At the time of his retirement a decade ago, Dewey had spent fifty years as the news photographer for the local paper. Now he concentrated on photographing historic churches and old ruins throughout the state. If he wasn’t location-scouting on remote private ranches or two-hundred-year-old haciendas, he’d set up a table at the farmers’ market on Main Street and sell his framed photographs cheap to art lovers who knew a bargain when they saw it.
One Saturday morning, Grace had tugged Clayton to Dewey’s table, and they bought a large framed image of the Apache cathedral at Mescalero. It hung in the living room over the couch.
Bullard shared his photographic archive with local and state historical societies and preservationist groups. He prided himself on having kept the negatives of every picture he’d ever taken, including hundreds of images that showed the changing landscape of Las Cruces over six decades and counting.
He wasn’t listed in the phone book, but he had a website where interested customers could browse through selected images. Clayton tried the phone number on the website, and got a voice message saying Dewey was either out taking pictures or in his darkroom. He left a message and sent an email through Bullard’s website with little hope of a quick response.
On a hunch, he checked the back of the photograph and found Bullard’s business card taped to it, with a cell phone number. Dewey answered on the first ring, and said he’d be more than willing to help solve a cold-case crime.
Clayton wrote down his address and hurried over. It was a small cottage near the university in a neighborhood that sprang up after World War II and had been popular with young families. Over time it had been transformed into rentals, duplexes, and some blocky apartment complexes that catered to college students.
Clayton found Bullard waiting for him on his front porch, a look of pleased anticipation on his face.
“Now, what’s this cold case all about?” he asked eagerly as Clayton approached. Once tall and in vigorous good shape from frequent hikes with his equipment to remote sites, Dewey was now stooped over and used a cane.
“There was a brawl at the Stallion Bar on Main Street on April twenty-third, 1973, and you took the photo of an arrest that was published in the paper the following morning.”
Dewey laughed. “I got dozens of great late-night shots of brawls at that dive before it closed down. This isn’t about a bar fight, is it?”
“No, it’s about a girl who went missing around the same time and whose remains were recently uncovered.”
Dewey nodded. “Kim Ward. I read about it. And about you having to quit the state police because of it.”
“I’m here as a civilian,” Clayton confirmed. “Would you happen to have the roll of film from that night?”
“It’s ninety-nine percent certain that I do.” Dewey opened the screen door. “When I bought this place, it had a crawl space under the floor, and tiny as it is, I couldn’t squeeze a darkroom in anywhere. So I dug out a basement, and that’s where I store all my old negatives and develop my prints. Still shoot thirty-five millimeter at times, but now I’m doing mostly digital work.”
He led Clayton to a rear kitchen and down a corner circular staircase to a large basement room containing enough cameras and equipment to fill a store. Dozens of film storage cabinets lined the walls.
At a vertical film cabinet, he read the labels on the drawers, found what he was looking for, and did a quick search. “This is it,” he said, plucking out a proof sheet. “Took some good crowd scenes outside the bar that night.”
He handed it to Clayton, along with a magnifying glass. “The first twelve images are of an amateur golf tournament at the old country club earlier in the day. You can skip those.”
Clayton studied the shots taken at the bar. Two showed Todd Marks in handcuffs being led away, full face and from the back. In another, Kerney clearly stood out as one of the onlookers outside the open front door of the bar. Although he couldn’t be positive, because her face was partially in shadows, at the edge of the last photograph it looked like Kim Ward had also been there.
“Can you make me a copy of this sheet?” he asked.
“Can do,” Dewey replied.
“Thank you. When I leave, the police officer who followed me will question you. Tell him exactly what you did, and give him what you gave to me.”
“You don’t want me to lie for you?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
Dewey smiled. “Fair enough.”
A short time later, Clayton left Bullard’s house, with evidence in hand and his stomach in knots. Had he been wrong to believe in Kerney’s innocence?
Born and raised in northern New Mexico in a small village outside of Taos, with towering mountains and the stunning chasm of the Rio Grande Gorge nearby, Agent Carla Olivas was no fan of the stark desert that overwhelmed Deming and all that surrounded it. Particularly on this day, she was no admirer of the almost constant dry, dust-laden wind that sapped moisture from everything, including her small frame. Despite starting on her second six-pack of bottled water, she felt totally dehydrated. Her eyes were red and irritated. She was ready for a long dip in the motel pool, a siesta, and a drink.
She’d been trailing Sara Brannon over a two-county area, documenting every courthouse, government building, schoolhouse, social service agency, and public health office she visited, passing the information on to other agents tasked with finding out who she was talking to and what she was looking for at those places. All they had so far were two names: Jack Page and Loretta Page. Queries of state and federal databases were under way.
Eager for something interesting to happen, Carla sat in her unit with the AC running at the Deming Municipal Airport on the outskirts of town, in plain view of Sara Brannon, who was parked fifty feet away in her SUV waiting for Kerney’s return from Santa Fe.
The seldom-used airport had few facilities and served only small general aviation planes. There was no good place to hide. Bored, Carla kept gazing at the Florida Mountains in the distance, glancing back at Brannon’s vehicle, squinting at the ribbon of traffic on Interstate 10, or scanning the delivery trucks leaving the sprawling chili processing plant nearby. When she looked back at her target, Brannon was out of her SUV, thirty feet away and closing fast.
With a sigh, Carla rolled down her window. “Can I help you?” she asked when Brannon arrived.
“Indeed, you can,” Sara replied with a smile. “Stop this constant harassment. It’s tiresome, unnecessary, and possibly illegal. You have no cause to follow me.”
“Is that what you really wanted to say to me?” Carla retorted.
“Fair warning. I’ve been video-recording you all day,” Sara answered. “If you continue this surveillance, I will file a civil rights complaint against you personally.”
“Go right ahead, ma’am,” Carla said, as she tapped the automatic window button to block her out. She watched the retired army general walk away. She didn’t know if Brannon’s civil rights were being violated, but the threat of legal action was worth reporting.
By radio, Carla repeated Brannon’s threat to Paul Avery, who ordered her to continue her assignment. He’d let the lawyers at headquarters know about it, and unless he got a legal opinion to cease operations, surveillance would continue.
Over the sound of the AC, Carla heard the distinctive roar of a twin-engine aircraft. Through the windshield she saw a plane bank and turn on final approach. Kerney was arriving.
The sound of the propellers as the plane taxied for takeoff masked Kerney’s question as he climbed into Sara’s SUV. He closed the passenger door and asked again, “Who’s shadowing you today?”
“A young, attractive female agent,” Sara answered. “I’ve just threatened to slap her with a civil rights violation suit.”
“On what grounds?”
Sara smiled and shrugged. “I thought I’d leave that part up to Dalquist.”
Kerney laughed. “Smart.”
“I thought so. Is it you in the newspaper phot
ograph Upham sprang on you?”
“Possibly. That was a very drunk time in my young life.”
Sara’s expression clouded. “Not good.”
“No.”
She checked the rearview mirror as they left the airport. The unmarked unit stayed back a polite distance. “Jack Page used to have his government benefit checks electronically deposited to an account at an Arizona bank. Years ago, the bank declared the account dormant, and sent the proceeds to a state agency that manages unclaimed assets. As a result, all federal payments into the account were discontinued.”
“How much was in the account?” Kerney asked.
“Over twenty thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot for anyone to voluntarily give up. Is he dead?”
“Unknown. He last surfaced at the Fort Bayard Veterans Center, where he’d been admitted for medical treatment. According to a records clerk, Page voluntarily left the center six months ago, supposedly to receive home care by a family member. Because of confidentiality rules, I know nothing more than that.”
The time display on the dashboard information system showed four-thirty. “Let’s go to Fort Bayard,” Kerney said.
“We won’t get there until after normal business hours.”
“Exactly,” Kerney said. “There will be fewer bureaucrats there to guard the gates.”
“Smart,” Sara said, flashing him a smile.
“I thought so. Any word from Clayton?”
She shook her head.
Kerney speed-dialed Clayton. “Where are you?” he asked when he answered.
“Just leaving Las Cruces coming in your direction.”
“Can you lose your tail?”
“No problem.”
“I’m with Sara. Meet us at City of Rocks.”
“Okay.”
“Have you got anything?” Kerney asked.
“Yeah,” Clayton said tersely. “I’ll go over it with you there.”
“Roger.” The reason for Clayton’s brusque tone would have to wait. Kerney disconnected, turned to Sara, and said, “We need to lose our surveillance as well.” He accessed the dashboard GPS system. “Take Highway 180 north towards Silver City and grab a right at a county road on the outskirts of town. It’s unpaved and leads to a remote, low-lying mountain off Highway 61. She won’t be able to keep up off the pavement and you can lose her there.” He pointed at a cutoff that would take them to an abandoned settlement.
“Why City of Rocks?” Sara asked.
“It’s an out-of-the-way state park and a perfect place to make a switch without drawing undue attention. We’ll wait there until after sunset, and then I’ll go on to Fort Bayard with Clayton, while you head back to the motel in Deming, hopefully picking up your tail along the way.”
Sara swung onto Pine Street and headed for the 180 junction.
On the graveled county road with civilization fast disappearing in her rearview mirror, Sara’s SUV threw up a dust cloud that completely obscured the unmarked unit. The road deteriorated into a washboard that had Sara and Kerney bobbing in their seats. Where an old arroyo had reclaimed the road after a cloudburst runoff, only the Jeep’s four-wheel drive got them through the sandy bottom. There was no way the unmarked unit could follow.
Back on the highway, it was a short drive to City of Rocks State Park, a square mile of high desert volcanic rock columns, pinnacles, and uplifts separated by narrow pathways and road-like corridors. It resembled the stunning ruins of an ancient city or the sculpted remnants of an extinct, alien culture. A low, golden sun on the western horizon gave the park a mystical glow.
A few dimmed night lights showed through the windows of the closed visitor center. The only sign of activity came from an area reserved for recreational vehicles, where some elderly folks were sitting on lawn chairs admiring the sunset. Several unattended tents were scattered around the perimeter of the park.
Sara stopped at the trailhead to the botanical garden, and Kerney called Clayton to give him their location. He arrived within ten minutes, got into the back of the Jeep, and tossed a manila envelope into Kerney’s lap.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“You tell me,” Clayton snapped.
Kerney turned on the interior lights, pulled out the proof sheets, and scanned the images.
“You were with Todd Marks and Kim Ward at the Stallion Bar hours before she showed up at Erma Fergurson’s,” Clayton announced. “Have you made a fool of me?”
“Not you.” Kerney passed the proof sheet to Sara and turned to face Clayton. “Me. I was the drunk fool. I honestly didn’t remember.”
“You were that drunk?” Clayton challenged.
“Let me give you the short version of what happened to me after that wrong-way driver killed my parents, so that you’ll understand. I was coming home from Vietnam and they were driving to meet me at the Albuquerque airport. They never showed up. I called home, got no answer, and waited for hours until a cop paged me. They’d found my flight information in the wreckage and located me through that. At the crash site, I identified their mangled bodies and arranged to get them transported to a funeral home. An officer drove me home. After I buried them, I cut short my leave and applied for compassionate separation from active duty.”
He reached up, switched off the interior lights, and continued in the darkness. “The army took its time processing my request. The only way I could cope was by shutting down and doing everything by the numbers. All the time I waited, I was a spit-and-shine, by-the-book executive officer of a rifle company. There were no cracks in the armor, no falling apart, no drinking, no weed-smoking—nothing. I was a perfect soldier and a total zombie. When I got out, I did fine until I reached Erma’s and could totally let go. I stayed in a drunken stupor for days. That’s why I’ve never been completely sure of exactly what happened.”
He turned to face Clayton. “But I know I didn’t kill Kim Ward. I just didn’t save her.”
“The department has the proof sheet,” Clayton said.
“But it doesn’t prove I killed her. You can bail out on this, if you want to.”
“I didn’t say that. I’m in.”
The last tip of the sun faded in a cloudless, orange-streaked sky and the City of Rocks turned foreboding in the gathering night. “Good. Let’s go to Fort Bayard and pretend we’re still cops.”
CHAPTER 15
Clayton coasted to a stop in front of the Fort Bayard Medical Center, a state-run long-term care facility that included a designated veterans center. Kerney took a deep breath, stepped out of the vehicle, and looked around. The new facility had been built some distance away from the old historic fort with its row of stately two-story officers’ quarters and the squat adobe headquarters building that faced the large grassy quadrangle.
Kerney wanted to see the quadrangle again before they left the campus. He clearly remembered the monthly trips he’d made with his parents to the now-demolished old hospital to visit Patrick Kerney, his sick and dying grandfather. He’d loved that old man with his rough-hewn ways, and had reveled in grandfather’s stories about frontier years on the Tularosa, the outlaws he’d known, his service in Cuba with the Rough Riders, and the famous charge up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt. But most of all, Kerney had loved doing chores with Grandpa, working the ponies, learning the old-time cowboy ways, taking evening rides with him when the day had cooled and the breezes were pleasant, before he got too sick to sit a horse.
In the hospital at his bedside, Kerney had sat and stared at the fragile old man who no longer spoke, mentally willing him to open his eyes and talk to him one more time, just to say goodbye. It never happened. After a massive heart attack, his grandfather had been moved to the VA hospital in Albuquerque, where he died in his sleep, on the same day the U.S. Army took possession of the Kerney family 7-Bar-K Ranch, the last privately owned outfit on the Tularosa.
“Are you all right?” Clayton asked, pulling Kerney out of his memories.
He nodded wordless
ly as he approached the pillared and roofed entrance. The automatic sliding glass doors to the medical center were locked, but there was a buzzer and intercom speaker for after-hours callers to use.
Kerney waved Clayton off as he reached for the buzzer. “Let’s not announce ourselves just yet. Maybe we can find a back way in.”
They wandered through a large, well-lit, landscaped courtyard to a loading dock at the rear, where a middle-aged man in blue scrubs sat on a folding chair under a shielded exterior light, smoking a cigarette.
The unexpected sight of two strangers surprised him. He stood and quickly ground out his smoke. “Hey, you can’t be back here.”
Kerney stepped close, flashed his retired police chief badge, and introduced himself as Agent Blackburn with the New Mexico State Police. “My partner is Agent Clauson,” he added.
“Is something wrong, Officer?” the man asked in a worried voice. He had a narrow forehead and a wide nose accentuated by a bushy mustache that covered his upper lip.
Kerney flipped the badge case closed. “Not at all. We’re just in need of some information.”
“I can get the charge nurse for you,” the man said. His staff ID badge identified him as Robert Ripple, nursing assistant.
“That might not be necessary,” Clayton replied. “We’re trying to get in touch with Jack Page, who was in the veterans unit.”
Ripple laughed. “Old Jack. He left here some time ago. Got taken home by his son after complaining for months that he didn’t like living with old people.” He snorted humorously. “Getting on to ninety and didn’t like old people.”
“His son came for him?” Clayton asked, exchanging looks with Kerney. Supposedly, Jack’s son, Louis, had died in Vietnam.
“That’s right.”
“Remember his name?” Kerney queried.
“Not right off. I think he lives somewhere in this neck of the woods, because I’ve seen him in Silver City every now and then.”
Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Page 17