“We don’t know yet, Tom. We’ve got conflicting versions so far. Eddie went over there to talk to him.”
“He doesn’t know about Janet, then. That’s no good.”
“No.”
The other Tom made a noise that might have been a cough, a groan, or a strangled chuckle. “Unless…,” he said meaningfully.
“Yeah, unless,” Mears said. “But I don’t even want to think about that.” He glanced toward the street as one of the department’s Crown Victorias rolled to a stop behind his unit. “Here’s Abeyta. Let’s see what our three great minds can come up with.”
“There’s four of us here,” Pasquale observed, stepping into the trap with alacrity.
“Uh-huh,” Mears said, and his thin face broke into a smile. “Process of elimination then, right?” He turned toward the Jeep. “One thing we want to be aware of right off,” he said. “If she was in the car when she was shot, and the shooter was standing by her door, then…” He paused.
“Perrone said the bullet struck her just behind the left ear, low on the mastoid, and ranged forward and up, Tom. It didn’t break out of the front of her skull.”
“That’s not surprising. The gun was close to her skull when fired, right? That’s what Abeyta said.” He reached out and rested a hand on Tony Abeyta’s shoulder for emphasis as the deputy joined the group. “Then we want the shell casing, guys.”
“What if it wasn’t an automatic?” Pasquale asked.
“Then we don’t get the casing,” Mears said easily. “But if it was, then the gun tossed it out to the right, or straight up-unless the shooter held it Hollywood ‘gangsta’ style. The empty case would either glance off the back window glass, or some other part of the car, or…” He peered toward the Liberty. “Is that the ignition warning that I’m hearing?”
“Yes,” Estelle said. “Key’s there, door’s ajar.”
Mears nodded. “If she was leaning forward, like maybe she was picking something off the floor, or just looking down at her lap, and the gun was pressed to her skull, then the casing might be inside here.”
“Unless he picked it up,” Pasquale said.
“Stranger things have happened,” Mears agreed. “Stranger things have happened. But for now, I want everything that’s on the ground-under, beside, off in the brush somewhere. Don’t just grind stuff into the asphalt with your big feet. Pay attention.” He turned to Estelle. “Do we know how much she got from the ATM? Do we know if she even made a withdrawal?”
“Not yet. No one’s touched anything inside the car. I haven’t even opened the door.”
“Then let’s do the simple things first,” Mears said. “That wallet and purse should tell us a few things. That’s where I want to start.”
Chapter Fifteen
If Janet Tripp had withdrawn money from the ATM at Posadas State Bank, there was no record of it in the Jeep. There had been no money or papers in her clothing when it was searched at the morgue. There was no cash in her wallet, no credit cards, no driver’s license, no ATM receipt, no nothing. Her purse held an assortment of typical personal items of no particular value, but nothing that made Estelle pause.
“Good surface for prints,” Mears said as he dropped the glossy black leather wallet into an evidence bag. “But I’ll be surprised. She was hit by somebody who knew exactly what he was doing. He’s not going to butter everything up with his fingerprints.” He looked at Estelle, who was crouched at the passenger side, in the open door. “What?”
“I don’t understand the fit,” she said.
“The fit? Of what?”
“If this is a typical robbery-if someone had the ATM staked out and wanted to make a score-why choose Christmas Day, why then shoot the victim, and why remove the corpse, other than to buy himself some time?”
Mears shrugged. “I don’t know, Estelle. Christmas Day is dull, without a lot of traffic. But maybe he figured that whoever stopped would be flat busted from last-minute shopping, and be more apt to withdraw a larger amount?” He grinned. “If you’ve already dug yourself a financial hole with too much Christmas shopping, what’s the harm of adding a little bit more to it? How’s that for far-fetched. Hell, I don’t know why. Maybe my brilliant brother has a theory.”
“And we need to call him, too,” Estelle said. Terry Mears, Tom’s twin brother, was vice-president of Posadas State Bank.
“Shooting the victim in the head,” Mears continued, “is a pretty sure way of making certain that she doesn’t talk, that’s pretty obvious. And you’re probably as close as anybody about why he moved the body. Or maybe he was thinking that a little nasty-time recreation with her might be in order. You know how these things can go.”
“Casing!” Tony Abeyta shouted. He had been working far to the right side of the Jeep, on his hands and knees close to the edge of the asphalt. He stood up suddenly, as if he’d crawled too close to a rattlesnake. Estelle saw that the single.22 long-rifle cartridge case rested in the channel between asphalt and the soil of the border garden.
Estelle looked back to the Liberty. “If that’s the one, the gun ejected it right over the roof of the car,” she said. “That’s quite a toss.”
“I have a bag,” Abeyta said, but Estelle held up a hand.
“Don’t move it until Linda takes the photos, Tony. And we don’t know for sure if this is the one. So measure about four times, okay? Mark it with a flag, then just leave it alone.”
“You got it.”
Estelle moved off to one side and opened her phone. In a moment, Linda answered, her voice sounding small and far away.
“Hey,” Estelle said. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, I guess so. I’m down in the darkroom.”
“Ah.” Estelle knew that it was one thing, out in the open with others to provide support, to deal with death and destruction, especially if the victim was family. But it was worse to watch the grotesque images appear out of the chemical bath, ghostly apparitions that gazed up out of the developer tray in the hushed and musty tomb of the lonely downstairs darkroom.
Linda Real usually handled such things with aplomb and good humor. The rules changed when violent death became personal, taking a step closer.
“I wanted to finish up the black and whites,” she said. As standard procedure, she took triplicate photos, one set in black and white that she could develop herself, a set with another camera in color-film that would have to be sent out for processing, with both the attendant risks and delays-and finally finishing up with digital shots for instant reference.
“We found Janet’s car, Linda. As soon as you can break loose…”
“I’m on my way.”
“We’re in the bank parking lot.”
“Gotcha.” Linda sounded as if she might revive. “I could use a little air.”
Estelle returned to the Jeep. “Do you want to call your brother, or do you want me to?” she asked the sergeant.
Mears laughed. “I’ll get him. He’s just sitting in front of the television, anyway, fat and happy.”
Estelle knew that at least half of that wasn’t the case. Both Tom and Terry Mears were angular, slim, and barely average height. “I want to know if Janet withdrew anything from her account…and how much. There should be a time on the ATM slip, shouldn’t there?”
“I would think so. I don’t use ’em, so I can’t tell you for sure. Bro’s going to ask for a court order, you know.”
“Ay, I was afraid of that. Well, tell him that we’ll need to look at the ATM transaction tape, and also at the video. In the meantime, I’ll go get the paperwork from Judge Hobart.”
“Better you than me,” Mears said. “By the way, I’ll use the black light to make sure, but I don’t think we have any blood spatters in the vehicle itself.”
“That’s surprising,” Estelle said.
“Nah, not really. Not with a.22. Pops a nice hole, not much blow-back, not much in the way of bone chips on the outside. Plays hell on the inside, but not otherwise. But we’ll see.” He knelt down by the Liberty’s running board and looked up toward the driver’s window, then played his flashlight upward at the soft, finely textured fabric head liner.