riddled Mr. Baum would sue us for about the national debt, even though the whole sorry affair was his fault. If he died, the family could have a field day. Schroeder was a good prosecutor, but lawsuits scared himâ¦about half as much as they scared the county legislators.
Usually impeccably turned out, this morning the district attorney was a bit on the scruffy side. Even a hint of peach fuzz touched his cheeks below the black bags under his eyes. He nurtured what little hair he had left in one of those 50s buzz cuts, so that wasnât out of place. With his straw-colored suit, Schroeder reminded me of a college singing groupâs lead tenorâslim, bland-faced, too blond to be true.
He had positioned himself at the end of the small mahogany conference table, a collection of papers and photos spread out before him. A second officerâI couldnât recall his nameâregarded me with beady blue eyes caved under a forehead whose supra-orbital ridge looked as if it had borrowed some simian heritage.
Without lifting his head from his hand, elbow planted on the table, Schroeder looked up as I entered.
âGood morning, gentlemen,â I said, and Schroeder unwrappe d himself, rising as if every joint in his body had failed him. I skirted the table and shook hands.
âThankâ¦â he started to say as he attempted to generate some grip. He cleared his throat. âThanks for coming, Bill.â He waved a hand under his nose. âExcuse my frog. Something out in the prairie set off my sinuses.â He turned to his partner. âYouâve met Paul Mellon, Iâm sure.â
Mellon. Iâd known Paul Mellon since he was a rookie state policeman patrolling out of the Quemado district, trying to find things to do. Heâd become desperate for action a time or two, wandering south to my turf. Most memorableâand it brought a smile for me just thenâwas his traffic stop of a young off-duty Deputy Robert Torrez just west of Posadas. Bobbyâs aging, smoking, disreputable Chevy pickup looked as if it belonged hidden behind a barn somewhere, and Bobby himself was a perfect match. Fresh off an interagency drug interdiction deal, the young deputy was unshaven, long of mane and short of temper. The traffic stop with Mellon hadnât gone so well.
A big, raw-boned man, Mellon rose with grace and extended a mammoth paw. As he did so, a smile chased all of the intimidation from his features. Dimples, even. The deep-set blue eyes twinkled.
âSheriff, itâs always a pleasure,â he rumbled. With that voice, he could have been a television evangelist. I took my time settling into one of the oak chairs, reminding myself that no amount of bonhomie would disguise why we were all here. I had shot a man, and when I did that, I had set in motion the vast complex of legal proceedings. I made a quick resolution to mind my manners.
âLieutenant Mellon will be the lead investigator this time around.â Schroeder scribbled a note on his legal pad. âAre you all right with that?â
Was I all right with it? Schroeder was trying to be his soothing best, why I donât know. No elections loomed on the horizon. Both Bobby Torrez and Estelle Reyes-Guzman were conspicuously absent from this little deal, but figuring out why wasnât rocket science. Schroeder would make every effort to assure that his ass was covered, and Mellonâs presence, rather than members of the Posadas department, would assure objectivityâperhaps.
âYou bet,â I said. Lieutenant Mellon apparently didnât believe in paperwork. The table in front of him was bare save for one little yellow pad. A BIC lay capped beside it. Maybe the state cop had already made up his mind, and expected to hear nothing new.
âTell us what happened,â Schroeder said.
I launched into my recitation without preamble, probably sounding rehearsed. I didnât consult my notes, since the episode
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