the kid does something
really
dangerous. He drives into an arroyo,” Torrez said, almost philosophically. “Anyway, Mears said the gun looked like it had been locked away in somebody’s attic for a few years. We can comb through any unresolved break-ins or thefts, but I don’t remember anything.”
“No. Plus I never got the impression that was Freddy’s style. I don’t think he would have taken the gun in a burglary. It almost looks as if it’s been outside. It’s stainless, so it didn’t rust, but look at the rest of the condition. If that gun was in somebody’s closet, they sure were the world’s worst housekeepers.”
The sheriff turned as another figure appeared in the doorway. “What do you want,” he said in mock truculence, and Doug Posey flashed him a smile. The New Mexico Game and Fish officer was in his late thirties, but still managed to look sixteen.
“I’m working my ass off, sheriff,” Posey said. “If you don’t think talking to a class of second graders is scary, you can take the next round. That’s what
I
did this afternoon, for starters.”
“Ain’t gonna happen,” Torrez said.
Posey’s expression turned serious. “I heard about what happened to the Romero kid. Shit, his fifteen minutes of fame didn’t last long.”
“Bender’s Canyon arroyo,” the sheriff said.
“Son of a gun, that’s too bad. I liked him. Real wild hares, those two boys. How’s Butch coming along, anyway?”
“He lost the eye, but will recover otherwise. Probably,” Estelle said. “He’s up in Albuquerque.”
Posey grimaced. “What’s with the Smith?” He leaned over Estelle’s desk and peered at the gun without touching it.
“This was wrapped in a cloth inside the carrier of Freddy Romero’s ATV,” Estelle replied.
“No kiddin’. May I?” Estelle nodded, and Posey hefted the gun, racked the slide back and inspected the empty chamber and magazine. “Never used one of these. What’s the deal?” He looked across at the sheriff.
“Don’t know,” Torrez said. “We’ll talk with George tomorrow, maybe. See what he knows.”
“It’s been cleaned up some,” Estelle said. “When we found it, it was loaded and cocked, and looked like it had been out in the weather. Or a loft up in someone’s barn or garage somewhere. Covered with all kinds of nasties.” She opened a folder and pulled out an eight by ten print of the gun as it had first appeared, cradled in the oily cloth. Posey looked at it, turning it this way and that.
“Huh.” He turned it again, then pointed at one spot on the forward portion of the gun’s slide. “What’s that, bat guano?”
“Guano of some sort.”
“Huh.” He handed the photo back and leaned on the desk, staring at the automatic. “Prints?”
“Only Freddy’s.”
“Gun like that shouldn’t be hard to track down,” Posey said. He straightened up, not taking his eyes from the Smith and Wesson. “You guys got a minute?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be right back. Let me go out to the truck and get something.” In no more than two minutes, he returned and handed Torrez a small plastic evidence bag. “Coincidences make me
really
uncomfortable,” he said, and waited while Torrez read the tag and then handed the bag to Estelle.
The single bullet was discolored and hugely mushroomed, its brass jacket peeled back around the lead core so that the resulting projectile was nearly twice its original size.
“From?” Torrez asked.
“I picked it out of the cat skull. I talked to Underwood over at the high school this afternoon, when I finished up with the little ankle biters.” He put a finger to his own skull. “There was that hole right behind the right orbit? This was wedged into the bone low on the other side.”
“Bill Gastner was talking about that,” Estelle said. “The bullet hole, I mean.”
“He mentioned that. I was on the phone with him for about an hour this evening. He wanted to know what sort of records we had
really
dangerous. He drives into an arroyo,” Torrez said, almost philosophically. “Anyway, Mears said the gun looked like it had been locked away in somebody’s attic for a few years. We can comb through any unresolved break-ins or thefts, but I don’t remember anything.”
“No. Plus I never got the impression that was Freddy’s style. I don’t think he would have taken the gun in a burglary. It almost looks as if it’s been outside. It’s stainless, so it didn’t rust, but look at the rest of the condition. If that gun was in somebody’s closet, they sure were the world’s worst housekeepers.”
The sheriff turned as another figure appeared in the doorway. “What do you want,” he said in mock truculence, and Doug Posey flashed him a smile. The New Mexico Game and Fish officer was in his late thirties, but still managed to look sixteen.
“I’m working my ass off, sheriff,” Posey said. “If you don’t think talking to a class of second graders is scary, you can take the next round. That’s what
I
did this afternoon, for starters.”
“Ain’t gonna happen,” Torrez said.
Posey’s expression turned serious. “I heard about what happened to the Romero kid. Shit, his fifteen minutes of fame didn’t last long.”
“Bender’s Canyon arroyo,” the sheriff said.
“Son of a gun, that’s too bad. I liked him. Real wild hares, those two boys. How’s Butch coming along, anyway?”
“He lost the eye, but will recover otherwise. Probably,” Estelle said. “He’s up in Albuquerque.”
Posey grimaced. “What’s with the Smith?” He leaned over Estelle’s desk and peered at the gun without touching it.
“This was wrapped in a cloth inside the carrier of Freddy Romero’s ATV,” Estelle replied.
“No kiddin’. May I?” Estelle nodded, and Posey hefted the gun, racked the slide back and inspected the empty chamber and magazine. “Never used one of these. What’s the deal?” He looked across at the sheriff.
“Don’t know,” Torrez said. “We’ll talk with George tomorrow, maybe. See what he knows.”
“It’s been cleaned up some,” Estelle said. “When we found it, it was loaded and cocked, and looked like it had been out in the weather. Or a loft up in someone’s barn or garage somewhere. Covered with all kinds of nasties.” She opened a folder and pulled out an eight by ten print of the gun as it had first appeared, cradled in the oily cloth. Posey looked at it, turning it this way and that.
“Huh.” He turned it again, then pointed at one spot on the forward portion of the gun’s slide. “What’s that, bat guano?”
“Guano of some sort.”
“Huh.” He handed the photo back and leaned on the desk, staring at the automatic. “Prints?”
“Only Freddy’s.”
“Gun like that shouldn’t be hard to track down,” Posey said. He straightened up, not taking his eyes from the Smith and Wesson. “You guys got a minute?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be right back. Let me go out to the truck and get something.” In no more than two minutes, he returned and handed Torrez a small plastic evidence bag. “Coincidences make me
really
uncomfortable,” he said, and waited while Torrez read the tag and then handed the bag to Estelle.
The single bullet was discolored and hugely mushroomed, its brass jacket peeled back around the lead core so that the resulting projectile was nearly twice its original size.
“From?” Torrez asked.
“I picked it out of the cat skull. I talked to Underwood over at the high school this afternoon, when I finished up with the little ankle biters.” He put a finger to his own skull. “There was that hole right behind the right orbit? This was wedged into the bone low on the other side.”
“Bill Gastner was talking about that,” Estelle said. “The bullet hole, I mean.”
“He mentioned that. I was on the phone with him for about an hour this evening. He wanted to know what sort of records we had
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