Death Song kk-11

by Michael McGarrity

  “Thank you,” Kerney said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  A smiling Matt Chacon stood in the open doorway. Kerney waved and pointed to an empty chair. Matt entered and sat.

  “I hope you catch the bugger who stuck that gun in my face and stole my property,” Edgerton said.

  Kerney promised to do his best, said good-bye, disconnected, and turned his attention to Chacon. “Why the smile?”

  “Because the thumbprint on the plastic coin sleeve belongs to one Archie Pattison, a citizen of the United Kingdom. He is also known as John Culley, Denise Riley’s employer.”

  “By chance does Mr. Pattison have any ties to what was once known as British Honduras?” Clayton asked.

  Matt looked surprised. “Yes, he does. He was born there. When British Honduras became the independent country of Belize, he retained his British citizenship and emigrated to London. He served in the Royal Marines and disappeared from sight after his discharge.”

  “What else do you know about Mr. Pattison, aka John Culley?” Kerney asked.

  “Other than he’s in this country as a permanent resident under a false identity with a forged passport, that’s it for now,” Matt replied. “What do you know about him, Chief?”

  Kerney stood. “Culley and Denise Riley, posing as a married couple, probably pulled off that coin heist in Australia. Let’s go pay Culley a visit. Where’s Sergeant Pino? She needs to be in on this.”

  “She’s on her way here,” Matt replied.

  Kerney headed for the door with Clayton and Matt at his heels. “Tell her to meet us at Culley’s house.”

  “Roger that, Chief,” Matt replied.

  Chapter Twelve

  John Culley lived on a hill off a dirt lane near Acequia Madre. The area hadn’t yet become completely gentrified, but the upscale Santa Fe–style estates already outnumbered the tiny, dilapidated casitas with peeling paint, rickety doors, and tumbledown concrete block walls owned by the plebe.

  The deep snow and heavy drifts on the unplowed side streets made the trip to Culley’s road a thirty-minute adventure. The three officers arrived at the bottom of the hill to find Ramona Pino parked and waiting in her unmarked unit. They stood with her in front of her vehicle and gazed at the steep, impassable lane.

  “Did anyone remember to bring snowshoes?” Ramona asked.

  Kerney looked down at his petite sergeant and smiled. “I don’t think it’s quite over your head. We’ll pull you to safety if it is. How far up the hill does Culley live?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt replied. “I only met with him at his place of business.”

  “I’ll break trail,” Clayton said.

  “Lead on,” Kerney agreed.

  They started out in single file behind Clayton, with Ramona and Matt bringing up the rear.

  “Do we even know if Culley is at home?” Ramona asked Matt.

  “Nope. On a day like this with everything shut down, the chief thought it best to make an unannounced visit so as not to raise any suspicions.”

  “So what’s the plan when we get there?”

  “We surround the house, while Chief Kerney and Sergeant Istee knock at the front door and introduce themselves.”

  “That should work.”

  Up ahead, Clayton and Kerney paused to look at street numbers on some mailboxes that were poking up above the snow level at curbside.

  Ramona was happy to take a break. Trying to keep up with her long-legged companions had turned into quite a chore. “Do you think Culley was the father of Denise Riley’s unborn child?” she asked.

  Matt gulped down some cold air that freeze-dried his throat. “I had the distinct impression that he was gay. But maybe he’s bi.”

  “There was no mention in your notes that you talked to Culley’s alleged lover.”

  “Never did,” Matt said. His legs were aching from pulling each foot free from the deep snow and plunging on. “At the time of my interview, Culley was a source of information, not a suspect.”

  Ramona’s breath iced up in the air. “Maybe Culley’s housemate, lover, or whatever you want to call him, is a beard.”

  “Could be. Do you think Culley killed her because she was pregnant or because she had appropriated some of their ill-gotten gains without his knowledge?”

  Ramona’s nose was runny. She wiped it with a tissue. “Rage is one possible motive. Greed, jealousy are others.”

  “Maybe Culley, his lover, and Denise Riley were a ménage à trois.”

  “That’s an interesting notion.” She stuffed the tissue in a coat pocket.

  Twenty feet ahead, Kerney and Clayton stood at the front of a driveway where two vehicles sat under a carport. Neither the walkway to the house nor the driveway showed any sign of foot or vehicle traffic. There were lights on inside the residence.

  Using hand signals, Kerney motioned for Ramona to cover the front of the house and Matt to take the back.

  “I doubt Culley is going to try make a getaway under these conditions,” Matt said as he checked his semiautomatic and returned it to its holster.

  “You’re such a spoilsport, Chacon,” Ramona said as he moved off.

  Culley’s house was one of those old adobe casitas that had been renovated, expanded, and made into a seven-figure property. It had a squat profile, rounded parapets, recessed windows in the double adobe walls, two chimneys spewing piñon smoke into the cold sky, a wide flagstone portal, and a tall, hand-carved antique Mexican front door.

  Kerney rang the doorbell and brushed snow off his soaked pant legs with a gloved hand while he waited. Clayton stood to one side of the door stomping his feet to loosen snow from his boots. He had his hand in his jacket pocket, gripping his semiautomatic.

  The door opened to reveal a slender, middle-aged man wearing a crewneck wool sweater, fleece sweatpants, and bedroom slippers. He had rather tiny feet. Size eight, Clayton guessed.

  “John Culley?” Kerney asked.

  “Yes, indeed.” Culley glanced from Kerney to Clayton with what appeared to be amused interest. “Surely you’re not new neighbors, unless someone has moved away from the lane within the last twenty-four hours.”

  “Surely, we’re not, Mr. Culley.” Kerney stepped through the doorway before Culley could react. “Or should I call you Archie Pattison?”

  Culley’s lighthearted expression vanished. “You’re cops?”

  “Indeed we are. Is there anyone in the house besides you?”

  “My partner is in the library.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Very good. Where is the library?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The library, Culley,” Kerney demanded.

  “Straight through the living room and turn left at the hallway.”

  Kerney nodded to Clayton, who went to round up Culley’s partner.

  “Why are you barging in here?” Culley asked.

  “We’re arresting you on five counts of murder one.” The death of Denise’s unborn child counted as a separate homicide. Kerney spun Culley around, pushed him up against a wall, cuffed his hands at the small of his back, and recited the Miranda rights.

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you killed them, Culley? You’re going to prison anyway for illegal entry, false identity, and whatever else the feds decide to throw at you.”

  Culley’s eyes narrowed. “I have nothing to say to you, and I want to call a lawyer.”

  “All in good time.” Kerney used his handheld to call Ramona and Matt into the house. When they arrived, he turned Culley over to them and went to find Clayton, who was talking to a nervous man in the library.

  “This is Proctor Whitley,” Clayton said.

  Whitley looked to be about Culley’s age. He was stout and had a long narrow chin that quivered slightly.

  “Are you going to arrest him?” Kerney asked.

  “Whatever for?” the man asked in a quaking voice.

  Clayton
shrugged. “He says he wants to cooperate.”

  “Okay, see what he has to say. Matt and Ramona will work with you. I’ll tell them to get started on a search warrant.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Culley doesn’t want to give up his Miranda rights, so I’m taking him to jail. Check in with me when you’re done here.”

  “Will do.”

  At the front alcove, Kerney told Culley he was going to jail and pushed him out the door.

  “There’s three feet of snow out here,” Culley said. “At least let me put my shoes on and get a coat.”

  “It’s not that far down the hill,” Kerney said as he yanked Culley off the portal face-first into the deep snow. “You’ll make it just fine.”

  During the drive to the county detention center on Highway 14 outside of town, Culley didn’t say a word. He didn’t even bitch about being forced to walk through the snow in his bedroom slippers without a coat. He sat silently in the backseat shivering and staring out the window with a blank look on his face.

  At the jail, Kerney asked Culley if he wanted to change his mind and talk without an attorney present. Culley gave Kerney a scornful look and shook his head. Kerney put him in a holding cell and went to do the paperwork. Just as he was finishing up, Sid Larranaga, the district attorney, sat down next to him.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Kerney said.

  Sid removed his hat and ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. “This is your last major case before you retire, and I want to make sure you get it right.”

  Kerney smiled. Sid had publicly announced that he would not stand for reelection two years hence, and there was talk among the local politicos that he planned to run for state attorney general instead. The Culley case, if won, would be a feather in his cap as a true crime fighter.

  “That’s awfully good of you, Sid. Do my people have a search warrant?”

  “They do. Judge Cooke just phoned it in. Is your murder suspect going to cooperate and make a full, voluntary confession?”

  “Not a chance. This guy is a cool customer.”

  Sal took off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair. “Okay, beyond probable cause, tell me what you’ve got.”

  Kerney ran it down, and by the time he was finishing up, Larranaga didn’t look happy.

  “You’re telling me you don’t have a clear-cut motive, there’s nothing yet to tie Culley to the double homicide in Albuquerque, and the evidence gathered in Capitan and Cañoncito only puts him at the crime scenes but doesn’t prove he killed Deputy Riley and his wife.”

  “That’s right,” Kerney replied.

  Sal looked gloomy. “Sometimes I wish I had become a defense attorney. So far all you’ve got that I can walk into a courtroom with right now is a case against a felon wanted on a fugitive warrant for a heist in Australia who’s been living the good life in the old U.S. of A. under an alias with a forged passport and screwing his now deceased, recently murdered secretary while pretending to be gay.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist, Sal,” Kerney said. “You know as well as I do that the really important work comes after an arrest.”

  Sal grunted. “Three weeks from now when you’re retired and sitting under the portal in a rocking chair on your ranch, I’ll remember that. I swear, Kerney, if this case does go to trial on the murder one charges, I’m going to subpoena you to testify even if it means you have to come back here from London or wherever the hell you’ll be living at the time.”

  Kerney laughed. “I’ll be glad to oblige. How long do you think it will be before Culley can talk face-to-face with a lawyer?”

  “With the way the roads are, I doubt anybody’s going to be willing to make the trip out here from town until late tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d hate to see him go into the general population if there’s a chance that his lawyer can get out here sooner rather than later.”

  Larranaga raised an eyebrow. Kerney wanted Culley kept overnight in a holding cell, which came handsomely equipped with a concrete slab to sleep on, a washbasin, a crapper, and a glaringly bright ceiling light that was never turned off. It was unorthodox treatment to say the least, but certainly well deserved for a scumbag who had five murder counts against him, including two cops.

  “Has Culley made his phone call?” Sid asked.

  “Not yet. He’ll be processed and dressed out first.”

  “Once he does make that call, I certainly wouldn’t want him to be denied quick access to legal counsel,” Sid said. “I’ll ask the shift supervisor to keep him in the holding cell until his lawyer arrives.”

  “Excellent. Also, I need a search warrant to draw a blood sample from Culley, so the lab can determine whether or not he was the father of Denise Riley’s unborn child.”

  “The fetus has been preserved?”

  “It has.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Sal said.

  “Have you made a decision on Clifford Talbott?”

  “I’m ruling it a justified homicide. Kirt Latimer will cut him loose tomorrow.”

  “Would you mind if I told him he’s off the hook?” Kerney asked.

  “You know him personally, right?” Sid stood and stuck an arm into a coat sleeve.

  “I know him casually, but he strikes me as a good man.”

  “Go ahead and tell him. I’ll have Kirt give his wife a call so she can arrange to pick him up. I’d like you and all your principal investigators to meet with me in my office at eight A.M., so we can go over everything we’ve got so far.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  Larranaga gave Kerney a sad shake of his head. “It’s not going to be the same without you, Kerney.”

  Kerney got to his feet and slapped Larranaga on the back. “Now, don’t go and get all teary-eyed on me, Sid.”

  Sid faked a sniffle and wiped away an imaginary tear. “I’ll see you in the morning, Chief.”

  Kerney nodded, gathered up his paperwork, and dropped the booking forms off to the correctional officer at the intake station. Before he asked for Clifford Talbott to be brought to an interview room to meet with him, Kerney stopped by the holding cell to tell Culley that he’d be spending the night lying on a cold slab, which was exactly where he belonged.

  After advising a very relieved Clifford Talbott that he would not be prosecuted for the shooting death of Brian Riley, Kerney returned to the Culley residence. During his absence, Clayton, Ramona, and Matt Chacon had executed the search warrant and called in Don Mielke, several of his S.O. investigators, and three city detectives to help collect evidence.

  In the kitchen, which had been designated as the evidence collection area, Kerney looked over what had already been discovered. An empty battered briefcase with traces of soil on it, most likely from the well house, sat on the kitchen table. Next to it were a number of gold coins in clear plastic sleeves, and passports from the United Kingdom, Canada, and Belize bearing Denise Riley’s photograph and the names of Diane Plumley, Debra Stokes, and Dorothy Travis—the aliases used by Denise that had been uncovered by Claire Paley, the questioned document expert.

  Kerney gave the gold coins a careful once-over. Some were Krugerrands, and according to the Brisbane P.D. coin heist case file, none of the stolen Edgerton coins had been Krugerrands. He asked the young sheriff’s investigator who’d been assigned the responsibility of receiving, logging, and guarding evidence if the Krugerrands had been found with the other coins.

  The cop consulted the form on his clipboard and nodded affirmatively.

  Also on the table was a Beretta over/under twenty-gauge shotgun with gold engraving and a high-grade walnut stock worth at least six to eight thousand dollars. Kerney wondered if it had been the weapon used to kill Deputy Riley.

  “Have other guns been found?” he asked.

  “Not yet, Chief,” the investigator said. “But that sweet Beretta twenty-gauge you’re looking at showed up as stolen from a gun heist in Montreal, Canad
a, over twelve years ago. Twenty-three sporting weapons and rare antique rifles were taken out of a private residence while the owners were vacationing in Mexico. Total value of the haul at the time of the burglary was 1.2 million in Canadian dollars. Major Mielke has requested a copy of the case file from the Montreal police.”

  “Do we have any indication that Culley may be connected to the robbery?”

  “Not yet, but Detective Chacon is working on it.”

  “Well, if Culley did pull the heist, I can understand why he kept the shotgun,” Kerney said. “It’s a beauty. Is there any evidence the gun has been recently used?”

  The cop shook his head. “It’s been thoroughly cleaned and oiled, but Sergeant Istee says it wasn’t used to kill Deputy Riley.”

  “Why does he say that?”

  “Because a twelve-gauge was used in that shooting.”

  On the countertop next to the sink was a pair of men’s lightweight hiking boots with a tread that matched the shoe impression Clayton had found on the trail to the well house. There was soil embedded in the heel which a forensic geologist might be able to match to the soil at the well house. The size label stitched inside the tongue showed that the books were indeed a size eight narrow.

  Next to the hiking boots was an closed accordion document file. Kerney asked the young S.O. investigator what was inside.

  “Financial papers, Chief. Sergeant Pino said she would have a detective go through them after the house search is completed.”

  Kerney looked at what had been gathered so far. It was all good, damning circumstantial evidence, but hardly the stuff an ironclad multiple murder conviction was made of. In his head, he could hear Sid Larranaga saying the same thing at the meeting tomorrow morning.

  Clayton entered the kitchen carrying a Glock 9mm handgun in a clear plastic bag.

  “Is that the same caliber used in the Robocker-Connors homicides?” Kerney asked hopefully.

  “Negative.” Clayton handed the weapon to the young officer, who began logging it in as evidence. “According to the autopsy reports, the bullets that killed Robocker and Officer Connors came from a thirty-eight. Probably a throwaway. Did Culley confess or make a statement?”