Steven Havill - Before She Dies

“If the killer had been standing here,” and she pointed at the wooden pole, “off the shoulder of the highway, a shotgun that ejects downward wouldn’t have flung the casing more than seven feet to the right, into the bush,” she said. “And if the killer inadvertently kicked it, it wouldn’t have flown around here, to land nearly at the back side of the bush.”

“Unlikely that it would. So, you’ve got a casing. Maybe we’ll be lucky and be able to lift a readable print. And if you’ve got a side-eject shotgun, that eliminates only about one percent of the shotguns on the market.” I looked at Estelle thoughtfully. “It’s a good start.”

I turned and gazed at the strings. I imagined the muzzle of the shotgun pointed across the road, and my eye followed the shimmering strands of fishing line as they angled across the highway.

“Let me show you what I want to do,” Estelle said, and I followed her back across the road. She stepped close to Encinos’s car and pointed at the roof. “One of the pellets glanced off the roof, right here, just above the center pillar between the front and back doors.”

I saw a four-inch scar-at first only a faint lead mark on the paint and then becoming deeper until it actually showed a trace of bare metal. The end of a piece of nylon line had been carefully taped to the roof of the car so that it lay in the missile track.

“That’s not going to be exact,” Estelle said, “but it gives us a starting point.” She indicated another hole, this one in the top window frame of the back door. “This one is a relatively clean puncture of the first two layers of metal. Enough to establish a probable angle.” She turned and pointed back across the highway, along the stretched lines.

“How many contact points did you establish?” I asked, and then counted the lines for myself. Seven strands ran from the car across the highway.

“The rest either struck Paul or passed behind him, over the back window and trunk of the car,” Bob Torrez said.

“All right. It makes sense. That’s the first shot.” I backed away a step. “You’ve got two others.”

“The killer walked across the highway after firing the first time,” Torrez said. “He got to about here,” and he rested a hand lightly on the camera tripod, “and fired again. One round was fired downward…” He hesitated and glanced at me. “Estelle thinks Paul was on the ground, by the back tire, trying to get up.”

“That accounts for the smeared blood on the fender,” I said.

“Yes. The second shot was fired from close range.” Torrez indicated the pattern path from the tripod and then knelt down, his knee near the second bloodstain that trailed under the car. One of the nylon strands ran from the tripod to a spot actually under the rear rock guard of the patrol car, some fourteen inches behind the tire.

“This is the only pellet mark we found, sir,” Estelle said as Torrez touched the tack that had been pushed into the macadam to hold the fishing line. “From the second pattern.”

“If there are others, they’d be lost in the loose gravel there,” I said. “And the third round went into the car?”

“Yes, sir.” I walked around the other side of the car, following Estelle. “One of the pellets cut across the top of the seat.” She indicated one of the lines that attached just above where the passenger’s left shoulder would have been. “We found a total of nine pellet holes or tracks that show the shot was fired from a point two or three paces from the driver’s side door, through the window.”

“About ten to fifteen feet,” I said. “The pattern wouldn’t have been very big.”

“No, sir. The majority of the blast went behind Linda’s head, shattering the right rear window and tearing the window post. We think she was also hit by some of the pellets that deflected off the driver’s side upper window frame.”

I bent down and squinted. “So the killer was shooting a little high and to the right. Otherwise Linda Real would have taken the full charge right in the face.”

“Yes, sir.”

I straightened up with a grunt. “So the son of a bitch fired once from across the road as Paul stepped from the car. Then he walked across the road and fired once more at Paul, point-blank, while the deputy was on the ground.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in the dark, with all the confusion of the headlights, maybe even the spotlight, he might not have noticed that Paul had a passenger until he crossed the highway. Then he saw Linda and fired a third time.”

Estelle nodded. “I think that’s the way it went, sir.”

“What did you want the picker for?”

“I’d like photographs from above, sir. The sun is just right to glint off the lines. If he parks the truck over behind the pole, then we can adjust the angle from there.”

Nelson Petro idled the truck forward under Bob Torrez’s directions. He parked in the soft sand along the side of the highway, far enough from the pole that no part of the truck would be in the photographs. He extended the truck’s hydraulic outriggers, then swung the boom out and lowered the bucket. For the first time Estelle hesitated.

“There doesn’t look like there’s room in there for both of us,” she said.

“Yeah, we’ll fit,” Nelson said. “You just tell me what you want.”

They squeezed into the red bucket and then with a whine were lofted into the air. Bob Torrez and I backed away, squinting into the sun and watching the performance. Nelson maneuvered the bucket to a point directly behind the string-post and then, with Estelle bracing the camera, lifted the bucket straight up, gradually increasing the angle of sight along the strings. Finally, hovering fifteen feet up and as many feet behind the post, Estelle found what she was looking for. A few minor adjustments and the bucket hung quietly while she burned film.

She shot photos from several other positions before nodding that she was satisfied.

“Anything else, just holler,” Nelson said a few minutes later, and then the county truck rumbled back toward town.

“You want to meet in my office in a few minutes?” I asked. “Or down at the hospital?”

Estelle looked down at the macadam thoughtfully. “Francis is going to let me know the instant there’s any change in Linda’s condition, sir. I’m going to head over that way. I have a couple of questions to ask the medical examiner, and then I want to follow up with Mr. Pena.”

“He’s pretty upset,” Torrez said. “I tried to talk with him, but he wasn’t much help.”

“I’ll give it a try,” Estelle said. She would pry out any information the old ranch hand knew, in one language or another. “And I want to use one of the hospital’s stereoscopes. See what the shotgun casing has to offer.”

Slim evidence, but maybe the killer had been confident that we’d never find the shell casing in the first place. I found myself hoping he’d stay confident and give us something more.

Sheriff Martin Holman sat in my chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk and his hands clasped at his forehead as if he were deep in prayer. A newspaper was spread out under his elbows. He looked up from the Posadas Register as I entered and dropped one hand to the paper so he could mark his place with an index finger.

“Ron Schroeder wants to see you.”

I hung my Stetson on the hat tree behind the door, taking my time so Holman wouldn’t feel rushed about getting out of my chair. He didn’t move.

“Schroeder knows where I work,” I said.

“No, no, Bill. This is a summons into The Great One’s presence.” That wasn’t entirely fair, since District Attorney Ron Schroeder was as hardworking as they come-bright, diligent, ambitious-all those traits that somehow never quite seemed to make up for the giant streak of condescension running down his back.