“I think so.”
“And it ain’t going to be hard to figure out who did the flying, either,” the sheriff said. “There ain’t a teenager alive who has that kind of skill and experience who wouldn’t talk about it to his buddies.” He nodded toward Grider. “Good place to start.”
Chapter Fifteen
Matt Grider’s classroom was well on its way to being a poster museum. From the yellowing lithograph of a Ford 9N tractor being driven across an idyllic pasture by a checkered-shirted farmer, to current flyers for synthetic motor oils, nearly every square inch of wall space was covered. Little Carlos would love it all, Estelle thought. The desks were in a hodgepodge, not rows of organized groups. Grider made his way toward the front of the room and then stopped, uncertain.
“I need to talk to Dr. Archer first,” he said, and glanced at the wall clock. “I don’t think I can call him now,” he added. Estelle knew that Glen Archer was used to being called at all hours, even at 2:10 on a Sunday morning.
“We already did,” Torrez said. “Relax a little.” That was easily said. Matt Grider fidgeted, looking miserable.
“How many students are enrolled in auto mechanics, Mr. Grider?” Estelle asked.
“Is Dr. Archer coming over?” he repeated.
“I’m not asking about any specific student, sir,” Estelle said. “And yes, the superintendent is on the way.”
“Look,” Grider said, and he turned to leaf through a grade book that lay on his desk without turning it toward them. “I need to know what this is about.”
“Somebody’s takin’ gas from your tank,” Torrez said.
“But that’s not all,” Grider said quickly. “I don’t think that’s why we’re having a convention in the middle of the night, is it? And whatever it was, what makes you think that it was one of our students that did-whatever it was?” He looked expectantly from Estelle to Torrez.
“It’s a logical place to start,” Estelle said. “Students and school staff would be the first ones to know about the fuel storage tank out back.”
“Or anyone who graduated from here in the last fifteen years,” Grider added. “I don’t know what you’re after, but it isn’t the theft of five or ten gallons of gasoline.”
Estelle didn’t respond to that, but watched Grider’s face as he skimmed down a class list where his thumb had opened the grade book, seemingly at random.
A swath of headlights danced through the window as another vehicle pulled into the parking loop out front. “That’s Dr. Archer,” Grider said with some relief. He closed the grade book.
“What else do you teach, sir?” Estelle asked. “You must not have more than a dozen students in auto mechanics now, do you?”
“I have nine,” he replied. “And I teach three sections of consumer math and one section of welding.”
“That would keep you busy.”
“Sure. And one class of study skills-that’s just like a study hall sort of thing.”
“You teach all of them here? In this room?” She turned in place, scanning the small classroom. In the back of the room, a double door led out to the shop area.
“Auto and welding. The others are over in one-twelve, behind the gym.”
They heard the outside door rattle open and then close, and in a moment Glen Archer appeared in the classroom doorway. Even in the middle of the night, he managed to look natty, dressed in a light tan jacket over a salmon-colored polo shirt with spotless blue jeans and golf shoes.
“Good evening, all,” he said, not a cheery greeting, but not frosty, either.
“Thanks for coming down, sir,” Estelle said.
“You’re entirely welcome,” Archer said. His gaze swept the room quickly. “I think, anyway,” he added quickly. He flashed a smile at Estelle. “I was having trouble sleeping, so here we are.”
“Sir,” Estelle said, and then hesitated. She was loath to explain the details of what happened-once the information was out, it would spread like wildfire through the tendrils of the gossip vine. Still, enough time had already passed that the killer enjoyed a significant head start. Sheriff Bob Torrez remained silent. “Sir, we think that someone is taking gasoline from the storage tank out back.”
She saw Archer’s right eyebrow rise, as if to say, You got me up in the middle of the night for this?
“We think that there’s a chance that they’re stealing gasoline from here and using it to fuel a stolen aircraft.”
Archer’s broad, ruddy face went blank. “Say that again. You lost me.”
Estelle repeated what she had said word for word.
“That’s what I thought you said.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know both of you, and know that neither one of you is given to thinking up jokes like this in the middle of the night…or any other time, for that matter. But stealing an airplane?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From out here? Jim’s airport?”
“Exactly.”
“Well…that’s a new one. Whose plane was it?”
“Jerry Turner’s.”
“Oh, my gosh. And how do we know all this?”
“We don’t, sir,” Estelle said. “Not for sure, anyway. We’re making some assumptions about what happened.”
“I see.” Archer turned sideways and sat in one of the awkward chair-desk combinations. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket, along with a gold ballpoint pen. “Stealing an airplane. Huh.” His pen hovered but he didn’t mark the paper. “Well, Estelle,” he said, and nodded at Torrez. “And Robert. Again, I know you both well enough to know this isn’t some wild goose chase. If you’re here, it’s serious, whatever it is. So that’s that. What do you need from us?”
“We have reason to believe that the person who used the airplane is possibly a student,” Estelle said, then amended that. “I think so.”
Archer regarded her skeptically. “Really.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the gasoline? What’s up with that?”
“Whoever used the airplane wanted to do it without being noticed, sir. It was flown at night, probably south into Mexico. After returning, the aircraft was refueled and replaced in its hangar, no doubt in hopes that the owner would never notice.”
“But evidently he did.”
“In part, yes. When we posed the possibility of someone gaining entrance to his hangar, he made an examination. He saw some irregularities.”
“So they didn’t just steal the airplane, then,” Archer said. “Someone used it without permission. Sort of borrowed it, as it were.”
“Yes.”
“They’re running drugs, you think? Isn’t that what everybody does with an airplane these days?”
“No. We don’t think that’s what happened.”
“What, then?”
“We think that the airplane was used to bring at least three people into the country.”
“Wow.” Archer whistled. “We have enough troubles with the folks who try to walk across the desert. This group is going first class. What did they do, drop ’em off here in Posadas, or what? Fly ’em to the city someplace?”
“That would have been better, sir. We found the bodies out at the gas company’s airstrip down by Regál Pass.”
“You’re kidding.” For a long moment, Archer stared at Estelle, speechless. “Three, you say? Murdered, or died of exposure?”
“Shot.”
He looked down at his pad, even though he hadn’t written a word. “You’re saying that someone stole an airplane from right here…What, Jerry left the keys in it, or what?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Not the smartest thing he ever did. So they stole the airplane, flew it down into Mexico somewhere, picked up three people, brought them back to a remote airstrip, and killed them there?”
“That’s essentially it.”
“Whatever for? Drug deal gone sour?”
“We don’t know, Dr. Archer.”
“Wowser.” He looked at Grider, who shrugged helplessly. “You know any of these people? The ones who were killed?”
“No.”
“Now, for some reason, you think that one of our kiddos is in on this? Am I hearing that right? I can’t believe that.”