The Diaz family welcomed Teresa Reyes and her daughter as if the Mexican family had been waiting a decade for that very day. In the dining room, a large, slab-topped table was covered with food and drink, but the ponderous, high-backed wooden dining chairs had been drawn back against the walls, well out of the way so that people could circulate around the table and then, with plates full, retire to the comfortable study in the adjoining room.
None of the rooms of the Diaz home was large. All were low-ceilinged and round-cornered with walls fortress thick. The house included no space wasted in hallways. Instead, a tour of the home would pass through each room on the way to the next, the entire affair encircling a simple inner courtyard.
In the study, a narrow, deeply set window looked out on the tiled courtyard, and with great solicitation, Teresa was guided to a comfortable love seat by the window. Her oxygen tank was placed reverently by her side.
With a weary, almost theatrical shake of her head, Teresa declined the first offers of food and drink, but within minutes Estelle saw with amusement that her mother was enjoying a substantial plate of food—along with a remarkably robust tumbler of dark red wine.
The Diaz home was a wonderfully cluttered museum of the woodcarver’s trade, and the study had become the focal point for the exhibition. Carvings ranged from tiny, whimsical creatures of the desert to large, prancing horses standing nearly four feet high. Each creation became a member of the family until it was sold but Estelle could see that several pieces on a shelf behind Roman’s desk were obviously cherished family members of long standing. Roman had first touched knife to wood half a century before, at age six. The first horse he had carved, a grotesque little creature with ponderous head and wire legs, still pranced on a brass base on his desk.
Folded in the comfortable, aromatic support of a leather chair in Roman’s study, well-fed and with a glass of wine in hand, Estelle let her eyes roam around the study as the conversation drifted from topic to topic.
“Now, you must tell me…” was Don Roman’s favorite introductory expression as he grilled Estelle about her family and life beyond Tres Santos. Rather than a mere two years, the last visit with the Diaz family seemed several lifetimes distant, and Posadas now very far away.
Of the eight Diaz children, all but Roberto were home, and at various times made their appearances. Through the blizzard of reminiscences, Estelle made a point to glance Tomás Naranjo’s way for the first signs of impatience. But Naranjo was as relaxed as if he were spending a week with his good friends. Soft-spoken and self-effacing, the state policeman spent most of his time in conversation with Mateo Diaz, the second eldest of the children—a thin, arthritically bent young man of perhaps nineteen or twenty.
Naranjo sat in a heavily carved rocker, a monstrous chair that rested on its own rug to protect the Saltillo tile underneath. His left leg from toes to midcalf was encased in a black plastic orthopedic boot. “It is nothing,” was the sum total of information he dispensed about his injury. He waved off any sympathy with an impatient shrug of dismissal, but when Marta Diaz moved a leather ottoman within range, he accepted it.
Mateo had shown him a collection of small wood carvings, and Naranjo looked at each carefully, handing some back to Mateo, setting others on the floor next to his chair. From time to time, as he sipped from his wine glass, his eyes met Estelle’s and a ghost of a smile would touch his face.
“Now, you must tell me,” Roman said for the umpteenth time that afternoon, “what of the clinic? Is it true that your husband is to open a medical clinic in Posadas?”
“That’s true,” Estelle said. “We hope that ground breaking is within the month.”
“Ah,” Roman said. “That is wonderful news. You have acquired the land and all, then.”
“Yes. Almost five acres from
Padrino
.”
“He’s well? We don’t see as much of him as we used to.”
Estelle nodded. “Busier than ever. He’s working for the New Mexico Livestock Board now as one of their inspectors. He enjoys it.”
Roman scrunched up his face in doubt. “I was a little bit worried about him when he retired, you know. So many years, and then…” He ended Bill Gastner’s law enforcement career with a slight chop of the hand. “But I’m pleased to hear that he’s staying busy. This one over here,” and he nodded toward Tomás Naranjo, “he stays busy too, even with his misfortune.”
Naranjo grinned and shrugged. Roman Diaz carefully set his empty plate on a small table whose top was a fine mosaic of ceramic tile. “I know that you two need to speak in private.” He flashed a smile at Estelle.
With a grace that belied his injury, Naranjo eased himself out of the chair, at the same time placing the small wooden horse he had been holding with his earlier selections. “My wife’s shop will be graced by these,” he said to Mateo. “As always.” He turned toward Estelle. “Suppose we take a stroll around the grounds?”
Roman began a protest, but Naranjo waved it aside. “It’s a sprain. A simple sprain during an unguarded clumsy moment. This magic boot allows me to walk with no discomfort at all, and the physician tells me that the more I make use of it, the faster I’ll heal. So”—he held out a hand toward Estelle—“may we speak for a few moments?”
“Business, business, business,” Teresa Reyes said from across the room. “The affairs of the world.”
“We’ll be but a moment,” Naranjo replied, and Teresa glowered at him with half-serious impatience.
“We have much to talk about as well,” Teresa said, including the ebb and flow of Diaz family in a graceful sweep of her hand. “But remember,
Estelita
. We’re expected home at five.”
Somehow, Naranjo managed with only a slight limp as he and Estelle strolled outside to the parked vehicles. “Your mother is a remarkable woman,” he said, switching to English. “I’m sorry to see the oxygen bottle.”
“Getting her to use it is a challenge,” Estelle replied.
“We can all hope to be so acute at that age,” Naranjo said. He leaned against the tan Toyota, arms folded across his chest, regarding Estelle. “You’re looking well,” he said. “No harm done during the visit to the north country.”
“An interesting experience,” she said.
“The same could be said of camping on an iceberg floating in the North Atlantic.”
Estelle laughed. “I suppose.”
“It’s good to have you back.”
“Thank you.”
Naranjo shifted his gaze to a point near one of the mines on the far hillside. “I confess that it took me by surprise when I heard that Sheriff Torrez had named you as undersheriff.” He looked back at her. “A tribute to his good sense. But it’s a post you’ve held before, is it not?”
“Yes, sir, I did. And for that go-around, it was for the grand total of one week.”
Naranjo laughed and pushed away from the vehicle. He turned in place, scanning the countryside. “I’m sure you’ll find happiness now. This is such a picturesque place,” he said. “Your mother was an institution here.” Estelle remained silent. Naranjo smiled. “And your great-uncle, of course. But that was another time.” He sighed. “And now I understand you have something of a mess on your hands.”
“I have some photos in the car that I’d like to show you,” she said. “It’ll take me just a moment.”
“The stroll will do me good,” Naranjo said. “But before I forget…” He turned, opened the door of the Toyota, and retrieved a brown envelope. As they walked toward the Guzman vehicle parked in front of Teresa Reyes’ house, he extracted a photo, glanced at it, slid it back in, and pulled out another. He handed it to Estelle. The photograph was of professional quality, and bore a gold sticker on the back announcing
El Estudio de Gutierrez
in Asunción. It showed a large wedding party gathered on the front steps of the church. In center front, the bride and groom were radiant, the train of her dress arranged so that it swept down the remaining steps in front of her.
“This man right here,” and Naranjo reached over as Estelle stopped. He pointed at the figure standing immediately behind the bride, a large, robust man obviously delighted with his daughter’s match. “Is Juan Carlos Osuna. He is a building contractor in Ganos, a man of some distinction. As a matter of fact, the beautiful facade of this church that you see behind him? That is a restoration job completed only last year by Mr. Osuna’s company. The church stands at the head of the square in Asunción. Beautiful, no?”
“Surely.”
Naranjo took the photograph in exchange for two others. “And that,” he said, “is what Mr. Osuna looked like three weeks ago.” In the first photo, a man’s body was sprawled on barren desert, one boot in the shade of a runty acacia bush. The corpse lay on its face, both arms spread as if the man had been flung to the ground and skidded to a stop on his stomach. A blue cap lay several feet away. The second photo was a close-up, and Estelle winced.
“It appears that the first shot grazed the left side of his neck from the rear,” Naranjo said. “Perhaps not even enough to knock him down. The second round struck him in the back of the head, as you can see, and exited out the front.”
“And not from particularly close range, either,” Estelle said.
“Indeed. Such a blast from close range would have left residue, would have parted the hair—all those kinds of things.” He touched the photo with a careful finger as if the image might smudge. “The blood on the left hand is interesting. It’s Mr. Osuna’s own. It’s almost as if, upon feeling the first grazing wound that he slapped his left hand to his neck, so.” Naranjo brought his own hand up quickly to his own neck. “In other photos, you can quite clearly see that the blood ran profusely onto his hand, and down his wrist, as we would expect if he were standing so, with his left hand pressed to his injured neck.”
“And then the second round hit him in the back of the skull.”
“That’s what I think happened, yes.”
“Where did this happen?”
Naranjo accepted the two photos and slid them back into the envelope. “There is a small road that lies between Ganos and Asunción. The country is as you saw in the photograph—bleak and desolate. The body was discovered less than a hundred meters from the road, less than ten kilometers from Asunción.”
Estelle resumed her walk to her car, head down, her hands clasped behind her back. “Motive?”
Naranjo pursed his lips and shrugged. “Robbery, I think. Osuna was traveling back to Asunción late in the afternoon on a Saturday, four weeks ago. Among other errands, he was returning with pay envelopes for his five workers.”
“He had a crew still in Asunción, then?”
“Most assuredly. They have been working on the central fountain in the square. It’s a most impressive project, more than such a modest village could ever afford. It is entirely donated by Mr. Osuna and his company.” Naranjo raised an eyebrow in question when he saw the expression on Estelle’s face.
“You talked to the workers?” she asked.
“Of course. The project on the fountain was nearly complete when this tragedy occurred. In fact, among other things that day, Mr. Osuna was bringing a small marble icon that was to be included as a finishing touch. A sculptor in Ganos had created it.” Naranjo nodded his head sadly. “The workmen were so struck by the tragedy that they completed the fountain project over the next couple of days…even without pay.”
“The icon wasn’t taken?”
Naranjo leaned against the front fender of Estelle’s car with a sigh, as if the short walk had been a bit too far. “It was still in his truck, along with various tools and whatnot. Only the money was taken, including whatever funds Mr. Osuna had in his personal wallet, in addition to the pay for his workers. That’s how the body was discovered, you see. His truck was left by the side of the road, and noticed by a passerby. But with the wind and so on, there were no tracks that were of any use to us. A petty theft that ended most tragically.”
He rapped the hood of the vehicle with the edge of the brown envelope. “Carlos Osuna is—was—a rare man, Estelle. He was wealthy, but shared it. He built grand buildings, but always found time to return to his home to lend the strength of his company to worthwhile projects such as the church in Asunción. Revered would be the wrong word, but Mr. Osuna was certainly highly respected. To lose such a life for no reason is a tragedy that our country can ill afford. The pressures on us to bring resolution to the case are remarkable, but so far…we have nothing.” He took a deep breath. “So you see, when you mentioned your case, the similarities came to mind immediately. We have precious little to go on, as you can imagine. When such a thing is not witnessed, and occurs in such desolate country”—he shrugged again—“who’s to know? Sometimes, though, with patience, if you talk to enough people, sometimes something slips.”
“Who’s to know,” Estelle repeated. “You have no evidence from the scene, then, other than the body? No signs of a struggle, no spent bullets, no shell casings? Things of that sort?”
“Nothing. Troopers combed the area on their hands and knees. We have spent hundreds of hours at the location where Mr. Osuna’s body was discovered. Both sides of the road, in an area of ever increasing radius. But nothing. I think we have spoken to every living soul in Chihuahua.” He smiled. “And prayed to a few others.”
“Did your medical examiner have an opinion about the weapon, based on the wound?”
Naranjo made a face as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “So little there, you know. Because the wound was through and through—and in the first case, only a slight graze—there was nothing, or next to nothing.”
Estelle ducked inside the vehicle and rummage through her briefcase. When she straightened up out of the car, she said, “Fragments, you mean?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You said ‘next to nothing,’ Captain.”
“Ah, well. A tiny piece of lead that had peeled off the core of the bullet when it shattered the skull at entry. Nothing else. And certainly not enough to establish the nature of the rifling, or the caliber of the weapon.”
Estelle nodded. “Maybe in time it will help.” She extended the photos to Naranjo. “These are the photos that we faxed to your office.”