Everyone Dies kk-8 Read online

  Last night’s events continued to swirl through Clayton’s head. He forced the images away by concentrating on the fact that there was now a viable suspect. The possibility of being in on the arrest cheered him, even if all he got to do was watch the Santa Fe PD take the SOB down.

  He arrived at Olsen’s house, where Ramona Pino, whom he’d met last night, and three men were loading up an evidence trailer.

  “Have you found Olsen?” Clayton asked as he approached Pino.

  “Not yet, Sergeant,” Ramona replied, eyeing Clayton speculatively, thinking the man needed to be with his family and not playing observer on a case involving himself and his family, which was way outside the rules. She wondered how Clayton had talked his boss into it.

  She introduced him around and gave him a rundown on the incriminating evidence that had been seized from the house. “We matched the photo you took of the shoe print on the trail behind your house with a pair of hiking boots from Olsen’s closet,” she added.

  “Let me see them,” Clayton asked without changing expression.

  Russell Thorpe climbed into the trailer and returned with an evidence box containing the boots. Clayton opened the box and examined them, paying particular attention to the heel of the right shoe, looking for wear along the outer edge. There wasn’t any.

  “I’d like to see all of the footwear,” he said.

  “I checked them already,” Thorpe said, “to see if I could get a match with the shoe impressions I found on Chief Kerney’s property.”

  “And?” Clayton asked.

  Thorpe shrugged. “Nothing. Olsen must have gotten rid of them. But what’s strange is that all the shoes in Olsen’s closet are a size and a half larger than the prints left outside Chief Kerney’s horse barn.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Clayton said.

  Inside the house, Clayton sat on the bedroom floor and examined every right-foot shoe in Olsen’s closet while Ramona and Thorpe watched.

  “What are you looking for?” Thorpe asked.

  “For something I learned in the FBI footwear and tire tread evidence course I took,” Clayton said. “People walk heel to toe. The deepest impression is usually from the heel, which, along with the arch, bears most of the body’s weight. The impressions I saw on the trail had a slightly deeper heel strike along the outer edge of the right shoe, which should show up as a wear characteristic on the bottom of these shoes.”

  Thorpe studied the heel of a right-foot athletic sneaker. “I don’t see it.”

  “Because it’s not there,” Clayton said. “His stride indicated he was moving at a fast walk and not carrying anything heavy which might have shifted his balance.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Ramona asked.

  “The depth of the print is the key, along with the distance between the tracks he left behind.”

  “So what does that tell us?” Thorpe asked.

  “I’m not certain,” Clayton replied. “You said the casting impressions you made in Santa Fe were a size and a half smaller.”

  “Yeah, but I left those with forensics,” Thorpe said. “I compared my photographs with Olsen’s boots and came up with the difference in size.”

  “I’d like to see those pictures,” Clayton said.

  Thorpe nodded, left, and returned with the photos. “Why would Olsen cram his feet into a smaller shoe?” he asked as he handed them to Istee.

  “I don’t know,” Clayton answered, as he studied the photos. Thorpe had done it the right way by laying a ruler alongside each print before taking the picture. He memorized the tread design. “Maybe he’s got an accomplice.” He looked up at Pino. “Who’s been on the property today?”

  “Aside from the officers who are here, a six-man SWAT team.”

  “Wearing combat boots, right?” Clayton asked as he got to his feet and handed Thorpe the photos.

  Ramona nodded.

  “I’m going to take a look around,” Clayton said.

  “Aren’t you here only to observe?” Ramona asked.

  “Looking around is observing,” Clayton replied.

  “There have been people trampling all over the place,” Thorpe said.

  “It’s never too late to look,” Clayton replied as he left the room.

  It took Clayton thirty minutes to find two prints that matched those Thorpe had found on Kerney’s land, one partial impression in the toolshed on an oil stain under the fifty-five-gallon drum where the stolen paintings had been stashed, and an almost perfect print in a shallow arroyo near the old windmill.

  He showed them to Pino and Thorpe. “Where are the shoes that made these?” he asked.

  “He’s kept them to use again,” Thorpe suggested.

  Ramona shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would Olsen leave all the evidence that we can tie to the crime scenes in plain view for us to find, except for one pair of too-small shoes?”

  “Exactly,” Clayton said, looking at Pino and Thorpe. “Now, what about the blue van?”

  “I didn’t find any tread marks from it,” Thorpe replied with a boyish grin. “But I suppose it’s not too late to look again.”

  “Smart thinking,” Clayton said, giving Thorpe a small smile in return.

  “I’ll get the photos,” Thorpe said.

  With the photos in hand, Clayton, Pino, and Thorpe began a grid search of the driveway, an area around the front of the house, and a section of the country road. A short time later, Clayton stood on the part of the gravel driveway Olsen used as a turnaround and studied some overlapping tire tracks. He knelt down, spotted two impressions identical to the treads from the rear tires of the blue van, looked around a bit more, and called Thorpe and Pino over.

  “The car was towed behind the van,” he said when they arrived. He showed them how the passenger car’s tire impressions cut across the front treads of the van at a sharp angle. “I think that pretty much wipes out the accomplice theory. Why bother to tow a vehicle if you’ve got a second driver?”

  “It also explains what he used for transportation after he left the van in front of the municipal court,” Ramona said.

  “But what about the shoe prints?” Thorpe asked.

  “It’s gotta mean something,” Clayton said as he watched the two agents who’d been loading evidence lock the doors to the trailer. He turned to Pino. “You said most of what you seized inside the house was in plain view.”

  “Pretty much,” Pino said.

  “And you didn’t have one solid lead about Olsen’s identity until he killed his former parole officer.”

  “Basically, yes,” Thorpe replied.

  “Well, for a guy who’s supposedly real smart, that was a pretty stupid thing to do,” Clayton said, “because it brought you right to his front door.”

  “So he screwed up and made a mistake,” Thorpe said.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Clayton said with a dismissive shake of his head. “Everything I read in the case files Detective Pino gave me last night argues against that kind of a screw-up. Until Drake’s murder, all you had were little bits and pieces of miscellaneous evidence and no hard-target suspect. Then, bingo, everything falls into place, neat as a pin.”

  “You’re saying it’s far too convenient,” Ramona said.

  “Staged might be a better word,” Clayton replied.

  “Except for the shoe prints,” Thorpe said.

  “Maybe he isn’t coming back here,” Ramona said.

  “That’s possible,” Clayton said. “What showed up when you tossed the house?”

  Ramona shook her head. “Not much. We pretty much found what we were looking for on the first pass.”

  “Let’s take a closer look inside for more anomalies. He’d need money if he plans to disappear after he’s done with the killing.”

  “More observing, Sergeant?” Ramona asked.

  “Exactly,” Clayton answered.

  “We didn’t find any money,” Thorpe said.

  “It won’t hurt to look again,” Clay
ton replied.

  “I guess not,” Thorpe said, with a grin.

  Sergeant Cruz Tafoya went hunting for Noel Olsen’s parents, Stanley and Meredith, who were listed in the phone book but either away from home or not taking calls. Stanley, according to the information contained in the old case file, was a dentist, so Tafoya went to Olsen’s last known office address only to learn that he’d sold his practice some years ago and taken a job with the Indian Health Service.

  Tafoya checked with the Indian Hospital on Cerrillos Road and learned that Olsen was still employed by the IHS, but out of town doing his monthly rounds of regularly scheduled appointments at clinics on the Navajo Reservation. He asked about Mrs. Olsen’s whereabouts and was told she didn’t work and was something of a recluse.

  The home address for the couple didn’t register with Tafoya, so he looked it up in the county street map guide. The Olsens lived in Eldorado, a rural, middle-class subdivision ten miles southeast of Santa Fe along U.S. Highway 285.

  Thirty years ago, when the subdivision was new and still relatively undeveloped, Tafoya’s uncle, Benny, had managed the privately owned water utility that served the small cluster of new houses near the old ranch headquarters that had been turned into a real estate office.

  As a young kid, Cruz had spent many summer weekends with Uncle Benny, now long retired, who’d lived in a cottage at the stables. Together, they rode horseback over the thousands of yet untouched acres that gave spectacular views of three mountain ranges in the distance, or drove into the back-country hills over rough roads on land slated to remain as open space.

  Cruz knew that the subdivision had grown into a bedroom community of several thousand homes. But without a reason to visit over the years, he hadn’t given it much thought. Seeing it up close after so long made his jaw drop. All traces of the vast stretches of pinonstudded ranchland were gone. The main trunk roads had been paved, and houses on acre or more lots were scattered in every direction.

  A shopping mall, a branch bank, and a professional office building stood within shouting distance of the highway. Further down the road, past a number of Santa Fe-style, faux-adobe houses, an elementary school and a fire station stood on pastureland where antelope had once grazed.

  Cruz pulled to a stop in front of the community library near the school, consulted his map, and then drove on to the west end of the subdivision, where a string of houses bordered an old post-and-barbed-wire fence. Beyond the fence, open land stretched for several miles, ending at the state highway that cut in front of the Cerrillos Hills and ran past the state prison.

  Tafoya knew the day was coming when pricier houses on five-, ten-, and twenty-acre tracts that were way beyond the means of most native Santa Feans would fill up the land.

  The Olsens’ house was on a side road situated at the back of a lot accessed by a long, weed-infested driveway. Cruz entered the gate to a walled courtyard, walked up a flagstone path past barren flower beds, and rang the doorbell.

  From the outside, the place looked neglected. The exterior plaster was badly cracked and the portal above his head showed water damage from a roof leak. A bird had built a nest on the outside light fixture next to the front door and there was a mound of dried droppings on the flagstone at his feet.

  He rang the bell again and listened. From inside he could hear the sound of a blaring television. After waiting a few more seconds, he pounded on the door. An older woman with tousled gray hair opened up.

  “Please go away,” the woman said. Wrinkles around her mouth gave her a sad, dissatisfied look.

  “Meredith Olsen?” Cruz asked, displaying his shield.

  “Yes. Why are you here? We don’t bother anybody.” Her breath smelled of booze.

  “I need to ask you some questions about your son.”

  “Noel? I can’t talk to you about him.” Mrs. Olsen’s expression turned cagey. “Did Stanley send you here to trick me?”

  “I’ve never met your husband,” Cruz replied.

  Mrs. Olsen raised her hand as if to stop him. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I have no reason to lie,” Cruz said.

  Slowly, she lowered her hand and pulled her robe tightly around her thick waist. “We don’t talk about Noel,” she replied in a toneless recitation. “It’s not allowed. That’s all I have to say.”

  Cruz looked past Olsen into the darkened front room. He could hear the television broadcasting what sounded like big band dance music from an old movie. The weak flickering of the screen spilled out from an adjacent room.

  Mrs. Olsen hadn’t moved. He glanced back at her face and decided to try a ploy. “Noel is missing and I was hoping you could help me find him.”

  “Missing?” Mrs. Olsen’s eyes blinked rapidly. “How can he be missing?”

  “He’s not at home and hasn’t been at work for some time,” Tafoya answered. “Can we talk inside?”

  “Are you sure you haven’t talked to Stanley?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Never. Can we talk? I’m sure you want us to find your son.”

  Meredith Olsen nodded timidly and led the way into a family room. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were dancing on the large-screen TV. Bookcases along one wall were filled with hundreds, perhaps a thousand, movie video cassettes. A fifth of scotch and a glass sat on a side table next to a reclining chair that faced the tube.

  She picked up the remote control and pressed the mute button. “I knew something was wrong with Noel,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?” Tafoya asked.

  “Every month, when Stanley goes out of town, I have lunch with him. We always meet in Albuquerque on a Saturday. He didn’t come last week.”

  “Did you try to call him?”

  Mrs. Olsen nodded. “From a pay phone. He didn’t answer. He’s always kept his word to see me since he got out of prison, whenever we could do it so Stanley wouldn’t know.”

  On the television, Astaire and Rogers spun across the ballroom floor and swirled off camera. The scene shifted to a closeup of an unhappy looking bandleader. “Does he come to Santa Fe to see you?” Cruz asked.

  “Never. He hasn’t been in Santa Fe since the day he went away.”

  “He hasn’t visited here recently, in the last week or so?”

  Mrs. Olsen shook her head. “Why is Noel missing? Has he done something bad?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Tafoya said. “His employer reported that he hasn’t been at work for the last two weeks. How do you stay in touch with him?”

  “By letter. I can’t call him from home. Stanley would know about it when he paid the phone bill.”

  “Does Noel call you?”

  “Only very rarely when he has to cancel our lunches because of work.”

  “And he didn’t call to cancel last Saturday?” Cruz asked.

  “No.” She touched a finger to her lips. “Now I’m worried.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Tafoya said. “Do you have Noel’s letters?”

  Meredith Olsen stiffened. “You have to understand that Stanley has no son, and I’m not supposed to either.”

  Tafoya smiled sympathetically. “Your husband doesn’t have to know about my visit.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. Did Noel ever talk to you about getting even with the people who sent him to prison?”

  Mrs. Olsen shook her head vigorously. “He made a terrible mistake and he knows it. He’s tried hard to put that behind him and become a good person. It does happen, you know. People can change for the better.”

  “Would you get Noel’s letters?” Cruz asked gently. “They could help us locate him.”

  “I don’t see how,” Mrs. Olsen said.

  “The more we know about him, the more likely we are to find him.”

  She left and returned with a shoe box filled with letters. She gave Cruz the box reluctantly, as though turning over a priceless treasure.

  He promised to return the letters at a time when Dr. Olsen wasn’t home,
said good-bye, and walked to his unit, thinking how the ripple effect of murder always seemed to destroy so many lives beyond that of the victim.

  Tafoya called dispatch as he rolled out of the driveway, and gave an ETA to headquarters. He was eager to read what Noel Olsen had written to his mother.

  The last room to be tossed again was the kitchen. In a coffee can at the back of the top shelf of a pantry, Ramona found Olsen’s passport and six hundred dollars in unused traveler’s checks.

  “Seems you were right,” she said as she showed the items to Clayton.

  “That’s our second interesting anomaly,” Clayton said with an approving nod of his head. He opened the door to what he thought would be the back porch and found that it had been sealed off and turned into a utility room that contained a fifty-gallon propane water heater plus a washer and dryer.

  Clayton stepped inside and closed the door. There were a number of what appeared to be scuff marks made by rubber soles on the door and the bottom horizontal plate showed a fresh crack. He knelt down for a closer look. Someone had kicked the door repeatedly, and not with the tip of a shoe. There were full footwear impressions on the painted wood.

  He gauged the length of the room. It was just long enough for a man to lie prone. He swung around and examined the water heater that sat on a raised plywood platform. It was a fairly new fifty-gallon tank painted a light gray. At the base of the unit was a series of scratch marks that had exposed bare metal. He ran a forefinger along the scratches and looked at the light coating of paint dust and metal particles on his fingertip. From the feel of it, the scratches ran completely around the tank.

  He turned to the washer and dryer. The unbalanced dryer wobbled badly when he jiggled it, and there was a dent on the side about six inches above the floor. He opened the dryer door and caught the strong odor of mildew. An unused fabric softener sheet sat on top of wadded-up clothes. The dryer hadn’t been used in some time.

  Clayton checked the washing machine, found it empty and dry, and went back to the water heater. There were a few brown spots on the side of the platform and a yellowish stain on the middle of the linoleum floor.