When asked if he’d ever noticed anyone suspicious hanging around the fruit stand, one old rancher took off his cowboy hat, scratched his head, gave a Clayton a sly smile, and allowed that sometime back he’d seen Paul Hewitt nailing an election sign on the building. With a straight face Clayton promised to question the sheriff. In response the rancher grinned and said he’d like to be there to see it.
At the end of a ranch road a pickup truck outfitted with a rack of emergency roof lights and sporting a volunteer-firefighter license plate pulled off the pavement and stopped just as Clayton closed the gate behind his patrol unit. Shorty Dawson, the medical examiner, got out and hurried toward him.
At no more than five feet four inches, it was clear how Dawson came by his nickname.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Dawson said, squinting up at Clayton, who topped out at five ten.
All the firefighters had radios equipped with the department’s police band frequency. “Did you try calling me?” Clayton asked.
Dawson shook his head and shifted a wad of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other. “I didn’t want to do that. Too many people listen to police scanners. You know that John Doe that got burned up in the fire?”
“His name was Joseph Humphrey,” Clayton replied curtly, out of respect for the dead man’s ghost.
“Whatever,” Dawson said. “You were right, the fire didn’t kill him. According to the pathologist in Albuquerque, he took a knife blade through the heart.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Clayton said casually as he wrapped the chain around the gatepost.
Dawson eyed Clayton, waiting for more of a reaction. After yesterday’s phone conversation with the deputy he half expected a smug response. “It sort of complicates matters for you, I guess,” he said, smiling apologetically.
Clayton shrugged. “Not really. I’ve been treating it like a homicide all along.”
Dawson drove off, thinking Deputy Istee needed to loosen up and be a little more friendly if he wanted to get along in Lincoln County.
Paul Hewitt, who had been a police commander down the road in nearby Alamogordo for twenty years before coming home to run for sheriff, sat behind his desk and listened as Clayton Istee talked.
In his late forties, Hewitt, who stood six one when he squared his shoulders and straightened up, was a big-boned man. He carried a scant ten pounds more than his playing weight as a high school lineman. Hewitt’s best cop attribute was an ability to adopt a frank, honest interest in whatever he was hearing, no matter how boring or revolting the subject might be. It had paid dividends for Hewitt over the years in terms of managing people and catching bad guys.
Clayton reported that the canvass had been finished with no positive results, and that Quinones and Dillingham were visiting local businesses in Carrizozo and Capitan on the chance that Humphrey might have stopped to buy booze or a meal as he passed through the towns.
Hewitt nodded and smiled as Clayton pitched him with a plea to be allowed to work both homicide cases, all the time thinking that it made no sense all. He wondered why Deputy Istee wanted to juggle two major felony murder investigations, especially when one was a cold case that might prove impossible to solve, especially by long distance.
Clayton stopped talking. Hewitt leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and said, “I think the Humphrey homicide needs to be our priority.”
“I understand, but I’d still like to keep working the Montoya case.”
Hewitt smiled sympathetically. “Let’s concentrate on the most recent crime. That’s where we have the greater chance of success.”
“I’d hate to see the Montoya investigation go on the back burner.”
“I don’t think the Santa Fe PD will let that happen.”
“The body was found here. It isn’t their jurisdiction.”
Clayton sounded uptight. Hewitt muzzled a quizzical look. “As far as we know, the crime occurred in Santa Fe. That gives them jurisdiction. Have you got a problem with the PD that I need to know about?”
Clayton shook his head and stopped arguing. “No. I’ll fax everything to them right away.”
Hewitt nodded. “If you need me to grease some wheels in Santa Fe, let me know.”
“That’s not necessary, Sheriff. The officer who originally handled the case is now the police chief.”
“Kerney was the primary? That should get the case some serious attention. Do you know the chief?”
Clayton hesitated. “Yeah, I met him a few times when he was down here working those campground murders.”
“I’ve known Kerney for years,” Hewitt said, relaxing against the back of his swivel chair. “Some may disagree, but I think he’s a good man and a damn fine cop. How do you plan to proceed with the Humphrey investigation?”
Clayton laid it out. He’d make some calls to Veterans Administration employees who had dealings with Humphrey, get as much background information as he could, and then start tracking down others who knew the victim.
“You’re going to have to spend some time in Albuquerque,” Hewitt said.
“I’m going up there today. If the Santa Fe PD sends some people down here while I’m gone, will you ask Sergeant Quinones to keep an eye on them?”
Hewitt kept his tone amiable and his smile bland. “What aren’t you telling me, Deputy?”
“Nothing,” Clayton replied, rising from his chair. “I just want to make sure I stay informed. Who knows? There’s a chance the murders could be linked. I’ll call Santa Fe now.”
“Good deal.”
From the hallway desk, with people brushing past him on their way to and from the supply closet and the access corridor that led to various other county offices in the courthouse, Clayton read through the Montoya autopsy report and called Kevin Kerney.
“What can I do for you, Deputy?” Kerney asked.
“My boss is kicking the Montoya homicide investigation back to your department,” Clayton said.
“That makes sense,” Kerney said flatly. “Update me.”
Clayton summarized the autopsy findings. “I’ll fax you a copy of the report,” he said.
“Get it to me ASAP,” Kerney replied.
“I’ll do that,” Clayton said.
“You don’t sound too happy about giving up the case,” Kerney said.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I was only making an observation, Deputy.”
“It sounded patronizing to me, Chief.”
“Let’s change the subject.”
“What good would that do?” Clayton asked.
“It might give you understand that you have my goodwill.”
“That’s very generous. What do you want to talk about?”
“Forget about it,” Kerney said after a pause, barely keeping an edge out of his voice. “I’ll handle the Montoya case personally. Keep me informed of any new developments.”
“I’ve told you what I know,” Clayton said, checking a surprised reaction.
“You may learn more,” Kerney said. “Since we share jurisdiction, let’s set aside any personal issues and agree to cooperate.”
“Do you have personal issues with me, Chief?” Clayton asked.
“It’s more like a question,” Kerney answered. “Why, whenever we talk, do you seem intent on pushing my buttons?”
“I can’t get into any of this now,” Clayton said.
“Then get your head around this thought,” Kerney said, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. “I understand that you consider me nothing more than a sperm donor. I accept that, and if we can’t be friends, fine. But at the very least, let’s deal civilly with each other as professionals. In fact, Deputy, I expect no less from you.”
The point struck home and Clayton clamped his mouth shut. In this situation with any other ranking officer from another department, he never would have acted so impertinently. “Agreed,” he finally said.
“Good enough,” Kerney said before he hung up.
&n
bsp; Kerney got in his unit and drove off to meet with George and Lorraine Montoya, Anna Marie’s parents. In the last two months, he’d stopped participating directly in departmental operations, particularly those of the major crimes unit, and shifted his emphasis to purely administrative oversight. The change followed the murder in early February of Phyllis Terrell, an ambassador’s wife. Kerney’s investigation had set off a chain of events that resulted in his being harried and watched by government spies, placed under electronic surveillance, fed disinformation, and forced to accept a trumped-up solution to the case, spoon-fed to him by the FBI—all to enable the government to keep secret a state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering software program.
His efforts to get to the truth of the matter had ended in an assassination attempt against him and Sara by a U.S. Army intelligence agent. The agent had bushwhacked them on a rural New Mexico highway during a winter snowstorm as they returned from a meeting with the murdered woman’s father. Fortunately, they had survived, but not the assassin.
The experience had shaken Kerney’s trust in his government and heightened his paranoia about the intelligence community. Privy to information about the government-decreed killings of citizens, Kerney could not assume that he, Sara, or their unborn child were safe from retaliation, or would ever be. The spycraft organizations involved in the cover-up could easily decide their knowledge was a dangerous, unacceptable liability.
To cope, he’d been steering a survival course by keeping a low profile and operating on the assumption that he was still under surveillance, and probably would be for some time to come. It was the right thing to do, but it left Kerney with a caged feeling. He hoped that taking on the Montoya homicide follow-up investigation would lift his spirits.
In truth, hunkering down and concentrating on management issues had paid good dividends. Dead-wood had been cut, response times on calls had improved, the percentage of cleared cases had increased, and a new pay system for patrol officers was about to be established that would bring their salaries in line with plainclothes personnel. Still, Kerney couldn’t bring himself to get jazzed about his successes.
George and Lorraine Montoya lived on a dead-end dirt lane within easy walking distance of the historic Santa Fe Plaza. On the fringe of a prestigious neighborhood, the lane consisted mostly of two rows of modest homes, all built just before or after World War II. The few houses that had changed hands from Hispanic to Anglo ownership were easy to spot. Enlarged, lavishly landscaped, and given the Santa Fe look, they dwarfed the simple farm-style cottages that were so out of vogue among the gentry and the new-rich immigrants.
Kerney had called ahead to arrange a meeting with the elderly couple, and they were waiting on a small porch when he pulled to a stop behind a beautifully maintained old pickup truck parked in a gravel driveway. Both looked apprehensive as he approached. Mrs. Montoya, a short, round woman, clutched a string of rosary beads. Her husband, equally round and just a few inches taller, seemed to flinch as Kerney drew near.
On the telephone, he’d given no reason for his visit other than to say he had fresh information to share. A deep sadness showed on their faces as he reintroduced himself and shook George Montoya’s hand. His palm was moist and his grip vise-hard.
“Our Anna Marie is dead, isn’t she?” George Montoya asked.
“Yes.”
He let go of Kerney’s hand and gestured at the screen door. “Please tell us what you know,” he said, his voice cracking.
Inside, Kerney sat in the front room with the couple. Nothing in the room had changed in the years since his last visit except for a new television and an oak stand to hold it. On the walls hung Mrs. Montoya’s stretched canvas embroideries of New Mexico song-birds—at least a dozen—all nicely framed. Kerney recognized a flycatcher, a warbler, and a goldfinch. He summarized as gently as possible the facts surrounding the discovery of Anna Marie’s body.
Mrs. Montoya crossed herself. Her lips trembled slightly. “Was her body burned in the fire?”
“No,” Kerney answered. The couple was silent for a time.
“Did you see her?” George Montoya asked. The years had aged Montoya. His hair was thin, the skin under his chin above his Adam’s apple was loose, and his eyes were glazed.
“No,” Kerney said.
“How did she die?”
“A blow to the head,” Kerney answered.
“Murdered,” Mr. Montoya said hesitantly, as though the word could beget the act.
“We believe so. Can you think of any reason for her to travel with someone to Lincoln County?”
Mr. Montoya shook his head. “She had no friends or relatives there.”
“Perhaps she knew a person from the area,” Kerney said. “A classmate from graduate school, an old Santa Fe friend who’d relocated.”
“Anna Marie never mentioned anyone like that,” Lorraine Montoya said.
“Did she ever spend time there on business or vacation?” Kerney asked.
“I can’t recall that she did,” George added, looking at his wife for confirmation.
“It’s possible,” Mrs. Montoya replied. “But it may have not been important enough for her to mention.”
“So, a weekend jaunt out of town or a business meeting she’d attended might not come up in conversation.”
Mrs. Montoya nodded solemnly. “We felt blessed that she lived close by to us, and we saw her frequently. But she didn’t tell us everything about her day-to-day activities.”
“No old boyfriend from that neck of the woods?”
Mr. Montoya slowly shook his head. “She would have told us about somebody that important to her. Why are you asking these questions?”
“I know it’s hard right now. Based on the facts we have, I’m inclined to believe your daughter knew her killer. She disappeared for no apparent reason, her car was abandoned, and her body was hidden near a very busy state road a hundred and fifty miles away. If it had been a random act by a stranger, the chances are likely Anna Marie’s body would have been discovered soon after the crime, much closer to home.”
“Someone she knew killed her?” Mrs. Montoya asked, her voice shaky. “How can that be? Everybody liked Anna Marie.”
“It could have been someone she knew slightly,” Kerney said. “A casual business or social acquaintance.”
“A stalker?” Mr. Montoya asked.
Kerney nodded. “Perhaps. Or it could have been a premeditated attack carried out for some other reason.”
“What reason?” George Montoya asked.
“That I don’t know. But I’m troubled by the fact that the perpetrator took Anna Marie so far from Santa Fe. I’m wondering if it has any significance.”
“Was our daughter raped?” George Montoya asked, his body tensing in anticipation of Kerney’s answer.
To Kerney’s mind the indicators strongly suggested sexual homicide. “We don’t know that, and probably never will,” he replied.
“I saved her wedding dress to put in her casket,” Lorraine Montoya said in a whisper.
“When can we bring her home?” George Montoya asked, reaching to squeeze his wife’s hand as she cried quietly at his side, her rosary forgotten.
“In a day or two,” Kerney replied.
“What will you do now?” Montoya asked.
“Try to find your daughter’s killer.”
“Someone she knew, you said.”
“Possibly,” Kerney said.
George Montoya’s eyes clouded and his voice dropped to a whisper. “For years I hear her footsteps on the front step, hear her voice, see her in the kitchen talking with her mother and sister, thinking that when the phone rang she was calling.”
“I am so sorry to bring you this news,” Kerney said.
“It is best for us to know,” George Montoya replied. “We must tell our son and daughter.”
“I’ll need to speak to them.” Kerney rose and gave Mr. Montoya his business card. “Are they both still living in town?”
“Y
es.”
“I’ll try not to make it too difficult. When would be a good time to call them?”
“Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
George Montoya searched Kerney’s face. “This never ends.” His voice cracked and he turned away to comfort his wife and hide his tears.
Kerney let himself out and closed the screen door. As he crossed the porch he heard Mr. Montoya’s heart-wrenching sob.
In Albuquerque Clayton went searching for information about Humphrey from people who knew him. Like most rural New Mexicans Clayton thought nothing about making a four-hundred-mile round trip into the city with the family to shop, take in an afternoon movie, and have a meal, so except for some detours skirting the perennial warm-weather road-and-highway construction, finding his way around town was no big deal. A meeting with Humphrey’s VA case-worker led him to a state-operated alcohol treatment center in the south valley just outside the city limits.
On about a five-acre campus, the facility consisted of a modern, single-story inpatient center with two old pitched-roof former military barracks at the back of the lot and a modular office building off to one side. Big cottonwoods that were budding out shaded an already green lawn.
In a reception and staff area inside the treatment building Clayton was directed to Austin Bodean, the supervising counselor. Bodean was a tall, skinny, middle-aged man with two tufts of hair above large ears on an otherwise bald head. His office walls were filled with plaques that proclaimed various twelve-step philosophies and framed certificates of seminars attended and continuing-education credits earned.
Clayton identified himself and told Bodean about Humphrey’s murder.
“That’s terrible,” Bodean said. “He didn’t have long to live, you know.”
“Cancer,” Clayton said. “Shouldn’t he have been hospitalized?”
“He wasn’t end-stage yet, according to our doctor. But the boozing didn’t help, especially since he was taking painkillers as needed. I was hoping he’d get himself clean and sober—get his life in order, so to speak, before it ended. But the last time he was here, he didn’t seem to give a damn. I guess that’s understandable.”
The Big Gamble Page 4