Dead Weight by Steven F. Havill Page A

loader is jacked up, with all kinds of shit under the back axle for safety.” Torrez looked at me and shook his head. “So far, so good. He’s got the wheel and tire off, suspended from the chain. He wants to swing it around to the left, so that it’s on the shop’s concrete apron, and then lay it down flat.”
    He reached out and grabbed the chain that hung from the backhoe’s bucket. “When we arrived, the bucket that was doing the lifting, this one, was right where you see it now. And that’s where it was when he was working. Then the tire was hanging right here, right above the apron. He figures there’s no sense in taking it into the shop. He’s going to break the tire loose right here, using the backhoe.”
    “I don’t follow,” I said.
    “The tire’s flat,” Torrez continued. He thumped the rubber with his boot. “It doesn’t look flat, because it’s so stiff, but it is. In order to have it repaired, or put a new one on, he’s got to break it off the rim. Most of the small shops around here can’t do that. It’s easier just to use the backhoe and break it that way. Push down on the tire, right beside the rim, with a couple of teeth. It’ll pop it back from the rim.”
    “Otherwise you end up pounding on it forever with a sledge-hammer,” Bishop said. He was a big, florid-faced man, almost as tall as the six-foot four-inch Torrez, but with a gut that threatened to pop the buttons on his shirt. He squatted down beside the tire. “And there aren’t any tooth marks along the rim, so he hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
    “After we get some photos, we’re going to do just what he did. If the wheel is suspended here, it makes sense that it was touching the ground, or close to it. If it’s hanging right here, he’s getting ready to lay it down.”
    “Why didn’t he, then?” I said. “Why get off the tractor?”
    “Maybe he needed to spin it around,” Tom said. “If it’s hanging from the chain, it might rotate some. He gets off to manhandle it around so that when he does lay it down, it goes the way he wants it to.”
    “Christ,” I muttered. “This sounds like a two-man job, at least. What the hell was he doing out here all by himself?”
    “Because he was royally pissed at his wife, is one reason. He spent the whole day being pissed. I talked to Bucky Randall for a few minutes last night. That was Jim’s last job. Randall said one of the reasons this machine ended up in the shop is that Jim jammed it backward into a bunch of rebar and speared the tire. His mood wasn’t the best. But this is actually pretty simple,” Torrez said. “I mean, lifting it up is no trick, and then swing it over. Maybe the tire nudged the lip of the concrete and turned some. If it starts to swing, to pendulum, then it’s just easier to hop off and turn it by hand, then take a step and pull the lever to set it down. He wouldn’t even need to be on the tractor to do that. It’s careless, but operators do it all the time.”
    “So he’s standing somehow between the suspended tire and the building. There’s enough space there to lay the tire down. But it drops off the chain and he can’t get out of the way? That doesn’t make sense to me. That tire’s not going to bounce like some crazy beach ball.”
    “No, sir, it’s not,” Torrez said. “And that’s what’s been bothering me all night.”
    “He’d have had to lift it up a bunch for that to happen.”
    “And if the backhoe’s boom is where he last put it, that wasn’t the case. And there’d be no reason to lift it more than an inch or two…just enough to clear the concrete lip.”
    “All right,” I said. “He lifts the wheel and tire. And then, he gets off the tractor.” I held up my hands to mark an imaginary spot in the air. “The tire is hanging from the chain right about here.” I turned and looked at the wall of the shop. An outline of Sisson’s body had been marked on the concrete, behind where I stood. “He’s got