“Exactly, sir.”
“Are you following this, Robert?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s good. Otherwise I’d be worried.”
“Sir, it’s simple. When Uncle Reuben dug a hole for the dogs, he would stop when he thought the hole was deep enough. Right?”
“Yes. Or when he was exhausted.”
“Of course. And when he stopped digging, what did he do?”
“He laid the dead dogs in the hole.”
“Right. Regardless of how a person shovels dirt, or how his arms get tired, why would Uncle Reuben take the time to line the bottom of the hole with fresh topsoil?”
“He wouldn’t.” I looked into the hole again, uneasy. The bottom of the hole was certainly darker soil. It wouldn’t take long to find out. “Robert, the shovel.”
Torrez stepped into the hole gingerly, as if he were afraid that the floor was going to cave in. The first shovelful of dirt came out easily, but on the second probe, the clank of metal against rocks was loud.
The deputy grunted, dislodging several rocks. He worked for perhaps ten minutes, clearing out a corner so that he could stand away from a new area. He paused to take a breath and glanced at me.
Estelle stood on the opposite side of the hole from me, expressionless, arms across her chest. When Torrez paused, she said quietly, “See how those rocks aren’t seated?”
“What do you mean?”
“If rocks have been in the ground for thousands-millions-of years, they take some persuasion to bust loose. And the dirt around them is compacted hard. Those rocks Bob just took out were part of the fill.”
“Damn soil scientist now,” I muttered, but I could see her logic was just common sense.
In another thirty minutes, Torrez had deepened the hole another foot and a half. And then his shovel hit serious rock. No matter where he drove the point, it met with the bright, sharp sound of Precambrian resistance.
“What do you think?” he said.
“Can you clean around one of the stones? One of the big ones?”
“They’re all big,” Torrez observed dryly. He choose a spot in the middle of the hole and cleaned the dirt away from a boulder that was nearly two feet long and a foot and a half wide. It was anyone’s guess how thick the rock was.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked Estelle.
“I’m sure. Wait a minute.” She turned and started across the field, then stopped. She looked at me, surprised. And then she grinned ruefully. “Sir, I was going to the car for my camera gear-”
***
I laughed. “You forgot what county you’re in, my dear. My camera bag is behind the passenger seat in the Blazer. I’ll go get it. You’re welcome to use it.”
“I’ll do it, sir.” I tossed her the keys and she said to Torrez, “Don’t go any deeper.”
She set off toward the Blazer at a fast jog, the kid riding shotgun enjoying the hell out of police work. I think she’d forgotten Francis Carlos was there.
Torrez stepped up and out of the hole and once more leaned on the shovel. “She’s betting that someone dug up the dogs, buried something underneath, and then reburied them,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“The old man would never do a thing like that.”
“No indeed.”
“Do you think she’s right?”
I shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Estelle returned with the camera bag and fished out my Pentax. She frowned at the numbers, turning the camera this way and that. I knew what she was looking for. I never remembered to put the end of the film box in the little bracket on the camera back.
“It’s ASA four hundred,” I said. Francis Carlos made a little whimpering sound and I added, “Let me hold Squirt.”
“That would help,” she said, and shrugged out of her backpack. I turned my back to the breeze, held the swaddled infant and made faces at him. His eyes got big, then narrowed, and finally he settled for a gurgle and a toothless smile.
Estelle adjusted the camera settings and shot half a dozen photographs of the grave from several angles. Then she said, “Bob, would you put the tip of the shovel right at the corner of that big rock. I need something for reference.”
Torrez did so, posing the handsome shovel until Estelle was satisfied. “All right,” she announced. “Go ahead and take out that stone.”
“Says you,” Torrez jibed. He was good-humored for someone that close to a shovel.
“No, it’ll move easily,” Estelle said. “Someone put those rocks in there. If they could move them and drop them in the hole, you can move them too. Probably easier.”
Torrez took that as a compliment for his considerable strength. The tip of the shovel did indeed dislodge the rock. He pried one end up then kicked the shovel out of his way and bent down.
With a grunt he upended the stone.
“Oh, si,” Estelle said.
As skeptical as I might have been, even I could see what excited her. The bottom of the rock-that portion that should have been in soil-packed darkness for eons-was covered with loose dirt, as one might expect. But clinging to the stone’s surface was the multicolored lichen that dots most of New Mexico’s exposed rock surfaces.
“Well, son of a bitch,” I said and bent down. Francis Carlos let out a squeal and then a fretful monosyllable. I knew what that meant even before glancing down to see the puzzled look on his face.
“The lad committed an indiscretion,” I said.
“He’ll have to wait a minute,” Estelle said. “I want pictures. Don’t move it, Bob.”
That left Deputy Torrez in an uncomfortable crouch, balancing the rock on its end. Estelle burned more film.
The lichen still displayed its potpourri of colors, from bright yellows to murky browns and russets. It hadn’t been in the ground long.
“All right,” Estelle said. She moved to one side as Torrez heaved the rock up and out of the hole. “Trade?” she said, holding out the camera. I gladly passed over the infant.
The capital murder investigation came to a fragrant halt as Estelle unswathed, cleaned, and changed the baby. It had been many years. I’d managed to forget that part.
Refreshed and heavy-lidded with accomplishment, Francis Carlos was once more deposited in my arms.
Estelle shot photos as Torrez worked, his pace stepped up by anticipation. He cleared an area nearly the width of the hole and another ten inches deep, a layer of jumbled rocks that evidently had been tossed into the grave after being gathered from the nearby flank of the mesa.
“We can search under the oaks over there and find the impressions where all these came from,” Estelle said, but Torrez interrupted my reply.
“Something,” he said. He dropped the shovel and crouched down, brushing with his bare hands. “It’s plastic,” he said. He pulled at a corner and we could see the black plastic, still glossy. Estelle took more pictures.
“What do you think, sir?” Estelle asked.
“I think this is a hell of a time to hesitate.”
“Be careful, then,” Estelle said, and Torrez nodded. He worked around the plastic, using hands and shovel with care. After a couple minutes he paused.
“This may be a corner,” he said. “This is where part of the bag is tied off.” He knelt down and worked on a knot. “It’s more like a garden drop cloth,” he added. “At first I thought it was a garbage bag, but the plastic’s heavier.”
“Here,” I said, and extended my pocket knife toward him.
“No, I got it.” He parted a corner of the plastic and recoiled. “Uh,” he said with a grimace.
“Well, we know now someone didn’t bury money or drugs out here,” I said. Torrez was leaning away from the bag, holding the plastic at arm’s length.
“Close it up until we finish uncovering the whole thing,” I said. “Estelle, you want to go down to the car and call in? We’ll want the coroner out here.”
She looked at me quizzically and I realized I’d made the same natural mistake that she had.
“Forget it. I’ll do it.” I lateraled Francis Carlos over to his mother. By the time I returned, Bob had uncovered most of the bag. It appeared to be a piece of garden plastic about ten feet square. The plastic was tied around itself with no other ropes or twine visible. The body inside wasn’t large.