He left the room and dropped Manning’s cell phone and the radio transmitter on the work table in the small second bedroom where Olsen had played with all his electronic toys and built the bomb. In the corner were the containers of chemicals Olsen had used to make the plastique, and buried under a stack of paper were receipts for some of the components that had been bought to make the hardware. The cops would find additional information on Olsen’s laptop computer, which should also make them happy.
In the utility room, he bundled up the clothes Olsen had worn and fouled during his confinement, packed them in a travel bag along with the restraints, added some of Olsen’s toiletries from the bathroom, and left it near the front door.
Back in the bedroom, he wrapped the body in a sheet and carried it out to the car, carefully staying on the gravel path to avoid leaving footprints that would show the weight he was carrying. He stuffed the body in the trunk, made a second trip for the travel bag, and closed the lid.
He went to the toolshed behind the house and checked on the two Merriam Kangaroo Rats he’d caught that were in a cage on a shelf. Their little eyes blinked rapidly in the glare of his flashlight. He fed them some poisoned bait and watched their contortions as they died. The cops, who got off on finding little details that corroborated their facts, would be pissing in their pants with excitement when they found the rats.
Green checked his watch. He figured it would be a good ten to twelve hours before the cops got here. First, they had to identify the body he’d left in the van, which should be done by now. Then, they had to make the connection to Olsen, which would take some head work and digging, but not that much. After all, the dead woman had at one time been Olsen’s parole officer in Las Cruces.
At the age of twenty, Olsen and two undergraduate buddies from New Mexico State University had been arrested for the rape and murder of a woman in Santa Fe. Because he hadn’t participated in the rape, Olsen had been allowed to plead to a lesser charge in exchange for testifying against his co-defendants. He’d done his time, finished his parole, completed his engineering degree, and had his voting rights restored, which meant he wasn’t going to be hard to find.
But what made Olsen the perfect suspect was the fact that Kerney had busted him, Potter had prosecuted the case, and Dora Manning had done the psych evaluation for the court. It had taken Green a year’s researching to find the ideal candidate to become the cops’ one and only prime suspect.
He got in Olsen’s car and drove away. By the time the cops arrived, Olsen’s body would be at the bottom of a lava tube in the El Malpais National Monument, his car would be at a chop shop across the border in Juarez, and Green would be on his way back to Santa Fe ready to implement the final phase of his plan.
Chapter 9
L ast night, Kerney had spoken by phone with Milton Lynch’s wife, who’d told him that her husband would be returning from Albuquerque to Las Cruces early in the morning to prepare for an afternoon court appearance. She assured him that Lynch would be at his office by eight o’clock.
As he flew over the Tularosa Basin above the highway that cut through the missile range, Kerney could see sections of the land that had once belonged to his family. The sun lit up the alkali flats and washed over the tips of the Hardscabble Mountains, part of the San Andres Range, south of Rhodes Canyon. In his mind’s eye, he could picture the ranch house and the old road that snaked down the hills to the broad swales of tall grama grass that, in the wet years, spread out across the range.
Silently, Kerney studied the vast, empty reaches of the basin, broken only by some military roads and clusters of high-security testing facilities. This was the land he’d been born to, only to have the family ranch taken away by the government when he was a child. This was the land where his godson, Sammy Yazzi, a soldier stationed at the missile range, had been murdered. He looked over his shoulder at Sierra Blanca Mountain on the eastern fringe of the basin that defined the Mescalero homeland, now forever embedded in his memory as the place where Clayton and his family had seen their home destroyed.
The early morning light softened the black lava flows far to the north, made the pure white gypsum sand dunes sparkle, blunted the squat Jarilla Mountains west of Orogrande, and bleached the dry salt flats of Lake Lucero. It was a land of wind-blown drought, cactus and rattlesnakes, thorny mesquite, and boulder-strewn foothill canyons at the base of the mountains. Despite the harsh vastness, there was an intense, wild, undeniable beauty to the Tularosa.
The land held good memories, too. It was here, under the watchful eye of his father, that he’d been taught to cowboy and ranch. It was here that his lifelong friendship with Dale Jennings had begun. And it was here, just a few short years ago, that he’d first met Sara during her tour of duty at the missile range.
The chopper traveled through the San Agustin Pass and dropped down to the desert where the city of Las Cruces spread out before them. New residential subdivisions peppered the hills and stretched along the Interstate. Strip malls, business parks, and commercial buildings lined the highway that had once been a two-lane road into town.
The second-largest and fastest-growing city in New Mexico, Las Cruces was no longer the sleepy little ranching, farming, and college town of Kerney’s childhood. But even with all the exploding growth, most of it fueled by the defense industry and migrating retirees, the green of the pecan orchards and farms along the Rio Grande River valley and the magnificent spire-shaped peaks of the Organ Mountains still gave the city a certain natural charm that the man-made sprawl had yet to diminish.
The chopper pilot had radioed ahead to have the parking lot at the district state police headquarters cleared for their landing. Motorists along University Boulevard and the nearby Interstate slowed to watch the chopper’s descent.
As Kerney left the helicopter and went into the building, he checked the time. It was too early to expect Lynch to be in his office, so he would call Sara and then buy the pilot breakfast.
Sal Molina sat behind a mechanic’s desk at the city maintenance yard garage and watched as the crime scene techs continued working on the blue van. The place smelled-not unpleasantly-of grease and motor oil, rubber and cold metal. It had taken several hours to complete the search for evidence on and in the van, and not one fingerprint had been found. Every surface had been wiped clean, and, according to the techs, the perp had even vacuumed the carpet and floor mats before he’d loaded up the body and parked it at the municipal court building.
Along with a plant biologist who’d just shown up, the techs were now working on the undercarriage of the vehicle, which had been raised on a hydraulic rack, looking for trace elements that could possibly tell Molina where the van had been. They were prying pebbles out of the tire treads, picking small strands of vegetation off the grease on the rear axle with tweezers, and looking for seeds and other plant matter that might be caught in the U-joints, springs, or clinging to various parts of the chassis.
Molina had worked the vehicle identification number and the license plate while the techs dusted for prints. A year ago, the van had been sold to a junkyard in El Paso and then bought for parts by one Lewis Lawless. According to the El Paso PD, Lawless had provided an address on the sales receipt that turned out to be a vacant city lot. It made Molina think that Lawless was a bogus name used by the perp as a derisive, cocky little joke.
He looked at the bagged and tagged evidence that had been removed from the van. It consisted of a used Band-Aid that had adhered to the lever of the brake pedal where it came in contact with the floorboard, some blond hairs that possibly came from the perp, and several other strands of hair that probably belonged to the victim. It was very slim pickings.
The body had been fingerprinted, but the victim’s identity was still unknown. Although Molina had a detective checking the state and federal data banks, there was no guarantee her prints would be on file. Dental records would most likely wind up being how the body would be identified-if they could come up with a suitable missing
-person candidate.
However, after checking with the National Crime Information Center, Molina had his doubts about making a quick ID. The woman had a butterfly tattooed on her right inner thigh, but there was no record of a missing person with such a unique identifier. It was no big surprise; a lot of people who disappear are never reported to the authorities.
Molina had been frustrated by unknown homicide victims before. He’d worked cases involving decomposed remains found by hikers in the foothills, bodies discovered in shallow roadside graves, scattered human bones recovered in arroyos after a heavy rain, and corpses that had been dumped at the landfill. In each of those situations the victim had remained nameless and the killer anonymous.
He thought about it a little more. Up to now, the perp had been an in-your-face killer with an agenda and specific targets. If he held to form, the dead woman had to be linked to Potter, Manning, and Chief Kerney, which meant he expected the police to puzzle their way through it.
Molina’s cell phone rang and he answered quickly.
“I got a preliminary cause of death,” the pathologist said. “Strychnine poisoning, specifically rat poison ingested orally.”
“You’re sure?”
“I haven’t cut her open yet, but it looks that way. I found traces of the poison in the mouth, plus the jaw muscles were paralyzed and the lips were drawn back to expose the teeth.”
“What else?” Molina asked.
“I think she was tied up and then the killer forced her mouth open and made her swallow the poison pellets.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There are abrasions at the wrists and ankles, and bruising around the deltoid and pectoral muscles, most likely caused by the violent convulsions brought on by the strychnine.”
“Will you be able to confirm that rat poison was used and not some other compound?”
“I took swabs of the mouth and picked up some good granular samples along the gum lines. I should be able to isolate the inert properties easily. The blood, urine, and tissue work should also show poison traces.”
“What about the puncture wound to the lower abdomen?”
“I’d say it occurred after death,” the pathologist said. “It’s a clean entry, so I doubt the killer did it while she was experiencing poison-induced spasms. I’ll know for sure after I open her up and see where the blood settled.”
“Call me if you learn anything else,” Molina said.
He put the cell phone down and studied the license plate that had been removed from the van. He’d hoped the perp would have left prints on the back side of the plate, but no such luck. It had been wiped clean. He looked up to find the plant biologist standing in front of the desk holding a baggie in his hand.
“This is interesting,” the man said, shaking the baggie at Molina. It held a single stem and one partial leaf of a plant.
“Tell me why,” Molina said.
“It’s Lupinus brevicaulis,” the biologist said as he pushed his eyeglasses back into place. “Short-stemmed lupine. It doesn’t grow here.”
“Where does it grow?” Molina asked.
“Mostly south of Albuquerque along the Rio Grande. But the range extends into the southwestern part of the state and north into the Four Corners region.”
Molina thought about the report Chief Kerney had filed about the dead Merriam Kangaroo Rats found on his front step. According to the wildlife specialist who’d examined the animal, the rat’s range was similar to that of the plant.
He checked his copy of Kerney’s report to make sure. The rat’s native habitat was also along the Pecos River south of Santa Rosa. “Would it be found in the eastern part of the state along the Pecos?”
“Nope. There you’d find the spurred lupine and the low lupine. Neither come close to looking like the petal and stem of this variety.”
“How far south does it grow?”
“All the way into Mexico.”
The van had been lowered from the rack and the techs were about to strip it into parts. “That’s helpful,” Molina said. “Have you got anything else for me?”
The biologist shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But the soil samples may show something once you get them analyzed. I’m done, Lieutenant. I’ll send you a report for your file.”
Molina nodded and jotted down what the biologist had told him. Another fact had fallen into place. Unlike most of the other pieces of evidence, this one was at least linked to something, in this case geography. But that left a hell of a lot of land to cover south of Albuquerque to pinpoint a location for the perp, and it might mean nothing at all to the outcome of the investigation. Still, it would need to be looked into.
Molina considered the fact that the perp had used poison on his latest victim. He’d also poisoned the rats left on Kerney’s doorstep and probably the one Dora Manning had found in her driveway. It was another interesting thread that probably wouldn’t go anywhere.
What did matter was the fact that the perp kept changing how he carried out his lethal attacks. So far, he’d successfully used poison, knives, and guns, and made one failed attempt with explosives. He wondered what he had in store for Kerney, Sara, and the baby. Strangulation? Drowning? Suffocation?
Was the perp a cop? Sal didn’t think so. Anybody could study basic police science and learn fundamental investigative and forensic techniques from a book or a community college class.
Molina looked out the garage door. Morning had come and a shaft of sunlight spread into the open bay. He wondered why the chief hadn’t called to ream him out for sending Ramona Pino down to Mescalero. Surely Kerney had to know he’d done it to get her away from Lieutenant Casados and his IA investigation.
Casados would be fuming when he got to the office and learned about Molina’s ploy. But Sal had a plan on how to deal with Casados, and he was pretty sure it would work.
Milton Lynch’s bushy, untamed eyebrows cascaded down and interfered with his vision. He licked a stubby finger, ran it across his brows to get them to behave, and nodded at the police artist’s sketch that Kerney had placed on his office desk.
“Yeah, I did talk to this guy,” Lynch said. “Except he had his long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a suit.”
“Tell me about him,” Kerney said.
“He said he was writing a book about the ranchers that had been kicked off the Tularosa Basin by the government during and after World War II. Said he was researching the failed attempts of descendants of the ranchers to get compensation from the government for the loss of their land. He wanted to talk to them and get their stories.”
“So he asked for names?”
“Yeah, and you were just one of many I told him about.”
“What about Clayton Istee and his family? Did you mention him?”
“I’m almost sure I did.”
“How did he find you?” Kerney asked.
“I’ve handled probate for a lot of those ranching families over the years,” Lynch replied. “Plus, because I’ve got records of old title searches and copies of last wills and testaments, I’ve given depositions in a number of civil cases brought against the government for damages and just compensation claims that the courts have rejected. What the government did sixty years ago is still a thorn in the side of many of the old-timers and their families who lost everything when the missile range was established. But of course, you know all of this.”
Kerney nodded. “So he found you through court records?”
Lynch snickered. “He probably didn’t have to dig that deep. About once a year the newspaper interviews me for a feature article when another court case for a rancher or an heir hits the docket. It’s always big news around here.”
“What exactly did he want from you?”
“Like I said, just the names of living family members and relatives,” Lynch replied. “He wanted to concentrate on the human side of their stories and the losses they’d suffered at the hands of the government.”
�
�Did he identify himself?”
Lynch nodded. “He gave me his business card and told me his name, but I can’t say I recall it. This was five, maybe six months ago.”
“Did you keep the card?”
“No, I tossed it.”
“Try to remember the name,” Kerney said.
Lynch shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind. But I do remember he was from Arizona. Tucson, I think.”
“Did he make an appointment to see you?”
“No, he just walked in early in the morning and asked for a quick meeting.”
“Was there anything unusual about him?”
“Not really. Five-ten, average build, maybe thirty years old. Except for the long hair, he was just a normal-looking guy.”
“Did he have any quirks or distinctive mannerisms?” Kerney asked.
Lynch thought for a moment. “He kept rubbing his forefinger against his nose, and it was rosy in color. But it looked more like a skin condition than a cold or an allergy. He wasn’t sneezing or anything.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
“He had a bandage on his left hand between the thumb and forefinger, right in that soft spot. I figured he’d cut himself. Why are you asking about this guy?”
“Because he’s a killer,” Kerney said as he stood up and handed Lynch his card. “Call me if you remember the name he gave you.”
Lynch’s expression darkened. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” Kerney said as he headed for the door, eager to get back to Santa Fe.
Sal Molina didn’t have to wait until he got back to headquarters to have Robert Casados in his face. Casados stomped into the garage, curled his lip and said in a loud voice, “Stop fucking with me, Sal.”
All the techs quit what they were doing and glanced at the two men.
“Let’s take it outside,” Molina said to the young lieutenant. He put down the inventory sheet of all the parts from the van that had already been inspected by the techs and got to his feet.
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