Baker was standing with one foot on the doorsill of his car, mike in hand. Had I been in a better mood, I would have said something about his Broderick Crawford imitation. He looked apologetically at me. “Gayle says Reyes went down to Tres Santos to help plaster her mother’s house.”
I stared at Baker, incredulous. “She what?”
“She’s plastering her mother’s house,” Baker repeated hopefully. “The old lady lives in Tres Santos. Estelle took a day of personal leave, and she and her boyfriend went down there.”
“Oh for Christ’s sakes. Give me that.” I took the mike from him and got Gayle Sedillos back on the air.
“Did you call Reyes?”
“Ten-four, three-ten.”
I wiped my forehead impatiently. “Well? What did she say?”
“She’s on her way up, sir.”
“Wonderful.” I tossed the mike at Baker. “What is that, an hour’s drive or better?” Baker nodded. “Then let’s get to work. I’m not going to sit around here on my ass for an hour. Watch the gate.” The ambulance had arrived, and I took a moment to tell them that they might as well cool their jets. The corpse wasn’t going anywhere for quite a while. Then I grunted into 310 and drove across the boneyard to the shed. I gathered my own equipment from the backseat-it wasn’t much, and it all fitted into a slender briefcase. The little snapshot camera would have to do, because there were answers I wanted and I would have to move the body to find them. If Estelle Reyes found out I had moved a corpse without taking pictures from every angle, she’d bat her long black eyelashes at me, then she’d shoot me herself.
I burned up two rolls of film before I touched the body. The Magnum bothered me, and I worked under the assumption that the gun belonged to the boy’s father, who himself was an avid outdoorsman and hunter. It really didn’t matter to me to whom the gun belonged, as long as Scott’s thumb had pushed the trigger. The boy had often taken his.22 rifle on hunting trips or even casual hikes. That rifle would have done the job, albeit not with the shattering finality of the.357 Magnum. That the youth had deliberately chosen the big handgun indicated to me that his mind had been thoroughly made up about its use. And of course, the coroner had his misgivings with his worry about bloodstains. Maybe someone had throw us all a curve.
I laid out a zip-top plastic bag, and with the eraser of my pencil pushed the boy’s thumb out of the trigger guard until I held the Magnum with the pencil. I gripped the bloody front sight between two fingers and lifted the weapon up. After it was safely in the plastic bag, I filled out an evidence tag and attached it. I felt bad that I didn’t have a big cardboard box. Estelle would give me gentle hell about not using one of her new-school stunts. The gun should have been suspended with stout twine in the box, with no part of the weapon touching the sides-at least until all the lab workup was done. But the evidence bag would have to do.
With both hands, I gently pulled the corpse away from the metal wall. It was like working with a stiff store manikin. There was no wound in the back, no mark on the wall. Something made me hesitate. Holding the body’s weight with one hand, I knelt and looked closely. Scott Salinger’s T-shirt was hiked up in back, with the cloth bunched up several inches above the belt line. The paint flecks on the skin of his lower back were obvious. Photographs, I though, and knew my small pocket camera was inadequate. I let the corpse rest back against the wall and stood up. I ran a hand down the wall of the building and looked at the white dust and flecks that my palm immediately collected.
I frowned. Were people intent on suicide as careful as anyone else when they sat down? To scrunch up the otherwise tucked-in T-shirt and dot the skin underneath with old paint meant that Scott Salinger would have had to plop himself down, first banging against and then actually sliding down the old wall, oblivious to the discomfort, even pain, of such a maneuver. I knelt down again, and had to wait a minute for dizziness to pass. By pushing the corpse forward and to one side, I could look closely at the wall. I could imagine that I could see vertical marks in the dusty paint, but eyes sharper than mine would have to offer a second opinion. It was only because I was waving my free hand at the flies that I looked down and saw the wood. It was sticking out of the youth’s right back pocket. The portion that I could see was about half an inch long and curiously shaped. It attracted my attention first because, in the shade and difficult to see, it looked for all the world like the end of a fat skewed marijuana joint. The idea of Scott Salinger actually being involved with drugs twisted like a knife. Using just my fingernails, I caught the end of the object and pulled it out. It was not a joint. Rather, it was a three-inch length of wood, one long side flat and the other sides rounded. Both ends were rough, like a broken stick. Attached stubbornly to the wood by what had to be glue of some kind was a five-inch-long streamer of blue two-or-three-mil plastic, torn into an irregular banner shape.
Scott Salinger, or someone, had obviously thrust that piece of junk into his hip pocket. I turned it over without touching any part of it except where my fingernails pinched one end. Something, somewhere twanged in my mind, but I couldn’t bring it to focus. I didn’t have much of a grip on the wood, and I let the corpse rest back against the wall so I could grope for a small evidence bag with my left hand. I snapped the bag open against the slight breeze and dropped the wood and plastic inside. Instead of just dropping the light package into my briefcase, I made a point of sliding it into one of the pockets in the lid. With the article safely stowed, I rummaged for an evidence tag.
The contents of my briefcase seemed somehow confused and jumbled. I hesitated. What was I looking for? Dizziness returned, and I reached out a hand for support. Either my own vision was screwball, or the sun kept slipping behind clouds. My arms lacked the strength to hold me up. Even as I stumbled on my hands and knees like a poisoned dog, I heard vehicles. They would find me, of course, but somehow it seemed desperately important to meet them at the corner of the building. I staggered to my feet, unable to breathe. My left hand slapped the side of the building and I lurched toward the corner. My momentum carried me beyond support and out into space. I fell heavily, not unconscious but so weak that blinking took too much effort. I heard feet running on the asphalt of the boneyard, and then, with time confused and blending, sirens. In a moment of lucidity, I thought, Great timing, Gastner. Great timing.
Chapter 19
Briefcase. The first word to worm its way back into my consciousness. A moment of panic followed. Had I lost the briefcase? And along with it my camera and film? Maybe the detective found it. Reyes. What was her first name? Reyes. Something Reyes. I opened my eyes.
Up on the wall was a softly cheeping machine, tiny lights blinking its intelligence. As if the pulsing lights were a catalyst, my connections came into sharp focus-a damn tube in each arm, bags hanging from poles and chemistry slowly dripping into my system. I lay absolutely still, assessing. Other than being weary and maybe a little buzzed from the drugs, I felt fine. I took a tentative deep breath. My breastbone ached as if somebody had slugged me, but other than that, nothing hurt. Everything seemed to work.
I turned my head and searched for the nurse call. This was no time to be lying around. I had work to do, and fast. But I couldn’t find the damn cord. Wasn’t it usually pinned to the pillow?
“May I get something for you?”
I started and grunted involuntarily as the nurse appeared in my peripheral vision. My voice wasn’t working, that was for sure. I tried again and this time I managed a little far-away voice that sounded like a kid trying to wheedle another cookie.
“I need to talk with Estelle Reyes,” I croaked. I cleared my throat and said it again, a little stronger.