Somehow, the vast backlog of village files-all of them, not just a select few-would have to be merged with the existing county records to form a single, cohesive, accessible unit. Physically moving the files from village to county was a simple afternoon’s work using one of the county vans. Then the real work began. Someone would have to filter through every last scrap of paper, every photo, every deposition in order to merge village and county files.
“Put it on the computer” was easy to say. That meant that someone actually had to sit at the computer keyboard and type every scrap of information into the system…without error, without omission, without editing.
And, because of the nature of law enforcement, it was a task that couldn’t wait to be done over months or years. Estelle knew that Posadas County was as much a part of manana land as the rest of the state, maybe more so. But files and information had to be accessible for ongoing investigations. Further, since there were issues of maintaining both confidentiality and the chain of evidence, the Sheriff’s Department couldn’t simply hire a couple of high school kids at minimum wage to clean up the records.
After leaving the county meeting, Estelle returned to her office. Without a doubt, her best source for organizational strategy was County Manager Kevin Zeigler. She planned to spend the afternoon preparing a list of questions and proposed strategies to discuss with Zeigler, since she knew that Sheriff Robert Torrez wouldn’t.
Regardless of the sheriff’s many talents, his allergies to paperwork and bureaucracy were legendary. He had wasted no time in outlining his own strategy.
“If these politicos decide to do this,” he had said to Estelle Reyes-Guzman before the first exploratory meeting between county and village, “the project is yours.” He had glowered at her for a long moment and then added, “If I have to do it, it’ll be a major screwup, and we both know it.”
When she’d mentioned the conversation to Chief-soon-to-be-Captain Mitchell, he had laughed.
“If I had to go into a dark warehouse against fifty guys with Uzis, there’s nobody I’d rather have at my back,” he said. “But if I had to figure out a paperwork problem, Bobby is the last person I’d ask for help.”
But that Tuesday afternoon after her return to her office, the focus to deal with the challenge of merging dusty, yellowing files filled with decades of unhappy moments eluded Estelle. After fifteen minutes and a dozen senseless doodles on her desk pad, she found her mind circling back to the image of her small son standing in the dim light, delicate hands exploring the black and white mysteries of the piano keyboard.
Finally she tossed down her pencil and swiveled her chair around to face the bookcase behind her. She pulled a Las Cruces telephone directory from the bottom shelf and in a moment found the number she wanted.
Holding the book open with her left hand, she reached for the phone and punched in the numbers with her thumb.
“Hildebrand and Sons Music,” the cheerful voice greeted. “Good afternoon. This is Ryan.”
“Good afternoon. Sir, this is Estelle Guzman over in Posadas. I-” She paused as the office door opened and Gayle’s head appeared. “Just a minute, sir.” Gayle waited until the undersheriff had the mouthpiece covered.
“They’ve got something going on over on Candelaria,” the dispatcher said. “Eddie’s not sure if it’s a domestic or not. He wanted you to come over.”
Estelle stood up quickly. “Sir, I’ll call you back.” She hung up the phone as she rounded the desk, not waiting for the salesman’s acknowledgment.
“One oh eight Candelaria,” Gayle said. “Right next door to Zeigler’s.”
“Eddie didn’t say what it was?”
“He just got there,” Gayle said, retreating back toward dispatch. “We’ve got one ambulance on the way. He said he’s got one female down and then he told me to find you.”
“I’m on my way,” Estelle said, then paused. “If the county manager should happen to call, don’t let him escape. I need to talk with him.”
“Kevin’s probably over there already,” Gayle said. “The call is from his next-door neighbors, and you know how they are.”
Estelle nodded wearily. “I know exactly how they are.”
Candelaria Court was a small cul-de-sac off MacArthur on the east side of Posadas-like nearly everything else in the village, less than a minute from the Sheriff’s Office on Bustos. As Estelle turned the county car south on MacArthur just beyond the small and shabby Burger Heaven restaurant, she could see the intersection of Candelaria Court, and beyond, filtered through the elms, an array of winking emergency lights.
Burrowed in her office with door closed and radio switched off, she had missed the initial call…but this one was no surprise. As soon as she had heard whom Deena Hurtado had tried to fight at the school volleyball game, as soon as she had heard that Carmen Acosta had been suspended for six days, Estelle had anticipated a blowup at the Acosta residence.
Of all the village domestic disturbance reports that some lucky records clerk would transfer into the computer, half a hundred of them would include the name of the Acostas, stretching back fifteen years.
The postfight commentators at the middle school had agreed that, on the previous Tuesday, Carmen Acosta had won a clear decision over Deena Hurtado before referees had stepped in to separate the two scrapping girls. What the unfortunate Deena might not have realized was that her opponent had had lots of practice. The middle of five children, Carmen regularly thumped on her two younger sisters while her two older brothers whupped up on her.
With five children who had grown too fleet of foot for him to catch, Freddy Acosta regularly took out his frustrations on Juanita, his fiery spouse. Slow but stout, Juanita usually was able to defend herself, and more than once had sent Freddy to the emergency room for stitches. On one occasion when Estelle had happened to be the responding officer, Freddy had shaken his head ruefully, sitting bloody and battered on the emergency room table. “I guess I said the wrong thing,” he had muttered, and refused to tell Estelle just what it was that his esposa had hit him with, opening up a gaping hole in his scalp that required twelve stitches.
School usually provided something of a haven for Carmen from her boisterous, hit-first family. The six-day suspension that was supposed to allow her to cool her heels instead merely placed her at ground zero in the Acosta household. Her mother worked long hours in the parts department of Chavez Chevrolet-Olds, but Freddy Acosta had been on disability for more than a year after slipping on a slick tile at Posadas General Hospital-part of the floor he’d finished mopping not two minutes before. He would be home.
As she turned onto Candelaria Court, Estelle saw Mike Sisneros, the full-time village patrolman, running a yellow tape from the back bumper of his patrol car to the fence that separated the Acostas’ small cinder-block house from their neighbor’s.
The ambulance was parked directly in front of the driveway, back doors agape. Farther on, Eddie Mitchell’s unmarked Chevy was nosed into the curb directly behind Sheriff Torrez’s department Expedition.
Sisneros jogged toward her as she pulled the county car to the far side of the street. Shorter than Estelle’s five seven, Sisneros had inherited his mother’s round Acoma Indian face and his father’s spare build.
“They really did it this time,” he said. “Carmen’s inside. The EMTs are workin’ on her.” He turned and nodded toward Mitchell’s car. “The chief has Freddy locked up over there.”
The Acostas’ driveway was empty. “You need to run a tape on the other side,” Estelle said.
“I was just headed that way.”