Heartshot (4 page)
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.
GASTNER: So his love life put a dent in his scholarship. That’s not unusual.
SALINGER: No. I guess not.
GASTNER: [
Long pause
] What did you think of Jenny Barrie? [
Pause, no reply
] She was a senior also, wasn’t she?
SALINGER: Yes.
GASTNER: Good student? [
No reply
] I have to have a verbal answer for the recorder, Scott.
SALINGER: She got by.
GASTNER: What does that mean?
SALINGER: She wasn’t too interested in school.
GASTNER: What was she interested in?
SALINGER: You know. Playin’ around.
GASTNER: She wasn’t one of your favorite people, was she.
SALINGER: [
Pause
] No, sir. She wasn’t.
GASTNER: Will you tell me why? [
No reply
] Scott?
SALINGER: I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about it lately. The last week or so. I haven’t made up my mind yet.
GASTNER: About what?
SALINGER: [
Pause
] I don’t know.
Estelle leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. She watched the tape machine closely, as if she could see the words coming off the reel.
GASTNER: We need to know, Scott. If it has anything to do with the accident, or the contents of the car, we need to know.
SALINGER: It’s just the pits, that’s all.
GASTNER: What is?
SALINGER: Life. [
Pause
] Maybe it doesn’t matter. Probably be easier just to go away.
GASTNER: Go away?
SALINGER: [
Sigh
] Next year is my last year in school. Get through that, then go away. College probably. Or I was thinking maybe the Air Force.
GASTNER: Scott, listen to me. If you have information about this investigation, you’d be doing everyone a favor by telling us.
SALINGER: Is there anything else you wanted? I need to get back to work.
GASTNER: Don’t hesitate to call me, Scott. When you decide. Anytime of the day or night. It doesn’t matter.
I reached over and snapped off the machine. I lighted another cigarette and Estelle stood up. “Something there,” she said. “I wonder what he knows?”
“Or,” I said, “it could be that he was just bent out of shape about Hardy. They were close friends. They’re both scholars.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I knew his older sister…she was also a brain.”
“The school guidance office shows he’s held a three-point-eight GPA since his freshman year. Right now, he stands about sixth in his class. He and Hardy were a year apart, but best friends nevertheless.”
“And so your theory is that he resented his friend’s infatuation?”
“Could be.”
“You think there’s more?”
I stood up and tucked in my uniform shirt. “Each of those kids checks out. They seemed to be pretty much normal, party-hardy teenagers, Estelle. Some maybe more than others. Salinger’s open dislike of Jenny Barrie is the first hint of a crack. It may be nothing, who knows. Probably is nothing. But I think we need to pry a little deeper into her background. A couple other kids said she was known as something of a wild hare. And maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe the Salinger kid will decide that it’s time to talk.”
“And if he doesn’t, then we’re going to have to turn up the heat. Holman’s getting impatient. He keeps saying he’s got some ideas. He was breathing down my neck all morning.”
I glanced sideways at Estelle, wondering if she was making one of her rare jokes, but her face was impassive. “Spare us from a politician who thinks,” I said.
***
I was prepared to protest whatever harebrained idea our political sheriff was concocting—it wasn’t that I actually disliked Martin Holman. But old dogs become stuck in ruts. I was used to the oldtime expertise of Holman’s predecessor, Eduardo Salcido. Salcido chased criminals—he didn’t chase block grants. I knew that modern departments without money didn’t function worth a shit. I knew that the civil load of most sheriff’s departments was ten times the criminal load. But it seemed to me that Holman spent too much time talking, and not enough time doing. And as far as I knew, the sum total of Holman’s law-enforcement background was a two-week FBI school for sheriffs-elect.
Still, since he held the life of my contract in his hand, it seemed prudent to hear him out.
“Let me tell you what I plan to do,” he said one afternoon when he’d managed to corner me in my office. Estelle Reyes had tried to slip away down the hall, but he waved her inside. It was very hot, maybe 105 degrees out in the sun. “Yeah, but it’s dry heat,” some airheads might say. One hundred five is hot…dry or not dry. Despite the air-conditioning in the county building, my uniform shirt was a mess of dark circles. Holman, dressed in a lightweight summer suit, looked 60 degrees.
“You no doubt are aware of the interagency drug task forces that have been pretty successful in various parts of the state.” Both Estelle and I were aware, of course…more so than Holman. We were both polite enough not to say so. Estelle had worked records for them for two weeks shortly after she joined our department. I had been half-tempted once to work for the narcs, but the two weeks away from my hovel seemed an awfully long time. Old dogs…
Holman continued, “I thought a minor version of that is something to try. You know Artie White up in Gallup? Chief of Police?” We both did. “I had some time at one of these law-enforcement conventions recently, and we got to talking. I was telling him about all of your experience, Bill, and he laughed and said he had the other side of the coin.”
“How’s that?” I asked politely.
“Chief White said he had a freshly minted patrolman on his force who just turned twenty-one, for one thing…the kid couldn’t even buy a legal beer until a couple months ago. And the chief said what makes it worse is that the kid is one of those long, tall bean poles who looks sixteen. Believe it or not, he’s proving to be a good, careful cop.”
I chuckled gently. “I wonder how he’s going to do when he goes to his first bar fight and his backup never shows.”
“I asked Chief White the same thing. The kid’s been to a couple. The first one, he walked into this real tough joint. The two guys who were dukin’ it out stopped, took one look at him and broke up laughing. He put the cuffs on both of ’em. Pretty effective. He got called to a second one, and damn near got a charge of police brutality on his head. I guess he’s pretty good with a nightstick. Fast as a rattlesnake.”
“And so…” I prompted.
“And so,” Holman said, “I got to thinking. Some undercover work is what we need, and not by some DEA hotshot, or big-time narc from the big city or from the state police. We obviously can’t use our own people. They’re too well known. So, I thought let’s get the kid down here. Hell, we maybe can even plant him in the high school. Who’s to know?”
“Some folks at the school should know, for one thing,” I said.
“Why? What if the dealer is one of them? Hell, what if the damn principal is running drugs? Stranger things have happened.”
“You got a point,” Estelle said. “Would this guy really fit in? I mean, does he really look like a high school kid?”
“That’s what White says.” Holman was obviously pleased with himself.
“Let’s get him down here,” I said. “Maybe he’ll get it all wrapped up before he has to enroll in school. And that reminds me of something we may be forgetting. Whose kid is he? I mean, he’s got to be living with somebody. Nobody’s going to believe a high school kid living by himself in an apartment somewhere.”
Holman grinned and held up an index finger, apparently ready to make his grand point. “You have four grown children, correct?”
“So?”
Estelle had already covered her mouth with a hand to conceal the grin. She saw through Holman before I did. “So, your oldest son is what, thirty-nine?”
“So?”
“It’s no secret that for the last ten years, he’s had nothing but trouble with his oldest boy. A summer vacation for the rotten kid, away from home, is just the ticket. Who better for him to visit, in lieu of going to some paramilitary camp, than his old granddad, Undersheriff William C. Gastner, famous for his many exploits along the border?”
I looked at Estelle. “Have you been letting this man snort the evidence, or what?” I turned and frowned at the sheriff. “My oldest son doesn’t have a son of any description. Five wonderful girls, yes. A son, rotten or otherwise, no.”
“So who’s to know? I mean that. How many people in this county, in this town, keep track of your grandchildren, Bill? Hell, you never talk about them.”