Figuring driver distraction, Tim cut the distance in half, and found himself thinking there was still time to slow and veer to avoid hitting the boxes or Langsford.
He returned his file case to his unit just as his call sign came over the radio. The sheriff's office had found the negatives and still had the pieces of the bicycle in evidence.
"Good deal," Tim said to the dispatcher. "I'm on my way."
In the sheriff's department evidence room, Tim sifted through the box containing the mangled parts of Arthur Langsford's mountain bike. The struts, front wheel, and handlebars were crumpled, and the control levers connected to the brake and gear shift cables dangled from the handlebars. Deep scratches in the metal showed that the bike had skidded across the pavement for a considerable distance before coming to a stop.
Tim opened the manila envelope attached to the lid and read through Waxman's forensic analysis request and the lab's results. Waxman had asked only for the identification of any foreign paint, and none had been found.
The back wheel, tire, and the support piece that anchored the rear brakes to the frame were intact. Tim took a closer look. The brake pads were frozen in a closed position against the sidewall of the tire, which was pretty good proof that Langsford saw the car coming and reacted.
That, coupled with the fact that most of the road damage to the handlebars was concentrated on one side, made it very likely that Langsford had both braked and turned to avoid the collision.
Coming down that hill at thirty-five or forty miles a hour, Langsford must have put skid marks on the pavement. Waxman had flat-out missed them.
Tim's interest in the negatives jumped several notches. He dumped the bike parts in the box, resealed the lid, signed the evidence slip, and got back to district headquarters in a hurry. At the computer terminal, he scanned in the negatives and punched them up on the screen one at a time. He played with background colors until he had the right mix that highlighted the vehicle skid marks.
He looked, and looked again. The tread marks were thick and conspicuous on the outer side of the left front tire, and on the inner side of the right front tire, but otherwise barely discernible. What Waxman had taken to be skid marks was clearly a hard turn of the front wheels. But at what speed?
He punched up another image and the slender lines of the bicycle skid marks jumped out at him. He put the two photographs side-by-side on the screen, leaned back in his chair, and studied them intently before thumbing through the autopsy report. Then he factored in the new information and reworked Waxman's original calculations.
The new figures didn't work. He checked his wristwatch, printed hard copies of the negatives, and headed for the door. He needed to take new measurements at the site and visit with Marcos Narvaiz, the first volunteer firefighter on the scene, to see if he could fill in any of the remaining blanks.
Working the list of locals for preferred seating at the funeral services didn't yield anything of value. Death had cleansed Vernon Langsford of all human frailties, and Kerney found himself listening to cliched eulogies that gave no true sense of the man, the most notable ones coming from a sitting district court judge, a former district attorney, and a retired city police chief.
He called around to motels and bed and breakfast inns and located six of the eight out-of-town guests who were on Linda Langsford's list. He got to the Bitter Lake Bed and Breakfast just as Leonora Wister was leaving her Santa Fe-style cottage accommodations.
"Vernon was my first cousin," Leonora said, as she stood next to a late-model white Cadillac with Texas plates. "We grew up together."
"Were you close as children?" Kerney asked, trying not to stare at Leonora's blue gray curly hair. She clutched a large purse against her stomach in an attempt to hide her thick waist from view.
"Yes, until high school, when my family moved to San Antonio. After that, I would see him during occasional visits to Roswell."
"What kind of kid was he?"
"Wild," Leonora replied.
"In what way?"
"He became interested in girls at a very early age."
"Can you give me specifics?"
"Not really. Maybe Danny Hobeck can. He was Vernon's best friend all through school."
Kerney scanned his list. Hobeck was one of the out-of-town guests he'd been unable to locate. "Do you know where he's staying?"
"With his sister," Leonora replied.
Kerney asked for and got a name and address.
"How can prying into Vernon's childhood possibly help you catch his killer?" Leonora asked.
"I'm not sure it will," Kerney said.
Danny Hobeck was out renewing old acquaintance ships but his sister, Margie, was home. A thin, nervous woman in her late sixties with rounded shoulders and apprehensive eyes, she reluctantly let Kerney in.
He sat with her in a living room entirely given over to her three cats. There were scratching poles in each corner for the tabbies to use. Rubber mice, tennis balls, and pet toys were scattered across the oak floor. Next to the pet door that offered access to and from the front porch, three food bowls were lined up, each inscribed with a name-Frisky, Mellow, and Violet. Framed photographs of the cats were prominently displayed on top of a television set.
The tabbies padded back and forth across the room, tails upright, giving Kerney a wide berth.
"I understand Vernon and Danny were best friends," Kerney said.
"I wouldn't call it a friendship."
"What would you call it?"
"Vernon led Danny around by the nose," she said after some hesitation.
"You don't sound well-disposed toward Vernon."
"He wasn't a very nice boy."
"Care to tell me why you feel that way?" Kerney asked.
Margie leaned forward in her easy chair and snapped her fingers. One of the cats turned and jumped into her lap. She stroked it and said nothing.
"How much younger are you than Danny?" Kerney asked.
"Five years."
"Does he have a family?"
"Two grown children. His wife died last year."
"And your family?"
Margie recoiled slightly and wet her lips. "I never married."
"Will you be attending the funeral services?"
Margie scratched the cat's chin while the ignored felines converged at her feet. "No."
"Care to tell me why?"
She patted the arm of the chair and the animals jumped into her lap. "I don't want to go." She ran a hand over the yellow cat's back, and it arched and purred.
"Would Danny be able to tell me why you don't like Vernon?"
"He would never do that." Her tone was biting.
"When will he be back?"
"I don't know."
"I'll call for him this evening."
"He won't talk to you."
Kerney let himself out wondering why so many people in Langsford's life, past and present, needed to keep secrets.
"I remember that call," Marcos Narvaiz said. He poured Tim Dwyer a cup of coffee at his kitchen table, returned the pot to the stove, and ran a hand over his shaggy, curly gray hair.
"Tell me about it," Tim said.
"I was the first responder on the scene. The whole thing was a mess. Waxman did the best he could under the circumstances."
Narvaiz's house was in the high foothills on the highway to Ruidoso. It sat between the village post office and the volunteer fire department. Marcos served as fire chief, a position he'd held for ten years, and his wife ran the post office. Tim had worked many accidents with Marcos and knew him well.
"I know the victim was separated from the bicycle, but Waxman didn't get a photograph of where it came to rest," Tim said.
Marcos laughed. "He ran out of film after he did the three-sixty shots of the victim and the skid marks. You should have heard him cursing about it."
Tim pulled out Waxman's field drawing. "So where did the bicycle wind up?"
Marcos pointed to a spot. "About here."
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"Yeah. I helped him inventory and bag the bike parts for evidence. He wanted the debris cleaned up fast so he could reopen the highway."
"How long was the debris trail?"
"The bike shattered on impact," Marcos said. "From the rear wheel to the handlebars, I'd say it was a good thirty feet."
Tim marked the spot on the field drawing Marcos had pointed to and nodded. "About the same distance Langsford was catapulted over the vehicle."
"What are you looking for?" Marcos asked. "It was a clear-cut hit-and-run."
"The driver's intent," Tim replied.
"What kind of magic do you use to figure that one out?"
"It's guesswork, and I can't prove it, but I think the driver deliberately ran into that bicycle."
"What if the driver was drunk?" Marcos countered.
"Even drunks hit the brakes and take evasive action before impact. Their reactions are way too late and slow, but they do it."
"You got the skid marks from the car," Marcos said.
"They're front-end yaw marks from a hard turn of the wheels into the cyclist," Tim said. "I calculated distance, speed, and zero skid resistance at the scene. The vehicle was traveling at sixty miles an hour. Langsford went flying, landed on his head, and bounced like a deflated rubber ball, according to the autopsy. His internal injuries were equivalent to falling from a three-story building."
"Jesus," Marcos said. "You're saying this was murder, not vehicular manslaughter."
Tim nodded. "I'd never be able to prove criminal intent in a court of law, but Waxman blew the investigation, big time."
After talking with the on-duty motel employees, all of them women except for the manager and the cook in the restaurant, Robert Duran left fairly well satisfied that none had a vendetta against Chief Kerney. Most of them recognized Kerney only as part of the state police contingent staying at the motel, and the few who knew the chief had been responsible for shooting Randy Shockley didn't act distressed about it. On top of that, no one admitted to personally knowing Randy Shockley.
He started working the businesses along the strip across the street from the motel, concentrating on those within easy walking distance.
He stopped in at a fast-food joint, a service station, a package goods store, and a run-down motel that catered to low-budget travelers, and then took a break at a mom-and-pop restaurant. He sat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee. When it came he asked the woman if she'd heard any talk about the shooting of Sergeant Shockley.
"Everybody talks about it, but a little less each day," the woman said.
Maybe pushing fifty, the woman had a pudgy nose and very tiny ears. She swatted at a fly with a counter rag and missed.
"Are people still upset about it?" Robert asked.
"I wouldn't say that. Most of them just think cops are plain stupid.
They steal and then shoot each other. It doesn't make folks feel real safe and protected, if you know what I mean. Why do you ask?"
Robert took a sip of his coffee before answering. "I'm a cop."
"Hey, I'm not one of those people who badmouths the police."
"I can see that. Have you heard anybody express outrage about the shooting? Somebody who felt sympathetic toward Sergeant Shockley?"
"Henry Waters come to mind. But nobody pays any attention to him."
"Why is that?"
"He's obsessed about police work. He's in his forties and has always wanted to be a cop. He's a sweet guy but not too bright. He once had a job as a security guard some years ago but got canned. He usually stops in before and after work for a cup."
"Has he been here today?"
"Yeah, this afternoon. He usually sits at the counter, but today he drank his coffee at a window booth and then left in a hurry."
Robert looked out the window. It had a clear view of the motel parking lot. He asked the woman if Henry had been in for coffee on the mornings Kerney's unit had been vandalized.
"He's been here every morning this week and last," the woman answered.
"What did he say about the Shockley shooting?" Robert asked.
"Something like no police officer deserved to die just because he did a little stealing, and that a cop killer, no matter who he is, was the worst kind of animal."
"Know where Henry lives?" Robert asked.
"I sure don't, but it's in the neighborhood."
"Where does he work?"
"He's a bagger and stock boy at Shop n' Save Hardware."
"Mind if I look in your outside trash bin?"
"Sure. What for?"
Robert put a five-dollar bill on the counter. "You make a good cup of coffee."
Outside in the trash he found a partially used quart of while latex paint and a cheap fifty-nine-cent brush, the bristles stiff with dried paint. Shop n' Save price stickers were still attached. He bagged them, tagged them, and went looking for Henry Waters.
After meeting again with Tim Dwyer, Kerney stood outside the Roswell district headquarters, his thoughts fixed on the officer's assessment of Arthur Langsford's death. Knowing that three members of one family had been murdered in a nine-year span still didn't answer the fundamental questions of who and why. Were the murders linked or unrelated? If they were linked, one killer might well have murdered eight people, and was targeting Linda Langsford as his next victim. If not, three killers were at large, all with different motives.
Each crime had a unique signature, which made the likelihood of distinct killers a strong possibility. Add in the nine years separating Arthur's death from Vernon's murder, and the argument for different perpetrators gained even more credibility.
Kerney wasn't willing to lay aside the equally plausible notion of a vendetta against the Langsfords. What could have caused it remained obscure. In whatever direction he chose to look, no clear-cut motives emerged. All he had was a very rich, highly respected judge with a not-so-secret love life, a dead wife who may have been murdered by mistake, and a son killed for reasons unknown.
As for suspects, there was only Eric Langsford, who still hadn't been found, according to the latest update from Lee Sedillo.
Commuter traffic rumbled along the highway and a faint sunset put an anemic yellow glow on the western horizon. Kerney stepped toward his unit just as Clayton Istee drove up and cut him off. Kerney nodded a greeting.
"My mother doesn't speak for me," Clayton said bluntly through the open car window. He got out and slammed the door.
"I never assumed that she did."
"How would you know what my mother does or doesn't do?"
"I don't," Kerney replied.
"Then don't try to bullshit me about something you know nothing about."
"That wasn't my intent," Kerney said.
Clayton stared hard at Kerney and took a deep breath. "Forget it," he said, turning on his heel.
"Wait a minute," Kerney said.
"What for?" Clayton said, as he swung back around.
"You're too damn hard to talk to. I keep thinking I should try to get to know you better. But every time I see you, you just shut me down."
"I'm not very good at opening up to people."
Clayton paused. "I hear the same thing from my wife." The harshness in his voice eased a bit.
"There you go," Kerney said with a smile. "Maybe it's both of us."
Clayton's shoulders tightened. "I'm not like you."
"Would that be so terrible?" Kerney asked. Clayton didn't answer.
"Let's find a better place to talk," Kerney said. I'll buy you a drink or a cup of coffee."
"Coffee will do," Clayton said. "I don't drink."
At a strip-mall diner, where most of the stores sold antiques, used books, old furniture, and knickknacks put on consignment by the sons and daughters of parents who had retired to Roswell before passing on, Kerney tried to break the ice by telling Clayton the story of how, as a boy, he'd helped his father deliver cattle to the Mescalero village where the resort and casino now stood.
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"My mother grew up in that village," Clayton said.
Kerney nodded. "My father sold those cattle to her father. We used to joke about it in college."
"Joke about what?"
"About how we might have met a lot sooner."
"Why did you walk out on her?"
"Excuse me?"
"She was carrying your baby."
"Isabel never told me about you."
"I don't believe that."
"Is that what's been troubling you about me?" Kerney asked.
"You couldn't see that she was pregnant?"
"She broke off the relationship six weeks before our graduation. I went into the army and she went home to Mescalero. Count back from your birthday and do the math. She wasn't showing."
"And she never said anything to you about being pregnant?"
"That's right. You haven't heard this before?"
"No," Clayton replied, dropping his gaze from Kerney's face.
"So, as far as you were concerned, I was just some jerk who took advantage of your mother."
"What else was I supposed to think?"
"You never questioned Isabel about me?"
"You don't question my mother." Clayton paused and raised his eyes to Kerney's face. "Are you being straight with me on this?"
"I'd be a fool to bullshit you. Maybe you need to have a talk with Isabel."
"Maybe I do. Were you serious about feeling bad about missing out on being my father?"
"It would have meant a lot to me."
"Having a lot of uncles around is one thing," Clayton said, letting the thought fade away.
"But it's not the same as having a father," Kerney said.
All Clayton could do was nod. "Did you like my mother, Kerney? I mean, really care about her, back in college?"
"I more than liked her. I thought we had a good chance to make it as a couple. I tried to get back together with her."
Clayton's expression hardened. "Now I know you're fucking with me. My mother never heard from you again."
"I wrote her letters for the next six months, before I shipped out to Vietnam," Kerney said. "She never answered any of them."
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