“A transsexual who stalked Potter some years ago, after he ended a relationship with her,” Molina replied. “She lives with her current boyfriend, who runs a one-man gardening service. Both of them are head cases. The boyfriend isn’t home-he’s a gardener and leaves early for work. I’ve got Sergeant Tafoya looking for him. His name is Kurt Larsen.”
“What kind of head cases are they?” Ramona asked.
“Larsen’s a vet with post-traumatic stress, and Patterson gets hysterical and cuts herself with a knife to get attention. The shrinks call it a borderline personality.”
“You talked to their shrinks?” Ramona said.
“No, I spoke with the caseworker who supervises the apartments where Patterson and Larsen live. It’s an independent living program for mental patients run by a local agency. The caseworker’s name is Joyce Barbero. See her first before you meet with Patterson.”
“Will do,” Ramona said.
“It might be something,” Molina said halfheartedly. “As it is, we’re getting nothing from the neighborhood canvass.”
“Have we found the spent bullet?”
“The techs are still looking, but I wouldn’t count on them getting lucky. Be careful with Patterson.”
Ramona rolled her eyes in agreement and went off to meet with a loony-tune transsexual who liked to play with knives.
Patterson and Larsen lived in a single-story apartment building behind a large discount department store just off Cerrillos Road, the busiest, noisiest, ugliest street in Santa Fe. A high concrete block wall tagged with graffiti separated the two structures.
The building had eight units with entrances fronting the street. Patches of stucco had broken off the exterior, exposing the gray undercoat, and the painted wood trim around the doors and windows was chipped and peeling. Landscaping consisted of some low-maintenance native shrubs and a few large boulders in a gravel bed that ran the length of the building from the sidewalk to the front stoops. On the street, litter had accumulated under several broken-down vehicles that were up on blocks and in the process of being repaired.
A sign in front of an end unit announced the office of the La Puerta Mental Health Independent Living Center, and asked all visitors to check in. Ramona rang the bell and was greeted by Joyce Barbero.
A large, round, middle-aged woman dressed in a loose-fitting skirt and top, Barbero carefully inspected Ramona’s credentials.
“I’m sure Mary Beth had nothing to do with the murder,” Barbero said.
“We’re just gathering information about Mr. Potter from people who knew him,” Ramona replied. “Did you know him?”
“Not personally. Mary Beth talks about him occasionally in group therapy. His rejection hurt her deeply.”
“Did he ever come here to visit Mary Beth?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Would it be possible to check on that?” Ramona asked.
“We keep a log of all visitors,” Barbero replied. “Our rules require it.”
“Both day and nighttime visitors?”
“Yes, we have shift supervisors who sleep over. Visitors must leave by nine P.M.”
“Would you check your records?”
“It will take some time to go through the file.”
“I’ll stop back after I’ve talked to Ms. Patterson,” Ramona said. “Does she have any violent tendencies?”
“Not towards other people.”
“You’re sure of that? I understand she was very angry with Potter.”
“Angry, yes, but not aggressive. I described Mary Beth’s behavior to your lieutenant. She can be self-destructive. But it’s an attention-getting device, and she hasn’t mutilated herself in a very long time.”
“Are there knives in the apartment?”
“Of course.”
Barbero directed Ramona to Patterson’s apartment and watched from her front stoop. Ramona rang once and the door opened. If she hadn’t been given a heads up about Patterson’s sex change operation, she never would have guessed it. At five-three, Mary Beth matched Ramona’s height. Her features were feminine, her figure shapely, and her makeup was perfectly applied.
For all of that Ramona still had to force back a smile; Patterson wore a knee-length, short-sleeved, light blue summer dress with a high neckline that looked like it had come from the costume department of a 1960s TV sitcom. It was topped off by a pink chiffon scarf tied under her chin that covered the curlers in her hair.
Mary Beth smiled shyly and touched the scarf. A series of long, thin scars ran up her forearm. “I wasn’t expecting company,” she said in a soft tenor voice. “Who are you?”
“I’m a police officer,” Romana said, showing her shield.
Patterson took a deep breath and patted her chest. “Why would you want to talk to me? I haven’t done anything bad to myself.”
“I’m sure you haven’t. May I come in?”
Mary Beth turned quickly and her skirt swished across her legs. “Only if you promise not to lie to me.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Ramona said.
“The police always lie to me,” Mary Beth replied with a pout, as she sat on an oversized ottoman with a worn cushion, crossed her legs, and demurely pulled her skirt down over her knees.
The front room of the apartment was furnished with what looked like castoffs and thrift shop purchases. An old couch covered with a faded quilt faced a large laminated-wood wall unit that contained a television set with a rabbit-ears antenna. A small table radio tuned to a country station was playing a mournful ballad about the pain of lost love.
In front of the couch, a battered piano bench had been cut down to serve as a coffee table. A collection of cheap glass figurines of dancing women were carefully arranged on the shelf above the TV. On the wall behind the ottoman were a Marine Corps insignia plaque and a shadow box containing military decorations, lance corporal stripes, and expert marksman awards.
“How do the police lie to you?” Ramona asked.
“They tell me I need help and then they take me to the hospital,” Mary Beth replied, still pouting. “I ask them not to do it and they say they have to. They could just leave me alone and go away, but they won’t.”
“Maybe they’re just trying to help you,” Ramona said.
Mary Beth arched her neck. “I don’t need help,” she said haughtily. “I’m much better now that I have my Kurt.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve come to ask you about Jack Potter.”
Mary Beth winced as though she’d been slapped. “Don’t say that name to me.”
“We have to talk about him.”
“Why?”
“He was murdered this morning,” Ramona answered.
Mary Beth put a hand to her mouth and giggled. “Goodie,” she said brightly.
“You don’t mind that he’s dead?”
She was silent for a moment and her face lost all expression. “I did everything for him. Anything he wanted. He said he loved me, but he didn’t.”
“That must have been hard for you.”
Mary Beth’s foot began wagging rapidly, bright red toenails showing through the open end of her sandal. She ran a finger up her arm, tracing one of the long, thin scars, and said nothing. Suddenly, she lunged off the ottoman and walked past Ramona to the bathroom.
Ramona followed and from the open doorway watched Mary Beth remove her scarf and start taking curlers out of her hair, dropping them in the sink one by one.
A baby blue shower curtain covered the tub and a shelf above the sink held a large array of inexpensive perfume and cologne bottles. On top of the toilet tank a pair of scissors were within easy reach.
“Let’s go back in the living room and talk,” Ramona said, stepping closer to the toilet.
Mary Beth shook her head in a fierce rebuttal. “If I talk to you, you’ll just think I killed him.”
“Why would I think that?”
The last curler dropped into the sink and Mary Beth started furiously br
ushing her thick, dark hair. “Because I used to say I wanted to. Because for a long time that’s all I would talk about. Because I stalked him and that was a bad thing to do.”
Mary Beth’s high tenor voice lost its feminine veneer. She sounded like a frightened, prepubescent boy.
“Everybody has someone in their life they want to hurt or get back at,” Ramona said. “Those feelings don’t make you a murderer.”
The hairbrush in Mary Beth’s hand stopped in midstroke. “You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not,” Ramona said. “Answer a few questions and we can clear everything up.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Easy ones,” Ramona said. “Have you been home all morning?”
Mary Beth relaxed a bit. “Yes, I only go out with Kurt because I don’t know how to drive and it’s too far to walk anywhere.”
“That’s important for me to know. Have you seen anybody this morning?”
Mary Beth put the brush down and ran her fingers through her hair to fluff it up. “Just Kurt. I fixed his breakfast and then he went to work.”
“What time was that?”
She studied her face in the mirror, turning her head from side to side to view her wavy locks. “He gets up at five during the summer when he’s busy. I had his breakfast waiting for him. I always fix his breakfast.”
“When did he leave?”
“About a half hour later. I packed him a nice lunch: a meatloaf sandwich and some cookies that I made last night. He’s a big man and he needs to have a good meal at lunchtime.”
“It sounds like you take good care of Kurt,” Ramona said. The comment earned her a pleased smile. “Has he ever expressed any resentment about Jack Potter?”
Mary Beth’s smile dissolved. “What do you mean?”
“Is he angry about the way Potter treated you?”
Mary Beth tentatively shook her head, reached for the brush and started in on her hair again with a trembling hand.
“He’s okay about Potter?”
“Why shouldn’t he be?” Mary Beth said sharply.
“Did Kurt ever say he wanted to get even with Potter because of the way he treated you?”
“My Kurt is a good man,” Mary Beth said, swiveling from the mirror to face Ramona. “Now you have to go.”
“Does Kurt own a gun?”
“I don’t like guns.”
“But does he own one?”
“You think Kurt killed Jack and you’re trying to get me to help you put him in jail.”
“Not at all,” Ramona replied. “What kind of gun does Kurt have, Mary Beth?”
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Mary Beth said sternly. She stormed out of the bathroom, walked to the front door, and opened it. “Go away.”
“Does Kurt have a cell phone?” Ramona asked as she followed along.
“No, and even if he did he’s much too busy to call me.”
Ramona stepped outside. “Do you know where he’s working?”
“Kurt didn’t kill anyone. Can’t you believe that?”
“I want to believe it,” Ramona said, “but you’re not helping me give Kurt a chance to clear his name.”
Mary Beth responded by slamming the door in Ramona’s face.
Ramona walked to the office thinking that no matter how batty Mary Beth might be, she still did one hell of a job of standing by her man.
Ramona checked in with Barbero, who reported there was no record of Jack Potter visiting the facility. She also confirmed that Mary Beth didn’t drive, never used the city buses, and rarely went out alone.
“Do you know if Larsen owns a gun?” Ramona asked.
Barbero winced at the thought of it. “That’s not allowed.”
Ramona blew past Barbero’s gullibility and asked for Larsen’s business number. She went inside, returned with a piece of paper and handed it to Ramona.
“It’s a cell-phone number,” Barbero said. “Did talking to you upset Mary Beth?”
“You could say that,” Ramona replied.
Barbero gave her a pained look and scurried off to check on Mary Beth’s emotional welfare.
Ramona dialed the number. Surprise, surprise, the line was busy. In her unit, she tried to make radio contact with Sergeant Cruz Tafoya, who had been assigned by Molina to find Larsen, and got no response. She called his cell phone and it rang through to his voice mail. She left a message that Larsen was possibly armed with a gun, then disconnected and asked dispatch for Tafoya’s location. He was at a house in an upscale rural subdivision in the foothills above the village of Tesuque, a few miles outside of town.
“When he calls in, tell him I’m en route to his twenty,” Ramona said. “Ask him to stand by.”
By the time the veterinarian arrived, State Police Officer Russell Thorpe had taken Kerney’s statement and photographed the dead animal, and then completed a field search with the chief around the perimeter of the horse barn looking for evidence. Kerney pointed out some shoe prints and tire marks in front of the corral, in a spot where no vehicle had been parked during construction.
After Kerney, his wife, and the vet went into the barn, Thorpe gathered soil samples, sketched and photographed the impressions, and mixed up a batch of dental plaster to do the castings.
Thorpe had recently transferred to Santa Fe from the Las Vegas district. He’d first met Kerney soon after his graduation from the academy when body parts of a decomposed butchered female had been found on land Kerney had inherited and then later sold to the Nature Conservancy.
At the time, Kerney was deputy chief of the state police. He took charge of the investigation and Russell worked on the homicide with him. In the course of that assignment, Thorpe fell asleep while on surveillance, causing him to lose contact with the murder suspect, who was later caught and convicted. Kerney saved Russell’s budding career by giving him a butt-chewing rather than an official reprimand. Now Thorpe hoped to pay back the favor by doing thorough work and maybe even catching the bad guy.
He cleaned out the loose material from the indentations, sprayed a plastic coating on each, built a form around every impression, and carefully poured the plaster in stages, building each form up as he went to avoid letting the material run off and spoil the casting.
Russell left the forms to dry and walked to the barn. The veterinarian had cut into the hide of the horse, sawed through some ribs, and sliced and pinned back the stomach muscles. Now he was probing for a spent round with a pair of forceps. The concrete pad under his feet ran blood red, and the smell from the exposed guts wasn’t pleasant.
A grim Kerney and his equally unhappy-looking wife stood behind the vet watching. Tug Cheney grunted, gently extracted a slug and dropped it into Kerney’s gloved hand.
He inspected it, marked it, and put it in a plastic bag.
Thorpe asked to see the bullet and Kerney handed him the bag. The tip of the slug was dented, probably from hitting a rib. Other than that, Thorpe wasn’t sure what he was looking at.
“Is it from a handgun?” he asked.
Kerney nodded. “Probably a. 38-caliber revolver.”
“How can you tell?”
“From the diameter of the slug and the fact that a semi-automatic round is usually fully encased in a one-piece metal jacket. The bullet you’re holding doesn’t have a jacket covering the lead core and it shows spiral grooves from the rifling of the barrel. It explains why we didn’t find any spent cartridges.”
Thorpe nodded and handed back the bag. “Anything else?”
“The hair around one of the entry wounds was blistered,” Kerney replied. “That means the shooter fired from close range, no more than two inches. He deliberately gut shot Soldier, then fired two more rounds to finish the job.”
“That sucks,” Thorpe said.
Kerney nodded. Years ago, he’d been gut shot by a drug dealer, so he had a fairly good idea of the pain Soldier had suffered before dying. He wondered if there was a connection between the two events.
That was unlikely: Kerney had put the drug dealer down permanently before passing out, so that particular dirtbag couldn’t possibly be a suspect. So, who was?
If the way Soldier was killed wasn’t a coincidence, Kerney thought, then the shooter was telling him that he knew his personal history, what he cared about, where he lived, and how easy it would be to get to him or those he loved.
“What do you want me to do next, Chief?” Thorpe asked.
“Get me a large plastic bag,” Kerney said, noticing for the first time that Soldier was wearing a halter. Yesterday, he’d removed it and put it on a hook inside the stall.
He stepped to the head of the horse, took out a pocket knife, cut through the halter to avoid touching the buckle, and slipped it off. He held it by the edges of his gloved fingertips until Thorpe returned with the bag.
“When you’re finished here, have the lab check for prints and compare them to mine,” he said to Thorpe as he eased it into the bag and zipped it shut.
“Got another one,” Tug said, lifting out the forceps and dropping a bullet into Kerney’s hand. “I think the last one went straight through the stomach cavity. We’ll have to lift him up to see.”
Kerney marked and bagged the round. “We can use the contractor’s backhoe to do that.” He turned to Thorpe. “Have it brought over here, and then check the crew members’ shoes and their vehicle tires against the castings.”
“What about the subcontractors?” Thorpe asked.
“Good point. Trujillo can provide us with names and addresses. I’ll follow up with them later.”
“I can do it,” Thorpe said. “Chief Baca said I’m assigned to the case until you release me.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
Russell smiled. “I owe you one, Chief.”
“Okay, it’s yours. Take statements, too.”
“Affirmative,” Thorpe said, as he left to get Trujillo.
“What do we do with Soldier?” Sara asked.
“You can either have the carcass shipped to Albuquerque for disposal or you can bury him here on your property,” Tug said.
“We’ll bury him,” Sara said, before Kerney could respond.
Kerney bit his lip and nodded in agreement.
Tug stripped off his gloves and gave Kerney a solemn look. “I’m done here. Sorry for your loss. He was a fine animal. Whoever did this should be shot.”
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