“Old micrometer eyes,” Mitchell said dryly, but he didn’t challenge Torrez’s assessment.
“That’s not the most common cartridge in the world,” Estelle said.
“Far from it,” the sheriff said. “This one’s clean enough that we can do a comparison inmediamente.” He slipped the evidence bag into his briefcase and paused for a moment, regarding the bagged and labeled weapon. “We want to know whose forty-one that is,” he said. “Connie might know something about it. At least that’s a place to start. I’ll get Mears on the weapon right away. We’ll see what he comes up with.”
Estelle caught motion in the corner of her eye and turned to see Daniel Schroeder standing in the office doorway. He regarded the chair and desk, his nose wrinkling from the mingled smells. “Wonderful,” the district attorney muttered. “What a goddamn stupid thing to do.” He looked at Estelle. “Frank Dayan is waiting outside when you get a chance, by the way.”
“He’ll be happy that this is a Tuesday,” Chief Mitchell said.
“Hold the presses,” Linda quipped.
“He needs to talk with the sheriff,” Estelle said, knowing full well what Bob Torrez’s reaction would be.
“No, he doesn’t,” Torrez said promptly. “He asked for you ’cause he knows better.”
As Estelle made her way around the desk and toward the door, the district attorney reached out a hand to touch her on the elbow. “I need to talk with you for a few minutes before you take off.” He smiled. “Go ahead and talk to Frank while these guys bring me up to speed on what happened here. I’ll catch up outside.”
The newspaper publisher was leaning against the fender of Dennis Collins’ patrol unit, his hip pushing against the yellow tape. A black Posadas State Bank baseball cap was pulled low to keep the sun out of his eyes. An impressive digital camera hung from his left shoulder, a constant companion whether he was roaming about town selling advertising, attending a Rotary Club meeting, or as now, doing the leg work that his plump, lethargic editor should have been doing.
Estelle knew that the camera amused Linda Real. Now if only Frank would learn how to use it, she was apt to say. Since Linda had left the newspaper four years before, the photos in the Posadas Register tended toward fuzzy on the best of days, and the switch to digital cameras hadn’t helped. But, as Dayan himself had once happily observed, “Our photos may be bad, but at least there are a lot of them.”
“Hello, Frank,” Estelle said. Deputy Collins pushed himself away from his comfortable spot against the wall and touched his Stetson just a shade lower toward the bridge of his nose. Across the street, several “lookie-louies” had gathered, hoping for a glimpse of the corpse.
“Estelle, what in heck is going on?” Dayan stepped away from the deputy’s car and extended his hand. He pumped Estelle’s with a quick, excited shake, then jerked his head toward Deputy Collins. “This one here is just as tight-lipped as the big guy.” Being compared with Sheriff Torrez put another steel support in the young deputy’s spine.
“We have an unattended death, Frank. That’s all I can tell you.”
The newspaper publisher glanced up at the hanging sign over his head as if the name on it might have somehow changed since he last looked. “George?”
Estelle nodded.
“My God. What, this morning sometime?”
“We don’t know.”
“Grand jury was supposed to convene this morning, wasn’t it?”
Estelle let a nod suffice.
“He had a heart attack, or what? Is this related to the jury thing, do you think?”
Estelle hesitated just long enough for the newspaper publisher to notice. “This is one of those times when ‘investigation is continuing’ works pretty well, Frank.”
“Oh, please,” Dayan protested with a roll of his eyes. “Now you sound like Bill Gastner.”
“Cheer up. It’s only Tuesday.” He looked pained, but the expression on Estelle’s dark, sober face held no hint of sarcasm. The undersheriff knew that the Register ’s inexorable decline from a prospering daily during the heyday of the copper mines to a biweekly and then finally to a single edition on Thursday was a sore point with Dayan. He answered to out-of-state owners who had been trying to sell the newspaper since the previous spring.
“You gotta give me a little more than that. Give me something to work with.”
“How about everything I know at the moment,” Estelle said.
“I’ll settle for that.”
“It appears that George, spelled the usual way, Enriquez, spelled with a ‘z,’ sustained a single gunshot wound to the head.” She stopped and regarded Dayan patiently.
“That’s it? You mean he shot himself?”
“He sustained a single gunshot wound to the head.”
“Come on. Was it suicide, or what?”
“We don’t know.”
“And you said ‘sustained,’ ” Dayan added. “Is the gunshot what killed him?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Did he pull the trigger?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“They’re going to put that on your tombstone,” Dayan said, and Deputy Collins laughed. “Was the weapon his?” Dayan persisted, then saw the hint of a smile cross Estelle’s face. He held up a hand to fend off the inevitable. “All right. You don’t need to say it.”
Daniel Schroeder appeared at Estelle’s elbow. “Got a few minutes?”
“Yes, sir,” she said and smiled sympathetically at Frank Dayan. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’ll have more for you later in the day.”
“I’ll give you a call this evening,” Dayan countered quickly. “Or maybe first thing in the morning.” He switched his attention to the district attorney. “Today was the first day of grand jury, was it not?” he asked.
“Sure enough, Frank,” Schroeder replied.
“Those proceedings will be interrupted now?”
“Uh, yes,” Schroeder said, frowning as if to add and that’s a really stupid question.
Dayan nodded and turned back to Estelle. “I understand that no charges have been filed yet against Perry Kenderman, by the way. Is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Are they going to be?” He looked at Schroeder, but the district attorney was content to let Estelle field the question.
“I’ll let you know, Frank. Give us a chance to sort things out.”
“Does that mean they might be? Dan, is your office considering filing charges? I talked with Maggie Archer this morning, and she said that Kenderman’s patrol car was right on top of the bike, practically. No lights, no siren, no nothing.”
Dan Schroeder smiled pleasantly. “Before you run with that, Frank, remember what screwy versions of events we sometimes have to work with when we talk to witnesses.”
“Mrs. Archer is wrong?” Dayan asked, and Estelle saw a flash of irritation on the district attorney’s face.
“We’d appreciate it if you’d wait a bit until we get things straightened out,” he said.
“You go to press tomorrow afternoon, right?” Estelle asked, and Dayan nodded. “I’ll keep you posted,” she added.
“That’s a deal. Can I go inside, or…”
“No, sir, you can’t. But if you wait here, you’ll catch the sheriff when he comes out.”
“Oh, that’s a help,” Dayan said.
Dan Schroeder fell in step with Estelle as she walked back toward her car. When they were well beyond Frank Dayan’s earshot, the district attorney said quietly, “I’m going to file against Kenderman, by the way.”
“I guess I’m not surprised,” Estelle said. She reached the car and paused with her hand on the door. Schroeder’s late-model SUV was parked directly in front of hers.
“I talked with both Bobby and the chief last night, and they haven’t changed their minds this morning. I’d be interested in your thoughts,” he said.
Estelle regarded the juncture of car door and roof, running her finger along the seam. “We have no way of ever knowing if Colette Parker would have crashed at that corner if Kenderman hadn’t been in pursuit,” she said finally.