Death Song

Chapter Twelve

John Culley lived on a hill off a dirt lane near Acequia Madre. The area hadn’t yet become completely gentrified, but the upscale Santa Fe–style estates already outnumbered the tiny, dilapidated casitas with peeling paint, rickety doors, and tumbledown concrete block walls owned by the plebe.

The deep snow and heavy drifts on the unplowed side streets made the trip to Culley’s road a thirty-minute adventure. The three officers arrived at the bottom of the hill to find Ramona Pino parked and waiting in her unmarked unit. They stood with her in front of her vehicle and gazed at the steep, impassable lane.

“Did anyone remember to bring snowshoes?” Ramona asked.

Kerney looked down at his petite sergeant and smiled. “I don’t think it’s quite over your head. We’ll pull you to safety if it is. How far up the hill does Culley live?”

“I don’t know,” Matt replied. “I only met with him at his place of business.”

“I’ll break trail,” Clayton said.

“Lead on,” Kerney agreed.

They started out in single file behind Clayton, with Ramona and Matt bringing up the rear.

“Do we even know if Culley is at home?” Ramona asked Matt.

“Nope. On a day like this with everything shut down, the chief thought it best to make an unannounced visit so as not to raise any suspicions.”

“So what’s the plan when we get there?”

“We surround the house, while Chief Kerney and Sergeant Istee knock at the front door and introduce themselves.”

“That should work.”

Up ahead, Clayton and Kerney paused to look at street numbers on some mailboxes that were poking up above the snow level at curbside.

Ramona was happy to take a break. Trying to keep up with her long-legged companions had turned into quite a chore. “Do you think Culley was the father of Denise Riley’s unborn child?” she asked.

Matt gulped down some cold air that freeze-dried his throat. “I had the distinct impression that he was gay. But maybe he’s bi.”

“There was no mention in your notes that you talked to Culley’s alleged lover.”

“Never did,” Matt said. His legs were aching from pulling each foot free from the deep snow and plunging on. “At the time of my interview, Culley was a source of information, not a suspect.”

Ramona’s breath iced up in the air. “Maybe Culley’s housemate, lover, or whatever you want to call him, is a beard.”

“Could be. Do you think Culley killed her because she was pregnant or because she had appropriated some of their ill-gotten gains without his knowledge?”

Ramona’s nose was runny. She wiped it with a tissue. “Rage is one possible motive. Greed, jealousy are others.”

“Maybe Culley, his lover, and Denise Riley were a ménage à trois.”

“That’s an interesting notion.” She stuffed the tissue in a coat pocket.

Twenty feet ahead, Kerney and Clayton stood at the front of a driveway where two vehicles sat under a carport. Neither the walkway to the house nor the driveway showed any sign of foot or vehicle traffic. There were lights on inside the residence.

Using hand signals, Kerney motioned for Ramona to cover the front of the house and Matt to take the back.

“I doubt Culley is going to try make a getaway under these conditions,” Matt said as he checked his semiautomatic and returned it to its holster.

“You’re such a spoilsport, Chacon,” Ramona said as he moved off.

Culley’s house was one of those old adobe casitas that had been renovated, expanded, and made into a seven-figure property. It had a squat profile, rounded parapets, recessed windows in the double adobe walls, two chimneys spewing piñon smoke into the cold sky, a wide flagstone portal, and a tall, hand-carved antique Mexican front door.

Kerney rang the doorbell and brushed snow off his soaked pant legs with a gloved hand while he waited. Clayton stood to one side of the door stomping his feet to loosen snow from his boots. He had his hand in his jacket pocket, gripping his semiautomatic.

The door opened to reveal a slender, middle-aged man wearing a crewneck wool sweater, fleece sweatpants, and bedroom slippers. He had rather tiny feet. Size eight, Clayton guessed.

“John Culley?” Kerney asked.

“Yes, indeed.” Culley glanced from Kerney to Clayton with what appeared to be amused interest. “Surely you’re not new neighbors, unless someone has moved away from the lane within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Surely, we’re not, Mr. Culley.” Kerney stepped through the doorway before Culley could react. “Or should I call you Archie Pattison?”

Culley’s lighthearted expression vanished. “You’re cops?”

“Indeed we are. Is there anyone in the house besides you?”

“My partner is in the library.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Very good. Where is the library?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The library, Culley,” Kerney demanded.

“Straight through the living room and turn left at the hallway.”

Kerney nodded to Clayton, who went to round up Culley’s partner.

“Why are you barging in here?” Culley asked.

“We’re arresting you on five counts of murder one.” The death of Denise’s unborn child counted as a separate homicide. Kerney spun Culley around, pushed him up against a wall, cuffed his hands at the small of his back, and recited the Miranda rights.

“That’s absurd.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you killed them, Culley? You’re going to prison anyway for illegal entry, false identity, and whatever else the feds decide to throw at you.”

Culley’s eyes narrowed. “I have nothing to say to you, and I want to call a lawyer.”

“All in good time.” Kerney used his handheld to call Ramona and Matt into the house. When they arrived, he turned Culley over to them and went to find Clayton, who was talking to a nervous man in the library.

“This is Proctor Whitley,” Clayton said.

Whitley looked to be about Culley’s age. He was stout and had a long narrow chin that quivered slightly.

“Are you going to arrest him?” Kerney asked.

“Whatever for?” the man asked in a quaking voice.

Clayton shrugged. “He says he wants to cooperate.”

“Okay, see what he has to say. Matt and Ramona will work with you. I’ll tell them to get started on a search warrant.”

“Where are you going?”

“Culley doesn’t want to give up his Miranda rights, so I’m taking him to jail. Check in with me when you’re done here.”

“Will do.”

At the front alcove, Kerney told Culley he was going to jail and pushed him out the door.

“There’s three feet of snow out here,” Culley said. “At least let me put my shoes on and get a coat.”

“It’s not that far down the hill,” Kerney said as he yanked Culley off the portal face-first into the deep snow. “You’ll make it just fine.”

During the drive to the county detention center on Highway 14 outside of town, Culley didn’t say a word. He didn’t even bitch about being forced to walk through the snow in his bedroom slippers without a coat. He sat silently in the backseat shivering and staring out the window with a blank look on his face.

At the jail, Kerney asked Culley if he wanted to change his mind and talk without an attorney present. Culley gave Kerney a scornful look and shook his head. Kerney put him in a holding cell and went to do the paperwork. Just as he was finishing up, Sid Larranaga, the district attorney, sat down next to him.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Kerney said.

Sid removed his hat and ran a hand through his slicked-back hair. “This is your last major case before you retire, and I want to make sure you get it right.”

Kerney smiled. Sid had publicly announced that he would not stand for reelection two years hence, and there was talk among the local politicos that he planned to run for state attorney general instead. The Culley case, if won, would be a feather in his cap as a true crime fighter.

“That’s awfully good of you, Sid. Do my people have a search warrant?”

“They do. Judge Cooke just phoned it in. Is your murder suspect going to cooperate and make a full, voluntary confession?”

“Not a chance. This guy is a cool customer.”

Sal took off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair. “Okay, beyond probable cause, tell me what you’ve got.”

Kerney ran it down, and by the time he was finishing up, Larranaga didn’t look happy.

“You’re telling me you don’t have a clear-cut motive, there’s nothing yet to tie Culley to the double homicide in Albuquerque, and the evidence gathered in Capitan and Cañoncito only puts him at the crime scenes but doesn’t prove he killed Deputy Riley and his wife.”

“That’s right,” Kerney replied.

Sal looked gloomy. “Sometimes I wish I had become a defense attorney. So far all you’ve got that I can walk into a courtroom with right now is a case against a felon wanted on a fugitive warrant for a heist in Australia who’s been living the good life in the old U.S. of A. under an alias with a forged passport and screwing his now deceased, recently murdered secretary while pretending to be gay.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist, Sal,” Kerney said. “You know as well as I do that the really important work comes after an arrest.”

Sal grunted. “Three weeks from now when you’re retired and sitting under the portal in a rocking chair on your ranch, I’ll remember that. I swear, Kerney, if this case does go to trial on the murder one charges, I’m going to subpoena you to testify even if it means you have to come back here from London or wherever the hell you’ll be living at the time.”

Kerney laughed. “I’ll be glad to oblige. How long do you think it will be before Culley can talk face-to-face with a lawyer?”

“With the way the roads are, I doubt anybody’s going to be willing to make the trip out here from town until late tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”

“I’d hate to see him go into the general population if there’s a chance that his lawyer can get out here sooner rather than later.”

Larranaga raised an eyebrow. Kerney wanted Culley kept overnight in a holding cell, which came handsomely equipped with a concrete slab to sleep on, a washbasin, a crapper, and a glaringly bright ceiling light that was never turned off. It was unorthodox treatment to say the least, but certainly well deserved for a scumbag who had five murder counts against him, including two cops.

“Has Culley made his phone call?” Sid asked.

“Not yet. He’ll be processed and dressed out first.”

“Once he does make that call, I certainly wouldn’t want him to be denied quick access to legal counsel,” Sid said. “I’ll ask the shift supervisor to keep him in the holding cell until his lawyer arrives.”

“Excellent. Also, I need a search warrant to draw a blood sample from Culley, so the lab can determine whether or not he was the father of Denise Riley’s unborn child.”

“The fetus has been preserved?”

“It has.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Sal said.

“Have you made a decision on Clifford Talbott?”

“I’m ruling it a justified homicide. Kirt Latimer will cut him loose tomorrow.”

“Would you mind if I told him he’s off the hook?” Kerney asked.

“You know him personally, right?” Sid stood and stuck an arm into a coat sleeve.

“I know him casually, but he strikes me as a good man.”

“Go ahead and tell him. I’ll have Kirt give his wife a call so she can arrange to pick him up. I’d like you and all your principal investigators to meet with me in my office at eight A.M., so we can go over everything we’ve got so far.”

“That’s not a problem.”

Larranaga gave Kerney a sad shake of his head. “It’s not going to be the same without you, Kerney.”

Kerney got to his feet and slapped Larranaga on the back. “Now, don’t go and get all teary-eyed on me, Sid.”

Sid faked a sniffle and wiped away an imaginary tear. “I’ll see you in the morning, Chief.”

Kerney nodded, gathered up his paperwork, and dropped the booking forms off to the correctional officer at the intake station. Before he asked for Clifford Talbott to be brought to an interview room to meet with him, Kerney stopped by the holding cell to tell Culley that he’d be spending the night lying on a cold slab, which was exactly where he belonged.

After advising a very relieved Clifford Talbott that he would not be prosecuted for the shooting death of Brian Riley, Kerney returned to the Culley residence. During his absence, Clayton, Ramona, and Matt Chacon had executed the search warrant and called in Don Mielke, several of his S.O. investigators, and three city detectives to help collect evidence.

In the kitchen, which had been designated as the evidence collection area, Kerney looked over what had already been discovered. An empty battered briefcase with traces of soil on it, most likely from the well house, sat on the kitchen table. Next to it were a number of gold coins in clear plastic sleeves, and passports from the United Kingdom, Canada, and Belize bearing Denise Riley’s photograph and the names of Diane Plumley, Debra Stokes, and Dorothy Travis—the aliases used by Denise that had been uncovered by Claire Paley, the questioned document expert.

Kerney gave the gold coins a careful once-over. Some were Krugerrands, and according to the Brisbane P.D. coin heist case file, none of the stolen Edgerton coins had been Krugerrands. He asked the young sheriff’s investigator who’d been assigned the responsibility of receiving, logging, and guarding evidence if the Krugerrands had been found with the other coins.

The cop consulted the form on his clipboard and nodded affirmatively.

Also on the table was a Beretta over/under twenty-gauge shotgun with gold engraving and a high-grade walnut stock worth at least six to eight thousand dollars. Kerney wondered if it had been the weapon used to kill Deputy Riley.

“Have other guns been found?” he asked.

“Not yet, Chief,” the investigator said. “But that sweet Beretta twenty-gauge you’re looking at showed up as stolen from a gun heist in Montreal, Canada, over twelve years ago. Twenty-three sporting weapons and rare antique rifles were taken out of a private residence while the owners were vacationing in Mexico. Total value of the haul at the time of the burglary was 1.2 million in Canadian dollars. Major Mielke has requested a copy of the case file from the Montreal police.”

“Do we have any indication that Culley may be connected to the robbery?”

“Not yet, but Detective Chacon is working on it.”

“Well, if Culley did pull the heist, I can understand why he kept the shotgun,” Kerney said. “It’s a beauty. Is there any evidence the gun has been recently used?”

The cop shook his head. “It’s been thoroughly cleaned and oiled, but Sergeant Istee says it wasn’t used to kill Deputy Riley.”

“Why does he say that?”

“Because a twelve-gauge was used in that shooting.”

On the countertop next to the sink was a pair of men’s lightweight hiking boots with a tread that matched the shoe impression Clayton had found on the trail to the well house. There was soil embedded in the heel which a forensic geologist might be able to match to the soil at the well house. The size label stitched inside the tongue showed that the books were indeed a size eight narrow.

Next to the hiking boots was an closed accordion document file. Kerney asked the young S.O. investigator what was inside.

“Financial papers, Chief. Sergeant Pino said she would have a detective go through them after the house search is completed.”

Kerney looked at what had been gathered so far. It was all good, damning circumstantial evidence, but hardly the stuff an ironclad multiple murder conviction was made of. In his head, he could hear Sid Larranaga saying the same thing at the meeting tomorrow morning.

Clayton entered the kitchen carrying a Glock 9mm handgun in a clear plastic bag.

“Is that the same caliber used in the Robocker-Connors homicides?” Kerney asked hopefully.

“Negative.” Clayton handed the weapon to the young officer, who began logging it in as evidence. “According to the autopsy reports, the bullets that killed Robocker and Officer Connors came from a thirty-eight. Probably a throwaway. Did Culley confess or make a statement?”

“He said he wanted a lawyer and clammed up. The DA has asked to meet with us tomorrow morning, and he’ll be waiting to hear that we’ve got hard evidence he can use to guarantee a conviction.”

“I’d like that too, but so far it isn’t happening. I called Detective Armijo at APD and gave him information about Culley’s vehicle. He’s gathering video from the surveillance cameras at Robocker’s apartment complex and a nearby traffic camera used to catch drivers who run red lights. Hopefully, we’ll be able to put Culley in his vehicle at or near the crime scene.”

“What did Proctor Whitley have to say?”

“Whitley’s gay, Culley’s bi, and Denise Riley, who was also bi, was Culley’s lover. Whitley swears he didn’t know Denise was pregnant. He did say that Culley went out of town to attend some insurance training seminars just before and after Deputy Riley’s murder and the double homicide in Albuquerque. We still don’t know if he’s an accomplice in Culley’s past crimes or involved in any of the homicides.”

“If Culley ever starts talking, it will be interesting to see what kind of alibi he comes up,” Kerney said. “So you’re telling me that Tim Riley was the poor sap Denise Riley married to make her straight, Catholic siblings believe that she’d given up her wild ways and settled down.”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“I’ve asked the DA to get a search warrant to draw a blood sample from Culley.”

“Culley had to be the one who got Denise pregnant,” Clayton said. “That’s the only way this makes any sense. I think Denise Riley made a decision to leave Tim Riley, talked him into taking the Lincoln County S.O. job, and had no intention of moving with him. Maybe she was even planning to leave Santa Fe and disappear. I also think she decided to have the baby rather than abort, and when Culley demanded that she abort it, she decided to end her relationship with him. Maternal instincts can be very powerful.”

“There was a strong sexual element to the staging of Denise’s murder in Cañoncito,” Kerney said. “And it was his least well-organized killing. It was if he was angry, not thinking clearly, and wanted to degrade her. But why bushwhack Deputy Riley, hunt down Brian Riley, and kill Robocker and Connors along the way?”

“Paranoia makes sense,” Clayton replied. “Maybe Culley started worrying that Denise had spilled the beans to her husband and stepson about him, their criminal past together, and their intimate relationship. Maybe he figured Brian could have told Robocker, so to protect himself Culley took her out. Officer Connors just happened to get in the way.”

“I want to know everything there is to know about John Culley, aka Archie Pattison,” Kerney said. “I want Sid Larranaga armed with enough information about Culley to convince a jury that the man had the necessary knowledge and expertise to commit these crimes. And I want Proctor Whitley put through an intense interrogation. Either he washes clean in all past or present cases or we book him on every felony we can think of that applies. Have Sergeant Pino take him into custody, remove him from the premises to police headquarters, and start the process now. Tell her we need to squeeze every bit of pertinent information we can out of him pronto.”

Clayton gave Kerney a quizzical look. “We’ve got a lot of time to work this case before it goes to trial. Why the big hurry?”

“Because I’m running out of time and I want this case as far along as possible on the day I retire.” Kerney turned and started for the door.

“Fair enough. Where are you going now?”

“To tell Helen Muiz that we’ve caught her sister’s killer. I’ll be back.”

In the days remaining until his retirement, Kerney put in long hours overseeing the progress of the investigation. While it was clear he would leave without handing Sal Larranaga the clear-cut proof needed to guarantee Culley’s conviction as a mass murderer, the circumstantial evidence that the team had amassed against Culley was overwhelming.

Detective Lee Armijo’s review of videotapes from surveillance and traffic cameras clearly put Culley in the vicinity of the Robocker-Connors murders on the day before the crime. A deep background check of Archie Pattison, aka John Culley, revealed that not only had he served in the Royal Marines, he’d been trained in an elite force that carried out special covert ops.

In the years following his military service, Culley had traveled the world, financing his extravagant lifestyle by pulling off well-planned robberies. Both the Brisbane coin heist and the Montreal weapons caper had been conclusively pinned on Culley and Denise Riley, and based on evidence seized at Culley’s house, the duo were primary suspects in a half-dozen more cold cases spanning three continents.

Arrest warrants for Culley had been issued by police departments of three foreign countries, and various federal agencies had slapped heavy felony charges against him for violating a number of immigration laws and criminal statues. But Kerney figured once Culley was convicted on the murder one counts, most of the pending cases would be dropped.

Ramona Pino’s interrogation of Proctor Whitley revealed the man was not an accomplice to any of Culley’s crimes. He agreed to cooperate fully and gave specific information about several heated arguments he’d overheard where Culley had demanded that Denise get an abortion. Because it went straight to the issue of Culley’s motive, Sid Larranaga loved it. Sid was also very happy when the paternity test results confirmed that Culley had been the father of Denise’s unborn child.

Even with his hectic work schedule, Kerney got to savor some special moments. In a ceremony at the Lincoln County Courthouse, with Sara, Patrick, Wendell, and Hannah standing at his side, he watched Grace and Sheriff Paul Hewitt pin lieutenant bars on Clayton’s collar. That same week, back in Santa Fe, he pinned lieutenant bars on Ramona Pino and announced that the mayor had appointed Larry Otero, Kerney’s second in command, to be the next chief of the department.

There were somber moments too. Kerney attended the burial of Deputy Tim Riley at the Santa Fe National Cemetery, a memorial service in Albuquerque for Officer Judy Connors, and Denise Riley’s funeral, all within the span of a few days.

Devastated by Denise’s murder and the revelations of her secret past, Helen Muiz chose not to return to work prior to her official retirement date. She sent her husband Ruben to clean out her office, and while he was there he told Kerney that he was taking Helen to Italy to visit the Vatican and that the archbishop was attempting to secure an audience for her with the pope.

Because he was still spending most of his time away from home on the case, Clayton talked Grace into taking some time off from work, letting the kids miss a few days of school, and joining him in Santa Fe. They stayed with Kerney, Sara, and Patrick in the guest quarters at the ranch, and for five days the house was a beehive of activity filled with the sound of children slamming doors, running in and out, giggling and laughing, arguing about what games to play, drawing pictures and coloring at the kitchen table, and asking any adult within earshot to let them go horseback riding again and again and again.

Having Clayton and his family as houseguests clearly emboldened Sara’s spirits. When their guests left to go back home, she told Kerney it had been the best five days since her return from Iraq.

“I could see that,” he said.

“It was my most fun time ever,” Patrick said.

“I could see that too,” he said. “Maybe you need a brother or a sister.”

“A little brother,” Patrick announced, “not another grownup one like Clayton.”

“What about a little sister?” Sara asked.

Patrick thought about it for a moment. “That would be okay.”

Sara reached down, scooped him up, and nuzzled his cheek. “We’ll see what we can do.”

There is a ceremonial mesa on the Mescalero Apache Reservation that gives a clear south-southwest view of White Sands, the Tularosa Basin, and the San Andres Mountains beyond, seventy-five miles distant. The day after Lieutenant Clayton Istee had wrapped up the Tim Riley homicide investigation, he tiptoed out of the house at three-thirty in the morning while his wife and children slept, and went to the mesa.

Although the dream of Tim Riley singing the Death Song hadn’t reoccurred, it had become fixed in Clayton’s mind and he needed to shake it off permanently. In the darkness of the night with the Big Dipper overhead, he took two large rocks, placed one at the north compass point and the other at the west, which was the direction the dead always took during their beginning passage. Between the two rocks Clayton buried a photograph of Tim Riley in uniform that he’d taken from the Cañoncito double-wide and then bracketed the photograph with smaller stones to symbolically separate the image from the living world. Finished, he stood back, tossed a handful of dirt into the center of the circle, said a few words about Tim Riley, and left for home.

In four days, he would return to the mesa and remove all traces of the burial ritual. As he drove down the mesa, he could already feel himself letting go of Tim Riley. Or was Riley’s ghost letting go of him?