Come Dark (12 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Leaving the sheriff and Lieutenant Tom Mears to finish with the preliminary survey, including more blood and tissue samples from the swath on the wall and a complete survey of the locker room itself, Estelle found a fretting Barry Lavin in the coaches' office. He was no longer sitting, but paced nervously as if he'd been corralled inside an electric fence.

“Mr. Lavin, thanks for being so patient.” She shook hands with him and found his grip cold and clammy.

“Probably don't have much choice, right?” His grim smile showed teeth that ended with the first pre-molars. “I told the lieutenant everything I know, so…”

Estelle sat down in a swivel chair, pulling it out from behind the desk, and waved Lavin toward a heavy wooden chair. Surveying the three teachers' desks, all relics from half a century ago, she asked, “So which of these is Coach Scott's?”

“His office is on the other side of the building. Outside the boys' lockers. Him and Head Coach Harvey and Coach Avila. Coach
Emilio
Avila, I mean. When he's got work to do in here for volleyball, he uses Coach Marilee's desk on this side. That way, nobody needs to go huntin' for him.” Lavin pointed at the desk beside Estelle. “Emilio's better half. Marilee is, I mean.” Pulling out a hideously dirty handkerchief, he blew his nose loudly, then regarded the cloth distantly, as if he really didn't see it. “Never seen
nothing
like this.” He shook his head, clearly not referring to the hanky.

Estelle withdrew her notebook. “So tell me what happened from the final game buzzer onward.”

He ran a hand through thinning hair. “Well, like I told the lieutenant, we deal with the mess. We start up in the gym, push the bleachers in, run the big floor mop and bag up all the crap. Volleyball ain't too bad. Nowhere near the draw of basketball. With a small crowd, it don't take long.”

“You say ‘we.'”

“Oh. I mean
me.
”

“How long does it take to finish the gym?”

“Not so long. Push the bleachers in, wheel the net supports back out of the way, roll the net…then run the chem mop. Maybe half an hour.”

“Then?”

“By then the kids are finished down in the locker room. Visitors are over on the boys' side, our gals over here. I can hear 'em.” He rolled his eyes. “I mean our kids. Whoopin' and hollerin'. They are the
noisiest
flock of chicks you ever heard. I can
hear
'em in the locker, in the showers…” He hesitated, then continued, “When they run screechin' down the hall to outside. And then the cars drivin' away. I'm out by the front doors then.” He grinned. “Tryin' to keep some peace in the parkin' lot. And I gotta say good night, you know. I've known these kids since they were…” and he held a hand three feet off the floor. “When I drove the activity bus, you know. You see 'em all day, every day, over the years. You get to know 'em.”

“I would imagine so.”

He looked at her sideways, slyly. “I know your two, Sheriff. That younger one, he's a pistol. Asked me a couple weeks ago if he could run the floor waxer.” He laughed a brief cough. “I can see it, the orbital standin' still and old Carlos whippin' around, hangin' on to the handles for dear life.”

“You said no, I hope.”

He smiled as if to say, “silly question,” but instead said, “I don't think there's a single thing on this earth that he
isn't
interested in.”

Estelle felt the acute pang of knowing that when she returned home, she would have to find a way to explain Coach Scott's death to her son, who had enjoyed immensely his second grade year with Clint Scott just three years before.

“So the spectators leave, then the team leaves.”

“Yup, except for a few parents waitin' out in the parkin' lot for the slow ones.”

“Then?”

“Then Coach Marilee follows the last girls out. Always does. She don't leave until they're all gone.”

“Did she speak to you?”

“Said good night. I told her to enjoy the day off. Don't think she thought that was funny. That teachers' workshop thing, you know. I saw her out in the parking lot a bit ago, so I guess she didn't attend over in Lordsburg.” He shrugged.

“And then? After the last one is gone?”

He regarded his hands carefully, brows furrowed. “Then I go back in and polish the hall floor. Got some little stinker who likes to kick black marks along the floor tile. Can't let that stay, so I polished the hall. Done with that, put the polisher away, and checked the doors. The doors to the locker room are closed and locked, and I holler ‘good night' to Coach Scott, 'cause I can see the light is on in the office. He hollers back for me to have a good weekend.”

“He stayed behind when you left?”

“Yeah.” Lavin hesitated. “That ain't unusual. He's got to call the game in to the newspapers…with this winnin' streak the Jags got goin', there's some interest in this little old backwater place.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, those were the last words I ever heard him say. ‘Have a good weekend.'”

“And you're sure it was his voice you heard?”

Lavin looked puzzled. “Of course, I'm sure.”

“So as far as you're concerned, the building is locked up, and all is quiet when you leave. And Coach Scott is hard at work in this office.”

“That's right. And he ain't one to ignore the newspapers or TV, that's for sure.”

“Everything locked. Even the back door.”

“Especially that one, 'cause the locks don't work like they should. That's why we have the chain around the push bars. That latch is worn, and it's just as apt to stick open as closed.”

“I remember those when I was here a hundred years ago.”

Lavin smiled. “Ain't been
that
long, Sheriff. Now,
I
was here a hundred years ago, and I remember when this scared little Mexican kid started here.” His eyes crinkled, and Estelle purposely avoided the urge to reminisce.

“So,” and she pointed first at the doors outside the office, “locked, locked up in back, and locked out front.”

“Yup.”

“And the doors on the other side of the building?”

“Locked. I checked 'em soon as the last of the spectators and visiting team left.”

Estelle regarded him thoughtfully, and he met her gaze, his eyebrows finally lifting as if to say, “So? Now what?”

“When I walked down the hall a few minutes ago, I could look up the back team stairway and see the back doors.” The “team” stairway, identical to the one just inside the front foyer, allowed teams, or physical education classes, to run directly from the locker room up to the gymnasium, bypassing all the classrooms.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“The chain is not locked now.”

He looked as if she'd slapped him. “'Course it is.” He rose from his chair.

“Show me.”

Chapter Fourteen

They left the coaches' office and once in the hallway turned right, up the stairs. The outside doors were closed, the hand bar closed, but the chain hung loose, the large padlock open.

“Please don't touch,” Estelle said quickly as Lavin reached out toward the lock.

Lavin backed up a step, and stabbed a finger at the offending door. “This door was
locked
. I know it was.”

She peered through the door's wire-mesh glass. A sidewalk circled the building, and ten feet out from the sidewalk, a chain-link fence skirted the parking lots.

“I open it in the morning, when school is underway, and lock it up at night. Fire marshals would have a cow if they knew it was chained up during school hours with this place full of kids. Can't do that, 'cause if it's chained, you can't get in, you can't get out. First thing in the morning—maybe about seven—I open it. Last thing in the day, I lock it.”

“Last night, after the game, after everyone has gone, you checked this door?”

“I did.”

“Rattled the chain, checked the lock?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Nope. I
looked.
I mean it's pretty obvious if that big old lock is undone, doncha think?”

“I would think so.”

“Besides, the chain wasn't hangin' down like that. It was snugged up proper.”

“Mr. Lavin, I hope you're impressed with how important this is,” Estelle said gently. “Someone either stayed behind in this building after everyone else had left—someone
besides
Coach Scott—or someone entered, perhaps through this door. Maybe they were invited. Maybe not. But if it's at all related to the homicide, we have to know with complete certainty.”

He squared his shoulders a little, adding an inch to his five-foot-seven. “Look, Sheriff, I know when I got to cover my ass and when I don't.” He pointed with authority, stabbing the air, indicting the door and its sagging chain and lock. “That door was locked secure Wednesday night. I know it was, 'cause I opened it first thing on Thursday morning. I locked it Thursday night after the game, after everybody left. Period. End of story.”

“Who has keys other than you?”

“There's a set on the keyboard in the principal's office. Central office, for sure. Coach Harvey's got one, bein' head coach for football and track.” He paused. “And Coach Scott has one.”

“Would he have any reason to unlock this at the end of the day…once you'd made sure it was secure?”

“Can't think of one.” He shot a sidelong glance at Estelle. “You're sayin' that he let someone in?”

“I'm not suggesting anything, Mr. Lavin.” She pulled the small phone off her belt and touched the autodial for Tom Mears. “Lieutenant, I'm on the landing by the back door. Have you finished the print survey out here?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“When you checked back here, was the door open at that time? What was the position of the chain and lock?”

“It was hanging loose, Estelle. I photographed the whole deal, tried for some prints, especially off the push bar, but there were so many people around, the prints aren't going to mean anything. I have one or two from the brass lock, just partials. Unless there's something else you found,” Mears replied.

“The back door. It was apparently unlocked sometime
after
the game.”

“We processed inside and out.”

“What a mess. With the game, there's going to be herds of people in and out. We're not going to be able to separate anything out.”

“Well, it's worth a try,” Mears said. “By the way, you know that photo of the tagger art that's circulating from this morning? From the
NightZone
railcar?”

“I have a copy.”

“Right. They got almost the same thing on the back wall of the school. Go out that back door and you'll see it on the wall. They didn't finish, but got a good start on it. It's high enough up that they would have had to have used a ladder.”

Estelle fell silent, digesting that. “I haven't been out there yet. I'll look now. You took photos of the graffiti?”

“Yep. I mentioned it to the sheriff, but he wasn't too excited about it. Did you have a chance to read Bishop's report on that MVA last night? The one with the Garcia kid?”

“I saw that.”

“A ladder he had stowed in the truck bed went through the back window when he smacked into the utility pole. Bishop found two spray paint cans rolling around in the truck bed, and a backpack with several more in the cab. I told Bishop to follow up on it and talk with the kid whenever he can. He's in sad shape, though.”

“Bishop should do that sooner rather than later,” Estelle said.

“You got it. I told the sheriff about the back door being open.”

“An easy invite.”

“Yup. By the way, I left the area to meet with Coach Avila and her husband down here at the office. You'll want to talk with her. And there's a video you need to see.”

“Of the game?”

“A little more than that, considering the circumstances.”

“I'll be just a few minutes more. Thanks, LT.”

She beckoned Lavin. “The lieutenant says that you have problems with graffiti.” Using her elbow, she pushed the left side of the double doors open. The shade was cool behind the building. She held the door for the custodian. “Stop here on the concrete, sir.”

“Now and again we get the taggers, but we clean it up right away.” Lavin saw the partial art panel, spread across the difficult surface of the brick. “Well, shit.” He stepped back and regarded the work, his face beet red. The spray painted rendition was complex, even though obviously unfinished, a genuinely artistic mix of rich colors, predominantly yellow, green, and black, with high lights of blue, red, and purple. The tagger had managed to finish only one corner, with a few outlining strokes promising much more.

“This is something new, then?”

“Yeah, it's new. I check out here all the time. Kids like to smoke out here, you know. Makes a goddamn mess. It wasn't here earlier in the week, I know that. Most of the time, they like to hit the back walls of the two portables that face the parking lot. Smoother and easier to paint, I guess. ”

“How about last night?”

“Couldn't tell you. I didn't step out here last night.”

“This looks like it would take a small fortune in spray paint by the time it's finished,” she said. By reaching upward, she could touch the bottom border of the rhomboid design. The paint was fresh, but dry. She broke the skin of a tiny rivulet of over-run, and the color was still tacky.
An easy match,
she thought. Sergeant Howard Bishop was a methodical man, and he would have collected the paint cans from the wrecked truck from the night before.

“Gettin' this off the brick is going to be a son of a bitch.” Lavin's head wobbled from side to side. “They think that's all we got to do, is clean up after 'em.”

“This is a good spot to choose,” Estelle said, more to herself than Lavin. “Odds are good they wouldn't be seen working at night, but it's up high enough that people driving by would see it come daylight. They didn't have a chance to finish. A long way to go, in fact.”

“I ain't no art connoisseur.” Lavin punctuated the word with considerable venom.

Estelle palmed her phone again, this time reaching Bob Torrez.

“Yep.”

“Bobby, if you have a minute, can you come out back?”

“Yep. I'm lockin' this place down, anyway. EMTs took the body, but the SPs won't be able to come for a while. I think we got it covered. Interesting tracks, but ain't much else to go on.” The sheriff didn't elaborate, but Estelle knew that he would, at the appropriate time.

As she waited for him, she moved away from the wall, all the way back to the chain-link fence. The sun on the fence was so warm she could smell the hot steel. Lavin remained on the concrete step in the shade of the school, watching the undersheriff's every move.

When she happened to glance his way, he shook his head. “I ain't sayin' to ignore it,” he said, “but it seems like you got bigger problems inside. A good man dead, I wouldn't think you'd care much about some penny ante vandalism. That's more our problem than yours.”

“I agree,” Estelle replied. “Except for the timing.” She rubbed her hands together. “Everything points to the tagger—or
taggers—
being here last night. You have loud gunshots
inside
, in the quiet of the night. Somebody
outside
might have heard something, even with the shots muffled by the building. This paint isn't cured, which means the tagger was here recently. Maybe last night after the game.” She studied Lavin for a moment, and he looked away. “And didn't finish. Something interrupted his work.”

“Hadn't thought that way.” He looked up at the graffiti with fresh interest. “You gotta wonder. They carryin' their own ladder around now?”

“That may be exactly what they're doing.”

“Well, that's up there a ways.” He snorted. “Next thing you know, they'll be drivin' around in a bucket truck like the power company so they can reach the high spots. What a goddamn…” Lavin chopped off the curse as the sheriff appeared in the doorway, opening the door with his elbow against the upper corner of one of the glass panes.

“Huh.” Torrez regarded the graffiti. “Mears told me about this. Sometime since when?”

“The paint is still tacky in some of the thick runs,” Estelle said. “With the dry, hot weather, it had to have been recently. I'm thinking maybe even last night. They wouldn't work during the daytime. I'm curious about why they didn't finish.”

Torrez watched Estelle as she took several photos, including a series of the two deep scuff marks where the ladder's legs had dug into the gravel.

“After the game, maybe. They'd run the risk of being seen any earlier. Sometime during the night. And there's a possibility that they saw or heard something. Maybe heard what was going on inside.”

Torrez looked dubious. “One thing we ain't got time to do is chase taggers all over town.” He let his breath out in an exasperated hiss.

“You saw Bishop's report on the MVA last night?”

“The Garcia kid? Yeah.” She saw the flash of connection cross his handsome face. “Well, shit.”

“Bishop will check the contents of the truck. But so far, we have a ladder, and we have spray paint cans. And the timing fits.”

Torrez glowered at the wall, eyes narrowed. “That little rat.” He turned and nodded at Estelle. “Did you talk to Waddell in the past few minutes?”

“No. Did everything go all right with the train ride this morning?”

“I guess. I ain't heard otherwise. But he's got one of these up top.” Torrez nodded at the graffiti. “Right on the face of the big dish.”

Estelle stared at the sheriff in astonishment, and he shrugged. “That's what he says. I was thinkin' of takin' a run out that way after a bit. I don't really give a shit about what some tagger's been up to, but the drive will give me some time to think.”

“It's not like that dish is just sitting out in the middle of the prairie unguarded, Bobby. That's serious trespass. They cleared the chain-link and all?”

“Yep. That ain't a big deal for some little squirrel.”

Estelle stood still for a moment, gazing at the graffiti. “Maybe they'll be back here tonight to finish,” she mused.

“Not with all the cops around,” Torrez grunted. “And not if it was the Garcia kid. He's beat up pretty bad. If he's the tagger here, he ain't going to paint
anything
for a long time.” He turned his back on Lavin and lowered his voice even more. “We're gonna do another sweep in the shower when things dry out, but what we got now is the one slug that hit the wall, and a few chips of tile that cracked off. Nothin' else until Perrone is finished with the autopsy. Nothin'.”

He stretched up to his full height. “Remember, like you ain't got enough to do, we got us a mom that's gone missing on top of everything else. Where are you headed now?”

Estelle hooked her hand through Torrez' elbow and walked him to the corner of the building, out of Lavin's earshot. “When I'm finished with Lavin, I need to talk with Coach Avila. And LT says that I need to look at the game video. I don't know what he's found.”

“Some bad guy sittin' in the bleachers, givin' Scott the evil eye?”

“Who knows, Bobby. I'll tell you one thing…we don't need Coach Scott's last moments going viral on the Internet.”

“Who shot the video? Don't one of the kids usually run the game camera?”

“There you go. My point, exactly. The contents of that camera chip could already be spread around the world via Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, you name it. Maybe we'll be lucky and catch it before that happens. That means talking to the camera kid to make sure he hasn't burned a copy.”

Torrez shook his head slowly, frowning at Estelle. “Tell him that if you see anything from the game tape showin' up on the Internet, we're going to put his sorry ass in jail.” He glanced back toward the doorway. “I keep bein' reminded that Frank Dayan is outside. You want to talk to him on your way?”

“I'll make it a point.” Estelle was surprised that the sheriff had given any thought at all to the editor's presence. “And I'll make sure that I touch bases with Leona as well. I'm surprised she's not standing at the front door right now, pounding on the glass.”

“She does that, and
her
sorry ass will end up in jail,” he harrumphed, but he softened it with the faintest of grins. “Maybe she's learned a few things over the years.”

“Maybe.” But surely, Estelle thought, County Manager Leona Spears would not be denied basic information that
she
could feed to the hungry press. “Give me a few minutes with Lavin to finish up.”