But that hadn’t happened. For one thing, that scenario didn’t account for James Walsh still being alive to tell his version of the story. Second, the Durango was still parked down below. Scott hadn’t taken it.
Instead, one of those high-powered bullets that had been singing across the canyons had clipped Gutierrez solidly enough that he’d dropped his rifle, left a patch of blood on the rocks-and then staggered off, disoriented and out of control.
I took a deep breath. That’s what made sense to me. There would be no way to predict in what direction Scott Gutierrez was moving, if in fact he was still moving at all. He had the answers that I wanted. Now it was a question of whether he bled to death before he was found.
Chapter Forty-seven
The sky was clear and calm, sunshine streaming in at angles that carved dramatic shadows on the rocks. The helicopter extraction of Connie French went like clockwork, once she’d been gently neck-braced and IV’d and splinted and then strapped securely into the lightweight aluminum gurney. Nevertheless, it must have been a hell of a ride, dangling far below the chopper as it swung away from the mountain.
The state police chopper pilot made it look easy, the brightly colored helicopter appearing as if it had been painted in place against a canvas backdrop. Less than two minutes later, the ground team caught the gurney as it hung suspended near the ambulance. The transfer to the ambulance went just as quickly. An occasional dust devil was kicked up by the blades’ downwash and spun off to dissipate among the rocks.
In minutes, the chopper angled away, and the ambulance was easing out the dirt road for its rendezvous with the Med-Evac plane waiting at the Posadas Airport with Deputy Taber.
Odds were slim that Connie French would regain consciousness, but if she did, her version of the story would be interesting to hear.
James Walsh’s body came down the mountain less dramatically.
All the possibilities and images kept parading through my mind in an endless cycle. “Goddamn useless,” I muttered. I hauled out the heavy binoculars again and rested my elbows on the hood of the Bronco with my belly braced against the fender. With my glasses off, I scrutinized the mountainside, scanning ahead of each member of the search party.
My cell phone chirped to interrupt my concentration. It was the undersheriff.
“Sir,” he said, “this doesn’t add up.”
“No shit,” I said. I couldn’t have told him why it didn’t, but I was glad someone else shared my apprehensions. “Where are you?”
“I’m still at the original site. Up on top.” I swung the binoculars and saw him standing on the promontory from which Connie French had launched-or been launched. Torrez’s use of the phone, rather than the very public radio, wasn’t lost on me.
“What have you found?”
“Not much,” he said. “But Scott’s rifle is a hundred and sixty feet from where Connie fell.” He paused, and I could see him moving off in that direction. “That’s where the blood is, too.”
“Right.”
“It would take a few minutes to get over there from here, sir. That’s one thing. If it happened the way Walsh says it did, that doesn’t add up. Scott pushes Connie, she falls, Walsh yells, Scott fires. Walsh ducks for cover, and returns fire. All in a matter of seconds. These aren’t two guys who are hunting each other, jockeying for position. You know what I mean?”
“Yes. More of a reflex thing.”
“Exactly. But somehow, Scott gets hit. At least, that’s what Walsh says. He manages to travel a hundred and sixty feet before dropping his rifle.”
“Or his blood.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A hundred and sixty feet isn’t much, Robert.”
“Up here, it is. And it’s on an angle, uphill.” I saw him stretch out his arm. If he had taken a step or two away from the edge of the rock, I’d have been happier.
“All right. I’ll buy that. What makes sense to you?”
“I think that if Scott was hit, he was struck near the place where he dropped his rifle, and where there’s the trace of blood. Not way over here. But…” He stopped.
“But what?”
“His rifle fell eight or nine feet, down in a jumble of smaller rocks. It wedged up against an old stump.”
“That’s what Pasquale said.”
“And it hadn’t been fired, sir.”
“What do you mean, it hadn’t been fired?” I asked, too frustrated to keep the really stupid questions from slipping out.
“Just that, sir. This rifle hasn’t been fired since the last time it was cleaned. There was even a trace of lint just ahead of the front sight, near the crown of the barrel. Probably from the rifle case.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Sir?”
“I’m here. I’m listening.”
“The rifle wasn’t fired.”
“Was there a round in the chamber?”
“No, sir. Five in the magazine.”
“Hold on a minute.” I pulled my radio off my belt. “Howard, do you copy?”
“Yes, sir.” Bishop sounded bored.
“Did Linda take all the photos of Walsh’s rifle that she needed?”
“I believe so.”
Linda Real’s voice broke in. “Sir, I think I covered it from every angle.”
“Good. Howard, have you bagged it up yet?”
I heard him chuckling as he pressed the transmit button. “That’s negative, sir. I didn’t bring any evidence bags up here with me.”
“I need to know if it’s been fired.”
“Walsh said that he did, sir.”
“I know he said that he did. Check for me.”
“Just a minute.”
I could picture the slow, methodical Bishop trying to figure out how to handle the rifle without ruining whatever prints might be on it. In a moment, the radio crackled to life. “Sir, that’s affirmative.”
“Round in the chamber?”
“Affirmative. One in the chamber, one in the magazine. Safety is off.”
“Linda, did you take photos that would show the position of that safety?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Howard, put the safety on. Otherwise, leave it alone. I’ll get someone to run up a large evidence bag. Don’t let anyone else near the thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So,” I said into the phone.
“I heard,” Torrez replied. “Walsh fired, Gutierrez didn’t.”
“Unless he had another weapon with him. He’d have a handgun, I’m sure.”
“Not a weapon of choice for up here, sir,” Torrez said.
“So why would Walsh lie?”
Torres hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe he saw Scott push Connie, and took a shot at him right then, without giving Scott time to react. That’s possible. And then he got to thinking…his actions would seem more justified if Scott had fired first.”
“Think on it,” I said. “I told Howard I’m sending up some evidence bags. Be really careful how you treat that rifle.”
“Oh, yeah,” Torrez replied. “I’ll be careful.”
A kid barely old enough to vote and wearing a Forest Service uniform shirt had picked his way down the hill and was headed toward his pickup, whether to find a smoke, or toilet paper, or just water, I didn’t know or care. I sent him back up the mountain with a supply of large black plastic evidence bags and tags, and then called Gayle Torrez.
“Gayle, call the medical center in Las Cruces for me. Tell Jackie Taber that I need to know the extent and nature of Connie French’s injuries the instant that information is available.”
“Yes, sir. I just got off the phone with them, and the Med-Evac’s ETA is about ten minutes.”
“All right. Make sure Jackie understands the urgency of this.”
“Yes, sir. You want extent and nature of injuries.”
“That’s it.”
“Any word on Scott Gutierrez yet?”