Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Linda, this is going to be tricky,” Estelle said. She didn’t look up, but sensed the photographer’s presence nearby. “These marks-” she used a pencil to point toward the ends of the victim’s fingers “-not much to see, but I think she was still alive when she was dumped here.”

“I can do that,” Linda said.

Estelle remained on her haunches for a long time, looking at the slender, white hand, the silky blond hair on the forearm, the delicate bend of the elbow. By ducking her head, she could see the cuff of the woman’s short-sleeved blouse. A single dot of blood marked the yellow fabric near the right shoulder.

Again with a hand on the Oldsmobile for support, she skirted the projecting front fender. The car rested nose-down, its massive body at a 45-degree angle to the arroyo, crushed on top of a portion of an old sedan underneath. It looked as if a hard wrench with a crowbar could topple the Oldsmobile’s carcass. Gingerly, she rocked the Olds to make sure that it was secure, then bent down, letting her back slide down the flat of the other, older sedan’s crumpled door. She took her time, mindful of sharp metal.

“No way,” she muttered.

“You okay?” Linda’s shadow appeared off to her right.

“ I’m okay,” Estelle said. “But this whole thing is a long, long way from okay. There’s no way.”

“No way what?”

“I’m trying to imagine how she got here,” Estelle said. “This doesn’t make sense.” She twisted and looked back up the side of the arroyo, through the tangle of junk. Drag a body to the edge and pitch it over, and it would tumble and flop, maybe catch on the Oldsmobile’s chassis, maybe thud into the pocket of the older sedan’s roof.

“Oh, man,” Linda said, a perfectly natural reaction. Estelle didn’t look at her, but sensed her presence as she drew closer.

“Oh, man is right,” Estelle said. “I need to work my way in there a little.”

She glanced at Linda and saw that the photographer’s round, olive-toned face was uncharacteristically pale. “You okay?”

“Maybe,” Linda said, and busied herself changing lenses on her bulky camera.

Estelle scrunched down as far as she could. The small cavern formed by the two crumpled cars was large enough for only one body. She saw that the victim was wearing a pair of designer blue jeans and a yellow blouse, with short white socks and expensive running shoes. From this new angle, Estelle could see that blood soaked the blouse over the woman’s left shoulder, and her sandy blond hair was a matted mess of blood and dirt. Without moving the corpse, or without moving the car, there was no way to see the victim’s face. If she had moved at all, the woman had managed to crawl forward somehow, into the cavity formed by the crushed firewall of the inverted Olds and the battered hindquarters of the old sedan. Then, with nowhere else to go, she had extended her right arm through the small hollow formed by the crumpled fender and the arroyo bottom-whether by unconscious spasm or the intent of a fading consciousness, it was impossible to tell.

Linda made a little noise, a faint hissed intake of breath, as if she’d stepped on a goathead, and Estelle crunched down so that she could turn to look at her.

“Not good,” the undersheriff said.

“Estelle,” Linda whispered, and her breath caught again.

“What?”

“That’s Janet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I recognize the blouse and jeans,” Linda said. “That’s what Janet was wearing this afternoon when she stopped by the office.” When Estelle didn’t respond, Linda added, “Mike’s Janet.”

Estelle couldn’t move. Now that a name had been supplied, she recognized Janet Tripp, and for a long moment, the undersheriff simply froze, poleaxed by the turn of events. She didn’t know Tripp well-only that she seemed like a sober, almost dour person with a sudden, rare sweet smile who’d stolen Deputy Mike Sisneros’s heart a few months ago.

Janet Tripp hadn’t hung around the Public Safety Building. She hadn’t been a Here’s a box of cookies and platter of fudge for the deputies person. She hadn’t written supportive letters to the editor of the Posadas Register. She hadn’t picked up Mike when his shift ended.

Estelle had seen Janet only rarely, and now that she thought about it, could count on one hand the times she had actually spoken to the young woman. She knew that Mike and Janet had planned to be married sometime later in the spring, but the couple had kept their plans to themselves, trying their best to avoid a department gala. Only because of relaying a phone call a month ago did she know that Janet was employed at A amp; H Welding and Supply in Posadas.

Other than that, Estelle knew nothing of the victim, and certainly not how Janet Tripp had come to lie dead under an old car on Christmas afternoon. But the implications that included Deputy Mike Sisneros were immediate and sickening.

For a time before Dr. Alan Perrone arrived, Estelle sat on her haunches, back against the cool metal of the old sedan, looking at the woman. She was satisfied that she’d seen everything there was to see under the Oldsmobile, down its flanks, and in scuff marks across the top of the old sedan. As if sensing that the undersheriff wanted moments to herself, Linda Real had finished several rolls of film and several yards of videotape, then retreated back up to the parking lot, where Tony Abeyta put her to work. He had isolated seven different tire prints that were worth both photos and plaster casts. Anything that might have been shoe or boot prints were no more than worthless bruises in the dirt, without definition or distinctive shape.

Perrone arrived at 5:43 that afternoon, the light already failing enough to make work difficult. Estelle didn’t hear his car, and turned with a start when his shoes crunched the gravel of the arroyo to her left.

“Hey,” the physician said. “This is about the sorriest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.” He frowned at Estelle’s expression. “You all right?”

Estelle pushed herself to her feet. “How’s the chief?” she asked.

“Unchanged,” he said. He bent over to examine what he could see of the hand and forearm. “Actually, I’m more inclined to say ‘failing.’ I get the impression that his system is just kind of caving in on itself, a little bit at a time. The family’s with him, and that’s good.” He nodded at the victim. “How the hell do folks do it?” he said, more to himself than actually expecting an answer. “Do we know who this is?”

“We think it’s Janet Tripp,” Estelle said. She looked up to see both Captain Eddie Mitchell and Deputy Jackie Taber in quiet, intense conversation with Tony Abeyta. Mitchell caught Estelle’s glance and raised a hand in salute, then broke away from the others and strode toward the cow trail down the bank.

“Janet Tripp,” Perrone mused. “Do I know Janet Tripp? I think I do.”

“Mike Sisneros’s fiancée,” Estelle said.

Perrone grimaced and his shoulders slumped. “Oh, you’re kidding. That’s ugly.” He waited a moment, but when Estelle didn’t say anything, added, “Let’s have a look.”

Short and wiry, Perrone maneuvered himself and his medical bag under the old car. “Okay,” Estelle heard him say, and knew he was talking into a small tape recorder. “We’ve got a white female, maybe thirty-five years old.” He droned on as he made the awkward examination, then said, “Estelle?”

“Sir?”

“What time was the body discovered?”

She had already done the mental calculations, estimating the time it had taken Butch Romero to roar first up and then back down the arroyo. “About 4:05,” she said. “That’s when I talked to dispatch after the neighborhood kid reported the body to me.”