“You know,” Ms. Paddock said, and stuck a pencil into her hair bun as if that ended that, “we can’t force them to bring in their records.”
“I understand that,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said quietly. “How long does the school generally give them? Before they’re no longer admitted.”
“To get their shots, you mean? Well, the state says that if they don’t have up-to-date immunization records, they can’t be allowed in school, period. Not one day. But…” And she hesitated and shrugged.
“But obviously they are,” I said.
“If nothing is forthcoming in a week or two at most, then we call the parents and have them come in and pick up their child. We tell the parents face-to-face that the child may not return until we have a note from the physician stating that their immunizations are current.”
“And that wasn’t done with Maria Ibarra?” I asked.
“Not yet.” She turned and scanned the files again in the open top drawer of the cabinet, her fingers pausing in the I-J-K section. “As you can see, I haven’t even received the registration papers on the young lady. I don’t have a folder for her. When I do, then the process starts.”
Estelle was frowning, maybe at Paddock’s cheerful implication that someday she would receive a file folder on Maria Ibarra. “It seems like it should be a straightforward process,” she said.
“It would be very simple if all children had responsible parents,” Ms. Paddock said. “But they don’t.”
“Or parents at all,” Estelle muttered, and she turned quickly toward the door. I thanked Nurse Paddock and followed Estelle out into the hallway. She leaned against the wall, her shoulder against one of the lockers. Down the hallway a solitary student disappeared into one of the classrooms and then the place was quiet. Estelle squinted at the floor as if she were counting the polished tiles.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She blinked a couple of times and then shut her eyes. “I can’t believe this,” she said finally. “A child is murdered sometime early in the evening, but no one calls to report her missing.” She tipped her head back and stared at the white acoustical ceiling tiles. “And then we come here and find that their records of this girl are all but nonexistent. They don’t know who she was living with, or where, or anything else.” She turned to glare at me. “Do you think that they would have bothered to put her on the absentee list today if her body hadn’t been found?”
“I’m not sure that’s fair, Estelle.”
Her laugh was bark short. “Neither is being murdered.”
The door behind me opened and interrupted my reply. The nurse beckoned. “There’s a call for you on line one, sir. You can take it in my office if you like.”
Estelle Reyes-Guzman hadn’t moved a step when I rejoined her.
With a hand on her elbow, I started down the hallway. “They think they found Miguel Orosco,” I said. “I know who they found, and I hope to hell they’re wrong.” Estelle looked puzzled, but fell in step.
***
We drove into the gravel driveway of the Ranchero mobile home park. As the crow flew, the place was less than a quarter mile from my own home on Guadalupe Terrace. But that quarter mile was a world away. The manager of the park, if he was home, didn’t come out to greet us.
At the far end of the park, beyond the last trailer, I saw Sergeant Torrez’s patrol car. As we idled to a stop, Torrez got out and pointed toward the interstate embankment behind the hedgerow. That wasn’t what he meant, though.
“Somebody lives back there?” Estelle asked as we got out of the car.
“The wrong Orosco,” I said wearily.
Three enormous cottonwoods shaded the postage stamp of land where Manny Orosco lived behind the Ranchero mobile home park, separated from the park’s patrons by a thick, unkempt hedge of scrub elm, locust, and cactus.
Over the years, Manny had squatted here and there around Posadas, living with his bottle in complete, alcoholic contentment until someone became irritated enough at his presence to evict him. I never thought much about him, guessing that most villages had their own version of Manny Orosco’s adventures.
The Ranchero manager had started to erect a tall board fence across the back of his property to close out both the eyesore of Manny’s camp and to help cut down on the continuous drone of the interstate. He had three posts in the ground for starters. The fence was a long-term project, so Manny must have been keeping to himself, not bothering the park patrons.
I could see why the Ranchero manager had started the fencing project. Those cottonwoods were the only touch of grace for the spot that Manny Orosco called home. Behind those trees was a ditch that, before the interstate had been bladed through, had been part of the Arroyo Escondido. On the far side of the junk-filled ditch was the upsweep to the interstate right-of-way. Orosco had found himself a tiny sliver of land on which to squat. A week’s research in the county courthouse might have turned up the original owner of the land, but I wasn’t willing to place bets.
Orosco’s home was a delivery truck, the tall boxy kind with slab windshield halves favored by tool vendors and package delivery firms. Its driver’s-side glass had been replaced with cardboard, but that didn’t matter. Its driving days were over.
“You’re kidding,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said. Torrez wasn’t, of course, even if he knew how.
“I think you’ve got the wrong Orosco, Bobby,” I said.
“You know who lives here?” Estelle asked.
“Sure,” I said. A narrow path led through the tangle of underbrush. I stepped into the clearing by the truck and stopped. The old vehicle sat nearly level, a stack of boards supporting each corner of the suspension. Its broad, windowless flanks had faded to a blotchy pattern of muted camouflage.
“He’s home?” I asked, and Torrez nodded.
“Eddie Mitchell found him, sir,” he said.
“That wouldn’t take much looking,” I snorted. “And Eddie thinks this is where the girl was living?” I didn’t wait for an answer, but circled around to the rear double doors. One of them was ajar and I pushed it open.
Manny Orosco was either dead or sleeping through the first half of another day. He lay on what had once been an army cot, a blanket wadded up under his head. The cot was jammed against one wall. Above his head was a row of metal bins welded to the bulkhead, low enough to knock him senseless if he arose suddenly. But he wasn’t apt to do that. A rap or two wouldn’t have hurt his pickled brain anyway.
I stepped into the truck, surprised that the place didn’t smell worse than it did. His mouth open and a wet spot on the rough blanket under his head, Manny Orosco lay on his left side, curled up tightly. If he’d had his thumb stuck in his mouth, he’d have looked like a fifty-year-old infant.
“Mr. Orosco?” I said loudly. I might as well have been talking to the truck. I touched his neck and felt a ragged but strong pulse. His breathing was even and gentle.
“A late riser,” Estelle said from the doorway.
I nudged the bottle of cheap sherry that stood corked near the cot. There were a couple of ounces left. “And then he can have breakfast,” I said.
I stood up, holding one of the wall bins to steady myself. The truck was stuffy and dark. “No running water, no electricity, no nothing,” I said as I surveyed the interior of the truck. I made my way forward, toward the cab. In one corner just inside the sliding front door was a dark mound, maybe Manny’s laundry for the year.
The front door was closed. I tried the latch and the door slid back easily, letting in a flood of light. I stood for a moment, one hand on the bulkhead just behind the driver’s seat, trying to make sense out of what I saw.
It wasn’t laundry that was in the corner. The neatly folded blanket rested on top of a pad made from an old, quilted bedspread. It would have made a nice bed for a pet spaniel.