Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Way beyond. Go to them, then turn and follow the arroyo,” Romero said. “You can just see the tops of them.”

“Where the section fence turns east?”

“Beyond that. Maybe half a mile.” He turned back to Estelle. “There’s a spot where Highland Drive comes out and ends? It’s paved for a ways and then it’s all like dirt and stuff? And there’s all those big old trees right there along the arroyo.”

“She’s down in the arroyo?”

“Yeah…there’s some brush there, and a couple junk cars? You want me to take you up there and show you? Or you can take my bike.”

“Ah, no, as a matter of fact. Thanks anyway. We’ll get someone up there.” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was five minutes after four. Ernie Wheeler would have taken over in dispatch, with Eddie Mitchell and Tony Abeyta on the road, hoping to finish off a quiet Christmas Day. Estelle walked several steps away, her back turned to her family and the teenager as she opened her cell phone.

Wheeler picked up the phone after two rings.

“Ernie, this is Estelle. We have a report of a possible body in the arroyo at the north end of Highland Drive. Who’s central, Tony?”

“Yes, ma’am. Captain Mitchell is down in Regál with a minor MVA. Tony’s standing right here, wishing he had something to do.”

“Well, he’s got it,” Estelle said. “I’m on foot out behind Twelfth with my family and Butch Romero. He’s the one who made the report, but we’re a ways downstream. I need to walk the kids back home, and then I’ll be up there as soon as I can. Tony needs to lock things up for me, and as soon as Eddie’s clear, give him the heads-up, all right?”

“Ten four. Ambulance?”

“Go ahead and alert.”

“Ten four. Just a second.” She heard mumbled voices and then Wheeler came back on the line. “Tony’s on the way. Tom Pasquale came off shift, but he’s still here. He’s in the conference room with Linda and Bill Gastner.”

“Thanks. I’m on my way in.”

She snapped the phone shut and turned to Butch.

“You want me to ride back up there?” he asked.

Estelle shook her head. “We’ll go back home first.” Sofía had Carlos in hand on the left, and Francisco on the right, and she had already started back down the trail toward home. “Butch, we may need to talk with you again. You’ll be home later this evening?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay. I need to hustle,” she said, and reached out to shake Butch by the shoulder.

“I can go back up there and kinda keep an eye out until the cops get there, if you want,” Butch offered.

“No…I don’t want you to do that, Butch. One of the deputies will be there in just a minute. He’ll be there quicker than you can make it back up the arroyo. You’re sure it wasn’t a manikin or something like that?”

Butch shook his head vehemently. “No, ma’am. No manikin.” As if having second thoughts about being caught out on the darkening prairie with a corpse, he said quickly, “I’ll go back with you guys, then.” Estelle couldn’t tell if he felt genuinely protective, or if he was spooked. A fourteen-year-old wasn’t a necessary chaperone, but the two boys would enjoy it as he orbited them with his bike, making the quarter-mile hike back home an unexpected treat.

“Thanks, Butch. I appreciate that.” She turned away as he kicked the bike into life. Sofía had a short head start, and Estelle jogged after her aunt and the two little boys.

“Sorry about this,” she said as she fell into step with the group.

Sofía shrugged. “That’s the way these things go…but how sad for someone.”

Estelle nodded and looked hard at Francisco, who had broken away from his great-aunt’s grip and was zigzagging through the bushes, watching Butch and the motorcycle blast across the prairie, the scout out ahead of the pioneers. “You don’t go cruising, hijo ,” she said. “Stay with us.” By the time they reached the arroyo crossing and were trekking through the Parkmans’ backyard toward their own house, Butch had peeled away with a wave. Estelle scooped Carlos up as the little boy lagged, the fast thousand-yard walk taking its toll on his short legs.

Francisco reached the house first, and he burst inside with enough breath left to bellow to his grandmother, “Butch has a new bike, Abuela! ”

“I’m so pleased to hear that,” Teresa Reyes laughed.

Estelle hung Carlos upside down, lowering him headfirst to the foyer floor. “I need to go, Mamá .”

“Ah, a bad day for someone else,” the old woman said, settling back into her chair. “Is that what I’ve been hearing?”

Sure enough, her mother’s hearing was keen. Far in the distance, Estelle heard the thin, high warble of a siren.

“Sorry, Mamá ,” Estelle said.

“Such a Christmas,” her mother said.

Escudero Arroyo originated at the base of Cat Mesa north of the village. During rare cloudbursts several generations before, rain had channeled and excavated a scar across the prairie that dodged this way and that, the trickle of water deflected by a cholla here or a greasewood bush there until the arroyo wandered like an old drunk.

In places where several tributary arroyos had joined forces, the gash was deep, a dozen feet down through sand and gravel to the original bedrock. One such deep cut swerved due west near the end of Highland Drive, a street that, despite its pretentious name, became nothing more than a rough, washboarded dirt two-track before dead-ending at the arroyo. Several retired concrete highway barriers had been dropped haphazardly on the arroyo lip to prevent preoccupied motorists from nosing over into the sandy depths.

Escudero Arroyo north of the village was one of those eyesores that a few million dollars and a willing Army Corps of Engineers could make go away. But until then, it was part of the landscape, an opportunity for kids with.22s, kids with dirt bikes, and folks too lazy to take their junk up to the official landfill.

Estelle parked her unmarked car on the pavement a hundred yards south of the arroyo, tucking in behind two other sheriff’s units and Linda Real’s tiny sedan. The back door of Tom Pasquale’s Expedition was open, and the deputy was in the process of unsnarling a wad of yellow plastic ribbon. Halfway back from the arroyo, Deputy Tony Abeyta jogged down the center of Highland Drive toward them, head down and watching his feet.

Pasquale paused in his efforts with the tape as Linda appeared with her bulky camera case.

“Hey, the gang’s all here,” Linda said, the armor of her good humor refusing dents even during the worst of times. She smiled sympathetically at Estelle. “So much for peace and quiet, huh?”

“Oh, sí ,” said Estelle. “We’re sure it’s not a manikin or something?”

“I think we’re sure of that,” Pasquale said. He glanced around the side of the Expedition. “Tony’s headed back now.”

“Are we far enough back here?” Estelle asked. She turned to look south, down Highland toward the intersection with Twelfth Street.

“I don’t think so. Maybe we’re going to want to block things off farther back before things start getting’ all scuffed up,” Pasquale said.

Tony Abeyta reached them, breathing hard. “Estelle, it’s an adult female. The body’s partly stuffed under one of those wrecked cars.” He stopped and heaved a deep breath. “If I had to make a preliminary guess, I’d say either hit in the head with something, or shot. Can’t see her face, but the hair on the back of her head is caked with blood.”

“Ay. ” Estelle thrust her hands in her jacket pockets. “Okay. Tom, let’s put the tape across back there,” and she nodded toward Twelfth. “Maybe you’d man the door for a while until we get the rest of the crew up here.”