Steven Havill - Convenient Disposal

Torrez muttered something and shook his head. “That old fart just likes to hear himself talk.” He glanced back toward the doorway. “I guess they’re about ready. I was thinkin’ that I probably have some work I have to do, somewhere.”

Estelle laughed. “Be brave, sir.” She took the sheriff by the elbow and steered him gently toward the meeting room. “Is Eddie here?”

“Sure.” Torrez grumbled. “He’s already been on the hot seat.” Estelle found it hard to believe that anyone could make the smooth, quick-witted police chief uncomfortable. “Well,” Torrez added with a sigh, “let’s give ’em a few more minutes.”

The commission chambers were not crowded, but a respectable showing of residents were scattered throughout the small auditorium. Chief Eddie Mitchell had settled halfway back on the right side, one seat in from the aisle. Estelle slipped into that spot, and he looked up from the magazine he’d been reading. Sheriff Torrez settled with a great creaking of leather and clanking of hardware into the seat directly behind her.

Mitchell leaned toward Estelle, his voice a loud stage whisper. “Weighty matters,” he said.

“So I hear.” Estelle scanned the room. “Are we going to have a vote today?”

“Ho, ho.”

Four of the five commissioners were spaced around the huge semicircular table, a welter of microphones, papers, folders, and files marking each spot, including the empty seat where Tina Archuleta would normally sit. To the right, County Clerk Stacey Roybal hunched over her desk, sipping from a thermal cup and studying a thick computer readout, while at her elbow newspaper editor Pam Gardiner leaned on the edge of the dais, probing something in the document with her pencil eraser. Only Roybal’s rimless granny glasses prevented her from looking twelve years old, tiny in comparison with the mountainous editor.

Commission Chairman Dr. Arnold Gray settled in his seat, glanced around the room, hesitated, then hefted the gavel. He leaned and said something to Barney Tinneman, seated to his right. Both men laughed. Gray rapped the gavel twice, and people dove for their seats. Estelle watched Pam Gardiner settle in the front row, voluminous handbag and camera case near at hand.

Gray nudged the microphone a bit. “We’re back,” he said by way of greeting. “For better or worse.” He grinned toward the back corner where a short, sober man stood beside a large tripod-mounted video camera. “You have a fresh tape in that thing, Milt?” The man shifted his feet and looked uncomfortable when several members of the audience snickered. At every meeting she had ever attended in Posadas County, Estelle had seen Crowley filming from beginning to end. He and his camera were a fixture. What he then did with the tapes was a closely guarded mystery, beyond simply owning them as proof should some public servant step out of line. His small ranch was allegedly studded with hand-painted signs threatening trespassers and warning of the dangers of government-whether in the form of tax assessors, the U.S. Forest Service, the Internal Revenue Service, or the Highway Department.

“All right,” Gray continued. “As I remember, when we adjourned, Mr. Tinneman had the floor.”

“Now that’s unusual,” Barry Swartz said. He was seated at the extreme left, beside the county clerk. Sales manager at Chavez Chevrolet-Oldsmobile, he was a burly man with a quick smile who favored the rumpled look.

Tinneman didn’t hesitate. “When we adjourned for lunch, Chief Mitchell was just wrapping up,” he said. “Chief, did you have anything to add?”

Mitchell shook his head.

“Then I have a few more questions both for the sheriff and the county manager.” He hesitated, glancing toward the rear of the chambers. The county manager’s desk was situated in the back of the small auditorium, near the large framed county map. Kevin Zeigler preferred to face the commission from behind the audience, rather than taking a place up on the dais. Frequently needing either documents from his office across the hall or summoned to the phone, Zeigler could come and go from his vantage in the back without disturbing the commission.

“Kevin’s on a power lunch,” Tinneman said with a smirk. He glanced across the dais. “And so is Tina, I guess.”

“She had an errand,” Dr. Gray intoned. “And Kevin will be here shortly, I’m sure.”

“Well, let’s get started anyway.” With an audible sigh, Torrez had lurched out of his seat. There were two microphone-equipped podiums in the commission chambers for members of the audience to use-one near the commissioners’ dais on the far side of the hall, and one in the back, by the double entry doors. Crowley had set up his camera just to the left of the rear podium, where the sheriff chose to go…as far as possible from the commissioners and as close as possible to the exit doors.

With his camera, Crowley could cover either the speaker at the guest microphone, or the commission-but not both simultaneously. He chose to pan the commissioners.

“Sheriff, I’m still confused about this one basic issue”-and Tinneman held up his right index finger while he scanned the papers in front of him.

“He’s confused about more than that,” Chief Mitchell muttered to Estelle.

“My concern is coverage,” Tinneman continued. “Small as the village department is, we’ve always got someone on duty…even if it’s just one person.”

“Actually, that’s not true,” Torrez said, and it sounded more like an aside.

“What’s not true?” Tinneman looked up sharply.

“The village department has three and a half employees,” Torrez said slowly. “The chief already testified to that. One secretary, one chief, one patrolman, and a part-time, noncertified officer who also serves as the animal control officer.”

“We’re aware of that.”

You’re aware of all of this , Estelle thought, wondering how many times the same issue needed to be mauled before a decision could be made.

“You can’t cover twenty-four/seven with two and a half people, Mr. Tinneman. It’s physically impossible,” Torrez said.

“Three and a half,” Tinneman interjected.

“The secretary doesn’t go out on patrol,” Mitchell said from the audience.

“Well, all right,” Tinneman persisted. “But we’re covered most of the time, are we not? During the busy times, like evenings, weekends?”

“I suppose,” Torrez conceded. “If you can predict when ‘busy’ is going to be.”

“Well, see…I want to know how the county can provide better coverage than that from outside the village. That’s all I’m saying. And that’s what I’ve been arguing all along, ever since we first had this notion tossed on the floor.”

“Eighty-five percent of our responses to emergency calls are within the village limits,” Torrez said. “Not counting traffic stops.”

“That’s most of them,” Tinneman said, and Swartz muttered an aside that drew a chuckle from Dr. Gray. Tinneman ignored them. “So in your mind, there’s no trouble picking up the slack.”

“I don’t see it as slack,” Torrez responded. “For one thing, we plan to increase our manpower by two full-time officers.”

“Isn’t it true that there are times now when there is only one deputy on the road? One deputy for the whole county?”

“Yes.”

“One deputy for the entire county?”

“Yes,” Torrez responded patiently.

“So if there’s a call within the village, that leaves no one on the road out in the county?”

“There’s usually a state police officer within range.”

“ Usually . But not always.” When Torrez didn’t respond, Tinneman relaxed back in his chair. “Sheriff, who’s on duty for the county right now?” He rapped the dais with a stiff index finger. “Right at this moment? Who’s working?”