Robert grinned at the prospect.
Marcia turned to Kerney. “Do you have any more questions for Robert?”
“Just one. Were you near the police station around the time Gillespie was shot?”
Robert stuck his thumb out in a hitchhiker motion.
“Does that mean no?”
Robert nodded in agreement. “I hitched a ride to Estancia.”
“Did you see anyone near the police station before you left town?”
Robert shook his head and looked away, avoiding Kerney’s gaze.
“Thanks, Robert,” Kerney said, thinking that maybe Robert had seen someone—someone he knew. But pushing Robert didn’t seem to be the best way to get answers.
“We’re done?” Robert asked, and stood up quickly.
“We’re done,” Kerney said.
Robert leaned in Kerney’s direction and gave him a high five and a smile. “Later,” he said.
“Take care, Robert.”
After escorting him out of the room, Marcia returned and sat with Kerney.
“I expected you to wait for me before meeting with Robert.”
“It was a bit sneaky on my part.”
Marcia nodded. “Just so you know why I jumped on you when I came in.”
In another context, Kerney wouldn’t have minded the possibility of Marcia jumping on him at all. “No problem. I deserved it.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. “Did he talk much about rape?”
“He had just started talking about it. He said a long time ago he raped his sister—not the one who lives in Texas.”
“He doesn’t have another sister. It’s unusual for Robert to say anything at all about rape, other than the delusional stuff about Satan, Jesus, and his imaginary daughter.”
“Do you think there’s some factual basis to what he said?” Kerney asked.
“Don’t count on it.” Marcia took her glasses off and smiled—an amused half smile that seemed to show some personal interest in Kerney. “Robert says he likes you. That’s high praise from him for a police officer.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She offered her hand to him across the table. It was warm and soft.
“I hope you catch your killer, Mr. Kerney.”
Kerney let go of her hand slowly. It had been a while since he’d felt a woman’s touch. “Thanks. Will you be able to keep Robert out of the hospital?”
“It’s possible. I’ll do a mental status exam. If he’s clear enough, I should be able to swing it.”
• • •
After Marcia left to evaluate Robert, Kerney stayed behind to think things through. If, as Marcia indicated, Robert never talked about rape except when he was hallucinating or delusional, why did he raise the topic in the absence of any psychotic symptoms? While Kerney was no expert in mental illness, he believed Robert had something specific on his mind.
Robert had flat-out lied about the woman in the pickup truck, with all the clumsiness of a twelve-year-old caught red-handed. And he had lied again about not seeing anyone outside the police station.
The only new bit of information Robert had provided was a name: Addie. Was she real or imaginary? Marcia thought it was part of Robert’s delusion, but Kerney wasn’t so sure. He stared at the freshly polished tabletop. There were smeared, sweaty palm prints where Robert had been sitting. Until Marcia suggested that Addie was only a voice in his head, Robert had nervously rubbed his hand on the table. The hand rubbing and foot wiggling started up again when Kerney pushed the issue about Addie a little harder.
Kerney smiled. Maybe Addie was real. Maybe the case wasn’t as dead as a doornail yet.
Using the jail administrator’s phone, Kerney called around until he connected with the state agency responsible for foster care. He had to smooth-talk a handful of bureaucrats and record clerks before he could get the names of Robert Cordova’s former foster parents. An attempt to get the names of the children living with the couple during Robert’s placement was unsuccessful—the juvenile records were confidential and sealed.
After confirming that Robert’s foster parents, Burl and Thelma Jackson, were deceased, he got their last known Mountainair address and headed down the road.
The day had warmed up and the rangeland had shed the previous night’s snow. As he drove, Kerney pondered the facts of the Gillespie murder. Gillespie’s sidearm had been used to blow the top of his head off, and the gun had been wiped clean of prints. There was no sign of a struggle, and no incriminating evidence had been found at the crime scene.
How could the killer have gotten control of Gillespie’s weapon? That fact alone made it highly likely that the killer was known to Gillespie. Which meant Kerney needed to find a precipitating event that could lead to a motive. The crime could have been fueled by jealousy, rage, or revenge. But was it a premeditated crime or one of passion? Either way, what did Gillespie do to make somebody want to kill him? Kerney still didn’t have a hint.
Burl and Thelma Jackson’s last address turned out to be a rambling adobe house with a pitched roof on several fenced acres near a Forest Service building. East of the house an old Santa Fe Railroad boxcar sat on masonry piers next to a working windmill. A picket fence at the front of the house enclosed a sandbox and swing set. Near a freestanding garage with a sagging roof, a rusted Ford Fairlane slumped on blocks with the hood open, yawning at the sky.
Kerney knocked at the door, which was opened by an overweight woman of about forty. Dressed in a bulky sweater that covered a thick stomach, she had a harried expression and full lips that curved downward. In the background, Kerney heard the voices of young children.
“Yes?” the woman asked, looking Kerney up and down. She was holding a baby’s bib in one hand. It was splattered with what looked like applesauce or vomit.
Kerney showed his shield and introduced himself. “I’m trying to locate someone who knew Burl and Thelma Jackson.”
“They were my parents,” the woman replied. A child yelled and the woman turned her head toward the sound. “Come in. I’ll be with you in a minute.” She pointed at an overstuffed easy chair in the front room and left hurriedly through a side doorway, latching a childproof accordion gate behind her.
Kerney sat, listened to the children’s chatter, and looked around. The room was meagerly furnished with a well-worn couch, the easy chair Kerney sat in with a floor lamp next to it, two side tables, each holding a glass vase filled with plastic flowers, and a hand-hooked oval throw rug in the center of the pine floor. Framed family photographs hung on one wall above a large-screen television set, and plain white cotton curtains covered the front windows.
The largest photograph was a color portrait of a smiling elderly couple dressed in their Sunday best. The man, wearing a cowboy hat, sat behind the woman, his arms wrapped around her waist, both turned at an angle to face the camera. Kerney guessed the couple to be Burl and Thelma. On either side of the portrait were high school graduation pictures of two girls. One was obviously of the woman who had greeted Kerney at the door. He could see the tendency toward heaviness in her torso and upper arms, and a hint of petulance in the smile. The other girl, a slender, pretty brunette with a faraway gaze in her eyes, had a tough little smile and a birthmark on her chin.
The noise subsided and the woman returned, closing the gate behind her. She sat on the sofa and looked quizzically at Kerney. “Why are you asking about my parents?”
“I didn’t get your name,” Kerney replied with a smile.
“Lurline Toler.”
“I’m really interested in learning about Robert Cordova, Mrs. Toler,” Kerney explained. “He was your parents’ foster child.”
“I know Robert. I was still living at home when he came to stay with us.” A child’s delighted screech followed by another child’s laugh interrupted Lurline. “I do child care for some working mothers,” she explained with a weary smile. She waited several beats before speaking again. All was quiet at the back of the house. “
What do you want to know about Robert?”
“What other foster children were placed here while Robert lived with the family?”
Lurline shook her head. “I couldn’t even begin to remember, there were so many of them. Robert was one of those who stayed the longest. Most of the others were here and gone in a matter of a few months.”
“Were they all teenagers?”
“Yes. My parents only took in older children.”
“Do you remember a girl named Addie that Robert was friendly with?”
Lurline blinked and hesitated. “There were no foster children staying here by that name, as I recall.”
“Perhaps it was a school friend.”
Lurline nodded her head. “That’s possible, but Robert was pretty much a loner. I don’t think he had any friends.”
“Who would know?”
Lurline thought for a moment before answering. “I really can’t tell you. Robert is quite a bit younger than me—about six years, I think. We didn’t run with the same crowd. Is he in trouble?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Poor thing,” Lurline said.
“He’s had a hard time of it.”
“Haven’t we all?”
“Is that your high school graduation picture?” Kerney asked.
“Yes. I should take it down. I’ll never look like that again.”
“Is the other girl your sister?”
“Yes. My younger sister, Nita. Dad always wanted a boy, but he got two girls instead.”
“Could she tell me more about Robert?”
“She was never close to him.”
“How can I contact her?”
A child’s angry shriek kept Lurline from answering. She got to her feet. “I can’t talk now. Call me this evening.”
• • •
Kerney sat in his car by the Mountainair High School and watched a group of students dressed in sweats running around a track that bordered the football field. Growing up in the Tularosa Basin, Kerney had gone to a small-town high school where the school nurse knew every student, and was the unofficial counselor, confidante, and friend to any kid with a bloody nose, scraped knee, or troubles at home. In the years that had passed, he doubted much had changed in small-town schools. He got out of the car and found his way to the health office.
Henrietta Swope, the school nurse, looked like a grandmother who brooked no silliness and expected everybody to tell the truth. She wore her gray hair pulled straight back, and her blue-gray eyes were inquisitive and lively. She had the lyrical voice of a much younger woman.
Kerney sat in her office, a small room furnished with a cot, a first aid locker, a desk with a chair, and a row of locked file cabinets. The walls were plastered with public health posters announcing the pitfalls of unsafe sex, teenage pregnancy, poor nutrition, and drug abuse. He showed his identification, told her what case he was working on, and asked about Robert Cordova.
“Of course I know him,” Henrietta replied. “He haunts my memory.”
“Why do you say that?”
Henrietta sighed. “Whenever I see him around town, I remember what a lonely, miserable boy he was. He acted like a whipped puppy. He would snarl when he got angry and run away when he got upset. He was such a sad child.”
“Did he have any friends?”
“At best, he was always on the fringes of the social cliques. He was barely tolerated and always teased a great deal.”
“Did he hang around with any of the other foster children when he lived with the Jacksons?”
Henrietta’s expression brightened. “I wish Robert could have stayed with Thelma and Burl. It was the only time I saw him settle down and get comfortable with himself.” Her eyes flickered and turned serious. “I think Robert has always been truly alone in the world. Isn’t that enough to make a person go crazy?”
“Sometimes,” Kerney conceded. “He didn’t connect with anybody? Another foster child? A classmate? A teacher?”
“No. That says something about all of us, I suppose. We should have tried harder to reach him.”
“Did he have a schoolmate named Addie?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Someone nicknamed Addie? Short for Adele or Adelaide?”
“No, but we had a girl here until last year whose given name was Addie.”
“Who is that?”
“Addie Randall.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Oh, I’m sure Robert doesn’t know her. She would have been a senior now if she’d stayed with us.”
“She moved away?”
“She’s living in Socorro. I transferred her health records to the high school there during the middle of the spring semester.”
“When was that, exactly?” Kerney asked.
“Sometime in March. Late March, I would say.”
“Did the family move?”
“No. Her parents still live here with two younger children. Her mother works at the grocery store as a checker. I believe Addie’s father is unemployed.”
“Do you have any idea why Addie left?”
“Family troubles, I suspect. Addie was a popular girl at school—very pretty and outgoing—and the transfer happened quite unexpectedly.”
“What kind of family troubles?”
Henrietta bit her lower lip before replying. “Confidentially, I think it’s possible she may be pregnant. I’ve seen the pattern too many times not to have my suspicions.”
“Do you know who Addie is living with in Socorro?”
“A relative, I believe.” Henrietta consulted her card file. “I don’t have a name. Addie’s mother can tell you. I can’t see how any of this has the least bearing on Paul Gillespie’s murder,” she added.
“It probably doesn’t.”
“If you see Addie, give her my best. She’s a sweet girl.”
“I’ll be glad to.”
• • •
Kerney pushed the car hard through Abo Pass at the north edge of the Los Pinos Mountains. It was a sixty-mile drive to Socorro, and a large part of the trip bordered the Sevilleta National Wildlife Refuge, which straddled both sides of the Rio Grande. With the mountains behind him, the rangeland—so vast the river was a hazy promise in the distance—opened onto miles of uninhabited space colored in sepia brown and dull gray against a creamy blue sky. The only interruptions to the emptiness were a few mobile homes and camper trailers parked on small fenced lots along the state highway, most of them abandoned. West, across the river, rose the remote Ladron Mountains, accessible only by horseback or on foot.
He got to Socorro High School and checked in at the administrative offices, where he learned that Addie Randall was enrolled in a special program for teenage mothers. Through the window of the closed classroom door, he saw a group of expectant and new mothers standing around a changing table. All of them looked much too young to be having babies and rearing children.
The teacher with the students looked suspiciously at Kerney when he entered the room. A tall woman with long arms and legs, she detached herself from the group and approached Kerney quickly.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
The chatter at the table stopped and the girls, some holding infants, withdrew to a circle of chairs at the back of the room.
“I’d like to speak to Addie Randall,” Kerney said quietly, displaying his credentials.
The teacher’s expression remained unfriendly. “That’s not possible. We’re in the middle of class.”
During his years as a detective, Kerney had found that teachers on their own turf were difficult to deal with. Most didn’t like cops, and they jealously guarded their home ground and their students.
“I won’t take much of her time,” he said. “And I do need to see her now.” He emphasized the last word. “I have the principal’s permission.”
Appealing to a higher authority, even if it was a lie, won the woman over. She nodded curtly and motioned for a girl to join her. Addie Randall moved slow
ly toward the teacher. She was a tall, slim girl made wide-hipped and heavy by pregnancy. Her long-sleeved pullover top had BABY emblazoned on it with an arrow pointing toward her belly. A pair of loose, floppy pants draped over the extra thirty pounds of her last trimester. No more than sixteen, she had wheat-colored hair, fair skin, brown eyes, and a worried look on her face.
“What is it?” Addie asked uneasily.
“This police officer needs to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to him,” Addie said, avoiding Kerney’s gaze.
“You can talk to me unofficially now, or officially with your parents present,” Kerney replied. “It’s your decision to make.”
Addie shifted her weight. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“No, you haven’t,” Kerney said. “I just need to ask you a few questions about somebody else.”
“Who?” she asked suspiciously, drawing back.
“Can we talk outside? Or would you rather take a drive with me back to Mountainair?”
Addie acquiesced quickly. “I’ll talk to you.”
In the empty corridor, Addie stood with her hands resting on the top of her belly. Her eyes had a frosty, wary look.
“When is the baby due?”
“Soon.”
“Are you going to keep it?”
“Maybe,” Addie answered halfheartedly. She looked behind her to see if the hallway was still empty. It was. “What did you want to ask me?”
Kerney brushed off her question and continued, “If you keep the baby, how will you support it?”
Addie’s expression tightened. “It’s none of your business what I do with my baby.”
“The adoption agency will want to know about the baby’s father.”
She gave Kerney a fretful look that quickly disappeared. “They can’t make me do that if I don’t know.”
“Were you raped?” Kerney asked.
Addie didn’t flinch at the question. “I’m going back to class now,” she said, moving away.
Kerney touched her lightly on the shoulder to hold her back. “Addie.”
“What is it?”
“Talk to me. Tell me what happened. Let me help you.”
She grimaced, her eyes empty of emotion. “It’s too late for that.”
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