“It’s just that there is a rack here, too, Bobby. And there are some things that are even thinner. Like the smell in Zeigler’s truck. You walk into that shack over there, and it’s a megaversion of that same stink.”
“It’s just cigarettes.”
“Well, no, it’s not. It’s smoke mixed with alcohol, Bobby. I know. I could be wrong. But then you add Fulkerson’s motive. That’s intriguing, and on top of that it’s the only motive we’ve stumbled across that’s immediate.” She thumped Torrez on the arm. “We know that there are some ill feelings between Fulkerson and Zeigler. At the very least, some dislike. And it runs both ways, beyond just one man’s contempt for another’s lifestyle. If a private company from out of town takes all this over, Fulkerson stands to lose…and lose big time.”
“‘All this will be yours one day, my son,’” Torrez intoned. “What a kingdom. Too bad he don’t have a son.”
“And Fulkerson comes up again in Crowley’s video.”
“Just because he was at the meeting.”
“A little more than that. He was there and then left the meeting, right at the time that Zeigler disappeared. And returned late. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like he changed his clothes. Or at least took off his coat.”
“He had the opportunity. I agree with that.”
“Sure enough he did. Now think about the grease on Carmen’s bedroom wall? Fulkerson’s the right size, and he works with machines all the time.” She jerked her head toward the bulldozer and shined her flashlight over the roof of the Expedition. “It’s not there now, but he stuffs his jacket under the seat and uses it as a pad for his thermos of coffee. There’s grease all over the place. These little things, Bobby. They just keep adding up. Fulkerson could have walked from Zeigler’s to his own place on Camino. It’s only a couple of blocks, and makes sense. He wouldn’t want to be seen. After what happened with Carmen, he’d want to be out of there. He’d be nervous.”
“More’n that. He probably hurt like hell from bein’ jabbed with that freakin’ hat pin.”
“That, too. It makes sense that he’d duck out the back. And suddenly, both his vehicles end up here at the dump. Explain that to me.”
“Do you feel sure enough to shut this place down? Put a lock on the gate, close it off for however long it takes to dig it all up? I’m thinkin’ that a dog will help. I know they have a rescue canine in Deming. Get him up here to nose through all this shit.” Estelle didn’t respond. “That’s what you’re talkin’ about, you know. That’s what we do if there’s reason to believe that Zeigler’s buried down in that pit somewhere.”
“Ay. I really hate thinking that he’s here.”
“Well…” Torrez shot the spotlight all the way down to the far end of the pit again, where the dozer would climb up and out when it dug the pit in the first place, pushing the load of dirt to the storage pile. Each week, a layer of dirt would be graded back as a cover blanket for the trash. “It don’t make any difference to Kevin Zeigler whether he’s lying down there, or under a juniper up on Cat Mesa, or in the bottom of an arroyo someplace. We go with what we got. So you call it. You’ve relied on your intuition before.”
“I feel really, really uneasy about this place.”
He switched off the light and they listened to the silence for a while, broken occasionally by the light rustle of the breeze touching the loose plastic of a garbage bag down below. “That’s good enough for me. Let’s go take a look,” he said after a minute. “What’s to lose? Maybe rummaging through trash in the middle of the night is just the ticket. At the very least, we might find some really good shit, and stiff Fulkerson out of his flea market profits.”
Estelle moved away from the door, careful to stay back from the edge of the pit. “I’m leavin’ the truck right here,” Torrez said. “It’ll give us something to see by.” He turned the spot back on, centering it to cover the most area. “You have your light?”
“Yes,” Estelle said.
“Gloves?”
“Sure.”
He tossed his bulky handheld radio on the seat. “I don’t need to lose that,” he said. He got out and stood for a minute with his hands on his hips. “I think we can just kinda slide down over here.” He walked back toward the drop-off apron of the pit, where the slope was nearly seventy degrees, as opposed to the gently sloped exit end.
The bed of trash was heaped below the drop-off, not yet pushed out and compacted as it would be at the end of the week. Balancing on both feet as if she were sliding down an icy hill, Estelle slipped and slid down to the pile. Because the collection represented only two days, the pile of refuse stretched out for no more than twenty yards. She stopped and surveyed the pile dubiously.
“I think that if I’d dumped somebody here, I’d make a little more of an effort to cover them thoroughly,” she said. “Especially if I owned a bulldozer. I don’t think any of this trash has been spread out yet.”
“Good-sized pile, though. But I was thinkin’ the same thing.”
“A sign of confidence, maybe.”
Torrez flashed light to the far side, where the smooth dirt layer from the week before was still visible. “Could be over there, too. Could be just about anywhere. The only good way to do this is to get Howard up here on one of the county backhoes.”
“He’ll love that,” Estelle said. She could imagine the stolid Sergeant Bishop on excavation duty, reliving his years as a private contractor.
Bent in a crouch with the light in one hand and the other reaching out for something to provide stability, Estelle made her way across the pile, heading toward the west wall of the pit. Torrez went east, moving with more assurance. The light from the Expedition’s focused spot hindered as much as it helped forming harsh shadows that hid treacherous footing.
“Incongruities,” Estelle said aloud.
“What?” Torrez shouted.
“Nothing. I’m talking to myself.” She worked her way beyond the highest mound, toward the open soil that covered the previous week’s collection, and in a moment reached the old refrigerator that she had seen earlier in the day. Battered and dented, the fridge lay facedown, just at the edge of the fresh trash. Several pieces of random-sized, rotted plywood had sailed down on top of it. She pushed the wood aside, and rocked the appliance with one foot. “Why aren’t you with the others?” she said.
Fifteen yards away, Torrez was rooting his way through trash, muttering all the while.
“Hey?” Estelle called.
Torrez paused. “What?”
“Help me turn this over?” She waited until the sheriff had made his way over before saying, “Just one more little thing. Bobby. Why isn’t this in the pile across the way, there? With all its brethren?”
“’Cause it makes a neat coffin?” Torrez replied. He rocked the fridge tentatively, then grabbed a bottom corner and heaved. With the appliance on its side, they could see that a hasp had been screwed into the door, perhaps when the original latch gave up the ghost.
“I should be taking pictures,” Estelle said.
“If the county manager’s inside, I promise I’ll put it back exactly the way it was.” The hasp was latched, secured with the type of staple that passed through a slot and then turned a quarter turn. Torrez pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket, inserted it in the latch and turned. He then flicked the hasp clear.
He glanced up at Estelle and grinned. “I wish you could see your face right now.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but worked the door away from the frame, forcing it against the cushion of earth that jammed the hinges. The smell that erupted was ferocious, and even Torrez recoiled back.
“Christ,” he blurted. Estelle’s pulse was hammering so hard she almost didn’t hear him over her heartbeat. He shined his flashlight inside and grimaced. “Somebody got tired of the family dogs,” he said. “Looks like one, two, three, four of ’em.” He turned his head and grimaced up at Estelle. “You want to take a look?”