Steven Havill - The Fourth Time is Murder

“Until Emilio passes on,” Danny observed.

“See,” Irene said, with a heartfelt intensity that impressed Estelle. For added emphasis, the girl reached out and punched Danny Rivera on the shoulder. “What’s going to happen then? You watch. Within a month of Emilio’s passing, I bet someone puts an electric light over the doorway. You watch.” She made a face. “That’s the first step.”

“Well, I’m not the one who’s going to do it,” Danny said in self-defense.

“You better not.” The pugnacious expression softened. “If I’m not around, you kick over their ladder for me.”

“The ethnographics of the border country interest you, then,” Estelle said, and Irene Salas nodded vigorously.

“Not the cities, though,” she said. “I could care less about the metro areas. But like Fernando and Maria? Or my grandma? Or your mom, Estelle? Serafina talks about her all the time, too. This was such a neat stretch of country before politicians ruined it. All the tiny little villages? I love it.” She grinned. “We have some rip-roaring arguments about it all in class,” she said.

“Who’s the ‘we?’” Estelle asked.

“Oh, you know. I have one professor who agrees that I should do an ethnographic study just of Regál, while so many of the viejos are still alive.”

“You should,” Estelle said. “And don’t put it off. Things change quickly.”

“I know,” Irene said. “I had never realized how fast. I talk with Grandma Serafina and realize how much is lost already. Like I never met Octavio? I hear Serafina or my mom talk about my grandpa, and I miss him soooo much…and I never met him! He died a jillion years before I was even born. Is that sad, or what?” She shook her shoulders. “Listen to me. I get all wound up.”

“It’s delightful that you’re passionate about your studies,” Estelle said. “Perhaps more people should be.” She turned and looked back toward the car, and her patient passenger. “I should be running along. We’re up to here this weekend,” and she made a slice across her throat. “Your grandma probably told you that we had a nasty accident up on the pass Friday night. The driver was a student…or used to be a student…at State.”

Irene’s open, pleasant countenance crumpled in sympathy. “Oh, I know . Both she and Danny were talking about it.”

“Did you know him?” Estelle paused as if the memory was slow in coming. “His name was Christopher Marsh.”

“I helped Stubby winch that mess back up the hill,” Danny interrupted before Irene could answer. “What a damn crash that was. He must have been flyin’.”

“I think he was. You didn’t know him, then?” Estelle repeated.

“There’s something about the name that sounds kinda familiar, but you know, there’s about a jillion people on campus. Plus, it sounds like one of those names, you know.”

“If you have a minute, I’d like to show you something,” Estelle said. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” Irene said.

“I’ll be back in just a second.”

Estelle turned and walked quickly back to the Ford. Madelyn watched as the undersheriff took the manila folder of eight-by-ten glossies from her briefcase, but made no comment.

“Slim chances,” Estelle said by way of explanation. Walking back toward the shop, she smiled apologetically at the two young people.

“I wouldn’t do this, but you get around in Cruces, and there’s always a chance you might recognize this individual. As I said, he was a student at State for a while, I think. I’m not sure if he was this past semester.” She slipped the photo out and handed it to Irene, who flinched. “Oh, gross,” she blurted. The eight-by-ten had been taken at the morgue, with the victim cleaned up and his limbs arranged more or less in proper line. Still, there was no doubt that he’d lost the battle with the truck and the rocks in a big way.

“That’s the guy, huh?” Danny said, looking over Irene’s shoulder. “I wasn’t up there when they dug him out of the truck.”

“That’s the guy,” Estelle said. “We’re trying to find out a little more about him.” She reached out but didn’t take the picture back from Irene. “No recollection? Did you ever catch sight of him on campus?”

With a pained shake of her head, she handed the photo back, dropping it into the folder held open by the undersheriff. Before Estelle could close the folder, Irene reached out and stopped her. “Wait. Can I look at that again?”

“Certainly.”

This time, Irene Salas took the photo and took her time, her face touched by revulsion at the obvious injuries. “Do you have any others?”

“You think you might know him?”

“I don’t know.”

Estelle hesitated. She looked at the four remaining shots, all taken at the accident site, and slid them out of the folder. Irene took them without comment, but Danny Rivera made a face.

“Man,” he said, and let it go at that.

Estelle saw the muscles of Irene’s jaw clench. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “He doesn’t even look like himself anymore.”

“You know him?”

“Yes. Oh, my God.” She slumped a bit, and Danny Rivera reached out to her, lightly embracing her shoulders. Again, she went back to the morgue photo, turning it this way and that. “Oh, my God,” she said again. “Last semester, he used to come and meet my lab partner after class. Can you believe that? I’m sure it’s him. Well, almost sure. I noticed him because he looked like he ought to be a soap opera star or something. He and CJ were a good match.”

“And CJ is?”

“That was my lab partner’s name. CJ without the periods Vallejos.”

“What kind of class was this?” Estelle asked, working hard to keep her tone casually conversational. The pounding sounded as if someone were trying to make their way through the back wall of the shop, but Estelle knew it was her own pulse in her ears.

“Well, not my most favorite, that’s for sure. It was physical anthro, but the professor’s idea of a good time was to spend the day in a musty lab, brushing dirt off old bones. That’s when I found out that paleo-osteology wasn’t my bag.”

Estelle accepted the photos and tucked them away. “Actually,” Irene continued, “by the time the semester was over, Professor Ulrich had convinced most of us that he had actually died and dried up about the same time as his old bone collection.”

“Did you ever have the opportunity to talk to Chris Marsh?” Estelle asked.

“Oh, once, I think. Just in passing. But I did see him now and then. He and CJ were pretty tight. A good match.”

“How so?”

“Well, salt and pepper sort of thing, you know.” She nodded at the folder. “Before he did that to himself, he was really attractive, like some surfer Joe. And CJ is, well, CJ. Dark and gorgeous.” Her face went blank. “Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“This happened Friday night?”

“That’s when the wreck was found.”

“Oh, my God,” Irene said again, a hand going to her mouth. “I wonder if CJ even knows ?” She shook her head. “You know, I haven’t seen them since semester break. I mean, she and I weren’t roommates or best friends or anything like that. We just shared a lab space in that bones class. She hated the work more than I did. She wasn’t sure if she was going to come back for the spring semester. I guess she didn’t. But still…”

“Do you happen to know her full name? We’ll make sure she’s informed.”

“CJ Vallejos.” Irene’s brow furrowed. “She told me once what the ‘CJ’ stood for, but I don’t remember now. She lived off campus. Maybe she and Chris weren’t even still going together, I don’t know. But still…”