The Replacement Child - By Christine Barber Page 0,35

history class. From the hallway, Gil listened to him lecture on the Civil War battle of Glorieta Pass.

Hammond’s voice was almost a monotone as he spoke. “In 1862, a group of Texans invaded New Mexico with the idea of raiding Union forts and recruiting the locals. By March 13, the Confederate flag flew over Santa Fe. The Texans pushed north, camping in Apache Canyon near Glorieta, not knowing that a Union camp was just nine miles away.” It sounded like Hammond was reading a speech, but as far as Gil could tell, it was all off-the-cuff.

Only a few students were taking notes. Most were staring off into space. Hammond continued. “The two groups battled off and on for two days. On the third day—March 28—the Texans claimed victory, but it wasn’t without a price. While the battle was raging, a group of Union soldiers snuck behind the Confederate line and destroyed all their supply wagons. The Texans had no choice but to retreat back to Santa Fe and eventually Texas. The great Confederate plan to conquer the West ended in Glorieta, New Mexico.”

Family history had it that a great-great-great-uncle of Gil’s had fought in the battle. Major José Montoya. He had been the commander of the troops that destroyed the Confederate supply wagons. But Elena had never been able to find any record of him. Or of any other Montoya during the Civil War.

The bell rang and the students started to move. Gil went into Hammond’s classroom and introduced himself. Hammond looked tired, his blond hair carefully combed but his wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Hammond said. “I already told the state police everything.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Melissa?” Gil asked.

“I talked to her Monday when we were leaving school at four o’clock. We just said good-bye and I told her I’d see her the next day.”

“That’s it?”

“That was it.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very intimate conversation for a boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“She was tired, I was tired. And we’d been dating for six months, so that banging-like-rabbits phase was long over,” Hammond said. The vulgarity was out of place, but Hammond seemed not to notice. “Look, Officer. I know what you’re going to ask: Did we have a fight recently? No. Did she have any enemies? No. Did she do drugs? No. Do I do drugs? No. Have I noticed anyone strange hanging around lately? No. Does that about cover it? Oh yeah, you want to know where I was Monday night, since the boyfriend is always the prime suspect. I was directing a dress rehearsal of ‘night, Mother in the gym from six to ten that night. I’m also the drama teacher.”

“That’s a pretty intense play for a bunch of twelve-year-olds,” Gil said.

“I’m surprised, Officer. I thought all you cops read was Tom Clancy and Dr. Seuss.”

Obscenities and insults. Gil wondered if this was normal behavior for Hammond or a result of his grief.

“Mrs. Baca thought Melissa was on her way to see you at your house when she was killed,” Gil said.

“Well, she’s wrong. I was directing the play. Why would Melissa come see me at home if I wasn’t there?”

“Do you know where she was going?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

Hammond pushed his glasses back on his nose, but they were still slightly askew. Gil realized that the lopsidedness wasn’t from Hammond’s carelessness in putting them on, as he’d first thought—one earpiece was crooked, as if they had been sat on.

“She wasn’t having any trouble here with her job or any of the students?” Gil asked.

“No. Everything was fine. Who said otherwise?”

Gil didn’t answer and instead looked around. The classroom was almost full again, but the students were ignoring him and Hammond.

Hammond, now clearly annoyed, said in an exaggeratedly irritated tone, “If you will excuse me …”

Gil handed him his business card and was leaving the classroom when he heard Hammond begin: “In 1862, the Civil War came to New Mexico….”

Lucy showed up at the Piñon fire station at ten thirty A.M.; she was late because she’d had to go back into her apartment twice—once to take her vitamin, the second time to floss her teeth. By the time she got to the station, Gerald Trujillo was waiting for her. The beige building—of course it was beige—was made of a flimsy metal, like a warehouse with huge garage doors. If it had been built in Florida, the first hurricane to hit would have swept it away. The ambulance bay smelled