Come Dark (11 page)

“Better'n scattered all through a barn.”

Chapter Eleven

In deference to Estelle's first guess, the bullet tracks that had snuffed out Clint Scott's life were labeled one through four, beginning with the bloody groin shot and ending with the point blank round through the heart. Two of the wounds were through and through.

Number one had not exited, but showed huge bruising near the spine. Number two, the axillary wound, had entered on the left, then coursed across through the victim to plough a large, messy exit wound below his right arm at the back of his armpit. The third shot, dead on through the right chest, had not exited. “And even with a powerful handgun, that's not unusual,” the physician said. “We'll find it during autopsy, probably snuggled up against the heavy spine of the shoulder blade, or maybe buried in a vertebra. No telling. But this…” He rested one hand on the victim's raised shoulder, pointing at the exit wound of the final heart shot.

“Unless what we think are obvious wound paths end up fooling us, I'm going to bet that this round blows straight through, just barely missing the spine, and then exits to smack into the floor tile.” He touched a cracked, chipped portion of the tile a foot from the drain, still under an inch of water. “It hits here, still with some energy, ricochets up off the floor and enters the victim's upper back. In fact…” and he poked hard with two fingers at a spot near the wing of the shoulder blade, just beyond the wound carved by the ragged secondary entry of the ricochet. “If you feel right there, I think that's number four
in situ.”
He drew patterns in the air. “Down, almost straight through, out, ricochet, back in again. It didn't penetrate very far after that.”

He looked up at Bob Torrez who nodded, not appearing the least bit surprised.

“Essentially, the victim was thoroughly dead before number four. From the first three shots, his insides were just blown apart. The blood loss would have been huge, since his heart hadn't been altogether ruined yet. I mean, at this point, we don't know. Number two could have grazed the back of his heart on its way through. We won't know until autopsy. But after those first three shots, about all he could do, if he was conscious at all, was lie there and take it.”

He relaxed his hold on the body and stood up with a middle-aged grunt, pushing a lock of blond hair back with his wrist. “When you find the gun, your ballistic tests will show how far away it was held for that final shot, but I'm guessing three or four feet, at the most.” He pointed an index finger at the corpse and let his thumb drop. “Like that. Standing right beside him, and boom. Standing maybe on that side of the body, maybe this. I don't know, but it sure as hell spells
hate
to me.”

The physician held out his hand to Estelle, who held the small evidence bag with the recovered bullet. “You know off the top what that is?”

She handed it without hesitation to Bob Torrez, who slipped a new acquisition from his pocket—half-glasses for close work. He peered at the slug, even as he had when they had found it near the base of the far wall. “I'm thinkin' either a .38 special or a .357 mag. Same bullet in either cartridge.”

“Someone should have heard it,” Estelle remarked.

“I'm kinda thinkin' .357, with all the damage. If it was just a .38, it was loaded hotter'n shit. Plus-P, probably. Somethin' like that.” He looked at the bullet. “We got no shell casings ejected in here, so unless the killer picked up after himself, we're talkin' revolver. Ain't many autos that shoot either one. And you gotta wonder why just four rounds fired, in a weapon that holds five or six.”

“He saved one or two for later,” Perrone said with morgue humor. He held up both hands. “The victim has been lying in a nice deep pool of cold water, so TOD is going to be a little bit tricky. Lividity says this is where he fell and this is where he stayed.”

Torrez nodded at Tom Mears, who had been standing in the shower doorway.

“I talked to the janitor for just a moment on the way in,” Mears offered. “He said that when he was cleaning up after the game yesterday—last evening—he heard Scott call good night. So sometime between nine or so until Lavin found him this afternoon. That's our window.”

Perrone nodded. “He's well into rigor, though. It wasn't as recent as even late this morning.” He shrugged. “I'll tell you what I can after autopsy.”

The physician reached out and shook hands first with Torrez and then Estelle, the clasp of rubber gloves making an unpleasant sucky sound. “Good luck with this. I don't envy you. I always thought Coach Scott was something of a primo don, but it's also my impression that he was well-liked. Worshipped by some of the kids, I'm sure. This is going to be hard. Maybe forty-four years old, but still vibrant. Still young enough to elicit some idol worship.”

Lieutenant Mears stepped aside to let the physician pass. “Sheriff, Superintendent Archer is here and wants to see you.”

“I bet he does,” Torrez muttered, and Mears held up a finger.

“And…”

“And what?”

“Coach Avila is here now, outside. And Frank Dayan is also here. Who do you want first?”

“Tell Frank to go home,” Torrez snapped. “We ain't got nothin' for him.”

“He won't leave like that, you know.” The newspaper publisher could be counted on to complain, only half joking, that the Sheriff's Department had staged this event the day
after
the weekly
Posadas Register's
publication day, giving competing news organizations a week's head start on the scoop.

“With any luck, most everyone is still out at the mesa,” Estelle said. “Miles was serving a fancy lunch. I'm surprised Frank chose to miss that.”

Torrez glared at her as if she had notified the press. “What, he wants a picture of this on Page One?” The sheriff knew better than that, of course, but he'd never met a newspaper he would even wrap fish in, including the local
Posadas Register.
Estelle knew Torrez to be as adverse to publicity as Coach Clint Scott had cherished it.

“Tell Frank that I'll talk with him in a little bit,” Estelle offered. “Make sure he stays outside the tape, though. Not a single footstep inside the school.”

“Yes, ma'am. You want the superintendent first?”

“Just very briefly,” Estelle said. “He has to know what we're up against here, and what
he's
going to be up against come school on Monday morning.”

“You got it. We went through the clothes after we shot a bunch of pictures, by the way. Fiber by fiber. They appear to be the victim's. His wallet, ID, all that, still in place with about a hundred bucks in small bills, along with his car keys, a cell phone, and a pack of breath mints.”

“Bag it all, Tom. Be especially careful with that phone. Messages or pictures, you never know what it's going to tell us.”

“And you want his towel before Archer gets here?” He nodded at the bench where the white towel lay folded neatly by the clothing.

“A body bag will work better.” She waited patiently until Mears appeared again, and they draped the corpse from head to toe under black vinyl. “Go ahead and send Archer back.”

“It's going to be interesting to see how the rumor mill plays this one,” Torrez said.

Chapter Twelve

Estelle left the shower to intercept Superintendent Glenn Archer back in the locker room. A gentle, warm-hearted man, he cherished his school. While no stranger to tragedy, this was the sort of brutal, senseless act that would haunt his dreams, and Estelle tried to think of a way to soften the blow. There was no way. Headlines all too often trumpeted this shooting tragedy or that, but Posadas had been mercifully spared over the years. Now the press would have a field day. Dr. Archer needed to be armed with blunt, unvarnished facts.

The superintendent walked down the row of lockers to meet Estelle and extended both hands as if greeting an old cherished friend…which was, in fact, the case. He had been principal of Posadas High School when the teenaged Estelle Reyes had arrived from Tres Santos, Mexico, for her final two years of high school. He remembered the current undersheriff of Posadas County as a shy, exquisitely beautiful youngster who had blossomed to graduate as salutatorian—whose heavy accent was polished in months until she became completely fluent, completely bilingual.

“This is awful,” Archer said by way of greeting. “My God, I just spoke to Barry Lavin—this is terrible for him, walking in on something like this. What can you tell me?”

“Coach Scott was discovered shortly after noon by Mr. Lavin, sir. Coach was found dead in the girls' shower. He had been shot at least four times. When he collapsed, it appears that he fell on top of the drain, which accounts for the flooding.”

“My God.”

“My guess is that he was shot sometime late last night. That's Dr. Perrone's best preliminary guess. We have a time window from just after the game, when Barry Lavin last talked to the Coach Scott, until just after noon, when his body was found.”

“My God.”

She reached out and held his arm at the elbow. “Sir, we're going to need to talk with a number of people, and we'll start with Mr. Lavin. He's been very patient. Lieutenant Mears conducted a preliminary with him.”

“Yes, absolutely. We'll do everything we can, certainly. My God. And think of his elderly parents…”

“If you would provide Coach Scott's contacts, we'd appreciate that.”

“They're in Albuquerque, you know. His parents, I mean. Parents and two sisters, as I remember.” He looked toward the shower. “Should I…?”

“It's not necessary, sir. The custodian already identified the victim, and of course, we all know him.”

Archer didn't look relieved, but stood with both hands on the sides of his ruddy face as if fearful that his head might pop off his neck. “What happens now?”

“Sir, this building is absolutely off limits to students and personnel until we clear it. That may not come until early next week. It just depends.”

“Oh, my. I think it would be best just to close school for a couple of days, come Monday, don't you?”

“That would work best on all accounts.”

He leaned against a locker, his face gray. “No one saw anyone…?”

“We don't know that yet, sir.”

“Of course. Of course.” He looked back toward the coaches' offices, his head shaking slowly. “Is there anything you need?”

“Thank you, sir. We have the State Police Crime Lab unit on the way. They have some facilities that we lack. I have to confess that we're not hopeful that something magical will pop up to clear all this, but still. We'll take any assistance we can get.”

“Should I…?” he hesitated, not able to frame the words of what he should do.

“It would be helpful if you would remain on campus and available. Everyone else is in Lordsburg today for the conference, and that's a big help, keeping the facility clear. But if you would stay? We may need keys to access various parts of the building that our master doesn't open, and we'll need employee information. If you'd be in your office for a while?”

“Certainly, certainly. As I said, I spoke just briefly with Mr. Lavin on my way in. He's most distraught. I'm wondering if he might need some medical attention.”

“We'll see. The EMTs are just outside across the parking lot, if need be. We're going to need his cooperation, painful as that may be for him.”

“I'm sure…no doubt of that.”

“But for now, we're isolating him in the office.”

“You don't think that he…?”

“At this early stage, we go one careful step at a time. And, sir…if we're not careful, this is going to turn into the worst kind of media circus. The press is in town in a big way, number one because of the game last night, and second because of the
NightZone
train deal. The most popular coach in the state found murdered the day after the game is going to dump lots of fuel on the fire.”

She looked hard at the superintendent, forcing his attention. “The press will want to talk with you. For right now, I'm going to ask that you stick to the simplest script. Do
not
let yourself be drawn into a discussion of the crime scene, or the investigation. Sir, you
know
that somebody is going to ask you what you think. Could the killer have been a jilted lover, could it have been an angry fan of the visiting team? Could it have been robbery? Could it have been this or that? Please, sir. Just stonewall. Refer questions to me or to Sheriff Torrez. You might take a minute and compose a stock answer for the phone calls when they come. And they certainly will.”

“Coach
Scott.”
Dr. Archer shook his head in disbelief. “Such a talented man. Such an asset to the school.” He heaved a deep breath and straightened. “This is going to be hard, Estelle. His second grade class—
they
won't understand something this horrible. His team, his friends on the faculty…my God.”

“Yes, sir. It would be helpful if you'd pull his personnel files for us.”

“Certainly.”

Her cell phone vibrated. The text message from Lieutenant Tom Mears was brief. “Coach Avila to the SO now. After we finish here, I'll start the process with her. We have the game DVD as well.”

The superintendent thrust out both hands and folded Estelle's right hand in his. “You'll call me? For absolutely
anything?”

“Count on that, sir. And sir, be careful of what you tell Frank Dayan. He's a local, he's a friend, and the tendency will be to discuss this tragedy prematurely. Stick to the same statement with him that you give the others.”

“Frank?” Archer looked stunned, as if suddenly realizing that the school was going to be Page One news—and not celebratory cheering, either. The story would swell until even the national anchors would wallow in it.

“I was told he's waiting outside. At this point, we don't know any details.”

“And nor do I.” He grimaced, closed his eyes, and shook his head. “I should see the crime scene, I suppose. I don't want to, but I suppose I should. Someone from the school should.”

“If that's what you wish, I'll escort you down there, but ask that you don't step in the water, or into the shower room itself, sir.” Her tone took on an edge. “And
do not
discuss the crime scene with anyone else. I mean that literally, sir. Not with your secretary, not with Mrs. Archer, not with Frank, not with AP or UPI when they call. Not with any of the television or radio crews.” She squeezed his arm. “We can't afford that sort of complication just now.”

She hooked an arm through his and led him toward the shower, feeling the resistance in every step. A man now in his mid-sixties, he moved as if he were ninety. He reached out his free hand and grasped the side of the doorway when they reached the showers.

“Evenin', Glenn,” Sheriff Torrez said as if they had casually met on the street corner for a chat. With surprising daintiness, Torrez reached down and peeled the body bag away just far enough to expose all four wounds.

“Oh, my God.” Archer's voice was muffled behind his hand clasped over his mouth. “Who would…?” He shook his head, staring at the corpse for a long moment before his eyes wandered around the shower room. “All of this is just beyond my comprehension. Just unbelievable.” He turned away, his head still shaking. “You know,” he said to Estelle, “the school is such a closed community. And we try to keep it that way. We know the world is full of all kinds of horrors, but I think sometimes we embrace the old
NIMBY
so much that when something does happen, some awful thing like this…”

The torrent of words stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He ducked his head, jaw slack. Estelle thought for a moment that he was about to vomit. He shook his head helplessly again. “Thank God kids weren't in school. That they didn't see him like this.”

He reached out a hand and took Estelle by the elbow. “I'll be in my office until you say otherwise.” He tried to smile. “Any little thing you need, and no worries about the hour. I have a sofa. Just let the phone ring. Of course, who's going to sleep?” He started to turn away, then stopped.

“The last time I spoke with Mr. Scott…on Monday, I think. I mean I went to the game last night, too, but had to leave a few minutes early. The score was like twenty-five to two, and Coach Scott had every second- and third-string player off the bench to play. He gave the visitors every chance. But, anyway, last Monday, he was in his classroom, with those
tiny
second graders. Of course, they looked even smaller because Mr. Scott is such a big man. He was down on the floor, on his hands and knees, making a game out of some arithmetic concept. He had three of the kids hanging off him as if he were their private pony or something.”

Archer tried to laugh. “He told me afterward that this was his last year for second grade. ‘Too hard on the back,' he tells me.” Archer shook his head slowly. ‘“Too hard on the back.' He's requested a transfer to high school. He has the certification, so why not? Work where you're happy. The elementary program will hate to see him go.” Archer's face crumpled when he remembered that Clint Scott was not going to transfer anywhere.