Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Escapades, hell,” Gastner said. “There’s no profit in any of this if the hospital can’t keep me here until my insurance pays all it can pay, you know. It’s all just a scam.”

“Yes, sir. The scam the last time, as I remember, was whether to do a heart bypass on you, or let you stumble out of here so you could go chase bad guys until you fell on your face.”

“And as I remember, it worked out pretty well,” Gastner said cheerfully. “Not so good for the bad guys, but good enough for me.” His fingers drifted down to where his pajamas covered the thick scar from the bypass. “They had the chance to carve on me eventually. But…,” and he pushed himself up in bed a little, dragging the tubes and wires with him, “I don’t want to talk about me at whatever it is in the morning. And you don’t either.”

“Some interesting things, sir.” She turned and pulled one of the white chairs closer, then hesitated. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Why would I mind that?” Gastner said, and waved toward the small cubicle. In a moment, Estelle returned, tucking in her blouse.

She draped the heavy Kevlar vest over the back of the chair and sat down. “That feels better.”

“Put it back on when you leave,” Gastner said.

“You sound like Eddie,” Estelle replied, and held up a hand to stop his rejoinder. “I know, I know.”

“They never made one of those things that works with someone my shape,” Gastner said.

“Me neither.”

He laughed hard, and then grimaced, holding the top of his skull. “Don’t do that.” He rubbed his head, fingers straying down toward the bandage. “Son of a bitch sure hit me hard enough.”

“He used that piece of rebar that you had in the corner of the yard, sir. The one for the roses? He used it, and then put it back.”

“No shit? That was goddamn thoughtful of the son-of-a-bitch.”

“We think he swung, and when he hit you with it, the tip of the rebar also hit the door jamb. It took a deep gouge out of the wood.” Estelle used her right index finger to represent the length of rebar, and the palm of her left as the jamb. “If that hadn’t absorbed some of the energy, you’d really have a headache.”

“Or not,” Gastner muttered. “Did somebody tell you that Eduardo died?”

“Yes, sir. Francis called me.”

“Makes me feel positively mortal,” Gastner said. “How’s Bobby, as long as we’re checking the list of the lame and useless.”

“He’s okay. He’ll be home later today. His sister’s driving up to Albuquerque to pick up him and Gayle.”

“He’s chafing, I imagine.”

“That’s putting it mildly, sir.” She leaned an elbow on the side of his bed, and it felt comfortable enough that she could have closed her eyes and dozed off. “There’s a window of opportunity during which Mike could have shot Janet before driving over to Lordsburg.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“No, I don’t think he did. But the timing is right. And there’s one other thing. He owns a couple of.22 pistols. One of them is missing. He can’t account for it.”

“Stolen, then?”

“Maybe.”

“Why maybe?”

“For one thing, it was in the dresser drawer of his apartment, which is usually locked. He told Eddie that Janet knew it was there, too. What’s interesting to me is that the gun was gone, but the plastic case that it comes in? That was still there.”

“Huh. I’m not sure that means much. A thief can grab the gun and stick it under the waistband of his pants. Tough to do that with a bulky plastic case. Mike thought the gun was there until when? When you guys checked his apartment?”

“Right.”

“So it was taken recently, then. If it was taken at all.”

“I think so.”

“By who, then?”

“I don’t know. Mike says he doesn’t, either.”

“Janet wouldn’t have, I don’t think. But she lives with him, so there you are.”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the point?” He scratched his head tentatively. “I like things that go from A to B to C to D,” he said. “Nice relationships. I’ve been lying here thinking, and my brain’s about as responsive as tapioca pudding.” He held up an index finger. “Eduardo has a heart attack, exacerbated by a couple of pennyante thugs who decide his new Buick would be a nice thing to have. Bobby doesn’t pay attention to his doctors, and damn near ends up on the slab, through no one’s fault but his own. Then, some cold son-of-a-bitch shoots Janet Tripp in the head so he can take her cash, and dumps her body in the arroyo as if she’s some bag of household trash. God, that makes me mad.” His eyes narrowed as he glared at the ceiling tile.

“And it’s in the air,” he continued. “Here I am, minding my own business, trying to let myself into the house, and somebody bends a piece of my own rebar across my own skull.”

“They didn’t take anything, sir. Nobody went inside your house.”

“I figured that out for myself, sweetheart. If it had been a burglar, he could have just waited, and left when I surprised him.” He lifted his hand up and regarded his fingers. “Nah. Someone had a grudge of some kind.” He let his arm relax on the sheets and looked steadily at Estelle. “I suppose I’ve made my share of enemies over the years. None recently, as far as I know.”

“That’s what I wondered.”

He waved his hand again in dismissal. “I don’t think so. But, hell, I don’t know for sure. All kinds of fruitcakes in this world. We just happened to hit the season right this time. Maybe whoever tried to dent my hard head will hear that he didn’t do the job right, and come back for a second try.” He nodded at the clipboard fastened to the base frame of the bed. “I’ll have him sign in when he does.”

“That’s not funny, sir.”

“Well, then go home and bring me back my.45. I’ll keep it under my pillow, here.”

“Nurse Tabitha would like that-you waving that cannon around, especially without your glasses.”

“She’s something, isn’t she? Damn near uglier’n me.” Gastner folded his hands on his belly. “Pretty sad deal,” he said finally. “Janet, I mean. You know, I didn’t really know her all that well. Hell,” and he shrugged, “I guess I didn’t know her at all. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, too. Mike’s a hell of a good kid, and what, the couple of times I’ve met her? Janet seemed like a pretty steady sort.”

Estelle smiled at the use of the word kid. His thirtieth birthday was past history for Mike, and Janet hadn’t been far behind. Bill Gastner had four decades on both of them. She regarded Gastner fondly, amazed once again at his seemingly inexhaustible reserves.

“You have to wonder why that son-of-a-bitch picked on her,” Gastner said. “Other than just the roll of the dice.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what it was,” Estelle said.

“And then again…” Gastner added, then stopped, thinking. “The whole arroyo thing doesn’t square with me,” he said. “Not for an ATM robbery. Why not do what the other guy did to me? Once up behind the head, grab the money, and run. What’s so hard about that?”

“But, you see,” Estelle said, “whoever hit you didn’t grab the money and run. He wanted to kill you, sir. That’s all there is to it. He didn’t go into the house. He didn’t take your wallet. He didn’t take your.45. He didn’t go into the garage and steal your Blazer.”

Gastner shifted in the bed so he could look more squarely at her. “That’s interesting.”

“What is, sir?”

“Janet’s assailant didn’t have to kill her to take the 350 bucks. He could have wrestled it away from her, or threatened her, or bashed her head against the door. Any of that would have been enough. But he executes her, for God’s sakes. That’s what he did. He goddamn well executed her, didn’t he. And then he took the money and whatnot, and her body. Why the hell do that? And my guy…he wraps a steel bar around my skull, one good shot that would drop an elephant, and then just leaves.” He fell silent, lips pursed.