Slow Kill Page 19

  Sara called Kerney at home just as he was preparing for bed.

  “I want to apologize,” he said, wondering why Sara called so late. It was midnight, East Coast time. “I shouldn’t be impatient when I’m asking for a favor.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Sara said. “But keep that thought in mind and it will stand you in good stead. You’ve got a green light from DOD to do the exhumation.”

  “So fast?” Kerney asked.

  “We at the Pentagon never sleep.”

  “Are you still at work?”

  “Back at work, actually. Patrick’s tucked into bed, fast asleep, under the watchful eye of a sitter, so you needn’t fret about him.”

  “What did it take for you to pull it off?” Kerney asked.

  “Once I connected with the right person and showed him the material you faxed me, it went smoothly. We’ve opened our own investigation into the matter, and I’m your liaison officer. Aren’t you lucky? If the remains prove to be those of someone other than George Spalding, the Army will assume control of the case.”

  “You’re a marvel.”

  “It’s about time you noticed. The U.S. Attorney and the VA have been notified. Have fun at the cemetery.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “I’m bushed and want to go home,” Sara said.

  “I won’t keep you. Thanks, my love.”

  “Give yourself a hug from me. Good night.”

  The phone went dead. Kerney punched in the home number of Jerry Grant, the forensic anthropologist, got him on the line, and told him they were on for tomorrow.

  He stood at the window and stared into the night, trying to figure out what feelings were eluding him. He felt distant, empty, and totally preoccupied with George Spalding. But why?

  Jerry Grant was a transplanted Easterner who taught at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque and did contract forensic work for the state police crime lab. Kerney rounded him up at his office early in the morning, and took the fastest possible route south to Fort Bayard.

  A big, beefy man, Grant had thick, droopy eyebrows, a full head of hair badly in need of a trim, and a slightly unruly beard. On the drive, Grant, who’d lived in Albuquerque for ten years, talked eagerly about getting to see a part of the state he’d never visited before.

  Kerney wasn’t surprised by Grant’s lack of familiarity with New Mexico. There were many people now residing in the state, especially urban dwellers, who had no inclination to explore their adopted home ground. But they could talk endlessly about exotic, international tourist destinations.

  Kerney played historian along the way and filled Grant in on the background of the fort: how it was established on the frontier during the Indian Wars to contain the Apaches; how it had been home to the buffalo soldiers, companies of black enlisted cavalrymen commanded by white officers; how it had been transformed into a military hospital at the end of the nineteenth century and was now a state-run long-term care facility.

  When they arrived at Fort Bayard, Grant had to see it, so Kerney took a quick swing through the grounds. He drove by the three-story, ugly block hospital that had been built years after the fort had been decommissioned, and then on to the charming quadrangle where a bronze life-size statue of a buffalo soldier firing a rifle over his shoulder stood on a pedestal.

  A row of officers’ quarters, stately Victorian houses with two-tiered porches, lined the street, and the restored post headquarters building, low-slung and sturdy with a wide veranda, sat at the far end of the quadrangle. Behind the building, the Pinos Altos Mountains rose up, masking from view the high wilderness of stream-cut canyons, vast upland meadows, and rugged summits that ranged for hundreds of thousands of acres along the Gila River watershed and continental divide.

  “This really is an architectural treasure,” Grant said.

  “I’ve always thought so,” Kerney said, remembering the times he’d visited in the past, first as a child with his parents and later on when he and his best friend, Dale Jennings, had competed in the state high school rodeo championships in nearby Silver City.

  At the national cemetery, a Veterans Affairs official up from Fort Bliss met them. Looking none too pleased, he guided the way to the Spalding grave site, with a backhoe and a private ambulance following behind.

  Evergreen trees scattered across the grounds interrupted the stark lines of gray headstones. The brown earth, almost barren except for sparse native grasses, seemed in somber harmony with the scattered trees.

  Kerney signed forms and the backhoe operator went to work, carefully trenching and piling excavated dirt into one large mound. The engine’s sputtering carburetor and the whining of the hydraulics put Kerney on edge.

  He wondered why the noise bothered him so much. Was it because he wanted the dead, many who’d seen so much violence and had been killed in battle, to rest quietly? Or was it also because of his own lingering sense of guilt about the men in his platoon who never made it home from Nam?

  The thought hit Kerney in the gut, and feelings he thought he’d resolved long ago resurfaced, pushed away the emptiness, and brought back vivid flashes of combat. He could feel his mouth grimace, his jaw tighten.

  Digging stopped when the casket was uncovered. Chains were secured to the casket fore and aft, and slowly it was lifted out of the grave onto a waiting gurney.

  The backhoe operator shut the engine down and the silence only somewhat eased Kerney’s mood. He watched Grant stop the ambulance driver before he could push the gurney toward his vehicle.

  “Might as well take a look before we cart this back to Albuquerque,” Grant said matter-of-factly, brushing dirt off the casket lid. “No sense wasting our time.”

  Frozen in place, Kerney watched Grant unfasten the casket lid and push it open.

  “There’s no skull,” Grant said.

  Kerney approached slowly and looked inside at an assortment of bones, wondering if they represented a soldier unaccounted for and still carried as an MIA, one of the 1,800 Americans killed in Vietnam that had yet to be identified, perhaps a man from his regiment or company. Suddenly, putting a name to the remains became as important as confirming that George Spalding was still alive.

  “We got a sternum, two sets of tibias and fibulas, one femur, one humerus, assorted ribs, a scapula, two ulnas, iliums—both with an attached pubis, a collarbone, a radius, and a hip joint—that’s it.”

  Grant looked up from the casket. “No skull, finger, or foot bones. Maybe somebody didn’t want these remains to be positively identified.”

  “That could be.”

  Grant gave Kerney a questioning glance. “Are you okay with this?”

  “I’m fine,” Kerney replied, his voice cold and distant.

  Grant put on gloves and picked up the radius bone. “According to what you told me, Spalding was killed in a chopper crash that exploded on impact, right?”

  “That’s what I understand,” Kerney replied.

  “High-octane fuel burns hot and eats flesh away right down to the bone, especially those that lie close to the skin. I don’t see any evidence of burns here, but of course I’ll run tests for hydrocarbons.”

  “What else?” Kerney asked. His throat felt scratchy and dry.

  Grant pointed into the casket. “Look at the splintered rib and the shattered breastbone. I’d bet this person was fatally shot. Also, the bones look like they’ve been thoroughly cleaned.”

  “Is that unusual?” Kerney asked.

  “The only people I know who clean bones are anthropologists, not morticians. Whoever did it effectively erased any trace evidence.” Grant stripped off his gloves and closed the lid. “Okay, that’s it for now. I can’t tell you much more until the remains are in the lab in Albuquerque.”

  Kerney nodded. The ambulance driver loaded the casket and drove away. He could feel Grant’s stare and turned away from it. Behind him the backhoe roared to life with a coarse vibration that seemed to penetrate his skin. He watched until the operator fin
ished filling the empty hole.

  “You’ll keep me informed?” the VA official asked.

  “Yes,” Kerney said. Without another word, he joined Grant, who was waiting in the car, and headed back to Albuquerque. Preoccupied by his thoughts, he was grateful for Grant’s silence.

  Tied up with paperwork and phone calls, Detective Bill Price didn’t get to leave his office until late morning. The warrant to seize and examine the original document giving Claudia Spalding spousal permission to take lovers was making its way through the system. Additionally, at Ramona Pino’s request, Price had asked for a judge’s order requiring the release of Clifford Spalding’s last will and testament. If all went without a hitch, Price planned to personally serve both before the end of the day.

  Sergeant Pino had also passed on some very interesting information about a man named Coe Evans, including his present whereabouts. Based on the details he’d been given, Price had no doubt Ellie had played a hand in tracking Evans down. He’d said nothing about his suspicions when Lieutenant Macy stopped by his office to tell him the surveillance of Claudia Spalding had been dropped.

  Tomorrow, Claudia would bury her husband, and Price had already decided to watch from a distance to see what she did after Clifford got planted.

  He found the ranch where Evans worked on a lightly traveled two-lane highway that ran from Atascadero to Santa Margarita, a sleepy little farming town. He turned onto the paved driveway, his progress halted by a custom-made gate adorned with the silhouette of a horse, bracketed by two ten-foot squared columns that displayed its famous owner ’s initials. He announced himself over the intercom, held his shield up to the security camera, and stated his business, and the gate swung slowly open.

  The paved drive cut between two low hills where sunlight spilled on pastures and lethargic brood mares stood beneath oak trees, tails whisking, foals nearby. The drive followed the curve of a small streambed, and descended to a hidden valley revealing a compound of buildings stretched out along both sides of the creek.

  On the north side of the creek, a sprawling, modern timber-frame house with a wall of vaulted windows was placed to take in the view of the rolling hills coursing southward. On one side of it was a guesthouse, and on the other side a detached four-car garage, all tied together by broad cobblestone walkways that wandered through Japanese-style gardens.

  On the other side of the creek two barns faced each other across two large fenced pastures. A tree-lined lane ran between the pastures to a cluster of small cottages, outbuildings, storage sheds, and corrals, then continued on to a dirt landing field at the foot of a hill where a twin-engine plane sat next to a hangar. Sunlight flashed off the metal roof of the hangar like a beacon.

  Price pulled to a stop in front of the house, got out of his unit, and watched a pickup truck coming in his direction rattle over the wooden bridge spanning the creek. The man who jumped out of the truck had an agitated expression on his face.

  “What do you need to talk to me about?” he demanded abruptly.

  “Coe Evans?” Price asked, looking the man over. He was a pretty-boy, with cropped curly hair, symmetrical features, and a solid six-foot frame.

  “Yeah, that’s right. What do you want?”

  “You sound worried,” Price replied pleasantly. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Evans said, glancing up at the big house. “You tell me.”

  “As far as I know, you’re not in any trouble,” Price said. “What can you tell me about Claudia Spalding?”

  Evans looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Not much. I barely know the woman.”

  “How did you come to meet her?”

  “At the tracks where I used to work. She likes the ponies—owns a few and races them. I’d see her around and sometimes we would chat. Small talk stuff.”

  “Just casual conversation about horses and racing,” Price rephrased.

  “Horses and racing,” Evans said. “Exactly.”

  “That’s it?” Price asked. “You had no social interaction with her outside of work?”

  Evans smirked and laughed. “Are you kidding, outside of work? She didn’t hang out with my crowd.”

  “So you only saw her at the track.”

  “I just said that.”

  Evans was repeating Price’s words, averting his eyes, omitting information—all signs of a liar.

  Price decided to stop acting so amicable and ask a slightly tougher question. “You never slept with her?”

  Evans tilted his head and closed his eyes. “That’s bullshit. Who have you been talking to? Who would say something like that?”

  Pleased with the response and convinced he was reading Evans correctly, Price backed off. “When was the last time you talked with Mrs. Spalding?”

  “I can’t recall,” Evans replied. “It wasn’t like I kept track of her. She was just another rich bitch who hung around during racing season.”

  “Try to remember,” Price encouraged.

  Evans gave a slight, cooperative nod of his head. “Probably it was just before she built a house somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Four, maybe five years ago.”

  “What would you say if I told you we think Claudia Spalding arranged to have her husband murdered?”

  “I heard he died in his sleep.”

  “What type of woman would do something like that?”

  “Man, who knows why women do anything?”

  Price glanced at the gold band Evans wore on his left hand. “You’re married, I take it. Is it the same woman you were living with back when you knew Claudia Spalding?”

  Evans stiffened. “Have you been checking up on me?”

  Price smiled. “A little bit. Is she?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Perhaps I should speak with her. Is she here?”

  Evans waved off the notion with a wagging finger. “You have no cause to do that.”

  “Maybe she’d be interested in learning what your old buddy in Santa Fe, Mitch Griffin, has to say about your relationship with Claudia Spalding, and what you told him about the murder plot she had in mind for her husband.”

  The cockiness in Evans washed away, replaced by hot-wired apprehension. “Shit. That crazy bitch. I cut it off with her then and there. I swear, I did nothing. My wife would kill me if she ever found out about Claudia.”

  “I believe you,” Price said consolingly as he opened the passenger door to his unit. “Let’s take a ride to my office. We’ll start all over again, and this time you can tell me the truth.”

  In a laboratory at the university, Kerney watched Grant assemble the bones into a recognizable partial skeleton, studying each one carefully before he laid it out. After he took measurements, he picked up the breastbone and shattered rib for a closer examination.

  “Definitely shot,” he said.

  “Not shrapnel wounds?” Kerney asked.

  Grant shook his head and put the bones back in place. “No way. It’s a male. Based on my measurement I make him to be between five-foot-eleven and six feet tall. I’m thinking he was probably in his thirties when he died, but it will take some time to confirm it. Since we’re missing the skull, I was hoping I might find an old break that could be compared to medical records, but there are none that I can see. I’ll do X-rays.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “Not much until I do some tests. The important work will be the mitochondrial DNA comparison of the bones to the blood sample provided by Alice Spalding.”

  “I only asked for a saliva swab,” Kerney said.

  “Normally, that would be good enough,” Grant said. “But for what I have in mind, I’ll need a blood sample.”

  “Assuming these aren’t the remains of George Spalding, is there still a chance a positive ID can be made?” Kerney asked.

  Grant smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask that question. I did postdoctoral work at the U.S. Army Central Identification Laboratory in Hawaii, which has the largest staff of
forensic anthropologists in the world. I’d like to query them and ask for a records search of their POW/MIA data bank based on what I can tell them before we get the DNA results back. It might help narrow a search for a likely victim. But don’t expect to get a list of names you can easily investigate.”

  “Why is that?” Kerney asked.

  Grant walked to a desk and started rummaging through a drawer for some forms. “Because if this is truly an MIA, the man is probably just a name in their system. Or it could well be that the victim isn’t even an American soldier. The laboratory cooperates with over seventeen countries to identify remains of both military personnel and civilians from foreign governments who are unaccounted for in Vietnam. Your task could be daunting.”

  “How can I narrow the field?” Kerney asked.

  Grant labeled a manila file folder with a marker and put the blank forms in it. “Based on what you told me, George Spalding was handled as a KIA, which means after recovery his remains went to one of two well-equipped mortuaries in-country, Da Nang in the north and Tan Son Nhut outside of Saigon. Mortuary affairs are handled by the Army Quartermaster Corps. Finding out which facility handled these remains could be helpful. They keep excellent records.”

  “What better place to switch remains than a mortuary?” Kerney said.

  “You got it,” Grant replied. “But we shouldn’t stop there. I can short-circuit the process considerably by sending our DNA results to the Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory at Walter Reed Hospital. They have thousands of blood samples from POW/MIA family members in their database, and a new high-speed automated robotic processing system in place. Of course, that’s assuming the lab has maternal DNA of the victim on hand.”

  “How long would we have to wait for a report?” Kerney asked.

  “Even with the new system, months, I would imagine. Unless, that is, you know some way to get it bumped up on the priority list.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” Kerney replied. “The Army is as interested in this case as I am.”