Everyone Dies

by Michael McGarrity

  It was a night when cop cars were everywhere but no motorist needed to fear getting a traffic ticket.

  Neal took his meal break at headquarters so he could do his dailies from his regular shift and turn them in. Because it was part of a homicide investigation, he worked carefully on what he’d come to think of as the dead dog incident report. Neal knew the traffic code inside and out and could put together perfect paperwork for DWI arrests and accident reconstructions. But when it came to writing felony investigation narratives, he never felt all that competent about it.

  Finished, Neal dropped the paperwork off on the shift commander’s desk, told dispatch he was back in service, left the police parking lot, and hit the brakes when he saw a dark-colored GMC van with the back door open sitting in front of the nearby municipal court building.

  He put the spotlight on the vehicle. It carried the plate stolen out of Socorro. He adjusted the light to shine inside the open door. He could see a naked human figure on the floor of the vehicle clutching what appeared to be the head of a dog.

  Chapter 7

  Exhausted but unable to sleep, Sara sat in the living room hoping the baby would either stop kicking or just get on with being born. She was weary of being pregnant, and thoroughly disgusted with the notion that, at such a supposedly wonderful time in their lives, she and Kerney were under siege.

  Arriving home, she’d found no comfort in finding a state cop on guard duty outside, nor had she particularly enjoyed waiting in the car while Kerney conducted a room search before allowing her to go inside. The events of the last two days had become surreal and nightmarish.

  Four hours ago, after an early light dinner, Kerney had gone into the bedroom to nap. He was still sleeping, stretched out on his side fully dressed except for his boots, his sidearm within reach on the night- stand.

  The quiet house, the drawn shades, her reluctance to risk sitting on the patio to enjoy the cool night air made her feel caged. She sighed, got up, and went to the Arts and Crafts writing desk, one of a number of antique pieces she’d inherited from her grandmother, and tried to distract herself by studying the architectural drawings for the house.

  Months ago, she’d shipped her heirloom furniture from Montana to Santa Fe and put it into storage, where—except for the desk and matching chair—it remained. But since Kerney had so few personal possessions, they would need a lot more than Sara’s contributions to outfit their new home.

  She studied the floor plan, visualizing where she might want to arrange the pieces she had and those that needed to be selected and purchased. Since they wouldn’t be able to move in until well after Sara’s maternity leave ended, furnishing and decorating the house would be an ongoing task with many decisions delayed until she could get back to Santa Fe on weekend trips.

  However, she could do a number of things after the baby came: buy linens and housewares, perhaps some lamps and end tables, order a custom-made piece or two, and get a freestanding kitchen center island she’d spotted in a local store. But putting the house in any kind of reasonable order would have to be accomplished in bits and pieces.

  That sucked, and she wondered if everything—the marriage, the baby, the new house—was nothing but a big romantic daydream on her part that had gone badly awry.

  She blocked the negative thoughts from her mind. It wasn’t like her to be so moody and disheartened. She did love Kerney and did want this baby. No matter that the task was daunting, she would turn the new house into a home, even if it took years.

  The desk phone rang. Larry Otero needed to speak to Kerney. Sara asked why.

  “We’ve got another homicide and another note,” Larry replied.

  “I’ll get him.”

  She walked to the bedroom thinking one down, one to go, and for once she really didn’t give a damn. The baby had stopped kicking and all she wanted to do was go to sleep.

  She quietly opened the bedroom door, gently shook Kerney awake, and softly told him the killer had struck again.

  Kerney rolled up to the crime scene. The blue van was awash in light and ringed off with police-line tape strung between the police cars that surrounded the vehicle. Andy Baca, Larry Otero, Russell Thorpe, and Sal Molina were standing at the perimeter with Officer Neal, all of them looking somber, watching the ME and two paramedics at the back of the van remove the body. Techs stood off to one side, waiting their turn at the vehicle, while two detectives videotaped and photographed the scene. Except for the sound of traffic coming from Cerrillos Road, silence hung thick in the air.

  Kerney gave Andy and the others a quick nod. Nobody smiled. Sal Molina held out a bloodstained note encased in a clear plastic sleeve. It had a hole in it and read:KERNEY,

  DO YOU KNOW ME YET?

  GUESS WHO’S NEXT.

  “It was probably written with a fine-point permanent ink marker,” Molina said.

  “Has anybody had a look inside the vehicle?” Kerney asked.

  “I did a quick visual check, Chief,” Neal replied. “The victim is an unknown, naked white female, age probably late forties, I’d guess. Slender build, maybe five-six with long, light-brown hair. I saw no clothing or personal possessions inside the vehicle.”

  “The killer posed her,” Otero said. “Wrapped her arms around the dog’s head and placed it on her chest. The note was attached to the body by a knitting needle driven into the lower abdomen below the navel.”

  “Driven how deeply?” Kerney asked.

  “Far enough to kill an unborn child,” Larry said.

  The appalled look on Kerney’s face was palpable.

  “We don’t know if he did it before or after she was dead,” Andy added, breaking the silence.

  The men surrounding Kerney stared at the ground with expressionless eyes.

  “Do we have an approximate time of death?” he asked, forcing himself to stay focused.

  “According to the ME, it’s a fresh kill,” Larry said, lifting his gaze to Kerney’s face. “Two, maybe three hours.”

  “And the cause of death?” Kerney asked.

  “We don’t know, Chief,” Molina replied. “Except for the puncture wound to the stomach, there are no other visible traumas to the body. The ME thinks she may have been poisoned.”

  “What about the van?”

  “The tire tracks match the imprints I took at the horse barn,” Thorpe replied.

  “Well, at least that’s nailed down,” Kerney said, trying to keep the alarm he felt out of his voice. He glanced at Larry. “What’s under way?”

  “We’re running a records check on the van, and searching the missing-person database for a match,” Larry replied. “Plus, Lieutenant Molina has a man inside the courthouse pulling the tape from the parking lot surveillance camera.”

  “Did he view it?” Kerney asked.

  “We all did,” Andy answered. “The perp’s a ballsy bastard, Kerney. It shows him parking the van, opening the rear door, throwing a finger at the camera, and walking away. We’ll have the lab enhance it to see if we can get an ID.”

  “What else was on the tape?”

  “Nothing,” Molina said.

  “So where did the perp go?” Kerney asked. “Did he have another car nearby? Did he walk away?”

  “We don’t know,” Larry said. “But Chief Baca and I have every available officer from both departments hunting for him. We’re checking public transportation, cab companies, and all residential areas within walking distance.”

  “What about nearby hotels and motels?” Kerney asked.

  “We’re on it,” Molina said quietly.

  “I’d like to go out on patrol and help find this guy, sir,” Thorpe said to Chief Baca, eager to get away from the tight-lipped gloom that permeated the group.

  “Go ahead,” Andy replied.

  Thorpe hurried to his unit. Kerney turned to Sal Molina. “When the ME is finished, I want people all over that vehicle, top to bottom. I want to know where it’s been and who’s been in it. I want to know the name of every
person who ever owned it, ever rode in it. I want every fiber, every hair, every piece of dirt, mud, or pebble stuck in the tread of a tire found and analyzed. If there’s a leaf or twig caught in the undercarriage, I want it logged into evidence, and I want to know where it came from. Nothing comes out of or off that vehicle that isn’t bagged and tagged.”

  “We’ll do it right, Chief,” Molina said.

  “I want the entire vehicle dusted for prints: the engine compartment, wheel wells, and every other possible place that could have been handled or touched. When that’s done, tow it, have it stripped down, and put everything under a microscope.”

  “My techs are on the way,” Andy said.

  “Good,” Kerney said. “I want the autopsy started right now, and a plant biologist and soil expert looking at what we get off that vehicle as soon as possible. Let’s get that videotape enlarged and analyzed pronto. Wake people up if you have to.”

  “Anything else?” Otero asked.

  “That will do for starters. I’ll be in my office.”

  They watched Kerney walk away, his back stiff with anger.

  “God, I hated to tell him about the knitting needle,” Larry said.

  In unison, the men nodded glumly and then turned to the business at hand.

  What was he missing? Who was this guy? In the quiet of his office, Kerney started from scratch and went through every bit of information that had been assembled so far. Amid the reams of contacts, follow-ups, and closed-case research conducted by the teams of officers and detectives, there wasn’t one reasonable suspect in sight.

  The phone rang and the light to his private line blinked. Kerney answered quickly, thinking it might be Sara calling to tell him the baby was on the way.

  “Do you know me yet?” a man’s soft voice asked.

  Kerney didn’t respond. He picked up a pen and started writing everything down.

  The man chuckled at Kerney’s silence. “You know nothing.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Kerney said.

  “So who’s next?” the man asked.

  “Let’s get together and talk about it,” Kerney said.

  “There’s no need for this to go any further.”

  The man laughed. “I can’t stop now, Kerney. I’m planning a two-for-one special, just for you. Haven’t you got that figured out yet?”

  “Do you think I’m going to let that happen?” Kerney asked, biting back his exasperation.

  “You can’t stop it. But before that, I’m going to make your world blow up in your face.”

  “Meaning what?” Kerney asked, as he kept writing.

  “Since you deserve to lose the most, I’ve decided to improvise a bit, expand my horizons, and add a few more people to my list. It’s time to wipe out your bloodline completely, Kerney.”

  “Tell me more,” Kerney said.

  “I can’t do that,” the man replied. “Time’s up, Kerney, and the clock is ticking.”

  The line went dead. Quickly, Kerney reviewed his notes, which were almost a verbatim record of the conversation. He underlined the phrases “blow up” and “the clock is ticking.” Had the perp given him a hint? Was there a bomb planted somewhere ready to go off?

  His first thoughts turned to Sara at their rental house on Upper Canyon Road. The impulse to go to her drove him to his feet. He anchored himself back in the chair, used his handheld radio, and made contact with the state police officer on duty outside the house.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Affirmative, Chief,” Officer Barney Wade replied. “I just made a sweep around the property. It’s all quiet.”

  “Have you seen my wife?”

  “Not since she came home with you earlier, Chief. I think she’s sleeping. I saw the bedroom light go off soon after you left. Do you want me to check on her?”

  “The house may be rigged with a bomb. Wake her up, get her out of the house now, and move away from the property, and stay on the air while you do it,” Kerney said. “I’ll call out the bomb squad. Keep your microphone keyed open.”

  “Ten-four, Chief,” Wade replied.

  With a phone in one hand and his handheld in the other, Kerney listened to Wade pound on the door while the line to the bomb squad commander’s residence seemed to ring endlessly. Finally, Lieutenant Alan Evertson picked up.

  “I want you over at my house, pronto, Al,” Kerney said as he listened to Wade talking to Sara. “The entire team, now. Call out SWAT on my command and clear the immediate neighborhood if you have to.”

  “Roger that, Chief,” Evertson said. “Any idea of what kind of device we’re looking for?”

  “Not a clue, Al. The house is on a concrete pad, so there’s no crawl space or basement.”

  “I’m out the door, Chief.”

  “Stay in close touch,” Kerney said as he disconnected and pressed the handheld’s talk button. “Wade?”

  There was nothing but static from Wade’s open microphone. Kerney’s foot beat a tattoo on the carpet as he waited for the officer or Sara to say something. He could hear the sound of movement, the slamming of vehicle doors, the rumble of an engine turning over, but nothing else. He started breathing again when Wade spoke.

  “Okay, we’re clear, Chief. I’ve got your wife in my unit and we’re proceeding down the street. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Sara?”

  “A bomb, Kerney?” Sara said, her voice anxious and tight.

  “Possibly.”

  “What now?”

  “I’m at the office. Ask Officer Wade to bring you here after my people show up.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You are going to tell me what’s happening, aren’t you?” Sara asked.

  “Yes, of course, when you’re here. I’ll talk to you then.”

  Kerney cut off the handheld and grabbed the phone. The perp had said he planned to add people to his hit list and wipe out Kerney’s bloodline completely. Except for his adult son, Clayton Istee, and his family, Kerney had no other blood relatives.

  Through an unusual set of circumstances, Kerney had only recently learned of Clayton’s existence. A sheriff’s sergeant in Lincoln County, Clayton, who was half Apache, lived with his family on the Mescalero Apache Reservation in southern New Mexico.

  How could the killer know about Clayton when so few people did? Not even his staff knew, as far as Kerney could tell.

  There wasn’t time to speculate. Rapidly, Kerney punched numbers on the keypad and gritted his teeth as the phone rang. The sleepy voice of Grace Istee, Clayton’s wife, greeted him on the fifth ring.

  “Grace, it’s Kerney. Let me speak to Clayton.”

  “He’s not here. He started working swing shift today.”

  “When is he due home?”

  “In a hour or so.”

  “Take Wendell and Hannah and get out of the house now,” Kerney said.

  “What?”

  “Grace, just do it. Get far away from the house. Get in the car, go to your mother’s, and don’t stop for anything or anybody.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Grace asked, her voice rising.

  “Grace,” Kerney snapped, “don’t argue. Gather up Wendell and Hannah and leave the house, dammit. Get your cell phone and give me the number. I’ll call you right back.”

  Grace read off the numbers. Kerney disconnected and punched in the new digits.

  “Where are you?” he asked when Grace came on the line.

  “In the children’s bedroom,” she replied, fear cracking her voice.

  “They’re okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Talk me through everything you’re doing.”

  “You’re scaring me, Kerney.”

  He could hear her rapid breathing. “You don’t have time to be scared. What are you doing?”

  “Wendell’s awake and out of bed. I’m picking Hannah up right now.”

  He heard Hannah’s soft moan as Grace
lifted her from the bed. “Do you have your car keys?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go, go now.”

  “Why am I doing this?” Grace asked hysterically.

  “Are you outside?” Kerney demanded.

  “Just about.”

  “Don’t go to the car,” Kerney said, realizing it could easily be booby trapped.

  “What? I can’t possibly walk to my mother’s.”

  “Do as I tell you, Grace. Go to your neighbor’s. Walk there and wait for Clayton.”

  “That’s a half a mile away,” Grace said. “Tell me right now what is going on.”

  “Are you and the children outside?”

  “Yes,” Grace shouted. “Answer my question.”

  “Someone may be trying to kill you with a bomb,” Kerney said.

  “We’re running,” Grace said.

  “Good. Stay with me on the line until you get to your neighbor’s,” Kerney ordered.

  In the earpiece he could hear Grace’s labored breathing as she ran down the dirt road that led to the state highway that cut through the reservation. It seemed to take forever for her and the children to reach the safety of the neighbor’s house.

  Once they were inside, Kerney relaxed a bit, told her what he suspected, said he would contact Clayton right away, and asked her to stand by.

  It took a few minutes for the sheriff’s dispatcher to patch Kerney through to Clayton, who was in his unit thirty miles from home. Kerney explained the situation and reassured Clayton that Grace and the children were all right.

  “You’re sure about this?” Clayton asked, disbelief flooding his voice.

  “I don’t have time to give you all the details, but this is a serious, credible threat,” Kerney snapped.

  Kerney’s harsh tone erased Clayton’s doubts. “Okay, okay,” he said as he hit his siren and emergency-light switches.