Blood Sweep (11 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Deputy Sutherland had taped off a hundred-foot radius around the Jeep, and Bob Torrez stopped well short of the yellow ribbon, hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets. He rested a hip against the front fender of Sutherland's SUV. The panoply of stars stretched from horizon to horizon, marred only by the sodium vapor lights along the interstate.

Above them and to the north, traffic on that thoroughfare continued its monotonous drone, punctuated by the loud diesel pounding of big rigs running through the night. The nearest neighborhood was the trailer park two blocks behind them, just off Grande.

“Why are you workin'?” Torrez asked, and Sutherland looked surprised.

“'Cause Pasquale was goin' racing with Mears and wanted to work days for a little bit,” the young deputy said. “We traded. But then I was up for court this morning, and thought what the hell.”

“You fall asleep on me, and you'll be back in dispatch.” He walked to within a dozen feet of the Jeep, one hand catching the yellow tape. “So what do you got?”

“One occupant,” Sutherland said. “I'm wondering if it's suicide. Kind of looks like it to me.”

“You gave Linda a shout? And Perrone?”

“Sands is rounding up everyone. I haven't called the EMTs yet. Our guy sure isn't going anywhere.”

Torrez lifted the ribbon and slipped under. He stopped to play the flashlight back and forth. The dust of the two-track was fine, and captured the detail of the boot prints.

“These yours?”

“Yes, sir. I walked straight from my unit to the Jeep. Nowhere else, except to string the tape.”

“The engine was off when you got here?”

“Yes, sir. Key is in the ignition.”

“Driver's window was down?”

“Yes, sir. From what I can see, it would be really awkward for someone to reach in to pop him that way.” Sutherland looked as if he expected the Sheriff to say, “What way?”

“Maybe so,” Torrez said quietly.

“I mean right under the chin like that.”

Keeping his flashlight moving, Torrez walked up the right track of the service road. The driver had stopped the Jeep just off the trail, parking in a stand of foot-high weeds, its nose close to an impressive creosote bush. Standing just behind the left taillight, he inspected the vehicle carefully. A rag top, the black canvas was stretched tight, with no damage. However the victim had died, the bullet had not exited through the fabric top. Letting the beam travel down the left flank of the Jeep, he paused and took a step to the passenger side, inspecting the exterior in the same methodical fashion.

Immediately below the passenger door, the scant grass and abundant weeds were bent where someone had walked.

“You came over here?”

“No, sir. To the driver's door, and then back. That's it.”

“Okay.”

An aging Expedition pulled into the two-track and stopped immediately behind the sheriff's. Linda Pasquale, looking impossibly rested and refreshed, did not get out of the vehicle. Instead Torrez's handheld radio crackled. “You want me to come up?”

“Right to where I'm standin',” the sheriff replied. Sutherland stayed put as the sheriff made his way along the driver's side of the small vehicle. The corpse was belted in, head back against the headrest, both hands and a large handgun in his lap. His black sweatshirt was soaked with blood from chin to lap, a thick puddle that washed out over his crotch and drained onto the seat. Torrez bent carefully, folding his six-foot four-inch frame until he could direct the flashlight. The bullet hole was large, with a corona of unburned powder stippling from one side of the man's jaw to the other.

A Raiders baseball cap had fallen off and lay toward the rear of the center console.

The sheriff took a moment to stretch on a pair of latex gloves and then, reaching into the Jeep, gently placed his left hand on the man's head, his fingertips feeling the skull.

“Huh,” he said, and swung the flashlight to focus on the automatic. “Well, that'll work,” he said to no one in particular. The gun appeared new, one of the lower-priced, generic clones of the Colt 1911 .45 automatic. Nothing fancy, just large, dependable, and easy to feed.

“No exit wound?” Sutherland sounded uneasy.

“Nope. Not unless it's somewhere we can't see. But no damage to the canvas top.” He straightened up and beckoned to Linda Pasquale. “Everything,” he said. “Isolate the handgun in his lap, gettin' closeups where you can. Everything else. The wound is under his chin, and I need that, too. And find a way to get me some of that rifle case that's layin' on the floor in the back.”

Sutherland's flashlight swung that way. “I didn't see that.”

“You weren't supposed to be lookin',” Torrez reminded him. “You were supposed to call it in and secure the scene. That's what you did.” He glanced at Linda. “By the time you're done, maybe Doc will be here,” Torrez added. “You can open both doors, but protect the latches. Gotta be prints there.” He reached out and dropped a huge hand on Sutherland's shoulder. “Prints when Linda's done.”

“Did you want me to call Mears for that?”

“No. You know what you're doin'.” His gaze had drifted to the Jeep's tires, aggressive tread that left a clear print in the dirt. “Willin' to bet…” Torrez mused to himself.

“Match to the set out on 14?”

“Worth lookin',” Torrez said. “And Linda, when you're finished shootin', I want to check out that rifle case.” For a long moment, he stood by the driver's door, looking at the dead man. Olive skin, heavy features, a gaping mouth that showed lots of metalwork, the whole picture held nicely in place by the seatbelt/shoulder harness. The faint snick of Linda's digital camera reminded him that he was standing in the way, and he moved to the front fender and rested a hand on the hood. Stone cold.

“What'd you come up with when you called in the plate?”

Sutherland looked up from his black plastic field kit and dug a small notebook out of his pocket. “The Jeep is registered to a Miguel A. Quesada, 101 Lincoln Circle in Prairie View Heights out in Tucson.”

Torrez stood behind Linda as she shot a series of the victim's head against the head rest.

“Pretty ghastly.” She reset the camera and took several more from different angles. “Gun in place?”

“Yep. Everything, right from his shoes on up.”

“I think he was holding more than the official eleven quarts,” Linda said.

“Head shot like that, the heart keeps on pumpin' for a minute or so.”

“I needed to know that, sir.” She shot a withering glance at the sheriff.

Torrez shrugged. “You're doin' good.” He straightened up at the approach of another vehicle, Dr. Alan Perrone's red BMW. The slightly built, dapper physician swung out of the car and closed the door gently. He took a moment to pull on latex gloves.

“How are you folks doing this lovely morning?”

“Okay. Linda's about finished the driver's side.”

“Snowbird?” He tipped his head, reading the Arizona license.

“Maybe Tucson,” Torrez said.

“He found a nice quiet corner of the planet,” Perrone said. “By the way, I just talked to Dr. Guzman. He's happy with the way Bill's condition has stabilized. They expect him to go into surgery in a couple of hours.”

“Okay. So we won't know nothin' until mid-morning or so.”

“Most likely.” Perrone nodded at the Jeep. “I have a clear path?”

“Yep.”

For several minutes, the physician looked at the human wreckage from a distance, face locked in a severe frown. Eventually, he reached out and touched the corpse on the neck. “Someone made damn sure.” With both hands he worked the head this way and that as Torrez held both flashlights. “Jammed the gun right into the soft flesh under the jaw. Lots of gas damage, stippling, all of that. A contact shot.”

He examined the jaw, fingers light on both sides of the face. “Some cadaveric spasm, both here and in the hands.
That's
not so unusual.” He straightened up and pointed with his own penlight. “Both hands curled hard, but not around the gun.”

“I'm thinkin' that the gun was placed there afterward,” Torrez said, and Perrone glanced up at him.

“I'd bet on it. And immediately so. It's right in the center of that blood bath. It just doesn't look as if he was hanging on to it.”

“So not suicide.”

Perrone made a small grunting sound. “Not likely.
Unexpected,
maybe.”

“No exit's kind of unusual,” the sheriff said.

The medical examiner nodded. “And
that's
interesting, with a big gun like this one. I mean, a forty-five is no magnum, but from the ones I've seen, there's plenty of power there to disrupt the vault of the skull. Be interesting to see during autopsy.”

He examined the victim's body, the flashlight beam brilliant against the reflective blood wash. “No other wounds?” He pulled the seatbelt outward a little. “Somebody got close to him. Surprise, surprise.”

He stepped back and removed the gloves. “You can go ahead and call it in,” he said. “There's not much I can do with him out here.” Torrez nodded at Sutherland, who tended to the radio.

“I'll let you know if there's anything else of interest,” Perrone said. “If I had to guess right now, I'd bet on the one wound. There's always room for a surprise at autopsy, but I'll put my money on the one. The blood's starting to crust around the edges of the flow, so a couple of hours at most. The jaw is frozen open from spasm, but the arms aren't showing much rigor yet.”

He turned in place. “No neighbors, and parked off the street far enough that no one noticed the vehicle sitting here. How'd Sutherland find it?”

“He noticed.”

Perrone smiled at the sheriff. In the distance, they heard a heavy diesel, and the noise echoed and amplified as the ambulance passed under the interstate, then slowed to turn into the lane. The show of emergency lights died.

“I'll let you know,” Perrone said. “And you'll call in the I.D. as soon as you have it.”

“Yep.” But it was another half hour before Torrez was satisfied that the corpse could be moved, and the two EMTs remained at their unit, out of the way. The pistol itself presented a problem, since the slide was fully forward, and the hammer cocked. Torrez snugged a nylon zip tie around the hammer, blocking it. Should the trigger be jarred somehow, the hammer would jam harmlessly against the nylon. He snicked the safety up as well, but otherwise left the lethal pistol alone. With a short aluminum cleaning rod down the barrel, Torrez gently lifted the gun clear of the swamp of blood and eased it into a large evidence bag. Sutherland handed him a large, bright yellow adhesive label that announced “Loaded gun,”
and the sheriff left the rest of the evidence tag labeling to the young deputy.

“Make sure we find the empty casing,” Torrez said. “The way the gun was held, it might have gone right out the window. Or if he had it twisted, bounced off the door.”

“Maybe the shooter picked it up?” Sutherland asked.

“Bettin' not. Why bother, and then leave the gun behind?”

“Right there.” Linda Pasquale had been leaning in the passenger side documenting the recovery of the gun, and she pointed at the crease between the carpet and the transmission hump where a single brass cartridge case had lodged.

“Huh,” Torrez muttered. He made a pistol out of his right hand, index finger extended. Mimicking the assassin, he turned sharply left, ramming the gun hand into the air, barrel upward. “Bang,” he said. “Shell kicks out and up if it's held the one way. Gonna bounce off somewhere up above him.” He twisted his hand, as if holding the gun upside down, a natural enough position. “Holds it like this, the shell goes down, bounces off his chest, and onto the floor.” He bent down and aimed the flashlight beam at the inside of the canvas roof.

As soon as the casing was safe in an evidence bag, he beckoned to the EMTs.

“Before you zip him up…” Torrez said, but Tom Sharpe, a tall and angular man with a shock of white hair, waved him off with an air of impatience.

“I know, I know,” Sharpe said. “You can have all the time you need.”

Sharpe and his partner, Doug Baca, a morbidly heavy young man whose girth tested his uniform buttons, levered the corpse sideways from the Jeep. Baca studiously avoided examining the victim's face as Sharpe bent to disentangle the uncooperative feet from the pedals. With the black body bag spread out on the gurney, they lifted and swung, settling the corpse on the bag with an undignified thump.

“He's going to want to do the pockets before we zip him up.” Sharpe's tone was officious, odd since Baca had been an EMT for ten years longer than the former pastor. He made a point of noting the sheriff's gloves. “Always a smart thing to do,” he said. Torrez ignored him.

“No robbery.” Sutherland looked at the wallet Torrez retrieved from the man's right hip pocket…the sort of long, slender accessory that would be more at home in the inside pocket of a suit coat than in the jeans. The wallet bulged with money, and the sheriff thumbed through it.

“All right,” he said, and pulled out a laminated card. “Arizona. Issued to Miguel Quesada. Tomorrow's his birthday.”

“Some present,” the deputy offered.

“Yep.” The wallet yielded nothing else. “Two grand and a license.” With no further comment, Torrez accepted the large evidence bag from Sutherland. Except for a tube of lip balm, the man's other pockets were empty. He handed the bag to the deputy, and gently lifted the tail of the sweatshirt, drawing it up the torso. The fabric was soggy with blood, some of which had soaked through the loose weave. “Linda,” the sheriff said, and she stepped forward quickly. “Just one to show there's nothin' there.”