Everyone Dies

by Michael McGarrity

  “Pretty much,” Pino said.

  “And you didn’t have one solid lead about Olsen’s identity until he killed his former parole officer.”

  “Basically, yes,” Thorpe replied.

  “Well, for a guy who’s supposedly real smart, that was a pretty stupid thing to do,” Clayton said, “because it brought you right to his front door.”

  “So he screwed up and made a mistake,” Thorpe said.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Clayton said with a dismissive shake of his head. “Everything I read in the case files Detective Pino gave me last night argues against that kind of a screw-up. Until Drake’s murder, all you had were little bits and pieces of miscellaneous evidence and no hard-target suspect. Then, bingo, everything falls into place, neat as a pin.”

  “You’re saying it’s far too convenient,” Ramona said.

  “Staged might be a better word,” Clayton replied.

  “Except for the shoe prints,” Thorpe said.

  “Maybe he isn’t coming back here,” Ramona said.

  “That’s possible,” Clayton said. “What showed up when you tossed the house?”

  Ramona shook her head. “Not much. We pretty much found what we were looking for on the first pass.”

  “Let’s take a closer look inside for more anomalies. He’d need money if he plans to disappear after he’s done with the killing.”

  “More observing, Sergeant?” Ramona asked.

  “Exactly,” Clayton answered.

  “We didn’t find any money,” Thorpe said.

  “It won’t hurt to look again,” Clayton replied.

  “I guess not,” Thorpe said, with a grin.

  Sergeant Cruz Tafoya went hunting for Noel Olsen’s parents, Stanley and Meredith, who were listed in the phone book but either away from home or not taking calls. Stanley, according to the information contained in the old case file, was a dentist, so Tafoya went to Olsen’s last known office address only to learn that he’d sold his practice some years ago and taken a job with the Indian Health Service.

  Tafoya checked with the Indian Hospital on Cerrillos Road and learned that Olsen was still employed by the IHS, but out of town doing his monthly rounds of regularly scheduled appointments at clinics on the Navajo Reservation. He asked about Mrs. Olsen’s whereabouts and was told she didn’t work and was something of a recluse.

  The home address for the couple didn’t register with Tafoya, so he looked it up in the county street map guide. The Olsens lived in Eldorado, a rural, middle-class subdivision ten miles southeast of Santa Fe along U.S. Highway 285.

  Thirty years ago, when the subdivision was new and still relatively undeveloped, Tafoya’s uncle, Benny, had managed the privately owned water utility that served the small cluster of new houses near the old ranch headquarters that had been turned into a real estate office.

  As a young kid, Cruz had spent many summer weekends with Uncle Benny, now long retired, who’d lived in a cottage at the stables. Together, they rode horseback over the thousands of yet untouched acres that gave spectacular views of three mountain ranges in the distance, or drove into the back-country hills over rough roads on land slated to remain as open space.

  Cruz knew that the subdivision had grown into a bedroom community of several thousand homes. But without a reason to visit over the years, he hadn’t given it much thought. Seeing it up close after so long made his jaw drop. All traces of the vast stretches of piñonstudded ranchland were gone. The main trunk roads had been paved, and houses on acre or more lots were scattered in every direction.

  A shopping mall, a branch bank, and a professional office building stood within shouting distance of the highway. Further down the road, past a number of Santa Fe-style, faux-adobe houses, an elementary school and a fire station stood on pastureland where antelope had once grazed.

  Cruz pulled to a stop in front of the community library near the school, consulted his map, and then drove on to the west end of the subdivision, where a string of houses bordered an old post-and-barbed-wire fence. Beyond the fence, open land stretched for several miles, ending at the state highway that cut in front of the Cerrillos Hills and ran past the state prison.

  Tafoya knew the day was coming when pricier houses on five-, ten-, and twenty-acre tracts that were way beyond the means of most native Santa Feans would fill up the land.

  The Olsens’ house was on a side road situated at the back of a lot accessed by a long, weed-infested driveway. Cruz entered the gate to a walled courtyard, walked up a flagstone path past barren flower beds, and rang the doorbell.

  From the outside, the place looked neglected. The exterior plaster was badly cracked and the portal above his head showed water damage from a roof leak. A bird had built a nest on the outside light fixture next to the front door and there was a mound of dried droppings on the flagstone at his feet.

  He rang the bell again and listened. From inside he could hear the sound of a blaring television. After waiting a few more seconds, he pounded on the door. An older woman with tousled gray hair opened up.

  “Please go away,” the woman said. Wrinkles around her mouth gave her a sad, dissatisfied look.

  “Meredith Olsen?” Cruz asked, displaying his shield.

  “Yes. Why are you here? We don’t bother anybody.” Her breath smelled of booze.

  “I need to ask you some questions about your son.”

  “Noel? I can’t talk to you about him.” Mrs. Olsen’s expression turned cagey. “Did Stanley send you here to trick me?”

  “I’ve never met your husband,” Cruz replied.

  Mrs. Olsen raised her hand as if to stop him. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I have no reason to lie,” Cruz said.

  Slowly, she lowered her hand and pulled her robe tightly around her thick waist. “We don’t talk about Noel,” she replied in a toneless recitation. “It’s not allowed. That’s all I have to say.”

  Cruz looked past Olsen into the darkened front room. He could hear the television broadcasting what sounded like big band dance music from an old movie. The weak flickering of the screen spilled out from an adjacent room.

  Mrs. Olsen hadn’t moved. He glanced back at her face and decided to try a ploy. “Noel is missing and I was hoping you could help me find him.”

  “Missing?” Mrs. Olsen’s eyes blinked rapidly. “How can he be missing?”

  “He’s not at home and hasn’t been at work for some time,” Tafoya answered. “Can we talk inside?”

  “Are you sure you haven’t talked to Stanley?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Never. Can we talk? I’m sure you want us to find your son.”

  Meredith Olsen nodded timidly and led the way into a family room. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were dancing on the large-screen TV. Bookcases along one wall were filled with hundreds, perhaps a thousand, movie video cassettes. A fifth of scotch and a glass sat on a side table next to a reclining chair that faced the tube.

  She picked up the remote control and pressed the mute button. “I knew something was wrong with Noel,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?” Tafoya asked.

  “Every month, when Stanley goes out of town, I have lunch with him. We always meet in Albuquerque on a Saturday. He didn’t come last week.”

  “Did you try to call him?”

  Mrs. Olsen nodded. “From a pay phone. He didn’t answer. He’s always kept his word to see me since he got out of prison, whenever we could do it so Stanley wouldn’t know.”

  On the television, Astaire and Rogers spun across the ballroom floor and swirled off camera. The scene shifted to a closeup of an unhappy looking bandleader. “Does he come to Santa Fe to see you?” Cruz asked.

  “Never. He hasn’t been in Santa Fe since the day he went away.”

  “He hasn’t visited here recently, in the last week or so?”

  Mrs. Olsen shook her head. “Why is Noel missing? Has he done something bad?”

  “No, nothing like that,�
� Tafoya said. “His employer reported that he hasn’t been at work for the last two weeks. How do you stay in touch with him?”

  “By letter. I can’t call him from home. Stanley would know about it when he paid the phone bill.”

  “Does Noel call you?”

  “Only very rarely when he has to cancel our lunches because of work.”

  “And he didn’t call to cancel last Saturday?” Cruz asked.

  “No.” She touched a finger to her lips. “Now I’m worried.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Tafoya said. “Do you have Noel’s letters?”

  Meredith Olsen stiffened. “You have to understand that Stanley has no son, and I’m not supposed to either.”

  Tafoya smiled sympathetically. “Your husband doesn’t have to know about my visit.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. Did Noel ever talk to you about getting even with the people who sent him to prison?”

  Mrs. Olsen shook her head vigorously. “He made a terrible mistake and he knows it. He’s tried hard to put that behind him and become a good person. It does happen, you know. People can change for the better.”

  “Would you get Noel’s letters?” Cruz asked gently. “They could help us locate him.”

  “I don’t see how,” Mrs. Olsen said.

  “The more we know about him, the more likely we are to find him.”

  She left and returned with a shoe box filled with letters. She gave Cruz the box reluctantly, as though turning over a priceless treasure.

  He promised to return the letters at a time when Dr. Olsen wasn’t home, said good-bye, and walked to his unit, thinking how the ripple effect of murder always seemed to destroy so many lives beyond that of the victim.

  Tafoya called dispatch as he rolled out of the driveway, and gave an ETA to headquarters. He was eager to read what Noel Olsen had written to his mother.

  The last room to be tossed again was the kitchen. In a coffee can at the back of the top shelf of a pantry, Ramona found Olsen’s passport and six hundred dollars in unused traveler’s checks.

  “Seems you were right,” she said as she showed the items to Clayton.

  “That’s our second interesting anomaly,” Clayton said with an approving nod of his head. He opened the door to what he thought would be the back porch and found that it had been sealed off and turned into a utility room that contained a fifty-gallon propane water heater plus a washer and dryer.

  Clayton stepped inside and closed the door. There were a number of what appeared to be scuff marks made by rubber soles on the door and the bottom horizontal plate showed a fresh crack. He knelt down for a closer look. Someone had kicked the door repeatedly, and not with the tip of a shoe. There were full footwear impressions on the painted wood.

  He gauged the length of the room. It was just long enough for a man to lie prone. He swung around and examined the water heater that sat on a raised plywood platform. It was a fairly new fifty-gallon tank painted a light gray. At the base of the unit was a series of scratch marks that had exposed bare metal. He ran a forefinger along the scratches and looked at the light coating of paint dust and metal particles on his fingertip. From the feel of it, the scratches ran completely around the tank.

  He turned to the washer and dryer. The unbalanced dryer wobbled badly when he jiggled it, and there was a dent on the side about six inches above the floor. He opened the dryer door and caught the strong odor of mildew. An unused fabric softener sheet sat on top of wadded-up clothes. The dryer hadn’t been used in some time.

  Clayton checked the washing machine, found it empty and dry, and went back to the water heater. There were a few brown spots on the side of the platform and a yellowish stain on the middle of the linoleum floor.

  He went into the kitchen where Thorpe and Pino were looking behind the refrigerator and under the sink. “Let’s get some techs out here,” he said.

  “What have you got?” Thorpe asked.

  “It could be a crime scene,” Clayton replied. “I think somebody was kept prisoner in the utility closet.”

  “Another victim?” Pino asked as she flipped open her cell phone and made the call.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Clayton said. “But who?”

  “A third anomaly,” Russell Thorpe said as he peeked into the utility closet and saw nothing that pointed to a person being kept captive. He decided not to question Sergeant Istee about it. “What next?” he asked.

  Ramona held up the address book she’d found in a drawer next to the wall phone by the refrigerator. “First, I need to bring my lieutenant up to speed.” She spoke to Thorpe, deliberately excluding Clayton. “Then, let’s start calling people. If Olsen really is our perp, somebody he knows should be able to tell us something of value.”

  “I’ll work part of the list,” Clayton said.

  “That’s not the role of an observer,” Ramona replied.

  “Do you really want to waste time arguing with me about it?” Clayton asked.

  Ramona paused and thought about it. Technically, she could order Istee to back off, but she didn’t want to do it. He was sharp, experienced, and had been more than helpful. “Okay,” she said, “you’re in.”

  Samuel Green parked in front of the Laundromat on St. Michael’s Drive, grabbed the pillow case filled with his dirty clothes, and walked inside. The place was empty except for a long-haired college kid who was sitting at a table next to the wall dispenser that changed bills into quarters for the machines.

  Green dumped his pillowcase on top of a dryer, which made the kid glance up from his book. Green smiled and the kid nodded in reply and went back to scribbling notes on a yellow pad.

  He stuffed his laundry into a machine, poured in some detergent, and walked to the change machine. The kid slid his chair out of the way so Green could get by.

  “How you doing?” Green asked, as he inserted the bill into the machine and waited for the quarters to drop down into the slot.

  “Good,” the kid replied.

  “Studying?” Green asked as he fished the coins out. The kid couldn’t be more than twenty.

  “Yeah, summer school. I’m taking a required history course.”

  “I like history,” Green said as he started up the washing machine. “You can learn about a lot of interesting people.”

  The kid made a face. “Not me.”

  “Why not?” Green asked as he sat at the table.

  The kid closed his book. “It’s just a survey course of names, dates, and events that you’ve got to memorize, and the instructor is real lame.”

  “That’s too bad, because history can be real educational,” Green said. “Like this place, for example. It’s got some history.”

  The kid laughed. “What kind of history does a Laundromat have?”

  “There was a murder here a long time ago,” Green replied. “An old lady was beaten to death with a hammer.”

  “You’re kidding. Right here?”

  “That’s right. She owned the place and came in one night to fill up the soap dispensers and collect the money from the machines. She got robbed and killed.”

  “No shit? Did they catch who did it?”

  Green nodded. “Yeah, a fourteen-year-old. They say he hit her ten times with the hammer. Burst her head open like a melon. There was blood all over the place.”

  “Gross,” the kid said. “Did he get sent away for life?”

  “You can’t do that to a fourteen-year-old,” Green replied. “In this state, young kids can’t get sent to prison. They get adjudicated and sent to reform schools. Except now they don’t call them that anymore. But they’re still under lock and key.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They had to release him when he was twenty-one. Then he just disappeared.”

  “Maybe he learned his lesson.”

  Green nodded. “Yeah, he got reformed, I bet. I guess there’s hope for all of us.”

  “That sounds sarcastic,” the kid said. “Are you a cop?”
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  Green laughed. “No, but I guess you could call me a criminologist.”

  The dryer buzzer sounded. The kid gathered up his stuff and went to get his clothes. “So, you’re a teacher.”

  “More like a student of criminal behavior,” Green said as he followed along.

  “Graduate school?” the kid asked, eyeing Green as he crammed his laundry into a backpack.

  “Doing some research,” Green replied elliptically with a nod.

  “Well, with all the murders in town lately, you must be staying pretty busy,” the kid said as he zipped the backpack closed.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Green replied with a toothy grin.

  The kid strapped on the backpack, said good-bye, and walked across the street toward the college. Green sat on one of the dryers and looked around. Except for new machines and a fresh paint job, not much had changed since the night he’d killed that old lady.

  Because it predated his transformation to Samuel Green, the murder didn’t count in the usual sense. None of the early ones did. They all belonged to someone who’d not yet learned to be thoughtful, studious, and deliberate about murder.

  Still, it had been a turning point in his life. Because no one had believed that his parents abused him—they were, after all, respected, upstanding citizens—he’d spent seven more years in hell at home, only to be followed by incarceration at the Boys’ School in Springer, where he’d surely been reformed.

  He hadn’t meant to kill the old lady, but she’d resisted, and he needed that money to run away. So he hit her with the hammer, and it felt so good he did it again and again until her head was a bloody mess and she was lying on the floor.

  The washing machine slowed to a stop. He transferred the clothes to a dryer and started thinking about a way to find out where Kerney and his wife where staying. It could be anywhere: a hotel, a friend’s house, one of those short-term vacation rentals, or even a bed-and-breakfast. Wherever they were, Green was pretty sure Kerney had arranged for 24/7 police protection to keep his wife safe.

  Earlier in the day, he’d spent a couple of wasted hours listening to police radio traffic on his scanner, hoping he could locate them that way. When that didn’t work, he thought about following cops around town to see if one would lead him to them, but abandoned the idea as impractical. He needed to do something that would draw Kerney and the wife out into the open.