Everyone Dies kk-8 Page 18

  Kerney sat at the table, which was large enough for eight people. He took a sip of coffee and tried to read Sara’s mood. He couldn’t tell if she was just worried about the events of the week, physically worn down, or both. Her face was drawn and her green eyes seemed remote, inward looking. Even her greeting had been cursory-a quick hug and the brush of her lips against his cheek.

  He decided to approach with caution. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Her eyes never left his face. “I’m tired,” she said without affect.

  “Has the baby been keeping you awake?”

  “No.”

  Kerney waited for more. Silently, she toyed with her wedding band and looked out the kitchen window for a long moment.

  “Talk to me, Sara,” he said.

  She adjusted a pot of azaleas on the table so that it sat perfectly centered on a handwoven mat, and pinched off a drooping flower. Finally she looked at him. “I’m on edge, Kerney, wondering what’s going to happen next. If I wasn’t pregnant I’d be hunting for this bastard, not sitting here feeling like I’m under house arrest.”

  Kerney nodded sympathetically, lowered his gaze, and took another sip of coffee. He was light-headed from a lack of sleep and ill-prepared to deal with Sara’s complaint. There simply wasn’t a less restrictive alternative he could think of that would keep her out of danger. He drank some more coffee. It wouldn’t sit well in his damaged gut, but maybe it would keep him from nodding off, or better yet saying something testy. When he looked up Sara was smiling apologetically.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t need me sounding whiny. But I have these protective feelings that make me want to tear the throat out of the son of a bitch. I was awake half the night worrying about you, thinking the attack on Clayton was just a feint to draw you into the open.”

  “I had the same feelings about you when I left for Mescalero,” Kerney said, managing a smile. “But the investigation is making some progress. We’ve got an ID on the woman in the van and have located the crime scene. Her name was Victoria Drake-she was a probation and parole officer who’d just transferred up here from Socorro. Sal Molina has people digging into her old cases to see if they can link any of her parolees to me or the other victims.”

  “That could narrow the field a bit,” Sara said. “How many cases need to be reviewed?”

  “Hundreds, probably,” Kerney replied. “But from what I learned in Mescalero, we need to be looking for a suspect who has the skill to build a sophisticated explosive device. There can’t be too many ex-cons like that.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Sara said. “But except for the attack on Clayton and his family, all the victims are from Santa Fe, not the southern part of the state.”

  “I’m thinking our perp was arrested and convicted of a crime here, paroled down south after he did his time, and may still be living there.”

  “Do you have anything to support that?”

  “A biologist found some trace evidence on the van, a plant that’s not native to this area. It matches nicely with the range of the Merriam Kangaroo Rat. Both exist within the Rio Grande corridor down around Socorro.”

  “Do you think he’s been traveling to Santa Fe to commit the murders?” Sara asked as she studied Kerney’s pale face and tired, watery blue eyes.

  “Possibly,” Kerney answered, stifling a yawn. “We’re only a hundred and thirty miles up the Interstate from Socorro, and it’s about the same driving time from there to Mescalero. That’s not much of a haul, yet it’s still far enough away to lie low after each attack. I’ve got Ramona Pino en route to Socorro from Mescalero to start an immediate follow-up on any likely suspects we identify through the records search, and Andy has people standing by to assist her. If we ID him and he’s down there, we’ll blanket the area with personnel until we find him.”

  Sara grimaced and wrapped her arms around her belly.

  “Contractions?” Kerney asked.

  Sara forced a smile. “No, just a swift kick from Patrick Brannon Kerney. I’ll let you know when my water breaks.” She pulled her shoulders back and stretched. “Now, what about Clayton and his family? From what you told me on the phone, they must be devastated.”

  Kerney nodded grimly and slugged down the rest of his coffee. It was going to be another long day and he was already running behind. “They are. But I only have time to give you a quick report right now.”

  After leaving Sara, Kerney went to the house on Upper Canyon Road to shower and shave. For good reason, the place didn’t feel safe. Each sound he heard put him on edge, and he kept the bathroom door open and his semiautomatic close at hand. He dressed quickly in a fresh uniform, holstered his weapon, and walked into the bedroom.

  Sara had asked for some fresh clothes. Kerney packed them in an overnight bag-two days’ worth-along with her toiletries. He zipped the bag, took it into the living room, and dumped it on the couch. On the writing desk were the architectural plans for the new house, which Sara wanted him to bring to her. Next to the plans was a handwritten list of things Sara wanted for the new house: a kitchen island, lamps and end tables, bedroom linens and a seven-foot sofa, cooking utensils. On the architect’s drawing she’d marked places where she planned to arrange the antique pieces she’d inherited from her grandmother.

  Sara’s wish list made Kerney ache for a return to sanity in their lives, and for everyday conversations about what furniture to buy, what trees should be planted around the house, and their ongoing debate about whether or not they should add a pergola to the patio inside the courtyard entrance.

  Was it really only last night that Drake’s body had been found in the blue van? Time felt drawn out and chaotic, and his life turned upside down by a nameless, faceless murderer.

  He placed Sara’s list on top of the plans, rolled them up, and snapped rubber bands around them, thinking that all he wanted to do was find out who to hunt down and kill.

  Outside, Sal Molina stood waiting by his unmarked unit. “Have you got something for me, Lieutenant?” Kerney asked.

  Sal shook his head. “Nothing about the murders, Chief.”

  “So what brings you here?”

  “You didn’t pull my chain when I sent Ramona Pino down to Mescalero last night.”

  “I thought about doing it,” Kerney said. He debated saying more and decided not to.

  “Bobby Casados is going to recommend that I be officially censured and forced into retirement,” Molina said, as he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. “I wanted you to know it was my idea.”

  “Is this what you want?” Kerney asked.

  “Yeah, it is. I put pressure on Detective Pino to make a quick arrest and I also made the call to bring in SWAT.”

  “A lot of mistakes in judgment were made, Sal, up and down the line,” Kerney replied.

  “That wouldn’t have happened if I’d thought things through before I reacted. I finish my work week tomorrow. I’ll have my retirement papers on your desk by the end of shift today.”

  “No deal, Lieutenant,” Kerney said.

  Molina shook his head abruptly. “There’s no need for Pino or Cruz Tafoya to take a hit for this.”

  “That’s not my point,” Kerney said. “I can’t have my best investigator walking out on me until this case is completely wrapped up. Then you can retire. We can talk about under what conditions you leave the department when the time comes.”

  “You may not have the luxury of waiting,” Sal said. “There are seventy-five people from a group called the Friends of the Mentally Ill holding a protest vigil outside headquarters right now, and they want blood. The media is covering it big time.”

  “I’m not going to cave into that kind of pressure, Sal,” Kerney said. “Not from a protest group, the DA, the city manager, or the media. If they want a pound of flesh, they’ll have to wait, because I’m not about to lose my major felony case supervisor with three unsolved homicides and four attempted murder investigations under way. Are w
e clear on that?”

  Molina nodded.

  “Okay, let’s go back to work.”

  Sal drove away and Kerney sat in his unit listening to the radio traffic. The size of the protest vigil had swelled to over a hundred, and people were walking along nearby Cerrillos Road carrying placards that accused the department of discrimination, police brutality, and violating civil rights. He scratched out some notes and called Helen Muiz, his office manager, on his cell phone.

  “Will you be joining the party?” Helen asked. “It’s turning into quite an event. The gay pride people have just showed up to add their voices to the chorus of protest.”

  “I’ll be there in a few,” Kerney said. “Let the media know that I’ll be giving a prepared statement but taking no questions.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that will please them no end.”

  By the time Kerney arrived at headquarters, Helen had arranged for a podium to be set up outside the visitors entrance. He stepped out the door with Larry Otero in tow to find a semicircle of TV cameras facing him, and the parking lot filled with people, with more arriving from lines of cars parked along both sides of the street that paralleled Cerrillos Road.

  Plainclothes officers and some of Andy’s agents were spread throughout the gathering, and uniformed personnel were stationed at the back of the parking lot, eyeing people as they came in. Larry Otero had officers taking photographs from inside the building just in case the perp had decided to join the throng.

  In the front row he spotted a solemn-looking Fletcher Hartley holding a handwritten sign that read JUSTICE FOR ALL. It was the least inflammatory placard among the many that were being thrust up and down in the air by the noisy crowd.

  Kerney walked to the podium, pulled out his notes, paused a minute to let people quiet down, and then made his statement. He spoke about the unfortunate death of Kurt Larsen and Mary Beth Patterson’s suicide, and how the department would improve and strengthen policies and procedures to ensure that no similar tragedy happened again. He mentioned the development of mandatory training that would require all sworn personnel to gain the knowledge and sensitivity needed to deal with emotionally disturbed and mentally ill citizens, and called upon professionals, advocates, and family members to assist in that process.

  Without giving specifics, he talked about the internal affairs investigation and the disciplinary action he’d already taken regarding the SWAT call-out that had resulted in the shooting of Kurt Larsen.

  Finally, he said, “The loss of innocent lives is unacceptable and has deeply affected the men and women of this department. More officers may be held accountable as our probe continues. However, the ultimate responsibility for the conduct of the department is mine alone, and you have every right to expect me to meet my obligations, which I will do. But for now, I ask for your patience as we use all of our time and resources to apprehend the killer. Thank you.”

  Kerney turned away as reporters called out questions at him about the murders and the status of the investigations. “How do you think it went?” he asked Otero, as he pushed open the door to the reception area.

  “Good,” Larry replied. “They listened, didn’t hiss or boo, and best of all, nobody tried to shoot you.”

  Ramona Pino rolled into Socorro, keyed her radio, and asked the state police dispatcher for directions to the district office, which was a few miles outside of town. From a long-ago high school New Mexico history class, Ramona knew some basic information about the city. She knew Socorro in Spanish meant “help” or “assistance,” and that the city had been given the name by conquistadors because of the nearby Pueblo Indians who’d provided them with food. During the middle to late nineteenth-century, the town had been the center of one of the richest mining districts in the southwest. Now it served as a hub for area farms and ranches and was home to New Mexico Tech, a state university. It was also the birthplace of Conrad Hilton, the man who’d started the famous hotel chain.

  With an enrollment of slightly over twelve hundred students, the school was consistently rated as one of the best in the country. Ramona had researched the institute as a college choice before deciding to drop science as a major in favor of criminal justice. Given the very real possibility that her cop career was going down the tubes, maybe she should have stuck with science.

  The main drag through town wasn’t much to look at, just the usual conglomeration of local businesses, fast-food joints, gas stations, motels, and a few strip malls. The district state police headquarters was a modern, single-story, sand-colored concrete block building with pale gray stone coping, situated next to the Interstate.

  Inside, the duty officer buzzed her through the security door and directed her to a bullpen area, where she spotted Russell Thorpe and two investigators working over some papers.

  Thorpe grinned at her as he got to his feet. “Good, you’re here.”

  “I’m surprised to see you,” Ramona replied, smiling back and thinking that Thorpe was not bad looking with his boyish face and six-foot, hard-body frame.

  “My chief sent me down,” Thorpe said as he picked up a file and put it on the seat of an empty chair.

  “What have you got?”

  “A possible hard target, named Noel Olsen. We’re trying to track him down. Chief Kerney busted him and two other guys for a rape-murder in Santa Fe. Olsen turned state’s evidence and pled to a second-degree felony on the rape and as an accessory to the murder. The judge made the prison time concurrent on both counts, so Olsen did only four and a half years at the medium-security prison in Las Lunas, and was paroled to Las Cruces after his release. Drake was his P.O. before she got promoted to run the Socorro office.”

  “Why is he a target?” Ramona asked.

  Thorpe ran it down. Olsen had been a third-year engineering student at New Mexico State when he’d been busted. After he was paroled, he’d finished his degree and taken a master’s in electrical engineering, with a specialty in energetic materials.

  “Bombs,” Ramona said.

  “Yeah, that and more,” Thorpe replied. “Artillery weapons, ballistic experiments, rocket propulsion systems, explosives, nuclear blast and shock effects, land mines-you name it.”

  “The fact that Olsen knows how to make a bomb won’t get an arrest warrant signed,” Ramona said.

  “The first of the court trial documents just got faxed to us from the Santa Fe District Attorney’s Office,” Thorpe said with a nod at the file he’d placed on the chair. “Jack Potter prosecuted the case and Dora Manning did the psych evaluation on Olsen.”

  “That should do it,” Ramona said, smiling back at Thorpe’s infectious grin. “Where is he?”

  Thorpe shook his head. “Don’t know. He’s on vacation from his job at a New Mexico Tech research and testing facility. According to the personnel office, he works as a research tech at an explosives mixing facility on a forty-square-mile field laboratory outside the city.”

  Ramona whistled. “Do we know where he lives?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not answering his phone. We’ve got a make, model, and license number for his car, and his driver’s license photo is a close match to the police artist sketch. We’re doing a casual patrol in the area, just in case he shows. But we didn’t want to move on a search warrant for his residence until we tied him to the other victims.”

  “Are the arrest and search warrant affidavits done?”

  “Just about,” Thorpe answered.

  “Have you called Chief Kerney?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll do it, and then we’ll go see a judge.”

  A state police SWAT team surrounded Olsen’s house. Uniformed officers blocked off the county road in both directions. Ramona scanned the structure through binoculars. A fixer-upper with a sagging porch roof, it had cracked and broken plaster that exposed the adobe walls, old-fashioned single-pane sash windows, and a rickety screen door that clanked against the door jamb when the wind gusted. To one side stood a weather-beaten shed and the remnants of
an old windmill that leaned precariously at an angle.

  There was no sign of activity and no vehicle in sight. Ramona waited five minutes and then had SWAT move in. The team quickly cleared the premises, the outbuilding, and a large area of the dusty brown hillside behind the house. With Thorpe and the two state police investigators at her heels, she stepped inside the house and began a visual search.

  An hour later, they had compelling evidence that tied Olsen to the explosion in Mescalero and the murders of Victoria Drake and Dora Manning.

  By phone, she reported to Lieutenant Molina. “We’ve got a pair of Olsen’s boots that match the shoe prints Deputy Istee found on the trail behind his house, Dora Manning’s cell phone, receipts for the parts Olsen bought to make the triggering and detonation devices, all the raw materials used to make the plastique, the formula for the bomb he left on his computer, two dead Kangaroo Rats we found in a toolshed, plus a partially used container of over-the-counter poison bait.”

  “Excellent,” Molina said. “Have you found anything that might tell us where Olsen is?”

  “We’re about to start looking,” Ramona said. “What I’ve given you so far is just from a preliminary once-over. But I can give you information on Olsen’s vehicle.”

  “Read it off.”

  Ramona fed Molina the data. “Looks like our boy isn’t as smart as he thinks he is,” she added. “How did we miss him during our initial records search?”

  “He had a clean record in the slammer and as a parolee. He was a model prisoner, made no threats against Kerney or the victims, didn’t violate his parole conditions, and supposedly rehabilitated himself. Besides that, at the time we weren’t looking for a perp who knew how to blow people up. I’ll get an advisory out for Olsen and his car. Keep me informed.”

  Ramona disconnected and turned to Thorpe and the two investigators. “Okay,” she said, “let’s tear this place apart.”

  “What do you remember about this guy?” Molina asked Kerney, as he put a thick packet containing Noel Olsen’s case file, court trial documents, prison records, and parole officer reports on the chief’s desk and settled into a chair.