“I’ve given up thinking,” Gastner replied. “I’m just rubber-necking.”
“Who was where,” Estelle said. “That’s the whole issue. Freddy rooted around in there a bit, and now we’ll never know exactly where the gun was when he found it. We don’t know the relationship of the gun to the skeleton-if there is one. That’s a part of the puzzle that’s been obliterated.”
“I’m takin’ a look,” Torrez said. He thumped his heavy flashlight against his thigh, regarding the depression, the over-hang, and the jumble of rocks warily. Not only a big man, standing more than six feet four inches and weighing a solid 230, the forty-two-year-old sheriff had suffered enough misadventures to stiffen his joints.
“You want a grid?” Linda asked quickly as Estelle turned to follow Torrez.
“Yes, everything that comes out of that cave,” the undersheriff replied. She reached for the laptop that Linda offered. “Numbered and recorded.” She scrolled quickly through the photos, selecting an overview that had been taken with the camera held high, up against the ceiling rocks. “Grid that one.”
Torrez slipped carefully into the initial crevice, taking his time as he examined the carcass of the jaguar. “Surprised there’s anything left,” he said to Estelle, who crouched behind him. “Weather’s going to get in here some, wind, critters.”
Torrez had spent more than thirty years hunting every game animal in the southwest, tramping the most remote corners of Posadas and surrounding counties. He’d even hunted desolate stretches of Mexico, and more than once, Estelle knew, had risked his own safety by doing so without permit or permission.
“You want to make a guess on how long this has been here?” she asked.
“Nope.” Torrez reached out and ran his fingers down the length of one dusty leg bone, a touch of almost tender affection. “Damn shame.” He turned and regarded the opening to the small cave.
“If you slide up there to your left, you’ll be able to see over that hump of rock,” Estelle said. She could smell the musty odor, now enhanced by the heat of the bright spotlight. Hitching hardware out of the way, Torrez slid forward on his belly. Despite his apparent impatience, Torrez moved with care, hiking himself forward on elbows and toes, his flashlight probing the harsh shadows left by the spotlight.
“Huh,” he muttered, and lifted himself as high as he could, his cap and shoulders touching the ceiling. Estelle gauged the width of his shoulders against the opening. He could slide farther in, if the urge was irresistible. Whether they’d be able to pull him out was debatable.
“Let’s get movin’ on this,” he said, and pulled back. Estelle climbed out past the packrat’s nest where Linda waited, turning the laptop’s screen for Estelle to see. The fine white lines over-laid the image, labeled in bright orange A through K down the left side, 1 through 10 across the top.
“Perfecto,” Estelle said.
“Now the fun begins,” Gastner quipped. “I thought maybe you were going to stuff Bobby in there and leave him.”
“Not a chance,” Torrez growled as he straightened up. Linda offered the computer to him, and he glanced at it without much interest.
In a moment, a blue tarp had been spread out on one of the few level spots of ground behind the huge boulder. With a roll of masking tape, Linda and Tony Abeyta made short work of the grids, zipping down strips of tape until the tarp was divided into the same one hundred squares represented in the photograph.
“You be careful in there.” Torrez watched Estelle snap on a fresh pair of latex gloves. The respirator she hooked around her neck was many clicks improved over the small cloth masks that she and Linda had used earlier. The two valves stuck out on either side of her face like parts of some strange insect.
“There’s a good spot for this so that I can see it,” Estelle said, taking the laptop from Linda. “I’ll hand whatever I find to the sheriff, and assign a number for each piece. For now, let’s keep it simple. Each piece is numbered by its grid location, and then one through how many ever we end up with. As each item comes out, I want it placed on the corresponding grid on the tarp. Tony, the sheriff will hand the items to you. Just pass ’em out so Bill can bag everything with a number and grid tag. So you’ll have something like A-6, number 1. And so forth.”
“Got it.”
“You’re trusting me to count?” Gastner asked.
“You’re probably the only one here who can,” Torrez said.
“Linda, I want digital for every piece,” Estelle continued. “As soon as Padrino places it on the tarp. Every piece. Every single one. Okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“What we’re going to end up with is a copy of what’s in that cave, spread out on this tarp.” She squinted up at the blank blue of the sky. “A perfect day for it. We go slow and sure. We miss nothing.”
“Did you call Miles Waddell yet?” Bill Gastner asked.
“I did. Early this morning.”
“Did he have any ideas?”
“None whatsoever, but he was annoyed that I wouldn’t discuss this with him. He was definite about one thing, though…he wanted to make sure we had a warrant to be on his property.”
“And here he is,” Deputy Abeyta observed. Estelle turned and looked to the northwest. The vapor trail of dust rose behind a fancy red pickup.
“Asking for a warrant is fair enough,” Gastner said. “Kinda wonder why he’d worry about it, though.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The rancher was dressed for town-clean, pressed blue jeans, a white western-cut shirt with embroidered pockets flaps, and a purple scarf knotted around his neck like a 50s country western singer. He picked his way carefully up the slope, not looking up at the officers until he reached the flat by the guardian boulder.
“Morning, all,” he greeted. “Sorry I’m late for the meeting.” He stopped when he saw the gridded trap. “Well, how about that.” He shook hands with each member of the party like a politician, adding a gallant little bow and a two handed grip for Estelle. “Is somebody going to tell me what’s going on here?” His pleasant smile faded immediately and he lowered his voice as if the rocks might harbor eavesdroppers.
“Herb Torrance called to tell me about the Romero boy.” He frowned. “I can’t recall his first name.”
“Freddy,” Estelle said.
“That’s the one. Gosh, just too damn bad that things like this have to happen. You know, I’ve seen him out and around now and then, flying low on that four-wheeler of his. Jesus, I’m surprised something hasn’t happened before this.” He turned and looked at Bob Torrez, eyebrows arched. “But that was down there in the canyon, wasn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“So what’s the deal here?”
“You read the papers?” Torrez asked.
“Once in a while, I do.”
“You read about the kid finding the jaguar?”
“Well, I did. Wasn’t that just the damnedest thing, though. But that was over at Borracho, I thought.”
“That’s what we thought, too. Turns out it was right here.” Torrez pointed at the rock overhang behind him with his upper lip, like a Navajo.
“Is that right?” Waddell stepped closer and peered at the packrat nest, then squatted down. “You got some lights in there,” he announced. He ducked his head even more, trying to peer into the rocks. “Goes on a ways? I can feel the air.”
“You ever crawled back in there?”
Waddell scoffed and stood up. “Not this son-of-a-bitch, no sir. Gives me the heebie-jeebies to be underground. I’m no spelunker.” He stretched out each syllable as if knowing the word impressed him. “So tell me something. You got one, two, three, four people here, and I saw Doug Posey down on the two-track a ways back. What’s the deal? All this just to recover some more bones, or what?”
“That’s just about exactly the size of it,” the sheriff said.
“Your tax dollars at work, Miles,” Gastner quipped.
“Did you know this was here, sir?” Estelle asked.