Steven Havill: Heartshot

“You cannot imagine how much I pray that you are correct, Sheriff. And tell me this. Is it true that the deputy slowed down? That he wasn’t even speeding after my son’s car?”

“That’s what Deputy Torrez says. You know the road. He wanted to avoid exactly the kind of accident that happened.”

Benny Fernandez grimaced. “Waste. Such a waste. I sit and think, how can I face those other good people? Knowing their children are…” He waved a hand helplessly in the air.

“I wish I had an easy answer, Benny. But I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll keep you posted, but I shouldn’t have to bother you or your wife.”

“My wife,” he said, and almost managed a smile. He glanced at me almost apologetically. “She is my second wife, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yes. Ricky is the son from my first marriage. His mother died when he was only two. With Della, I have the five daughters. The oldest is now thirteen.”

“I see.”

“She and Ricky never really…” He paused. “It was as if there was some kind of wall between them. I don’t know.” He straightened up, obviously realizing that what he was telling me was more in Father Carey’s province than mine. His face hardened a little. “I intend to find out the answers, Sheriff. Ricky was my only son. He carried my good name. And when I find who was to blame…”

“The best thing you can do is stay in touch with us.” I turned toward the door. “If you think of anything I should know, don’t hesitate to call me, Benny. Anytime of the day or night. You have my number.”

He nodded and I left the house. I always trusted gut feelings, and now my gut told me Benny Fernandez was clean as the driven snow. For my money, his wife was wacko, but that made little difference. Not the cocaine type-whatever that is. As I drove off, I tried to picture what had been going on in that charging Firebird during the last few seconds before it became tangled junk. There were too many versions, a tangled video I could replay in almost infinite variety. I thumped the steering wheel in frustration.

With so little physical evidence, about all we could do was talk to people. Estelle Reyes and I interviewed teenagers until they all blended together into a composite. We followed up on rumors, we upset a community of already upset folks. And we found ourselves wishing there were ten of us, instead of two.

We talked to those who hadn’t been close friends of any of the deceased. They all expressed shock, of course, some for real and some because they figured it was expected of them. None of them knew anything about drugs, of course. Wide-eyed amazement that we would think such a thing. I suppose I was a little cynical. I didn’t expect them to indict the whole county, but I had figured that someone would be touched hard enough to want to spill some names. Maybe that was naive on my part, but their collective innocence was irritating as well as frustrating. We figured somebody had to know something.

To interview the friends and intimates was another matter. Estelle and I compared notes frequently, and we came to the same conclusion. The incident had been a sledge between the eyes for many of them. Of course, they were depressed. Hell, they had lived through the initial shock, the talk, the rumors. They had all attended an emotionally brutal memorial service in the school gymnasium and heard the popular Father Vince Carey tell them that he had no answers for their grief and confusion. I went to the service too, but spent most of my time there just watching faces. I was in plain clothes, of course, but not so inconspicuous that I didn’t collect an icy stare from Della Fernandez.

Carey had a tough time. Like most of us, he didn’t know what to say. His soft voice drifted in and out of my attention, but I happened to be tuned in when he said, “And that the police investigation is continuing is ample evidence that somewhere, our generation has failed yours.” That was the only mention of our work then, but of course as the days went by, the Register kept the coverage consistent, only shifting it to page 2 after a week when we hadn’t found anything.

It wasn’t all empty circles, though. I got my first hint during an interview with one of Tommy Hardy’s friends. I talked to the youngster at Dial’s Home Improvement Center on the west end of town, and after we were finished, my instincts told me I had hit pay dirt. I drove back to the office and prepared to play the tape for Estelle Reyes. The frustration of pounding the pavement and talking to folks who’d rather not talk had worn her nerves a little thin.

“So who is this?” she asked, as she plopped down in one of the cushioned chairs in my office.

“His name is Scott Salinger.”

“I know him.”

“Sure you do. So do I. If you attend a Posadas High School football game, you know Scott Salinger. He was reasonably close friends with Tommy Hardy.” I punched the machine on, then sat back and smoked, feet up on the corner of my desk. Estelle sat back with her hands locked behind her head and stoically endured my cigarette smoke as she listened. Scott Salinger’s voice was quiet, close to a monotone. Even though the microphone had been held less that twelve inches from his face, it sounded as though he were sitting across the room.

GASTNER: Would you state your full name for the record, please.

SALINGER: Scott Alfred Salinger.

GASTNER: How old are you, Scott?

SALINGER: Seventeen, sir.

GASTNER: Did you know any of the five teenagers killed in the accident last week?

SALINGER: I knew them all. [ Pause ] Everyone would, in a town this small.

GASTNER: Were you friends with any of them?

SALINGER: [ After a long pause ] Tommy Hardy and I used to hang around a lot.

GASTNER: And the others?

SALINGER: I knew them. They were a year ahead of me in school.

GASTNER: But you and Hardy were friends?

SALINGER: Yes.

GASTNER: Close friends?

SALINGER: [ Long pause ] Yes. I guess so. We both played football. He played basketball and I wrestled. We were both on the baseball team.

GASTNER: Was he your best friend?

SALINGER: [ Long pause, unintelligible word ]

GASTNER: I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.

SALINGER: I didn’t say anything.

GASTNER: Was he your best friend?

SALINGER: [ Long pause ] What is it you’re trying to find out, sir?

GASTNER: We’re just trying to learn all we can, Scott. A major crime has been committed, and we have to learn all we can.

SALINGER: All right.

GASTNER: Was Tommy Hardy your closest friend?

SALINGER: Yes.

GASTNER: What was his relationship with the other kids in the car, as far as you know?

SALINGER: What do you mean, relationship?

GASTNER: Were they close friends?

SALINGER: He and Jenny Barrie had been going together for about six months. Pretty heavy.

GASTNER: Heavy?

At that point, Estelle Reyes shot a glance over at me as if to say, “You naive old fart, you.” I shrugged. You have to ask.

SALINGER: He told me once he was thinking of getting married.

GASTNER: And what did you say to that?

SALINGER: I told him he was crazy.

GASTNER: Why is that?

SALINGER: He was in the top ten of his class. Three-point-something average, close to four. He was going to Purdue University to study electrical engineering.

GASTNER: And you thought his relationship with Jenny Barrie was going to jeopardize that?

SALINGER: I know it was. I know it did.

GASTNER: How do you know?

SALINGER: Do you know what his average was for the third nine weeks of this year?

GASTNER: Tell me.

SALINGER: He barely scraped a two-point.