Tucked away in part of the courthouse, the sheriff's department suffered from a serious lack of space. Clayton used a small desk pushed up against a wall in the hallway that led to the supply closet to do his paperwork and organize all his supporting documentation.
First he worked on the John Doe case. Based on the remnants of information found in the backpack, the victim was likely one Joseph John Humphrey, a homeless Vietnam veteran originally from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Among Humphrey's few belongings was the business card of a Veterans Administration alcoholism counselor in Albuquerque. He spoke to the counselor, faxed a copy of Humphrey's driver's license photo to the man, and got a quick identity confirmation. He also learned that Humphrey had been diagnosed with inoperable liver cancer and had no more than three months to live.
After disconnecting, he phoned Shorty Dawson, the ME, for a preliminary cause-of-death report.
"I can't tell you anything definite," Dawson replied.
"The victim's flesh and clothing were melted together. The body is gonna have to be peeled like an onion. Then they can open him up and take a look inside."
"Where's the body now?" Clayton asked.
"In Albuquerque," Dawson replied. "We should get the final autopsy results by tomorrow. But, tentatively it sure looked to me like the guy sucked down carbon monoxide."
"How could you tell that?" Clayton asked. "The flesh was too burned to show any discoloration. Even if the skin had looked cherry red, lividity isn't conclusive for carbon monoxide poisoning."
There was a short silence before Dawson replied. "Look, Deputy, I said my opinion was just tentative. My job is to find the victim legally dead and offer an informed opinion as to cause and time of death. We'll both just have to wait for the autopsy to find out what really killed him."
"Thanks, Mr. Dawson," Clayton said.
He hung up wondering if Humphrey had committed suicide to avoid letting the cancer kill him. That didn't make any sense. Humphrey could have chosen many easier, less horrific ways to die than by smoke and fire. Maybe it was an accidental death. He decided to stop speculating about it until the autopsy report came in.
He filled out his paperwork, including a notation that if no family members could be found-the Harrisburg police were still looking-Humphrey's VA counselor would arrange to have the body cremated and interred in the National Cemetery at Fort Bayard, outside Silver City.
Humphrey's status as a Nam vet made Clayton think about his natural father, Kevin Kerney. He knew very little about Kerney's service experience other than that he'd served as an infantry lieutenant in Vietnam during the latter stage of the war. Until six months ago, Clayton hadn't even known that much. Then he'd busted Kerney for trespassing on Apache land, which ultimately led to his mother's disclosure of the long-kept secret of his father's identity.
Clayton had learned that his mother had once been Kerney's college sweetheart. She deliberately became pregnant without Kerney's knowledge just before he'd graduated and gone off to serve in Vietnam. For almost twenty-eight years, neither father nor son knew of each other's existence.
Clayton was still struggling with it all. He had no idea how Kerney was coping. What he did know was that Kerney had recently been installed as the Santa Fe police chief. He gave a passing thought to calling him to ask for information and assistance in the Anna Marie Montoya case.
He reached for the phone and pulled his hand back. Late last year, Kerney had stood on Clayton's front porch and given him two ten-thousand-dollar certificates of deposit for Wendell's and Hannah's education, with no strings attached. At the time, Clayton had been both stunned by the gift and suspicious of it. Thinking back over the event, which he'd repeatedly played through his mind, Clayton knew he'd handled it badly. Instead of being gracious, he'd challenged Kerney's gift-giving motives and failed to thank him for his generosity. Finally he'd never followed through on a promise to invite Kerney and his wife to dinner, in spite of Grace's nagging him to do so.
Because of his bungling, Clayton felt the opportunity to develop some sort of relationship with Kerney had come and gone. He didn't know what he could do, if anything, to set things right.
Although he lacked final confirmation that the earthly remains of Anna Marie Montoya had been discovered, Clayton had enough evidence to move ahead. The clutch purse with the ID, the jewelry and bits of clothing found at the scene that matched information contained in the NCIC missing person report, and the size and sex of the body made it almost positive. It was time to get rolling. He called the Santa Fe Police Department, identified himself, and got put through to a detective sergeant named Cruz Tafoya.
Tafoya heard Clayton out before asking questions.
"Were you able to confirm the victim was killed at the crime scene?"
"No," Clayton replied, "and I don't think we'll be able to. Any trace evidence was washed away. Personally, I think she was killed elsewhere and then buried in the cellar. It's only five feet deep by eight feet square."
"So the killer had to know about the cellar," Tafoya noted. "Is the fruit stand still in use?"
"It's been abandoned for years," Clayton replied. "We're looking into who owns the property."
"Good idea," Tafoya said. "You're gonna want a copy of our case file."
"Roger that."
"I'll put one together. Should I mail it or will you come and get it?"
"I'll let you know," Clayton replied, thinking he needed to clear travel plans with the sheriff. "But I'm probably coming to Santa Fe sometime soon."
"I'll have a detective update the file," Tafoya said. "At least the family will have some peace of mind about what happened to the victim."
"Yeah, there's that," Clayton said. "Once I get a positive ID, will your department notify the family?"
"Ten-four."
"I'll need to talk to the detective who handled the case."
"If he's still around," Tafoya said.
"Can you find out?" Clayton asked.
"Give me a minute."
In the receiver Clayton heard movement, footsteps, silence and then paper shuffling followed by Tafoya's breathing.
"Well, what do you know about that?" Tafoya said into the telephone.
"What?" Clayton asked.
"The original primary investigator on that case was our new police chief."
Clayton grunted in surprise. "Could you have Chief Kerney call me?" He rattled off his phone number.
"You got it," Tafoya replied.
Clayton hung up and walked to the sheriff's office. Paul Hewitt looked up from some paperwork on his desk and wondered why Clayton, who'd been relieved of patrol duties to work the homicide, had decided to wear a black cowboy shirt on a day that was going to be much too warm for such a garment.
"Would you like an update on the cases, Sheriff?" Clayton asked.
Hewitt gestured at a chair. "Have a seat and fire away."
Clayton left Sheriff Hewitt's office with authorization to conduct his investigation in Santa Fe, as needed. He was given a travel, meals, and lodging allowance and told to stay within budget or make up the difference out of his own pocket. He found Sergeant Quinones and Von Dillingham in the small staff lounge, inventorying evidence and doing paperwork.
"The county clerk's records show that the fruit stand is owned by Hiram Tully. He's got a Glencoe address," Quinones said, handing Clayton the information.
"I'll go talk to him," Clayton said.
"Are any autopsy reports in yet?" Dillingham asked.
"Not yet. Shorty Dawson thinks Humphrey died from carbon monoxide poisoning, but he's not sure."
"Shorty loves to play pathologist," Quinones said, logging an evidence bag on an inventory sheet. "We're almost done here. What's next?"
"Field interviews," Clayton said. "Find out if anyone who lives near the fruit stand saw or heard anything before the fire broke out. I'll be back to assist as soon as I can."
"Roger that," Quinones said, turning his attention to th
e bagged and tagged evidence.
Clayton left the office and drove the state road that took him past the burned-out fruit stand, through the ranching town of Capitan, and on to the historic hamlet of Lincoln, where rows of lovely old territorial buildings along a narrow pastoral valley drew tourists in search of the Billy the Kid legend.
Where the road ended at the Highway 70 junction, Clayton swung west toward Glencoe and found his way to the Tully place. A small valley settlement on the Ruidoso River surrounded by national forest, Glencoe consisted of farms and orchards, a post office, and a few businesses along the highway that funneled traffic east and west over the Sacramento Mountains.
The Tully ranch house was a beautifully maintained, low-slung, whitewashed adobe hacienda with a deep veranda. Several hundred yards behind the house the river wandered against the base of the mountains. On either side of the ranch house, apple orchards in early bloom fanned out and rolled down to the riverbank, putting a sweet scent into the air.
Early-to-leaf mature poplar trees overhung the residence, branches shimmering in the midmorning sun under a gentle breeze. Large ornamental evergreens bracketed carefully tended flower beds that bordered a semicircular driveway.
Clayton parked his unit, walked the gravel path to the veranda, and knocked on the front door. The woman who answered appeared to be in her late twenties, close to his own age. Attractive in a wholesome way, she had short-cut blond hair, hazel eyes, and perfectly straight white teeth.
Grace had already warned Clayton that Hannah would need braces. How she knew that with Hannah still years away from losing her baby teeth was a mystery to him. He identified himself to the woman and asked to speak to Hiram Tully.
"My grandfather recently had a stroke," the woman said. "He's in the hospital in Roswell."
"And you are?" Clayton asked.
"Page Seton," she said. "Why do you need to speak to my grandfather?"
"He's listed as the owner of an abandoned fruit stand on Highway three-eighty. It burned down last night."
"Really?" Seton said. "Was anyone hurt?"
"Two bodies were found inside."
Seton's eyes darkened. "That's terrible. Were they killed in the fire?"
"We're still investigating the cause of death," Clayton answered.
"That place has been boarded up for years. I drive by it all the time."
"Do you or any members of your family ever stop to inspect the property?"
Seton's expression tightened. "There's been no reason to. Whoever those poor people were, they trespassed. That property is posted with a keep-out sign. Are you suggesting negligence?"
"That's not the focus of the investigation."
Seton's look darkened. "I'd better contact our lawyer anyway."
"Maybe you should," Clayton said. "Who has access to the property?"
"Just the family, and the realtor who has it listed for sale. We've been trying to sell it, but nobody is interested in an acre of highway frontage outside of town without water or electricity."
"Have you rented it out in the past twelve years?"
"Not to my knowledge. But my father would know for certain." Seton pulled her chin back and gave Clayton a chilly look. "Why twelve years? The stand has been there longer than that."
"I'm just gathering information, Ms. Seton. Who's the listing agent?"
Seton gave Clayton the name of a Carrizozo realtor.
"How long has it been up for sale?" Clayton asked.
"Ten years or more," Seton replied.
"Are you aware the fruit stand had a cellar?" Clayton asked.
Page Seton nodded. "The cellar served as cold storage for our apples and fresh cider."
"When was the last time it was used to sell fruit?" Clayton asked.
Seton paused. "Twenty years. Grandfather shut it down the year I turned seven."
"Has anyone-family, employees-been there since then?"
"It's impossible for me to answer that question," Seton replied. "We have seasonal workers. Some of them return every year, others will pick one crop for us and never come back, and there are always a few we have to let go. As far as family goes, you'll have to ask, and it's a pretty big clan, Deputy."
"The names and phone numbers of family members involved in the business will do for now," Clayton said.
"What exactly are you investigating, Deputy?"
"Unattended deaths, at this point, Ms. Seton. Has the fruit stand been used for any other purposes?"
"Such as?"
"Parties, beer busts, a make-out place?"
Page Seton looked upward as if to seek divine relief from stupid questions. "Not by me, Deputy, and certainly not by any member of the family that I know of."
"I'll need those family names and phone numbers," Clayton said.
While Seton assembled the information, Clayton asked a few more questions. He left knowing that the Tully ranch and farm had been a family business for over a hundred and twenty years, that Page Seton was the financial officer of the company, and that the ranch operation was headquartered on the east side of the Capitan Mountains, where her parents, Morris and Lily Tully Seton, were staying while the spring works, a semiannual cattle roundup and calf-branding event, took place.
Clayton also learned that Hiram Tully's stroke had not hampered his ability to communicate. He decided to interview Tully first and then swing by the ranch on the back road to Capitan. In his unit, a four-by-four Ford Explorer, Clayton keyed the microphone and checked dispatch for messages. No calls had come in from either the Santa Fe PD or Chief Kerney, but the state police crime scene supervisor reported that a match had been made with the skeleton found in the cellar and Anna Marie Montoya's dental records.
Clayton's interviews with Hiram Tully and Morris and Lily Seton served only to confirm what Page Seton had told him. He came away thinking that he'd accomplished nothing more than eliminating some highly unlikely suspects. The chances of solving an eleven-year-old homicide were slim at best. If no creditable leads materialized, background investigations on everyone in the Tully family would need to be done.
He looked over the list of family members Page Seton had provided. Excluding the four people already interviewed, another eight would need to be contacted. He'd ask Quinones and Dillingham to start the ball rolling if they came up empty on the field interviews near the crime scene.
Even without any tangible progress, Clayton remained pumped about his assignment. He was particularly eager to go to Santa Fe and do some real digging into Anna Marie Montoya's past. Besides, it would be a kick to clear a case that had stymied Kerney. He smiled at the prospect of it.
The day was more than halfway gone. With all that was left to do, Clayton figured he had another full day or two of work before he could leave for Santa Fe. He called the tribal day-care center where Grace worked as a teacher and told her that he wasn't going out of town right away.
"When will you go?" Grace asked.
"I'm not sure yet," Clayton said. "Maybe the day after tomorrow.
"Sometime soon, I think all of us should go to Santa Fe."
"I can't take you and the kids with me."
"I know that," Grace said. "I'm thinking of a weekend family outing."
"If we left early in the morning, we could make it a day trip," Clayton said, thinking about how pricy Santa Fe could be.
"That wouldn't be enough time," Grace replied.
Since neither Clayton nor Grace worked in high-paying professions, Clayton constantly worried about family finances. "I thought we were saving money to build the addition," he said.
"A weekend trip to Santa Fe won't bankrupt us, Clayton."
"Yeah, you're right."
"Will you be home for dinner?"
"I don't see why not."
"I'll see you then," Grace said before hanging up.
He checked in with dispatch. Kerney still hadn't called back. He gave his ETA to Carrizozo and told the dispatcher he'd be at John Foley's real estate office when he got
into town.
The office was in an old building where Central Avenue curved and became E Avenue. One of the town's first permanent structures, it had started out as a tin shop in the early part of the twentieth century. Foley's late-model Cadillac was parked at the side of the building.
Inside, Foley pressed a cup of coffee into Clayton's hands and sat with him, making small talk. A big man in his late seventies, Foley had slightly hunched shoulders and carried some extra pounds around his midsection that spilled over his tightly cinched belt and showy turquoise and silver buckle.
With some difficulty, Clayton guided Foley to the topic of the fruit stand. After talking about the fire, he got a short history of Foley's failed attempts to sell it. He asked if Foley had records on any prospective buyers that went back eleven or twelve years.
Foley shook his head. "I only keep information about potential clients who are solid prospects. I don't recall ever showing that property to a serious client. It's too far out of town to have any commercial value and there's no water, phone, or electricity to the property line."
"When was the last time you were out there?" Clayton asked.
"Let me think," Foley replied. "Two, three years ago. I showed it to a fella who was interested in starting a flea market and living on the property. But he didn't want to invest any money in extending the utilities and digging a well."
"Did you ever go into the fruit stand?"
"There was no need to," Foley said. "According to the Ruidoso newspaper, you found a murder victim in that fire."
"I didn't realize that information had been released."
Foley handed Clayton the newspaper. Sheriff Hewitt had not only briefed the press about the homicide, but had gone on at some length about assigning his highly qualified Apache deputy, Clayton Istee, as lead investigator.
Clayton folded the newspaper, gave it back to Foley, thanked him for the coffee and his time, and left the office. He understood the sheriff's decision to go public about the homicide, but he would have liked to have been forewarned. He also wondered when all the sheriff's self-congratulatory public and private back-patting about hiring an Indian cop was going to end. Soon, he hoped. It was getting tiresome.
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