The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  Ramona was more than slightly pissed at the man who’d discovered Potter. Alfonso Allesandro had spotted the body as he passed by in his newspaper truck, and called the city editor on a cell phone before dialing the cops to report the crime. As a result, a photographer had hurried over from the newspaper offices a few blocks away and walked through the blood trail to take pictures before the scene was secured.

  Both men were now waiting in the panel truck with a uniformed officer while Piño cordoned off the entire block and worked the crime scene with the techs, searching for a shell casing and anything else that looked like evidence.

  Dozens of little orange markers were placed at every cigarette butt lying in the gutter along the street, the broken toothpick found a step away from Potter’s body, and the small puddle of fairly fresh crankcase oil in a vacant parking space. One tech dusted all the parking meters for fingerprints while another worked on the door and front porch to Potter’s office.

  Ramona inspected the small lawn in front of the building for any signs that shrubbery and grass had been disturbed or that fibers, threads, or hair had been transferred by contact. Finding nothing, she sent the tech who’d finished taking snapshots of the bloody footprints over to the panel truck to secure the photographer’s shoes so a comparison could be made. The man opened the truck door, pulled off his shoes, and shot Ramona a dirty look as he handed them to the tech.

  Ramona smiled, but not at the photographer. The newspaper’s truck bore an advertising slogan, “Everyone Reads It,” and in black spray paint someone had added:

  AND WONDERS WHY

  By the time an assistant district attorney, the medical examiner, and Lieutenant Sal Molina showed up, the courthouse was about to open for business. A small crowd of lawyers, clerks, judges, and officers scheduled for court appearances had gathered across the street and were scrutinizing her every move, which made her somewhat uneasy.

  The ME, a roly-poly man with skinny arms showing below his short-sleeved shirt, went off to declare Potter officially dead. Ramona turned her back on the crowd and briefed Molina and the ADA in a low voice.

  “Potter was shot in the chest at what appears to be close range,” she said. “We have no witnesses to the crime and so far, no substantial evidence.”

  “Was it a drive-by?” Molina asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Ramona replied. “Potter took just one bullet, straight on. If the killer had been firing from a moving vehicle, the round would have most likely hit him at an angle. Plus, a drive-by shooter would have probably emptied his weapon at his target.”

  “The shooter could have been parked at the curb.”

  “Possibly,” Ramona said. “But if the killer was in a vehicle, I doubt it was a passenger car.”

  “Why do you say that?” Molina asked.

  “The entry and exit wounds in Potter’s chest and back are almost perfectly aligned,” Ramona answered.

  Molina nodded in agreement. “From a car, the killer would have been firing up at Potter. Have you found the bullet?”

  “No,” Piño said as she gazed down the street. At least a dozen buildings would have to be checked for the spent round, including an elementary school, an office building, and a resort hotel two blocks away across a major thoroughfare that circled downtown Santa Fe. It would take hours to do the search, probably with no results.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Molina said, reading Piño’s pessimistic expression. Piño was a pretty young woman with even features and soft brown eyes that often fooled people into thinking she could be easily conned or manipulated.

  “What if Potter knew his killer?” Barry Foyt, the ADA, asked.

  “That would be great,” Molina said. “Otherwise we’ve got either a random shooting or robbery as the possible motive.”

  “Was there anything in his pockets?” Foyt asked.

  “Just his keys,” Ramona answered, showing the key ring in a plastic bag. “And he’s still wearing his watch, although it’s not an expensive one.”

  “So maybe we should rule out robbery as a motive as soon as possible,” Foyt said, inclining his head toward the single-story adobe building that housed Potter’s offices.

  “Are you giving permission to search?” Ramona asked.

  “Plain view only, for now,” Foyt said, “including his car.”

  “You got it,” Ramona said.

  “Does he have any employees?” Molina asked, looking at the civilians who had congregated at both ends of the street behind the patrol cars that blocked the intersections. Uniformed officers stood by their vehicles holding the crowd back.

  “He has one secretary,” Foyt replied. “I don’t see her here yet.”

  “ID her for us when she shows,” Molina said, turning his attention to Piño. “Six detectives are rolling. Let’s get the uniforms started identifying onlookers and taking statements. Assign a detective to search Potter’s office and put one on Potter’s car. Find his wallet. That could help us rule out robbery as a motive. Have the others canvass the neighborhood, and start the techs looking for the bullet.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant,” Ramona said. Even with the additional help, it was going to be a busy day. Once a residential neighborhood, the McKenzie District west of the courthouse was now a mixed-use area of professional offices, private dwellings, apartments in converted houses, several bed-and-breakfast inns, retail specialty shops, and some eateries that were popular with locals. A good number of people would need to be canvassed on the assumption that someone might have noticed a suspicious person, seen a suspicious vehicle, or heard the gunshot.

  “I wonder if Potter ran every morning before he started work,” Molina said.

  Foyt shrugged. “I know he liked to run, but I don’t know if he kept to a set schedule.”

  “We’ll find out,” Ramona said.

  “Have you called Chief Kerney?” Molina asked Piño.

  “Negative,” Ramona answered. “I wanted to secure the crime scene and get an evidence search under way first.”

  “I’ll call him,” Molina said, turning to Foyt. “Anything else you want to add, Counselor?”

  Barry Foyt glanced ruefully at Potter’s body. Foyt had been handling murder cases for the DA’s office for the last five years and had been called out to most of the major homicide crime scenes. But this was the first time the victim had been someone he knew and liked.

  “Jack was good people,” Foyt said brusquely. “Let’s get a suspect in custody fast, Lieutenant.”

  “If only it were that easy,” Molina said, thinking maybe he’d been stupid to let Kerney talk him out of putting in his retirement papers. Potter’s murder could turn into a real bitch of a controversy real fast if progress on the case stalled.

  If he’d been smart, he could be out on a lake trout fishing without a care in the world, instead of facing the potential indignation of every judge, lawyer, prosecutor, and gay activist in Santa Fe.

  Molina scanned the growing crowd before addressing Ramona. “I know you caught the case, Detective, but I’m taking over as primary on this one.”

  “I understand, Lieutenant,” Ramona said.

  Molina sent Piño and Foyt off to brief the detectives who were piling out of unmarked units, flipped open his cell phone to call the chief, then hesitated.

  Kerney had picked up his pregnant wife at the Albuquerque airport last night before starting a two-week vacation. Their baby was due any day, and on top of that Kerney was having a new house built on some ranch land he’d bought outside the city.

  But the chief’s policy was clear: No matter where he was or what he was doing, he was to be informed immediately about every homicide or major felony that occurred within the city limits.

  Reluctantly, Molina dialed Kerney’s number.

  Lt. Col. Sara Brannon handed the telephone to Kerney and watched his expression change from consternation to vexation as he listened to Sal Molina. She’d just told him that when her maternity leave ended she would start a t
our of duty at the Pentagon in a plum strategic-planning position which would put her on track for promotion to full colonel. He wasn’t at all happy about it.

  “What is it?” she said after Kerney hung up.

  “Nothing good,” Kerney answered. “A lawyer has been shot and killed outside the courthouse.”

  “You’d better go,” Sara said, shifting her weight in the kitchen chair to ease the pain in her back. In the last two weeks being pregnant had become increasingly uncomfortable.

  “They can get along without me for a few more minutes,” Kerney replied, giving Sara a long unhappy look across the kitchen table. “I thought you were trying for an assignment closer to home.”

  “Believe me, I did,” Sara said. “But there wasn’t anything available at my rank or in my speciality.”

  “What about resigning your commission?” Kerney asked. “I recall a conversation we had about that possibility.”

  “I’m not ready to do that,” Sara said. “You knew I was a career officer when you married me.”

  “Things have changed, we’re about to become parents.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” Sara said, forcing a smile and patting her tummy. “I’d totally forgotten.”

  “We can talk about it later,” Kerney said flatly as he got to his feet. Sara’s sarcasm annoyed him, but he didn’t want to quarrel.

  “I thought you had the time,” Sara said.

  “Not for this discussion,” Kerney replied with an abrupt shake of his head.

  He left the kitchen and returned wearing a holstered sidearm and his shield clipped to his belt. He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and went quickly out the door.

  Determined not to cry or throw her coffee cup against the wall, Sara decided to draw a warm bath and take a long soak in the tub.

  Kerney arrived at the crime scene to find Potter’s body covered with a tarp. A large number of onlookers were clustered in the courthouse parking lot watching television reporters broadcast live feeds about the murder to network affiliates in Albuquerque. One reporter started shouting questions at Kerney from across the street.

  He ignored the woman and took a quick tour of the evidence markers which, except for the bloody footprints, looked like nothing more than street litter. But if they found a suspect, DNA testing of the cigarette butts that had been marked as evidence might prove valuable.

  He bent down and uncovered Potter’s body. Jack’s wide-eyed, handsome features were frozen in shock, and his bloody hands were pressed against a dark stain on the tank top just below the entry wound in his chest. Potter had died hard.

  Jack had started his law career with the district attorney’s office a few years before Kerney first joined the police department, and Kerney knew him well, professionally and socially.

  After a fairly long stint as an ADA, Potter had opened a private practice specializing in criminal law, quickly becoming one of the most sought-after defense lawyers in the city. When he came out of the closet as an advocate for same-sex marriages some years later, it didn’t hurt his reputation in Santa Fe one bit.

  Of all the prosecutors Kerney had worked with in the district attorney’s office, Jack had been the best of the lot. Outside of the job, he was charming, witty, and fun to be around.

  Kerney flipped the tarp over Jack’s face and stood. Entering Potter’s office he found Sal Molina talking with Larry Otero, his deputy chief and second-in-command. Kerney nodded a curt greeting to both men and turned his attention to Molina. “Fill me in, Sal, if you don’t mind repeating yourself.”

  “Not a problem, Chief,” Molina said. “Potter was shot once in the chest at close range. I’m assuming you saw the blood trail on your way in.”

  “I did,” Kerney replied.

  “He crawled down the sidewalk and died in front of his building. The ME estimates Potter was shot about fifteen minutes before his body was discovered. We’re canvassing the area, but so far we haven’t turned up anyone who either witnessed the event or heard the shot.”

  Kerney glanced around the front office, once the living room of a modest residence. It was nicely appointed with matching Southwestern-style furniture consisting of a large desk, several chairs, a couch, and a coffee table. Two large museum-quality Navajo rugs hung on the walls, and a built-in bookcase held neatly organized state- and federal-statute books. The door to Potter’s inner office was closed.

  “Have you ruled out robbery?” Kerney asked.

  “Pretty much,” Molina replied, “as well as burglary. We’ve only done a plain-view search so far, but the office and his car appear undisturbed. There are no signs of breaking and entering, and the vehicle hasn’t been tampered with. Both were locked, and Potter had his keys in his possession when he was shot.”

  “Also, his wallet containing three hundred dollars and his credit cards is in the bathroom along with an expensive Swiss wristwatch,” Otero said.

  “Where’s his secretary?” Kerney asked.

  “She showed up a few minutes ago,” Molina said. “Detective Piño has her over at the courthouse, conducting an interview.”

  “Is Piño the primary?” Kerney asked.

  “No, I am,” Molina replied.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear,” Kerney said. “Get the secretary over here soon. Have her double-check to see if anything is missing.”

  “That’s the plan,” Molina said.

  “What have you learned from her so far?” Kerney asked.

  “She says that unless Potter had a court appearance or trial scheduled, he worked abbreviated hours during the summer months,” Molina replied. “He’d come in early, go running for a half hour or so, and then shower and change here before starting his day. He usually finished up by midafternoon.”

  “Several neighbors have seen Potter running in the morning, and he keeps a change of clothes in his office closet,” Otero said.

  “So Potter kept to a daily schedule,” Kerney said, “which means this might not be a random shooting.”

  “That’s the way we read it,” Molina said.

  “Have you contacted Jack’s life partner?” Kerney asked. Norman Kaplan, Potter’s significant other, owned an upscale antique shop on Canyon Road.

  “According to Potter’s secretary, he’s in London on a buying trip and not due back for three days,” Otero said. “I called his hotel, but he’s not there. I’ll try him again later on.”

  “Are there any other next of kin?” Kerney asked.

  “Not that we know about yet,” Otero answered. “But the story is already on the airwaves, thanks to the photographer who showed up before our people arrived on the scene.”

  “What happened?” Kerney asked.

  “He walked through the blood trail, took pictures, and called the newspaper on his cell phone to tell them Potter had been gunned down,” Molina explained. “Detective Piño had to order him away from the crime scene.”

  “Do we have this bozo in hand?” Kerney asked.

  “Yeah, he’s outside in the panel truck cooling his heels, waiting to give a statement,” Otero said. “He’s not too happy about it.”

  “Have a detective take his statement and then arrest him for tampering with evidence and interfering with a criminal investigation,” Kerney said.

  “Those charges probably won’t stick, Chief,” Otero said.

  “I don’t give a damn if they stick or not,” Kerney said. “Let the DA sort it out.”

  Otero eyed Kerney, who was usually levelheaded when it came to dealing with the media. He wondered what was biting the chief. It had to be more than a stupid photographer’s mistakes. “Are you sure that’s what you want us to do?” he asked.

  Kerney bit his lip and shook his head. “You’re right. It’s a dumb idea. Put a scare into him instead.”

  “We can do that,” Molina said.

  “Get a handle on this fast, Sal,” Kerney said. “Let’s find someone with a motive—friends, clients, enemies—you know the drill.”

&nb
sp; Molina nodded.

  “I’ll talk to the reporters,” Otero said.

  “Give them the usual spiel, Larry,” Kerney said, heading for the door, “and keep me informed. Call me on my cell phone.”

  The spat with Sara had put Kerney in a bad mood, and Jack Potter’s murder only added to it. He decided to cool down before going home, and drove to the South Capitol neighborhood where Fletcher Hartley lived. In his seventies, Fletcher was a highly regarded Santa Fe artist, a retired museum director, and an old friend who’d assisted Kerney in a major art heist investigation several years ago, during Kerney’s tenure with the state police.

  A colorful eccentric, Fletcher was a prominent fixture in the gay community and a potential source of good information about Jack Potter’s personal life.

  Fletcher’s sprawling adobe was nestled at the bottom of a large sloping lot behind a beautifully landscaped, expansive front yard filled with hedges and trees that screened the house from the street. Situated in a neighborhood of older homes lined up in tidy rows, Fletcher’s hidden rural oasis was the crown jewel of a charming residential area that still retained a small-town feel.

  Kerney rang the doorbell and listened to a Beethoven piano sonata that flowed through the open windows of the front room. Fletcher opened the door, clutching a book. He wore his favorite kimono and a pair of screaming-pink silk pajama bottoms. Reading glasses where perched on his nose, which had recently been made perfect by plastic surgery. Fletcher fought the aging process by every possible means. In the past, his cheeks had been lifted and his wrinkles tucked to give him the face of a fifty-year-old.

  Kerney had heard about the nose job, but hadn’t seen it until now.

  “I know,” Fletcher said with a smile, noticing Kerney’s quick appraisal, “I’m a vain old coot.” He turned to give Kerney a view of his improved profile. “Do you like it?”

  “You look great,” Kerney said. “Sorry to bother you so early.”

  “Pooh,” Fletcher said, smiling broadly at the compliment. “You know full well that I am always home to visitors. I thrive on distraction. Come in, dear boy. Join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee.”