Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“The wrong Orosco,” I said wearily.

Three enormous cottonwoods shaded the postage stamp of land where Manny Orosco lived behind the Ranchero mobile home park, separated from the park’s patrons by a thick, unkempt hedge of scrub elm, locust, and cactus.

Over the years, Manny had squatted here and there around Posadas, living with his bottle in complete, alcoholic contentment until someone became irritated enough at his presence to evict him. I never thought much about him, guessing that most villages had their own version of Manny Orosco’s adventures.

The Ranchero manager had started to erect a tall board fence across the back of his property to close out both the eyesore of Manny’s camp and to help cut down on the continuous drone of the interstate. He had three posts in the ground for starters. The fence was a long-term project, so Manny must have been keeping to himself, not bothering the park patrons.

I could see why the Ranchero manager had started the fencing project. Those cottonwoods were the only touch of grace for the spot that Manny Orosco called home. Behind those trees was a ditch that, before the interstate had been bladed through, had been part of the Arroyo Escondido. On the far side of the junk-filled ditch was the upsweep to the interstate right-of-way. Orosco had found himself a tiny sliver of land on which to squat. A week’s research in the county courthouse might have turned up the original owner of the land, but I wasn’t willing to place bets.

Orosco’s home was a delivery truck, the tall boxy kind with slab windshield halves favored by tool vendors and package delivery firms. Its driver’s-side glass had been replaced with cardboard, but that didn’t matter. Its driving days were over.

“You’re kidding,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said. Torrez wasn’t, of course, even if he knew how.

“I think you’ve got the wrong Orosco, Bobby,” I said.

“You know who lives here?” Estelle asked.

“Sure,” I said. A narrow path led through the tangle of underbrush. I stepped into the clearing by the truck and stopped. The old vehicle sat nearly level, a stack of boards supporting each corner of the suspension. Its broad, windowless flanks had faded to a blotchy pattern of muted camouflage.

“He’s home?” I asked, and Torrez nodded.

“Eddie Mitchell found him, sir,” he said.

“That wouldn’t take much looking,” I snorted. “And Eddie thinks this is where the girl was living?” I didn’t wait for an answer, but circled around to the rear double doors. One of them was ajar and I pushed it open.

Manny Orosco was either dead or sleeping through the first half of another day. He lay on what had once been an army cot, a blanket wadded up under his head. The cot was jammed against one wall. Above his head was a row of metal bins welded to the bulkhead, low enough to knock him senseless if he arose suddenly. But he wasn’t apt to do that. A rap or two wouldn’t have hurt his pickled brain anyway.

I stepped into the truck, surprised that the place didn’t smell worse than it did. His mouth open and a wet spot on the rough blanket under his head, Manny Orosco lay on his left side, curled up tightly. If he’d had his thumb stuck in his mouth, he’d have looked like a fifty-year-old infant.

“Mr. Orosco?” I said loudly. I might as well have been talking to the truck. I touched his neck and felt a ragged but strong pulse. His breathing was even and gentle.

“A late riser,” Estelle said from the doorway.

I nudged the bottle of cheap sherry that stood corked near the cot. There were a couple of ounces left. “And then he can have breakfast,” I said.

I stood up, holding one of the wall bins to steady myself. The truck was stuffy and dark. “No running water, no electricity, no nothing,” I said as I surveyed the interior of the truck. I made my way forward, toward the cab. In one corner just inside the sliding front door was a dark mound, maybe Manny’s laundry for the year.

The front door was closed. I tried the latch and the door slid back easily, letting in a flood of light. I stood for a moment, one hand on the bulkhead just behind the driver’s seat, trying to make sense out of what I saw.

It wasn’t laundry that was in the corner. The neatly folded blanket rested on top of a pad made from an old, quilted bedspread. It would have made a nice bed for a pet spaniel.

I bent down with a grunt and picked up a spiral notebook and what looked like a math textbook.

“Son of a bitch,” I murmured. “Accommodations for one more.” I flipped open the notebook and even my tired old eyes had no trouble reading the neat, angular script.

“Maria Elena Ibarra, period six. Mr. Wilkie.” I looked up at Estelle and added, “Problem set 5.” I extended the notebook toward her.

“I thought you said…”

I dropped the notebook and math book back on the blanket. I felt like I had to vomit, and I stepped quickly out of the old truck, nearly losing my balance. I steadied myself against the warm metal.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yeah, fine,” I lied. “And I was wrong about Manny Orosco, too. Or Miguel, or whatever his name really is.”

“What was the girl doing here?” Estelle stood by the back door, refusing to enter. Manny Orosco slept on.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe Manny bought himself a young wife.”

“That’s not funny, sir.”

“Indeed it’s not. Neither are any of the other possibilities.” I motioned to Sergeant Torrez. “Call an ambulance to pick up Mr. Orosco. As soon as the docs say he’s detoxed enough to understand you, take him into custody. Charge him with felony child abuse for starters. If the hospital doesn’t think it’s wise to have him go cold turkey in a cell, make arrangements for a secure room at the hospital. I don’t want him crapping out on us.”

I took a deep breath and pushed myself away from the truck. “As soon as he’s coherent, let me know.”

“Will you help me here, sir?” Estelle asked. “I’d like to take this place apart one small piece at a time. There have to be some answers in there.”

I nodded. Some answers would be a welcome change.

Maria Elena Ibarra had lived inside the old truck for an indeterminate period of time. That’s what an hour of meticulous searching told us. We didn’t know exactly when she’d last been there, or for how long she’d been a full-time resident of one of the village’s more dismal corners.

After Estelle took hair samples from the bedding, she bagged the quilt and blanket. The material wasn’t fresh from the cleaners, but it was tolerable.

“She’d have to curl up like a cocker spaniel to fit on that bedding,” I muttered, but Estelle looked almost relieved.

“At least she wasn’t sharing the cot with the drunk,” she said. “Better to curl up in any corner than to put up with that.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said, realizing as I said it that Maria was long past caring.

Where the girl had attended to the other of life’s functions that most of us performed with some privacy was another question to which there were no obvious answers.

Hung from the aluminum frame of the driver’s-side window were changes of clothing, kid-sized. The two wire clothes hangers seemed like an unexpected luxury. None of the clothing was freshly laundered, but it would pass casual inspection. “She favored blue,” I said and unhooked the hangers and handed two blouses to Estelle. “What’s the label say?”

Estelle ruffled the collar and cocked her head. “One is from Price World, and that could be anywhere in the Southwest.” She opened the other collar. “This one was made in Mexico. What about the slacks?” I unhooked the single pair of dark blue slacks from the window track and handed them to Estelle. “Mexican,” she said after a glance.