“Anyway, we see what the kiddos have to offer today,” I said. “The Zipoli gang. If there were regulars hanging out with him, then we want to know about it. They might have heard something, seen something…who the hell knows in what ugly direction that might lead.” I shrugged. “Or maybe not. It occurred to me sometime last night that we might be chasing just some random thing-some trigger-happy bastard who lets fly with a rifle without a clue about what he’s doing. Like those nitwits who shoot at highway signs.” I glanced her way as I hefted my own briefcase and headed for the door. “In a lot of years in this business, I’ve never caught one of them at work. Don’t know anyone who has. How often does someone call in to report the murder of a stop sign?”
I didn’t add that it was probably a good thing that taxpayers didn’t know how little crime went unreported, uninvestigated, and unpunished. Most of the time, crime did pay, and sometimes handsomely.
A moment later, we settled into the car and Estelle watched me as I updated my log, called in the mileage to dispatch for his office log, and reviewed the few questions I had jotted down the day before. None of the other deputies used 310, so the car remained my private mobile office.
It’s possible to drive from the Sheriff’s Department parking lot to Posadas High School in thirty seconds and never break the speed limit. I made it in something under five minutes. I don’t know what I was looking for, but a couple of nagging thoughts kept playing their loop. When that happens, my pace slows as my gaze drifts into every crack and corner. I drove with the windows down, elbow on the sill, chin propped in my hand, my mind trying to rush in two directions at once. Would Larry Zipoli recognize an Orosco when he saw it? Nah. Not a chance.
Estelle Reyes patiently endured our idle-along until we parked in front of the school in the No Parking-School Bus Loading Zone. A minute or so later, we sat comfortably in Glenn Archer’s office, and he took a great deal of care in closing the door, standing there with one hand on the knob, the other on the jamb as if making sure no one was going to sneak up and put an ear to the wood. A dapper fellow who took off the prissy edge by favoring comfortable corduroy trousers and a baggy cardigan, Archer had always welcomed a comfortable relationship with the Sheriff’s Department. We provided officers-with the help of Chief Martinez and the village department-for sporting events, tried to be gentle when we had to arrest one of the teenagers who fell into hard times with drugs or alcohol, and offered a sympathetic ear when we arrived on the parents’ doorstep at 3 a.m. to change lives forever. He seemed reasonably calm for the morning of the first day of school.
Once satisfied with his office security, Archer turned back to his huge desk. A box of tissue graced each front corner, within easy reach of our chairs. Another rested on the bookcase behind my head. I wasn’t planning on breaking into sniffles, but I’m sure such was routine for kids about to be flogged.
“So…the first day of school, and here we are.” His smile was strained. “I was hoping you’d come today to arrange a series of public service programs for the kiddos. Or maybe talk during our assembly later this morning. But maybe not.” He paused and glanced at the door again. “Ms. Reyes, I’m delighted to see you.” He looked sideways at her, figuring something. “Refresh my memory. What year?”
“Eighty-four, sir.” I knew from her application that Estelle Reyes had not yet celebrated her twenty-second birthday. Still, it must have seemed like centuries ago that she’d been plowing through the required reading in Mrs. Hammerman’s American History class, or smelling the mid-morning aroma of the cafeteria.
“Time flies,” the superintendent said. “You’re going to be with this gentleman’s outfit now?” He nodded toward me.
“We hire only the best and the brightest.” I slipped a page out of my notebook. I handed the list of names to Archer, and he studied it as he circled his desk to sit down in the huge leather swivel chair. The throne.
“Arnett, Packard, Pasquale, Singer, Zamora, Zapia.” My list wasn’t in alphabetical order, but Archer’s mind was. He found a convenient category for the six. “Good kids, all, Sheriff. What are we fishing for?”
“Glenn, I’m interested in what they might be able to tell us about Larry Zipoli.” I would hesitate about mentioning a case to ninety-nine percent of Posadas County residents, knowing that gossip made a prairie wildfire seem sluggish. But Glenn Archer had never given me reason to doubt his discretion. His frown was immediate.
“What a mess,” he whispered. He read the list again, then looked up at me, tapping the little piece of paper against his thumb. “I have to hope that none of these kiddos are in any way involved with that.”
“We hope not.”
“Specifically you need…”
“Whatever you can tell me,” I said. “It would be convenient to chat with each one. We can do that off school grounds, but this will save us some time.”
“Can you tell me what direction you’re headed with this?”
I sighed. “Just preliminaries, Glenn. That group of boys has spent time with Zipoli in the past. Recreational trips over to the Butte, that sort of thing. At this stage, we’re just scouting the options. Fishing, like you say.”
“I heard Mr. Zipoli was killed in cold blood? While he was working?”
“The victim was minding his own business, grading a county road. Somebody put a bullet through his brain and left him sitting there in the sun.”
“My God.”
“Right now, we’re touching bases with anyone who knew Zipoli, who spent any time with him. Maybe it’ll lead somewhere. Maybe it won’t.” I shrugged. “These six were in his circle, so there we are. Until something better comes along, we talk with everyone we meet.”
Archer pivoted just enough in his chair that he could reach his computer keyboard. He stared at the screen as the program woke up. “We never know, do we.” I didn’t know just what he meant by that, and didn’t ask. “Arnett and Zapia are seniors, the others are juniors. Well, all but Louis.” Archer glanced across at me. “Louis Zamora? He’s a sophomore this year.”
He frowned at the screen again, then relaxed back in his chair. “They’re not a group here at school, if you know what I mean. Not like it’s the ‘gang of six.’ That’s interesting. I mean, Tommy Pasquale and Matt Singer hang out together some.” He smiled at Estelle. “I’m sure you remember how it was, Estelle. There’s friends,” and he held his arms out wide, encircling a large, imaginary beach ball, then brought his hands together to palm a basketball, “and there’s friends, and then,” he clasped his palms tightly, “there’s friends. Best buds. Go to class together, eat lunch together, hang out at the Handiway together, go to parties together.” He leaned forward and tapped the list. “I’d put these six in the first category.” He spread his arms again.
His fingers danced on the computer keys, and he leaned his chin in his left hand as he read the results. “And would you believe this…of the six, four are AWOL today.” Archer turned just enough to catch my eye. “Can you believe that? First day of the first week of school, and there they go.” He shrugged philosophically. “We expect absentees, really until next week. But still…”
“Which ones didn’t make it today?”
“Pasquale, Zamora, Arnett and Packard.” He frowned. “Zamora surprises me. He didn’t miss a single day last year, when he was a freshman. And if my memory serves me, he was a star in middle school, too…perfect attendance. Jason Packard is junior, just barely. You probably know him.”
“The Packard ranch up by Newton,” I said.
“That’s it.” Archer grimaced. “And caught right in the middle. Jason lives here in town with his grandmother, and I won’t even begin trying to explain the mess that family’s in. Suffice to say that I don’t think we offer a whole lot that’s of interest to the boy. He’s a ranch kid at heart, regardless of how often his stepfather tries to beat it out of him, so there’s no telling what’s keeping him away from school today.”