“I’m not surprised. Both of those boys are absent a lot. And this is only early November.” Margie shifted in her seat, glancing toward the office doorway. “Now mind you, there are some teachers who would say”-and she dropped her voice another notch-“that a day without Mauro is a day improved.” The smile was one of resignation. “I kind of like the kid, myself. I can’t imagine what’s going to become of him, but he can be a charmer.” She moved the mouse so that the cursor stopped in several places along the march of days. “Of those fourteen absences, though, nine are only afternoon skips. He comes in the morning and then adios, muchacho. So yesterday’s absence isn’t unusual.”
“And Tony?”
The screen winked and Margie highlighted Tony Acosta’s attendance record. “Here’s our good influence,” she said. “Mr. Tony has twenty-three absences since August Twenty-first.”
“Caramba.”
“And that includes thirteen that are afternoon absences only, including the one yesterday.” She looked up at Estelle. “You might wonder how he manages to have a three point four GPA, huh.”
“Yes, I would.”
“The rest of us, too. I guess he does all his thinking by correspondence.” She tapped the mouse. “You want copies of these two guys?”
“If you can. But I have another question.”
“Shoot.”
“I need to know if yesterday Mauro and Tony were in their-what, fifth-hour class? Am I reading that right?”
“Fifth is the one just before lunch. Let me check.” She pushed back her chair and hesitated. “How am I going to do this, now. See”-and she turned toward Estelle-“the teachers send in a slip each period…one of our office aides picks them all up. They’re supposed to send in a slip, and if a youngster who is absent isn’t already on the morning’s absentee list, they send his name in.”
She turned back to the computer. “Fifth period, Mauro has math with Mr. Hode, and Tony is a library aide. We’d have to ask the teachers to be sure the boys were there, but Hode and Kerner are both pretty good about attendance. Would you like me to do that?”
“Yes, I really would. If it’s possible to do it confidentially.”
“Well, quietly, anyway,” Margie said. “There’s nothing much confidential around this place. Let me print these while we’re here.” The printer near Estelle’s elbow came to life. “And I’m not even going to ask…,” she added, then hesitated just long enough to see if Estelle would volunteer information.
“Thanks,” Estelle said, knowing exactly what Margie wanted to ask.
Margie pulled the pages out of the printer and handed them to Estelle. “Both Hode and the library are just down the hall, so it’ll only take a minute. Do you want to wait here?”
“I should,” Estelle said.
Margie cleared the computer screen. “I’ll be just a minute.”
She grinned at Estelle. “If the phone rings, just beckon one of the slaves.” She nodded toward the two office aides who orbited the foyer, both wondering why they’d been quarantined from the office. “They can get it. Pick that thing up, and you never know what you’re going to get into.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In less than two minutes, Margie Edwards bustled back up the hallway. She closed the office door, and turned her back as if the two student aides might be able to read her lips through the glass partitions. “Both boys were here until the end of the period,” she said, and Estelle heard relief in her tone. “That means they left during lunch.” She nodded conspiratorially. “I think that’s what they usually do.”
“Thanks, Margie.”
“I’ll be here if you need anything else.” Her expression softened. “And we all hope that Carmen is going to be all right. That’s such a shame.” She beckoned to a disheveled youngster waiting to come into the office. The boy, certainly no older than ninth grade and smaller than many of the middle-school students across the parking lot, held an ice pack against his left wrist.
“Thanks again,” Estelle said.
“Come see us when you’re not so busy,” Margie said. As Estelle slipped past the youngster, his huge blue eyes, a little bloodshot from an earlier bout of tears, looked up at her. Flecks of perspiration dotted his pale forehead.
“Hi,” he said to Estelle, hoisting the wrist for better view, sounding pleased that he had a badge of honor to show for his collision with some immovable object. Moving close to Margie’s desk, he added, “Mr. Banks said that you need to take me to the emergency room. He says my wrist is broken.”
Estelle glanced at Margie, and the secretary looked heavenward. “Let me see it again,” Margie groaned.
“Have a great day,” Estelle said, stepping out of the way.
Back outside in the car, she perused her notes. Attendance records showed that the day before, the day of the attack on their sister, both Mauro and Tony had been in school until 12:40 PM It had been nearly an hour before that time when she’d talked with Kevin Zeigler. Freddy Acosta had called 911 at 2:38 PM, and if his memory was accurate, he had left his residence sometime around noon to check with his wife at the auto dealership.
Estelle frowned. When she had talked with Zeigler, it was just seconds before noon, straight up. Mauro and Tony were still in class, and Freddy had just left the house a few moments before in search of lunch. By his account, it would be nearly two and a half hours before he returned home.
A two-and-a-half-hour window of opportunity. That the amiable, ambling Freddy Acosta should take a two-and-a-half-hour stroll, talking to this person and that, was entirely reasonable. That he would hustle to the store and back without wasting a moment would have been unusual.
Zeigler would not have arrived home in time to see Freddy leave, but he might have driven by and seen Acosta walking into, or out of, the auto dealership on Bustos where his wife worked. He might have seen Freddy on Grande, ambling toward Tommy’s Handi-way where the chips, coffee, and conversation waited.
The window of opportunity was there for Kevin Zeigler. It yawned open for Mauro and Tony, too, but Estelle shook her head with impatience. There was nothing about the attack that was characteristic of the two boys, although clearly Mauro was lying when he had told Eddie Mitchell at the hospital in Albuquerque that he knew nothing of the hat pin. That was a typical “I didn’t do it” teenager, though. According to Deena Hurtado, Mauro was intimately familiar with the weapon, right down to its neatly filed tip.
Frustrated at no instant response from the state forensic lab to guide her thinking, Estelle drove out of the school parking lot and headed for the county complex. She was certain that Zeigler would not have attacked Carmen Acosta.
That left the possibility that Bobby Torrez was at least partially correct: What if Carmen Acosta had witnessed something next door that she shouldn’t have? The evidence fitted two versions of that scenario. If Zeigler had driven home, and had then been confronted by the attacker, Carmen might have been attracted to the back door by the ruckus and seen what she shouldn’t have seen.
The inside of Zeigler’s home appeared untouched; no struggle had taken place there. If there was an incident, it occurred outside, where it would attract the attention of neighbors. Carmen would have heard it. Farther up the street, five doors to the west, Doris Marens was home, but that was far enough away that all but the most violent sounds would have been indistinguishable.
Mrs. Marens had been standing on the front porch watching the light show as all the emergency equipment arrived, but she had told Officer Sisneros that she’d heard or seen nothing before that. Estelle made a mental note to talk to the woman again. In the flurry of trying to be a helpful witness, Doris Marens might have been searching her memory for the unusual. The answer might have been hiding instead among the usual sights and sounds of the day.
The county building complex was less than five blocks from the school, with the downtown blocks in between. Estelle parked in her own reserved spot and walked around the small brick patio. Just inside were the commission chambers and various county offices, with visitors greeted first by the clerk/treasurer’s and assessor’s offices. Beyond, just to one side of the doors to the commission chambers, was the county manager’s office.