Kerney had picked up his pregnant wife at the Albuquerque airport last night before starting a two-week vacation. Their baby was due any day, and on top of that Kerney was having a new house built on some ranch land he’d bought outside the city.
But the chief’s policy was clear: No matter where he was or what he was doing, he was to be informed immediately about every homicide or major felony that occurred within the city limits.
Reluctantly, Molina dialed Kerney’s number.
Lt. Colonel Sara Brannon handed the telephone to Kerney and watched his expression change from consternation to vexation as he listened to Sal Molina. She’d just told him that when her maternity leave ended she would start a tour of duty at the Pentagon in a plum strategic planning position that would put her on track for promotion to full colonel. He wasn’t at all happy about it.
“What is it?” she said after Kerney hung up.
“Nothing good,” Kerney answered. “A lawyer has been shot and killed outside the courthouse.”
“You’d better go,” Sara said, shifting her weight in the kitchen chair to ease the pain in her back. In the last two weeks being pregnant had become increasingly uncomfortable.
“They can get along without me for a few more minutes,” Kerney replied, giving Sara a long, unhappy look across the kitchen table. “I thought you were trying for an assignment closer to home.”
“Believe me, I did.” As a Military Police Corps officer, Sara wore the insignia of crossed pistols on her uniform. “The only possibility was with the 14th Military Police Brigade at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. But there were no slots available at my rank.”
Kerney nodded and studied his wife’s face. Fast approaching her mid-thirties, Sara was fifteen years his junior. Even with the extra pounds she’d gained during pregnancy, she was lovely to look at. She had strawberry-blond hair, a slender neck, a small line of freckles along the ridge of her nose, sparkling green eyes capable of both warmth and chilling scrutiny, and lips that could smile generously or tighten quickly into firm resolve.
“What about resigning your commission?” Kerney asked. “I recall a conversation we had about that possibility.”
“I’m not ready to do that,” Sara said. “You knew I was a career officer when you married me.”
“Things have changed, we’re about to become parents.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Sara said forcing a smile and patting her tummy. “I’d totally forgotten.”
“We can talk about it later,” Kerney said flatly as he got to his feet. Sara’s sarcasm annoyed him, but he didn’t want to quarrel.
“I thought you had the time,” Sara said.
“Not for this discussion,” Kerney replied with an abrupt shake of his head.
He left the kitchen and returned wearing a holstered sidearm and his shield clipped to his belt. He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and went quickly out the door.
Determined not to cry or throw her coffee cup against the wall, Sara decided to draw a warm bath and take a long soak in the tub.
Kerney arrived at the crime scene to find Potter’s body covered with a tarp. A large number of onlookers were clustered in the courthouse parking lot watching television reporters broadcast live feeds about the murder to network affiliates in Albuquerque. One reporter started shouting questions at Kerney from across the street.
He ignored the woman and took a quick tour of the evidence markers which, except for the bloody footprints, looked like nothing more than street litter. But if they found a suspect, DNA testing of the cigarette butts that had been marked as evidence might prove valuable.
He bent down and uncovered Potter’s body. Jack’s handsome, wide-eyed features were frozen in shock, and his bloody hands were pressed against a dark stain on the tank top just below the entry wound in his chest. Potter had died hard.
Jack had started his law career with the district attorney’s office a few years before Kerney first joined the police department, and Kerney knew him well, professionally and socially.
After a fairly long stint as an ADA, Potter had opened a private practice specializing in criminal law, quickly becoming one of the most sought-after defense lawyers in the city. When he came out of the closet as an advocate for same-sex marriages some years later, it didn’t hurt his reputation in Santa Fe one bit.
Of all the prosecutors Kerney had worked with in the district attorney’s office, Jack had been the best of the lot. Outside of the job, he was charming, witty, and fun to be around.
Kerney flipped the tarp over Jack’s face and stood. Inside Potter’s office he found Sal Molina talking with Larry Otero, his deputy chief and second-in-command. He nodded a curt greeting to both men and turned his attention to Molina. “Fill me in, Sal, if you don’t mind repeating yourself.”
“Not a problem, Chief,” Molina said. “Potter was shot once in the chest at close range. I’m assuming you saw the blood trail on your way in.”
“I did,” Kerney replied.
“He crawled down the sidewalk and died in front of his office. The ME estimates Potter was shot about fifteen minutes before his body was discovered. We’re canvassing the area, but so far we haven’t turned up anyone who either witnessed the event or heard the shot.”
Kerney glanced around the front office, once the living room of a modest residence. It was nicely appointed with matching Southwestern-style furniture consisting of a large desk, several chairs, a couch, and a coffee table. Two large museum-quality Navajo rugs hung on the walls, and a built-in bookcase held neatly organized state and federal statute books. The door to Potter’s inner office was closed.
“Have you ruled out robbery?” Kerney asked.
“Pretty much,” Molina replied, “as well as burglary. We’ve only done a plain-view search so far, but the office and his car appear undisturbed. There are no signs of breaking and entering and the vehicle hasn’t been tampered with. Both were locked, and Potter had his keys in his possession when he was shot.”
“Also, his wallet containing three hundred dollars and his credit cards is in the bathroom, along with an expensive Swiss wristwatch,” Otero said.
“Where’s his secretary?” Kerney asked.
“She showed up a few minutes ago,” Molina said. “Detective Pino has her over at the courthouse, conducting an interview.”
“Is Pino the primary?” Kerney asked.
“No, I am,” Molina replied.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Kerney said. “Get the secretary over here soon. Have her double-check to see if anything is missing.”
“That’s the plan,” Molina said.
“What have you learned from her so far?” Kerney asked.
“She says that unless Potter had a court appearance or trial scheduled, he worked abbreviated hours during the summer months,” Molina replied. “He’d come in early, go running for a half hour or so, and then shower and change here before starting his day. He usually finished up by mid-afternoon.”
“Several neighbors have seen Potter running in the morning, and he keeps a change of clothes in his office closet,” Otero said.
“So Potter kept to a daily schedule,” Kerney said, “which means this might not be a random shooting.”
“That’s the way we read it,” Molina said.
“Have you contacted Jack’s life partner?” Kerney asked. Norman Kaplan, Potter’s significant other, owned an upscale antique shop on Canyon Road.
“According to Potter’s secretary, he’s in London on a buying trip and not due back for three days,” Otero said. “I called his hotel, but he’s not there. I’ll try him again later on.”
“Are there any other next of kin?” Kerney asked.
“Not that we know about yet,” Otero answered. “But the story is already on the airwaves, thanks to the photographer who showed up before our people arrived on the scene.”
“What happened?” Kerney asked.
“He walked through the blood trail, took pict
ures, and called the newspaper on his cell phone to tell them Potter had been gunned down,” Molina explained. “Detective Pino had to order him away from the crime scene.”
“Do we have this bozo in hand?” Kerney asked.
“Yeah, he’s outside in the panel truck cooling his heels, waiting to give a statement,” Otero said. “He’s not too happy about it.”
“Have a detective take his statement and then arrest him for tampering with evidence and interfering with a criminal investigation,” Kerney said.
“Those charges probably won’t stick, Chief,” Otero said.
“I don’t give a damn if they stick or not,” Kerney said. “Let the DA sort it out.”
Otero eyed Kerney, who was usually levelheaded when it came to dealing with the media. He wondered what was biting the chief. It had to be more than a stupid photographer’s mistakes. “Are you sure that’s what you want us to do?” he asked.
Kerney bit his lip and shook his head. “You’re right. It’s a dumb idea. Put a scare into him, instead.”
“We can do that,” Molina said.
“Get a handle on this fast, Sal,” Kerney said. “Let’s find someone with a motive—friends, clients, enemies, you know the drill.”
Molina nodded.
“I’ll talk to the reporters,” Otero said.
“Give them the usual spiel, Larry,” Kerney said, heading for the door, “and keep me informed. Call me on my cell phone.”
The bald-headed man waited inside the courthouse until the cops finished canvassing the onlookers and moved away. Then he joined a cluster of people who were watching TV reporters talk excitedly into microphones with their backs to the crime scene as camera operators got good visuals of Potter’s tarp-covered body lying on the sidewalk.
He smiled when a stern-looking Kevin Kerney came out of Potter’s office and walked quickly down the street. Several newspaper reporters jogged behind crime scene tape that held them at bay, yelling questions that Kerney waved off.
Soon Kerney would suffer from far more than the unpleasantness of Jack Potter’s death. With all that had been put into play, plus what was yet to come, Kerney would quickly realize his world was about to disintegrate. If Kerney proved slow on the uptake, the bald-headed man had devised ways to give him a little nudge or two in the right direction.
He turned on his heel and walked way. It was time to return to his war room and gear up for the next phase of the plan.
The spat with Sara had put Kerney in a bad mood, and Jack Potter’s murder only added to it. He decided to cool down before going home, and drove to the South Capitol neighborhood where Fletcher Hartley lived. In his seventies, Fletcher was a highly regarded Santa Fe artist, a retired museum director, and an old friend who’d assisted Kerney in a major art heist investigation several years ago, during his tenure with the state police.
A colorful eccentric, Fletcher was a prominent fixture in the gay community and a potential source of good information about Jack Potter’s personal life.
Fletcher’s sprawling adobe was nestled at the bottom of a large sloping lot behind a beautifully landscaped, expansive front yard filled with hedges and trees that screened the house from the street. Situated in a neighborhood of older homes lined up in tidy rows, Fletcher’s hidden rural oasis was the crown jewel of a charming, residential area that still retained a small-town feel.
Kerney rang the doorbell and listened to a Beethoven piano sonata that flowed through the open windows of the front room. Fletcher opened the door clutching a book. He wore his favorite kimono and a pair of screaming-pink silk pajama bottoms. Reading glasses were perched on his nose, which had recently been made perfect by plastic surgery. Fletcher fought the aging process by every possible means. In the past, his cheeks had been lifted and his wrinkles tucked to give him the face of a fifty-year-old.
Kerney had heard about the nose job, but hadn’t seen it until now.
“I know,” Fletcher said with a smile, noticing Kerney’s quick appraisal, “I’m a vain old coot.” He turned to give Kerney a view of his improved profile. “Do you like it?”
“You look great,” Kerney said. “Sorry to bother you so early.”
“Pooh,” Fletcher said, smiling broadly at the compliment. “You know full well that I am always home to visitors. I thrive on distraction. Come in, dear boy. Join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee.”
Kerney sat at the large antique Spanish Colonial table, where he’d spent many pleasant hours chatting with Fletcher, and told him about Jack Potter’s murder. On an open shelf above a kitchen counter, a small menagerie of hand-carved wooden folk art animal figures—two chickens, a rabbit, and a pig—overlooked the scene.
Fletcher’s cheery expression vanished. “You can’t be serious,” he said, his voice filled with dismay. He filled Kerney’s coffee cup with a shaky hand and replaced the carafe in the coffeemaker. “This is tragic.”
Kerney nodded solemnly. “What can you tell me about Jack that I don’t already know?”
“You can’t be thinking that Norman had anything to do with it,” Fletcher said as he sat across from Kerney.
“Norman is in London. He doesn’t know what happened, unless of course Kaplan hired a contract killer.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Fletcher replied. “This will break the poor man’s heart. They were such a loving couple, perfect for each other. How familiar are you with Jack’s private life?”
“Until he came out, I just figured him to be the confirmed bachelor type,” Kerney said. “I’ve met Norman socially, but Jack never talked to me about any of his personal relationships or his family.”
“Until Jack met Norman he’d kept his sexual orientation out of public view,” Fletcher said. “His love for Norman helped him realize that being gay was something to openly celebrate. As far as family goes, he was an only child and both his parents are dead. He is close to an aunt who is retired and lives in Tucson. Jack and Norman visit her several times a year.”
“Do you have a name?” Kerney asked.
“Maude is her first name, I believe,” Fletcher said. “But I’m sure Norman will know how to get in touch with her, or Jack’s secretary should.”
“Did he have any lovers before Norman who caused him trouble?” Kerney asked.
“He had a long-standing affair with a rather troubled young man whom he supported on the Q.T. for several years. Jack paid the rent, gave the boy expense money when he wasn’t working, and bought his clothes. It was a May-September affair. The lad was a good twenty-five years younger than Jack. It was also common knowledge that the boy was not mentally sound.”
“How so?” Kerney asked.
“He was in and out of the psychiatric ward for fits of depression and suicidal tendencies. When he was stable, he worked as a waiter. But as time went on, he became more unbalanced, less able to hold a job, and totally promiscuous. Jack had no choice but to end it.”
“Did it end badly?”
“In chaotic uproar,” Fletcher replied. “But Jack kept it under wraps from the straight community.”
“Do you have a name to give me?” Kerney asked.
“That’s a story in itself. The young man’s name was Matthew B. Patterson. It’s now Mary Beth Patterson. He had a sex-change operation up in Colorado six years ago. It made a world of difference for him.”
Kerney finished his coffee and put the cup aside. “In what way?” he asked.
“Matthew was small-boned, almost petite, and very feminine, with soft doe eyes and pretty features. But he wasn’t at all the swishy queen type. There was a woman hiding inside his body, and once Mary Beth emerged his depression and self-destructive tendencies seemed to vanish, at least for a time.”
“Aren’t sex-change operations expensive?” Kerney asked.
“Indeed. Jack paid for it as a settlement to the affair.”
“And to keep it quiet?”
“That also,” Fletcher replied. “All this happened before Jack and Norman became a
n item.”
“So did the problem with Matthew go away?”
Fletcher nodded. “Only to be replaced by the arrival of Mary Beth on the scene. She came back fully expecting Jack to marry her, which of course he did not do.”
“Then what happened?” Kerney asked.
“Mary Beth took on the characteristics of a hysterical, wronged woman. She tried every ploy to get Jack back, including stalking him for a time.”
“Did she make any threats?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How was the situation resolved?”
“When Jack rejected her advances, she mutilated herself with a knife by cutting her arms and then called for an ambulance to take her to the hospital. The doctors diagnosed her as a borderline personality. Jack paid for her medical care, sorted out her disability benefits, and got her into a group home for mentally ill adults. She met another patient there and fell in love with him. They’ve been living together ever since they moved out of the group home.”
“How do you know all this?” Kerney asked.
“Partially from Jack, but Mary Beth’s lover is my new gardener. I’ve only employed him for a couple of months. His name is Kurt Larsen. He’s much older than Mary Beth and suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Where can I find Mary Beth?”
“They live in an apartment complex run by a mental health clinic.”
“I know the place,” Kerney said.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Tell me about Larsen.”
“Kurt is quiet but pleasant, except when something triggers his war experiences. Then he becomes agitated, out of sorts, and drinks heavily. When he comes to work sullen and hungover I always know that he’s had one of his episodes. He’s a Vietnam veteran, an ex-Marine.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Fletcher,” Kerney said as he went to the sink and rinsed out his coffee cup.
“I’d like to say it’s always a pleasure to assist the police,” Fletcher replied with a rueful smile. “But this is so very sad. I must do something to help Norman get through this.”
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