off, Linda turned to Estelle. “Wow,” the photographer said.

“‘Wow’ is right,” Estelle replied. She opened the trunk of her car and laid the Sam Browne rig inside. Drawing her flashlight, she bent down to inspect what she could see of the officer’s gun without drawing it from its holster. The white paint on the square, sharp corner of the back sight was obvious. “Right here,” she said, and turned both gun and light so Linda could see. “Smacked it right on the back sight.”

“No problems getting that,” Linda said.

Estelle positioned the belt so that the gun was protected from touching anything in the trunk. “Just in case, can you take a picture of the gun now?”

“I can do that.”

Linda tried half a dozen angles, frowning and grimacing as she worked. “We can do better in the lab with the tripod and easel, but this’ll work for now as backup,” she announced finally. When Linda was finished, Estelle shook open a black plastic bag and slid in the belt, heavy with its half-a-hardware load of gun and accoutrements. She slammed the trunk lid shut.

The sheriff and State Trooper Rick Black were conferring well out of earshot of the remaining four teenagers, who still sat like forlorn statues on the store’s sidewalk. Linda headed off toward the fuel pumps to take photos there and at Bernie’s car. The clerk had retreated back inside the store. Estelle wondered what version of the tale he and his teenaged assistant, Stuart Fernandez, were concocting. She shrugged off that thought, since it was something over which she had no control.

Rick Black laughed at something Torrez said, and the two men turned as Estelle approached.

“That one,” Black said, nodding toward his car where a figure slumped in the backseat, “admits to throwing the bottle. All five of ’em have been drinking. Started during the game, is my guess.” He handed Estelle a silver hip flask that had been sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag. “Pretty fancy, eh? That belongs to the driver.”

“More likely to the driver’s daddy,” the sheriff muttered.

“All from Lordsburg?”

“Yup. The kid’s name is Tyler Parker,” Black said. “He turned twenty-one last week. So this ain’t just the smartest stunt he ever pulled. He’s so soused he can hardly stand. If he pukes in the back of my car, things are really going to get ugly.” He grinned. “The other four are minors.”

“Whose Lexus?”

“Registered to Elliot Parker of Lordsburg. The daddy, I would guess.”

Torrez beckoned Deputy Pasquale, who had been working with Linda. The deputy held another evidence bag with the single shell casing inside. “Take these three back to the lockup,” the sheriff instructed, counting off the first three teens. “You take the last one there,” he added to Estelle. “That’ll keep ’em a little bit separated, not that it matters much. They can get comfortable in the conference room while they wait for their parents to get over here to check ’em out.”

Estelle could see in the kids’ hangdog expressions that they were past the defiant stage, ready now to accept the end of the world. Sheriff Torrez and Officer Black had intimidated them into compliant silence.

“I’ll take care of Bernie,” Torrez said after the three young men were secured in the back of Pasquale’s Expedition, with the fourth in Estelle’s unit. “I want that slug out of his radiator, too.”

“It’s lying on the ground right under the car,” Estelle said. “Straight down from the fan housing. I asked Linda for photos before we move it.”

“Well, that’s easy, then,” Torrez said. “I called Stubby to come get the Lexus, so I guess we’re all set.” He regarded the expensive SUV. “Maybe he’ll put a few dents in it for good measure,” Torrez added, although they both knew that Stub Moore, handling impounds for the county, would treat the suspect’s vehicle with loving care.