“Ah, nothing really specific. Mrs. Melvin-that’s Rachel Melvin, the owner? She called here and said that there was something suspicious about the couple…couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She wanted the police to check them out. I logged that call at 18:04.”
“They were up front about not being able to pay for the room?”
“Jackie didn’t say anything to me about that when she called in.”
“But they left the premises of the B-and-B when requested to do so by the owner?”
“I guess so. You might want to talk with Jackie, though. She talked to them a few minutes later over at Pershing Park. It looked like maybe they were going to camp there.”
“Okay. Thanks, Brent. And by the way, did you log the caller’s name for the 911 involving Chief Martinez?”
“No, ma’am. He hung up on me. He reported a man down at the Posadas Inn, then just hung up.”
“But the caller was a man. You’re sure of that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We’ll be out of service for a few minutes with the owners of that van, Brent. Bill Gastner’s with me, and the sheriff went over to the hospital with the ambulance.”
“Right.” Sutherland sounded relieved. Estelle was reasonably sure that Bob Torrez hadn’t informed dispatch of his intentions. She clicked off the cell phone and glanced up as a sweep of headlights flashed in the rearview mirror. A white, older model Ford Bronco nosed in and stopped. “Let’s see what Jackie has to say,” Estelle said.
She got out of the car and joined Deputy Jackie Taber on the walkway in front of one of the service rooms, where the narrow overhang would provide some protection from the weather.
“Nice night,” Jackie said by way of greeting. She was a large young woman, square through the shoulders and thick through the waist. “Good evening, sir,” she said, as Bill Gastner ambled up to join them.
“Well, it was,” Gastner said.
“I’m really sorry about Chief Martinez,” Jackie said. “It doesn’t look good for him.”
“Nope,” Gastner said, and let it go at that. Estelle glanced at her old friend. Gastner and Martinez had been friends for decades, and with the village-county consolidation of public safety services, the two colleagues had met a dozen times in the past month.
“Brent tells me that you had occasion to talk with the owners of this van earlier,” Estelle said, and the deputy nodded.
“That’s why I shagged down here,” Jackie said. “I’ll go back and help the guys sweep in a minute, but I wanted to tell you-” she nodded in the direction of the old van “-they stopped at the B-and-B over on Tenth,” she said. “They told the owner that they didn’t have any money, but asked if they could stay the night. I guess Mrs. Melvin didn’t like the looks of them.”
“Rachel Melvin doesn’t like the looks of anybody who’s younger than sixty,” Gastner observed.
“That’s true, sir,” Jackie said, and a smile ghosted across her round face. “When we talked, she didn’t want to open the front door far enough for me to step inside, either. She said that the young couple inquired about a room and told her right up front that they were short of money. She said that they both came to the door, and that surprised her, since the girl was obviously pregnant and quite a ways along.”
“And that’s it?” Estelle asked.
“Mrs. Melvin said that she told them they should check in Lordsburg. That she didn’t have a room available.”
Gastner chuckled. “Lordsburg? She didn’t recommend that they come down here to the motel?”
“She didn’t say, sir. But it doesn’t sound like it.”
“No room at the inn,” he said. “How goddamn biblical.”
Estelle looked at the former sheriff with amusement, then at the deputy. “You talked with them?” she asked the deputy.
“I talked with Mrs. Melvin first, and established that nothing had happened that would constitute probable cause for a stop. They asked for a room, told her they didn’t have any money, and went on their way when she refused. Mrs. Melvin admitted that they were perfectly polite and not the least bit pushy. She only grudgingly admitted that, by the way.”
“Why bother calling the SO, then?” Estelle asked, knowing the answer even before Bill Gastner voiced it.
“Because she’s an old biddy,” he said. “And she wouldn’t recommend this motel because Adrian owns it. Part that and part that her sister owns the one she’s talking about in Lordsburg.”
“Maybe so,” Jackie said. “But I saw the van a few minutes later, parked on Pershing, over behind the park. I’m sure that they saw me approach.” Jackie pushed her Stetson back a bit. “Since Mrs. Melvin had told me that the woman was pregnant, it seemed prudent to make sure that they weren’t in need of medical attention, so I stopped to talk with them. They’re a young couple from Las Cruces.”
She slipped a small notebook from her blouse pocket and thumbed pages. “Todd Willis and Stacie Hart.” She closed the notebook. “And she’s eight months pregnant. Or nine.”
“They’re married?” Gastner asked.
“No, sir. They said not. Maybe living together.”
“Bound for?”
“Apparently headed for Tucson to visit Miss Hart’s relatives. The van belongs to her sister, who’s letting them use it for a while. Their own vehicle broke down. License and registration bears that out.”
“Huh,” Gastner said. “So we’re only two hours from Las Cruces, even driving in that old heap. And Tucson is just four hours farther down the pike. Why did they leave Cruces so late in the day that they’d need a motel in the first place? Especially if they were short in the funds department?”
“I didn’t ask them that, sir.”
“Maybe the girl just became uncomfortable,” Estelle said.
“Maybe so. Who knows why people do the damn things that they do.”
“When you talked to them, Jackie, did either of them get out of the van?”
“No, ma’am. I approached them and we spoke through the driver’s side window.”
“Did Miss Hart appear in distress of any kind?”
“She looked bedraggled,” Jackie said. “They both did. She’s huge, though, and she kept shifting on the seat as if she couldn’t find a comfortable position.”
“Ay,” Estelle said. They heard the scuffing of a door opening and Estelle stepped away from the side of the building and looked down the sidewalk toward Room 110. A young man in jeans and sweatshirt stood framed in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, one on the knob. He saw Estelle and gave her a questioning look. “Let’s find out,” she said.
“Hello,” the young man said as the three approached. He held the door open further. “Come on in out of the rain.”
“Thank you,” Estelle said. “I’m Posadas County Undersheriff Estelle Guzman, sir. This is Deputy Jackie Taber and Bill Gastner.”
“Todd Willis.” He turned and nodded toward the bathroom. “My fiancée is in the bathroom.”
“Is Ms. Hart all right?”
“She’s fine. We’re tired, is all. She’ll be out in a minute.”
“Mr. Willis, I’m interested in two things. First, did you call 911 this evening?”
A flush crept up his pale cheeks. Estelle watched as he appeared to debate with himself about what to say. He was a good-looking kid, despite the stringy, long hair and Ohio Wesleyan sweatshirt that had needed laundering a week before.
“Yes,” he said quickly, as if he had realized that he’d waited too long to reply.
“What did you see, Mr. Willis? Why the 911 call?” Estelle glanced around the generic room. A large nylon overnight bag rested on the dresser, beside what appeared to be a bulky camera case.
“We were just starting to unload from the van, outside there where we’re parked? I was at the back door, and happened to glance back that way”-he waved in the direction of the motel office-“and saw three men talking. At least that’s what it looked like. One of them appeared to collapse against the wall of the motel and then fell. The other two men drove away and left him there.”
“Drove away in what?”
“A late-model car of some kind. I’m not sure what model. Maybe an Olds or a Buick. Something like that. Full-sized.”