Everyone Dies

Chapter 6

M echanical problems with the plane delayed Norm Kaplan’s arrival in Albuquerque by over four hours. From the second-level observation deck, Santa Fe Police Officer Seth Neal, who’d been cooling his heels all that time, watched the plane land, turn, and taxi slowly to the terminal. He walked to the gate and asked the woman at the check-in counter to have a flight attendant advise Kaplan that a police officer would be waiting for him when he deplaned. He reassured her that everything was cool, and the woman’s somewhat startled, questioning look disappeared.

Neal, who normally rode a motorcycle during the summer months and drove a squad car the rest of the year, didn’t particularly like the assignment he’d been given. As a traffic officer, Neal’s notion of a good day at work consisted of writing tickets, running speed traps, investigating accidents, pulling dignitary escort details, and busting drunk drivers.

Conspicuous in his uniform with tight-fitting pants and motorcycle boots, Neal stood to one side of the open jetway door as the first-class passengers hurried past, casting curious glances in his direction. A tall man dressed in jeans and an expensive pumice-colored linen sport coat broke ranks and veered toward him.

“Mr. Kaplan?” Neal inquired.

Kaplan nodded. A pained, tired expression carved deep lines around his mouth. “Have you caught Jack’s killer?” he asked.

“No, sir. I’m here to escort you to Santa Fe.”

“Why?”

“The detectives need to speak with you as soon as possible,” Neal replied.

“I have my own car,” Kaplan replied.

“Yes, sir, I know. I’ll take you to it, and follow you to Santa Fe.”

“Why do you need to do that?” Kaplan asked, his eyes searching Neal’s face.

“It’s just a precaution,” Neal replied. “Did you check any luggage?”

“What kind of precaution?” Kaplan asked, his voice rising.

Neal touched Kaplan’s arm to get him moving. “The detectives will explain it. Do you have any luggage checked?”

Kaplan nodded and Neal prodded him down the long corridor toward the lower level. In the baggage claim area, Neal kept Kaplan away from the passengers who ringed the carousel waiting for their luggage to arrive as he searched the crowd looking for any suspicious characters.

As luggage began tumbling down the conveyer belt, Kaplan asked questions about the investigation. Neal told him what he knew, which wasn’t much, and Kaplan groused about the scantiness of the information.

Kaplan spied his bag, grabbed it, and Neal drove him to the off-site lot where his car was parked. He made Kaplan wait in the unit and did a visual inspection of the vehicle. He returned and ordered Kaplan to stay in the squad car.

“Why?”

“There’s a dead dog on the driver’s seat,” Neal said.

“Oh my God,” Kaplan said, his voice cracking. “What kind of dog?”

“I don’t know,” Neal said, as he reached for his cell phone to ask Santa Fe for instructions. “But we’re gonna be here for a while.”

He didn’t tell Kaplan that the dog had been beheaded.

Sid Larranaga paced in front of his big oak desk, built by prison inmates. On it was a plaque with Larranaga’s name carved in script, bordered on each side by the sun symbol of the state flag, which had been borrowed from a nineteenth-century Zia Pueblo pottery design.

Originally the symbol-a circle with lines radiating out in the four major directions of the compass-represented the stages of life, the cycle of the seasons, and the sacred obligations of the Zia people: clear minds, strong bodies, pure spirits, and devotion to the welfare of the tribe.

The design had been adopted in 1925, but to this day there were tribal members who didn’t appreciate the state ripping-off a hallowed religious symbol without the Pueblos’ permission.

Kerney waited for Sid to stop pacing. No longer the Young Turk politician who’d been swept into office and reelected district attorney a second time, Larranaga had put on some weight. His pudgy stomach jiggled a bit over a tightly cinched belt.

Sid sank into an overstuffed chair, took a cigar out of a humidor that sat on the corner of the desk, clamped it between his teeth, left it unlit, and stared at Kerney with a perplexed frown on his face.

He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at Kerney. “You can’t possibly believe that Larsen’s death was justifiable. Thirty-five rounds fired by your people and Larsen shot three times in the back. Give me a break.”

“That’s not the issue,” Kerney replied.

Larranaga snorted. “If that’s not a perfect example of overkill, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s impossible to precisely forecast the level of threat to an officer. Larsen ran to elude questioning, and Detective Pino’s assumption that he was armed proved to be correct. That made it a high-risk situation. Furthermore, Larsen initiated a deadly assault, which put the officers’ lives in jeopardy.”

“I’m not questioning that,” Sid replied, dropping the unlit cigar into an ashtray. “What I have a problem with is the fact that your people had an overwhelming advantage over Larsen. Why didn’t they retreat, take cover, and give him a verbal warning?”

“My people were fired upon by a concealed subject in dense cover without provocation,” Kerney replied. “They had no time to retreat, but a warning was given.”

“Yeah, while they were pumping automatic fire at him,” Larranaga replied. “Some warning.”

“You don’t know that,” Kerney said. “Are these the kind of tactics you plan to use with the grand jury?”

Sid’s expression turned angry and his hand gripped the arm of the chair. “Maybe,” he snapped, “and just maybe I’ll tantalize them further with the fact that Larsen wasn’t a fugitive from justice, didn’t kill Jack Potter, and had an extensive psychiatric history.”

“Will you carefully leave out the point that he had a prior arrest for assault involving a handgun and, as a mental patient, was in illegal possession of a 9mm semi-automatic? What are you trying to do, Sid, be the crusading DA who cleans out a nest of trigger-happy cops, so you can get a leg up on an appointment to the bench?”

Sid took a deep breath and shook his head. “Don’t bait me, Kerney. This isn’t political. Look, I told you yesterday, you needed to show me evidence that the officers were forced to stop an attack. You’ve managed to do that, just barely. But you know the disparity of force was overwhelmingly in favor of the team that went in to get Larsen.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to ask the grand jury to return a true bill of indictment charging involuntary manslaughter against the officers,” Kerney said. “Do you really want to take this to trial? What if a jury doesn’t agree?”

Larranaga threw a hand in the air. “What’s my alternative?”

“Have the grand jury investigate the department’s use of force policies, SWAT procedures, and guidelines for dealing with mentally ill subjects. I’ll cooperate fully.”

“A slap on the wrist isn’t going to cut it.”

“I’m talking about using the incident to make constructive changes.”

“Besides that wonderful plum, what else are you willing to give me?” Sid asked.

As with most police departments, the SWAT team consisted of personnel who served on it in addition to their normal duties, which gave Kerney some disciplinary options. “I’ll permanently remove the SWAT commander from his position and place the other three officers on suspended SWAT status pending completion of remedial training.”

“Not good enough. I want the officer who actually shot Larsen also kicked off SWAT.”

“Agreed.”

Sid rubbed his lips together. “And the grand jury can have complete access to whatever, with nothing held back, including the Patterson debacle?”

“Bring it on,” Kerney replied.

“This could cost you your job.”

“I think the grand jury will find much to praise by the time their investigation gets underway.”

“Don’t ask me to stall on this,” Sid said.

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

Larranaga picked up the cigar, started chewing on it, and wiped a bit of tobacco off his lower lip. Kerney wasn’t wrong about his political agenda, and a grand jury probe into department operations that weren’t perceived as anti-law enforcement could give him front-runner status for an interim appointment to the bench. Eventually, he’d have to run in an election to be retained in the position, but as the incumbent he’d have the advantage.

“Okay, I’ll go along with you on this,” Larranaga said.

“Thanks, Sid.”

Larranaga smiled. “Yeah, sure. Just remember, I can’t subpoena a dead police chief, so go catch the guy who wants to kill you.”

“That’s a great idea,” Kerney said as he left Sid’s office.

After receiving Officer Neal’s report of a dead dog in Kaplan’s car, Sal Molina pulled Ramona Pino off the records search to go and investigate, called the Albuquerque Police Department to ask for assistance, and ordered Neal to take Kaplan to the nearest police substation and wait there for Pino’s arrival.

It was a still, hot day in Albuquerque when Ramona arrived at the parking lot near the airport. A relentless sun pushed the temperature near the century mark and dust kicked up by dry, early morning canyon winds hung in the hazy air. The lane to Kaplan’s car had been blocked off with bright yellow police tape. Two local crime scene techs and a detective waited in the air-conditioned comfort of their vehicles.

With the heat from the pavement boiling through the soles of her shoes, she walked around Kaplan’s car with the detective, who’d introduced himself as Danny Roth.

Probably in his late forties, Roth was a transplant with a decidedly East Coast accent who’d gone Western. He wore boots, a bolo tie around the open collar of his cowboy shirt, and a pair of stretch cotton and polyester jeans. Tufts of dark chest hair curled above the open shirt collar.

There was no sign of forced entry. In unison, they shaded their eyes and looked through the tinted side windows and windshield. The headless dog, which had the markings and coloration of a Border collie, sat upright, resting against the back of the driver’s seat. There was a white envelope on the dashboard behind the steering wheel. They could see no discernible blood in the passenger compartment.

With a slightly leering smile, Roth held out the car key Kaplan had given him. “Want to open it up?” he asked in a cavalier, joking tone, as he sidled close to her.

“I’ll let your people do that,” Ramona said as she backed away. She didn’t need Roth wasting her time with any cute moves. She had a boyfriend, an APD vice sergeant, who wasn’t overly hairy, and didn’t leer. Besides that, the inside of the vehicle probably smelled like dead dog.

The car was a high-end, imported sedan that came with an antitheft system and keys with built-in electronic circuits coded to open the doors and start the engine.

“How did the perp get into the vehicle without setting off the alarm?” she asked.

Roth shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. “When Kaplan gave me the key, he said the system was working, and the lot manager said no car alarms have gone off since Kaplan arrived at the lot.”

“You asked him to check the records?”

“Yeah, for the eight days the vehicle has been here.”

“You’d think that somebody parked nearby would have noticed the dog,” Ramona said.

“Depends on when the perp put the pooch in the car,” Roth said.

“Good point. Okay, let’s have the techs dust the outside for prints and then open it up,” Ramona said.

Roth waved at the other police vehicle and two techs, both with surgical masks hanging around their necks, came over and started rummaging through their cases.

Ramona glanced around the lot while Roth tried to chat her up. The eager look in his eye and the absence of a wedding ring made her shut down even more. Except for the entrance and exit lanes by the attendant’s booth, a high chain-link security fence enclosed the property, and the long rows of parking spaces had light poles at each end to illuminate the lot at night. She doubted the perp had scaled the fence or walked onto the lot carrying a thirty-pound, headless dog, no matter how well concealed it might have been.

She ignored Roth and walked fifty yards to the attendant’s booth through heat waves that shimmered up from the hot pavement.

“What’s going on down there?” the female attendant asked, as she waved off a car trying to enter and pointed to a sign that read LOT FULL. “I had to close the lot and we’ve got two people waiting in the manager’s office because you cops won’t let them leave.”

“It shouldn’t be long now,” Ramona said. “I’ll speak to them. When did you start work?”

“Seven this morning.”

“Has anything out of the ordinary occurred?”

“Like what?”

“Somebody leaving without paying, or coming and going in a short period of time.”

“Everybody pays,” the blonde said. “You gotta go through this gate in order to get out. It’s the only way. And this is a long-term lot. People don’t just come and go. Some of these cars are here for three or four weeks.”

“So nobody did a fast turnaround,” Ramona said, “or failed to pay.”

“Not since I’ve been here.”

“How about earlier this week?”

“Same thing, and I’ve been here for five straight days.”

Ramona got the shift-change times from the blonde and asked for the manager. The woman pointed at a small building outside the fence next to a staging area where idling shuttle buses were parked. Inside, Ramona reassured two unhappy customers that they wouldn’t have to wait much longer, and met with the manager, a Hispanic male with nervous black eyes, a slightly crooked nose, and a mouth twisted in annoyance. His name, Leon Villa, was embroidered beneath a company patch sewn above the pocket of his short-sleeved shirt.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Villa asked, staring at Ramona’s shield. “The other policeman told me nothing. Is somebody dead?”

“No one’s dead,” Ramona replied. “I need to talk to the booth attendants who worked the afternoon and late-night shifts during the last eight days.”

“They’re not here.”

“Of course not,” Ramona said, wondering whether Villa was rattled by the presence of cops or a bit dimwitted. “Do you have their names, addresses, and phone numbers?”

Villa nodded, paged through a three-ring binder, and read off the information as Ramona wrote it down.

Back at the crime scene, the techs, their faces partially hidden behind surgical masks, were working on the inside of the car. A rancid, maggoty odor wafted out of the vehicle. The dog had been removed from the driver’s seat, bundled in a dark green garbage bag, and left on the pavement. There was no sign of blood on the seat or the floor mat.

Detective Roth handed her the blank envelope from the dashboard of Kaplan’s car and the note it contained. Both were protected by clear plastic sleeves. The note read:

KERNEY THE DOG DOESN’T COUNT STILL TWO TO GO CAN YOU GUESS WHO DIES BEFORE YOU?

“Who’s Kerney?” Roth asked.

“My chief.”

“No shit? What do you know about that? Bet he’s got to be sweating a bit.”

Ramona nodded as she studied the note. “This type looks identical to the message that was tacked to the chief’s front door.”

“It looks like a common font,” Roth said.

“How can you be sure?”

“I do the monthly newsletter for my kid’s soccer league,” Roth said, looking at it again. “In fact, I use this typeface all the time. It’s called Arial Narrow.”

“Did the techs lift any prints?”

“Not from the note or envelope,” Roth replied. “But there are lots of partials from the car.”

“I need to have the carcass examined.”

“Sure thing. We use a vet here in town who does a good job with animal forensics. I’ll have it dropped off after we finish up with the inspection at the lab. But from first look, Fido was probably left outside for a couple of days after he was killed. The techs found some dirt and pine needles matted in the dried blood on his fur.”

“That’s good to know,” Ramona said. “A trace evidence analysis might give us a general idea where the perp stashed the dog. Can you arrange to have the vehicle towed to Santa Fe? I don’t think Kaplan will want to drive it home. Not until it’s fumigated at least.”

“You got it,” Roth said, giving her the once-over for the second time.

Ramona smiled tightly in response, left Roth in the hot sun, went to her unit, cranked up the air conditioning, and started calling the off-duty attendants on her cell phone.

She hit pay dirt on the second call. Yesterday afternoon, a man driving a van had entered the lot only to drive out after a few minutes. As a precaution, the attendant had written down the van’s license plate number on the lot ticket.

Ramona made an appointment to interview the attendant, hung up, and went immediately to the manager’s office to search for the ticket. Wearing gloves, she went through the date and time stamped tickets until she found it. She slipped it into an envelope, and called in the license number from her unit. The plate had been stolen three weeks ago from a car in Socorro, eighty miles south of Albuquerque.

“We’re almost done here,” Roth said with a big smile, as he slid into the passenger seat next to her. “Want to grab some lunch?”

“Not today.”

“You don’t take meal breaks?”

“I’ve got work to do,” Ramona said, hoping Roth would take the hint and go away.

“We still don’t know how the perp got in the car.”

“I’m working on it, Detective,” Ramona said flatly.

Roth got the message and shrugged. “Hey, let me know how it turns out.” He handed Ramona his card. “The vet’s name is on the back. I’ll have our lab get a report up to you by tomorrow.”

“Ask him to rush it,” Ramona said.

“Anything for a fellow officer.”

“Thanks, Detective.”

Ramona left Roth and went to meet up with Officer Neal and Norm Kaplan. When she’d secured Potter’s keys into evidence, only one car key had been on the ring. She was betting Kaplan would tell her that, just like any other couple, both men carried keys to each other’s cars. The perp must have taken it after shooting Potter.

Which meant that from the start everything the perp had done had been carefully thought out. She wondered if Kaplan was the next target. It wasn’t far-fetched to think so. But why, was the unanswered question. And what did the perp have planned for the dog’s severed head?

She switched the radio frequency to the secure channel, keyed the microphone, asked for Lieutenant Molina by his call sign, and brought him up to date when he answered.

At state police headquarters, just a bit further down Cerrillos Road from Kerney’s office, State Police Officer Russell Thorpe was pumped. After several hours of intensive, detailed questioning, Jack and Irene Burke’s description of the man in the blue van had yielded a good sketch of the subject. Thorpe asked the couple to look at mug shots, which they willingly agreed to do, and left them with a technician to scroll through the department’s computerized data files.

At the lab, he checked to see if the tests had been completed on the bullets removed from Kerney’s horse, and got more good news: the rifling of the spent. 38-caliber rounds matched a dented, partially flattened bullet that had been retrieved earlier in the morning near the Potter homicide scene. Forensic evidence now conclusively tied both cases together. Thorpe took the stairs two steps at a time and asked to see Chief Baca.

Ushered quickly into Andy’s office by the receptionist, Thorpe stood in front of the desk, handed over the artist’s sketch of the suspect, and gave the chief his news, dampening an almost overwhelming eagerness to blurt it out. Although he was hardly a seasoned veteran, he had no intention of looking like a bonehead rookie in front of Baca.

Andy smiled when Thorpe finished his report. “This is good,” he said. “Things are starting to come together. One of Chief Kerney’s detectives phoned in a sighting of the blue van at a parking lot near the Albuquerque airport, with plates stolen out of Socorro County. The driver left a decapitated dog in a vehicle belonging to Potter’s lover.”

Russell felt stupidly out of the loop. “Sir?” he asked, hoping that would be enough of a hint to get some clarification from the chief.

“I’m sorry,” Andy said. “Let me bring you up to speed. The dog was Potter’s lost mixed-breed collie, and it was left with another threatening note to Kerney. At this point we don’t know if the perp has targeted Potter’s lover as his next victim or is just playing mind games with Chief Kerney. An APB went out on the van thirty minutes ago.”

Thorpe nodded.

“Make a copy of the sketch, leave the original with my secretary, get down to Albuquerque, and hook up with Detective Pino. She’s about to meet with a witness. See if that person can confirm that our perp drove that van. I’ll have Santa Fe PD dispatch let Pino know you’re on the way.”

“I’ve got the Burkes looking at mug shots,” Thorpe said.

“I’ll put an agent with them,” Andy replied. “Call me as soon as you know something one way or the other.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you get back, report to Santa Fe Police headquarters. You’re on this case until further notice.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve earned the assignment, Thorpe,” Andy said, hesitating as he reached for the phone. “When Kerney was my chief deputy, he told me you had the makings of a good officer, and he was right.”

Ramona Pino waited for Thorpe’s arrival at a small city park near a technical college, within easy driving distance of the Albuquerque airport. Except for a busy one-way street that bordered the park and funneled traffic from the downtown core of the city, it was a pretty spot with big shade trees and a thick carpet of grass.

Norm Kaplan had freaked over the news that the dead dog was a Border collie. Kaplan had given the dog to Potter as an anniversary present. After calming the man down, Ramona had asked who knew about his flight home. Kaplan swore he’d told only Sal Molina, Potter’s secretary, and the woman who managed his antique store. A call to the store manager revealed that some unnamed officer had phoned yesterday to confirm Kaplan’s flight information.

Ramona checked in with Sal Molina, who validated her suspicion that the call was bogus. But how did the perp know which parking lot Kaplan had used? Maybe he’d just cruised all of them until he found Kaplan’s car. There weren’t that many, so it would have taken only a couple of hours at most to make the rounds.

While she waited, she spoke to the pathologist who’d examined Potter’s body. The entry and exit wounds weren’t aligned, and the exit wound was larger and more irregularly shaped, which was due to the bullet hitting the sternum. The path of the slug through Potter’s body could mean the killer was smaller in height than his victim, but the pathologist wasn’t about to bet on it.

Thorpe arrived, and while Pino looked over the sketch and the information about the blue GMC van, he caught her up on the forensic results from the examination of the bullets.

Ramona stifled any reaction. Under different circumstances, she would’ve been pleased to know she’d found an important piece of evidence that tied the perp to two crimes. But the news paled in comparison to yesterday’s screw-ups.

“Do we have a make on the gun?” she asked. The number of rifling grooves in a barrel and the direction of their internal twists could sometimes be used to pinpoint the manufacturer.

“Nothing definite,” Thorpe replied, “although it could possibly be a. 38-caliber Taurus with a four-inch barrel. Who’s our witness?”

“His name is Mark Cullum, age twenty-two, originally from Clovis. He attends the technical school in the mornings and works afternoons at the parking lot. He’s expecting us.”

Cullum’s apartment was a first-floor boxy affair on a hillside street across from the park. A tall, pleasant-looking youth wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt with the tails out opened the door before Ramona had a chance to knock. He identified himself as Cullum, and asked the officers inside.

The front room was done up in pure college-student decor. An empty beer keg had been turned into an end table, a dart board was nailed to a wall, pine boards and bricks served as a bookcase, and a bicycle leaned against the side of a second-hand couch covered with a cheap throw. The place smelled of sweaty socks and Chinese take-out.

They stood in the center of the room. Thorpe pulled the sketch off his clipboard and handed it to Cullum, who looked at it, shook his head, and handed it back. “That’s not the fella I saw,” he said. “Not at all.”

“What are the differences?” Thorpe asked.

“He had real short hair and a mustache, a real droopy one. And he was wearing aviator sunglasses.”

“What about the nose, the chin, the shape of his head?” Ramona asked, taking the sketch from Thorpe and holding it up in front of Cullum’s face.

“Maybe they’re the same, but don’t bank on it because of me.”

“Did he have any scars or distinguishing marks?”

“None that I remember.”

“What color hair did he have?” Thorpe asked.

“Black, like his mustache. He had a real good tan, like he’d been outdoors a lot, or he was dark-skinned. Other than that, I didn’t notice much about him.”

“Did you get a look inside the van?” Thorpe asked.

“I didn’t pay it any mind.”

“What did you notice about the vehicle?” Thorpe asked.

“It had a dinged-up front bumper and side window curtains. I think it was either blue or black. It was a GMC, that’s for sure.”

“Did he say anything when he left the lot?” Ramona asked.

“Yeah. I said something like ‘that was mighty quick,’ and he said that he needed to get something out of his wife’s car.”

“Did you watch where he went while he was on the lot?” Ramona asked.

“Nope. The shuttle had just brought in a load of customers, so I was humping it.”

“Was he an Anglo, Hispanic, or Native American?” Thorpe asked.

“Anglo, I think.”

“You’re not sure?” Thorpe asked.

“Not really.”

“Did he speak with an accent?” Russell had asked the Burkes the same question.

“Well, not an accent exactly. He sounded kind of country.”

“Meaning?” Thorpe asked.

“You know, a twang, a drawl, kind of a nasal tone.”

Russell nodded. Cullum’s answer matched what the Burkes had told him. But that seemed to be the only similarity. Thorpe mulled it over.

“What made you write down the plate number?” Ramona asked.

Cullum shrugged. “We had a car broken into a couple months back, on my shift. My boss acted like it was all my fault, so now I’m extra careful.”

They wound up the interview with a few more questions, thanked Cullum, and left the apartment.

“What do you think?” Thorpe asked as they waited for a break in traffic to cross the street. Motorists speeding by slowed down at the sight of Russell in his distinctive black state police uniform.

“Same vehicle, different driver,” Pino replied, stepping off the curb. “It doesn’t make sense, unless our perp has an accomplice.”

“Cullum said the man had a drawl,” Thorpe said as he kept pace with Pino. “So did the Burkes.”

“You think he disguised himself?” Ramona asked as they walked under the welcome shade of the trees.

“It would be easy enough to do, a haircut, a dye job, a fake mustache, and sunglasses, and he’s a different-looking guy.”

“But why keep using the van?” Ramona asked as she unlocked her unit. “It’s been spotted three times already. The perp has got to know we’re looking for it.”

“Everything this guy does seems to have a purpose,” Russell replied. “Maybe he stole the van as well as the license plate and plans to ditch it when he’s done.”

Ramona liked the way Thorpe’s mind worked. She thought about all the dead animals, the threatening notes and messages left behind, Manning’s paintings that had been cut from the frames in the Taos art gallery-each act carefully orchestrated. “There’s got to be more to it than that.”

Russell nodded in agreement. “Yeah, probably. I’ve been thinking he got lost trying to find Kerney’s property. It’s pretty much out of the way and not easy to find without directions. That’s why he was seen twice on the ranch.”

“But he knew generally where to look,” Ramona said. “Which means he probably searched through public records for either the deed of sale for the land or the construction permit.”

“Exactly.”

Ramona reached for her cell phone. “I’ll get my lieutenant to put someone on it. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time, Detective.”

Ramona watched Thorpe get in his unit and drive off. He was a good cop, a nice guy, and the time she’d spent with him had washed away almost all of her irritation about smarmy Detective Danny Roth.

Back at the office, Kerney spent a considerable amount of time fending off the news media, briefing the mayor and the city manager by phone on the status of all the investigations, and getting Larry Otero started on revising all relevant policies pertaining to use of force, SWAT operations, and dealing with the mentally ill. In conjunction with the initiative, he ordered the creation of a new in-service training plan for all sworn personnel.

Lieutenant Casados, who was next in line to see him, reported the results of the ballistics tests on the SWAT officer’s weapons. Kerney told Robert what he was going to do, had Helen cut the orders, then called the SWAT supervisor and the officer who’d shot Kurt Larsen into his office and kicked them off the team.

Both men recoiled like they’d been hit in the gut and wanted to argue with him about it. Kerney told them to be glad they weren’t off the force entirely and facing involuntary manslaughter charges, then sent them out the door.

He took a minute alone to settle down. He’d held his cool during the meeting, although it hadn’t been easy, and he didn’t want his anger with the two men to spill over to the rest of the troops. The attempt worked well enough when Molina came in to give a progress report. Kerney took notes as Sal talked, asked a few clarifying questions, and asked Molina to let everyone know they were doing a good job.

He decided to check on Sara, and went next door to the investigations unit suite, walking past detectives working at desks cluttered with pizza boxes, crumpled napkins, and soft-drink cups. Sara was still in Sal’s office, sitting in a chair with her shoes off, her feet on a cardboard file box, and the telephone receiver cradled next to her ear. She looked tired, but he didn’t dare say it.

She gave him a smile, flicked her hand to send him away, and kept talking into the handset. He smiled in response, hoping he didn’t look too worried, returned to his office, and read over his notes from Molina’s update.

The records search was going about the way Kerney figured it would: Names were going on a list and coming off just about as fast. A lot of potential suspects were still locked up and some were dead. Local ex-felons were being interviewed for alibis, and those living out of the area or in other states were being tracked down through probation and parole offices.

He thought about the message left for him in Kaplan’s car. The perp was getting cocky, maybe even starting to feel invincible. If past behavior held true, leaving the dead dog with the note probably meant he was about to make a move on his next victim.

Ramona Pino and Russell Thorpe had done some good follow-up work to push the investigation along, and the city was saturated with patrol officers from every department looking for the blue van and the driver, be it a long-haired blond male or a mustached subject with matching, short dark hair. But unless they got lucky, they were still a long way from catching the guy.

He looked up to see Sara leaning against the door frame. She took her shoes off, padded barefoot to a chair, and sank down.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

She nodded. “All I managed to accomplish today was absolutely nothing.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Well, I crossed some names off the list.” She placed her hands on her belly. “Did you ever piss anyone off in your unit when you where in ’Nam?”

“Not enough to want to kill me.”

She tapped her handbag. “I had Army archives fax me the complete company roster of your unit. It includes everyone who served with you during your tour. You can look through it when we get home, just to be sure.”

“As you wish, Colonel,” Kerney said, watching Sara rub her stomach. She looked uncomfortable. “How’s Patrick Brannon doing?”

“He’s restless. I think he wants to join the party fairly soon.”

“How soon?”

Sara laughed as she pushed herself upright. “I’ll keep you advised. Take me home, Kerney, and tell me what’s new.”

“He’s still out there.”

Her smile faded. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Lights were on inside the town house. For Potter and Manning, the bald-headed man had worn a long blond wig and a theatrical nose purchased from a costume and special effects company. It was more a deceit than a disguise, designed to convince anyone who saw him that he was a very specific someone else.

Tonight was no different. After he backed the van next to the woman’s vehicle, parked outside a two-car garage, he checked his appearance in the rearview mirror. The hair looked real and the nose was perfect. Good enough to fool anyone, even up close.

He opened the van’s rear doors, and followed the walkway at the side of the garage to a small enclosed patio. He paused to check for any activity in the neighboring units, saw nothing worrisome, and put on a pair of gloves before unlatching the gate. He sidled up to the sliding glass door and glanced inside the house. The room was unoccupied. He used a knife to jimmy the locks, and slipped inside.

He could hear the sounds of movement coming from an adjacent hallway. From the look of things, the woman was still in the process of unpacking and moving in. He found her in the guest bathroom breaking down empty cardboard boxes and stacking them neatly in the tub.

“Come with me,” he said softly, pressing the blade of the knife against her throat as he grabbed her by the hair that fell to her shoulders.

The woman’s mouth formed a silent scream. She was pretty in a used-up way, with interesting lines around her chin and eyes.

The bald-headed man shook his head. “Don’t say a word.”

He pushed her down the hallway, through the alcove, and into the garage, which was filled with stuff from the woman’s recent move.

He leaned the woman against a wall, the knife still at her throat, and held out the specially prepared cookie he’d made for her. “Eat this.”

The woman shook her head.

“Or die,” the bald-headed man said.

“What is it?” the woman asked through thin lips, her body shaking uncontrollably.

“Eat it and I’ll let you go.”

The woman shook her head.

The man dropped the cookie on the floor and put away the knife. “Have it your way.”

He spun her around, put his full weight against her back, pulled a length of rope from inside his shirt and tied her hands. He forced her to her knees, used more rope to tie her ankles, and rolled her over.

The woman looked up at him from the garage floor. “Why are you doing this?” she whimpered.

“You’ll never know.” He bent down, took a small box of rat poison from his shirt pocket, poured some into his gloved hand, squeezed her mouth open, forced the pellets into her mouth, and pressed her jaw shut.

She died fast, hard, and ugly. A bit too fast to be completely enjoyable.

A cat came in through a pet door and rubbed against the man’s leg. He picked it up before it could sniff the cookie and stroked its back.

“We have lots to do, and not much time,” he whispered to the cat before he broke its neck.

Stuck on protective service duty with Norm Kaplan for the remainder of his shift, Seth Neal was finally relieved by another officer, asked by his superior to work a double, and assigned to the roving patrol team that was looking for the blue van. By ten o’clock at night, the streets were fairly quiet and traffic was light on the through roads in and out of the city. Sheriff’s deputies and state police officers were checking rural camp-grounds and back roads, rangers were cruising in the national forest and at the state park, even motor transportation officers were out on the Interstate and state highways looking for the vehicle. In town, every parking lot, commercial district, and residential area was being patrolled.

It was a night when cop cars were everywhere but no motorist needed to fear getting a traffic ticket.

Neal took his meal break at headquarters so he could do his dailies from his regular shift and turn them in. Because it was part of a homicide investigation, he worked carefully on what he’d come to think of as the dead dog incident report. Neal knew the traffic code inside and out and could put together perfect paperwork for DWI arrests and accident reconstructions. But when it came to writing felony investigation narratives, he never felt all that competent about it.

Finished, Neal dropped the paperwork off on the shift commander’s desk, told dispatch he was back in service, left the police parking lot, and hit the brakes when he saw a dark-colored GMC van with the back door open sitting in front of the nearby municipal court building.

He put the spotlight on the vehicle. It carried the plate stolen out of Socorro. He adjusted the light to shine inside the open door. He could see a naked human figure on the floor of the vehicle clutching what appeared to be the head of a dog.