“Did he ever talk about a payback? Going after the people who put him in the slam?”
LaPointe shook his head. “He whined a lot about how his life was ruined, that’s about it. Like I said, he was a pussy. Hell, I even branded him.”
“Branded him?”
LaPointe stroked the soft spot between his thumb and forefinger. “AB right here for the Brotherhood, so everybody knew who he belonged to. Didn’t want no niggers or spics thinking he was fair game.”
“Did he ever talk to you about getting even with anybody?” Chacon asked.
“All he rapped about was getting out and proving to everybody how wrong they were about him, like he was going to show the world how fucking brilliant he was.”
After a few more questions that got him nowhere, Chacon moved on to Stewart and Schroder. In individual interviews, both men talked about how the woman had agreed to take on all three of them, Schroder from behind, Stewart getting a blow job while Olsen played with her nipples and waited his turn. How when Olsen had tried to butt-fuck her, she’d spit Stewart’s cum in his face. How Olsen had threatened to get a safety flare from his car, stick it up her ass and light it if she didn’t cooperate. How the slut had tried to run away, which started the beating that led to her death.
Stewart swore Olsen incited the beating, got off on it. Schroder confirmed Stewart’s statement, said Olsen had a real mean streak. Both thought he could kill again.
“So what if he turned queer?” Schroder said. “I don’t think that changed his personality. He didn’t give a shit about anyone except himself. He’d be all charming on the surface and would get real cold if things didn’t go his way. He liked to get even with people who fucked with him, find sneaky ways to do paybacks.”
Stewart said that nothing was ever Olsen’s fault, that he expected special treatment, and that he liked to talk about how smart he was and how dumb other people were, especially women.
Chacon asked if they thought Olsen had the capacity to organize and carry out revenge killings.
“Why not?” Stewart had said. “I’m sitting here locked up because he played the cops and the DA for chumps.”
“Oh yeah,” Schroder said. “He was a natural born actor, and I’ve got to give it to him, he was one smart motherfucker.”
In the prison parking lot, Chacon sat in his unit and played back the taped sessions a bit at a time as he wrote up his field interview reports. He finished and put the clipboard aside. So which Olsen was real? Was he the psychopathic genius who could outsmart everybody or a weak sister, a sadistic braggart, or a fairy to an Aryan brother?
Matt cranked the engine and left the prison grounds thinking maybe Olsen could easily be all of the above.
The search warrant had been written broadly enough to allow for the seizure of Olsen’s personal, medical, and financial documents; his computer; any and all items used in bomb-making; articles of apparel and footwear; any and all poisons, weapons, or tools used as weapons; samples of material from blankets, linens, textiles, carpets, and rugs; any stolen property of the victims; and any personal hygiene products, hairbrushes, combs, or toothbrushes that could yield forensic or DNA evidence.
While Ramona and her team hadn’t gotten lucky and found a handgun, there were a number of knives that could have possibly been used to slash Dora Manning’s throat. Moreover, in Olsen’s office they’d discovered a scrapbook in the black vinyl binder that contained newspaper clippings about Jack Potter and Chief Kerney going back a number of years, and an arts calender notice in the Taos paper announcing Manning’s upcoming one-woman show.
That got them looking for the paintings that had been stolen during the break-in at the Taos gallery. Thorpe found them wadded up and stuffed into a fifty-five-gallon drum in the toolshed.
Ramona left Thorpe and the two investigators in charge of inventorying and boxing up the evidence for transport to Santa Fe, and drove to New Mexico Tech. Next up were interviews with Olsen’s coworkers and supervisor, which Ramona hoped would yield some information about where Olsen was spending his alleged vacation.
Buffered by pleasant, tree-lined residential streets, the college was a short drive from the main drag. The school grounds were even more delightful to the eye. A lush golf course, set in stark contrast to the brown foothills of the Socorro Mountains, separated two campuses. The main campus consisted of a blend of modern and territorial buildings surrounded by wide lawns fronting a curved main roadway. The west campus was less charming and more industrial in appearance, with blocky warehouses, storage facilities, a surplus property yard, and a number of research buildings, which included the headquarters of the testing center where Olsen was employed.
Ramona met with Morris Day, Olsen’s supervisor, who offered her a coffee in a mug bearing the logo of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms.
“You do training work with law enforcement agencies,” Ramona said. “One of my coworkers took your course on terrorist bomb threats.”
Day, a thirty-something man with curly light-brown hair cut short and a protruding chin below a slightly turned-up nose, nodded. “It’s one of the most popular courses we offer to government entities. We have students from federal agencies, friendly foreign governments, and many state and local police and fire departments who come here to learn antiterrorism and counterterrorism measures pertaining to the use and identification of explosive and incendiary devices.”
“Sounds interesting,” Ramona said. “I’d like to take it.”
“I’ll give you an application packet before you leave,” Day replied.
“That would be great,” Ramona said. “Tell me about Noel Olsen. Did you know he was a convicted felon when you hired him?”
“Of course,” Day replied. “Even though he’s not working in a classified or a security-sensitive job, we did a very thorough background check before we took him on. He came highly recommended by his professors at State and his parole officer. Is he in trouble?”
“I just need to talk to him.”
“My secretary told the other officer who called that he’s on vacation,” Day said as he toyed with his coffee mug. “He asked for leave rather unexpectedly, but it came at a time when we could spare him.”
“Did he say what he planned to do on his vacation?”
“Noel likes to travel, especially to Europe. He said he had a last-minute offer from a friend to go on a hiking tour in Scotland that was too good to pass up.”
“Did he mention the friend’s name?” Ramona asked.
“No.”
“Did he request his leave in person?”
“No, he called me at home on a Friday night about two weeks ago and asked for fifteen workdays off.”
Ramona found that interesting. Why would Olsen, who had planned his crimes so carefully, wait until the last minute to arrange to go on holiday? It didn’t make sense. “Had he ever done that before?” she asked.
“Ask for an unscheduled vacation? No.”
Ramona asked about Olsen’s personality and learned he was well-liked, a hard worker, and had recently been upgraded to senior technician at the explosives mixing facility on the school’s testing grounds. He had no close friends at work, but always showed up for office parties and picnics, and played on the center’s coed volleyball team.
After she finished questioning Day, he drove her out to the facility where she spoke to Olsen’s coworkers, who confirmed that Olsen was a good guy who kept his head into work and his personal life to himself, which meant absolutely nothing. There were any number of sex offenders and murderers who masqueraded as ordinary people until something set them off.
Back at the center, Ramona thanked Day for his time and left, still nagged by the thought of Olsen’s abrupt request for a vacation. Perhaps Olsen had timed his leave to overlap with the arrival of Kerney’s wife, and since he didn’t have an exact date had to play it by ear.
But how did he know, even in a general way, when Sara Brannon would be coming to Santa Fe to h
ave her baby?
In the kitchen, Samuel Green heated up some canned soup, poured it into a bowl, and carried it to his bedroom. He sat on the bed facing the small color television and watched the local noontime news out of Albuquerque. An anchor woman with big hair and bright-red lips smiled into the camera as she read the Teleprompter headline about the protest outside the Santa Fe Police Department.
Green turned down the volume when the picture switched to the intro of Kerney’s statement to the press. The camera panned over the crowd, and Green saw himself standing in the front row next to an old fag holding a JUSTICE FOR ALL sign. He looked good on camera, better then he’d expected.
He hit the mute button on the remote, and thought about how Kerney had to die. He’d done everything possible to make Kerney believe his next victim would be his pregnant wife. But that was not to be the case. In fact, until she delivered, Sara Brannon was in no danger at all.
Above all else, Green wanted Kerney to watch his wife and newborn child die before he killed him.
Chapter 11
Through a stream of fax messages and phone calls, the Santa Fe PD had kept Sheriff Paul Hewitt advised of the progress of the investigation. As soon as he got the word that a credible suspect had been identified in Socorro, Hewitt called Clayton Istee, who was with his family at his in-laws’ house. He gave Istee the skinny on the ID of Victoria Drake, her tie-in to Noel Olsen, and the search under way at Olsen’s house.
“They’ve found evidence that connects Olsen to the bombing and all but one of the homicides,” Hewitt added.
“I’m going up there,” Clayton said.
“Stay with your family, Sergeant,” Hewitt said. “They need you.”
“My family’s fine,” Clayton replied. “Grace and the kids are taken care of and well-protected.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I’m not going to sit here and do nothing,” Clayton said heatedly. “One way or the other, I want in on the investigation.”
Hewitt knew arguing wouldn’t change Clayton’s mind and ordering him not to go would be pointless. “Okay, I’m placing you on training leave for the rest of the week. You’re to observe methods and procedures used by the Santa Fe PD major felony unit. Observe is the key word. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
“Thank you,” Clayton said.
“Don’t overstep your bounds, Sergeant,” Hewitt said. “It could cost us both, big time.”
“Who’s the contact in Socorro?” Clayton asked.
“Detective Pino.”
“Ten-four,” Clayton said.
He made the drive to Socorro running a silent code three all the way, trying not to think too much about Grace and the children. Wendell, usually so talkative, had fallen silent. Hannah refused to leave her mother’s side and didn’t understand why she couldn’t go home. Grace vacillated between black despair and frantic bursts of energy, one minute refusing to look at anybody, the next minute whirling through her parents’ living room straightening up the numerous toys that relatives had brought over for the children, especially the Lincoln Log set Wendell kept building into houses and then destroying.
He felt guilty for leaving Grace to do all the phone calling to the bank, the mortgage company, government agencies, and the insurance agent to get their claims started and replace all the important documents that had been destroyed. But in his current state of mind he would have been useless at doing any of it himself.
Last night’s events continued to swirl through Clayton’s head. He forced the images away by concentrating on the fact that there was now a viable suspect. The possibility of being in on the arrest cheered him, even if all he got to do was watch the Santa Fe PD take the SOB down.
He arrived at Olsen’s house, where Ramona Pino, whom he’d met last night, and three men were loading up an evidence trailer.
“Have you found Olsen?” Clayton asked as he approached Pino.
“Not yet, Sergeant,” Ramona replied, eyeing Clayton speculatively, thinking the man needed to be with his family and not playing observer on a case involving himself and his family, which was way outside the rules. She wondered how Clayton had talked his boss into it.
She introduced him around and gave him a rundown on the incriminating evidence that had been seized from the house. “We matched the photo you took of the shoe print on the trail behind your house with a pair of hiking boots from Olsen’s closet,” she added.
“Let me see them,” Clayton asked without changing expression.
Russell Thorpe climbed into the trailer and returned with an evidence box containing the boots. Clayton opened the box and examined them, paying particular attention to the heel of the right shoe, looking for wear along the outer edge. There wasn’t any.
“I’d like to see all of the footwear,” he said.
“I checked them already,” Thorpe said, “to see if I could get a match with the shoe impressions I found on Chief Kerney’s property.”
“And?” Clayton asked.
Thorpe shrugged. “Nothing. Olsen must have gotten rid of them. But what’s strange is that all the shoes in Olsen’s closet are a size and a half larger than the prints left outside Chief Kerney’s horse barn.”
“Let’s take a look,” Clayton said.
Inside the house, Clayton sat on the bedroom floor and examined every right-foot shoe in Olsen’s closet while Ramona and Thorpe watched.
“What are you looking for?” Thorpe asked.
“For something I learned in the FBI footwear and tire tread evidence course I took,” Clayton said. “People walk heel to toe. The deepest impression is usually from the heel, which, along with the arch, bears most of the body’s weight. The impressions I saw on the trail had a slightly deeper heel strike along the outer edge of the right shoe, which should show up as a wear characteristic on the bottom of these shoes.”
Thorpe studied the heel of a right-foot athletic sneaker. “I don’t see it.”
“Because it’s not there,” Clayton said. “His stride indicated he was moving at a fast walk and not carrying anything heavy which might have shifted his balance.”
“How can you be so sure?” Ramona asked.
“The depth of the print is the key, along with the distance between the tracks he left behind.”
“So what does that tell us?” Thorpe asked.
“I’m not certain,” Clayton replied. “You said the casting impressions you made in Santa Fe were a size and a half smaller.”
“Yeah, but I left those with forensics,” Thorpe said. “I compared my photographs with Olsen’s boots and came up with the difference in size.”
“I’d like to see those pictures,” Clayton said.
Thorpe nodded, left, and returned with the photos. “Why would Olsen cram his feet into a smaller shoe?” he asked as he handed them to Istee.
“I don’t know,” Clayton answered, as he studied the photos. Thorpe had done it the right way by laying a ruler alongside each print before taking the picture. He memorized the tread design. “Maybe he’s got an accomplice.” He looked up at Pino. “Who’s been on the property today?”
“Aside from the officers who are here, a six-man SWAT team.”
“Wearing combat boots, right?” Clayton asked as he got to his feet and handed Thorpe the photos.
Ramona nodded.
“I’m going to take a look around,” Clayton said.
“Aren’t you here only to observe?” Ramona asked.
“Looking around is observing,” Clayton replied.
“There have been people trampling all over the place,” Thorpe said.
“It’s never too late to look,” Clayton replied as he left the room.
It took Clayton thirty minutes to find two prints that matched those Thorpe had found on Kerney’s land, one partial impression in the toolshed on an oil stain under the fifty-five-gallon drum where the stolen paintings had been stashed, and an almost perfect print in a shallow arroyo near the old win
dmill.
He showed them to Pino and Thorpe. “Where are the shoes that made these?” he asked.
“He’s kept them to use again,” Thorpe suggested.
Ramona shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would Olsen leave all the evidence that we can tie to the crime scenes in plain view for us to find, except for one pair of too-small shoes?”
“Exactly,” Clayton said, looking at Pino and Thorpe. “Now, what about the blue van?”
“I didn’t find any tread marks from it,” Thorpe replied with a boyish grin. “But I suppose it’s not too late to look again.”
“Smart thinking,” Clayton said, giving Thorpe a small smile in return.
“I’ll get the photos,” Thorpe said.
With the photos in hand, Clayton, Pino, and Thorpe began a grid search of the driveway, an area around the front of the house, and a section of the country road. A short time later, Clayton stood on the part of the gravel driveway Olsen used as a turnaround and studied some overlapping tire tracks. He knelt down, spotted two impressions identical to the treads from the rear tires of the blue van, looked around a bit more, and called Thorpe and Pino over.
“The car was towed behind the van,” he said when they arrived. He showed them how the passenger car’s tire impressions cut across the front treads of the van at a sharp angle. “I think that pretty much wipes out the accomplice theory. Why bother to tow a vehicle if you’ve got a second driver?”
“It also explains what he used for transportation after he left the van in front of the municipal court,” Ramona said.
“But what about the shoe prints?” Thorpe asked.
“It’s gotta mean something,” Clayton said as he watched the two agents who’d been loading evidence lock the doors to the trailer. He turned to Pino. “You said most of what you seized inside the house was in plain view.”
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