Steven Havill - Convenient Disposal

“We have a motion and a second. Let’s call the question.”

County Clerk called the roll, and when his name was called, Tinneman wearily shook his head and voted in favor, making it unanimous. Estelle leaned toward Chief Eddie Mitchell, who had already agreed to return to the Sheriff’s Department as its only captain should the politicians actually make up their minds. “Welcome back, sir.”

At first glance, what the political decision set in motion seemed simple enough. The Village of Posadas had voted to dissolve its small police department if the county would then agree to provide law enforcement within the village limits. The centralized dispatch housed at the Sheriff’s Department already dispatched both county and village, so Dispatcher Gayle Torrez and her crew wouldn’t miss a beat.

The county department had no officers ranked between the patrol sergeants and the undersheriff, and when asked if he’d rather be called a lieutenant or a captain, Eddie Mitchell had shrugged and said, “Captain’s easier to spell.”

The two village patrol cars, both bright blue and white and boldly lettered with various emblems including the large DARE, logo, would wear out soon enough and would be replaced with county units. Estelle counted all those things as minor concerns.

But she knew that in reality, the changeover would be a paperwork nightmare. Five enormously heavy filing cabinets waited in the small, musty village police office, cabinets filled with confidential criminal records dating back who knew how long-the “secrets of Posadas,” as Mitchell called them.

Eduardo Martinez, the affable, low-key police chief before Mitchell, had started the process of updating the village department to the computer age. Some of the material from files generated within the past decade had become part of the NIBRS database system-a pool of information to which all agencies in the state contributed. From those files, it was another instant electronic step to the National Crime Information Center’s data files.

Somehow, the vast backlog of village files-all of them, not just a select few-would have to be merged with the existing county records to form a single, cohesive, accessible unit. Physically moving the files from village to county was a simple afternoon’s work using one of the county vans. Then the real work began. Someone would have to filter through every last scrap of paper, every photo, every deposition in order to merge village and county files.

“Put it on the computer” was easy to say. That meant that someone actually had to sit at the computer keyboard and type every scrap of information into the system…without error, without omission, without editing.

And, because of the nature of law enforcement, it was a task that couldn’t wait to be done over months or years. Estelle knew that Posadas County was as much a part of manana land as the rest of the state, maybe more so. But files and information had to be accessible for ongoing investigations. Further, since there were issues of maintaining both confidentiality and the chain of evidence, the Sheriff’s Department couldn’t simply hire a couple of high school kids at minimum wage to clean up the records.

After leaving the county meeting, Estelle returned to her office. Without a doubt, her best source for organizational strategy was County Manager Kevin Zeigler. She planned to spend the afternoon preparing a list of questions and proposed strategies to discuss with Zeigler, since she knew that Sheriff Robert Torrez wouldn’t.

Regardless of the sheriff’s many talents, his allergies to paperwork and bureaucracy were legendary. He had wasted no time in outlining his own strategy.

“If these politicos decide to do this,” he had said to Estelle Reyes-Guzman before the first exploratory meeting between county and village, “the project is yours.” He had glowered at her for a long moment and then added, “If I have to do it, it’ll be a major screwup, and we both know it.”

When she’d mentioned the conversation to Chief-soon-to-be-Captain Mitchell, he had laughed.

“If I had to go into a dark warehouse against fifty guys with Uzis, there’s nobody I’d rather have at my back,” he said. “But if I had to figure out a paperwork problem, Bobby is the last person I’d ask for help.”

But that Tuesday afternoon after her return to her office, the focus to deal with the challenge of merging dusty, yellowing files filled with decades of unhappy moments eluded Estelle. After fifteen minutes and a dozen senseless doodles on her desk pad, she found her mind circling back to the image of her small son standing in the dim light, delicate hands exploring the black and white mysteries of the piano keyboard.

Finally she tossed down her pencil and swiveled her chair around to face the bookcase behind her. She pulled a Las Cruces telephone directory from the bottom shelf and in a moment found the number she wanted.

Holding the book open with her left hand, she reached for the phone and punched in the numbers with her thumb.

“Hildebrand and Sons Music,” the cheerful voice greeted. “Good afternoon. This is Ryan.”

“Good afternoon. Sir, this is Estelle Guzman over in Posadas. I-” She paused as the office door opened and Gayle’s head appeared. “Just a minute, sir.” Gayle waited until the undersheriff had the mouthpiece covered.

“They’ve got something going on over on Candelaria,” the dispatcher said. “Eddie’s not sure if it’s a domestic or not. He wanted you to come over.”

Estelle stood up quickly. “Sir, I’ll call you back.” She hung up the phone as she rounded the desk, not waiting for the salesman’s acknowledgment.

“One oh eight Candelaria,” Gayle said. “Right next door to Zeigler’s.”

“Eddie didn’t say what it was?”

“He just got there,” Gayle said, retreating back toward dispatch. “We’ve got one ambulance on the way. He said he’s got one female down and then he told me to find you.”

“I’m on my way,” Estelle said, then paused. “If the county manager should happen to call, don’t let him escape. I need to talk with him.”

“Kevin’s probably over there already,” Gayle said. “The call is from his next-door neighbors, and you know how they are.”

Estelle nodded wearily. “I know exactly how they are.”

Candelaria Court was a small cul-de-sac off MacArthur on the east side of Posadas-like nearly everything else in the village, less than a minute from the Sheriff’s Office on Bustos. As Estelle turned the county car south on MacArthur just beyond the small and shabby Burger Heaven restaurant, she could see the intersection of Candelaria Court, and beyond, filtered through the elms, an array of winking emergency lights.

Burrowed in her office with door closed and radio switched off, she had missed the initial call…but this one was no surprise. As soon as she had heard whom Deena Hurtado had tried to fight at the school volleyball game, as soon as she had heard that Carmen Acosta had been suspended for six days, Estelle had anticipated a blowup at the Acosta residence.

Of all the village domestic disturbance reports that some lucky records clerk would transfer into the computer, half a hundred of them would include the name of the Acostas, stretching back fifteen years.

The postfight commentators at the middle school had agreed that, on the previous Tuesday, Carmen Acosta had won a clear decision over Deena Hurtado before referees had stepped in to separate the two scrapping girls. What the unfortunate Deena might not have realized was that her opponent had had lots of practice. The middle of five children, Carmen regularly thumped on her two younger sisters while her two older brothers whupped up on her.