“Look-Doris Marens saw the truck. At least she says that she did. And think about the little things. The truck drives by slowly, not in Zeigler’s usual fashion. The driver spikes the brakes a couple of houses early.”
“None of that…,” Torrez said, and waved a hand. “I’d hate to have this case depend on her testimony. I can imagine what a good lawyer would do with her. By the time he was finished, nothing she had to say would be worth a damn.”
“None of it by itself is worth a damn,” Estelle said vehemently. “But together? He drives the truck back to Candelaria Court, and parks it in the driveway. Bobby, I could smell him in that truck. He pulls in, and there’s Carmen Acosta, standing at the kitchen door. She sees him. And the game is up. It’s all over, because what would happen if the most thick-witted cop asks her, ‘All right, Carmen, did you see anyone at Zeigler’s today?’ What’s she going to say? ‘Why, sure. This grubby guy in a greasy coat who sure looks a lot like our landfill manager.’” Estelle snapped her fingers. “Busted.”
“Carmen wouldn’t stand a chance against Don Fulkerson,” Bobby said.
“You bet she wouldn’t.” She balled her fist. “The lug wrench is handy, lying right there on the truck’s floor, in plain sight. He charges after her. Can you imagine him slamming into that door, just as she’s trying to close and lock it? At one point, somewhere in the house, she gets in maybe one good lick with the hat pin before he grabs her hand and wham. It’s all over.”
Torrez tossed the pencil down. “I don’t suppose you saw a nice wound on Fulkerson’s arm or something like that.”
“No. But working up there all day long, they probably cut and nick themselves all the time.”
Torrez swung his feet down and stood up. “I have a serious question for you.” Estelle looked expectant. “Why Zeigler’s driveway, Estelle. Why not just drive back to the county building?” He held up a hand as he answered his own question. “Sure. Too many people. Too many eyes.”
“I thought of this, too. Remember Freddy Acosta? What if Fulkerson saw Freddy, strolling toward downtown? This is a small town, Bobby. It’s a certainty that Fulkerson knows Freddy, and he may even have a rough idea where he lives. He saw Tony Acosta riding bikes with Kevin and William-it’s entirely possible that he knows where they live. Tony told me that when they were out riding, the ‘guy at the landfill’ wolf-whistled at them, and that Kevin then muttered something not very complimentary in confidence to William Page. Well, think about it. Later, Fulkerson sees Freddy, who’s maybe walking right up Bustos, and figures that’s a chance to park the truck without anyone seeing him.”
“Maybe so.”
“And the tire? The tire ends up on the county pile, not at the landfill.” She leaned forward eagerly. “Do you want to place bets about that black paint?”
“You think Zeigler had a flat tire up at the landfill, then.”
“What makes more sense? Sure, the tire should have just been tossed in the back of Kevin’s truck. But it wasn’t, somehow. Forgotten in the heat of argument, maybe. I don’t know. When it’s all over, what if Fulkerson goes back to the landfill and oops…there it is. He’s got to get rid of it. He wouldn’t want it at the landfill. It’s too risky. If it was found, he’d be implicated right away.”
“I don’t know. I don’t see why it would be apt to be found. He could bury it anytime…”
“Because Fulkerson can’t know if Kevin told someone what his errands were. Did he mention to his secretary that he had to go up the hill? The simplest thing is to get rid of it, just in case someone starts snooping around.”
“Tossing it on the back of the pile down at the county barns sure does that.”
“Even if by chance it’s found, Bobby, it directs our attention that way.”
“The last thing he’d do, though, is toss the tire up on the headache rack of his truck when he’s driving around,” Torrez said.
“Maybe he didn’t do that. Maybe that was just an accidental scrub when he was getting ready to toss it across the fence. I can see him doing that. He stops, tosses the tire up on the rack, climbs up there himself, and over it goes. A nice high vantage point for a hard toss.”
Torrez nodded toward the television set. “The only thing on that tape is that Fulkerson comes back from lunch way late, and Zeigler doesn’t come back at all. And when he does come back, Fulkerson is not wearing his coat. Well, it ain’t exactly cold out, either.”
“No, it’s not. But it’s just one more little point. Why should he be late, on the very day when it’s likely that Zeigler’s going to talk about the landfill thing with the commission? It’s not like he has to drive thirty miles to be there, Bobby.”
“Maybe he’s not the punctual sort. Maybe he just likes irritating Zeigler.”
“Maybe.” She ticked off several fingers. “Too many little things that point to him. They’re adding up. Plus, it would be to his advantage to be at the meeting if they started discussing the landfill in Zeigler’s absence. Fulkerson would be in a perfect position to throw a wrench in the whole idea, without fear of contradiction.”
Torrez heaved a deep sigh, glanced at his watch, and leaned back again. “I got one naggin’ question. You want to guess what it is?”
“Just one?”
“Well, let’s start with this one,” Torrez said. “Fulkerson parks the truck in Zeigler’s driveway. Sees Carmen. Does his thing with the handy lug wrench. That’s slick, ’cause folks are going to blame Zeigler, right? Well, then what? Fulkerson is on foot, and the old bat down the street doesn’t see him walk by. No one does. Where’s he go?”
“Do you know where Don Fulkerson lives, Bobby? I didn’t, until I checked this afternoon.”
“Yeah, I know where he lives. I think he’s the last trailer in that mobile-home park off Camino del Sol. He’s got about half of that landfill collected in his backyard.”
“And Camino del Sol becomes County Road Nineteen when it leaves the village limits. He doesn’t even need to go back out Candelaria Court to MacArthur.” She walked over to the small whiteboard bolted to the sheriff’s office wall and quickly drew a simple map. “Right out the back of Zeigler’s property to Arroyo del Cerdo. Cross Bustos out there beyond Sissons’, walk maybe a thousand yards of cross-lots to his place.”
“Yup.”
“His motorcycle was at the landfill today, Bobby. So was his truck. What if on Tuesday, his bike was at his house? I mean, that’s the normal thing, isn’t it? He drops off Zeigler’s truck, runs cross-lots back to his own place, then rides the motorcycle back to the landfill. Maybe that’s when he sees the forgotten tire. He parks the bike and takes the truck. Tire goes on the county pile, he shows up back at he meeting when he’s sure that he’s covered his tracks.”
“Huh.”
“He had the motive, he had the opportunity. And he certainly had the means.”
Torrez studiously regarded a wart on his left thumb knuckle. “You want to go up there?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I want to find Kevin Zeigler, Bobby. Whatever it takes. I’d like to look around up there without either Fulkerson or Kurtz knowing…maybe in the office, around the grounds. Then, if we need to take a crew up there to sift through two days of trash, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Two days? There’ll be more than that.”
“Not if it happened the way I think it did. Bart Kurtz said that they cover the week’s collection on Sunday night when the landfill is closed. It’s closed Tuesday, too. So we have the collection from Wednesday and today uncovered in the pit.”
“Change your clothes, and let’s go take a look,” Torrez said.
Chapter Thirty-three
There was nothing surreptitious about Sheriff Robert Torrez’s approach. He pulled up to the Posadas County Landfill’s main gate, got out with his bundle of keys that included the master for all of the county’s heavy Yale padlocks, popped the lock, and swung the gate wide open.