Steven Havill - Before She Dies

Holman turned the newspaper so that I could see it and then pushed it across the desk.

I sighed and fished what was left of my glasses out of my pocket. “Somebody else worked all night, too,” I said, and before my eyes could focus I was already wondering how Dayan had managed to sneak a crime scene photograph when we hadn’t allowed so much as a centipede through the roadblocks.

But I had forgotten about Sonny Trujillo and the Friday night follies.

“Not very flattering, Bill,” Holman said. There I was, in perfect focus, spread across three columns at the top of the page. The photographer had popped the flash at the instant that Trujillo’s fat fist made contact with my cheek and glasses. In the picture, my glasses were askew, Trujillo’s mouth was open and bellowing, and there in the bottom left corner, perfectly in focus, was my service revolver. My left hand was clamped around the barrel and cylinder, obviously twisting hard.

“Nice picture,” I said. I squinted at the caption. “Despite being physically attacked, Undersheriff William K. Gastner managed to wrestle a handgun away from Salvador Trujillo (left) during an altercation at Friday night’s basketball game.” I grunted. “That’s nice. They had to label him ‘left’ so people could tell us apart?”

“At least the caption doesn’t mention that it’s your own gun, Bill.”

“There’s always that.” The three column headline below the photograph read Veteran Cop’s Quick Thinking Prevents Tragedy .

“You may need that headline,” Holman said, and I looked up sharply. “Schroeder said that he needs to see you in connection with Trujillo’s death.”

I started to fold the newspaper. “I don’t have time for that shit, Martin. You talk with him. We’ve got a murder investigation, for God’s sake. You’d think Schroeder of all people would have his priorities straight on this one. And you’d think that Linda’s own goddamned newspaper might feature something about her, rather than this nonsense.”

Sheriff Holman held up both hands to slow me down. “Whoa, whoa. The DA said he needs to talk with you when you have time. Not this instant.” He made little rotating motions with his hands, as if I were supposed to turn the newspaper over.

“That’ll be in about seven years, the way things are going.”

I turned the folded paper over and a box with a heavy black border at the bottom right corner of page one drew my eye. The shooting late Sunday night had caught the Register right at deadline. The article showed that Frank Dayan was as frustrated as we were. I read it quickly.

Deputy Killed, Reporter Wounded

Police are investigating the apparent murder of a Posadas County Sheriff’s Deputy and the wounding of Posadas Register reporter Linda Real last night.

According to Posadas County Sheriff Martin Holman, the double shooting occurred sometime after 10 P.M. last night on State Highway 56, nine miles west of Posadas. Holman reported that Deputy Sheriff Paul Encinos, 26, was dead on arrival at Posadas General Hospital.

Ms. Real, 25, is listed in critical condition in Intensive Care with shotgun wounds to the head and neck, Holman said. Ms. Real had been riding with Deputy Encinos as a civilian passenger, Holman said.

No other details were available, although Sheriff Holman said that several leads were being pursued.

I dropped the newspaper on my desk and shook my head. “Christ, I wish I had some answers, Martin.”

“Something will turn up. I really believe that. I have confidence something will break.”

I shoved my right hand in my trouser pocket and groped with my left for a cigarette in my shirt pocket. Of course there were none there, but old habits died hard. “We’ve got nothing on this one, Martin. Nothing. No gut feelings that tell us where to go or where to look. Nothing. Some stranger could have burned ’em both and been to hell and gone over the border long before Francisco Pena ever happened by.”

“Estelle can give us full time on this one?”

I grunted a monosyllabic reply to what I thought was an abysmally stupid question.

“And you’ll make a note to see Schroeder today or tomorrow? Try to fit in a few minutes.”

“I’ll see.”

“There has to be a hearing on Trujillo no matter what.”

“I know it, sheriff.” I took a deep breath. “It’s hard to put some useless drunk choking to death on his own vomit in the same ball-park as one of our deputies being murdered, and the kid who was riding with him shot to pieces as well.”

Holman shrugged and raised both hands, palms up. “Schroeder tells me that apparently Juanita Smith has decided this is her chance to get back at all of us.”

“Who the hell is Juanita Smith?”

“Sonny’s mother.”

“I didn’t know he had a mother.” Holman grinned and I added, “I mean alive and living in town.”

“She married Woody Smith a year or so before he drank himself to death. Before that she was living with Sal Trujillo Sr. Remember? Sal and his cousin were the ones…” I held up a hand.

“Please, Marty. I’m not ready for this. What you’re saying is that this woman, whoever she is, has crawled out of the woodwork and is yelping that her one and only, her brilliant and talented son, was murdered by the gestapo. Is that about it?”

Holman leaned back in my chair and hooked his hands behind his head. “Basically, yes.” As a sudden dawning spread through his brain, Holman’s eyes grew large and bright and he lunged out of my chair. “Do you suppose…”

“No, Martin.”

He waved a hand wildly. “No, no. Hear me out. Do you think that somehow…”

“One of Sonny Trujillo’s friends decided to avenge his death and saw the opportunity out on State Fifty-six somehow? No.”

“You don’t think there’s a chance of that?”

“No.”

Holman deflated slowly as he scanned my face for signs that I might give in.

“Why not? It’s as good as anything else you’ve got.”

“I’ll grant you that, Martin.” I shook my head. “First of all, Sonny didn’t run around with the kind of friends who’d have enough brains to pull something like this. Whoever did it was a cold son of a bitch, Martin. The killer took the time to pick up his damn shell casings, for God’s sake. He shot Paul once from across the highway, then walked up and pumped another into him while Paul was lying on the ground. And then he shot Linda Real, shot her right through the driver’s window. If the glass hadn’t deflected some of the pellets, he’d have blown her head off.”

“Christ, Bill.”

I picked up the newspaper, idly folding it. “And then he picked up his casings, Martin. All except one that he couldn’t find.”

“And you did?”

“Estelle found it, yes.”

“Then that’s something, isn’t it?”

I shrugged. “Damn little.”

Holman made his way around my desk and headed toward the door. “You’ve been over to the hospital?”

“No. Estelle said her husband would let us know if there was any change.”

“Is someone assigned to the hospital?”

“Peggy Mears is over there. And I asked for some assistance from the state police. Ray Galiston will be there until four.” I glanced at my watch. “And they’ll send someone else then if they can spring somebody.”

“If Linda regains consciousness, she might be able to tell us what we need to know.”

“Maybe.”

“She’s the only witness, Bill.”

“So far, yes.”

Holman stopped at the door with his hand on the knob. “Will there be someone there to question her at any time? I mean, if she should surface for even a minute, whatever she knows might be really valuable.”