Death Song

Chapter Eight

Before the SWAT team arrived, the Vietnamese men inside the house tried to make a getaway through the rear patio door. They were quickly apprehended by detectives covering the backyard, put facedown on the ground, cuffed, and searched. Each of them was packing a semiautomatic handgun and carrying over five thousand dollars in cash. Their driver’s licenses didn’t match the names or the Motor Vehicle Division photos of the registered owners of the vehicles parked in the driveway. When questioned, they refused to talk or reveal their true identities.

Bromilow separated them, took their photographs with a digital camera, downloaded the pictures to his laptop, sent the photos to the DEA agent on duty, and asked for help in identifying the men. Then he had the suspects placed in different squad cars under the watchful eyes of uniformed officers.

Although Mort Birch had sworn that the two Vietnamese were the only occupants in the house, Bromilow decided to play it safe and wait for SWAT before attempting entry. From an officer safety standpoint, Clayton thought it was a wise move. But then Bromilow got stupid and started showboating, making appeals over a bullhorn asking all remaining occupants to exit the house, which served only to rouse more neighbors, who began gathering behind the cordoned-off areas at either end of the street.

As Clayton watched Bromilow in the middle of the street, entreating any additional unknown occupants to peacefully exit the premises, all he could think was that the lieutenant suffered from either blatant self-destructive tendencies, a grandiose need for attention, or both.

SWAT arrived, and as soon as they were set up, Bromilow, with a look of eager anticipation, sent them in full bore. Within minutes the SWAT commander gave the all clear. Bromilow, Clayton, and a squad of APD detectives swarmed into the house to find that all the non-load-bearing interior walls had been demolished; exhaust fans had been installed in the roof to ventilate, filter, and disperse the smell of the marijuana-laden air; all the exterior windows and glass in the house had been spray-painted black; and row upon row of high-tech hydroponic growing tables contained healthy-looking, mature marijuana plants. Bromilow estimated the house held a multimillion-dollar crop.

It was a sophisticated major marijuana factory, and Clayton and the APD detectives spent a few minutes examining how it had been put together. Electrical cords and water lines ran across floors and up stairways or were tacked against the remaining load-bearing interior walls. Strands of thousand-watt grow lights hung above the tables, and a network of tubes fed a nutrient solution to the plants. Narrow walkways separated the rows to maximize the growing space. Plants five feet tall and the high humidity made the house look and feel like a single-species arboretum.

In the kitchen, which, except for one small first-floor bathroom, was the only room that had not been converted for production, there was evidence that harvesting had already begun. A stack of packaged one-pound bricks sat on a countertop. Bromilow gave it a street value of a hundred thousand dollars.

Two cots, some blankets, pillows, dirty clothes, several travel bags, and a small portable television on top of a step stool filled the breakfast nook adjacent to the kitchen. The stove cooktop and a microwave oven were cruddy with baked-on and nuked food, and the sink was filled with filthy dishes, pots, and pans. The refrigerator had been freshly stocked, as had the pantry, where Clayton spotted mouse droppings on the floor. He wondered what other kinds of varmints cohabited the premises.

SWAT pulled out, and while Bromilow and his detectives started photographing, inventorying, bagging, and tagging, Clayton went looking for anything he could find that would lead him to Brian Riley. Wearing latex gloves, he dug through every cabinet, drawer, and closet that had remained untouched in the gutted house. He examined everything in the refrigerator and freezer, poked around behind appliances, pulled out everything in the pantry, and went through all the personal items and bedding in the breakfast nook. He inspected the one bathroom the gang members had used and emptied out the contents of all the garbage cans.

In the garage, he searched through boxes, dumped out the contents of several old storage lockers, and did a thorough sweep of the area. Then he moved on to the minivan and the Audi coupe in the driveway.

He finished with nothing to show for his efforts, leaned against the front fender of the minivan, stripped off the latex gloves, and looked at the house in disgust. From what he could tell, Mort Birch, his marijuana hothouse factory, and the two Vietnamese suspects had nothing at all to do with Brian Riley. Clayton’s sleuthing had scored one major bust for the good guys, but it hadn’t gotten him a step closer to finding Riley.

The sound of a car coming to a stop at the end of the driveway drew Clayton’s gaze. Rodney Eden, the DEA agent in charge of operations in New Mexico, got out of his vehicle and approached. In his early forties, Eden was a sandy-haired, boyish-looking man who oozed sincerity and had a winning smile to go with it.

Clayton had dealt with Eden several times on drug cases in Lincoln County and found him to be reasonable although somewhat condescending at times, which Clayton had long ago decided was a highly prized personality trait among those who worked in federal law enforcement.

“What a surprise,” Eden said with his soft Tennessee drawl as he shook Clayton’s hand. “What are you doing here, Sergeant Istee?”

“Looking for a kid who might have absolutely nothing to do with two homicides, and who apparently has nothing to do with drug production and trafficking either,” Clayton replied dourly.

“Ah, the Riley murders,” Eden said with a nod of his head. “A cop killing is bad enough, but to murder his wife.” Eden paused and shook his head. “I understand you’re looking for one perpetrator, is that correct?”

“That’s what seems to make sense,” Clayton replied.

Eden smiled in agreement. “Of course. As you asked, I put the word out to my people to keep an eye open for the kid.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Not at all. Now, where would I find Lieutenant Bromilow?”

Clayton nodded toward the open overhead garage door. “Inside with his troops, harvesting a multimillion-dollar cash crop of marijuana.”

“Ah, the joy of it all.” Eden wandered off in the direction of the detective who’d been assigned to control access to the crime scene.

The sound of another arriving vehicle caught Clayton’s attention. Detective Lee Armijo pulled to a stop behind Eden’s unmarked car, opened the passenger window, and called Clayton over.

“Get in, amigo,” he said.

Clayton opened the door and joined Armijo. “Tell me you have something that might interest me.”

“I got some factoids for you,” Armijo said. “According to a DEA drug gang expert, who just called in with the news, the two Vietnamese men we busted are Tran Anh Toan, aka Rabbit, and Nguyen Hoang, aka Ricky Hoang. Both are members of a gang called the Black Wolf Crew that got its start in Canada and has been moving south over the past five years. This is the gang’s first known incursion into New Mexico. You’ve helped us put a big dent in their expansion plans, for which APD will be eternally grateful. We may even someday give you a plaque recognizing your contribution to the department.”

Clayton, who wasn’t in a wisecracking mood, changed the subject. “Are there any tie-ins to my investigation?”

“Not a one, as far as we know,” Armijo replied. “But our pal Morty was about to get in bed with a big-time international cartel. The Black Wolf Crew operates dozens of pot hothouses, manufactures Ecstasy powder worth tens of millions, owns private overseas investment banks, runs an international Internet-based sport betting operation, and launders their money in Vietnam by building and managing high-end hotels and upscale resorts on the central coast.”

Clayton nodded and forced a smile. Armijo was enjoying recounting his factoids, and why not? It was a bust well worth feeling good about.

Armijo read the strained politeness in Clayton’s expression. “Sorry, man. Here I am gloating and you’ve got nada.”

“I still have Stanley,” Clayton replied. “Where is she?”

“Since she agreed to cooperate, I saw no need to arrest her,” Armijo replied. “So I’ve got her under wraps at her apartment in the company of a female officer.”

Armijo put the car in gear. “You want to go talk to her?”

Clayton nodded.

Armijo made a U-turn. The cop manning the barricade at the end of the street let them pass. “I think once Robocker and Birch have their legal problems behind them, they ought to hook up and get married.”

“Why’s that?”

“Think about it; with names like Morton and Minerva, it’s a marriage made in Heaven.”

“Minerva is a pagan name,” Clayton replied.

“Really?”

“She was the Roman goddess of wisdom and invention, along with a few other things.”

“What other things?”

“Art and martial prowess, I think.”

“Interesting,” Armijo said. “I wonder what the name Stanley means.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Clayton replied.

“Do you think the Romans had a goddess named Stanley?” Armijo asked. “Or maybe the Greeks?”

“Are you always like this?”

“Like what?” Armijo retorted innocently.

“So fast with the quips, the puns, the repartee.”

Armijo laughed. “I just use it to hide my angst.”

Clayton cracked a big smile, but didn’t for a minute doubt that Armijo meant what he said. “And I suppose Bromilow showboats so he can hide his angst.”

Armijo nodded. “Exactly. What do you do with yours?”

“Apaches don’t do angst.”

“Why not?” Armijo asked.

“We don’t have a word for it.”

Armijo slapped the steering wheel with his hand and laughed. “That makes total sense.”

Stanley—the original meaning of her name currently unknown but under discussion by the two officers—lived in an apartment complex that catered to young singles. In the parking lot, Armijo pulled into an empty space next to Brian Riley’s motorcycle, shifted in his seat, typed in something on the laptop, waited a minute, and then typed some more. Whatever came up on the screen made him smile.

“Stanley is an old English masculine surname that means ‘stone clearing,’” he announced.

“The old English were also pagans,” Clayton said.

“I think I saw that movie,” Armijo replied, pointing the way to Stanley’s apartment. It was a second-story unit located next to a staircase.

Armijo called in his location to dispatch, and the two officers climbed the stairs. Armijo rang the doorbell, and when no one answered, he stepped away from the door and called out to the officer inside. He waited a couple of beats before drawing his weapon. Clayton did the same.

Armijo knocked again, rang the bell, and called out to the officer once more. Silence. He raised a hand, counted one, two, three with his fingers and turned the doorknob. The door swung open easily.

Armijo went in low, shining the beam of his flashlight in a wide arc across the dark front room. Clayton went in high, searching for the light switch. He found it, and the harsh overhead light revealed an empty room. He cleared the nearby galley kitchen and dining area while Armijo moved toward the rear bedrooms. He returned to the front room just in time to see Armijo walk out of the bathroom, his face ashen gray. He shook his head sadly, holstered his weapon, keyed his handheld radio, and reported an officer down.

“She’s dead,” he added, “and I have a second body at this twenty.”

Clayton stepped around Armijo and took a look. The female uniformed officer was in the bathroom sitting on the toilet seat, her hands cuffed, legs bound with duct tape, and her mouth stuffed with what looked to be a washcloth. She had one bullet hole in the center of her forehead, and the wall behind the toilet tank was reddish brown with blood splatter from the exit wound. Her sidearm, spare ammo clips, and handheld radio had been dumped in the bathtub.

In the bedroom, Minerva Stanley Robocker was stretched out facedown on the bed, hands and feet bound by duct tape, with one bullet hole at the base of her skull. Only a trickle of blood trailed down her neck and stained the bedcovers.

A breeze through the open patio door to the bedroom balcony rustled the drapes. Clayton took a look at the door and saw tool-mark scratches near the locking mechanism. The door had probably been jimmied, which meant it was most likely the killer’s point of entry.

He went back and took a closer look at the side of Minerva Stanley’s Robocker’s face and spotted a bruise mark at the temple. He heard Armijo step into the room and glanced in his direction.

“What the fuck is going on?” Armijo asked.

“I don’t know,” Clayton said as he backed away from the body and followed Armijo into the front room. “But I’m guessing the killer entered through the bedroom balcony, knocked Robocker unconscious, and then dealt with the officer before returning to the bedroom to finish Robocker off.”

Clayton scanned the front room carefully. Except for the two dead women and the blood that been spilled, the apartment was as neat, tidy, and undisturbed as Tim Riley’s rented cabin in Capitan.

He’d spent hours in and around that cabin bagging and tagging everything he could think of that Tim Riley’s killer might have come into contact with—touched, brushed against, picked up, used, or stepped on. So far, forensic analysis had not revealed one shred of helpful evidence. He had a strong hunch that the CSI search of Robocker’s apartment would also yield a big fat zero in the evidence department.

He wondered who in the hell he was up against. One person? A professional? An organization of killers? The mob? The government? Spooks? And on top of all of that, where in the hell was young Brian Riley?

He stepped outside to the landing and speed-dialed Kerney’s private home number. Kerney picked up on the second ring and Clayton gave him the news.

“I’ll be on my way to your location five minutes after I hang up,” Kerney said, his voice still filled with sleep. “You call Paul Hewitt and let him know what’s happened. I’ll inform Sheriff Salgado, Ramona Pino, and Major Mielke. Let APD take the lead for now until we can sort things out.”

“Will do.” Relieved and glad that Kerney was willing to jump into the mix, Clayton disconnected, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. From two difference directions, he could hear the growing sounds of converging sirens.

Armijo joined Clayton on the landing, and in the light pouring through the open apartment door the two men waited silently during the last vestiges of a night neither would ever forget.

“Why don’t you meet and greet the arriving troops,” Clayton finally said, “while I start asking neighbors if they saw or heard anything.”

After arriving in Albuquerque, Kerney ran a gauntlet of APD cops and detectives before he could get close to the crime scene and start looking for Clayton. The entire complex had been cordoned off, and in three of the buildings within Kerney’s field of vision, he could see officers talking to residents outside their apartments.

He found Clayton in front of the building, where a CSI mobile lab was parked, talking with a man in a suit who had an APD captain’s shield clipped to the lapel of his jacket. Another man standing next to Clayton had a unshaven face and long hair that curled over the collar of his leather jacket, and wore a detective’s shield on a lanyard around his neck.

Kerney approached in time to catch an exchange between the captain and Clayton.

“I understand that you have a legitimate interest in this investigation, Sergeant Istee,” the captain said, sounding put out. “But as I’ve already explained, this is my crime scene, my murder investigation, and it’s our dead officer upstairs bound and gagged, sitting on a toilet stool with a bullet hole in her head. Until my people finish with the crime scene and do the preliminary neighborhood canvass, you will stay out of the way.”

The captain jabbed his finger twice at Clayton to make his point, a rude gesture that no Mescalero would ever make causally or thoughtlessly.

“These murders are connected to my investigation, Captain Apodaca,” Clayton replied hotly. “I need to be interviewing potential witnesses.”

“You’ll get your chance,” Captain Apodaca replied.

“Starting right now would be good,” Kerney said genially.

The APD captain gave Kerney the once-over, glanced at the chief’s shield in Kerney’s hand, and shook his head. “Sorry, Chief, you’ve got no jurisdiction in this matter.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Captain,” Kerney replied. “Sergeant Istee and I have every right to be part of this investigation and you know it. Now, do I talk to your chief, who’s giving a statement to the media down at the end of the block as we speak, or do you and I reach an understanding here and now?”

Apodaca, a short man with a shaved head and bulgy eyes, glared at Kerney and said nothing.

The man with the stubble on his chin and long hair glanced at Clayton, then Kerney, and patted Captain Apodaca on the shoulder. “Don’t be a dickhead, Jerry,” he cautioned. “Do what the chief asks.”

Apodaca’s face turned beet red. He caught himself just as he started to sputter an angry reply, took a deep breath, and pointed at the man who’d just called him a dickhead. “Detective Armijo here will take you upstairs and sign you into the crime scene. Ask the CSI supervisor your questions, tell him what you’d like his team to look for, and coordinate with my lieutenant any canvassing you want to conduct. Detective Armijo will stay with you.”

“Very well,” Kerney said.

Armijo nodded, Apodaca walked away, and Kerney gave the detective a quizzical look.

“You’re wondering how a detective can call a captain a dickhead and get away with it, right, Chief?” Armijo asked as the three men walked up the stairs.

“Something like that,” Kerney said.

“I was little Jerry Apodaca’s field training officer after he came out of the academy,” Armijo said. “Without going into details, he owes me big-time.”

Kerney nodded. “Enough said.”

Outside Minerva Stanley Robocker’s apartment, the three officers talked to the CSI supervisor and the homicide lieutenant, and after explaining that the murders might be linked to another cop killing, they were able to get both men to agree to make a concerted effort to look for anything that could be a possible tie-in to Brian Riley’s disappearance and the murder of his father and stepmother. The homicide lieutenant also agreed to have his people circulate Brian Riley’s photograph to all the residents in the apartment complex to see if anyone knew him or his whereabouts.

Kerney learned that the dead patrol officer, Judy Connors, was a three-year veteran of the force who had just returned to work from a maternity leave following the birth of her first child, a son. He asked to view the crime scene, and the CSI supervisor gave him a quick tour while Clayton and Armijo waited on the landing. He returned just as the first touch of dawn spread a glimmer of light over the top of the Sandia Mountains. For a moment the sight of the young, dead policewoman and the very attractive, just-as-dead Minerva Robocker stayed with him in his mind’s eye. Not even the bullet holes, their lifeless, bloodless faces, or the dried blood that stained the bedcovers and splattered the bathroom wall could erase the fact that in different ways both had been pretty women in the full bloom of their lives. It made Kerney angry and brokenhearted for the baby boy who would never know his mother, for Minerva Robocker’s parents and Judy Connors’s husband, a county firefighter just back from a six-month overseas deployment with the National Guard. It made him think about how close he and Patrick had come to losing Sara.

“Down at the Capitan crime scene, didn’t you think it possible that Tim Riley’s killer may have been a professional?” he asked Clayton after a long silence.

“That,” Clayton answered, “or somebody with sufficient knowledge and skill to kill quickly, efficiently, and leave nothing behind.”

“What’s the difference?” Armijo asked.

“Maybe I’m splitting hairs and there is no difference.” Clayton turned and looked across the parking lot and the street at an apartment complex similar to the one that had housed Robocker. It had small, semicircular enclosed patios on the ground level and undersize balconies with wrought iron railings on the second story. “But I didn’t want to dismiss the possibility that the Rileys’ killer is a personal acquaintance, coworker, friend, or relative who just luckily pulled off squeaky clean murders.”

“And now what do you think?” Kerney asked.

“I’m open to suggestions.” The sky began to brighten, and Clayton could see the buildings across the street more clearly. Most of the second-story balconies were empty and only a few apartments had lights on inside. One balcony had a small barbecue grill pushed into a corner by the sliding glass door, and several others had cheap plastic lawn chairs scattered about. He couldn’t see anything of interest behind the high privacy walls of the ground floor unit.

“A cop could make a good killer,” Armijo suggested.

“We’ve been digging deeply into that theory with the Santa Fe sheriff and his personnel,” Kerney said, “and we’ve got nothing so far.” He glanced at Clayton, who was still scanning the apartment buildings across the street. “What are you thinking?” he asked Clayton.

“I’m trying to figure out if there are any similarities in the various crime scenes,” Clayton said, “but there’s nothing I can reach out and touch. About all I can say is the perp is comfortable with killing, including disarming and executing a police officer, which should tell us something. Put that together with everything else we know and what have we got? Virtually no physical evidence has been left behind at any of the crime scenes. Tim Riley’s body was left where he was ambushed, but Denise Riley’s body was moved and left for us to find in a staged scene. Officer Connors’s and Minerva Robocker’s deaths were fast in-and-out killings.”

“Are you talking contract killings?” Armijo interjected.

“That possibility can’t be dismissed,” Clayton said. There was something behind an open sliding glass door of the apartment balcony directly across the street from the Robocker unit, but Clayton couldn’t quite make it out.

“What’s the statistical probability of having four homicides at three different, widely separated locations, occurring within days of each other, with three of the four victims linked to one missing teenage boy, and all of the crimes carried out by different perps?”

“I was never that good at math,” Armijo answered, “but I’d say it ain’t hardly likely.”

Clayton nodded as he studied the object in the open sliding glass balcony door. “Did that homicide lieutenant say anything about canvassing outside of the apartment complex?”

“He wasn’t that specific,” Kerney replied, following Clayton’s gaze. “What are you looking at, Sergeant?”

“I think it’s a telescope on a tripod positioned with a direct line of sight to the front door of the Robocker apartment.”

Armijo turned, took a look, and then started for the stairway. “Let’s go check it out.”

The three men crossed the street, found the resident manager’s apartment, rang the bell, and got no answer. In the parking lot, Clayton asked a woman who was leaving to take her child to day care if she knew where he could find the manager. She pointed to a man standing with a small crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk to watch the action at the crime scene.

The manager, a man with a soft belly, a sunken chest, and acne scars on his face, looked pleased when Clayton showed him his shield and led him away from the crowd to ask a few questions.

“I hear it’s a murder,” the man said in a squeaky, nasal voice, giving a nod of his head in the direction of the squad cars and flashing emergency lights. “Double homicide.”

“Can I have your name, sir?” Clayton asked.

“Bernard Arlinger.”

Clayton asked for some ID.

Arlinger showed Clayton his driver’s license and said, “I didn’t see anything, Officer. Wish I had, so I could help you.”

“Maybe you still can, Mr. Arlinger.” Clayton pointed to the apartment where he’d spotted the telescope behind the open sliding glass door. “Who lives there?”

“Nobody, right now. The tenant moved out a week ago and I’m having the unit repainted, new carpet installed, and a new kitchen sink put in. It won’t be ready to rent for another five or six days.”

“Has the work already started?”

Arlinger nodded. “Yeah, the old carpet has been torn out and the painting contractor is patching the drywall.”

“We need to get into that apartment.”

“You think it has something to do with the killings?” Arlinger’s voice rose, tinny and nasal, loud enough to turn the heads of a few people Kerney and Armijo were blocking from getting close during Clayton’s Q&A.

“Can you let us in?” Clayton asked.

A smile broke across Arlinger’s face, and he reached for the key ring attached to his belt. “Sure thing.”

At the apartment, Arlinger unlocked the door and Clayton had to clamp a hand on his arm to keep him from entering. He pulled him aside and unholstered his weapon. Both Kerney and Armijo had their sidearms out.

“I’d like you to gather all the information you have on the previous tenant and hold on to it for me. Will you do that, Mr. Arlinger? Just wait for us downstairs, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Is the electric on inside the apartment?”

Arlinger shook his head. “I turned it off. The panel is in the bedroom closet.”

“Okay, you can go now,” Clayton said.

For several seconds Arlinger stared at the three officers with their drawn weapons before scurrying away.

“Are we set?” Kerney asked from the side of the door, glancing from Armijo to Clayton. Both had flashlights at the ready.

Armijo nodded. “I’m first in.”

“Cover left,” Kerney said to Clayton. “I’ll take right.”

“Roger that.”

The trio went in fast and cleared the apartment quickly. There was no one there. Armijo found the electrical panel and turned on the lights. Except for the telescope on the tripod, some painting supplies, drop cloths, and a chalky residue from the drywall patching on the plywood subflooring, the place was empty.

“Nobody moves out of an apartment without leaving something behind,” Armijo said as he opened a kitchen cabinet drawer and dumped the contents. Several grocery store coupons floated to the floor along with a box of toothpicks and a plastic bottle of over-the-counter medicine. The rest of the drawers and cabinets were empty.

“I’m calling for forensics,” Armijo said.

“First,” Clayton replied, “I want that telescope and tripod dusted for prints. It looks brand-new and it’s not very high quality or expensive. I’ll bet it was bought at either a toy store or at one of those big-box discount retailers. Ask the manager when the last trash pickup was made. We may want somebody to go dumpster diving. It would be great if we can find a sales receipt.”

“I’m on it,” Armijo said as he left the apartment.

Clayton studied the exposed subflooring. A wide swath of the powdery dust from the drywall repairs had been wiped with a rag. He followed the cleanup attempt from the telescope in the bedroom all the way to the front door. Any evidence of footprints in the dust had also been wiped clean around the tripod and on the balcony.

A slight chill went up Clayton’s spine. Had Tim Riley’s killer watched him locate and document the partial footprints left on the cabin porch in Capitan? Is that why the footprints in the apartment had been obliterated? Was the killer watching him now, or was he just being paranoid?

Clayton looked out the open balcony door to the street below. The attention of the crowd was focused on the crime scene across the way, and nobody was looking up in his direction.

“What is it?” Kerney asked as he approached.

“Nothing?”

“It’s something.”

“I can’t be certain,” Clayton replied, “but what if we’re being watched by the killer?”

Kerney stepped onto the balcony and looked over the railing. “If, as you say, we’re dealing with a professional, that would be totally out of character unless it serves some larger purpose. But let’s have officers get names and addresses of the people on the sidewalk just in case.”

Clayton punched numbers on his cell phone and asked Lee Armijo to have APD detectives follow up with the crowd. “What larger purpose?” he asked after disconnecting.

Kerney returned to the bedroom. “Assuming Brian Riley has been the target all along, the murder of Robocker and the officer could be nothing more than some tidying up.”

“How so?” Clayton asked.

“Robocker may have known absolutely nothing, and was killed simply because the police had shown an interest in her.”

“So the perp has been watching her apartment,” Clayton said, “hoping Riley would come around, and instead the cops show up with Robocker in tow under their protection.”

“Which might have been enough to convince the perp it was time to cancel Robocker just in case she had been talking.”

“That can’t be the larger purpose,” Clayton said wearily.

Kerney patted Clayton on the arm. “I didn’t say I knew what it was; just that there might be one. Let’s go with the thought that we’ve got four homicides, five including the unborn fetus, and Brian Riley is the key to what ties them together. Let’s find him before the killer does.”

“So far that’s been easier said than done.”

Lee Armijo returned with news that the trash had been hauled away yesterday afternoon, the tenant who’d moved out of the apartment was being interviewed by detectives, officers were tracking down the workmen who’d been in the apartment since it had become vacant, and a fresh team of detectives were about to start a new canvass at their present location.

“I put a uniform to work going through the trash bin anyway and told him to look for the packing box and assembly instructions for the telescope,” Armijo said. “If he comes up empty, I told him to get a list together of any and all businesses in the city that sold that particular make and model so we could start making the rounds.”

“Good deal,” Clayton said.

“The forensic techs will be here in a few,” Armijo added, “and they ask that you not touch anything, as you might contaminate evidence and thus prevent them from solving the crimes.”

“They truly said that?” Kerney asked.

Armijo nodded. “Apparently they consider you and Sergeant Istee country cousins who have little appreciation for or knowledge of their considerable skills, or they’ve been watching too many crime scene investigation television shows.”

“Tell them I want comparison fingerprints from the previous tenant and everyone who’s been in this apartment since it was vacated,” Kerney said.

“Consider it done,” Armijo said as the first crime scene tech entered the apartment. He repeated Kerney’s request, pointed at the bedroom door, and told the tech to start in there. “Now, if you guys have a few minutes to spare, my chief, several of his deputy chiefs, and every officer at the crime scene above the rank of sergeant are waiting for you in the mobile command center. They very much would like to know—as my chief put it—‘what the fuck is going on. ’”

“Whatever,” Clayton said, stifling a yawn as he headed for the door.

As the men left the apartment, Kerney noticed dark circles under Clayton’s eyes. He looked totally worn out and in need of sleep. Kerney knew Clayton had been working full throttle for over twenty-four hours and was about to run out of steam.

At the mobile command center, Scott Kruger, the APD chief of police, a man Kerney knew and considered to be more of a politician than a cop, greeted him at the door, pulled him aside, and waited until Armijo and Clayton entered the vehicle before speaking.

A chunky man with a thin face, Kruger looked decidedly uptight. “Tell me this Indian cop knows what he’s talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

“My homicide captain tells me that this Sergeant Istee from Lincoln County says the murder of my officer and the cocktail waitress is directly related to the killings of the deputy sheriff in Capitan and his wife up in Santa Fe.”

“There’s good reason to believe that.”

Kruger grunted. “You mean it’s just a hypothesis?”

“And a very good one,” Kerney noted, already tiring of Kruger’s blustery style. It was a poor substitute for command presence, which the man totally lacked. “It’s one that I agree with, based on Sergeant Istee’s analysis.”

“And this Sergeant Istee, will he walk us through how he arrived at all of his insights?” Kruger asked without trying to mask his sarcasm.

“I’m sure if you ask nicely, he will,” Kerney replied.

“The dead deputy’s son, this Brian Riley, he’s a suspect?”

“Perhaps,” Kerney replied. “We won’t know until we find him.”

Kruger grimaced. “So I got nothing to tell the media, right?”

“After the briefing, I’d like us to make a full-bore effort to find Brian Riley, including asking the media for their assistance. That should make for a juicy breaking-news story.”

Kruger’s expression brightened as he stepped toward the mobile command center’s door. “Okay, Kerney, I’ll stay on the same page with you for a while.”

“That’s great,” Kerney replied, straight-faced.

The mobile command center was an oversize recreational vehicle crammed with communication equipment, computers, workstations, and now several more cops to add to the assembled crowd. Kruger pushed his way to the front of the vehicle, introduced Kerney and Clayton, and asked his homicide captain, Jerry Apodaca, to start the briefing.

Apodaca reported that the sliding glass door to the balcony of Robocker’s apartment showed tool marks and had been jimmied open. He noted that shoe scuff marks had been found on the exterior stucco wall below the balcony and there were telltale abrasions on the balcony’s painted wrought iron railing, suggesting that the perp had used a rope and climbed to reach Robocker’s bedroom. A motion-detection pathway light behind Robocker’s building had been disabled by the perp to provide concealment, and none of the residents with a view of the victim’s apartment balcony reported hearing or seeing anything unusual around the time of the murders.

Although Apodaca wasn’t certain about the sequence of events that occurred after the perp gained entry, the medical investigator had concluded that Officer Connors had suffered a blunt-force trauma to the head prior to being shot, which suggested the perp first disabled and disarmed the officer before proceeding with the executions. There was, Apodaca, said, no other way to describe the killings.

Apodaca reported that given the body temperature of both dead women, the MI estimated the killings took place no more than a hour before Detective Armijo and Sergeant Istee arrived at the apartment. He ended his presentation by noting the perp had to be well trained and in good physical shape to have successfully climbed into Robocker’s apartment.

Next up was Armijo’s lieutenant, Doug Bromilow, who ran down the sequence of events that led to the discovery of the marijuana factory in Four Hills. He deferred to Lee Armijo to provide the alleged tie-in between Morton Birch, Minerva Stanley Robocker, and Brian Riley, and then retook center stage to note that his ongoing investigation had yet to learn anything from the suspects, their known associates, witnesses, or neighbors that connected Brian Riley to any person who was part of the marijuana manufacturing and distribution scheme.

Kerney and Clayton finished up the session with a background synopsis that included the current status of the Santa Fe and Lincoln County murder investigations. Then Kruger asked for questions from the troops. The most persistent issue that surfaced, and rightfully so, was the total absence of a motive that would clearly connect the murders.

A few of the APD brass questioned the theory of a single shooter, but there was consensus that the killings were neither crimes of passion nor the work of amateurs. Kerney almost thanked the group for their stunning insight, but held back on the sarcasm and instead made a pitch to concentrate all efforts on finding the one person who might be most helpful to the investigations, Brian Riley.

The briefing ended with Kruger ordering his troops to go find Brian Riley pronto. After the exodus of officers from the stuffy, sweaty, mobile command center, Kerney watched Chief Kruger hurry down toward a small gathering of news reporters waiting behind a police barrier.

“I can’t be your tour guide anymore, gentlemen,” Armijo said. “My LT wants me to head back to the office and do my shift reports.”

“Thanks for your help,” Clayton said, shaking Armijo’s hand.

“Anytime,” Armijo said as he tossed off a causal hand salute in Kerney’s direction.

Kerney returned the salute. “Thanks, Detective.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” Armijo ambled away in the direction of his unmarked unit.

Clayton turned to Kerney. “Can you drop me off at my motel so I can pick up my stuff and check out?”

“Sure,” Kerney said, “but don’t check out. Get some rack time. You look like you could use the sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re running on fumes,” Kerney countered, “and I don’t need you searching for Brian Riley in that condition. Not when just about everyone who wears a shield in this state is looking for the kid.”

“This is my investigation and I can pull my own weight,” Clayton said hotly, giving Kerney an antagonistic look.

Kerney inched closer. “I’m not asking you, Sergeant. You’re off duty for at least the next eight hours. Do I make myself clear?”

For a moment Clayton remained silent, staring Kerney in the eye. Then for some unknown reason he smiled and started to laugh.

“Okay, you win, what’s so funny?” Kerney asked.

Still laughing, Clayton waved off Kerney’s question. “Nothing. Just a thought I had.”

“What thought?”

“You really want to know?”

“I do.”

Clayton stopped laughing, looked at Kerney, and shook his head. “Well, it may not be funny to you, but for the first time in my entire life, my father just ordered me to go to my room and to go to bed.”

Clayton walked away and started laughing again.

“That is pretty funny,” Kerney said as he caught up.

“And ridiculous too,” Clayton added.

The motel was a short drive from the crime scene, and by the time they arrived, Clayton was asleep and snoring heavily, his head resting against the glass of the passenger-side window. Kerney sat and watched him for a few minutes before gently shaking him awake.

Clayton rubbed his face with his hands, covered a yawn, and gave Kerney a sideways glance. “If it’s all right with you, Chief, I think I’ll catch a couple hours of shut-eye.”

“That’s a good idea,” Kerney replied. “I’ll see you in Santa Fe later in the day.”

Clayton got out of the unit and looked in at Kerney. “See you then.”

On the drive back to Santa Fe, Kerney thought about the letters Denise Riley had written home to her sister Helen Muiz during the years she’d lived away from her family. He’d only given them a quick look and hadn’t formed a clear impression, but there was something hackneyed about them, especially in the later letters Denise had written. It was as though, with the passage of time, she’d depleted her storehouse of fresh things to write home about. He wanted to analyze the letters to see if he could isolate any repetitive words or phrases Denise used, identify any stock comments or observations she made, and find any threads in the letters that might point to thinly disguised, reworked fabrications.

The fact that the federal government had no record of Denise ever applying for a passport, being issued one, or traveling outside of the United States had piqued Kerney’s interest. Once he finished analyzing the letters, he would deliver them to the Department of Public Safety crime lab and ask the Questioned Documents specialist to do a thorough analysis. He wanted to know what type of pens and inks were used, the manufacture of the paper and envelopes, if the stamps and cancellation marks were authentic, whether the handwriting was Denise’s, and if so, was consistent throughout the letters—everything the specialist could tell him.

And of course, he wanted to have the answers right away.