Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Page 4

  Clayton grimaced. There was another obstacle. With an approximate date of death somewhere between the 1960s and the 1970s, they faced a mountain of cold cases to sort through. “Tomorrow, we start with old New Mexico missing persons reports, and then go national if we have to.”

  Avery waved the juniper branch in the air. “Maybe this is the magic wand that will answer all our prayers.”

  Clayton grunted noncommittally.

  “I’ll call if I learn anything,” Avery said.

  “I’ll be waiting.” He walked with Avery through the house and veered outside to talk to Davenport, who wasn’t in her office. Back at the center, he spotted her in Erma Fergurson’s studio, which was now empty of the stage dressing, putting the unfinished watercolor that had been on the easel into the unlocked closet.

  “You need a security alarm system,” he advised. “And it wouldn’t hurt to install closed-circuit TV monitors for the public spaces and the immediate grounds around the house.”

  “That’s coming as part of the construction contract.”

  “Good. I thought you’d like to know the contractor can start tomorrow.”

  Davenport smiled happily. “Wonderful.”

  “Did you personally know Professor Fergurson?” Clayton asked.

  Davenport smiled at the memory. “Oh, yes. Years ago, when she fell ill and couldn’t work, she hired me as her assistant. Just prior to her death, she recommended to the university that I should be retained as the center’s administrator. She was the most intelligent, talented, kind woman I’ve ever met.”

  “An impressive woman,” Clayton said.

  “I greatly admired her.”

  “I can see that. In all the time you’ve been here, has anyone come around who seemed odd or caused worry or trouble?”

  “You mean like a trespasser or homeless person?”

  “Yes, anyone like that,” Clayton replied.

  “Most people who show up uninvited are simply intrigued by the center and want to know more about it. But there have been a few who tried to camp on the property, which isn’t allowed.”

  Clayton asked her to describe the events and made note of them. She’d called the campus police on one occasion about ten years ago to chase a vagrant away. She couldn’t remember the exact year of a similar incident, but it had happened when Erma Fergurson was still alive, and had been handled by a deputy sheriff.

  Clayton questioned Davenport more closely about the intruders, but she recalled nothing of value.

  He handed Davenport his business card. “If you think of anything at all you haven’t told me about those two events, please call.”

  “I will, Lieutenant.”

  He thanked Davenport for her time and headed for the office. Now came the fun part of the day, paperwork.

  Clayton was about halfway through his reports when Avery came into his office and dropped an X-ray envelope on the desk. On his heels, Garcia arrived with the forensic firearm report in hand.

  “You go first,” Clayton said to Avery as he pulled the film out of the sleeve.

  “As I should, being senior in service to Agent Garcia,” Avery replied, grinning at Garcia.

  Garcia shot him the finger as he sat down.

  “Boys, boys,” Clayton rebuked, feigning disapproval, as he studied the film.

  Avery pointed at the X-ray. “Just as you thought, there’s a foreign object embedded beneath the bark. It’s definitely metal, type yet unknown, and approximately the thickness of common household string.”

  He held up his forefingers to show length. “The graduate research assistant at the university who examined the X-ray estimated that uncoiled the object would be about twenty inches long.”

  “Can he extract it from the wood?” Clayton asked.

  “It’s beneath what’s called the cambia, which are cells between the wood and the bark. Cambia form into something called callus tissue that grows over an injured surface to help it heal.” Avery frowned and consulted his notes. “I think I’ve got that right. Close enough.”

  “Can he get to it?” Clayton asked.

  Avery settled into a chair across from Clayton. “Wood can’t be melted, and it’s tricky to try to dissolve it, so he’s going to whittle out the object.”

  Garcia raised an eyebrow. “Intact?”

  “He made no promises, but he’s positive he can recover enough to do a metallurgical analysis.”

  “Did he have any idea how long ago it was left on the tree?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay.” Clayton swung his attention to Garcia and held out his hand. “What about the pistola?”

  Garcia passed the report to Clayton. Forensics had managed to open the cylinder on the Colt .45 single action, find the serial number, and run it through NCIC. There was no record on file that the gun had been stolen, and no fingerprints had been lifted from the weapon. However, the one spent cartridge in the rusted cylinder had yet to be dislodged.

  Clayton passed the report to Avery, who quickly scanned it.

  “Once they get the cartridge out, they’ll dust it for prints,” Garcia added.

  “Here’s hoping,” Avery said as he closed the folder and passed it back to Clayton.

  Clayton slid the folder in a desk drawer along with the X-ray and turned to Garcia. “Is there any chance Forensics can determine if the entry wound to the head came from a .45-caliber bullet?”

  “The techs are still piecing it together. They say we shouldn’t count on a definite match and the best we can hope for is a strong possibility. They’re working on it.”

  “That would be better than nothing,” Clayton said. “It could be our perp has visited the burial site in the past, perhaps on the anniversary of the crime.”

  Avery’s eyes widened in fake wonder. “A guilt-tripping perp? Wouldn’t that be unusual?”

  “Which might mean a boyfriend, husband, or lover,” Garcia mused hopefully.

  “That’s possible,” Clayton replied. He recounted what Davenport and the contractor had told him, and added that he’d asked the campus police and sheriff’s office to conduct record searches for any reports about trespassing at the center. “The dates Davenport gave me are iffy at best, but maybe we’ll get lucky,” he added.

  “If no damage was done, the responding officers could have simply escorted the subjects off the grounds and never filed a report,” Avery ventured. “Who wants to bother with a court date for a petty misdemeanor?”

  “Some skate who wanted the overtime would,” Garcia commented. “But regardless of any circumstantial evidence we get from the records search, a murder victim without an identity means an unsolved case.”

  “Try to stay optimistic,” Clayton counseled dryly. “We know a few things already and we’re making progress. Tomorrow we dig in and start the search for our victim’s identity. Once we know that, we’ll look close to home for our killer.”

  “Let’s hope we get a hit,” Avery said.

  “That would be nice, but if we strike out we’ll expand our parameters,” Clayton replied as he swiveled his chair to face the desktop computer and started back in on his paperwork.

  With a clear message that it was time for them to do the same, Avery and Garcia retreated from Clayton’s office. An hour later, he finished and called home to say he was on his way, only to get voice mail. He left a short message, trying to sound upbeat, hoping Grace would at least talk to him when he got there.

  From long experience, he’d learned few things were more unbearable than being on the receiving end of the silent treatment from an Apache woman.

  That evening, the children kept the family dinner congenial. Hannah’s eyes flashed with pride as she shared the exciting news that on a lark she’d made the NMSU women’s cross-country track team as a walk-on. She’d been an outstanding track-and-field athlete in high school, so the news came as no surprise. With the slightest hint of pleasure in her voice, she announced that her time in the 5K trial run had bested several other fres
hman girls who were on athletic scholarships. From across the dining table, Wendell gave his sister a big smile and a high-five.

  Clayton followed suit, happy to have Grace distracted enough to stop radiating coolness in his direction.

  “I’m very proud of you,” Grace said with an approving smile, avoiding Clayton’s eyes. “But will you have time to participate and keep your grades up?”

  Hannah, who had her mother’s slender figure and delicate frame, nodded as she pushed her food around her plate with a fork and selected a green bean. “I’m sure to make the dean’s list again.”

  “My egghead jock kid sister,” Wendell joked. At six feet, he had two inches on Clayton, and his pale complexion confused people into thinking he was of Anglo extraction. A starting running back in high school, he’d forgone college athletics to concentrate on his academic studies.

  Hannah grinned devilishly at her brother and stuck out her tongue. “Have you gotten accepted into medical school yet?” she needled.

  Wendell wrinkled his nose. “You know I can’t apply until late next year.”

  “You’ll get in,” Hannah predicted as she rose to help clear the table. “After all, you’re almost as smart as me.”

  “Smarter and wiser,” Wendell challenged, as he pushed away from the table.

  “No quibbling, you two,” Clayton cautioned lightheartedly, glancing to see if Grace had warmed toward him at all. Maybe, but he wasn’t sure.

  He got a kiss on the cheek from Hannah and a fist bump from Wendell before they departed. Grace got kisses, but no fist bump.

  Like most young people, Hannah and Wendell were not given to frequent displays of affection, but they knew their mother’s occasional chilling silences well. Clayton figured they’d guessed the canceled twentieth wedding anniversary trip had put him in serious disfavor.

  Grace didn’t say a word as he finished clearing the table, silently watching as he filled the dishwasher. When he turned to apologize once again for ruining their anniversary plans, she waved her hand to stop him.

  “When the case is over, let’s plan to celebrate someplace where we can’t possibly be bothered by work.”

  “Are you sure you can get time off?” Clayton teased, relieved to have her talking to him once again. As the program director of a bilingual preschool, she could set her own vacation schedule without difficulty.

  “I’m serious, Clayton.”

  He studied her face. It was oval, with tawny, flawless skin, a thin nose, and thick eyebrows above dark eyes. She never failed to stun him with her beauty. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Spain.”

  “I can see you’ve given this some thought.”

  Grace nodded. “Just the two of us. Wendell and Hannah can cope on their own for a week or two. In fact, they’ll enjoy being rid of us for a while.”

  “Two weeks in Spain?” Clayton hadn’t considered foreign travel. But Spain would be a good choice, as they both spoke the language.

  “Why not?” Grace countered. “I don’t want to wait until I’m your mother’s age to see something of the world outside of New Mexico.”

  “Will this get me out of the doghouse?”

  “You were never in it. My disappointment turned to anger, which you did not deserve. I fell silent because I wasn’t able to talk to you about it in a good way.”

  “I was disappointed too,” Clayton said, gathering Grace in his arms. “Let’s go to Spain next April.”

  “Promise?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “We could still celebrate a little in our bedroom, if you like,” Grace whispered in his ear.

  Clayton heard the front door slam as Wendell and Hannah left for the weekly evening meeting at the American Indian Student Center.

  “I like,” Clayton said, pulling her along by the hand.

  CHAPTER 3

  Clayton arrived at work early and found a message from Davenport asking him to call. She told him Erma Fergurson had periodically kept a journal, which, along with other documents, letters, and ephemera, she’d donated during her lifetime to the university library. Davenport didn’t know what the old journals contained, but thought they might be helpful to his investigation.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the journals when we talked after the remains were uncovered?” he asked.

  “With the distraction of getting construction under way, I simply didn’t think about it,” she replied.

  He thanked her for the information and called the library. Although it opened early during the academic year to accommodate students, the archives department supervisor, Eleanor Robbins, didn’t start work until nine. He left a short message on her voice mail, identifying himself and saying he needed her assistance regarding urgent police business.

  An hour later, Avery and Garcia rolled in just as he was about to leave to find Ms. Robbins. He directed Avery to goose the sheriff’s department and the campus PD about the records check, and asked Garcia to get him an update from the lab on the cartridge lodged in the pistola.

  “Where are you off to, jefe?” Garcia asked.

  “The university library,” Clayton replied. He told them why, added it might take a while, and instructed them to start pulling missing persons reports on subjects who matched the victim’s age and physical characteristics.

  “For now, stay within the time frame we discussed,” he reminded them on his way out the door. “Work New Mexico cases first.”

  On the short drive to campus, Clayton contemplated what the journals might contain, his mind wandering to thoughts of his father. Quite possibly he’d find nothing of value to the investigation, but discover things about Kerney he’d never known. The idea of learning more about his history intrigued him.

  At the library, he found Eleanor Robbins in her office. A tall, dignified woman in her late sixties with dark hair and clear light green eyes, she listened to Clayton’s reason for his request, accessed her computer files, and regretfully told him the journals couldn’t leave the library.

  Clayton asked if the journals had been photocopied or digitized.

  Robbins smiled apologetically. “Yes, but unfortunately we had a computer malfunction recently and lost some files, including the Fergurson papers. All we have are the original documents.”

  “Are they extensive?” Clayton asked, quietly miffed that nothing about the frigging case seemed to come easy. He wanted the journals now.

  Robbins nodded as she pulled up the archive index file and did a fast scan. “Thirty volumes dating back to the late 1940s. There are thousands of pages that include handwritten entries, rough pencil sketches, quotations from other sources, ideas for student class projects, lists of daily things to do, notations on gallery representation and various museum acquisitions, thoughts on departmental faculty meetings, some notes on students, and comments about many of the important people and events in her life. It’s quite a treasure trove of information.”

  “We’re conducting a murder investigation and need to look at those journals as soon as possible,” Clayton reminded her.

  “I understand. As I said, the documents cannot leave the premises, but I can make them available to you here. I’ll arrange a private room for you to use.”

  “That won’t do,” Clayton replied. “The journals may contain information pertinent to a murder and as such may become evidence. If you won’t release them willingly, I’ll have to serve you with a court order and seize them.”

  Ms. Robbins squared her shoulders in defiance. “I should speak to Dr. Janice Manchester, the library director, about this.”

  Clayton nodded at the telephone on the desk. “Please do it now, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  It took Robbins several attempts to reach Dr. Manchester. She explained the situation and within a few minutes Manchester, round and significantly shorter than Robbins, hurried in, a concerned look on her face, demanding a further explanation.

  Patiently, Clayton explained how evidence-gathering was differ
ent than academic research, and how a chain of custody had to be established and preserved to have facts pertinent to a case admitted in court. To do that, he needed to take physical possession of the documents.

  “How long would that be?” Manchester asked.

  “I honestly won’t know until we do an inspection. But I’ll return them to you as soon as possible, especially those documents we find immaterial to our investigation.”

  “I see,” Manchester said, turning to Robbins with a meaningful look. “I think we need to consult with the Office of General Counsel about this.”

  “Of course,” Robbins replied, returning the look.

  Clayton stood. “Tell your general counsel that I’ll have a court order served on both of you before the end of the day. Please have the documents ready for me at that time.”

  He handed Manchester his business card. “Have your lawyers call if they have any questions.”

  Outside the library, students filled the walkways, some hurrying along to class, others sauntering, chatting in small groups. Clayton threaded his way to his unit through hundreds of young people, feeling decidedly middle-aged.

  It was a quick drive from the university to U.S. 70, a highway that cut across the Tularosa Basin and through White Sands Missile Range. The recently built District 4 state police headquarters sat on a paved road off the highway, surrounded by raw land recently annexed by the city because of the area’s continuing growth. Several big box warehouse stores next to a string of as yet untouched lots on a frontage road foretold more impending development.

  Back in his office, Clayton prepared the search-and-seizure affidavit, called ahead to the local district attorney’s office to say he was on his way, and arrived to find Henry Larkin, chief deputy DA, waiting for him.

  “This better be good,” Larkin said as he read the affidavit on his way to his office.

  “You’ve heard from the Office of General Counsel?” Clayton asked.

  “You betcha,” Larkin replied as he settled into his desk chair. In his forties with a full head of curly gray hair and a John Kennedy smile, he was a shoe-in for district attorney once his boss decided to retire. Behind him, a picture window gave a great view of the city and the Organ Mountains beyond.