Out of Season (6 page)
“Your unit?”
“The other Bronco. It’s still out in the arroyo.”
I chuckled and leaned against the vehicle. “That’s the least of our problems, that’s for sure. Forget it. I’ll have one of the county wreckers go out and haul its sorry carcass out of the sand. Don’t worry about it.”
Tom Pasquale nodded, relieved that he didn’t have to move just then. Another pair of vehicles had arrived, sending up dust plumes from the new road that had been cut across the Boyd property. Most of our department was accounted for. Estelle was back at the office, and if someone robbed a bank, she and Gayle Sedillos would have to handle it, with Linda Real lending some unofficial help.
“Do you know what he was doing out here?” Pasquale asked. He pushed himself to his feet. He was a head taller than I am, forty years younger, and he outweighted me by forty pounds. As bad as he felt just then, I could see he was hungry for answers, and that was a good sign.
“No idea, Thomas.”
“I don’t understand why he and his brother-in-law would be flying over this place, anyway. There’s nothing here.”
“Just sightseeing, maybe.”
Pasquale shook his head in disbelief. “What’s there to see? The sheriff hated to fly almost as much as you do.”
I looked at him sharply. “How do you know that?”
He ducked his head. “Well, that’s what everybody always says. If he wanted to tour, I can’t imagine him choosing to do it in the weather we had yesterday.”
“So what else comes to mind, son?”
“His brother-in-law just got done flying all the way down here from Canada. And Sergeant Mitchell said that Camp had been flying planes for twenty-five years. I can’t imagine he’d be so eager to jump in a plane and tour Posadas County just before dinner. He’d be tired. The weather was bad.” He shook his head doggedly. “It just doesn’t make sense, is all.”
“So Camp was a veteran pilot?”
“Sergeant Mitchell said the two wives were talking about that. That’s why they couldn’t believe that anything bad could have happened.”
“Well,” I said, “something did happen. It’s that simple.”
Pasquale nodded and looked off toward the horizon. He took a deep breath and hitched up his Sam Brown belt. “Sir, when the feds get here, may I ask to be assigned to them?”
“I’ll mention it to Sergeant Torrez, Tom.”
He turned and looked at me. “I screwed up a lot over the years, and it was Sheriff Holman who finally gave me a chance and hired me on. I’d like to be a part of finding out what happened out here.”
“I’ll talk with Torrez,” I repeated, and didn’t bother mentioning that the single biggest roadblock to Pasquale’s hiring had been myself. When the kid finally had proved to us that he had a head on his shoulders, I’d approved his application.
Sheriff Martin Holman had been willing to give Tom Pasquale a chance; he’d sounded willing to do the same for Linda Real. He’d had good reasons for both, I was sure, since no man that I knew hated the thought of making an incorrect decision more than Marty Holman.
There were dozens of reasons that should have kept Martin Holman from sliding into that Bonanza on that choppy, blustery afternoon at Posadas Municipal Airport. Tom Pasquale was right. We needed to know the one compelling reason that had pushed Martin Holman and his brother-in-law into the air.
Janice Holman hugged me, wordlessly, for a long time. I looked over her shoulder at her two daughters, Ellie and Tracie. They were trying their hardest to be brave and thoughtful and considerate for the sake of the two dozen or so people who cluttered the Holman living room just then. Except for the long faces and tears, it could have been a gathering for a political brunch.
Despite Sheriff Holman’s continual fight with them over nickels and dimes during the rest of the year, two of the county legislators—Tobe Ulibarri and Sammy Carter—stood now by the sofa, each uncomfortable and stiff, each balancing a coffee cup for want of anything better to do.
Janice shifted position with a loud sigh and half turned so that she could put an arm around Estelle Reyes-Guzman. The three of us remained motionless for another thirty seconds or so, and everyone else in the large living room left us alone.
“Janice,” I said finally, “we need to talk with you and Vivian, if you can manage a few minutes.” Estelle turned to intercept one of the Holmans’ neighbors who couldn’t help but press in at the wrong moment. The detective engaged the woman in quiet conversation while we pulled away.
Martin Holman’s wife nodded and leaned close. “Let’s try the back porch,” she said. She almost managed a smile. “I think Vi is out in the kitchen.”
The mid-morning sun hadn’t touched the redwood arbor over the back porch, but the air was warm and soft. In a moment, Estelle and the two women stepped out. Janice Holman immediately walked over and took my hand in hers, as if afraid I might stray away more than a step or two.
Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, nevertheless bored directly into mine. “We won’t know what caused this for some time, will we?”
“No,” I said. “We’re expecting investigators from the National Transportation Safety Board this morning. If there are answers, they’ll find them.”
She nodded slowly, reaching out as she did so to take Vivian Camp’s hand as well.
“We need to know if there was any particular reason why Martin and Philip went up yesterday afternoon,” I said. “It would help if you can remember anything they talked about, anything at all. Was it just impulse or what?”
Janice Holman closed her eyes, whether against the pain or just to help herself think—or both—I couldn’t tell.
“The only thing I can remember,” she said, “is that Martin had been telling Phil that there was only one little corner of the county he’d never seen from the air.” She shrugged helplessly. “Phil and Vi were planning to leave tomorrow for home, so maybe it was just one of those spur-of-the-moment things.”
“You don’t remember anything specific, then?”
She shook her head.
“Do you remember when he said that? About there being a part of the county he wanted to see from the air?” It seemed to me that the comment in itself was unusual. I’d known Marty Holman for a decade, and flying was far from being a passion with him—or even a passing interest. On the rare occasions when I’d requisitioned Jim Bergin’s charter services for the department, Holman had always blanched at the cost.
She shook her head again, but Vivian Camp said, “We were out to dinner Tuesday night, and Philip and I had been talking about all the trips we’d taken around the country. Martin said that he didn’t care anything at all about flying, but that he’d managed to tour most of the county.” She blinked. “He said it for a joke. We’d traveled the whole country, and he’d managed to cross the county.”
Estelle Reyes-Guzman had settled on the corner of a large planter, her hands clasped in her lap, shoulders hunched forward as if she were chilled. “Janice, yesterday afternoon, before the two men went down to the airport, did they mention to you, or to either of you, why they were going flying at that moment? Or where they were going?”
“Phil was saying that as the sun went down, the air would get smoother,” Vivian said. “That’s all I can remember him saying.” She wiped at her left eye. “I wasn’t paying any attention.”
Janice squeezed my hand. “Could they have talked to Jim?”
“Jim Bergin said he was caught up doing something when they came in and that he exchanged only a word or two with them over the radio as they taxied out. Apparently Phil said something about being back within the hour.”
Estelle shook her head, gazing off into the distance. “How long had you folks owned that airplane?”
Vivian flinched, and I saw the muscles working in her jaws. “We bought it new in nineteen eighty-four. Phil was proud of the fact that in fifteen years, he was the only pilot who had ever flown it.”
“It was like new, then.”
“‘Pampered’ would be a good word,” Janice said, and I was surprised at the lightness that she could force into her voice. Vivian didn’t disagree with the assessment.
“And you’ve been down here before on different occasions?” Estelle asked. “Visiting family?”
“At least once a year,” Vivian said.
“So there was no particular reason why Phil would want to show Martin anything about the plane. No new paint job, no new special avionics, nothing like that?”
She shook her head, and Estelle added, “The sheriff had been up in that airplane on other occasions?”
“Yes. Several times. Last year we flew to Phoenix for a weekend.”
“I remember that,” I said.
“Did you have any trouble of any kind with the aircraft on the flight down from Canada?” Estelle asked.
“None,” Vivian Camp said quickly. “Not for an instant.”
I looked down at the porch floor and frowned.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Bill,” Janice said.
“I don’t know what to think,” I replied and took a deep breath. “Janice, the NTSB people will want to talk to you both, too. I’ll make sure they call first. But it’ll be helpful if each of you can think back to the conversations you had in the past day or two. Anything at all that can give us a clue.”
“God,” Janice Holman said heavily. “What I’d give to be able to tell you something.”
“I know,” I said, and squeezed her hand. “It’s going to be rough. But we’ll do all we can. I’ll be by off and on, but you call me at any time if there’s anything I can do.”
Estelle and I drove away a few minutes later, leaving Janice Holman and Vivian Camp to cope with their houseful. Thinning the numbers by two was probably the most helpful thing we could have done for them.
Estelle’s dark face was set in a frown, her black eyebrows furrowed, as we drove out of the neighborhood.
“I think we need to find out why they went sightseeing late in the afternoon of a rough day when they had no need to do so, when there wasn’t the attraction of a new plane, or of a first-time ride or anything like that. When Martin didn’t even particularly like to fly,” I said.
“And the feds will be looking into Phil Camp’s record, too,” Estelle said quietly.
“Sure. I’m no crash investigator, but it’s obvious to me that the plane hit the ground at a shallow angle, traveling at high speed. Maybe the sort of thing that would result from buzzing the ground. Hotdogging.” I glanced over at Estelle. She was still frowning.
“Do you have time now to run by and talk with Jim Bergin?” she asked.
“That’s where I was headed next,” I said. I glanced at my watch.
But the airport manager had no magic answers for us. Although he hadn’t talked to either man before the Bonanza departed on its last flight, he had watched from the far end of the big hangar while Phil Camp did his preflight inspection.
“I’ve met Phil Camp a number of times,” Bergin said, leaning back in his swivel chair, his left hand resting on top of the radio console. “He’s always impressed me as a careful, considerate pilot. I watched ’em when they took off, because it was so bouncy. Camp didn’t do anything fancy. No steep climbs, no turns out of the pattern halfway down the runway, none of that shit that we see all the time.”
“Could the crash have been caused by engine failure, do you think?” I asked.
Bergin grunted. “That was a good, strong airplane. But things break. The crash could have been caused by one of ten thousand things. But if the engine had quit out there over the prairie, someone as experienced as Camp would have had ten dozen places to pick for a landing spot. And even if he miscalculated his approach and dumped it into a bar ditch or something, that airplane still would have been traveling at only eighty or ninety knots when it touched down. On top of that”—he waved a hand as he groped a cigarette out of his pocket with the other—“the wind was kickin’ and he’d have been headed into that. So subtract twenty knots, and his actual touchdown speed would have been fifty, sixty knots.” He took a deep drag and exhaled. “And that Bonanza was flat humpin’ when it hit the ground. It wasn’t mushing in for a landing. Nosiree.”
“I can’t see Phil Camp or Martin Holman wanting to chase coyotes,” Estelle said.
Jim Bergin shot her a quick glance. “That’s the usual way pilots get in trouble,” he said. “Too low and too slow. He wasn’t slow. How old a man was he?”
“Camp? I think fifty-two or three, maybe. He was older than Holman by a bit.”
“Heart attack, maybe,” Bergin said. “Who the hell knows? That plane had one of those swing-over control yokes. If Camp had died suddenly, he could have fallen forward on the yoke, maybe. Holman would have had hell trying to get him off and swinging the yoke over so he could use it—assuming that he knew how.” Bergin shook his head and gazed out the tinted window at the asphalt. “The feds will find some answers for you. It’s probably something so simple we’ll be surprised we didn’t see it.” He grinned. “They’ll take their own sweet time, of course.”
His telephone rang and he twisted to pick up the receiver. I was about to say something to Estelle when Bergin said into the phone, “Yes, he’s here. You want to talk to him?” He grunted something else and then handed me the phone. “Sam Carter,” he said.
I took the receiver. Carter had seen me at Holman’s only moments before and could have talked to me then.
“Gastner,” I said.
“Bill, Sam Carter. Listen, can we get together sometime today for a few minutes?”
“Well,” I started to say, but Carter interrupted me.
“It’s really important. I know you’re busy, but if you can spare just a handful of minutes, I’d appreciate it.”
“I guess,” I said without much enthusiasm. “Estelle and I are about wrapped up here.”
He said something I didn’t catch, then added, “I mean, can I meet with just you? I need to talk to you personal-like.”
“I’ll be at the sheriff’s office in a few minutes. You want to stop by?”
“How about my office in an hour?” he said quickly, and I didn’t see the point of arguing.
“See you then,” I said and handed Bergin the phone. “Jim, thanks. I’m sure this place is going to be the center of the storm for a few days.”