Nightzone (8 page)

She pivoted and looked at the scatter of empty .357 cases that I'd pumped out onto the parking lot in front of my own SUV. She didn't question those, or why I'd even been on the scene in the first place. Nor did she explore the obvious first question: Who the hell fired first? All of that would come out in excruciating detail.

A small crowd was beginning to assemble over by the Posadas Inn's portico, and one set after another of red lights arrived as officers tried to realign themselves from one active crime scene to another.

I sighed, feeling weary but, I had to admit, not the least bit repentant. My relief at Taber's good fortune slowed my hammering pulse. I scanned the parking lot, letting the events settle in my mind, and realized that the undersheriff was watching me.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Just dandy,” I said. “It's just going on eight o'clock, and I'm already wondering if this day is ever going to end.”

“You were going home?”

“Actually, I was following Miles Waddell. We were headed out to his mesa project. He had some things to show me. I'll catch him on the phone here in a few minutes.”

She nodded slowly. “So, in a nutshell?” And I knew that she meant that.

“I saw Jackie northbound on Grande, following the RV with her emergency equipment on. They turned into the parking lot in front of me. As I was driving by, I saw the officer assume a defensive posture consistent with being confronted with an armed suspect. I turned my vehicle around in the street and returned, pulling into the parking lot right there.” I pointed where the SUV remained parked. “I had time to step out and then I saw that the man on the RV steps was holding a weapon. Jackie told him to drop it, and the next instant, it went off.”

“Had the sergeant drawn her own weapon?”

“No. Her hand was on it, though. That's how fast it all happened. When he fired, I drew my own gun, and as he turned his shotgun toward me, I fired.”

“Had the sergeant regained her feet?”

“I don't think so, but of course I wasn't looking her way. It was my impression that she was down for a couple of seconds.”

“You fired how many times?” She knew there were five expended casings on the ground, but it was a way of determining how discombobulated I was.

“Five. All that was in the gun. And then I reloaded.” I unbuckled my belt and slipped the holster free, extending holster and gun toward her. “It's still loaded.”

“I don't need that, sir,” she said.

“Oh, yes you do.”

She took it without comment. “Are you headed over to the office?” She was being needlessly polite and deferential. We both knew damn well that's where I was going, and whether by invite or order didn't much matter.

“I'll get started on the statement,” I said. “And I want to know who that son-of-a-bitch is.”

“I'll be in when I can.” Estelle, knowing my propensity for roaming the county, added, “If you'd stay within earshot, I'd appreciate it. Feel free to use my office when you settle in to write the statement.” What a polite way to tell me to enjoy informal custody. She actually smiled. “Remember we were going to have green chile stew and corn bread tonight. We need to make sure that happens.”

I grumped. “You know, at the rate we're going, the whole goddamn county is going down the tube. It's going to take a month of Sundays to clean this up. Any word from Bobby?”

“Not yet, sir. We have a team on the way to Cruces now.”

I didn't share her optimism, except that if Waddell's project—whatever the hell it was—turned out to be Paul Bunyan's ultimate target, he'd be back. If he'd seen his friend killed by a freak accident and then on top of that shot a law officer either by tragic accident or to cover his tracks after fleeing the scene, the killer had too much invested now to back off.

On top of that, I knew full well into what sort of a mess I'd managed to put myself.

Chapter Eight

“You don't stay out of trouble long, do you?” Miles Waddell laughed in wonder, but I didn't share his humor. I knew how detailed and excruciatingly accurate a good deposition had to be—over the years I'd ranted at my deputies to put their best into the paperwork, since that's the part that formed the foundation of future court cases. And when the rancher's telephone call jarred my concentration, I managed to strike half a dozen unintended keys on the computer.

He added, “You were a couple of blocks behind me, and then you disappeared.”

“Yeah, well. It's turning into that sort of day. I was going to call you, and I got distracted.” I listened with only half an ear, the rest of me concentrating on the words on the screen.

“I got as far as the saloon, and stopped to pick up some bottled water. They'd been listening to the whole thing on the scanner. So I headed back.” Victor Sanchez's Broken Spur Saloon rose out of the dust beside State 56 twenty-five miles or so southwest of Posadas. Life was slow if all the few patrons had to do was listen to the gibberish on the police radio. And even the age of 10-4's, or 10-9's or 10 anything was dying as the cell phone made life so much easier—and more private.

“Hurrah for spectators. I meant to give you a call. I really did.”

“Not a problem, sheriff. Are we going to be able to get together today? Or are they keeping you in the slammer?”

“The day is yet young. If I can, I will. But Miles, you need to buttonhole either the sheriff or undersheriff and bring them up to speed. No telling what might tie in.”

“I'll do that. You're going to be all right, though?”

“Don't know.”

“You sound pissed.”

“I am, Miles. Shooting people does that to me.”

“So you really did that, eh?”

“I really did.”

“You're all right, though.”

“So far.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Don't suppose so. They'll be interested to hear from you about when and where you first saw the RV and the deputy.”

“They came in on 56,” Waddell said. “I met 'em right after the interchange, right on the curve.”

“The sheriff is going to want every detail, Miles. Every damn thing you remember.”

“I never did see the RV pull over, though. Maybe he thought the deputy would just go on by.”

“You need to come on down to the office and offer a formal deposition to that effect. Every little piece is important, Miles.”

“Sure. I can do that. That's the guy you shot, though? The old fart driving the rig?”

“That's the guy.”

“It looked like Jackie Taber coming up behind him.”

“Sure enough.”

“She's okay, though?”

“I think so.”

“That's good to hear. What a goddamn bizarre world. Look, I've got a couple of things to do, so I'll get out of your hair. I'll catch you after a little bit.”

“Don't let this slide,” I said. “If you've got something going on that's attracting these chain saw bozos, we need to know about it.”
We.
“And by the way, they'd be interested in any sort of communications you've received lately that might be out of the ordinary. The sheriff will need to know anything along those lines.”

I hung up the undersheriff's desk phone and leaned back in her comfortable chair, regarding the prose locked on the computer screen in front of me. I could have settled for
he fired, I fired, the end.
But the district attorney would want a little more than that. By the time I'd finished, the damn thing ran two pages. I read the epistle about eight times before sending a copy to file and print.

My door—the undersheriff's door—was cracked, and I could hear the jabber from dispatch and the incessant ringing of the telephone. The lights on Estelle's fancy phone flashed and blinked and died in a fascinating pattern. Nothing motivated me to move, the long hours of the night finally catching up with me. I heard a helicopter in the distance, and wondered if it was the Med-evac, airlifting the former shotgun-wielding, now much punctured, snowbird to more advanced treatment in Las Cruces or Albuquerque.

Had my aim been a little steadier, my target group a little smaller, it would have been his mortal remains heading to autopsy. Now, with him surviving to testify, his family could concentrate on deciding how many millions to sue me for. That didn't worry me much, at least not yet. I'd been sued several times before as folks tried to shift blame. Adults have a marvelous capacity to screw up, and it would not be me, or Mr. Shotgun, who suffered the most from all of this. It would be the tiny three-year-old, who had huddled in terror, while her captor pulled her world down around her terrified little head.

I was daydreaming thus in the undersheriff's office, taking advantage of her hospitality, one image after another parading through my tired brain, head supported on both hands, when Sergeant Jackie Taber appeared in the doorway. Now in civilian clothes, including blue jeans and a western-stitched denim shirt, the only visible sign of her experience was a single small bandage along her lower left jawline.

“Good morning.” I sat up straighter. “You cleaned up nicely.” She smiled at that, her heavy, square face softening. I touched my own jaw. “What was the deal?” We shouldn't even have been talking, but I was glad to see her up and about and refreshed.

She held thumb and forefinger together. “A little, flat pellet fragment, is all. The tetanus booster hurt more.”

“And what's the deal with the child?” I relaxed back in the chair and latched my hands on top of my head…a pose that I'd assumed half a thousand times over the years as I waited for one of the deputies to explain things to me.

“There was a computer hit out of San Diego, their version of an Amber Alert, sir. The shooter is a sixty-eight-year-old grandfather, Nathan Baum, out of Orlando, Florida. He apparently abducted his granddaughter Patricia from her daycare in San Diego and was headed eastbound to rendezvous with the little girl's father. There's a custody suit going on between the girl's mom and the dad. Mom has custody, dad wants custody, and granddad decided to get right in the middle and make things worse. It's my understanding that mom and dad don't like each other much, and
granddad,
the gentleman you ventilated, absolutely hates his daughter-in-law. She never was good enough for his son.”

“Ah, one of those. The kid's dad lives in Orlando, too?”

“Actually, he lives in El Paso.”

“But it was the grandfather, this Nathan Baum, who drove all the way from Orlando to pick up the kid in San Diego, and then was going to do what…drop her off in El Paso or something?”

“I believe that's essentially correct.”

“And I'm supposed to understand all this?”

“I don't think anyone does, sir.”

“Do we know yet why he opened fire on you?”

“Sheriff Torrez has a theory, sir. He's working on it.”

I covered my tired eyes with both hands. People pulled triggers for all kinds of reasons, but the most common was that during a moment of stress, they didn't know what the hell their trigger fingers were doing. “Sheriff Torrez is working on a lot of things at the moment.”

“Yes, sir, he is.” She settled her hand on the doorknob and studied the carpet, an industrial shade of brownish green that no one was supposed to notice. “The district attorney and an investigator from the State Police would like to talk with you now, sir.” She smiled, a delightful expression that she should have used more often. “Don't blame the messenger. But they're set up in the conference room, and wanted me to tell you they were ready, if you were.” What a deferential invitation to the rack
that
was.

I glanced at the clock. They hadn't wasted any time. “Have
you
talked with them yet?”

“No, sir. I suppose shortly.”

“I'm surprised they didn't keep us quarantined,” I muttered. I made sure my computer file was saved and closed, and pushed up from the desk.

“Thank you, sir.”

“For?”

“Stopping when you did.”

“I wish I could claim that it's my wide heroic streak,” I chuckled. “But it was pure reflex. I didn't even think about it. And I'm glad I didn't.” I followed Jackie out of the undersheriff's office. “Let's see what his nibs wants from us.”

Chapter Nine

Dan Schroeder looked as if he'd spent the night out on the prairie, far from coffee or comforts. No doubt Sheriff Robert Torrez had kept the district attorney busy. With two and a half corpses, that was to be expected, especially since it was virtually guaranteed that the riddled Mr. Baum would sue us for about the national debt, even though the whole sorry affair was his fault. If he died, the family could have a field day. Schroeder was a good prosecutor, but lawsuits scared him…about half as much as they scared the county legislators.

Usually impeccably turned out, this morning the district attorney was a bit on the scruffy side. Even a hint of peach fuzz touched his cheeks below the black bags under his eyes. He nurtured what little hair he had left in one of those 50s buzz cuts, so
that
wasn't out of place. With his straw-colored suit, Schroeder reminded me of a college singing group's lead tenor—slim, bland-faced, too blond to be true.

He had positioned himself at the end of the small mahogany conference table, a collection of papers and photos spread out before him. A second officer—I couldn't recall his name—regarded me with beady blue eyes caved under a forehead whose supra-orbital ridge looked as if it had borrowed some simian heritage.

Without lifting his head from his hand, elbow planted on the table, Schroeder looked up as I entered.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, and Schroeder unwrappe
d himself, rising as if every joint in his body had failed him. I skirted the table and shook hands.

“Thank…” he started to say as he attempted to generate some grip. He cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming, Bill.” He waved a hand under his nose. “Excuse my frog. Something out in the prairie set off my sinuses.” He turned to his partner. “You've met Paul Mellon, I'm sure.”

Mellon.
I'd known Paul Mellon since he was a rookie state policeman patrolling out of the Quemado district, trying to find things to do. He'd become desperate for action a time or two, wandering south to my turf. Most memorable—and it brought a smile for me just then—was his traffic stop of a young off-duty Deputy Robert Torrez just west of Posadas. Bobby's aging, smoking, disreputable Chevy pickup looked as if it belonged hidden behind a barn somewhere, and Bobby himself was a perfect match. Fresh off an interagency drug interdiction deal, the young deputy was unshaven, long of mane and short of temper. The traffic stop with Mellon hadn't gone so well.

A big, raw-boned man, Mellon rose with grace and extended a mammoth paw. As he did so, a smile chased all of the intimidation from his features. Dimples, even. The deep-set blue eyes twinkled.

“Sheriff, it's always a pleasure,” he rumbled. With that voice, he could have been a television evangelist. I took my time settling into one of the oak chairs, reminding myself that no amount of
bonhomie
would disguise why we were all here. I had shot a man, and when I did that, I had set in motion the vast complex of legal proceedings. I made a quick resolution to mind my manners.

“Lieutenant Mellon will be the lead investigator this time around.” Schroeder scribbled a note on his legal pad. “Are you all right with that?”

Was
I
all right with it? Schroeder was trying to be his soothing best, why I don't know. No elections loomed on the horizon. Both Bobby Torrez and Estelle Reyes-Guzman were conspicuously absent from this little deal, but figuring out why wasn't rocket science. Schroeder would make every effort to assure that his ass was covered, and Mellon's presence, rather than members of the Posadas department, would assure objectivity—perhaps.

“You bet,” I said. Lieutenant Mellon apparently didn't believe in paperwork. The table in front of him was bare save for one little yellow pad. A BIC lay capped beside it. Maybe the state cop had already made up his mind, and expected to hear nothing new.

“Tell us what happened,” Schroeder said.

I launched into my recitation without preamble, probably sounding rehearsed. I didn't consult my notes, since the episode was engraved in my memory. “After having breakfast at the Don Juan, I was driving southbound on Grande. I observed a large RV northbound on Grande, and saw it pull into the Posadas Inn parking lot. One of the sheriff's department units followed, lights on. By the time I reached the scene, Sergeant Taber was out of her car, and the door of the RV was also open. I saw that Sergeant Taber's hand was resting on her service weapon, and her left arm was raised as if she was issuing commands of some sort. That's all I saw as I passed the scene. I did a U-turn on Grande, and looped back into the parking lot.”

Mellon leaned forward, cupping his hands together. “Why did you stop, Sheriff?”

The courtesy title was ubiquitous. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Once a sheriff, always a sheriff.

“It appeared that there was some sort of confrontation. Sergeant Taber's hand was on her weapon, commands were obviously being given. It was not possible to determine how many people were involved—how many might be inside the RV.”

“Did you hear Sergeant Taber radio for backup?”

“I did not.”

“Was your radio operational?”

“It was not.”

“So you didn't hear whether or not Sergeant Taber called in for backup?”

“No.” Ask a third time, it would be the same answer.

“At what point could you clearly see that Mr. Baum was holding a weapon of some sort?”

“As I pulled to a stop in the parking lot. He was standing in the doorway of the RV holding the shotgun.”

“You immediately recognized it as such?” Mellon sounded a little skeptical.

“Yes.”

He picked up the BIC and took his time removing and stowing the top. “When you pulled into the lot, did you actually see Mr. Baum pick up the gun?”

“No. He already was holding it at high port when I arrived.”

“When you
first
drove by, was he holding the shotgun?”

“I couldn't see all of him, I couldn't see it.”

“But by the time you pulled in, you could see the shotgun clearly?”

“Yes.”

“Aimed?”

“Not directly at Sergeant Taber. When I first saw it, it was in the hunter's ‘at ready' position, barrel up slightly and to the left.”

He made a “go on” gesture, the pen oscillating between two huge fingers.

“I got out of the car, and had time to hear the sergeant shout, ‘Put the weapon down.' Or some such. Without warning of any kind, Baum fired. That knocked Taber off-balance, and she stumbled backward directly in front of her patrol unit. Baum started to turn toward me, and my assumption was that he was turning to fire again. I drew my weapon and fired five times.”

“Five?”

“That's what the revolver holds.”

“Not six?”

“I keep an empty chamber under the hammer. So five.”

“Ah, the old west.” The crinkles deepened around his eyes. “And at any time did you see motion or activity in the RV? Did you have reason to believe there might be someone else inside?”

“No.”

Mellon drew a little squiggle on his pad. “You believed that your field of fire was unobstructed?”

Well, so much for resolutions. I felt my blood pressure surge with the wave of irritation. “I didn't have time to attend a goddamned NRA safety seminar, Lieutenant. I had a clear and threatening target. I saw no one else, no shadows, no motion. I most certainly felt threatened by the shotgun, and at that point didn't know the extent of the sergeant's injuries. I had the clear shot, so I took it.”

Mellon reached down beside his chair and rummaged in his briefcase for a moment. He brought the crime scene drawing up and spread it on the table. I saw that fine red lines marked the supposed trajectory of my five rounds.

“A twenty-seven-inch group.” He touched the red lines that formed the pattern of my shots. “At twenty-five feet with a stubby magnum, from a draw, rapid fire and under duress…hell of a performance, Sheriff.”

I didn't know what Mellon was fishing for, or if his compliments about my shooting were specious or genuine. I settled for silence.

“You were wearing your gun at the time, or carrying it in the vehicle?”

“Belt holster.”

“So, concealed carry.”

“No. I was wearing a short jacket, but I made no attempt at concealment.”

“You have a c.c.p.?”

“I don't consider that germane.”

Mellon frowned at his empty pad. “This is apt to go easier if you just answer the questions, Sheriff.”

“It'll go how it goes.” I knew full well that one of the functions of the interview was to make me angry so that I'd say something stupid and reveal my inner self. So be it. “Whether or not I have a concealed carry permit has nothing to do with the way I might, or might not, have responded in this situation.”

Mellon's intense, beady little eyes regarded me for a moment. Eventually he dropped the BIC on the table and folded his hands. Apparently whatever mental tussle he was engaging in resolved itself.

“At any time, did you issue verbal commands to Mr. Baum?”

“No.”

“He pointed the shotgun at you and you fired.”

“It appeared that he was moving in that direction. If I had to put numbers on it, I'd say that the muzzle of the shotgun was halfway through the arc from the sergeant to me. So yes. I fired, and I fired before he had the chance to bring the gun fully to bear.”

Mellon paused again. Dan Schroeder had maintained his studious silence, letting the investigator have the run of the place. “How old are you, Sheriff?”

“Seventy-four.”

“Do you still carry a current sheriff's department badge and commission?”

“Yes.” Whether they were honorary or functional hadn't been asked.

Mellon waited a few seconds for me to pad my answer, and when I didn't, allowed a trace of a smile to deepen his dimples. He drew another little squiggle on the pad. “When you first saw the RV coming northbound on Grande, did you recognize that there was more than one person onboard?”

“No.”

“And so your actions yesterday were based entirely on what you saw as you drove by, and then by the events that transpired after you stopped.”

“Yes.”

“And what was your intent when you fired your weapon?”

I almost grunted, “Duh,” but I knew what Mellon was fishing for, so I gave it to him. “My concern was to end the confrontation, to do whatever was required to take Mr. Baum and his shotgun out of action before he fired a second time.”

“Thinking in retrospect now…were you able to revisit this incident, is there anything that you would have done differently?”

“Not a thing. I might make a resolution to practice my marksmanship.”

Mellon actually chuckled, showing a line of uniform overly-white teeth. He tore off the doodled page, smoothed a fresh one, and the pen hovered. “Let's run through this one more time,” he said.