“And that means that his training wasn’t adequate.”
Gastner regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, and she waited. “It could probably be argued,” he said after a moment, “that our training is never adequate, considering the job we do. Consider for instance last spring, when you scared the holy shit out of all of us. There are just those unfortunate moments when events conspire, no matter how adept, no matter how good, we are.”
“Desperate” was the word Estelle would have chosen to describe the incident to which Gastner referred, and not just the moment itself when the two shots from a 9mm in the hands of a highly competent gunman had bludgeoned her to the ground. The surgery and weeks of convalescence afterward had been the worst moments in her thirty-eight years of life. But that was not the issue here, and she pushed the memory from her mind.
“Bobby wants to fire him, sir.”
“His nibs will get over that. That would be a stupid overreaction. Tell him I said so. Hell, can that thought. I’ll tell him I said so.”
“That’s the catch,” Estelle said, and was about to add that telling Sheriff Robert Torrez anything was usually a waste of breath. “But it can be argued that the fault is not entirely the deputy’s. More intensive training might have resulted in safer gun handling.”
“Sure. He was rusty, like most of us. And it could be argued that his immediate supervisor should have inspected the firearms more frequently. Who’s his shift sergeant?”
“We don’t have a day sergeant,” Estelle said, and by the trace of a smile on Gastner’s face she knew that he knew that perfectly well. Both she and Captain Eddie Mitchell served as supervisors during the daytime shift, with Mears assigned as patrol sergeant for swing. Tom Pasquale worked graveyard with Mike Sisneros-with the sheriff and undersheriff on call if they were needed.
“What I want to-,” and she was interrupted by the phone. Her husband’s voice was like a welcome warm blanket, and she glanced at the clock.
“Querida,” Francis Guzman said, “I just got back. How are you doing?”
“I’m sitting here in my office ruminating with padrino. How’s Kerri?”
“Ah, you heard about that. Well, she’ll be all right, I think. She’s up in Albuquerque at University. Or will be shortly. The flight left almost an hour ago.”
“What happened?”
“It looks like a mitral valve prolapse,” he said. “Just like that. If she hadn’t been surrounded by all kinds of people who just happened to do all the right things, she’d be gone. The athletic director was walking right behind her when she went down, and he’s the hero of the moment. She’s a lucky kid.”
“She’ll be all right, though?”
“I think so. Look, the reason I called, querida, other than needing to hear your voice, is to mention that Alan wants to talk to you about your car accident victim. He was going to keep him on ice until a more civil hour, but he and I ended up doing a prelim on him. Some interesting things you need to know about.”
“Does Alan want me to call him right now?”
“If you can.”
“Then I need to do that, and then I’ll be home, querida.”
“I’m on my way there now,” the physician said. “Are you staying warm?”
“Oh, sure. I’m fine.” She was amused and touched by her husband’s gentle hovering, exponentially increased after her lengthy bout of recuperation.
“She needs to eat more,” Gastner said loudly, and Francis laughed.
“He’s right, you know,” the physician said.
“I am eating more, mi corazón,” Estelle said. “Just not in the middle of the night.” She looked at the clock again. “How long ago did you talk with Alan?”
“About six minutes.”
“Then I’ll call now. Thanks, querida. We have a houseful of juveniles that we need to send back to Lordsburg with their parents, and then I’ll be home.”
“Take care. Te amo.”
“Always.” She rang off and, as she dialed medical examiner Alan Perrone’s number, said to Gastner, “Kerri Gardner is going to be all right. Bad heart valve.” He grimaced in sympathy.
On the third ring, Dr. Perrone found his cell phone. His voice sounded distant and tired.
“Alan, it’s Estelle.”
“Hi. Go home and go to bed,” Perrone said without hesitation. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
“Francis said you might have something for me?”
“Well, it’s preliminary, but interesting. For one thing, I think that you guys are right. That looks like a boot or shoe print on the palm of his left hand. It’s not very clear, but that’s sure what it looks like to me. Your miracle girl spent a lot of time burning film…or digits, or whatever it is photographers do these days. The shoe tread looks like one of those waffle stompers, or even a running shoe with aggressive tread. There was enough mud that it left a pretty good impression. And that’s consistent with the other.”
“The other?”
“Look, this guy would have died in minutes or maybe hours at best. He was busted up so badly that any significant movement was out of the question. Multiple fractures and lacerations-just beaten to pieces. His right chest was so badly flailed that if he was breathing at all, it was just out of his left lung. Even if the EMTs had gotten to him seconds after the crash, he wouldn’t have made it to the hospital. Four of his ribs lacerated the hell out of his liver.”
“I don’t understand why someone would step on his hand,” Estelle said.
“Two explanations that I can think of,” Perrone said, and yawned loudly. “Excuse me. First, it might have been an accident. The step, I mean. The Good Samaritan witnesses the crash and scrambles down the bank…and steps on him by accident. Or, as I think now, the Good Samaritan used his foot to keep the victim’s left hand out of the way. That arm was busted in a couple of places, but the victim might have been able to move it some. He would have been convulsing, maybe. Flailing a little bit. Or, the killer might have thought that he might.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You know I don’t,” Perrone said.
“That’s grotesque. And you said ‘killer’?”
“Well, think on this one, if you want grotesque, my dear. If you were lying on your back in a million pieces, and someone pours beer into your gaping mouth, drowning you in the stuff, you’re going to thrash around a little bit…no matter how it hurts.”
The line fell silent.
“That’s what happened?” Estelle asked finally. She pictured a crushed and battered Christopher Marsh lying gurgling and moaning among the rocks, and then the shadowy figure looming overhead. If Marsh had been capable of cogent thought at all, he might have gasped a plea for help. Help was not what he got.
“I’m thinking so.” Perrone let it go at that without further explanation.
Estelle sat motionless, staring off into space.
“You still there?” Perrone asked. “Let me take another gander tomorrow morning. You’ll want to be here.”
Estelle shook her head to clear the image. “Yes, I will. I have to hope that you’re wrong.”
“Hey, we’ll see. I’ll have more for you then,” he said. “But I know I’m right with the preliminaries. There was beer in his esophagus, and in his windpipe, and aspirated into his lungs. A lot of beer. It isn’t a question of having just taken a gulp an instant before his truck clobbered that deer. He choked on the stuff, and when he stopped breathing, whoever it was just kept pouring. Not a pretty picture. I’m not sure I’d want to meet up with this guy.”
“And you’re sure that Chris Marsh was alive at first?”
“I’m one hundred percent sure. A dead man does not aspirate beer into his lungs. Or lung, I should say. Only one of ’em was working enough to matter.”