Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“I would bet not,” Estelle said. She drew out the wad of keys. “There’s also the matter of the clumsy responding officer,” she said. “I picked these up when the EMTs were here. I assumed that Padrino had fallen, and…” She shrugged. “My prints are on them, that’s for sure.” She selected the key with the blue plastic marker and slid it into the door lock. It opened easily, and with one finger she pushed the door open a foot until it hit the resistance of hinges long in need of lubrication. The resulting creak was eerie and loud, a sound Bill Gastner had found amusing and friendly.

The scent from inside the house was familiar-old wood, old leather, musty carpets too long from a cleaning, the hint of Gastner’s characteristic aftershave.

“Let me go in,” Estelle said. She bent down, letting her flashlight beam angle across the age-polished Saltillo tile of the foyer and hallway. Damp footprints would show like neon signs. “I don’t think he came inside,” she said, and reached across to flip on the hall and foyer lights. Nothing appeared out of place, and she walked down the hallway toward the sunken living room and kitchen, staying close to one wall.

A half pot of coffee sat cold on the kitchen counter, a habit Gastner had cultivated in an effort to remember to turn off the coffee maker when he left the house, having burned up several in recent months. The back door leading from the kitchen out into the overgrown patio was locked.

She crossed the living room and checked the guest bedrooms, finally peering into Gastner’s office. Nothing appeared out of place. An expensive Civil War musket that had been stolen and retrieved once before still hung over the east-facing window. The light gray sifting of dust on his massive mahogany desk was undisturbed. She crossed to the far corner and a four-drawer filing cabinet with a locked security rod that Gastner had purchased several years before. It was secure.

On the other side of the house, Gastner’s bedroom appeared normal enough, right down to the fastidiously made bed, its corners still tucked in the military fashion.

“All clear,” she said, and relocked the front door.

“You think he was scared off somehow?” Pasquale asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t much like the other possibility.”

“What, that somebody just wanted to bash his head in?” Pasquale said, and Estelle winced at the blunt assessment.

“Maybe that,” she said.

“The sheriff still had his wallet and money?”

Estelle nodded and turned to watch Linda Real add her vehicle to the growing parking lot on Guadalupe Terrace. “Jackie, will you give Linda a hand with what we have here? Tom and I will check the garage and around back. I don’t think we’re going to find anything, but I want to be sure.”

She was halfway to the garage, her flashlight and Pasquale’s sweeping the gravel driveway, when her cell phone chirped. The sound was loud in the quiet night air.

“Guzman.”

“Querida,” her husband’s soft voice said. “You okay?”

“Sure. Are you home?”

“No. Look, Eduardo Martinez died a little bit ago. I wanted to let you know. I set the time at 10:58.”

She stopped in her tracks, and looked up at the night sky. A few stars were showing, the others obscured by traces of wispy clouds.

“You there?” Francis asked.

“Yes, I’m here,” she said finally. “I’ll stop by in a few minutes.”

“That’s not necessary. Essie and the others all went home a few minutes ago.” When she didn’t respond immediately, he added, “Are you all right?”

“Sure. Did you look in on Padrino? ”

“He’s fine, querida . He’s going to be just fine. I told him about Eduardo, and he was philosophical about it. He said he’d get together with Essie a little later, after the family thins out some. The hard part will be keeping Padrino from getting up and walking out of the hospital when our backs are turned. You know how he is.”

“We won’t turn our backs,” Estelle said.

“Stay put,” Captain Eddie Mitchell said, looking back over his shoulder into his office. Out in the hall, Estelle’s view was blocked by Mitchell’s husky figure and the door, and she stepped sideways. Deputy Mike Sisneros sat at the end of the large folding table that Mitchell preferred to a standard desk. A tape recorder rested near his left elbow, and his pencil was poised over a legal pad.

Sisneros glanced up and saw the undersheriff. The young deputy’s face was pallid, and a half day’s worth of scruffy black stubble did nothing to hide the exhaustion on his face. Mitchell closed the door of his small office thoughtfully, keeping his grip on the knob even after it latched. “Let’s talk in your office,” he said to Estelle.

“He’s going to be all right by himself?”

“Adams is in there with him,” Mitchell said, and grinned without much humor. “Coiled over in the corner.”

“Ah,” Estelle said. She didn’t ask Mitchell why he had deemed it necessary to have an official witness in the room while he talked with Sisneros, but that was the captain’s call. Mitchell was as careful and methodical as anyone in the department. That he didn’t feel it prudent to leave the young deputy alone at this particular moment spoke volumes, especially since he had left him in the intimidating presence of New Mexico State Police Lieutenant Mark Adams, whom former sheriff Bill Gastner had once described as having the “deadest pair of eyes this side of a corpse.”

Mitchell followed Estelle into her office and sat in the straight-backed chair by the filing cabinet. He rested his head back against the wall and closed both eyes. After Estelle had settled behind her desk, Mitchell opened his left eye and looked at her. Add thirty years of wear and tear and fifty pounds in all the wrong places, and he’d be a fair Bill Gastner impersonator…except for the glacial blue of his eyes. In that respect he was a good match for Lieutenant Adams. Neither gave the impression that they would cut their own mother a deal.

“I am sooooo tired,” he said, and managed a grin. “And you too, I bet.”

“Very,” she said.

“Our young man is a basket case,” Mitchell said, and opened both eyes as he pulled away from the wall. “This is his story so far. He left here about 2:45 or so this afternoon to go back to his apartment, clean up, and then drive to Lordsburg. For some reason, and he doesn’t know why, Ms. Tripp decided at the last minute not to go along. Mike claims he almost canceled the visit, but he knew his mom would be disappointed, so he went over by himself. He arrived at his mother’s and stepfather’s place just about four thirty. They confirm that, although they’re a little fuzzy about the time. He was with them until I arrived there about a quarter to six.” Mitchell shrugged. “And that’s about it. It’s really that simple, if he’s telling the truth.”

“He really doesn’t know why Janet didn’t want to go to Lordsburg with him? No idea at all?”

“Nope. His best guess is that maybe Janet was uncomfortable around his mother. The two of them don’t hit it off much, he said. Since Mike and Janet started seeing each other back in September, he says that Janet and his mother haven’t spoken more than once or twice.” Mitchell bent his right index finger and studiously examined the short, blunt fingernail. “That’s not anything that surprises me, Estelle. I mean, some folks just don’t care for each other. But there are a number of little things that trouble me.”

Estelle waited, giving Mitchell time to frame his thoughts. “Number one,” he said without looking up, “it appears that Janet Tripp was killed sometime after 3:05 p.m. That’s what the ATM receipt shows, and we have no reason to suppose that she waited around in the parking lot for any length of time after making her transaction. There’s always the chance that the killer took her ATM card after shooting her and did the transaction himself.”