Chapter Forty-nine
I hadn’t been completely accurate, of course, when I told my grandson that there were just some “odds and ends” to wrap up. What we had was one man dead of a coronary, a young girl still under the surgeon’s knife after being pushed from a cliff, and her brother with his head nearly split open by a high-caliber rifle bullet. That was an impressive list, but one crucial element was missing: the why.
Until either Connie French or Scott Gutierrez could put together a coherent sentence, we were stymied. I had discarded James Walsh’s version. The ballistic evidence said that he was a liar, dying words or no.
As a first step, Robert Torrez was concentrating on Walsh’s background. The man had lied-even when he knew that he was having a heart attack. Of course, he didn’t know just that moment that he was about to die, but it takes some cold calculation to bring off tall tales when the old ticker is bouncing in your chest.
Walsh had said that Scott Gutierrez fired first, after pushing Connie off the rocks. The young man hadn’t fired first. In fact, he hadn’t fired a shot all morning.
The hunting rifles didn’t lie: Walsh’s.270 Winchester had been fired at least three times: Sergeant Bishop had found two empty casings on the ground about twenty feet east of where we’d found Walsh, along with the casing still in the chamber. Connie French’s little.243 had gone airborne over the rocks with her. The cheap scope was smashed to a million pieces, the stock was busted, and the chamber was empty.
That left Scott’s Remington.308-clean as a whistle, with a full magazine.
Torrez turned his attention to Del Rio, Texas-an interesting little resort city of thirty thousand people at the south end of Amistad National Recreation Area. Across the International Amistad Reservoir lay the Mexican town of Ciudad Acuna-and another thirty-eight thousand people. An interesting place, with lots of opportunity.
By the time I had walked out of the Public Safety Building heading for lunch, the undersheriff had already been on the phone with Lieutenant Leo Nunez of the Del Rio P.D.
I pulled to a stop for the red light at Grande and Bustos just in time to see the Guzmans’ rental van gliding northbound on Bustos. They caught the light, and I tailed them west on Bustos to the Don Juan.
Francisco and Carlos were wound up like two little springs. “They should have been running up and down the mountain this morning,” I said to Estelle. As I opened the restaurant door for them, I tapped the sign taped to the glass.
“They’re closed tomorrow?” Estelle asked. “How’s that possible?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “The one day that we need a place to celebrate, they close. Tadd’s going to have to dream up something.”
“No problem, Grandpa,” Tadd said. He had a firm grip on two little hands as he herded the kids inside.
We’d hit the place at high noon, a busy time for the Don Juan on any day, but especially on a Monday with the Lions Club meeting in the Conquistador Room. We found a quiet spot on the other side of the restaurant where we could pull two tables together.
“Is Francis going to make it?” I asked.
Estelle shook her head. “He’s playing golf with Alan Perrone…at least he was supposed to.”
“Then he’s going to be a while. I imagine Perrone’s got his hands full.” In between mock skirmishes with Francisco to keep him out of my chips, I recapped the morning for Estelle. “And I didn’t know that your husband played golf,” I added.
“All doctors play golf,” Buddy said. “It’s a rule. If you look at their license to practice, it’s got a little space down at the bottom to record their current handicap.”
“The Posadas Country Club might change all that. And if Francis eats out there, you may never see him again.”
“They actually built that course? The one over by the high school?”
“They actually built it, rattlesnakes, antelope, wind and all. Nine holes. The only real difficulty has been training the prairie dogs to dig the pin holes straight down. They’re a little sloppy.”
I looked across at Estelle. “Did you guys get a chance to look at the back property this morning?”
“We built a fort in the leaves,” Francisco announced around taco chip crumbs before his mother had a chance to answer.
“A leaf fort? How does that work?” I asked.
“It’s a long story, Grandpa,” Tadd said with a sad shake of his head.
“Well, you cheated,” Francisco said, and butted my grandson’s arm with his head. His younger brother nodded in sober agreement.
“Francis, Bill, and I walked the whole thing,” Estelle said. “It looks like they’re planning to build something down on Escondido a ways where they extended the water line.”
I nodded. “I’ve heard fifteen different stories about that, everything from another trailer court to a new truck stop. Whatever it is, I don’t think it would affect my property much, except by increasing the traffic around the back side. So what did you guys think?”
I reached out with a chip, loaded it with salsa, and was navigating it to my mouth when I saw one of the county cars pull into the parking lot. Deputy Tom Pasquale got out and strode purposefully toward the Don Juan’s front door.
“They found me,” I said. “Pasquale isn’t coming here for lunch.” I poked Francisco in the ribs. “Excuse me, nino. I need to slide past you.” I managed to navigate myself away from the crowded tables without disaster, and met the deputy out in the foyer.
“Sir, Jackie Taber just called from Cruces. They think that Connie French is going to make it.”
“That’s good news.” I looked at him expectantly, since the eager expression on his face told me that he hadn’t driven to the restaurant just to tell me that.
“And there was something else, too,” he said. “She’s got a bad skull fracture, a smashed lower right arm, a broken left shoulder, a fractured pelvis, and a broken knee. The left knee.” He ticked the list off on his fingers as he made his way down the injured girl’s anatomy.
I grimaced. “That’s quite a ‘something else,’ Thomas. There must be a bone or two that she didn’t break. No spinal damage?”
“They think not. But she had a bullet wound in her right calf.”
“A bullet wound?”
“That’s what they said. Not too serious, like maybe from a ricochet. They removed a pretty good chunk of brass jacket that was wedged up against the bone.”
“Enough there for a rifling match?”
“Bob says that it’s worth a try. In the meantime, me and Linda and a couple of the others are going back down to look for the bullet strike.”
“Walsh is the only one who fired,” I said. “So who was he shooting at? You can’t intentionally hit someone with a ricochet. He was either aiming at Connie and missed, or he was aiming at Scott-and missed.” I shook my head, perplexed. “Keep me posted, all right?”
He nodded and turned toward the door, eager to be on the road. I turned to go back inside. I’d asked Estelle a question. I was eager to hear an answer.
Chapter Fifty
Hell, I knew that Posadas was a meager, dusty little place, a dinky watering hole in perhaps the most bleak part of New Mexico. I knew that where Dr. Francis Guzman and his family ultimately decided to settle was none of my affair. And depending on the current definition of “opportunities,” there were probably more of them in a myriad of other places.
In all fairness, Estelle Guzman’s answer was the best that I could hope for. “We’ve got so much to think about,” she said.
“Yes, you do,” I said, and let the conversation drift to other topics. The six of us ate enough for twelve, a leisurely, sloppy grub fest that ended with sopaipillas squirting honey in all the wrong places.
As I was starting my third cup of coffee, Fernando Aragon sauntered around the small island where the coffee machines lurked. He picked up one of the decanters and brought it to our table. I covered my cup with my hand but quickly moved it when he showed every intention of pouring anyway.