Chapter Seven
Satisfied that no person had been in the path of the errant.45 slug, Estelle turned her attention to the most seriously injured-Deputy Dennis Collins. During the various comings and goings of investigators, the young man hadn’t moved more than a step or two from his position by the driver’s door of his county vehicle.
Estelle was proud of him for that-it was exactly the right moment for silent restraint, to speak when spoken to. She knew this wasn’t an easy moment for the normally gregarious, cheerful deputy whose ego, normally large and fully inflated, must have been withered like a shrunken pea. There was no handy excuse for dropping a loaded gun-Dennis knew that, and kept silent.
The last thing Collins needed at that moment was an interview, but it appeared that Frank Dayan was zeroing in on him. The newspaper publisher’s step was slower than usual-he appeared weary and worried, and Estelle knew Frank’s concern wasn’t because of a ruckus in a convenience store parking lot. Even though there was no yellow ribbon to stop him, Dayan hesitated as he approached. He knew better than to cross into a crime scene, even with the absence of a yellow tape. Collins, obviously unoccupied, alone, and on the periphery of the action, was a logical target.
“Excuse me, Frank,” Estelle said as she approached, and Dayan stopped in his tracks.
“Am I-,” Frank started to say, but Estelle gripped him firmly by the elbow, and together they walked up the sidewalk, well beyond Bob Torrez’s truck. Collins did not follow.
“You’ve been over at the hospital?” Estelle asked as they walked.
“Oh, you heard about that?” He stopped. “The most tragic thing, Estelle. Just boom.” He chopped the air with his hand. “Kerri just dropped in a heap. Thank God there were people around who knew what to do.”
“Is there anything that Pam needs?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, but gosh. Who knows with a thing like this. She’s still over at the hospital, of course. I think they’re going to airlift Kerri to Albuquerque.”
“A rough time.”
He groaned a response, then straightened his shoulders and surveyed the parking lot. “What’s going on here?”
“We have a situation at the moment,” she said as they walked. “We’re going to need your cooperation with this.”
“Of course,” Dayan said. “I was just on my way home and saw all the traffic. We have a robbery, or what?” The dapper publisher sounded hopeful.
“I wish it were that simple,” Estelle replied. She weighed how much to tell Dayan, who over the years had proven himself to be discreet when necessary-his newspaper would publish the following Wednesday, and a lot could change in the next five days. Frank viewed any other media-the big metro papers and TV stations in particular-as competition, even though they probably didn’t know his small town paper existed. “It appears that there was an assault on the deputy’s vehicle,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“I saw the damage to the windshield. Somebody took a shot at him?”
“No. Someone threw a loaded beer bottle.”
Dayan grimaced in disgust, and Estelle wasn’t sure if the newspaperman was disappointed that the story was as insignificant as a chucked bottle, or if it was just his comment on rowdy youth. “That’s it?”
“Well,” Estelle said carefully, “we’re continuing to investigate exactly what happened after that.” Frank would be irked at her sin of omission when the full story came out. “There may be some public intoxication involved.”
“Oh,” he said. “These days, isn’t there always. What’s Marge Chavez’s connection? I saw her pulling out when I was on my way down Grande. They throw bottles at her car, too?”
“No. We’re always interested in what witnesses have to say. Apparently she was fueling her car at the time the incident happened.”
“Oh,” Dayan said again. “Any injuries? Collins looks all right.”
“No injuries, Frank. I’ll have something for you a little later, but right now I need to talk with the deputy. With juveniles, things aren’t always clear-cut. Will you excuse me?” She touched him on the arm and he nodded vigorously.
“Sure, sure.” He ducked his head and looked toward the State Police car. “You have someone in custody already, it looks like.”
“More for you later, Frank,” Estelle said again. “Okay? And please…give my best to Pam. If there’s anything she needs, have her call me. I’ll stop by and see her in the morning.”
He smiled at the undersheriff, holding up both hands in surrender. “You’re the boss,” he said. “I’m headed home anyway. It’s been a long day. I’ll talk to you later, all right?” He started back toward his car and then paused. Estelle saw him pull a tiny camera out of his pocket and snap several pictures, of what it was impossible to tell. Given his lack of photographic talents, it might be just as impossible after the photos were downloaded. She returned to Collins, who stood quietly by the door of his truck, watching Dayan.
As she crossed back toward the deputy, she was intercepted by Linda Real. The young woman carried a bulky camera bag, with another camera slung over her shoulder. Linda half turned and aimed a cheerful wave at Frank Dayan, her former boss.
“Hey,” Linda said. “How’s it goin’?”
“It’s going,” Estelle replied. She quickly outlined the gist of the scene for the photographer, whose normally unflappable good cheer dissolved when she heard what had happened to Deputy Collins.
“Bobby’s going to have a cow,” Linda said in her habitual straight-to-the-heart fashion, and Collins winced.
“We’ll just have to see,” Estelle replied. The sheriff’s initial choice of “dufus” as a moniker for his deputy didn’t bode well. She could predict that whatever Sheriff Robert Torrez did, he wouldn’t concern himself with politics or image. That in itself was something of a relief. Equally sure was that he wouldn’t shrug his shoulders and say, “People drop things. Happens every day.”
“Let me show you what we need,” Estelle said, and then turned to the deputy. She looked hard at Collins. “And listen to me, now. After Linda takes a photo of that chip in your truck, the broken glass, and the beer puddles, I want you to go back to the office and write a detailed deposition for me. Exactly what happened, from A to Z. Leave nothing out. Take your time and do it right.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t make anything either less or more than it is. Do you understand what I’m saying? This isn’t the time for creative writing. Right now I’m only concerned with the what, not the why. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Again, Estelle was impressed that she had heard no string of excuses from the young deputy.
She turned her attention to his Expedition. The chip in the white paint of Dennis Collins’ county vehicle was tiny-a little, sharp-edged mark just below the right fender logo, immediately in front of the door. Estelle crouched down and trained her flashlight on the spot.
“Can you make a clear photo of that?”
Linda bent down beside her. “Oh, sure,” she said cheerfully. “Holy macro.”
Estelle laughed at the young woman’s easy good humor. Maybe it was for Dennis’ benefit, but it was welcome regardless. “And as long as you’re doing that, I need a good, clear blowup of Dennis’.45. There may be some paint or scratches that will show in a print.”
“Oh, it will.”
“I’ll bring the gun to the office in a few minutes. You can do it there.”
“You got it.”
“You want my gun?” Collins asked, and he made it sounds as if Estelle were asking him to disrobe in public. He started to reach toward his holster protectively and she caught his wrist.
“Just unbuckle the whole belt, Denny.” She could tell he was counting mentally to ten-maybe even twenty or thirty. Finally, he unbuckled the heavy Sam Browne belt, then refastened the buckle deftly and hung the entire heavy rig over Estelle’s extended hand. She felt a pang of sympathy for his humiliation.