Everyone Dies

by Michael McGarrity

  “More people will be assigned,” Kerney said, “and I plan to help out myself.”

  Sara wiped her lips with a napkin and shook her head. “Think about it, Kerney. We’ve got two homicides, one police shooting, a suicide, the killer’s promise to carry out two more murders—which could very well mean our son and me—and his threat against you.”

  “I know all that, Sara.”

  “If anyone else were the target, you’d be calling out the cavalry. Do you think you can’t ask for help because you’re the police chief? Or is it because you don’t think you’re allowed to be scared about what’s happening to us?”

  “I am scared. But that isn’t going to get in my way of doing the job.”

  “It’s my job too. I’m going to work with you.”

  “This is a police matter.”

  “I’ve got a valid United States Army criminal investigator ID card in my wallet. Give me a desk, a computer, and a telephone, and I can run every potential suspect you have through the military records center in St. Louis to see if they have prior service. Under federal law, none of your people can do that. Who knows what we might learn? Wouldn’t you like to have that information?”

  Kerney bit his lip and nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Well then, shower, get dressed, and let’s go.”

  Sara scraped and stacked the breakfast dishes while Kerney got ready. He returned in uniform, freshly shaved, with his cowlick now firmly under control. He stopped her as she moved toward the front door and hugged her for a long minute.

  “What’s this for?” she asked, looking up at him.

  He could feel the hardness of her belly against his body. He kissed her gently on the lips. “I just needed a hug.”

  Outside, a state police cruiser was parked conspicuously across the street, positioned to allow the occupant a full view of the driveway to the house. Kerney got Sara settled in the passenger seat of his unit and pulled out into the road, flashing his headlights at the vehicle. The officer, a young woman who Kerney knew in passing from his time as deputy chief of the state police, got out of the unit and came around to Kerney’s window.

  “What brings you to my driveway, Officer Rasmussen?” he asked.

  Yvonne Rasmussen bent low to look at Kerney, touched the brim of her cap, and nodded to Sara. “Chief Baca’s orders, sir.”

  “Which are?”

  “Twenty-four-hour security at your house until further notice.”

  Sara smiled approvingly.

  “I see,” Kerney said. “What else has Chief Baca arranged?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” Rasmussen replied. “He did ask me to remind you that you have no authority to countermand his orders.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” Kerney replied, as he waved at Rasmussen and drove off.

  Sara laughed and broke into a big smile. It was the first genuinely happy sound either of them had made since yesterday morning.

  “What?” Kerney asked.

  “He knows you well,” Sara said, “and he isn’t about to let you play the lone wolf this time. I’m going to shower him with kisses the next time I see him,” Sara replied.

  “That will embarrass him.”

  “He’ll just have to cope with it.”

  At headquarters, the parking lot for official vehicles contained an unusually large number of units, including some unmarked sheriff and state police cars, one of which Kerney recognized as Andy Baca’s. They went in through the back entrance to find cops everywhere, working at folding tables set up in hallways, filling the first-floor conference room, and spilling over into the reception area of Kerney’s second-floor office suite. Most were off-duty personnel, but Barry Foyt and two other lawyers from the district attorney’s office were there along with several sheriff’s investigators and state police agents. All were busy on telephones or reading case files.

  Andy Baca, Larry Otero, and Helen Muiz were in Kerney’s office sitting at the small conference table that butted up against the desk. Sara limited her shower of kisses for Andy to one sisterly peck on the cheek while Kerney went to his desk and waited for an explanation.

  None came, so as Sara took a seat next to Andy he asked for one.

  “Larry and I thought it best to centralize the investigation and bring in more resources,” Andy replied, scratching a jowly cheek. “The DA and the sheriff agreed to get on board, and your off-duty personnel just started showing up this morning as volunteers. Seems like nobody wants to see you wind up dead. Although for the life of me, I can’t understand it.” He broke into a big grin. “So, we need to catch this guy, so we can get all these folks back to normal duty before we run out of money to pay for the overtime.”

  Kerney shook his head in disbelief, a smile flooding his face. Of the three, only Andy had the chutzpah to mastermind this ploy. But he knew Helen and Larry had tagged along as willing co-conspirators.

  “Okay, where are we?” he asked.

  “We have a possible suspect that Russell Thorpe got a line on,” Andy said. “Unknown white male, thirty-something, driving a blue GMC van, who was seen twice on the ranch road to your new place. Thorpe is meeting with Jack and Irene Burke right now to have a composite sketch made.”

  “They saw him?”

  “Up close and personal,” Andy replied. “A man delivering adobes to the building site also spotted him on the ranch.”

  “Excellent work.”

  “Detective Pino found the slug that Jack Potter took in the chest,” Larry Otero said. “We’re waiting to hear if a match can be made to the bullets that killed your horse.”

  “More good news.”

  “The caliber doesn’t match Kurt Larsen’s gun.”

  “I didn’t expect it would,” Kerney said.

  “Lieutenant Molina has, according to your instructions, started a full case review,” Helen Muiz said. “With the extra manpower available, we’ve expanded it a bit to include all felony cases within the first judicial district, the county, and the state police district office, so that we don’t miss any possible suspects.”

  “That’s smart,” Kerney said.

  “First up for review are the people on the list you prepared last night,” Larry said. “Tafoya and Pino are working those cases. We’ve got a team pulling names of new possible suspects, another team working prisons, jails, probation and parole personnel to track them down, and Foyt is heading up the court records search.”

  “Give me all those names and identifying information,” Sara said, “and I’ll cross-check them with the armed forces record center in St. Louis.”

  “I’ll get that to you right away,” Helen Muiz said, smiling at Sara and writing herself a note, “and set you up with a desk and computer.”

  Andy stared at Sara’s belly and gave her an uneasy look.

  “Don’t say a word, Andy,” Kerney said.

  Sara patted Andy’s arm. “I promise not to have the baby at police headquarters.”

  Dubiously, Andy looked away.

  “What else?” Kerney asked.

  “You’re booked with meetings,” Helen answered. “Sal Molina, Lieutenant Casados, and the district attorney at his office, in that order.”

  “Larranaga is taking the police shooting to the grand jury,” Larry Otero said.

  Kerney nodded. “Has he met with the media?”

  “Yeah, but he toned his rhetoric down a bit,” Larry replied, “and said he was doing it in the best interest of all parties concerned. He didn’t publically slam the SWAT call-out or dwell on the Patterson suicide.”

  “Fair enough,” Kerney said.

  The meeting broke up and Sara stayed behind for a moment.

  “I like your Helen Muiz,” she said.

  “I wonder why?” Kerney replied, knowing full well both women possessed similar attributes: natural femininity and singular tough-mindedness.

  “And I’m in love with Andy Baca.”

  “Stay away from him. He’s a married man.” He gave her a
kiss and sent her on her way just before Sal Molina knocked at the open door.

  Sal looked bleary-eyed and ready to nod off, but his head seemed to be working clearly. He sat at the conference table occasionally running a hand through what remained of his hair, and asked Kerney to come up with some more possible suspects.

  Kerney added the names of a serial rapist he’d caught on the strength of nothing more than a shoe print outside a bedroom window, a stepfather who’d molested his wife’s ten-year-old daughter, and a punk who was pulling twenty-five years for murdering an old lady because she’d refused him a glass of water when he was drunk and thirsty. He dug deep into his memory and added several more names, including several individuals he’d shot and wounded over the course of his career.

  “I gotta ask you a few more questions, Chief,” Sal said as he straightened out his slumping shoulders. “Have you pissed off somebody’s husband or boyfriend that I need to know about?”

  “No.”

  Sal gave him an uncomfortable glance. “Were you ever intimately involved with Jack Potter or Dora Manning?”

  Kerney put his arms on the desk, clasped his hands, and looked Molina in the eyes. “You mean sexually, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I was not.”

  “What about Norm Kaplan?”

  “Same answer.”

  “Did you ever have a confidential informant you either had to lean on hard or bust? A guy who might still be pissed off about it?”

  “Two,” Kerney said, and gave Molina their names.

  “Did you ever put somebody in the slam you knew didn’t belong there?”

  “You’re asking if I falsified evidence or gave perjured testimony.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, I haven’t done that.”

  “How about any threats you might have made to a perp?” Molina asked.

  Kerney thought about Bernardo Barela, a young man who’d raped, murdered, and mutilated a woman near Hermit’s Peak, and then killed his accomplice, a state police officer’s son, to keep him silent.

  As far as Kerney knew, Barela was on death row awaiting execution. He’d personally promised Bernardo that he would hunt him down and kill him if he ever got released, and that vow still stood.

  Kerney nodded and gave Sal a brief summary of Barela and his crimes.

  “Anyone else?” Sal asked.

  Kerney shook his head, unclasped his hands, and leaned back in his chair. “No.”

  Sal closed his notebook. “That’s it, Chief.”

  “What about the Patterson death investigation?”

  “From all indications, it was a clear-cut suicide,” Molina replied. “Detective Pino is pretty shook up about it, and Cruz Tafoya is in the same boat about the Larsen shooting.”

  Kerney responded with silence.

  “They’re good detectives, Chief.”

  “They’ll just have to sweat it out until Lieutenant Casados finishes his IA investigation.”

  “When will that be?” Molina asked, as he got to his feet.

  “I’ll let you know, Sal.”

  Molina stood at the door and nodded. “Sorry about all those questions, Chief.”

  “They were the right ones to ask,” Kerney replied.

  Lieutenant Robert Casados had two pastimes: weightlifting and singing baritone in a barbershop quartet. At six-foot-two he was a bit taller than Kerney, and carried himself with the easy poise of a big man used to being treated with deference. His size and voice gave Casados a command presence, which usually made just about everybody, including cops, eager to cooperate with him. Along with his physical attributes, Casados had an analytical mind and a degree with honors in sociology.

  Sitting with Casados at the conference table, Kerney listened while the lieutenant laid out his findings. The SWAT call-out had been premised solely on Detective Pino’s unconfirmed belief that Larsen was armed with a gun, followed by the supposition of both Pino and Sergeant Tafoya that Larsen was attempting to elude them.

  “Pino had no actual knowledge that Larsen had a gun,” Casados said, as he referred to a note. “She based her premise on Patterson’s non-verbal reaction to the question. In fact, the counselor Pino spoke to, Joyce Barbero, made it clear that guns were not allowed at the independent living center.”

  Casados set his note aside and reached for another slip of paper. “However, the presumption that Larsen ran to elude the police does have credibility. Patterson placed a call to Larsen’s cell phone minutes after Pino left the apartment. Why he ran is still in doubt, although it could very well be because he knew it was illegal for him to possess a handgun.”

  “Why do you say that?” Kerney asked.

  “Twice in Santa Fe and once in Albuquerque he tried to buy a pistol, and was turned down each time when the records check came back identifying him as mentally ill. He got red-flagged through an out-of-state arrest stemming from a road rage incident some years back where he’d brandished a weapon at a passing motorist who’d cut him off in traffic. He got a deferred sentence based on his military record, his previous psych history, and a court-ordered agreement to enter and successfully complete a treatment program, which he did. As far as I know, it was his first and only offense.”

  “How did Larsen go from being an informant wanted for questioning to a murder suspect?” Kerney asked.

  “According to everyone I’ve talked to and the tapes of the radio traffic, he didn’t,” Casados replied. “The orders were to proceed with caution and find and apprehend only. Sal Molina made it clear that Pino and Tafoya briefed him fully by phone before he bumped the request up to Deputy Chief Otero to call out SWAT.”

  “Do you think Molina is covering for his people?”

  “Only insofar as he’s willing to take the hit on this as their supervisor,” Casados replied. “Sal has nothing to lose, he can retire and go fishing. Tafoya and Pino still have most of their careers in front of them. He’d hate to see their chances for advancement get derailed.”

  “So what went wrong?” Kerney asked.

  “Since it wasn’t a hostage situation, nobody thought to put a negotiator on the team that went looking for Larsen. That might have made all the difference.”

  “Nobody on the team tried to talk Larsen into surrendering?”

  “After Larsen opened fire, the SWAT commander ordered Larsen to toss his weapon and give up peacefully. All four officers said he responded with more gunfire.”

  “They had cover and concealment?” Kerney asked.

  “Affirmative, although the evidence at the scene shows that Larsen came close to taking out the point man.”

  “How many rounds did the team fire?” Kerney asked.

  “In all, thirty-five,” Casados said, giving Kerney an uneasy look. The figure was exact; policy required every officer to account for all department-issued ammunition down to the last cartridge. But that wasn’t what bothered Casados.

  “Did all the officers fire their weapons?” Kerney asked, reading Casados’s discomfort.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of firepower to stop the action of one man with a handgun. How many shots did Larsen get off?”

  “I checked his magazine. Larsen fired four times, and he wasn’t carrying any spare clips.”

  Kerney’s expression turned sour. “What else, Lieutenant?”

  “Larsen took three rounds in the back, Chief.”

  “Shit,” Kerney said.

  “According to the team, Larsen was belly crawling to safety and firing at the same time. The point man caught him with a burst when he rolled towards some rocks.”

  Kerney pushed back his chair and stared out his office window. This wasn’t good. In fact, it sucked.

  “Do you want me to write up my report and submit it?” Casados asked.

  “Not yet. I want you to tack the Patterson suicide onto your investigation,” Kerney replied, as he got up and walked to the window. “Go over all that happened with Pat
terson and Detective Pino from first contact to the time she was hospitalized.”

  “Yes, sir. Is that all for now?”

  Kerney turned and nodded. “Thanks, Robert. You’ve done a good job.”

  Casados assembled his paperwork and left quietly.

  The DA wasn’t going to like what Kerney had to tell him, and he was due at Sid Larranaga’s office in fifteen minutes.

  Kerney didn’t like it either. The problem was much bigger than the tragic mistakes that had been made by his people. Maybe Sid was right about the overeager-ness of cop shops to use special weapons and tactics in every apparent high-risk situation.

  He thought about it a bit longer. No matter what kind of discipline had to be served up to individual officers, the overriding problem was officer training. Sworn personnel needed to deal effectively with mentally ill informants, suspects, witnesses, and victims, no matter what the situation. He would get the ball rolling on a mandatory in-service program. It wouldn’t stop the uproar from the community, but it was still the right thing to do.

  He looked for Sara on the way out, found her in Sal Molina’s office at the computer, and told her he’d be back shortly. He clamped his mouth shut to avoid asking if she was all right.

  She waved him away with her hand, and he left the building trying to convince himself the day could only get better.

  Chapter 6

  Mechanical problems with the plane delayed Norm Kaplan’s arrival in Albuquerque by over four hours. From the second-level observation deck, Santa Fe Police Officer Seth Neal, who’d been cooling his heels all that time, watched the plane land, turn, and taxi slowly to the terminal. He walked to the gate and asked the woman at the check-in counter to have a flight attendant advise Kaplan that a police officer would be waiting for him when he deplaned. He reassured her that everything was cool, and the woman’s somewhat startled, questioning look disappeared.

  Neal, who normally rode a motorcycle during the summer months and drove a squad car the rest of the year, didn’t particularly like the assignment he’d been given. As a traffic officer, Neal’s notion of a good day at work consisted of writing tickets, running speed traps, investigating accidents, pulling dignitary escort details, and busting drunk drivers.