The breakfast cart interrupted my concentration. I rolled over and a candy striper beamed a good-morning with impossibly straight white teeth and dimples. “How about some breakfast?” she said brightly. I knew her from somewhere. Her name tag said she was Beth Molina. She began to arrange the bedding so I would have a fighting chance of finishing breakfast without spilling. “Can I buzz the bed up some?”
“Buzz away,” I said. Fernandez. That was it. She was, or had been, one of the counter kids at the Fernandez burger joint.
“Are you planning a career in nursing?” I asked. She put the short-legged tray stand over my middle.
“Oh, maybe,” she said cheerfully. “My dad said I should work here this summer to see how I liked it.”
“Smart man. How do you like it?”
Her frown was the equivalent of a shrug. “I don’t know yet. It’s different than I thought.”
“A lot of smelly, sick old folks,” I said, and grinned. I felt an acute need for a shower and shave.
“Oh, that’s not it,” she said instantly, and with radiant sincerity. “I just never really liked science before.”
She placed the tray of food on the stand. Something puddled in the middle that resembled limp, dead eggs. Two pieces of wet toast flanked an infant’s portion of orange juice that was as far from fresh as east from west. I tried the juice, nearly gagged, and shook my head. “Not hungry,” I said. “Maybe you’d move the tray and hand me that newspaper.”
“Oh, but you have to eat.”
“No, I don’t. Maybe I’ll go to the corner diner for something that’s legal. Would you eat this stuff?”
She looked at the tray and cocked her head. Then her nose wrinkled, she glanced furtively at the door and shook her head. “Maybe lunch will be better,” she said hopefully.
“Maybe. Don’t count on it. If the food was good, there would be less incentive to leave this place-alive, that is.” She dutifully removed the tray and stand and set them back on the cart. “The newspaper,” I reminded her. “And if you ever get a minute, would you try and round up a copy of one of the Albuquerque papers for me?” I was beginning to feel downright alert, and on impulse I reached over, picked up the pill cup and tossed it at the food cart. It landed on my breakfast and bounced into a crevice between trays. If she noticed, Beth Molina didn’t say anything. She handed me the Register and pushed the cart out of my room.
I needed my reading glasses, but by straight-arming the paper against my knees, I could see well enough to make out the story.
Coroner Delays Ruling in Salinger Death Case
Posadas County Coroner Dr. Emerson Clark today refused to issue a ruling in the recent shooting death of a Posadas teenager.
I looked up for the date of the newspaper. It was yesterday’s. I continued reading.
Salinger’s body was found August 4 by Sheriff’s officials after the youth had been reported missing overnight by family members. Clark said today that he would make an official ruling “only after a thorough investigation is completed.”
Posadas County Sheriff Martin Holman would say only that Salinger’s body had been found on property owned by Consolidated Mining, and that the youth had apparently died from a single gunshot wound.
Holman refused to answer questions about the youth’s death. The incident is the latest in a string of misfortunes to strike the community in recent weeks. Holman told the Register today that comment on the case would come from Clark, or from the office of Undersheriff William C. Gastner. Gastner himself was reported in fair but stable condition this morning at Posadas General after he suffered what hospital spokesmen say was an apparent fatigue attack during the initial investigation of Salinger’s death on August 4.
Members of the Salinger family have refused to talk with reporters since the incident.
Salinger’s death comes on the heels of…
I let the paper fall onto the bed. I wasn’t interested in reading the rest-nearly a quarter page of recapitulation reaching back to the July Fourth car crash. I knew it would mention the discovery of the cocaine, the deaths of Hewitt and Fernandez, and finally the death of Salinger. Interspersed would be a review of the efforts to establish parent and counseling groups, talks with the school officials, maybe even the clergy…all of that.
What interested me was that the Register had obviously run a previous story on the youth’s death-I reminded myself to ask for the papers from August 5 and 6-but that nowhere in this story was suicide even hinted. In fact, the context was such that a reader could readily make the assumption that Salinger’s death was somehow related to something else…the cocaine? The efforts of undercover cops? It was no secret that my office-and that terminology was in itself a laughable attempt to make our county department seem something larger than it was-had been continuing its investigation into the cocaine, and into Hewitt’s death. Hell, we’d interviewed people until we felt like door-to-door census takers, and I’d talked with the Register editor more than once.
But only two people from the department would have issued a statement about Salinger-Holman or Reyes. Clark, the old curmudgeon, wouldn’t have said anything other than that one line attributed to him. With the press listening eagerly, our department spokesman would obviously have a choice. The information could be slanted so that the implication of suicide was obvious. That hadn’t been done. I looked at the article again, and skimmed the parts I hadn’t read. Nowhere did the words “self-inflicted” or “suicide” appear. In fact, comment from the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department was noticeably lacking-surprising when one considered Martin Holman’s love of public relations.
The telephone was on the nightstand, just out of reach. I grunted to the edge of the bed, grabbed the receiver, and dialed.
On the second ring, J. J. Murton answered.
“Get me Estelle Reyes,” I said abruptly.
Murton sounded a little huffy. “Who’s calling?”
“Gastner. Get Reyes on the phone.”
“Hey, there,” Murton said, and then began to babble what promised to be an endless series of questions-probably most of them warranted. I cut him off.
“J.J.-Put Estelle on. Now.”
“She ain’t in,” Murton said, sounding hurt. “You want me to call her on the radio?”
I almost said something unkind, then checked myself. A picture of Miracle Murton holding the telephone receiver up against the radio speaker came to mind. “Tell her to meet me over here at the hospital if she’s ten-eight.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“I’ll wait. Go ahead and call her.” I closed my eyes and listened to the background noise. I could hear Murton on the radio, and it seemed like a year before 301 responded. As I lay there listening, a nurse came into the room. She looked at me and frowned. She obviously wanted to say something, but didn’t, because reinforcements were right behind her. Dr. Perrone entered, accompanied by Gonzales. I heard the distant, electronic voice of Estelle Reyes say that her ETA at the hospital would be fifteen minutes.
“I heard,” I said when Murton came on the line again. “Is Holman there?”
“He sure isn’t. He’s meeting with the county legislators this morning.”
“About what?”
Murton had to think. “Uh, it’s the regular county meeting, sir. Starts at nine. He left a few minutes early.”