Heartshot (14 page)

Estelle Reyes got up. “That’s for sure. Gayle said you wanted your briefcase. I sealed it.”

“No need, Estelle. In the top pocket is an evidence bag. The contents were in Scott Salinger’s back pocket.”

Estelle snapped the seal and opened my briefcase. “In the top pocket,” I repeated, and she pulled out the small bag. She held it up and frowned.

“This was in his back pocket?”

“Right side. About an inch of it was protruding. That’s why I saw it. When I moved the body forward, I saw it there.”

She turned the bag over and over, puzzled. “A piece of wood and a piece of what looks like plastic.”

“Junk.”

“Why would he pick it up and put it in his pocket?”

“If he was intent on suicide,” I said, “I don’t think he would.”

Estelle relaxed back on the edge of the bed, leaning on one elbow. “It wasn’t suicide,” she said flatly. It was the first time either of us had come right out and said it. “And that leaves us only two choices for something like this. Somebody put it in Scott’s pocket, maybe after the shooting, maybe before. Why, we don’t know. Or Scott picked it up and put it there himself.”

“Why?”

She tossed the bag back in the yawning briefcase. “Who knows? Good citizen picking up litter?”

“Just this, and not everything else that trashes up that mesa?”

“When we find out what it is, or what it was, maybe we’ll have part of the answer,” Estelle said. “Did the doctors say how long they were going to keep you cooped up here?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “What do you plan to do next?”

Estelle hesitated. “It’s got to be somebody in town,” she said. “That’s what I think. I’m proceeding on the assumption that, one, it was murder,”—she ticked off a finger—”and, two, it was somebody from around here. Or at least somebody very familiar with the area.”

“And you’ve given up any thought of its being suicide?”

“It wasn’t,” Estelle said immediately. “NAA and ballistics will confirm that. But for right now, I want that between you and me. I haven’t told anybody else.”

I frowned. “That’s going to be a rough road for the family.”

“Yes, it is. But I think it’s to our advantage. Everyone I’ve heard talking assumes it was a suicide. I’m thinking we can just leave it that way for a while…just a few days. We might catch somebody off guard.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I want to jerk the Salinger’s chains like that, Estelle. They’ve got to know.”

“If they know, so will everyone else.”

“I think we can give them more credit than that.”

The door opened and Helen Murchison marched in. She didn’t give Estelle a chance this time…and next to Helen, Detective Reyes looked like a junior high school cheerleader. “Out,” she said. “It’s been far too long.” She began checking me and my machines.

As my cheerleader moved toward the door, I said, “Talk to them, Estelle. Convince them of the importance of going along with you. And if they want to talk to me, encourage that. We’ll just find a minute when Helen here steps out to lunch, if I’m cooped up in here that long.”

“Lie back and shut up,” Helen said cheerfully. “It’s obvious you’re going to be trouble.”

Estelle swung the door open. “I see you’re in good hands, sir. I’ll keep you posted.” She held up my briefcase. “I’ll let you know what the junk is.”

I waved. Helen Murchison sniffed her disapproval. I guess I wasn’t supposed to feel better.

Chapter 20

They had promised to move me, and while I waited for that grand event, I drifted off. When I woke, the room was quiet and lonely, save for the patient, faraway hum of the machines above my head. No clock, no watch, no window—it could have been midnight or noon of July Fourth or Christmas. The chemicals still dripped into my veins. I felt like cloudy water.

“Ugg,” I said, and shifted position. I wanted a cigarette. Was there enough oxygen in the room that if I lit up I’d risk blowing the side of the building out into the parking lot? Either that or Helen would knock me through the wall herself. I examined what I could see of the darkened ceiling. The room, a twilight tomb, was depressing. What were all the damn white curtains for? To remind the patient of heaven?

The fuzzy, disoriented, floating feeling had to be from the drugs. Or was that what dying felt like? Scary notion. Did things just fade to black without any awakening? Was death a special fade? Was its approach recognizable? Morbid. I couldn’t help it. My brain kept casting back for other memories. What had Art Hewitt thought, as he lay on his back in the village park? When there’s time like that, did the mind unwind slowly? Could the person feel things gradually coming apart, gradually shutting down? Did Scott Salinger have a couple of seconds of conscious thought after the Magnum shredded his heart? Or was it simply like a light switch…one instant full on, the next instant full off—permanently off, main line cut and wires removed? Who the hell knew? In frustration, I kicked the sheet that covered me. I wasn’t going to lie there any longer and torture myself. I twisted my neck and this time found the buzzer cord. By moving carefully, I could flex my left arm, tubes and all, and press the button.

I waited about thirty seconds and repeated the call. And repeated. And repeated. Maybe the button wasn’t connected. The door was open, even though I couldn’t see it through the curtain. I heard activity of some kind down the hall, and I pressed the button again for good measure. A shadow materialized first, and then one of the nurses pushed the curtain back. She regarded me soberly for a second, saw that there was no panic on my part, and then smiled.

“What can I get for you, Sheriff?” she asked.

“Undersheriff,” I corrected, and then wondered why I had bothered. I had never worried about the distinction before.

“Do people really call you that?” she asked pleasantly.

I let my arm relax back on the bed. “No. Too awkward. I was just wondering if there was anyone left on the planet.”

She smiled a delightful smile. She was young, raven of hair and eye, and the name tag pinned to the right breast of her uniform was too small to read even in good light. “Just you and me, dear,” she said.

“What a pleasant thought. How long have you worked here?”

“Longer than you’ve been a patient,” she said, and I detected a little edge. If she couldn’t melt a recalcitrant patient with those eyes, then there were other weapons in her management arsenal, I decided. “Are you feeling discomfort?” she asked.

“I just wanted some information,” I said.

“It’s six-fifteen.”

“P.M.?”

“Yes.”

“Good God. I’m supposed to be out of here. What’s for dinner?”

She smiled and ran two fingers down one of the tubes. “You’re on drip.”

“How much do I have to pay for some real food?”

“You’ll have to ask Dr. Perrone that. His orders.”

“And I suppose a good cigar is out.”

She just laughed mildly and adjusted the hanging hardware. I watched her for a minute, then said, “I need something to do before my brain turns to mush. I’m lying here thinking nothing but unproductive thoughts.”

“You’re not supposed to be thinking anything,” she said. “You’re supposed to be asleep. About a month straight would be about right. Nobody can work a dozen twenty-six hour days in a row.” I wondered whom she’d been talking to. She put one of those warm, soft nurse hands on my forearm. She reminded me a little of my youngest daughter, and then of Amy Salinger.

“Am I allowed to use the telephone?”

“You got a quarter?” She flashed a bright smile, and patted my arm again. “Probably tomorrow, when they move you out of ICU. You know, we kind of like to keep you quiet.”

“I thought today…”

The footfalls were so soft I almost didn’t hear them. Harlan Sprague pushed the curtain back and surveyed me critically.

“Hello, Doc,” I said. “Now you’re going to tell me my internal plumbing is crapped out, too.” Sprague laughed the polite little laugh that doctors use when you mildly insult their medical specialty.

“You’re looking a little better, Sheriff. He nodded at the nurse. “Katie,” he said, and then ignored her. “It’s probably wishful thinking to ask if you’re behaving yourself.”

“Barely,” I said. “See ya,” I called to Katie as she slipped through the curtain. “She’s a doll, isn’t she? And you’re the first doctor I’ve seen all day,” I said, and Sprague shrugged.

“You’re asleep most of the time, Sheriff. There’s not much they can do right now, except monitor and adjust medication. Perrone’s a good man, though. I always thought the hospital was lucky to have him on staff.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and clasped his hands together over one knee. “No more discomfort?”

“No. Just buzzed. Why all the drugs? They’re worse than anything else.”

Sprague looked up at the IV tube. “Just relaxants. Maybe a blood thinner. The object is to create a situation where your heart has as little work to do as possible. No sudden surges, no spikes on the electrical chart. It’s pretty standard. Given a chance, it’s an organ with wonderful recuperative powers. Up to a point.”

“What do you think they’re going to suggest for me?”

Sprague smiled. “I hate to try and second-guess a specialist. Maybe in your case, just the required change in life-style might be enough.”

“That’s as bad as letting Gonzales in with his knives.”

“Come on, Sheriff. There’s got to be a way you can relax. I can see that I’m going to have to drag you off fishing sometime with me.”

“I haven’t baited a hook in fifteen years,” I said.

“Once a fisherman, always a fisherman,” Sprague said affably. “You ever fished in the surf?” I shook my head. “One trip to the ocean and you’ll be a convert. Guaranteed.”

“Maybe I’ll have to try that.”

Sprague stood up. “I don’t make idle promises, Sheriff. When you’re on your feet, off we’ll go. I’ve got a little spot I like down on the coast in Mexico, a few miles from Bahia Kino. Therapeutic isolation. Sunshine, sand, maybe a few fish. Nothing like it.”

“Sounds good,” I said. And it did…a whole lot better than this white chamber they’d stuck me in for a little case of fatigue. There were too many unanswered questions for me to be sleeping the days away. I looked at the IVs in my arms, then managed a grin at Sprague. “As soon as they unplug me.”

“It’s a deal.” Sprague patted my foot. “Behave yourself.” He left the room, and left me wondering why a retired doctor was so damn eager to adopt new patients.

Chapter 21

My IV needles were removed and my arms patched. And in my new room, there was a window. A telephone. Even a newspaper lying on the nightstand. But I wasn’t planning on staying.

“Dr. Perrone will be in to see you after a while,” a nurse whom I didn’t know assured me.

“Terrific,” I grumbled. It was nice to be able to roll over without fear of ripping out connections. I lay on my stomach and gazed out past mattress, bell cord, side rail, glass of water, and pill cup. I had to admit that the rest had been nice. It gave me time to think. Now, I was bed-weary, eager to go. The newspaper on the nightstand was turned in such a way that I could see several headlines. A portion of one headline included the name of our governor, and so I ignored that one. A smaller head, low on the bottom half of the page, included the word “coroner” and I stared at it, trying to read the whole thing.

The breakfast cart interrupted my concentration. I rolled over and a candy striper beamed a good-morning with impossibly straight white teeth and dimples. “How about some breakfast?” she said brightly. I knew her from somewhere. Her name tag said she was Beth Molina. She began to arrange the bedding so I would have a fighting chance of finishing breakfast without spilling. “Can I buzz the bed up some?”

“Buzz away,” I said. Fernandez. That was it. She was, or had been, one of the counter kids at the Fernandez burger joint.

“Are you planning a career in nursing?” I asked. She put the short-legged tray stand over my middle.

“Oh, maybe,” she said cheerfully. “My dad said I should work here this summer to see how I liked it.”

“Smart man. How do you like it?”

Her frown was the equivalent of a shrug. “I don’t know yet. It’s different than I thought.”

“A lot of smelly, sick old folks,” I said, and grinned. I felt an acute need for a shower and shave.

“Oh, that’s not it,” she said instantly, and with radiant sincerity. “I just never really liked science before.”

She placed the tray of food on the stand. Something puddled in the middle that resembled limp, dead eggs. Two pieces of wet toast flanked an infant’s portion of orange juice that was as far from fresh as east from west. I tried the juice, nearly gagged, and shook my head. “Not hungry,” I said. “Maybe you’d move the tray and hand me that newspaper.”

“Oh, but you have to eat.”

“No, I don’t. Maybe I’ll go to the corner diner for something that’s legal. Would you eat this stuff?”

She looked at the tray and cocked her head. Then her nose wrinkled, she glanced furtively at the door and shook her head. “Maybe lunch will be better,” she said hopefully.

“Maybe. Don’t count on it. If the food was good, there would be less incentive to leave this place—alive, that is.” She dutifully removed the tray and stand and set them back on the cart. “The newspaper,” I reminded her. “And if you ever get a minute, would you try and round up a copy of one of the Albuquerque papers for me?” I was beginning to feel downright alert, and on impulse I reached over, picked up the pill cup and tossed it at the food cart. It landed on my breakfast and bounced into a crevice between trays. If she noticed, Beth Molina didn’t say anything. She handed me the
Register
and pushed the cart out of my room.

I needed my reading glasses, but by straight-arming the paper against my knees, I could see well enough to make out the story.

I looked up for the date of the newspaper. It was yesterday’s. I continued reading.

I let the paper fall onto the bed. I wasn’t interested in reading the rest—nearly a quarter page of recapitulation reaching back to the July Fourth car crash. I knew it would mention the discovery of the cocaine, the deaths of Hewitt and Fernandez, and finally the death of Salinger. Interspersed would be a review of the efforts to establish parent and counseling groups, talks with the school officials, maybe even the clergy…all of that.

What interested me was that the
Register
had obviously run a previous story on the youth’s death—I reminded myself to ask for the papers from August 5 and 6—but that nowhere in this story was suicide even hinted. In fact, the context was such that a reader could readily make the assumption that Salinger’s death was somehow related to something else…the cocaine? The efforts of undercover cops? It was no secret that my office—and that terminology was in itself a laughable attempt to make our county department seem something larger than it was—had been continuing its investigation into the cocaine, and into Hewitt’s death. Hell, we’d interviewed people until we felt like door-to-door census takers, and I’d talked with the
Register
editor more than once.

But only two people from the department would have issued a statement about Salinger—Holman or Reyes. Clark, the old curmudgeon, wouldn’t have said anything other than that one line attributed to him. With the press listening eagerly, our department spokesman would obviously have a choice. The information could be slanted so that the implication of suicide was obvious. That hadn’t been done. I looked at the article again, and skimmed the parts I hadn’t read. Nowhere did the words “self-inflicted” or “suicide” appear. In fact, comment from the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department was noticeably lacking—surprising when one considered Martin Holman’s love of public relations.

The telephone was on the nightstand, just out of reach. I grunted to the edge of the bed, grabbed the receiver, and dialed.

On the second ring, J. J. Murton answered.

“Get me Estelle Reyes,” I said abruptly.

Murton sounded a little huffy. “Who’s calling?”

“Gastner. Get Reyes on the phone.”

“Hey, there,” Murton said, and then began to babble what promised to be an endless series of questions—probably most of them warranted. I cut him off.

“J.J.—Put Estelle on. Now.”

“She ain’t in,” Murton said, sounding hurt. “You want me to call her on the radio?”

I almost said something unkind, then checked myself. A picture of Miracle Murton holding the telephone receiver up against the radio speaker came to mind. “Tell her to meet me over here at the hospital if she’s ten-eight.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“I’ll wait. Go ahead and call her.” I closed my eyes and listened to the background noise. I could hear Murton on the radio, and it seemed like a year before 301 responded. As I lay there listening, a nurse came into the room. She looked at me and frowned. She obviously wanted to say something, but didn’t, because reinforcements were right behind her. Dr. Perrone entered, accompanied by Gonzales. I heard the distant, electronic voice of Estelle Reyes say that her ETA at the hospital would be fifteen minutes.

“I heard,” I said when Murton came on the line again. “Is Holman there?”

“He sure isn’t. He’s meeting with the county legislators this morning.”

“About what?”

Murton had to think. “Uh, it’s the regular county meeting, sir. Starts at nine. He left a few minutes early.”

“Tell him to stop by when he’s done.”

Murton began a rundown on Holman’s previous visits to my room when I had been unconscious, and I interrupted him again. “I appreciate it. I’ll be awake this time.” I hung up the phone. Perrone took it and set it on the nightstand.

“You’re looking better,” he said.

“That’s because I’m not taking any more of those damn pills,” I said. “The ones that make little white rabbits run up and down the walls. The ones that turn my brain to old Jell-o.”

Perrone smiled faintly. “We’re keeping the medication down to a minimum. You need to take what we prescribe.”

“I do?”

“If you want to avoid complications, you do. Yes.”

“Doc,” I said wearily, “I got so damn many complications I don’t know which one to ignore first. All I want from you is as much help at getting out of this bed as possible.”

“I have no argument with that. But my advice is to let your department worry about the work load. There’s nothing you can do about it here, anyway. I’m sure you have competent officers.”

“It’s not that simple, Doc.”

“I think it is. If I became ill, I would expect another physician to look after my patients. I don’t know the details of this particular case, and to tell the truth, I don’t think I want to. I read the newspapers”—he indicated the one folded on the bed. “And as you know, the morgue and pathology lab are in this very building. So I have an idea of what’s happening. I don’t see that there’s much you can do about it all from this bed. My job is to get you out of bed as quickly as possible. Your job right now is to help me do that.”

“What’s your proposed schedule?” I asked, still unwilling to give in completely.

“We want to run some tests. We need to know what your vital capacities are.” He paused. “If there is an arterial insufficiency that warrants it, surgery might be indicated.”

“What kind of surgery are you talking about? Bypass?” I asked, and Perrone nodded. I looked at Gonzales and said, “My impression is that you’ve already made up your minds about that.”

Perrone laughed. “We’re quite sure, yes. But we want confirmation.”

“And what’s the recovery time for surgery like that? Ten days? Two weeks?”

“In that neighborhood.”

I frowned and looked out the window. “The timing of this shit is not spectacular,” I said.

“It never is.”

“And if I put it off?”

Perrone held up his hands. “I flunked Crystal Ball one-oh-one.”

“I don’t have the time to lie around here, Doc.”

Perrone shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sheriff—let me put it to you this way. One of the most accurate ways to find out what went wrong in a body is to do a postmortem.” He hesitated and let that sink in. “I really don’t want to do an autopsy on you. I really don’t. So you’re going to have to trust me a little. And trust my schedule.”

Estelle Reyes appeared silently in the doorway. “Come on in,” I said. “The docs are trying to figure out where and when to stick the knife.”

Estelle stepped into the room, nodded at the two physicians and leaned her large briefcase against a chair back. She could have been a real estate saleswoman.

Perrone put a hand on Estelle’s shoulder. “Maybe you can convince your boss that there are other police officers in the world. Your case won’t fall apart if he takes it easy for a while and lets us do our work.”

She looked at me with those big, quiet eyes. “If things have to wait, they have to wait,” she said softly. She turned to Perrone and the doctor dropped his hand. When she spoke next, her voice sounded as if it came from an emotionless dictaphone. “It’s just that with Undersheriff Gastner being a material witness and all, there are some formalities that we’ll be observing here. I’ll do what I can to make the interruptions of your routine as minimal as possible.”

“We appreciate that,” Perrone said, obviously a little puzzled. He folded his stethoscope and added, “It would help if you kept your visits as short as possible.”

The doctors left the room, and I took a deep breath. “Estelle, I think they’re trying to make an example out of me, or some such crap. I want out of here.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and took a deep breath. I felt pretty good. “I’ve read where patients did fine until they went into the hospital…then they croaked. Hand me that robe.” Estelle fetched the terry-cloth robe, and I put it on.

“What do you plan to do?” she asked.

“You’re driving me home,” I said. She frowned, and I lifted a hand. “Don’t you start.”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” Estelle said.

“That’s what I want. And what did you find out? You got anything?”

“I’ve got lots of goodies,” she said, and smiled thinly.

“Then we’ll spread things out on my kitchen table, and take our time over a decent cup of coffee.” I rubbed my hands. “God, that’s going to taste good. You wouldn’t believe the crap they serve here.” I walked to the closet—maybe a little more shakily than I would have liked—and found most of my clothes.

“Where’s my gun belt?”

“Sheriff Holman took it. He didn’t want it in the hospital.”

“Good God. All that’s going on, and he worries about things like that. You guard the door. I’m going to get dressed.”

Estelle discreetly watched the traffic outside while I fumbled with my clothes. My brain was fuzzy, and I felt as if I’d had a bad case of the flu, rubber joints and all. But I could move, and the cool, dark corners of my own home seemed more therapeutic than this white-walled cell. When I glanced at myself in the mirror, I damned near scared myself back into bed. Dark under the eyes, baggy wattles under my chin—hell, 122 years old at the least. “Did you hear anything from the lab in Santa Fe?”

“Sure did.”

My pulse picked up at that. “Anything interesting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s get out of here.” I stood up and took a deep breath. “Where did you park?”