Tularosa

by Michael McGarrity

  “Will I need an escort?” Kerney asked.

  “If you make that necessary, Lieutenant, you’ll be out of here before you can blink an eye.”

  “Fair enough,” Kerney agreed, wondering how Brannon planned to have him watched.

  She wrote a note on a pad, tore it off, and handed it to Kerney across the desk. “Give this to the duty sergeant at the front office. He’ll take care of you.”

  She stood up. Kerney rose with her. She was tall enough to look him in the eye without difficulty.

  “Thank you, Captain,” he said.

  “I expect to be kept informed. Call the post operator and ask for me by name. If I’m not available, I’ll get back to you.” She nodded in the direction of the door to indicate that he was dismissed. “Good luck.”

  Alone in her office, Sara rang for her second-in-command and asked what he had learned from the Armed Forces Record Center about Kevin Kerney. The officer came in bearing a packet, prepared to give an informal briefing. Sara stopped him short and had him sit quietly while she scanned the papers. Kerney, a Vietnam veteran, had served one tour in-country late in the war as an infantry platoon leader and had rotated stateside with an impressive array of citations and a recommendation for a Regular Army commission, which he had turned down.

  The personal information about Kerney intrigued her. His place of birth was listed as Tularosa, New Mexico, a small town on the eastern edge of the missile range. A native son. If his date of birth was correct, Kerney had been something of an over-achiever; he had received his ROTC commission at the age of twenty when he graduated from the state university in Las Cruces.

  Sara looked at the young officer, who waited expectantly. “Query the FBI on Kerney and ask the post historian to see if he has information on the ranching families in the Tularosa Basin who predated the missile range. Anything he has on the Kerney family I want to look at.”

  The officer wrote it down and waited for more.

  “Put a tail on Kerney,” Sara added. “Two men, full-time, and rotate the shifts starting at midnight. Run a background check on Specialist Yazzi’s father. I want anything you can get on his work history in law enforcement. Look for a connection between the father and Kerney. Start with the Santa Fe Police Department. That’s where Kerney was last employed.”

  “Anything else?” the officer inquired, getting to his feet.

  “Tell the surveillance teams I want every move Kerney makes fully documented. They’re to pull him in if he spits on the sidewalk.”

  “Problems?” the officer asked.

  She closed the file, handed it to the lieutenant, and looked out the office window. Kerney was standing in the parking lot pasting a temporary vehicle pass to the rear window of a pickup truck. She watched him for a moment and turned back to the officer with a smile. “That’s what you’re going to tell me. But I find it strange that a sheriff’s lieutenant, on duty, drives his personal vehicle instead of a police cruiser.”

  THE LATE-AFTERNOON SUN burned through the fabric of Kerney’s shirt and the hot desert wind blew against his neck. Behind him was the office of the post provost marshal, where he’d left Captain Brannon. He was barely aware of the line of cars moving slowly through the guard station as the civilians, defense contractors, and off-post personnel began their commutes home. His eyes were riveted on the Sacramentos, sixty miles distant. He recalled the trip to Frenchy’s cabin in Dog Canyon, one of the rare excursions of his childhood when his father packed up the truck and took him camping in the high, cool forest. It was a year when the cattle brought a good price and the beef herd was sleek and fat from a wet winter and spring. The year before the drought.

  His gaze moved down from the peaks to the sun-drenched desert, chalky gray in a great sweep of rolling space. Up the tube of the Tularosa Valley, light danced on the fringe of the brilliant gypsum dunes at the White Sands National Monument. To the north the San Andres Mountains showed a rugged, tortured countenance to the valley floor, hiding the sinuous curves of narrow canyons that cut deep into the mountain range.

  He took a deep breath of the dry air and climbed into the truck. To the east, the granite peaks of the Organ Mountains dominated the main post. He thought about Sara Brannon. She was damn pretty, with an oval face and high cheekbones that drew attention to her eyes. He wondered if she was involved with someone. Probably, he decided.

  He attached the visitor’s badge to his shirt pocket and drove down the street. The base, arranged with military precision, made finding your way fairly easy. There were directional signs everywhere, and all the buildings were numbered and named. The administrative offices were clustered on a main drive with shade trees marching in neat rows along the roadway. All the curbs were freshly painted, and there wasn’t a piece of litter in sight. A large parade ground sat across the road from the headquarters. A permanent reviewing stand installed on the north side looked out over a grass field. He found the sign to the enlisted barracks and turned off. The quarters were a compound of two-story red-brick buildings with flat roofs, within walking distance of the dining hall and the post amenities. Kerney parked in the lot and walked into the empty compound between the buildings. Given the time of day, Kerney reckoned most of the people he wanted to see were in the chow line at the mess hall. A small, one-story building at the end of the compound was posted with a company headquarters sign. Kerney went in the open door and found a clerk at a desk finishing up reports for the day. He showed the soldier his badge and asked to see Captain Meehan, Sammy’s commanding officer. He was told that Meehan was gone for the day and not due back until morning. Kerney asked to see the first sergeant. The private gave him directions to the sergeant’s quarters at the opposite end of the compound.

  Kerney walked to the two-room suite in the barracks that Master Sergeant Roy Enloe occupied and knocked on the door. It was jerked open by a hairy, naked man who was toweling dry his hair. He seemed unconcerned about his appearance or the stranger at his door.

  “My company clerk just called from the office to say you were coming over. I don’t have much time,” Enloe said, leaving the door open and walking to the middle of his small sitting room. “What can I do for you?”

  “What can you tell me about Sammy Yazzi?”

  “He was a good soldier.” Enloe picked up a fresh pair of boxer shorts from the arm of a chair, dropped the towel, and started dressing. “He pulled his duty without complaint and never gave me any trouble. I’ve been over this ground before, Lieutenant, with our own people. Ask me a question I haven’t heard.”

  “Do you know how I can get a hold of William McVay?” Kerney asked.

  “Bull McVay?” Enloe smiled as he pulled on an undershirt. “He’s retired. Living up in a trailer park at Elephant Butte Lake. Why do you want to see Bull?”

  “He was Sammy’s baseball coach. Maybe he might know something about Sammy’s disappearance.”

  Enloe shook his head in disagreement. “I doubt it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Bull likes to talk about three things. Baseball, religion, and the Army. He became a born-again Christian about three years ago. You can’t get him to stop talking about Jesus Christ, the New York Mets, and the air cavalry, especially if he has a few beers in him. That’s all he cares about. I don’t think he’d have a clue about why Yazzi went AWOL.” Enloe stepped into a pair of stretch denim jeans and sat down to put on his shoes and socks.

  “Why did McVay retire?” Kerney inquired.

  Enloe talked to the floor as he tied his shoelaces. “Bull was planning on being a thirty-year man until his mother got sick. Alzheimer’s disease. It was real tough on him to put in his retirement papers, but he felt obligated to look after her. He got her admitted to the state veterans’ home up in Truth or Consequences. She served in World War Two as a WAC ferry pilot, flying B-17 bombers.”

  “Have you seen him since he retired?”

  “No.” Enloe stood up and put on a clean shirt that had been draped over the
back of the chair. “But he should be easy to find. Truth or Consequences isn’t that big of a town.”

  “Why do you call him Bull?”

  Enloe snorted as he buttoned his shirt. “Wait till you meet him. He’s a foot shorter than me and built like a tank.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Divorced. That’s one reason he’s working. The ex-wife gets a third of his retirement pay.”

  “Do you know where he works?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Somebody at the NCO club might be able to tell you.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  Enloe smiled. “No sweat.” He walked out the door behind Kerney and hurried across the compound to the parking lot.

  Kerney went to locate PFC Alonzo Tony, who was nowhere to be found. His roommate, a slightly overweight boy with bony hands and a pug nose, arrived just as Kerney was about to leave. The soldier told Kerney that Tony worked swing shift at the post communication center, where he served as a cryptographer, and didn’t get off until midnight. Kerney asked where Sammy Yazzi bunked, and the boy took him to a two-man room down the hall. Exactly half the room was empty, except for a bunk. The other half contained a precisely made bed with military corners, a foot-locker, and personal gear. The name on the closet door read PFC Robert Jaeger.

  “Where is Sammy’s gear?” Kerney asked.

  “At the quartermaster’s,” the soldier answered. “They store your gear if you go AWOL.”

  Kerney could hear the sounds of the troops returning from dinner. A radio was cranked up to a rap music station. Someone shouted to turn down the noise. “What about his bunkmate?” Kerney asked.

  “Bobby? He’s on a pass.”

  “When is he due back?”

  The soldier shrugged and looked down the hallway, anxious to be done with Kerney. “In a day or two, I guess. Anything else?”

  “No. Thanks a lot.”

  The kid nodded and walked away. Kerney made a quick search of the room, checking the closets, the built-in dressers and desks. The room was completely bare of any trace of Sammy. Outside, the evening air was cooling quickly and the compound was filled with young men, most of them in civilian clothes, eager for diversion. The Organ Mountains were tipped with a band of pink light as the final shadows of dusk came on.

  The post library, within walking distance of the barracks, near the service club and the post movie theater, was not the most popular attraction on the post. Some housewives browsed through the new-fiction display, and a few off-duty soldiers were in the reading room. Kerney found the young woman Sammy had briefly dated busily shelving books in the stacks.

  Carla Montoya was petite, bouncy, and talkative. Long, curly hair framed her rather ordinary features to advantage. She appeared to be in her early twenties. She answered Kerney’s questions willingly, creating a sense of drama for herself in the process.

  “I met him here at work,” Carla said, responding to Kerney’s overture. “He spent a lot of time at the library when he first came to the base. I thought he was kinda cute. Real quiet-like and serious. He didn’t try to hustle me, but was real sincere-like. We dated five or six times. The movies, a couple of dances. Stuff like that.”

  “Who broke it off?”

  Carla shook her head, the curls swirling over her shoulder. She patted them down. “Nobody. It didn’t get that far. It was just dating, that’s all. I liked him and everything, but…” She shrugged.

  “Did Sammy talk about himself? His problems?”

  Carla chewed on her lip. “Not really. It wasn’t like he was unhappy or anything like that. He talked a lot about how much he wanted to go to art school when he got out. Some place back east. I forget exactly where.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “He talked about cars,” Carla answered. “He had an old Chevy sedan.” She rolled her eyes in mock disgust and twirled her finger around a lock of hair. “It was really a piece of junk. I mean, embarrassing.” She strung the word out. “He wanted to buy something better.”

  “Did he?”

  Carla hesitated, her fingers toying with a strand of her hair. “I’m not sure. I saw him cruising in Las Cruces once after we stopped dating. He was driving a different car. Somebody was with him, but I couldn’t tell who it was. I don’t think he even saw me. I kinda figured he’d bought himself something better.”

  “When was that?”

  “About two months ago. Just before he went AWOL.”

  “What kind of car was Sammy driving?”

  “I think it was a Toyota. Not new. Maybe a couple of years old. Sort of a sandy beige two-door. An economy model.” Carla’s tone of voice suggested that the car was not at all cool.

  “Have you talked to anyone about this?”

  “Sure. Sammy’s father. The Army investigator.” She smiled brightly. “And now you. But I just remembered seeing him in a different car. I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Where did Sammy keep his car?” Kerney asked.

  “I guess behind the barracks,” Carla answered. “That’s where the enlisted personnel have to park.”

  “Tell me about the Chevy,” Kerney asked.

  Cars meant a great deal to Carla. She described the junky Chevy in detail. Kerney left her to resume her book-stacking chores and walked back to the barracks. The parking lot was half empty. He looked for a beige Toyota and a beat-up Chevy. There was no Toyota that matched Carla’s description, but there was a white Chevy sedan with a For Sale sign in the window parked at the back of the lot. He wiped away the film of dust from the window where the sign was taped. The sign had Sammy’s name on it.

  He circled the vehicle. There was enough light from the streetlamps to see hand and fingerprint smudges in the dust on the door near the handle. Someone had recently been in the vehicle. He found more smudges on the trunk lid. The car was locked. The interior was clean as a whistle. Kerney found that interesting. The Sammy he knew, on his best days, wasn’t that neat.

  He went to his truck and drove toward the BOQ. In the foothills that rose to meet the Organ Mountains, lights from the married officers’ quarters dotted the landscape.

  The orderly at the BOQ gave him the key to a room and said there was more than enough time left to get a meal at the officers’ club. Kerney’s stomach grumbled and his leg ached. The knee just didn’t do too well on long trips in the truck. He carried his bag to the room, unpacked a fresh set of clothes, and sat in the tub under the shower, letting the hot water soak away the throbbing in his knee. While dressing, he had an impulse to check in with Sara Brannon. He rejected the notion. There was absolutely nothing to report. He closed the door and locked it. There was no sense making it too easy for the room to be searched.

  CHAPTER 3

  KERNEY ENTERED THE OFFICERS’ CLUB to find half a dozen men and women sitting at the far end of the bar away from the door. In the back dining area, separated by a waist-high partition, some junior officers and their wives were celebrating a young child’s birthday. Laughter and chatter spilled over to the front of the room. Kerney sat at a small cocktail table in the barroom and received quick attention from a waiter. He ordered a light meal—his stomach, unable to digest any food in quantity, demanded it—and nursed a glass of iced tea while waiting for his food to arrive. The walls of the barroom, paneled in a rich walnut, were decorated with framed prints of nineteenth-century military scenes. Replicas of old regimental cavalry flags hung from the ceiling rafters.

  His meal, a pasta salad with a cream dressing, was served quickly. He ate slowly, enjoying the food. Eating out was something of a treat, and the meal was well prepared. He was about to call for his check when Sara Brannon entered the club with a man. Both were dressed casually. Sara, in a loose ribbed pullover shirt, a denim skirt, and a soft pair of suede boots that accented her long legs, looked very classy. Her companion, a tall fellow, dressed in chinos, hiking boots, and a blue chambray shirt, with dark, sun-bleached hair that curled up at the nape of his neck, had a studious, intelligent f
ace. Eyeglasses highlighted his scholarly appearance. Sara didn’t see Kerney as she passed by; her attention was diverted by something the man was saying as he led her by the arm to the bar.

  Hoping to leave undetected, Kerney watched Sara as he waited for the waiter to bring the check. She talked with her hands and seemed much more relaxed and animated than when Kerney had met her in her office. The tendency to fidget with her class ring was a habit, Kerney decided. She unconsciously toyed with it, rubbing her thumb along the band.

  The waiter came with the check, and Kerney settled up immediately, hoping for a discreet exit. Sara saw his reflection in the bar mirror and waved him over.

  “Lieutenant Kerney,” she called.

  Forcing a smile, Kerney veered toward the bar. The man turned and eyed him with interest.

  “I’d like you to meet Fred Utley,” she said.

  Utley got off the bar stool. “Nice to meet you,” he said with a grin, extending his hand.

  Utley was in his mid-thirties, about Kerney’s height. His hand was calloused and his grip firm. “Likewise,” Kerney replied.

  “You must be new on the post,” Utley said, reclaiming his seat at the bar.

  “Lieutenant Kerney is with the Doña Ana Sheriff’s Department,” Sara clarified. Her eyes, guarded and unsmiling, never left Kerney’s face. “Join us for a drink, Lieutenant.” She patted an empty stool next to her.

  In spite of her relaxed veneer, it was an order, not a request. Instead of sitting next to Sara, Kerney slid onto the stool beside Utley, using the man as a buffer, and ordered a glass of white wine.

  Utley didn’t notice the unspoken exchange. “Are you here on official business or just visiting?” he asked.

  Sara didn’t give Kerney a chance to answer. She touched Utley lightly on the arm. “The lieutenant is working on a case with us.” With Utley placated, she gave Kerney a sharp, quick look, while her voice remained unruffled. “Fred is the chief archaeologist at the missile range.”