Everyone Dies

Chapter 11

T hrough a stream of fax messages and phone calls, the Santa Fe PD had kept Sheriff Paul Hewitt advised of the progress of the investigation. As soon as he got the word that a credible suspect had been identified in Socorro, Hewitt called Clayton Istee, who was with his family at his in-laws’ house. He gave Istee the skinny on the ID of Victoria Drake, her tie-in to Noel Olsen, and the search under way at Olsen’s house.

“They’ve found evidence that connects Olsen to the bombing and all but one of the homicides,” Hewitt added.

“I’m going up there,” Clayton said.

“Stay with your family, Sergeant,” Hewitt said. “They need you.”

“My family’s fine,” Clayton replied. “Grace and the kids are taken care of and well-protected.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I’m not going to sit here and do nothing,” Clayton said heatedly. “One way or the other, I want in on the investigation.”

Hewitt knew arguing wouldn’t change Clayton’s mind and ordering him not to go would be pointless. “Okay, I’m placing you on training leave for the rest of the week. You’re to observe methods and procedures used by the Santa Fe PD major felony unit. Observe is the key word. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

“Thank you,” Clayton said.

“Don’t overstep your bounds, Sergeant,” Hewitt said. “It could cost us both, big time.”

“Who’s the contact in Socorro?” Clayton asked.

“Detective Pino.”

“Ten-four,” Clayton said.

He made the drive to Socorro running a silent code three all the way, trying not to think too much about Grace and the children. Wendell, usually so talkative, had fallen silent. Hannah refused to leave her mother’s side and didn’t understand why she couldn’t go home. Grace vacillated between black despair and frantic bursts of energy, one minute refusing to look at anybody, the next minute whirling through her parents’ living room straightening up the numerous toys that relatives had brought over for the children, especially the Lincoln Log set Wendell kept building into houses and then destroying.

He felt guilty for leaving Grace to do all the phone calling to the bank, the mortgage company, government agencies, and the insurance agent to get their claims started and replace all the important documents that had been destroyed. But in his current state of mind he would have been useless at doing any of it himself.

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,” Clayton 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.

He went into the kitchen where Thorpe and Pino were looking behind the refrigerator and under the sink. “Let’s get some techs out here,” he said.

“What have you got?” Thorpe asked.

“It could be a crime scene,” Clayton replied. “I think somebody was kept prisoner in the utility closet.”

“Another victim?” Pino asked as she flipped open her cell phone and made the call.

“Yeah, maybe,” Clayton said. “But who?”

“A third anomaly,” Russell Thorpe said as he peeked into the utility closet and saw nothing that pointed to a person being kept captive. He decided not to question Sergeant Istee about it. “What next?” he asked.

Ramona held up the address book she’d found in a drawer next to the wall phone by the refrigerator. “First, I need to bring my lieutenant up to speed.” She spoke to Thorpe, deliberately excluding Clayton. “Then, let’s start calling people. If Olsen really is our perp, somebody he knows should be able to tell us something of value.”

“I’ll work part of the list,” Clayton said.

“That’s not the role of an observer,” Ramona replied.

“Do you really want to waste time arguing with me about it?” Clayton asked.

Ramona paused and thought about it. Technically, she could order Istee to back off, but she didn’t want to do it. He was sharp, experienced, and had been more than helpful. “Okay,” she said, “you’re in.”

Samuel Green parked in front of the Laundromat on St. Michael’s Drive, grabbed the pillow case filled with his dirty clothes, and walked inside. The place was empty except for a long-haired college kid who was sitting at a table next to the wall dispenser that changed bills into quarters for the machines.

Green dumped his pillowcase on top of a dryer, which made the kid glance up from his book. Green smiled and the kid nodded in reply and went back to scribbling notes on a yellow pad.

He stuffed his laundry into a machine, poured in some detergent, and walked to the change machine. The kid slid his chair out of the way so Green could get by.

“How you doing?” Green asked, as he inserted the bill into the machine and waited for the quarters to drop down into the slot.

“Good,” the kid replied.

“Studying?” Green asked as he fished the coins out. The kid couldn’t be more than twenty.

“Yeah, summer school. I’m taking a required history course.”

“I like history,” Green said as he started up the washing machine. “You can learn about a lot of interesting people.”

The kid made a face. “Not me.”

“Why not?” Green asked as he sat at the table.

The kid closed his book. “It’s just a survey course of names, dates, and events that you’ve got to memorize, and the instructor is real lame.”

“That’s too bad, because history can be real educational,” Green said. “Like this place, for example. It’s got some history.”

The kid laughed. “What kind of history does a Laundromat have?”

“There was a murder here a long time ago,” Green replied. “An old lady was beaten to death with a hammer.”

“You’re kidding. Right here?”

“That’s right. She owned the place and came in one night to fill up the soap dispensers and collect the money from the machines. She got robbed and killed.”

“No shit? Did they catch who did it?”

Green nodded. “Yeah, a fourteen-year-old. They say he hit her ten times with the hammer. Burst her head open like a melon. There was blood all over the place.”

“Gross,” the kid said. “Did he get sent away for life?”

“You can’t do that to a fourteen-year-old,” Green replied. “In this state, young kids can’t get sent to prison. They get adjudicated and sent to reform schools. Except now they don’t call them that anymore. But they’re still under lock and key.”

“What happened to him?”

“They had to release him when he was twenty-one. Then he just disappeared.”

“Maybe he learned his lesson.”

Green nodded. “Yeah, he got reformed, I bet. I guess there’s hope for all of us.”

“That sounds sarcastic,” the kid said. “Are you a cop?”

Green laughed. “No, but I guess you could call me a criminologist.”

The dryer buzzer sounded. The kid gathered up his stuff and went to get his clothes. “So, you’re a teacher.”

“More like a student of criminal behavior,” Green said as he followed along.

“Graduate school?” the kid asked, eyeing Green as he crammed his laundry into a backpack.

“Doing some research,” Green replied elliptically with a nod.

“Well, with all the murders in town lately, you must be staying pretty busy,” the kid said as he zipped the backpack closed.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Green replied with a toothy grin.

The kid strapped on the backpack, said good-bye, and walked across the street toward the college. Green sat on one of the dryers and looked around. Except for new machines and a fresh paint job, not much had changed since the night he’d killed that old lady.

Because it predated his transformation to Samuel Green, the murder didn’t count in the usual sense. None of the early ones did. They all belonged to someone who’d not yet learned to be thoughtful, studious, and deliberate about murder.

Still, it had been a turning point in his life. Because no one had believed that his parents abused him-they were, after all, respected, upstanding citizens-he’d spent seven more years in hell at home, only to be followed by incarceration at the Boys’ School in Springer, where he’d surely been reformed.

He hadn’t meant to kill the old lady, but she’d resisted, and he needed that money to run away. So he hit her with the hammer, and it felt so good he did it again and again until her head was a bloody mess and she was lying on the floor.

The washing machine slowed to a stop. He transferred the clothes to a dryer and started thinking about a way to find out where Kerney and his wife where staying. It could be anywhere: a hotel, a friend’s house, one of those short-term vacation rentals, or even a bed-and-breakfast. Wherever they were, Green was pretty sure Kerney had arranged for 24/7 police protection to keep his wife safe.

Earlier in the day, he’d spent a couple of wasted hours listening to police radio traffic on his scanner, hoping he could locate them that way. When that didn’t work, he thought about following cops around town to see if one would lead him to them, but abandoned the idea as impractical. He needed to do something that would draw Kerney and the wife out into the open.

What would get them scrambling? He ran down a list of possible events in his mind and stopped when he got to the house that Kerney was building. From what he’d seen at the construction site, a lot of money was being poured into it. Although the horse barn was metal and the house was being made with adobe, there was enough wood lying around to start a really nice range fire, which would probably bring Kerney and his wife running.

The idea of arson appealed to Samuel Green. All he needed to do was to find another way in to avoid being spotted by anybody on the main ranch road. That shouldn’t be too hard. On the east boundary of Kerney’s land a railroad spur and a maintenance road ran from the Lamy junction to Santa Fe. In the evening, he would check it out to see how close he could get by car.

Even if he had to hoof it a bit, the site was remote enough to give him time to get away before the fire trucks arrived. Then he’d find a place near the highway to wait for Kerney to appear. After that, he’d just follow him back to town.

It should work. But if it didn’t, there was still the fire to look forward to. He could picture flames raging in a night sky, turning the grassland charcoal black, burning up all the construction material lying around, maybe even getting hot enough to buckle the steel horse barn and kill all the big pinon trees.

It was too bad that the explosion and fire in Mescalero had been kept from spreading, too bad that he’d been forced to leave in a hurry and miss the enjoyment of it all.

Green took a deep breath to calm down and think straight. Before he got too excited about the plan, he needed to make a trial run to see if it was feasible. He’d do that tonight.

The dryer buzzer pulled his thoughts away from the scheme. He folded his clothes neatly, placed them inside the pillowcase, and took one last look around the Laundromat. It had been a real kick to visit the scene of his first crime and tell the college kid about it.

Bone-tired from a lack of sleep, Kerney sat at his desk and tried to stay focused as Sal Molina and Cruz Tafoya gave him an update. Clayton Istee was in Socorro with Ramona Pino and Russell Thorpe. Although there strictly to observe, Clayton was helping out with the canvass of Olsen’s friends and acquaintances to gain information about his recent behavior and state of mind.

“That’s fine with me,” Kerney said, brushing aside the unasked question about Clayton’s role in the investigation.

“So far, they’ve got nothing,” Tafoya said, “except for the fact that nobody’s seen Olsen for the past two weeks. He didn’t have many friends, and those who have been interviewed reported he seemed okay. No aberrant behavior, no verbal preoccupation about his criminal past, and no talk about a last-minute vacation to Scotland.”

“That fits with what Olsen’s supervisor and coworkers told Detective Pino,” Molina added.

“Also, the letters Olsen sent to his mother over the years contained no hint that he was plotting revenge or planning to go on a murder spree,” Tafoya said.

“I doubt he’d admit that to his mother,” Kerney said. “What about Chacon’s interviews at the penitentiary?”

“It was a mixed bag,” Molina replied. “The two other perps in the rape-murder case thought Olsen was more than capable of killing again. Of course, they laid the whole thing at Olsen’s feet. The Aryan brother who turned Olsen into his bitch doesn’t buy it. He pretty much said Olsen was a poser and a whiner while he was in the slam.”

Kerney looked at Tafoya. “Do you think Olsen’s mother held back information about his whereabouts?”

“No, I think she was genuinely upset that he’s missing.”

“So, except for Charles Stewart and Archie Schroder, who probably have their own agendas, nobody else sees Olsen as a stone-cold killer,” Kerney said.

“That’s affirmative,” Molina said, “and according to Probation and Parole, Olsen was the star of Victoria Drake’s caseload, a model parolee who went on to get a full pardon and his voting rights restored.”

Kerney picked up the list of seized evidence Ramona Pino had faxed to Molina and waved it at him. “How do we explain all the goodies that were found at Olsen’s house? Or the fact that we have a police artist sketch that looks a hell of a lot like Olsen, and that’s based on information from reliable, local witnesses?”

“Who encountered him near one of the crime scenes,” Tafoya noted.

Molina shrugged. “It gets even more confusing. Sergeant Istee found tire tracks from the blue van at Olsen’s house, so we know for certain the vehicle was there. He also found evidence that someone may have been kept prisoner in a utility room inside the house, and two footprints that match those found on your property but don’t square up with Olsen’s shoe size. The crime scene techs are on it.”

Kerney rubbed his hand over his chin. “Anything else?”

“Olsen left his passport and six hundred dollars in traveler’s checks behind,” Molina said. “They were hidden in a coffee can in the kitchen pantry. Why would he do that if he wasn’t planning to go back there? And if he was planning to return, why would he leave so much physical evidence that connected him to the murders lying around for us to find?”

Kerney held up two fingers. “Add to that these two questions: Who, if anyone, was held captive, and why did Olsen kill Victoria Drake? Olsen had to know it would lead us right to him.”

“He made a mistake,” Tafoya replied.

“That’s what I was hoping for last night,” Kerney said. “But I’m not so sure this is it.”

“He wants us to know who he is,” Molina said.

“Maybe, but let’s dig a little deeper.”

“We have one new possible lead,” Molina said, pulling a piece of paper out of his case file. “The techs found fingerprints in the engine compartment of the van that belong to an ex-con in Tucson. The guy’s an auto mechanic who did a dime for armed robbery. I’ve got the Tucson PD tracking him down.”

“Good,” Kerney said as he pushed his chair back and stood. “Get Pino started on looking into Olsen’s finances. If Sergeant Istee is willing to continue to help out, all the better.” He picked up his file folder. “Is this everything?”

“Right up to the minute,” Molina said, “except for the photographs we took of the protestors outside the building. Olsen wasn’t with them. Do you want me to get you copies?”

“Not now,” Kerney said as he walked to the door. “I’ll be at Andy Baca’s house if you need me.”

Kerney left headquarters and drove to Andy’s house with an eye glued to the rearview mirror looking for a tail. There was none. He waved to the patrol officer parked at the curb and walked to the front door, wondering if he had anything positive about the investigation to tell Sara. It sure didn’t seem so.