Everyone Dies kk-8

by Michael McGarrity

  “What about the Patterson death investigation?”

  “From all indications, it was a clear-cut suicide,” Molina replied. “Detective Pino is pretty shook up about it, and Cruz Tafoya is in the same boat about the Larsen shooting.”

  Kerney responded with silence.

  “They’re good detectives, Chief.”

  “They’ll just have to sweat it out until Lieutenant Casados finishes his IA investigation.”

  “When will that be?” Molina asked, as he got to his feet.

  “I’ll let you know, Sal.”

  Molina stood at the door and nodded. “Sorry about all those questions, Chief.”

  “They were the right ones to ask,” Kerney replied.

  Lieutenant Robert Casados had two pastimes: weightlifting and singing baritone in a barbershop quartet. At six-foot-two he was a bit taller than Kerney, and carried himself with the easy poise of a big man used to being treated with deference. His size and voice gave Casados a command presence, which usually made just about everybody, including cops, eager to cooperate with him. Along with his physical attributes, Casados had an analytical mind and a degree with honors in sociology.

  Sitting with Casados at the conference table, Kerney listened while the lieutenant laid out his findings. The SWAT call-out had been premised solely on Detective Pino’s unconfirmed belief that Larsen was armed with a gun, followed by the supposition of both Pino and Sergeant Tafoya that Larsen was attempting to elude them.

  “Pino had no actual knowledge that Larsen had a gun,” Casados said, as he referred to a note. “She based her premise on Patterson’s non-verbal reaction to the question. In fact, the counselor Pino spoke to, Joyce Barbero, made it clear that guns were not allowed at the independent living center.”

  Casados set his note aside and reached for another slip of paper. “However, the presumption that Larsen ran to elude the police does have credibility. Patterson placed a call to Larsen’s cell phone minutes after Pino left the apartment. Why he ran is still in doubt, although it could very well be because he knew it was illegal for him to possess a handgun.”

  “Why do you say that?” Kerney asked.

  “Twice in Santa Fe and once in Albuquerque he tried to buy a pistol, and was turned down each time when the records check came back identifying him as mentally ill. He got red-flagged through an out-of-state arrest stemming from a road rage incident some years back where he’d brandished a weapon at a passing motorist who’d cut him off in traffic. He got a deferred sentence based on his military record, his previous psych history, and a court-ordered agreement to enter and successfully complete a treatment program, which he did. As far as I know, it was his first and only offense.”

  “How did Larsen go from being an informant wanted for questioning to a murder suspect?” Kerney asked.

  “According to everyone I’ve talked to and the tapes of the radio traffic, he didn’t,” Casados replied. “The orders were to proceed with caution and find and apprehend only. Sal Molina made it clear that Pino and Tafoya briefed him fully by phone before he bumped the request up to Deputy Chief Otero to call out SWAT.”

  “Do you think Molina is covering for his people?”

  “Only insofar as he’s willing to take the hit on this as their supervisor,” Casados replied. “Sal has nothing to lose, he can retire and go fishing. Tafoya and Pino still have most of their careers in front of them. He’d hate to see their chances for advancement get derailed.”

  “So what went wrong?” Kerney asked.

  “Since it wasn’t a hostage situation, nobody thought to put a negotiator on the team that went looking for Larsen. That might have made all the difference.”

  “Nobody on the team tried to talk Larsen into surrendering?”

  “After Larsen opened fire, the SWAT commander ordered Larsen to toss his weapon and give up peacefully. All four officers said he responded with more gunfire.”

  “They had cover and concealment?” Kerney asked.

  “Affirmative, although the evidence at the scene shows that Larsen came close to taking out the point man.”

  “How many rounds did the team fire?” Kerney asked.

  “In all, thirty-five,” Casados said, giving Kerney an uneasy look. The figure was exact; policy required every officer to account for all department-issued ammunition down to the last cartridge. But that wasn’t what bothered Casados.

  “Did all the officers fire their weapons?” Kerney asked, reading Casados’s discomfort.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of firepower to stop the action of one man with a handgun. How many shots did Larsen get off?”

  “I checked his magazine. Larsen fired four times, and he wasn’t carrying any spare clips.”

  Kerney’s expression turned sour. “What else, Lieutenant?”

  “Larsen took three rounds in the back, Chief.”

  “Shit,” Kerney said.

  “According to the team, Larsen was belly crawling to safety and firing at the same time. The point man caught him with a burst when he rolled towards some rocks.”

  Kerney pushed back his chair and stared out his office window. This wasn’t good. In fact, it sucked.

  “Do you want me to write up my report and submit it?” Casados asked.

  “Not yet. I want you to tack the Patterson suicide onto your investigation,” Kerney replied, as he got up and walked to the window. “Go over all that happened with Patterson and Detective Pino from first contact to the time she was hospitalized.”

  “Yes, sir. Is that all for now?”

  Kerney turned and nodded. “Thanks, Robert. You’ve done a good job.”

  Casados assembled his paperwork and left quietly.

  The DA wasn’t going to like what Kerney had to tell him, and he was due at Sid Larranaga’s office in fifteen minutes.

  Kerney didn’t like it either. The problem was much bigger than the tragic mistakes that had been made by his people. Maybe Sid was right about the overeager-ness of cop shops to use special weapons and tactics in every apparent high-risk situation.

  He thought about it a bit longer. No matter what kind of discipline had to be served up to individual officers, the overriding problem was officer training. Sworn personnel needed to deal effectively with mentally ill informants, suspects, witnesses, and victims, no matter what the situation. He would get the ball rolling on a mandatory in-service program. It wouldn’t stop the uproar from the community, but it was still the right thing to do.

  He looked for Sara on the way out, found her in Sal Molina’s office at the computer, and told her he’d be back shortly. He clamped his mouth shut to avoid asking if she was all right.

  She waved him away with her hand, and he left the building trying to convince himself the day could only get better.

  Chapter 6

  M echanical problems with the plane delayed Norm Kaplan’s arrival in Albuquerque by over four hours. From the second-level observation deck, Santa Fe Police Officer Seth Neal, who’d been cooling his heels all that time, watched the plane land, turn, and taxi slowly to the terminal. He walked to the gate and asked the woman at the check-in counter to have a flight attendant advise Kaplan that a police officer would be waiting for him when he deplaned. He reassured her that everything was cool, and the woman’s somewhat startled, questioning look disappeared.

  Neal, who normally rode a motorcycle during the summer months and drove a squad car the rest of the year, didn’t particularly like the assignment he’d been given. As a traffic officer, Neal’s notion of a good day at work consisted of writing tickets, running speed traps, investigating accidents, pulling dignitary escort details, and busting drunk drivers.

  Conspicuous in his uniform with tight-fitting pants and motorcycle boots, Neal stood to one side of the open jetway door as the first-class passengers hurried past, casting curious glances in his direction. A tall man dressed in jeans and an expensive pumice-colored linen sport coat broke ranks and veered toward
him.

  “Mr. Kaplan?” Neal inquired.

  Kaplan nodded. A pained, tired expression carved deep lines around his mouth. “Have you caught Jack’s killer?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I’m here to escort you to Santa Fe.”

  “Why?”

  “The detectives need to speak with you as soon as possible,” Neal replied.

  “I have my own car,” Kaplan replied.

  “Yes, sir, I know. I’ll take you to it, and follow you to Santa Fe.”

  “Why do you need to do that?” Kaplan asked, his eyes searching Neal’s face.

  “It’s just a precaution,” Neal replied. “Did you check any luggage?”

  “What kind of precaution?” Kaplan asked, his voice rising.

  Neal touched Kaplan’s arm to get him moving. “The detectives will explain it. Do you have any luggage checked?”

  Kaplan nodded and Neal prodded him down the long corridor toward the lower level. In the baggage claim area, Neal kept Kaplan away from the passengers who ringed the carousel waiting for their luggage to arrive as he searched the crowd looking for any suspicious characters.

  As luggage began tumbling down the conveyer belt, Kaplan asked questions about the investigation. Neal told him what he knew, which wasn’t much, and Kaplan groused about the scantiness of the information.

  Kaplan spied his bag, grabbed it, and Neal drove him to the off-site lot where his car was parked. He made Kaplan wait in the unit and did a visual inspection of the vehicle. He returned and ordered Kaplan to stay in the squad car.

  “Why?”

  “There’s a dead dog on the driver’s seat,” Neal said.

  “Oh my God,” Kaplan said, his voice cracking. “What kind of dog?”

  “I don’t know,” Neal said, as he reached for his cell phone to ask Santa Fe for instructions. “But we’re gonna be here for a while.”

  He didn’t tell Kaplan that the dog had been beheaded.

  Sid Larranaga paced in front of his big oak desk, built by prison inmates. On it was a plaque with Larranaga’s name carved in script, bordered on each side by the sun symbol of the state flag, which had been borrowed from a nineteenth-century Zia Pueblo pottery design.

  Originally the symbol-a circle with lines radiating out in the four major directions of the compass-represented the stages of life, the cycle of the seasons, and the sacred obligations of the Zia people: clear minds, strong bodies, pure spirits, and devotion to the welfare of the tribe.

  The design had been adopted in 1925, but to this day there were tribal members who didn’t appreciate the state ripping-off a hallowed religious symbol without the Pueblos’ permission.

  Kerney waited for Sid to stop pacing. No longer the Young Turk politician who’d been swept into office and reelected district attorney a second time, Larranaga had put on some weight. His pudgy stomach jiggled a bit over a tightly cinched belt.

  Sid sank into an overstuffed chair, took a cigar out of a humidor that sat on the corner of the desk, clamped it between his teeth, left it unlit, and stared at Kerney with a perplexed frown on his face.

  He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at Kerney. “You can’t possibly believe that Larsen’s death was justifiable. Thirty-five rounds fired by your people and Larsen shot three times in the back. Give me a break.”

  “That’s not the issue,” Kerney replied.

  Larranaga snorted. “If that’s not a perfect example of overkill, I don’t know what is.”

  “It’s impossible to precisely forecast the level of threat to an officer. Larsen ran to elude questioning, and Detective Pino’s assumption that he was armed proved to be correct. That made it a high-risk situation. Furthermore, Larsen initiated a deadly assault, which put the officers’ lives in jeopardy.”

  “I’m not questioning that,” Sid replied, dropping the unlit cigar into an ashtray. “What I have a problem with is the fact that your people had an overwhelming advantage over Larsen. Why didn’t they retreat, take cover, and give him a verbal warning?”

  “My people were fired upon by a concealed subject in dense cover without provocation,” Kerney replied. “They had no time to retreat, but a warning was given.”

  “Yeah, while they were pumping automatic fire at him,” Larranaga replied. “Some warning.”

  “You don’t know that,” Kerney said. “Are these the kind of tactics you plan to use with the grand jury?”

  Sid’s expression turned angry and his hand gripped the arm of the chair. “Maybe,” he snapped, “and just maybe I’ll tantalize them further with the fact that Larsen wasn’t a fugitive from justice, didn’t kill Jack Potter, and had an extensive psychiatric history.”

  “Will you carefully leave out the point that he had a prior arrest for assault involving a handgun and, as a mental patient, was in illegal possession of a 9mm semi-automatic? What are you trying to do, Sid, be the crusading DA who cleans out a nest of trigger-happy cops, so you can get a leg up on an appointment to the bench?”

  Sid took a deep breath and shook his head. “Don’t bait me, Kerney. This isn’t political. Look, I told you yesterday, you needed to show me evidence that the officers were forced to stop an attack. You’ve managed to do that, just barely. But you know the disparity of force was overwhelmingly in favor of the team that went in to get Larsen.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to ask the grand jury to return a true bill of indictment charging involuntary manslaughter against the officers,” Kerney said. “Do you really want to take this to trial? What if a jury doesn’t agree?”

  Larranaga threw a hand in the air. “What’s my alternative?”

  “Have the grand jury investigate the department’s use of force policies, SWAT procedures, and guidelines for dealing with mentally ill subjects. I’ll cooperate fully.”

  “A slap on the wrist isn’t going to cut it.”

  “I’m talking about using the incident to make constructive changes.”

  “Besides that wonderful plum, what else are you willing to give me?” Sid asked.

  As with most police departments, the SWAT team consisted of personnel who served on it in addition to their normal duties, which gave Kerney some disciplinary options. “I’ll permanently remove the SWAT commander from his position and place the other three officers on suspended SWAT status pending completion of remedial training.”

  “Not good enough. I want the officer who actually shot Larsen also kicked off SWAT.”

  “Agreed.”

  Sid rubbed his lips together. “And the grand jury can have complete access to whatever, with nothing held back, including the Patterson debacle?”

  “Bring it on,” Kerney replied.

  “This could cost you your job.”

  “I think the grand jury will find much to praise by the time their investigation gets underway.”

  “Don’t ask me to stall on this,” Sid said.

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  Larranaga picked up the cigar, started chewing on it, and wiped a bit of tobacco off his lower lip. Kerney wasn’t wrong about his political agenda, and a grand jury probe into department operations that weren’t perceived as anti-law enforcement could give him front-runner status for an interim appointment to the bench. Eventually, he’d have to run in an election to be retained in the position, but as the incumbent he’d have the advantage.

  “Okay, I’ll go along with you on this,” Larranaga said.

  “Thanks, Sid.”

  Larranaga smiled. “Yeah, sure. Just remember, I can’t subpoena a dead police chief, so go catch the guy who wants to kill you.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Kerney said as he left Sid’s office.

  After receiving Officer Neal’s report of a dead dog in Kaplan’s car, Sal Molina pulled Ramona Pino off the records search to go and investigate, called the Albuquerque Police Department to ask for assistance, and ordered Neal to take Kaplan to the nearest police substation and wait there for Pino’s arrival.

 
; It was a still, hot day in Albuquerque when Ramona arrived at the parking lot near the airport. A relentless sun pushed the temperature near the century mark and dust kicked up by dry, early morning canyon winds hung in the hazy air. The lane to Kaplan’s car had been blocked off with bright yellow police tape. Two local crime scene techs and a detective waited in the air-conditioned comfort of their vehicles.

  With the heat from the pavement boiling through the soles of her shoes, she walked around Kaplan’s car with the detective, who’d introduced himself as Danny Roth.

  Probably in his late forties, Roth was a transplant with a decidedly East Coast accent who’d gone Western. He wore boots, a bolo tie around the open collar of his cowboy shirt, and a pair of stretch cotton and polyester jeans. Tufts of dark chest hair curled above the open shirt collar.

  There was no sign of forced entry. In unison, they shaded their eyes and looked through the tinted side windows and windshield. The headless dog, which had the markings and coloration of a Border collie, sat upright, resting against the back of the driver’s seat. There was a white envelope on the dashboard behind the steering wheel. They could see no discernible blood in the passenger compartment.

  With a slightly leering smile, Roth held out the car key Kaplan had given him. “Want to open it up?” he asked in a cavalier, joking tone, as he sidled close to her.

  “I’ll let your people do that,” Ramona said as she backed away. She didn’t need Roth wasting her time with any cute moves. She had a boyfriend, an APD vice sergeant, who wasn’t overly hairy, and didn’t leer. Besides that, the inside of the vehicle probably smelled like dead dog.

  The car was a high-end, imported sedan that came with an antitheft system and keys with built-in electronic circuits coded to open the doors and start the engine.

  “How did the perp get into the vehicle without setting off the alarm?” she asked.

  Roth shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. “When Kaplan gave me the key, he said the system was working, and the lot manager said no car alarms have gone off since Kaplan arrived at the lot.”

  “You asked him to check the records?”

  “Yeah, for the eight days the vehicle has been here.”