fifteen,” Estelle murmured, reading over my shoulder.
“And looked twelve,” I said, reading the short biographical information form quickly. “Did Eddie find this guy?” I tapped the space for “parent/guardian” that listed the name Miguel Orosco. “I know a Manny Orosco, but he sure as hell doesn’t have a Las Cruces address…or a kid.”
“We haven’t found him yet,” Torrez said.
I frowned. “Did he check this?” Orosco had listed a Las Cruces address for residence, but it was a post office box number—no street address.
“He’s working on it, sir,” Torrez said.
“There’s not much here,” I said. “The school just lets them walk through the front door like that? Where was she living? In a culvert somewhere?”
Estelle Reyes-Guzman took a deep breath. “A public school isn’t a high security place, sir.” She indicated the handwritten addendum for “shot records” at the bottom of the form where someone had printed “REF/Paddock.” “Dawn Paddock might know about her.”
“She might.” Dawn Paddock had been the school nurse for eighteen years. When my youngest son had busted his ankle playing basketball in gym class, she’d told him to lie down on a cot outside her office for half an hour to see if the ankle felt any better. My hopes for information from her didn’t soar. But it was something.
The rest of the information added very little to the picture. A copy of her schedule showed that Maria Ibarra had been taking all the standard eighth-grade academic courses, along with art and Spanish II as electives. “Do eighth-graders take second-year language courses?” I asked, and Estelle shrugged.
“If she didn’t speak much English, they might have put her in a second-year Spanish class as a way of helping her. Especially if she was an accelerated student. Glen Archer would know.”
I picked up a form labeled Parent/School Cooperative Checklist . The lines for student and parent signatures were blank, as were the twelve items.
“‘I expect my child to act respectfully and be treated with respect,’” I read, and tossed the paper back on the desk. “Cute.” The home language survey form was also blank. “And this is all that Archer had?”
Torrez nodded. “Apparently the girl was new in the district.”
“Apparently very new,” Estelle said with considerable acid.
“Well, she had to have been living with somebody,” I said. I gathered the papers and handed the file to Torrez. “Keep after it, Robert. Talk with the nurse, the counselor, whoever. Get ’em out of bed.”
Estelle was already moving toward the door, and I followed her out into the hall and up the stairs toward Wesley Crocker’s cell.
Crocker wasn’t asleep. I’m sure his interior clock had told him half an hour before that it was time to be up and pushing that bicycle into another bright New Mexico day.
The jail cell was far from bright. Crocker lay on his back, contemplating the ceiling, one arm hooked behind his head.
When he saw us, he sat up quickly and swung his feet to the floor.
“Well, good morning to you, sir…and to you, miss.” He turned slightly and patted the heavy brown blanket just above the hem where the legend POSADAS COUNTY CORRECTIONS had been stenciled in black ink. “I’ve certainly slept on worse.”
I unlocked the cell and motioned him out. “We’d like to talk with you again, Mr. Crocker.” He rose to his feet and I indicated the conference room down the hallway. I didn’t bother with the handcuffs and Wesley Crocker didn’t offer his wrists.
He took the same chair he’d used before and folded his hands on the oak table, expectant.
“Mr. Crocker, you understand that you haven’t been formally charged with any crime?” He nodded and I flipped through the pages of my small pocket notebook. “When we last talked, you said a couple things that puzzled me.”
His eyebrows met over his nose but he didn’t say anything.
I gazed at him for a long
“And looked twelve,” I said, reading the short biographical information form quickly. “Did Eddie find this guy?” I tapped the space for “parent/guardian” that listed the name Miguel Orosco. “I know a Manny Orosco, but he sure as hell doesn’t have a Las Cruces address…or a kid.”
“We haven’t found him yet,” Torrez said.
I frowned. “Did he check this?” Orosco had listed a Las Cruces address for residence, but it was a post office box number—no street address.
“He’s working on it, sir,” Torrez said.
“There’s not much here,” I said. “The school just lets them walk through the front door like that? Where was she living? In a culvert somewhere?”
Estelle Reyes-Guzman took a deep breath. “A public school isn’t a high security place, sir.” She indicated the handwritten addendum for “shot records” at the bottom of the form where someone had printed “REF/Paddock.” “Dawn Paddock might know about her.”
“She might.” Dawn Paddock had been the school nurse for eighteen years. When my youngest son had busted his ankle playing basketball in gym class, she’d told him to lie down on a cot outside her office for half an hour to see if the ankle felt any better. My hopes for information from her didn’t soar. But it was something.
The rest of the information added very little to the picture. A copy of her schedule showed that Maria Ibarra had been taking all the standard eighth-grade academic courses, along with art and Spanish II as electives. “Do eighth-graders take second-year language courses?” I asked, and Estelle shrugged.
“If she didn’t speak much English, they might have put her in a second-year Spanish class as a way of helping her. Especially if she was an accelerated student. Glen Archer would know.”
I picked up a form labeled Parent/School Cooperative Checklist . The lines for student and parent signatures were blank, as were the twelve items.
“‘I expect my child to act respectfully and be treated with respect,’” I read, and tossed the paper back on the desk. “Cute.” The home language survey form was also blank. “And this is all that Archer had?”
Torrez nodded. “Apparently the girl was new in the district.”
“Apparently very new,” Estelle said with considerable acid.
“Well, she had to have been living with somebody,” I said. I gathered the papers and handed the file to Torrez. “Keep after it, Robert. Talk with the nurse, the counselor, whoever. Get ’em out of bed.”
Estelle was already moving toward the door, and I followed her out into the hall and up the stairs toward Wesley Crocker’s cell.
Crocker wasn’t asleep. I’m sure his interior clock had told him half an hour before that it was time to be up and pushing that bicycle into another bright New Mexico day.
The jail cell was far from bright. Crocker lay on his back, contemplating the ceiling, one arm hooked behind his head.
When he saw us, he sat up quickly and swung his feet to the floor.
“Well, good morning to you, sir…and to you, miss.” He turned slightly and patted the heavy brown blanket just above the hem where the legend POSADAS COUNTY CORRECTIONS had been stenciled in black ink. “I’ve certainly slept on worse.”
I unlocked the cell and motioned him out. “We’d like to talk with you again, Mr. Crocker.” He rose to his feet and I indicated the conference room down the hallway. I didn’t bother with the handcuffs and Wesley Crocker didn’t offer his wrists.
He took the same chair he’d used before and folded his hands on the oak table, expectant.
“Mr. Crocker, you understand that you haven’t been formally charged with any crime?” He nodded and I flipped through the pages of my small pocket notebook. “When we last talked, you said a couple things that puzzled me.”
His eyebrows met over his nose but he didn’t say anything.
I gazed at him for a long
Similar Books
