Under the Color of Law

by Michael McGarrity

  "You know how I feel about uniforms."

  "Then you should have been an accountant instead of a cop."

  Kerney studied Andy's serious expression.

  "What have you heard?"

  "The same gripe that dogged you when you were my chief deputy. I put up with it because I knew what you did was far more important than whether or not you wore a uniform on the job. But now you're the chief of a department, and you damn well better dress like one. Wear the uniform."

  Andy was right and Kerney knew it.

  "I'll spit-shine my shoes and polish my brass in the morning," he said as he opened the car door.

  "Call me if you get into a firefight with the feds," Andy said.

  "If that happens, it will be too late to call," Kerney said.

  "All of this could turn out to mean nothing."

  "You never know," Kerney replied.

  Chapter 3

  About the only thing Cloudy Herrera liked about working days was that the shift started at six in the morning and usually nothing much happened for an hour or two. Assigned to the north patrol, Cloudy expected he'd catch some false burglary alarm calls and take spillover assignments on the south side of the city where the units stayed busy with shoplifting, assault, auto theft, vandalism, and traffic accidents.

  So far his radio had been quiet.

  At a stop-and-rob convenience store just off the Interstate, Cloudy bought an extra large coffee, left it on the counter, and went to empty his bladder in the public restroom. As he zipped up, his call number came over the handheld radio. Cloudy keyed the microphone clipped to his shirt and responded.

  "Unattended death at the College of Santa Fe," the dispatcher said. "See Brother Jerome Brodsky at the Christian Brothers residence hall."

  Cloudy acknowledged and checked the time. It was five minutes after seven.

  "ETA four minutes," he added, hurrying to his unit.

  Morning traffic was still light and he could get to the campus running with lights only in plenty of time. Halfway there he remembered he'd left his coffee behind on the counter, which had cost him a buck and some change. That didn't make him happy, but the thought passed when he realized he didn't have a clue where the Christian Brothers' residence hall was located on the campus. He called dispatch and asked for directions.

  Two dead bodies in two days, a first in his three years on the force.

  He parked in front of the old World War Two barracks where the brothers lived. There better not be any damn dogs around, he grumbled silently, thinking about his ruined uniform trousers. He announced his arrival and the shift sergeant came on the horn to say he was rolling and would be there in two.

  "Ten-four," Cloudy replied, staring at a tall, older man in long black robes who came hurrying down a pathway to a gate, his expression dazed and shaken.

  ***

  Kerney passed the National Guard recruitment billboard, turned off the frontage road that paralleled the Interstate, and drove toward the new armory. He parked and listened for a minute to the radio traffic about an unattended death at the college before entering the building. Inside a female staff sergeant dressed in army fatigues directed him to the conference room where the FBI task force had set up shop. He entered the room to find Lieutenant Molina at a conference table large enough to seat the Joint Chiefs, the National Security Council, and the whole White House cabinet. With Molina were every on-duty detective, an eight-man FBI crew, and Special Agent Applewhite, who assisted a man at the head of the table as he quickly scanned through a document folder.

  The two men who'd accompanied Ambassador Terrell to Santa Fe were not present.

  The surprised look on Sal Molina's face as he considered the sight of Kerney in uniform almost made Kerney smile. Molina's reaction alone made wearing the blues worth the effort.

  The man with Applewhite looked up, nodded at Kerney, rose, and came around the table to greet him.

  "Chief Kerney," Charlie Perry said.

  "It's good to see you again."

  "Hello, Charlie." Kerney shook Perry's hand, thinking back to his summer as a seasonal ranger in the Gila Wilderness, where he'd met Perry, who'd been undercover at the time, investigating a militia group in Catron County. He'd butted heads with Perry, who had treated him as a washed-up ex-cop, hamstrung his attempts to link the militia to a lucrative game-poaching operation, and forced him off the job--all out of pure ego. But with the help of a state game and fish officer named Jim Stiles, Kerney had still managed to punch a big hole in the militia's leadership and make some rock-solid arrests.

  "Seems you've resurrected your career since last we met," Perry said.

  The sarcastic bite came from Perry's choice of words, not his tone.

  Kerney studied the younger man's face. Trim and lean, Perry matched Kerney's six-one height. Perry had missed one long neck hair when shaving. It curled below his Adam's apple just above his shirt collar. Another jutted out on the side of a nostril. Judging by his past experience with the man, Kerney assumed Perry was too vain to realize he needed glasses.

  Perry stared back at Kerney cockily, his brown eyes showing a touch of disdain.

  "Looks like you've moved up in the food chain yourself, Charlie," Kerney said. "Let's get to work."

  "We're ready when you are," Perry replied, gesturing at the table.

  After introductions Applewhite passed out folders and Perry guided the group through the documents, which laid out very little about Phyllis Terrell's personal history or her extramarital affairs, and gave a brief resume on Hamilton Lowell Terrell, who after his retirement from the army had served as ambassador in both Panama and Ecuador, and who now carried the rank of ambassador without portfolio. Included in the paperwork were the names of three men who allegedly had been Mrs. Terrell's lovers during the past two years, and some supplementary information on the considerable net worth of the surviving members of the Straley family, including the victim's father and sister.

  "This is all you're going to give us?" Molina asked when Perry closed the file and put it to one side.

  "You have the names of two local men who may have been sexually involved with the victim," Perry replied. "That should be enough to keep you and your people busy."

  "And the third guy down in Ramah?" Molina asked, consulting his notes.

  "Scott Gatlin."

  "I have an agent on the way there now," Perry replied. "We'll handle it."

  "What about the papers and items that were removed from Mrs. Terrell's residence last night?" Molina asked.

  "Nothing of value to the investigation was taken," Perry said.

  "I'm supposed to trust you on that?" Molina snapped back.

  Perry fiddled with his pen before replying. "The ambassador's personal property was secured at his request and consisted of nothing more than photographs, books, and memorabilia."

  "Then why wasn't I allowed to inventory the contents last night before the boxes were removed by your two agents?"

  "Because, as I just said, it had no bearing on the case," Perry replied.

  "I want to do a full-scale search of the residence," Molina said.

  Perry reached for another folder. "Agent Applewhite asked the ambassador to sign a ermission-to-search form late last night. He was more than willing to do so."

  Perry passed it down the table, watched Molina read it, and then turned his attention to Kerney.

  "I'd like Agent Applewhite and another agent to assist in the search, if that's all right with you, Chief."

  "No problem," Kerney said.

  Perry smiled thinly. "Good. Then there's only a few more issues to cover. Susan Straley has arrived from Virginia and Proctor Stra ley is on his way to Santa Fe now. My people will conduct the necessary interviews. Also, I've called a press briefing at noon to release the name of the victim, announce the formation of the task force, and read a prepared statement from the ambassador."

  Perry's smile widened. "Unless you'd rather handle it, Chief Kerney."

&nb
sp; "Go for it, Charlie," Kerney said, looking at the tidy, neat rows of agents flanking Perry at the far end of the table. "But tell me, what will the rest of the task force be doing while we're searching the house and interviewing Mrs. Terrell's boyfriends?"

  Perry stood up. "I'm unable to discuss that, but I'll keep you informed to the extent that I can. Let's get to it."

  ***

  Outside, Kerney waited for Sal Molina to appear. Sunlight and an unseasonably warm day had melted the remaining snow on all but the foothills and mountains, and the intense blue sky seemed limitless. On the Interstate a steady stream of vehicles moved in both directions.

  Molina came out the door in a hurry, cell phone in hand. "That unattended death at the college was a homicide, Chief. A priest had his throat cut."

  "Do you have any more specifics?"

  "That's all I know. I can only spare one detective."

  "I'll back him up," Kerney said.

  "Great."

  "Contact the Armed Forces Record Center in St. Louis. See if they'll release a copy of Ambassador Terrell's service jacket."

  "You don't buy the killed-by-a-lover theory?"

  "Right now I don't buy any theory. Since the feds have locked us out of the trade-mission slant, let's take a look at Terrell through the back door. Put someone on a computer, have him surf newspaper archives, and find out what Terrell did between the time he retired from active duty and his appointment as an ambassador. I want it as specific and complete as possible."

  "You got it."

  "And I want Proctor and Susan Straley interviewed by our people after the feds are finished with them."

  "That will raise the feds' eyebrows." Molina watched as Kerney rubbed his chin and looked at him thoughtfully. "Anything else?"

  Kerney hesitated before responding. He had to start trusting his senior officers, otherwise he would never find out who he could count on.

  "Find out who told Applewhite that we'd picked up Santiago Terjo for questioning. The information had to come from within the department."

  "You want Internal Affairs to handle it?"

  "No, you do it. Concentrate on the detectives, officers, and technicians who were at the crime scene."

  Molina inclined his head toward the door. "What in the hell was going on in there with you and Agent Perry?"

  "It's old business," Kerney said. "Make sure you put Applewhite and her partner under constant observation during the house search. I don't want anything else disappearing from the residence. Take photographs while you're there. If Applewhite questions it, say it's department policy. Get me a few good shots of her."

  Applewhite came out the door with another agent before Molina could ask what in the hell was going on.

  "We're ready to roll, Chief," she said, with a nod and a smile in Molina's direction.

  "Lieutenant Molina will guide you to the house," Kerney said as he stepped away to his unit.

  ***

  After World War Two the College of Santa Fe, an independent institution founded by four Christian Brothers in 1859, had relocated from a site near the plaza to the surplus Fort Burns Army Hospital at the edge of town. Now besieged by urban sprawl and bordered by major roads, the campus was more or less tucked away from view except for the main entrance off St. Michael's Drive. Over the past twenty years the college had built a reputation for its liberal arts, performance, and fine arts programs.

  Kerney drove past the flashy new garnet-red Visual Arts Center, an ultramodern building of exceedingly sharp angles, rows of geometrically square and rectangular windows, stiff jutting cornices, and pyramid domes, to the old army barracks, where two squad cars, an unmarked unit, a crime-tech vehicle, and an ambulance were parked.

  Officer Herrera once again stood guard, positioned at the gate to the courtyard entrance with clipboard in hand next to a sign that read, "Christian Brothers Residence."

  Kerney wondered if Herrera was good at anything other than checking people in and out of crime scenes. He had his doubts. He sat in his car for a long minute looking at the barracks, which sported new roofs and siding, but clearly proclaimed a wartime heritage.

  Although brown and dormant, the courtyard was a showcase of ardent gardening and careful landscaping, with curving walkways, carefully pruned shrubs, a grass lawn, mulched flower-beds, and ornamental trees. Around the perimeter of the buildings mature pine and cedar trees over arched the roofs and provided screening.

  Kerney wondered how long it would be before the college tore the barracks down, and hoped it never happened. Not every structure worth saving had to be an architectural marvel, and there was something to be said for preserving a few reminders of a time when the country had been defended by millions of citizen soldiers.

  "Did you see the body?" Kerney asked as he signed in with Herrera.

  "Just for a minute," Cloudy answered. "Then Sergeant Catanach arrived and stationed me out here."

  "Did you detain any witnesses?"

  "Like I said, Chief, the sergeant took over."

  Kerney looked into Herrera's dull gray eyes and decided to trust the hunch that popped up.

  "Did anyone from outside the department come by the Terrell crime scene yesterday?"

  "Yeah, an FBI agent stopped by just before I was relieved. Some woman. I don't remember her name. Applegate, or something like that."

  "What did she want?"

  "Just to know what was happening with the case."

  "And?" Kerney prodded, trying to keep a scolding tone out of his voice.

  "I filled her in."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "That we had a suspect, the Mexican guy."

  "Did she ask permission to inspect the crime scene?"

  "No."

  "Did you document the conversation?" Kerney asked.

  "What for?" Herrera said with a shrug.

  Kerney forced a smile. "Contact Lieutenant Molina, tell him what you told me, and write up a

  supplemental report. Have it ready for me before I leave."

  Herrera shrugged again. "Okay."

  ***

  Sergeant Tony Catanach was in the dining room where he had assembled the brothers, who sat clustered together silently at two tables. Kerney scanned the group: all the men were middle aged or older; but some were dressed in casual civilian attire, while others wore clerical garb. Several had their heads bowed in prayer.

  Catanach gave an approving glance at Kerney's uniform and stepped into the hallway. A young man in his early thirties and a five-year veteran of the force, he was a newly minted sergeant who took his job seriously.

  "I was just about to start taking statements, Chief," he said.

  "Bring me up to speed."

  "The victim is Father Joseph Mitchell, a Maryknoll priest. His throat was slashed. Entry may have been gained either through an unlocked window or a door."

  Along the corridor of the nicely remodeled barracks a series of doors gave access to the dining room, a library, a large lounge, an entertainment room, and a chapel.

  "Where's the body?" Kerney asked.

  Catanach inclined his head toward the row of hallway windows that looked out on the courtyard and an adjacent two-story barracks, connected to the common area by a passageway.

  "The brothers' bedrooms are across the way. Father Mitchell had a first-floor room right inside a door that leads directly to the courtyard. The screen was off his unlatched window, but all the others are still in place. Nobody can remember if the entrance closest to Mitchell's room was locked or not. The brothers aren't real concerned about security. There isn't any sign of forced entry, and if you walk around you'll see four more doors that also could have been used by the killer to gain entry."

  "Have you got everyone here?"

  "No," Catanach said. "There are twelve residents, if you count Father Mitchell. Seven are in the dining room and four of the brothers are in their offices canceling their classes. They'll be back in twenty minutes. I've asked them not to discuss Father Mit
chell's death."

  Catanach consulted a pocket notebook. "Robbery may have been the motive, Chief. A laptop and desktop computer were taken, along with a tape recorder, a camera, and a VCR. Detective Sloan is in the room waiting for the body to be removed."

  "What do you know about the victim?"

  "Not much, yet. He was a visiting scholar-in-residence working on a research project. Brother Jerome Brodsky, chair of the social science department, supposedly knows the most about Father Mitchell. He'll be back in twenty."

  "What else?" Kerney asked.

  "Check out the knife wound, Chief. One deep cut at the jugular. No hesitation marks, nothing sloppy, and no cuts on the victim's hands to indicate any struggle with his attacker. I'd say the priest was probably asleep at the time."

  "I'll take a look and be back to help take statements," Kerney said.

  Bobby Sloan, a thirty-year veteran of the department, pulled back the sheet covering Father Mitchell's body.

  "A clean kill," he said to Kerney. "This wasn't done by your typical addict looking to steal something so he could fence it and score. The incision is deepest right at the jugular. The killer knows his anatomy."

  Kerney agreed, the angled wound was clean, sharp, and long, slicing through the jugular, an axillary vein, and the larynx. The cut had been made where a trained assassin would strike with a knife, and the edges of the wound were close together. Blood had flowed freely.

  Kerney scrutinized the dead man's face. His gray hair was cropped short and receded at the temples. Age lines around the mouth and eyes and a fullness to the cheeks suggested the priest had seen the passage of five decades, maybe more.

  "Seen enough?" Sloan asked. Kerney nodded.

  Sloan nipped the cover over Mitchell's face and gestured to the two paramedics who waited in the hall with a collapsible gurney. The men stepped inside and removed the body while Kerney and Sloan stood to one side.

  The sleeping room was small, no more than a hundred square feet, with a tiny adjacent bathroom. The furniture consisted of a twin bed, a bedside table, a student-size writing desk, and an almost empty bookcase--all obviously postwar items bought at surplus. In one corner a built-in shelf and rod served as a clothes closet.