“Spaghetti,” Wendell said. “With meatballs.”
Clayton rubbed Wendell’s head. “Good. I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” Wendell said.
In the kitchen, Grace was ladling spaghetti sauce onto plates of pasta while Hannah set the table. Without being asked, Wendell pitched in and helped his sister.
Clayton got quick kisses from his wife and daughter, along with instructions to go wash up for dinner. He locked his sidearm away in the gun cabinet where he kept his hunting rifles, gave his hands and face a good scrub, and returned to find his family seated at the table awaiting his arrival.
He eased into his chair and glanced from Wendell to Hannah. “Whose turn is it to tell us everything they did at school today?”
“It’s my turn,” Hannah said as she twisted her fork around some pasta.
“Okay,” Clayton said, smiling at his beautiful daughter, who had her mother’s eyes, small bones, and finely chiseled features. “Let’s hear all about it.”
Hannah took a bite of spaghetti and then began recounting her day at school.
After the table had been cleared, the dishes done, and the children put to bed, Clayton and Grace snuggled together on the living room couch.
“Your mother wants you to call her,” Grace said.
Clayton raised an eyebrow. Isabel Istee, a former member of the tribal council, continued to exert considerable influence over government affairs and was always pushing Clayton to get involved in politics. “Did she say what was on her mind?” he asked.
“No,” Grace replied, “but I can hazard a guess. Rumor has it that the tribal police chief position is about to open up, and after your close encounter with Bambi’s father yesterday, Isabel wants you off the streets and safely ensconced behind a desk. Today’s murder of the deputy only makes it a more urgent issue for her.”
“But not for you?” Clayton queried.
“I know you love your job.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
Grace shifted her weight and sighed. “I want you to be safe. Last night and today have been scary for me.”
Clayton pulled back his head and scanned Grace’s face. “In spite of my mother’s agenda, I have never wanted to be the tribal police chief.”
Grace placed her hand gently on Clayton’s chest. “I know. Let’s not get into a fight over this. Just call your mother.”
“Maybe later. Just so you know, over the next week I’ll be gone most of the time. I’m driving to Albuquerque in the morning for the autopsy, and from there I’m going up to Santa Fe.”
“Will you see your father?” Grace asked.
Clayton shook his head in mock disbelief. Until several years ago, he’d never known who his father was, but a chance meeting with Kerney on the Mescalero Reservation had forced his mother to admit to the truth. “You just love referring to Kerney as my father, don’t you?” he said.
“Well, he is your father,” Grace replied sweetly, “and I do my best to encourage you to think of him that way.”
“I’m working on it,” Clayton said with a smile. “Yes, I will see him, and also pay my respects to Sara and say hello to Patrick if time allows.”
Grace poked him in the ribs with a stiff finger. “You make sure that time allows, Sergeant Istee.”
Clayton laughed. “The hardest part of being a Mescalero is dealing with the matriarchy.”
Early in the morning over coffee in an eatery on Cerrillos Road near police headquarters, Detective Sergeant Ramona Pino asked Detective Matt Chacon to give her an update on his attempt to recover data from hard drives taken from the computers at the Riley residence.
“Nada, zip, zilch,” Matt replied, chewing on a toothpick, which was his habit, “but all may not be lost, to turn a phrase.”
“That’s cute, Matt,” Ramona said. “Give me details.”
“Details, I don’t have, but I do have an idea about what it took to scour those hard drives, which can tell us something about the person who did it.”
“Explain,” Ramona said.
“Most of your typical computer users will either purchase or download a free hard-drive eraser utility that does a fairly adequate job of destroying data. However, a good computer forensic specialist can often find information that hasn’t been overwritten in clusters because of something called file slack.”
Ramona rolled her eyes skyward. “This is all so very riveting.”
Matt laughed. “Be patient, Sarge, I’m getting there. In this particular case, both hard drives were cleaned and sanitized to the max.”
“How is that done?”
“Simply put, by repeatedly overwriting and replacing hard-drive surface information with random numbers or characters. On hard drives that have been cleansed by your typical software end user, I’ll normally find file slack that has been dumped from the computer’s memory, which makes it possible to identify passwords, log-on information, and prior computer usage we call legacy data. But not this time. Everything was as clean as a whistle. I’m betting whoever did this is no average user when it comes to computers. In fact, it could well be the individual is an IT specialist. But if not, he or she is a gifted amateur techie.”
“And you can tell this by how the hard drives were erased.”
“Yep. Whoever did this used the techniques and standards set by the Department of Defense to cleanse computer hard drives.”
“What else have you got?”
Matt looked surprised. “Nothing right now. I was waiting on you to tell me what Internet service provider the victims used so I could get a subpoena to access their records.”
Ramona drained her coffee and gave Chacon an apologetic look. With the discovery of Denise Riley’s body in the horse trailer and the ensuing work that it entailed, she’d totally forgotten to follow up as promised.
“Never mind,” Matt said with a smile. “I’ll do it. Do you know if the evidence search at the residence turned up any floppy disks, zip drives, or compact disks? I didn’t see any when I was there.”
“I’ll take a look at the evidence sheets when I meet with the sheriff’s investigators and let you know.”
“Thanks.” Matt slid out of the booth. “Also, ask about any software. If they secured anything like that during the search, have them give me a call. I’ll pick it up for analysis.”
“Coffee’s on me,” Ramona said.
“Thanks,” Matt said, knowing full well that it served as a partial apology on Ramona’s part.
Outside the restaurant, Ramona took a call on her cell phone from Don Mielke of the sheriff’s department asking her to show up for an investigative team meeting at the sheriff’s office in fifteen minutes. She told him that she was on her way, passed the word of the meeting by radio to the two other detectives Chief Kerney had assigned to the case, and drove out of the parking lot, still feeling a bit miffed with herself for failing to get Matt Chacon the information he needed.
Several years ago, the county had built a new law enforcement complex on Highway 14, a state road that ran from Santa Fe through the old mining towns of Cerrillos, Madrid, and Golden, into the Ortiz Mountains, and down the back side of the Sandia Mountains that rose up east of the city of Albuquerque.
Designated a scenic route and named the Turquoise Trail, most of Highway 14 was indeed picturesque, with views of high, heavily forested peaks and several old mining towns along the way that were definitely worth a stop.
One such town was Cerrillos, named for the nearby hills, where according to fact or legend—Ramona wasn’t sure which—Thomas Edison, the inventor of the lightbulb, had experimented with a precious metal extraction method he’d devised. When the effort failed, Edison shut down his operation and returned to his laboratory in New Jersey to invent other wonderful gadgets.
However, miles before travelers reached Cerrillos or the other old mining towns, they had to pass a cluster of institutional buildings outside the city limits that paid homage to a decision that had been made by
the city fathers years before statehood. When the legislature had given Santa Fe first choice of either being home to the territorial prison or the college, the city officials had picked the pokey. At the time it had supposedly been a no-brainer; the prison would bring many more jobs to the community than a college ever could. Which meant that Santa Fe missed out on being the home of the largest university in the state, which Ramona saw as a slow-growth blessing in disguise.
Travelers on the Turquoise Trail thus encountered the stark and foreboding old prison a short distance from Santa Fe. The scene of a bloody, ghastly riot in 1980, it was now closed and rented out to filmmakers as a movie set. Visible nearby were the modern, high-security penitentiary that had been built to replace it, enclosed by towering fences topped with concertina wire; the neat and tidy Corrections Department headquarters and training academy, where the bureaucrats looked after the welfare, safety, and rehabilitation of their incarcerated clients and trained their guards to manage and control the inmate population to keep them from rioting again; and finally, across the road, the Santa Fe County Adult Detention Center and the separate law enforcement complex that housed the S.O.
Inside the county law enforcement building, a group of deputies, sheriff’s investigators, and several state police agents were milling around in a large conference room waiting for the meeting to begin. At the front of the room behind a large table, the sheriff; his chief deputy, Leonard Jessup; and Don Mielke, who ran the major crimes unit for the S.O. and carried the rank of major, were engaged in quiet conversation. On the table was a stack of folders.
Ramona took a seat at the back of the room, where she was soon joined by her two detectives. After a few late stragglers wandered in, Sheriff Salgado convened the meeting while Mielke and Jessup distributed the folders, which contained copies of the briefing report.
Ramona flipped though the document as Sheriff Salgado highlighted preliminary findings from the crime scene and subsequent follow-up activities. All in all, the S.O. had done a creditable job, and Ramona didn’t see any missteps or gaps in the work that had been carried out on the case so far.
Salgado ended his presentation by announcing that the autopsy on Denise Riley would be conducted in Albuquerque later in the afternoon. He turned the meeting over to Major Mielke, who passed out copies of an initial criminal investigation report of the murder of Deputy Tim Riley, prepared by Sergeant Clayton Istee of the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office.
Ramona read through the report, wondering how many people in the room other than herself knew that Clayton was Chief Kerney’s son. While it wasn’t a secret, it wasn’t common knowledge either.
She stopped speculating about it and returned her attention to the case. Mielke was warning the group not to let the investigation stall because there was no motive and no suspect.
“Don’t pin your hopes on forensic evidence solving this case,” he said as he leaned against the table, “and in spite of the different modus operandi, we agree with the Lincoln County S.O. that there is a strong likelihood that the murders are linked.”
One of the state police agents raised a hand. “What about this theory by the Lincoln County S.O. investigator that the killer is probably a male, approximately five-seven to five-eight in height, who wears a size eight shoe and knew his victim?” he asked in a smug, mildly skeptical tone. “Can we put any stock in it?”
The state cop’s attitude rankled Ramona. “I’ve worked with Sergeant Istee in the past,” she said before Mielke could reply, “and I wouldn’t bet against him. His analysis that these homicides are personal is right on, and I’m convinced that Denise Riley’s killer either redressed her or rearranged her clothing after she was dead. That makes both murders personal.”
The state cop threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I was just asking,” he said, but his eyes weren’t smiling.
“Sergeant Istee has given us a start on a profile for our perp,” Mielke said. “We need to use it when we’re out there asking questions.”
“The perp may also have more than a passing knowledge of computer technology,” Ramona added. “According to Detective Matt Chacon, whoever scoured the hard drives on the two computers removed from the Riley residence is not your typical personal computer user. Also, both the desktop and laptop had been wiped clean of prints.”
“Let’s add that to what we know and move on to assignments,” Mielke said. “Sheriff Salgado and Sheriff Hewitt out of Lincoln County have decided to consolidate the two murder cases into one shared investigation. Myself and Sergeant Istee will serve as case supervisors, and we will both, I repeat both, have equal authority.”
Mielke looked directly at every officer in the room. “Are there any questions about that? Good. Our starting point is an in-depth look at our victims. The question I want answered is why these persons were murdered. We’ll use the FBI crime classification protocols for violent crimes.”
Mielke went over the protocols item by item, handed out assignments, and fielded some questions.
“Before we mount up, there’s one more thing,” he said. “In a few days, we’ll be burying Deputy Tim Riley and his wife, Denise. Most of us in this room knew Tim, worked with him, liked him, and liked his wife. They were family to us.”
He paused and scanned every face in the room. “I don’t expect a miracle between now and the funeral, but I want to see steady progress on this investigation every single day. We are going to grind it out until we catch this killer.”
After most of the officers had filed out of the conference room, Ramona approached Mielke and asked to take a look at the evidence inventory. He took her to his office, which was adjacent to the suite that housed the sheriff and his chief deputy, and had her sit while he thumbed through the stacks of paper on his desk.
Mielke was middle-aged but looked older than his years. Tall with slightly stooped shoulders, he had a slim build, a narrow chest, and a gaunt face that gave him an emaciated look. Although his eyes were clear and his hands steady, Mielke was known to be a binge drinker, who’d been on some legendary benders at the Fraternal Order of Police bar on Airport Road.
Ramona hoped the major would stay sober until the case was closed, but if he blew it, at least she knew she could count on Clayton Istee to hang tough.
He fished out a file and handed it across the desk to Ramona. “What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Zip drives, floppy disks, compact disks, and any software programs found at the Riley residence,” Ramona replied as she flipped through the inventory forms.
“We didn’t find any of that stuff,” Mielke said.
“I’d like to go out and take another look,” Ramona said.
“Suit yourself, but if you find anything bring it here and log it in with our evidence custodian. In fact, have Matt Chacon drop off those computers to us so we can keep the chain of evidence intact.”
“Ten-four,” Ramona replied.
Mielke looked at his watch. “I need to get down to Albuquerque for the autopsies. The chief medical investigator and his senior pathologist are personally doing both Riley and his wife.”
Outside Mielke’s office, Ramona found her two detectives waiting in the break room. At the meeting, Mielke had assigned Ramona and her people the task of learning what Tim and Denise Riley’s Cañoncito neighbors knew about the couple. It was just one piece of what cops did to develop a victimology, a cop shop word for an exhaustive, comprehensive, up-to-the-minute history of a crime victim’s life. When completed, everything that could be known about an individual would be, in the hopes that it would lead to the killer.
During the process of collecting information, officers would delve into every aspect of the victim’s life, review in minute detail the elements of the crime, analyze the crime scene, pore over the forensic findings, locate and interview witnesses, family members, past and present associates, and friends, serve search warrants, and scrutinize autopsy results.
Sometimes the technique worked and sometim
es it didn’t. Ramona and the detectives divided up the list of neighbors and drove out to Cañoncito in their separate vehicles to start the interviews. From experience, Ramona knew that the process might not put a killer in their sights, but it rarely failed to reveal a victim’s secrets.
Chapter Four
At daybreak Clayton Istee entered the sheriff’s office in the Lincoln County Courthouse to find Paul Hewitt at his desk reviewing the previous day’s logs, field narratives, lead sheets, witness statements, and supplemental reports that had been turned in by the investigative team. Successful homicide investigations often hinged on not letting minor questions go unanswered. And in order to know what questions needed to be asked, it was necessary to stay on top of the volume of information that continued to accumulate.
Clayton was grateful to have the sheriff lend another pair of eyes and his superior cop instincts to the pile of paperwork. At home, over his first and only cup of coffee for the day, he had prepared an updated officer assignment sheet. He handed it to Hewitt.
The sheriff gestured at an empty chair as he looked over the assignment sheet. Clayton hadn’t designated a second in command to run the show while he attended the autopsy in Albuquerque and then went to Santa Fe to meet with the team investigating Denise Riley’s murder.
He drained his coffee, put the empty mug on the desk, swiveled in his desk chair, grabbed the coffeepot from the sideboard, and refilled his mug. Day and night, Hewitt kept a pot of coffee going in his office and he drank prodigious amounts of it. “Who’s covering for you while you’re gone?” he asked.
“I was hoping you’d volunteer, Sheriff,” Clayton said from his seat across from the big oak desk that inmates incarcerated years ago at the old Santa Fe Prison had made as part of their rehabilitation program.
Hewitt nodded. “Good choice, Sergeant.”
Clayton smiled. Paul Hewitt wasn’t known for a sense of humor, but when it did surface it was usually as dry as a New Mexico spring wind.
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