Everyone Dies

Chapter 9

L ast night, Kerney had spoken by phone with Milton Lynch’s wife, who’d told him that her husband would be returning from Albuquerque to Las Cruces early in the morning to prepare for an afternoon court appearance. She assured him that Lynch would be at his office by eight o’clock.

As he flew over the Tularosa Basin above the highway that cut through the missile range, Kerney could see sections of the land that had once belonged to his family. The sun lit up the alkali flats and washed over the tips of the Hardscabble Mountains, part of the San Andres Range, south of Rhodes Canyon. In his mind’s eye, he could picture the ranch house and the old road that snaked down the hills to the broad swales of tall grama grass that, in the wet years, spread out across the range.

Silently, Kerney studied the vast, empty reaches of the basin, broken only by some military roads and clusters of high-security testing facilities. This was the land he’d been born to, only to have the family ranch taken away by the government when he was a child. This was the land where his godson, Sammy Yazzi, a soldier stationed at the missile range, had been murdered. He looked over his shoulder at Sierra Blanca Mountain on the eastern fringe of the basin that defined the Mescalero homeland, now forever embedded in his memory as the place where Clayton and his family had seen their home destroyed.

The early morning light softened the black lava flows far to the north, made the pure white gypsum sand dunes sparkle, blunted the squat Jarilla Mountains west of Orogrande, and bleached the dry salt flats of Lake Lucero. It was a land of wind-blown drought, cactus and rattlesnakes, thorny mesquite, and boulder-strewn foothill canyons at the base of the mountains. Despite the harsh vastness, there was an intense, wild, undeniable beauty to the Tularosa.

The land held good memories, too. It was here, under the watchful eye of his father, that he’d been taught to cowboy and ranch. It was here that his lifelong friendship with Dale Jennings had begun. And it was here, just a few short years ago, that he’d first met Sara during her tour of duty at the missile range.

The chopper traveled through the San Agustin Pass and dropped down to the desert where the city of Las Cruces spread out before them. New residential subdivisions peppered the hills and stretched along the Interstate. Strip malls, business parks, and commercial buildings lined the highway that had once been a two-lane road into town.

The second-largest and fastest-growing city in New Mexico, Las Cruces was no longer the sleepy little ranching, farming, and college town of Kerney’s childhood. But even with all the exploding growth, most of it fueled by the defense industry and migrating retirees, the green of the pecan orchards and farms along the Rio Grande River valley and the magnificent spire-shaped peaks of the Organ Mountains still gave the city a certain natural charm that the man-made sprawl had yet to diminish.

The chopper pilot had radioed ahead to have the parking lot at the district state police headquarters cleared for their landing. Motorists along University Boulevard and the nearby Interstate slowed to watch the chopper’s descent.

As Kerney left the helicopter and went into the building, he checked the time. It was too early to expect Lynch to be in his office, so he would call Sara and then buy the pilot breakfast.

Sal Molina sat behind a mechanic’s desk at the city maintenance yard garage and watched as the crime scene techs continued working on the blue van. The place smelled-not unpleasantly-of grease and motor oil, rubber and cold metal. It had taken several hours to complete the search for evidence on and in the van, and not one fingerprint had been found. Every surface had been wiped clean, and, according to the techs, the perp had even vacuumed the carpet and floor mats before he’d loaded up the body and parked it at the municipal court building.

Along with a plant biologist who’d just shown up, the techs were now working on the undercarriage of the vehicle, which had been raised on a hydraulic rack, looking for trace elements that could possibly tell Molina where the van had been. They were prying pebbles out of the tire treads, picking small strands of vegetation off the grease on the rear axle with tweezers, and looking for seeds and other plant matter that might be caught in the U-joints, springs, or clinging to various parts of the chassis.

Molina had worked the vehicle identification number and the license plate while the techs dusted for prints. A year ago, the van had been sold to a junkyard in El Paso and then bought for parts by one Lewis Lawless. According to the El Paso PD, Lawless had provided an address on the sales receipt that turned out to be a vacant city lot. It made Molina think that Lawless was a bogus name used by the perp as a derisive, cocky little joke.

He looked at the bagged and tagged evidence that had been removed from the van. It consisted of a used Band-Aid that had adhered to the lever of the brake pedal where it came in contact with the floorboard, some blond hairs that possibly came from the perp, and several other strands of hair that probably belonged to the victim. It was very slim pickings.

The body had been fingerprinted, but the victim’s identity was still unknown. Although Molina had a detective checking the state and federal data banks, there was no guarantee her prints would be on file. Dental records would most likely wind up being how the body would be identified-if they could come up with a suitable missing-person candidate.

However, after checking with the National Crime Information Center, Molina had his doubts about making a quick ID. The woman had a butterfly tattooed on her right inner thigh, but there was no record of a missing person with such a unique identifier. It was no big surprise; a lot of people who disappear are never reported to the authorities.

Molina had been frustrated by unknown homicide victims before. He’d worked cases involving decomposed remains found by hikers in the foothills, bodies discovered in shallow roadside graves, scattered human bones recovered in arroyos after a heavy rain, and corpses that had been dumped at the landfill. In each of those situations the victim had remained nameless and the killer anonymous.

He thought about it a little more. Up to now, the perp had been an in-your-face killer with an agenda and specific targets. If he held to form, the dead woman had to be linked to Potter, Manning, and Chief Kerney, which meant he expected the police to puzzle their way through it.

Molina’s cell phone rang and he answered quickly.

“I got a preliminary cause of death,” the pathologist said. “Strychnine poisoning, specifically rat poison ingested orally.”

“You’re sure?”

“I haven’t cut her open yet, but it looks that way. I found traces of the poison in the mouth, plus the jaw muscles were paralyzed and the lips were drawn back to expose the teeth.”

“What else?” Molina asked.

“I think she was tied up and then the killer forced her mouth open and made her swallow the poison pellets.”

“What makes you say that?”

“There are abrasions at the wrists and ankles, and bruising around the deltoid and pectoral muscles, most likely caused by the violent convulsions brought on by the strychnine.”

“Will you be able to confirm that rat poison was used and not some other compound?”

“I took swabs of the mouth and picked up some good granular samples along the gum lines. I should be able to isolate the inert properties easily. The blood, urine, and tissue work should also show poison traces.”

“What about the puncture wound to the lower abdomen?”

“I’d say it occurred after death,” the pathologist said. “It’s a clean entry, so I doubt the killer did it while she was experiencing poison-induced spasms. I’ll know for sure after I open her up and see where the blood settled.”

“Call me if you learn anything else,” Molina said.

He put the cell phone down and studied the license plate that had been removed from the van. He’d hoped the perp would have left prints on the back side of the plate, but no such luck. It had been wiped clean. He looked up to find the plant biologist standing in front of the desk holding a baggie in his hand.

“This is interesting,” the man said, shaking the baggie at Molina. It held a single stem and one partial leaf of a plant.

“Tell me why,” Molina said.

“It’s Lupinus brevicaulis,” the biologist said as he pushed his eyeglasses back into place. “Short-stemmed lupine. It doesn’t grow here.”

“Where does it grow?” Molina asked.

“Mostly south of Albuquerque along the Rio Grande. But the range extends into the southwestern part of the state and north into the Four Corners region.”

Molina thought about the report Chief Kerney had filed about the dead Merriam Kangaroo Rats found on his front step. According to the wildlife specialist who’d examined the animal, the rat’s range was similar to that of the plant.

He checked his copy of Kerney’s report to make sure. The rat’s native habitat was also along the Pecos River south of Santa Rosa. “Would it be found in the eastern part of the state along the Pecos?”

“Nope. There you’d find the spurred lupine and the low lupine. Neither come close to looking like the petal and stem of this variety.”

“How far south does it grow?”

“All the way into Mexico.”

The van had been lowered from the rack and the techs were about to strip it into parts. “That’s helpful,” Molina said. “Have you got anything else for me?”

The biologist shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But the soil samples may show something once you get them analyzed. I’m done, Lieutenant. I’ll send you a report for your file.”

Molina nodded and jotted down what the biologist had told him. Another fact had fallen into place. Unlike most of the other pieces of evidence, this one was at least linked to something, in this case geography. But that left a hell of a lot of land to cover south of Albuquerque to pinpoint a location for the perp, and it might mean nothing at all to the outcome of the investigation. Still, it would need to be looked into.

Molina considered the fact that the perp had used poison on his latest victim. He’d also poisoned the rats left on Kerney’s doorstep and probably the one Dora Manning had found in her driveway. It was another interesting thread that probably wouldn’t go anywhere.

What did matter was the fact that the perp kept changing how he carried out his lethal attacks. So far, he’d successfully used poison, knives, and guns, and made one failed attempt with explosives. He wondered what he had in store for Kerney, Sara, and the baby. Strangulation? Drowning? Suffocation?

Was the perp a cop? Sal didn’t think so. Anybody could study basic police science and learn fundamental investigative and forensic techniques from a book or a community college class.

Molina looked out the garage door. Morning had come and a shaft of sunlight spread into the open bay. He wondered why the chief hadn’t called to ream him out for sending Ramona Pino down to Mescalero. Surely Kerney had to know he’d done it to get her away from Lieutenant Casados and his IA investigation.

Casados would be fuming when he got to the office and learned about Molina’s ploy. But Sal had a plan on how to deal with Casados, and he was pretty sure it would work.

Milton Lynch’s bushy, untamed eyebrows cascaded down and interfered with his vision. He licked a stubby finger, ran it across his brows to get them to behave, and nodded at the police artist’s sketch that Kerney had placed on his office desk.

“Yeah, I did talk to this guy,” Lynch said. “Except he had his long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a suit.”

“Tell me about him,” Kerney said.

“He said he was writing a book about the ranchers that had been kicked off the Tularosa Basin by the government during and after World War II. Said he was researching the failed attempts of descendants of the ranchers to get compensation from the government for the loss of their land. He wanted to talk to them and get their stories.”

“So he asked for names?”

“Yeah, and you were just one of many I told him about.”

“What about Clayton Istee and his family? Did you mention him?”

“I’m almost sure I did.”

“How did he find you?” Kerney asked.

“I’ve handled probate for a lot of those ranching families over the years,” Lynch replied. “Plus, because I’ve got records of old title searches and copies of last wills and testaments, I’ve given depositions in a number of civil cases brought against the government for damages and just compensation claims that the courts have rejected. What the government did sixty years ago is still a thorn in the side of many of the old-timers and their families who lost everything when the missile range was established. But of course, you know all of this.”

Kerney nodded. “So he found you through court records?”

Lynch snickered. “He probably didn’t have to dig that deep. About once a year the newspaper interviews me for a feature article when another court case for a rancher or an heir hits the docket. It’s always big news around here.”

“What exactly did he want from you?”

“Like I said, just the names of living family members and relatives,” Lynch replied. “He wanted to concentrate on the human side of their stories and the losses they’d suffered at the hands of the government.”

“Did he identify himself?”

Lynch nodded. “He gave me his business card and told me his name, but I can’t say I recall it. This was five, maybe six months ago.”

“Did you keep the card?”

“No, I tossed it.”

“Try to remember the name,” Kerney said.

Lynch shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind. But I do remember he was from Arizona. Tucson, I think.”

“Did he make an appointment to see you?”

“No, he just walked in early in the morning and asked for a quick meeting.”

“Was there anything unusual about him?”

“Not really. Five-ten, average build, maybe thirty years old. Except for the long hair, he was just a normal-looking guy.”

“Did he have any quirks or distinctive mannerisms?” Kerney asked.

Lynch thought for a moment. “He kept rubbing his forefinger against his nose, and it was rosy in color. But it looked more like a skin condition than a cold or an allergy. He wasn’t sneezing or anything.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“He had a bandage on his left hand between the thumb and forefinger, right in that soft spot. I figured he’d cut himself. Why are you asking about this guy?”

“Because he’s a killer,” Kerney said as he stood up and handed Lynch his card. “Call me if you remember the name he gave you.”

Lynch’s expression darkened. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” Kerney said as he headed for the door, eager to get back to Santa Fe.

Sal Molina didn’t have to wait until he got back to headquarters to have Robert Casados in his face. Casados stomped into the garage, curled his lip and said in a loud voice, “Stop fucking with me, Sal.”

All the techs quit what they were doing and glanced at the two men.

“Let’s take it outside,” Molina said to the young lieutenant. He put down the inventory sheet of all the parts from the van that had already been inspected by the techs and got to his feet.

“You sent Pino out of town, and you knew I had an interview scheduled with her first thing this morning.”

“Outside, Lieutenant,” Molina said gruffly as he moved away from Casados.

The bright July sunlight made Molina blink. He walked Casados into some shade at the side of the garage. “Now, what’s your gripe?” he asked.

“You heard me. I’ve got a job to do and you’re messing with me.”

“I sent Detective Pino to Mescalero because I wanted to talk to you before this goes any further.”

“I could write you up for interfering with my investigation,” Casados said.

“Do you want to flex your muscles or hear me out?” Molina asked.

“What do you want to say?”

“I put pressure on Pino to find a suspect in the Potter homicide, but she isn’t going to tell you that. I told her to take a hard look at Mary Beth Patterson and Kurt Larsen, and she isn’t going to tell you that either.”

“That doesn’t excuse Pino’s lack of judgment,” Casados said.

“Ain’t hindsight a wonderful thing?” Molina shot back. “She had two mentally ill people known to hold a grudge against the victim, and one of them was armed and potentially dangerous.”

“She still fucked up,” Casados replied. “So did Sergeant Tafoya.”

“No, Bobby, I fucked up,” Molina said, poking himself in the chest. “I put the pressure on them. I requested the SWAT call-out. I wanted Larsen to be our perp, and because of that I didn’t ask the right questions.”

“Pino fed you misinformation because she didn’t do her job right.”

“She’s not a social worker, dammit, and the tip that Larsen and Patterson might be credible suspects came from Chief Kerney. Are you also going to write him up for feeding me misinformation?”

“That’s absurd.”

“Pino acted based on what she’d been told to do by me, and the reasonable suspicion she got from her conversation with Patterson. You want accountability for this screw-up? You’re looking at it.”

“You can’t cover for your people this time, Sal.”

“Why not? I did it for you when you were in my unit. More than once, if I recall correctly.”

“Are you asking me for a favor?” Casados demanded.

“No favor,” Sal replied. “But I will give you what you need to put this to rest. You recommend to the chief that I’m to be severely reprimanded and asked to retire. I’ll turn in my paperwork immediately.”

“Why scapegoat yourself?”

“I want to retire, Bobby. I haven’t slept in two days, haven’t seen my wife, haven’t even changed my shirt. I’m maxed-out on my pension benefits, so I’m not gonna get any richer. I just want to rest for a week and then go fishing.”

“Tafoya’s on the list for lieutenant and Pino’s next in line for sergeant stripes,” Casados said.

“Yes, they are, and you worked with both of them in my unit. Are they seasoned? Are they capable of command? Of course they are. But forget about all that. The final decision to promote rests with the chief. Let him sort it out. That’s his job, not yours.”

Casados bit his lip.

“There’s one more thing,” Molina said.

“What’s that?”

“Chief Kerney knows I sent Pino down to Mescalero and I haven’t heard a peep out of him about my decision. If he’d wanted to countermand my order and chew my butt out, it would have happened long before you got to work this morning.”

Casados stood with his hands on his hips, tapping his fingers against the butt of his holstered sidearm. “Are you telling me Kerney’s behind this scheme?”

“No, I’m telling you I know the man and I think he’ll want to make a decision that’s best for all concerned. All you have to do is give him the opportunity.”

“If I go with this, you can’t back out, Sal,” Casados said.

Molina laughed. “Hell no. I’m doing myself a favor, Bobby.”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Sal said as he walked back into the sunlight. “Now leave me alone. I’ve got work to do, and not much time to do it.”

Detective Matt Chacon knew that unlike the TV cop shows-where actors sit in front of a computer monitor and instantaneously pull up a digital fingerprint record that matches a perp or a victim-trying to ID someone using prints in the real world can be mind-numbing work. There are thousands of prints that have never been entered into the computer data banks, and thousands more on file that, because of poor quality, are virtually unusable for comparison purposes. On top of that, figure in the small cop shops who haven’t got the money, manpower, and equipment to transfer print records to computers, and the unknown number of print cards that were left in closed felony cases and sit forgotten in basement archives at police departments all over the country, and you’ve got a data-bank system that is woefully inadequate and incomplete. Finally, while each fingerprint is unique, the difference between prints can be so slight that a very careful analysis must be made to confirm a perfect match. Even then, different experts can debate the results endlessly, since it isn’t an exact science.

Chacon had started his career in law enforcement as a crime scene technician with a speciality in fingerprint and tool-mark identification, so of course Lieutenant Molina had sent him off to the state police headquarters to work the state and federal data banks to see if he could get a match.

He’d been at it all night long and his coffee was starting to taste like sludge, his eyes were itchy, and his butt was numb. Using an automated identification system, Chacon had digitally stored the victim’s prints in the computer and then started scanning for a match against those already on file.

The computer system could identify possible matches quickly, but then it became a process of carefully analyzing each one and scoring them according to a detailed classification system. So far, Chacon had examined six dozen sets of prints that looked like possible equivalents and had struck out. But there was another baker’s dozen to review.

He clicked on the next record, adjusted the monitor to enhance the resolution of the smudged prints, and began scoring them in sequence. Whoever had printed the subject had done a piss-poor job. He glanced at the agency indentifier. It was a Department of Corrections submission.

Chacon finished the sequence and used a split screen to compare his scoring to the victim’s prints. It showed a match. He rechecked the scoring and verified his findings.

For the first time, he looked at the subject’s name. The victim was Victoria Drake, a probation and parole officer with the Department of Corrections, assigned to a regional office in the southern part of the state.

He printed out a hard copy, moved his chair to another monitor, accessed the motor vehicle computer system, typed in the woman’s personal information from the record, and a driver’s license photograph of Drake appeared on the screen. The dead woman in the van was most definitely Victoria Drake, although she’d looked much better in life than in death.

Chacon glanced at the hard copy. Drake had been fingerprinted fifteen years ago. He wondered if she was still employed by the department. He reached for the three-ring binder that contained addresses and phone numbers of every federal, state, and local criminal justice agency in the state and paged through it until he found the listing for the regional office.

Chacon paused and thought about giving Molina the word first. But since Drake had been a probation and parole officer, the lieutenant would want to know a hell of a lot more than just the woman’s identity. He quashed the idea of calling Molina and dialed the number for the regional probation and parole office instead.

Sal Molina drove while Matt Chacon briefed him. Victoria Drake, age forty-three, had recently been promoted to a central-office job in the corrections department after serving as a probation and parole officer in Las Cruces and then as the manager of the regional office in Socorro. Divorced with one grown son serving in the armed forces, Drake had moved to Santa Fe less than a month ago and lived alone in a rented town house in a middle-class neighborhood off Rodeo Road.

Molina thought it interesting that once again the compass pointed south. He wheeled into the subdivision with the crime scene techs following close behind. It was one of those developments with a homeowners association and restrictive building covenants that hadn’t existed in Santa Fe before the early seventies. Now they were sprinkled around the city and in several larger nearby bedroom communities in the county.

The streets were narrow curving lanes designed to create a tranquil feeling. The native landscaping in the common areas was the low-maintenance variety, with lots of carefully pruned pinon trees and gravel planting beds interspersed with artistically grouped boulders. The houses and town homes had been built in a standard cookie-cutter design, right down to the exterior plaster, trim paint, patio walls, walkways, and street-number signs outside each unit. Molina found it boring.

He barreled over the last speed bump, turned into Drake’s driveway, and parked behind a late-model imported sedan. “Let’s do a walk-around before we go inside,” he said to Chacon.

At the back of the unit, they found the gate to the patio ajar and the sliding glass and screen doors jimmied open. They entered the combination living and dining room, an open space with a corner beehive fireplace and a high ceiling of plank wood and beams. To the rear was a long counter that separated the space from a step-up galley kitchen.

Drake had arranged the furniture in the room but hadn’t finished unpacking from her move. Sealed cardboard boxes were stacked in a line under the counter, several framed posters leaned against a wall by the fireplace, crumpled newspaper littered the carpet, and knickknacks sat haphazardly on the dining table. It was impossible to tell if a struggle had taken place.

Molina scanned the stairs leading to a second-story landing that looked down on the living room and then dropped his gaze to the hallway off the kitchen that ended at the front door. “We’ll hold the techs outside until we do a visual search,” he said as he slipped on a pair of plastic gloves. “Take the upstairs and look around. See if the perp left us another love note.”

Chacon went upstairs and Molina started his tour by examining the sliding patio door, which showed tool marks on the jamb, probably made by a knife. The perp had picked the easiest, quietest, and quickest way to break into the house.

The galley kitchen was neat and clean. There was a kitty-litter box and food and water dishes on the tile floor, but no sign of a cat. In the small second bedroom off the adjacent hall, a computer and printer sat on a desk and three empty freestanding bookcases stood in the middle of the room surrounded by boxes of books. The linen closest in the guest bathroom at the end of the corridor held carefully folded towels. The tub was filled with empty cartons that had been broken down into bundles and tied with twine.

Molina entered the garage through a door perpendicular to the front entrance and hit the light switch with his elbow. Except for a large, cleared space in the center of the garage floor, it was filled with empty cardboard wardrobe boxes, trunks, lawn and garden tools, and miscellaneous pieces of furniture.

A small, open box sat in the cleared area. Molina looked inside and found a cat with a broken neck, a package of rat poison, a knife, some rope, and a note, which read:

KERNEY CAN’T WAIT TO MEET THE WIFE SEE YOU SOON

He bagged the note and carried it upstairs to Chacon. “Find anything?” he asked.

“Nope,” Chacon replied, gesturing at the orderly, organized master bedroom. “What have you got?”

Molina held up the note for Chacon to read. “Found it in the garage,” he said, “where I think he probably killed her. He’s a tidy fellow; he left everything behind he used to break in, tie her up, and poison her in a box for us to find.”

“How thoughtful,” Chacon said.

Molina nodded. “Get the techs started. Maybe he forgot something when he cleaned up after himself.”

Samuel Green’s mother, his second victim, was buried under some privet bushes that formed a hedge along the backyard wall of the house where she’d lived. He’d killed her five years ago, buried the body, planted the privets, faked her move to Arizona, and arranged for a property management firm to lease out the house and send the rent checks in her name to a post office box in Tucson, which he then easily forged and cashed. After the last tenant had moved out, he leased the property as Samuel Green and moved back to Santa Fe.

The house was in an older subdivision off Old Pecos Trail on a dead end dirt lane surrounded by a high wall that hid the house from sight. Territorial in style, with brick coping around the roof line, milled woodwork lintels, and a Victorian-style porch, it had been built in the 1960s. Upscale in its heyday, it was in need of serious modernization, particularly the kitchen and bathrooms. When Green was a boy, there had only been two neighbors along the lane. Now the area was built up with newer, expensive pueblo-style homes, all of them behind gated walls.

Green appreciated his neighbors’ need for privacy, although it was unlikely any of them could possibly know his true identity. Almost twenty years had passed since he’d lived in the house as a child and both of the original neighbors had moved away long before he’d murdered Mother.

He parked in the garage and walked into the house, his footsteps echoing through the dark, empty living room. After disposing of Noel Olsen’s car, he’d taken a morning flight from El Paso to Albuquerque, ridden the shuttle bus to downtown Santa Fe, and picked up his car from the parking lot at a city recreation center within walking distance of the Plaza.

In the bathroom he peeled off the fake nose, removed the blue-tinted contact lenses, took off the blond wig, washed away the adhesive that had held it in place, and inspected himself in the mirror. It didn’t take much to go from looking like Noel Olsen back to being Samuel Green. He put the disguise in the makeup kit, which also contained the black wig and matching mustache.

The stubble that had reappeared on his head made him frown. He shaved it with a razor until it was nice and smooth again, smiled at the results, and then stretched. It was time for a well-deserved nap.

He walked to the bedroom where his father, Ed, had tied a string around his penis and locked him in his room for wetting his bed. Where his mother had starved him for failing to do his chores or for bringing home bad grades. Where his few toys would be taken from him for the slightest infraction of any rule. Where if he “talked back” his father would put duct tape over his mouth. Where he’d been forced to sleep on the floor because he’d played with daddy’s tools or disobeyed him. Where he’d been tied up for running around the backyard pretending to be a choo-choo train.

The room was his prison until the day he’d told his second-grade teacher about it. After that, it had only gotten worse.

Now the old bedroom was Green’s war room, filled with all the tools and materials needed to carry out his plan. There were books on police procedures, homicide investigation techniques, and the latest developments in forensic science. Various photographs he’d taken of his targets were taped to one wall along with snapshots of where they lived and worked and corresponding hand-drawn diagrams he’d made of the various escape routes. He’d memorized, driven, and walked all of them repeatedly before striking.

On the large desk fashioned from plywood and lumber sat the police scanner, a laptop and printer, a camera with various lenses, his handgun, binoculars, a small color television, and brown accordion files that contained pertinent personal and background information on each subject.

On the wall above the box spring and mattress that served as his bed, Green had tacked up a large map that showed all the roads into and out of Santa Fe. He’d spent hours studying it on the off chance that something went wrong, so he could avoid roadblocks, lose pursuing cops, and get away successfully.

He grabbed a black marker from the desk, walked to the wall of photographs, and drew an X through all of Victoria Drake’s pictures. He wrote question marks on the photos of Clayton Istee, his wife, and their two children and then quickly blotted them out. It didn’t matter if Kerney wasn’t around to see it. He would finish the job and wipe out Kerney’s bloodline completely. Besides, it gave him something to look forward to.

He stretched out on the bed and thought about his father, and how much fun it had been to find him in California years after his parents’ divorce, kill him, carve him up, and dump his body parts in the Pacific Ocean. How his mother had squealed when he strangled her. How Olsen had pleaded for his life, and Potter had frozen at the sight of the pistol. How Manning had watched in fright as the knife approached her throat while he held her down, and how Victoria Drake had convulsed on the garage floor like a headless chicken.

He smiled in the darkness as he thought about more good times to come, then curled up in a ball and went to sleep.