Death Song

Chapter Four

At daybreak Clayton Istee entered the sheriff’s office in the Lincoln County Courthouse to find Paul Hewitt at his desk reviewing the previous day’s logs, field narratives, lead sheets, witness statements, and supplemental reports that had been turned in by the investigative team. Successful homicide investigations often hinged on not letting minor questions go unanswered. And in order to know what questions needed to be asked, it was necessary to stay on top of the volume of information that continued to accumulate.

Clayton was grateful to have the sheriff lend another pair of eyes and his superior cop instincts to the pile of paperwork. At home, over his first and only cup of coffee for the day, he had prepared an updated officer assignment sheet. He handed it to Hewitt.

The sheriff gestured at an empty chair as he looked over the assignment sheet. Clayton hadn’t designated a second in command to run the show while he attended the autopsy in Albuquerque and then went to Santa Fe to meet with the team investigating Denise Riley’s murder.

He drained his coffee, put the empty mug on the desk, swiveled in his desk chair, grabbed the coffeepot from the sideboard, and refilled his mug. Day and night, Hewitt kept a pot of coffee going in his office and he drank prodigious amounts of it. “Who’s covering for you while you’re gone?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d volunteer, Sheriff,” Clayton said from his seat across from the big oak desk that inmates incarcerated years ago at the old Santa Fe Prison had made as part of their rehabilitation program.

Hewitt nodded. “Good choice, Sergeant.”

Clayton smiled. Paul Hewitt wasn’t known for a sense of humor, but when it did surface it was usually as dry as a New Mexico spring wind.

“Everybody should have completed their assignments before I get back from Santa Fe,” he said. “If nothing new or promising develops, have them back up and start all over again.”

Hewitt leaned back. The springs of his old wooden desk chair squeaked in protest. “I can’t see keeping this investigation going full bore unless we get a break or a credible lead sometime soon. When do we get the forensics back?”

“The state crime lab said they would give it priority, but they didn’t make any promises.”

Mug in hand, Hewitt took another jolt of java. “Want some?” he asked.

Clayton shook his head. What Hewitt called coffee was nothing more than high-octane sludge.

Hewitt put the mug down, put his elbows on the desk, and intertwined his fingers. “You do appreciate that solving this case may rest largely with the Santa Fe County sheriff.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Luciano Salgado is a retired traffic cop who never made it past the rank of sergeant when he was with the Santa Fe P.D. He’s a good-hearted, likable guy but something of a dim bulb in the gray matter department.”

“That’s not encouraging. What about his ranking officers?”

Hewitt wrapped his hand around the coffee mug. “Leonard Jessup, his chief deputy, wants to be the next sheriff. I’ve heard that he pretty much runs the S.O. for Salgado, who doesn’t like to spend a lot of time at the office. Jessup worked for fifteen years as an agent with the Department of Public Safety SID before Salgado tapped him to be his chief deputy.”

Clayton grunted. SID—Special Investigations Division—enforced alcohol, tobacco, and gaming laws within the state, and although it was important work, Jessup’s years of experience busting clerks who sold liquor and cigarettes to underage minors was no substitute for investigating violent crimes and major felony cases.

“What’s the scoop on this Major Mielke I’m supposed to work with?” he asked.

“Like Salgado he’s a hometown Santa Fe boy,” Hewitt replied. “The difference is that Mielke’s been with the S.O. since the day he pinned on his shield. He worked his way up through the ranks and has survived in his exempt position through two administrations. He’s got the credentials: FBI Academy courses, plus he’s a graduate of their executive development program for local law enforcement administrators. He’s the guy with the hands-on, major case investigating experience in the department.”

“Let’s hope his hands don’t get tied by the powers that be,” Clayton said. “What’s he like?”

Hewitt reflected momentarily. “Personable and quiet spoken. Other than that, I really don’t know him well. Physically, he’s tall, thin, middle-age. I’d put him in his forties but he looks a bit more worse for wear. Rumor has it that he’s something of a ladies’ man and drinks too much.”

“That’s great,” Clayton said.

“He doesn’t outrank you on this investigation. Work around him if you have to.”

Clayton stayed quiet. By culture and personality, he didn’t find silence or gaps in conversation uncomfortable. As a consequence, Hewitt had learned to wait him out.

“This could get sticky,” Clayton finally said.

“What are you thinking?” Hewitt asked.

“Why is Salgado retaining control of the Denise Riley homicide investigation when every indication points to a connection between her murder and that of her husband’s? He should have turned the case over to the state police.”

“He can’t just walk away from this,” Hewitt replied. “I know I sure as hell can’t either.”

“I’m not saying either of you need to. But without any viable suspects there is no way the Santa Fe Sheriff’s Office can avoid investigating itself. At the very least, it will require taking a very careful look at the personal and professional relationships Riley and his wife had with members of the department.”

Hewitt slugged down more coffee. “That’s where you come in, Sergeant. Sheriff Salgado and I have talked it over. Rather than call in the state police, who often take great pleasure at being heavy-handed in such matters, you’re going to take charge of an investigation that probes Tim and Denise Riley’s past and present relationship with members of the Santa Fe S.O. and their families. Three Santa Fe Police Department officers will be assigned to assist you, Sergeant Ramona Pino and two detectives. Sheriff Salgado assures me that you and your team will be allowed to follow any and all legitimate lines of questioning. If you run into any obstacles, you are to immediately let me and Salgado know, and we’ll deal with it.”

Clayton nodded and said nothing more on the subject, although he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Getting cops to cooperate in an investigation that could point a finger at one of their own as a murder suspect wasn’t going to be straightened out and made smooth as silk by written or verbal orders issued by Paul Hewitt and Luciano Salgado. Besides that, cops were crafty; they could obviate and obfuscate with the best of the con artists and criminals they dealt with on a daily basis.

“We still need to locate a next of kin for Tim Riley,” Hewitt said, taking Clayton’s silence as deference to his rank, which it was.

“He has an ex-wife and an eighteen-year-old son who lives on his own,” Clayton replied. “I don’t know where, and I’m not sure if Riley’s parents are living or dead.”

“Find out,” Hewitt said, “and get me the whereabouts of the son as soon as you are able.”

“Ten-four,” Clayton said. “How long do I stay up in Santa Fe?”

“For as long as it takes to do the job,” Hewitt replied. “Chief Kerney has offered to put you up at his ranch for the duration of your stay and he has advised me that you are not allowed to turn down his invitation.”

Thrown off guard, Clayton blinked once and clamped his jaw shut. Finally he said, “How did this invitation come about?”

“I called him,” Hewitt replied. “When we’re at meetings together, he always asks about you, and I know for a fact that he’s eager to do anything he can for you and your family.”

Paul Hewitt would never meddle in his personal family life without encouragement, and the only person Clayton could think of who would put him up to such a trick was his wife, Grace.

After a long silence, he looked at his watch and said, “I’d better go home and pack if I expect to get up to Albuquerque in time for the autopsy.”

“Good idea,” Hewitt replied. He opened the center desk drawer and handed Clayton a check. “That should cover your per diem expenses in Santa Fe for the first week. Let me know when you need more.”

Clayton folded the check, put it in his shirt pocket, and gave Paul Hewitt a long, measured look.

“Is there anything else, Sergeant?” Hewitt asked, a smile playing on his lips.

Slowly Clayton got to his feet, turned, and left Paul Hewitt’s office without saying another word.

To accommodate working parents, the tribal child development center opened at five-thirty on weekday mornings, and it was Grace’s week to pull the early shift. Intent on having some words with his wife, Clayton bypassed going home to pack and drove directly to the center.

Built with profits from gaming, it was a new facility in the village of Mescalero, within easy walking distance of the tribal administration building. The front of the building consisted of a long sloping roof that overhung a series of windows bracketed by two arched entrances at the corners, which were supported by concrete columns made to look like cut stone blocks.

Grace’s car was in the parking lot, and Clayton barged through the entrance with every intention of confronting Grace immediately with his suspicions. He slowed down when he spotted her sitting on the rug in the middle of the play area, holding a crying child in her arms. Three other children, all sleepy-eyed toddlers, were at a small table waiting for Grace to give them a breakfast snack, which sometimes comprised their entire morning meal.

Grace looked up and saw Clayton, waved him off with a shake of her head, and nodded in the direction of her office. Clayton headed toward the rear of the building knowing that he’d find Wendell and Hannah in Grace’s office. When she pulled the early shift during the school year, the children came with her and then took the bus from the center to school.

Through the open office door, Clayton saw his son sitting at his mother’s desk reading a book while his little sister stood close by, sounding out some of the words Wendell was reading.

“Stop bothering me,” Wendell snapped, pushing Hannah away hard with his hand.

“I don’t ever want to see you push your sister like that again,” Clayton said as he stepped into the office.

Red-faced, Wendell lowered his head and gazed at the desktop.

“Apologize,” Clayton demanded.

“Sorry,” Wendell mumbled.

“Say it like you mean it,” Clayton ordered.

Wendell straightened up and looked at his sister. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”

“That’s okay,” replied Hannah, who had taken her brother’s physical rebuff in stride. “What are you doing here, Daddy?”

“I came to tell both of you and your mother that I have to work up in Santa Fe for a while. I’ll be staying there.”

“Will you be gone for a long time?” Wendell asked.

“I don’t think so. But I’ll be back in time for us to go turkey hunting together.”

Wendell smiled. For the past two years in the early spring, his father had taken him turkey hunting. They had yet to bag a bird, but from a distance they had seen some big toms through the breaks in the thick underbrush.

“If you promise to look after your sister and treat her with respect,” Clayton added.

“I promise,” Wendell said solemnly.

“Good.” Through the glass wall that looked out on the common area where the children congregated, Clayton saw Grace approaching her office. “Now both of you give me a minute alone with your mother.”

He got a hug from both children as they left the office.

Grace smiled at Hannah and Wendell as they scooted around her. “I thought you were on your way to Albuquerque and Santa Fe,” she said.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Clayton replied.

Grace’s smile vanished. “Know what?”

“I think you put a bee in Paul Hewitt’s bonnet about me staying with Kerney while I’m in Santa Fe.”

Grace shook her head, walked behind her desk, and sat. “I did no such thing.”

“Then why would Hewitt tell me that he knows Kerney would do anything to help me and my family?”

“Kerney could have told him so,” Grace said. “If not, Sheriff Hewitt probably figured it out for himself when Kerney gave him a check for fifty thousand dollars to help us get back on our feet after our house was destroyed.”

“Hewitt told me that money came from a wealthy citizen who wanted to remain anonymous.”

Grace laughed harshly. “And you believed him?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ve been deluding yourself,” Grace replied. “Kerney was that wealthy citizen.”

Clayton gave Grace a speculative look. His wife was not a woman who told lies. “You know this for a fact?” he asked.

“I do.”

“And the sheriff told you?”

Grace smiled sweetly. “He did, after I explained to him that as Apaches we would be sorely embarrassed and lose face if we could not acknowledge another person’s generosity.”

Clayton almost choked in disbelief. What Grace had told Paul Hewitt was an absolute fabrication. In fact, the reverse was usually the case. Among the Mescalero, when giving or receiving a kindness it was polite to avoid making a big to-do about it, which served only to cause embarrassment. Gifts offered had to be accepted without question or fanfare. At best, one might say one was grateful for another’s generosity, but only on the rarest of occasions.

“Why would you tell him such a thing?” he asked.

“Since we rarely share our customs with outsiders, how would he know otherwise?” Grace asked. “Besides, surely you suspected that Kerney gave that fifty thousand dollars to us. I think in your heart you’ve known all along where the money came from and just didn’t want to admit it to yourself.”

Although he knew his wife was right, Clayton shook his head vigorously. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because I had no desire to deal with your false pride.” Grace rose, approached Clayton, and looked up at him with serious eyes. “So tell me, in this matter, who has been the better Apache? Kerney, who in spite of your pride, found a way to help us as part of his family? Or you, who has rejected most of his attempted kindnesses as though he were the enemy?”

Grace’s words struck home. As a child, Clayton’s uncles had taught him the four laws of the Mescalero Apaches: honesty, generosity, pride, and bravery. But a man could not be proud, brave, or honest unless he was first and foremost generous.

From the time he’d turned down Kerney’s offer to help him rebuild his home, Clayton had felt ill at ease with his decision. Whether Kerney knew it or not, in the ways of the Apache people, Clayton had insulted him. To repeat such an offense would show Clayton to be a man who’d lost his dignity.

“I will stay with Kerney and his family while I’m in Santa Fe,” he said with great seriousness.

Grace giggled. “Don’t make it sound like you’ve been sentenced to a week in the county jail.”

Clayton laughed in spite of himself and gave Grace a hug. The sound of the school bus horn outside the building ended the conversation. Grace and Clayton walked their children to the entrance, watched them board the bus, and waved when it drove away.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Clayton said.

“See that you do.”

Grace raised her face for a kiss and Clayton brushed her lips with his.

“You can do better than that,” she said as she grabbed his arm and pressed closely against him.

He gave her the full treatment—lips, corners of her eyes, tip of her nose, nape of her neck, a nibble on her earlobe—and left her smiling at the door.

There was no doubt in Clayton’s mind that the nervous man sitting outside the New Mexico chief medical investigator’s office, thumbing through an open file folder was Major Don Mielke of the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office. He was thin and haggard-looking with long legs, a narrow frame, slightly rounded shoulders, and the rosy complexion of a man who drank too much.

Clayton stepped up to Mielke and introduced himself. Mielke nodded, gestured to an empty chair, and shook Clayton’s hand after he sat down.

“My chief deputy said you’d be here for the autopsies,” Mielke said.

Clayton caught the faint scent of a cough drop on Mielke’s breath. “When do we get started?” he asked.

Mielke looked at his watch. “The chief MI and his senior pathologist will be here in ten minutes. They’ll do the autopsies simultaneously, so I’m glad you showed up on time. I’ll cover Denise Riley, you take Tim Riley.”

Clayton nodded. “Did you know them well?”

Mielke shot Clayton a sharp look. “Yeah, you could say that, but let’s save your interrogation into my relationships with the deceased until after we finish up here.”

Clayton smiled apologetically. Mielke’s annoyance at his innocent-sounding question signaled that the fun and games had begun. “I only asked because I thought you might have an idea, a theory, or maybe even a half-baked guess about why they were killed.”

Mielke shook his head. “If I had one single, off-the-wall, scatterbrained notion about who did this or why, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you, Istee.”

Clayton kept smiling. The major’s answer was a neat feint that gave absolutely nothing away. “That’s good to know.”

A lab assistant opened the swinging door and invited Clayton and Mielke to enter. Inside the autopsy room, a stark, brightly lit, spotlessly clean space, Tim and Denise Riley had been reunited for what might be the very last time, unless they were to be buried together. Their stiff bodies were stretched out on adjoining tables still clothed in the garments they’d worn dying.

All that had been human about them was gone. Under the harsh light Tim Riley’s mangled face looked even more gruesome, and although Clayton could see that Denise Riley had once been lovely to look at, her slashed throat spoiled the image.

He stepped up to the table for a closer inspection of the fatal wound. It was a straight, clean cut that severed the jugular and showed no evidence of hesitation. The incised cut had edges that were sharp and even, which made Clayton suspect that the killer had struck from behind his victim with one swift swipe of his knife. He wondered why there had been no mention of such a clean kill in the reports he’d received from the Santa Fe S.O.

The two pathologists who entered the room were suited up and ready to go to work. After introductions were made, Clayton stepped back and watched the procedure. Talking quietly into the overhead microphones above the tables, the doctors dictated their findings as they first noted the state of the victims’ clothing, the physical characteristics of the bodies, and the visible evidence of injuries and wounds.

Although he would never admit it, Clayton had a hard time staying for any length of time in the presence of death. He forced himself to remain still. It wasn’t the autopsy that got to him as much as it was the Apache belief that before the dead went to where the ancestors dwelled they could infect you with a ghost sickness that could kill.

To ward it off, it was an Apache custom to wear black, and Clayton had come to the autopsies fully protected. He wore a black leather jacket, black jeans, black cowboy boots, and a sturdy black belt with a silver buckle that held up his holstered sidearm. Even the white cowboy shirt he wore had black stitching around the cuffs, collar, and pockets, and his shield, clipped to his belt, had a diagonal black stripe to signify the death of a fellow officer.

The doctor assigned to Tim Riley had worked his way through the last phase of his external examination. The lab assistant, who’d been photographing both bodies, swabbing cavities, combing for pubic hairs, and taking fingernail clippings, began to bag and tag Riley’s clothing.

When he got to the shield that had been pinned above the left pocket of Riley’s uniform shirt, Clayton stepped forward and held out his hand. “Let me have that,” he said.

The tech gave the pathologist a questioning look.

“I don’t think keeping the badge in evidence will help catch the officer’s killer,” the doctor said. “Give it to the sergeant. Just note where it went on your evidence log.”

The tech did as he was told.

Clayton pocketed the shield, which he would return to Paul Hewitt, who would in turn eventually give it to Riley’s son. He stepped back out of the way just as the pathologist made the first long incision down Riley’s naked torso.

The doctor working on Denise Riley’s body had already cut her open and was busy inspecting the internal organs. Slowly, he raised his head, looked at Don Mielke, and said, “This woman was pregnant. She was almost at the end of her first trimester when she died.”

Clayton considered whether or not Riley had known that his wife was pregnant. Tim hadn’t mentioned it, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything more than it was none of Clayton’s business. However, surely a wife thrilled to be having a baby would give her husband the joyful news and tell family and friends of the upcoming blessed event.

Clayton watched Mielke speed-dial his cell phone, turn his head away, and whisper so as not to be overheard. Obviously, Mielke thought the pregnancy was important news that might have a direct bearing on the case.

Without additional information from Mielke, Clayton didn’t know what to think. Maybe Denise hadn’t known that she was pregnant. The possibility couldn’t be discounted without further probing.

Mielke closed his cell phone, looked at Clayton, glanced in the direction of the double doors, and stepped outside the autopsy suite. Clayton followed.

“I just advised my people about the pregnancy,” Mielke said.

“I figured as much,” Clayton said. “Was this the first you’d heard of it?”

Mielke nodded.

“What made you jump on it so fast?”

“Tim told me that after his first wife gave birth to their son, she demanded that he get a vasectomy, which he did. As far as I know he never tried to have the procedure reversed.”

“So Denise was carrying somebody else’s child.”

“I’d say it’s very likely.” Mielke paused. “But what’s interesting is that Denise always made the point of telling the other officers’ wives how much she enjoyed not being a mother, and she made no bones about being pleased that Tim couldn’t get her pregnant.”

“And that was okay with Tim?” Clayton asked.

“Yeah. He said at his age he had no desire to start a new family.”

Mielke rubbed his chin as though he was trying to wipe away a bewildered look that crossed his face.

“You seem surprised by all of this,” Clayton said.

“They acted like the perfectly happy couple, but you never know.”

“You never do,” Clayton echoed. “So maybe now we have a motive.”

“We’ve got something,” Mielke said, sounding decidedly upbeat.

“We’ll need DNA testing done on Denise and the fetus,” Clayton said, somewhat surprised by Mielke’s positive reaction.

“As soon as possible,” Mielke added. “I’m sure you’ll want every male officer of my department to voluntarily provide a mouth swab sample for DNA analysis.”

“I’ll want a sample from every male employee, sworn or civilian,” Clayton said, “and it will have to be taken in my presence or by someone I designate from outside your department.”

“Agreed.” Mielke walked to the swinging doors, paused, turned, and gave Clayton a tight smile. “In a way, I’m glad she was pregnant.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I honestly don’t believe Denise would have had an affair with anybody at the S.O.”

Clayton gave Mielke a questioning look.

“Except for Tim, I don’t think she liked cops,” he explained. “At least not the officers in my department.”

“Including you?” Clayton asked.

Mielke scoffed as he pushed his way back into the autopsy suite. “Let me be the first in line to give you a DNA sample, Sergeant Istee,” he said in a low voice.

“That would be great,” Clayton whispered in reply, thinking that once again Mielke had handily jumped over a seemingly innocuous question.

The pathologists had made good progress during Clayton and Mielke’s absence from the suite. Internal organs had been removed, analyzed, and weighed, and fluid specimens from the gastrointestinal tracts had been collected for toxicology testing. The doctor working on Denise Riley reported no vaginal or anal bruising or tearing, but didn’t rule out sexual contact prior to death.

Mielke asked to have DNA testing done on Denise and her fetus as soon as possible.

“I’ve already dictated a priority request to have it done ASAP,” the doctor replied.

Clayton stepped up to the table where the other doctor was busy placing some of Tim Riley’s detached internal organs into his chest cavity. “Will you look and see if he had a vasectomy?”

“He sure did,” the doctor replied, glancing up at Clayton, “and it was a done by a darn good surgeon, too.”

“Is there any evidence that the procedure was reversed?’

“Nope, the part of the vas deferens that was removed hasn’t been toyed with, at least not surgically.”

Clayton shook his head in dismay at the bad joke. “Thanks.”

The doctor looked over at Denise’s body on the adjoining table. “These two were husband and wife, right?”

“Correct.”

“Well then, Detective, I’d be looking for the guy who got the wife pregnant.”

“That’s a great idea,” Clayton replied.

When Clayton arrived at the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office the March sun was low in the west, pallid in a windblown, dusty sky. He’d followed Mielke up from Albuquerque and used the time to speculate about the major. Mielke had shared a good deal of personal information about Tim and Denise Riley, which made Clayton wonder about the exact nature of his friendship with the couple. Was it Tim who’d been Mielke’s buddy, or had Denise been the primary object of the major’s attention?

It was a question that needed an answer, and Mielke’s willingness to be first in line to give a DNA sample didn’t necessarily put the issue to rest.

Clayton parked next to Mielke’s unit in the rear lot and followed him through the restricted access employee entrance, down a brightly lit corridor, and into a large briefing room that had been set up as a command center for the investigation. Mielke introduced him to several uniformed deputies who were filling out paperwork at a worktable, and it earned Clayton measured looks and freeze-dried smiles. News of the nature of his mission had obviously preceded him.

After Mielke excused himself to go find the sheriff, Clayton used his time waiting to study the investigation task and duty assignments that had been posted on a large chalkboard mounted on the rear wall of the room.

Mielke came back before Clayton could digest all the information, to tell him that Sheriff Salgado was in the workout room and would meet with him there. He followed Mielke down another hallway, marveling at the space, the relative newness of the building, the number of individual offices that lined the corridors, the existence of an actual walk-in evidence storeroom, and a secure armory for weapons and ammunition. By comparison, it made the cramped space of the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office in the county courthouse in Carrizozo seem like a shabby suite of low-rent offices.

The workout room for the deputies was nothing less than a fully equipped gym, with lockers, showers, and bathrooms and every piece of exercise equipment needed for weight training and cardiovascular fitness. It was as nice as the private gym in Ruidoso that Clayton paid money to every month and never got to use half as much as he should have.

Dressed in sweats and putting in some time on a motorized treadmill, Sheriff Salgado was the only person in the gym. He jogged at a pace no faster than a slow walk, sweating heavily, red in the face and panting hard.

Salgado’s thick waist and inner tube–size love handles bulged against his sweatshirt, and his double chin jiggled up and down as he moved. Clayton half expected the man to stroke out or collapse from a heart attack at any moment.

As Clayton and Mielke approached, Salgado turned off the machine, wiped the sweat from his face with a gym towel, stepped off the treadmill, and gave Clayton a hearty handshake.

“Glad you could come up and give us a hand,” Salgado said, flashing a politician’s sunny smile.

“It’s good to be here,” Clayton said. “I think this case is going to take our combined efforts to get it solved.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” Salgado said. “I want you to use the training and planning lieutenant’s office in the administrative wing so you can have quick access to me if you need it.”

Clayton didn’t like the idea at all. It would immediately create ill will for him. “I’d rather not inconvenience the lieutenant. Isn’t there someplace else you can put me?””

“It’s a done deal,” Salgado said. “The lieutenant will double up with one of the patrol commanders while you’re here. Don’t worry about it. Everybody’s on board to catch this killer. That’s the important thing. You need something, you tell me and I’ll get it for you. Where do you want to start?”

“With you,” Clayton replied. “I’d like to interview you as soon as possible.”

Salgado looked at his watch. “First things first. Major Mielke will get you settled in, and Sergeant Pino and her P.D. detectives are coming in from the field to meet with you. I’ll see you in my office in the morning. Just let my secretary know what time you want to meet.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Clayton said, not sure if Salgado was a dim bulb as Paul Hewitt had said, a wily old street cop, or a bit of both.

Salgado slapped him on the back and headed for the showers. Outside the gym, Clayton and Mielke fell in behind two officers who were sauntering down the corridor engrossed in conversation.

“Maldonado was in the briefing room when that sheriff’s sergeant from Lincoln County showed up,” the first officer said.

“So what did he think?” his buddy replied.

“He said he almost cracked up when he first saw the guy. Said he was dressed like some Apache Johnny Cash wannabe all in black.”

“He’s Apache?”

The first deputy nodded. “I bet his first name is probably Geronimo or something like that. Maldonado says wait until you see him. He’s got long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.”

His buddy laughed. “Maybe he’s a New Age Indian who chews peyote buttons and has spirit visions. And this guy is the hotshot investigator who’s going to find a killer among us? I almost wish the sheriff had asked the state police to do the internal investigation.”

“You got that right, bro.”

From the corner of his eye, Clayton could see Mielke watching him, waiting for a reaction. Clayton cleared his throat loudly, and the deputies turned their heads at the sound and didn’t recover their composure quickly enough to mask their surprise.

“Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” Clayton said as he passed them by.

Mielke didn’t say a word, but he wasn’t smiling either. He led Clayton to the L-shaped administrative wing and showed him his assigned office. It was next door to where the major hung his hat and in clear view of Sheriff Salgado’s corner suite, the chief deputy’s adjoining office, and a reception area where the sheriff’s executive secretary resided. It offered zero privacy for people coming and going, and with a large glass window, with no venetian blind, that looked out on the reception area, it put Clayton and whoever was with him under constant observation.

Mielke introduced Clayton to the sheriff’s secretary so he could make an appointment to interview Salgado in the morning. The secretary, a middle-aged Hispanic woman named Joanne Castillo, consulted her daily planner and gave Clayton an early morning appointment with the sheriff. She handed Clayton a key to his new office and made him sign for it.

Accompanied by Mielke, Clayton unlocked the door and looked around. One wall of bookshelves held bound reports, training manuals, and some law enforcement textbooks. On the wall behind the desk was an assortment of framed certificates that its usual occupant had received for completing training and recertification courses.

The lieutenant had cleared out his desk and provided an empty metal filing cabinet for Clayton to use. On top of the desk was a three-ring binder casebook which Mielke told him was up-to-date except for the field reports that were still being prepared.

“Have you arranged for lodging?” Mielke asked. “There are several decent motels that offer reasonable rates for law enforcement officers.”

“It’s all taken care of,” Clayton replied, unwilling to be more specific about where he was staying and why.

“We’ll need to know how to reach you.”

Clayton found a ruled writing tablet in the top drawer of the desk, wrote down a number, and handed it to Mielke. “Call my cell phone.”

“That’ll work.” Mielke pocketed the note and glanced at his wristwatch. “Sergeant Pino and her detectives should be here in a few. If you need me, call dispatch. Until these murders are solved I’m available twenty-four/seven.”

Mielke left and Clayton settled behind the desk. He opened the casebook and started reading, but he couldn’t shake the thought that Salgado and Mielke’s cooperation was a pretense.

To hide what? Clayton asked himself just as Ramona Pino stepped through the door and gave him the first authentic smile he’d seen since arriving in Santa Fe.

“It’s good to see you, Clayton,” she said as she stepped to the desk and shook his hand.

“You too. Where are your detectives?”

“We just got in.” Ramona took a seat in the chair next to the desk. “They’re doing their reports.”

“You heard that Denise was three months pregnant?”

Ramona nodded. “And that the daddy couldn’t be Tim Riley.”

“Did you know him?” Clayton asked.

“In passing. He seemed competent. A quiet guy, not the macho type.”

“Any scuttlebutt about why he left the Santa Fe S.O.?”

“None that I heard.”

“What has Mielke had you doing?”

“Interviewing and re-interviewing the Rileys’ neighbors. We’ve talked to most of them twice, but several are out of town and unavailable. One guy is a long-haul trucker who isn’t answering his cell phone, and there’s a retired couple who are vacationing somewhere in Mexico in their motor home.”

“Has anything come up?” Clayton asked hopefully.

“Nope.” Ramona looked over her shoulder and through the window that gave a view of Salgado’s secretary at her desk. “So they’ve put you in this fishbowl to keep an eye on you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t intend to stay here all day every day. In fact, initially I want to keep our interviews with the commissioned personnel informal and low-key. Let’s meet with the deputies in the field, in their squad cars, over coffee, in the break room, or at their homes whenever we can. Have you encountered any male deputies or employees who seem a little skittish to you?”

“No, but based on how this killer went about his business, I wouldn’t expect him to be anything but cool and collected. Do we even have anything more than a hunch that suggests the murderer could be a cop?”

Clayton shook his head. “It’s all theory at this point.”

“Great. Okay, how do you want to do this?”

Clayton said he wanted the first round of interviews to start in the morning. He’d take the brass, the administrative staff, and the civilian office workers. Ramona and her two detectives would divvy up the three shifts, including all officers and the regional dispatchers housed at the facility. The four of them would convene every morning to set their schedule, and debrief every evening.

“Let’s meet here in this office at 8 A.M.,” he said as he stood up and tucked the casebook under his arm.

“You got it,” Ramona said as she got to her feet. “Are you going to see Chief Kerney while you’re here?”

“Yeah, in about thirty minutes. I’m staying at his place.”

Ramona followed Clayton out of the office. “I’m going to miss him when he retires at the end of the month.”

Clayton locked the door. “Raising cutting horses and running a ranch sounds like a pretty good way to retire to me.”

Ramona laughed. She knew the story of how Kerney had inherited his wealth from a famous Southwestern spinster artist who’d been his mother’s best childhood friend and college roommate. “Think I could get to do something like that on a retired sergeant’s salary?”

“Maybe if you supplemented your retirement income as a security guard, you could swing buying yourself a broken-down pony.”

Ramona chuckled. “That’s an ugly thing to say about somebody’s future prospects, Sergeant.”

“I know it,” Clayton replied with a smile.

The sheriff’s office door was closed, Mielke was away from his desk, and the secretary was nowhere to be seen. In the briefing room, Ramona introduced Clayton to her two detectives, Jesse Calabaza and Steve Johnson. He spent a few minutes talking to the detectives about his plans for the next day, before excusing himself.

Outside, the night sky was a low blanket of clouds pushed along by a cold wind that carried the sting of light sleet and the promise of heavy snow. He was northbound on Interstate 25, traveling in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, when the storm hit. He slowed the unit way down, put it into four-wheel drive, and made his way carefully through the whiteout to the exit that would take him to the Galisteo Basin and then on to Kerney’s ranch.

When Clayton arrived, the dashboard clock told him that the snowstorm had more than doubled the time he had figured to reach the ranch. Through the swirling blizzard, the lights from inside the ranch house looked warm and inviting.

He knew that he would be warmly welcomed, and although he didn’t think he deserved such treatment, he would put his pride aside as Grace had suggested and act like a dignified Apache.

He killed the engine and grabbed his luggage from the passenger seat. The outside lights winked on and the front door opened. With his head up and his face chilled by the wind-driven snow, Clayton walked up the path and said hello to his father.