Steven Havill: Statute of Limitations

Estelle nodded as she reached down to turn the radio up a bit, never taking her eyes off the van. The back windows were plastered with an array of stickers, most from national parks. The registration sticker on the license plate was valid. She keyed the mike.

“PCS, three ten.”

“Three ten, go ahead.”

“Ten twenty-eight New Mexico four niner seven, Baker Edward Charlie.”

Dispatcher Brent Sutherland responded before the computer had a chance to search the NCIC brain. “Three ten, four niner seven, Baker Edward Charlie should appear on a 1972 Ford Econoline van, color green, registered to Paula Ann Hart.” He spelled the last name. “Fourteen thirty-seven Mesa Park, Las Cruces. Negative twenty-nine.”

“Ten four. Thanks.”

“Three ten, be advised that the occupants of that vehicle were the subjects of a complaint earlier this evening.”

“Ten twenty-one,” Estelle said, requesting a change from radio to phone. She hung up the mike. She turned and raised an eyebrow at Gastner, who shrugged.

“Who the hell knows,” he said. Estelle had her phone in hand when it rang.

“Guzman.”

“Estelle,” Sutherland said, “you might want to talk with Jackie Taber about that van. She responded to a complaint at…just a sec.” Estelle could picture Brent leaning forward to read the log. “At the Prairie Rest B-and-B over on North Tenth. Apparently the young couple driving that van stopped there looking for a room. They claimed that they didn’t have any money.”

“What was the complaint?” Estelle asked. Asking for a room was hardly grounds for a complaint.

“Ah, nothing really specific. Mrs. Melvin-that’s Rachel Melvin, the owner? She called here and said that there was something suspicious about the couple…couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She wanted the police to check them out. I logged that call at 18:04.”

“They were up front about not being able to pay for the room?”

“Jackie didn’t say anything to me about that when she called in.”

“But they left the premises of the B-and-B when requested to do so by the owner?”

“I guess so. You might want to talk with Jackie, though. She talked to them a few minutes later over at Pershing Park. It looked like maybe they were going to camp there.”

“Okay. Thanks, Brent. And by the way, did you log the caller’s name for the 911 involving Chief Martinez?”

“No, ma’am. He hung up on me. He reported a man down at the Posadas Inn, then just hung up.”

“But the caller was a man. You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll be out of service for a few minutes with the owners of that van, Brent. Bill Gastner’s with me, and the sheriff went over to the hospital with the ambulance.”

“Right.” Sutherland sounded relieved. Estelle was reasonably sure that Bob Torrez hadn’t informed dispatch of his intentions. She clicked off the cell phone and glanced up as a sweep of headlights flashed in the rearview mirror. A white, older model Ford Bronco nosed in and stopped. “Let’s see what Jackie has to say,” Estelle said.

She got out of the car and joined Deputy Jackie Taber on the walkway in front of one of the service rooms, where the narrow overhang would provide some protection from the weather.

“Nice night,” Jackie said by way of greeting. She was a large young woman, square through the shoulders and thick through the waist. “Good evening, sir,” she said, as Bill Gastner ambled up to join them.

“Well, it was,” Gastner said.

“I’m really sorry about Chief Martinez,” Jackie said. “It doesn’t look good for him.”

“Nope,” Gastner said, and let it go at that. Estelle glanced at her old friend. Gastner and Martinez had been friends for decades, and with the village-county consolidation of public safety services, the two colleagues had met a dozen times in the past month.

“Brent tells me that you had occasion to talk with the owners of this van earlier,” Estelle said, and the deputy nodded.

“That’s why I shagged down here,” Jackie said. “I’ll go back and help the guys sweep in a minute, but I wanted to tell you-” she nodded in the direction of the old van “-they stopped at the B-and-B over on Tenth,” she said. “They told the owner that they didn’t have any money, but asked if they could stay the night. I guess Mrs. Melvin didn’t like the looks of them.”

“Rachel Melvin doesn’t like the looks of anybody who’s younger than sixty,” Gastner observed.

“That’s true, sir,” Jackie said, and a smile ghosted across her round face. “When we talked, she didn’t want to open the front door far enough for me to step inside, either. She said that the young couple inquired about a room and told her right up front that they were short of money. She said that they both came to the door, and that surprised her, since the girl was obviously pregnant and quite a ways along.”

“And that’s it?” Estelle asked.

“Mrs. Melvin said that she told them they should check in Lordsburg. That she didn’t have a room available.”

Gastner chuckled. “Lordsburg? She didn’t recommend that they come down here to the motel?”

“She didn’t say, sir. But it doesn’t sound like it.”

“No room at the inn,” he said. “How goddamn biblical.”

Estelle looked at the former sheriff with amusement, then at the deputy. “You talked with them?” she asked the deputy.

“I talked with Mrs. Melvin first, and established that nothing had happened that would constitute probable cause for a stop. They asked for a room, told her they didn’t have any money, and went on their way when she refused. Mrs. Melvin admitted that they were perfectly polite and not the least bit pushy. She only grudgingly admitted that, by the way.”

“Why bother calling the SO, then?” Estelle asked, knowing the answer even before Bill Gastner voiced it.

“Because she’s an old biddy,” he said. “And she wouldn’t recommend this motel because Adrian owns it. Part that and part that her sister owns the one she’s talking about in Lordsburg.”

“Maybe so,” Jackie said. “But I saw the van a few minutes later, parked on Pershing, over behind the park. I’m sure that they saw me approach.” Jackie pushed her Stetson back a bit. “Since Mrs. Melvin had told me that the woman was pregnant, it seemed prudent to make sure that they weren’t in need of medical attention, so I stopped to talk with them. They’re a young couple from Las Cruces.”

She slipped a small notebook from her blouse pocket and thumbed pages. “Todd Willis and Stacie Hart.” She closed the notebook. “And she’s eight months pregnant. Or nine.”

“They’re married?” Gastner asked.

“No, sir. They said not. Maybe living together.”

“Bound for?”

“Apparently headed for Tucson to visit Miss Hart’s relatives. The van belongs to her sister, who’s letting them use it for a while. Their own vehicle broke down. License and registration bears that out.”

“Huh,” Gastner said. “So we’re only two hours from Las Cruces, even driving in that old heap. And Tucson is just four hours farther down the pike. Why did they leave Cruces so late in the day that they’d need a motel in the first place? Especially if they were short in the funds department?”

“I didn’t ask them that, sir.”

“Maybe the girl just became uncomfortable,” Estelle said.

“Maybe so. Who knows why people do the damn things that they do.”

“When you talked to them, Jackie, did either of them get out of the van?”

“No, ma’am. I approached them and we spoke through the driver’s side window.”

“Did Miss Hart appear in distress of any kind?”