Everyone Dies

Chapter 8

T he explosion brought Grace and the children outside. They gathered wordlessly around Clayton, watching flames from their burning house throw sparks into the air. The propane gas tank had blown up, spewing fire that licked at the large pine trees and spread through the native grass.

Grace gripped Clayton’s hand as though she was trying to squeeze away the anguish that showed on her face. Wendell stood frozen between them, his arms wrapped around Clayton’s leg. Perched on Grace’s hip, Hannah, too young to understand, watched in wonder.

Fire trucks and personnel moved to attack the flames. Through the darkness and the growing light from the scattered fires Clayton saw the figures of Perry Dahl and his dog come out of the trees on the opposite side of the lane. He sighed in relief as Paul Hewitt moved off to meet them.

The reality of what he’d witnessed hit, and a biting, hollow feeling swept over him. All that he’d done to build a home for his family had been wiped out. Despondency, quickly replaced by anger, gave way to an ice-cold detachment that wiped all emotion from Clayton’s mind. He wrapped himself in the feeling. This wasn’t the time to feel sorry for himself. He had to think and act like a cop. He wondered how long he could pull it off before the shock of what had happened hit him again.

“Take the children and go inside,” he said to Grace.

She was slow to respond. “Then what?”

“Call our families and wait for me,” Clayton replied, as he watched Paul Hewitt and Perry Dahl talking thirty yards away in front of a police cruiser.

She let go of his hand, pulled Wendell away from Clayton, and turned to face him. In the reflection of her dark eyes flames danced like pinprick blood wounds. He could see tears forming and it almost made him want to cry.

“It will be all right,” he said.

She shook her head in a silent rejection of such a ludicrous notion, turned on her heel, and went into the house, yanking a reluctant Wendell along. Clayton walked quickly to join Hewitt and Dahl. There was much to do, and if he kept his thoughts on the job, maybe he’d get through the night without losing his self-control.

Kerney got the call from Paul Hewitt telling him that Clayton’s house had been destroyed. He left Sara with Andy, who promised to take her to his house and assign two state police agents to stay with her for personal protection. Before flying off in a borrowed state police helicopter to Mescalero, Kerney beefed up security by putting two of his own officers on duty outside Andy’s home.

Ever since he’d been shot down during an extraction from a hot landing zone in ’Nam, choppers had been Kerney’s least favorite mode of transportation. He sat stiffly in the passenger seat listening to the rotors cut through the air in monotonous mechanical thuds, bracing for the sickening lurch that would plow the chopper into the ground.

Below, in the weak light of the thin moon, Kerney could see the faint ribbon of empty roadway that dropped out of low-lying hills into the small ranching village of Corona.

The word meant “crown” in Spanish, but the village was no jewel by any stretch of the imagination. Corona had once been a thriving trade and agricultural center. But all that had slipped away years ago when the trains no longer stopped at the station. Now, like so many other rural towns and villages in New Mexico, it was just another decaying strip of old buildings interspersed with a few roadside businesses along a lightly traveled state highway.

They were halfway to Mescalero and the pilot had the chopper cruising at top speed, paralleling the highway that ran south to the county seat of Carrizozo. Once there, they would skirt the high mountains, cut across the mesa east of Ruidoso, drop through the narrow pass that led into the city, and follow it to Mescalero.

Kerney closed his eyes and thought about what he could possibly say to Clayton and Grace. The couple had been made homeless and all their possessions destroyed because of a sick killer bent on revenge that went far beyond the ordinary.

They would want answers, and Kerney had little to give them other than some fairly reasonable speculation. He could tell them about the dead victims, the dead animals, the stolen art, the killer’s notes and phone call. But even with all that, he still had no clear motive for the crimes that might lead to a suspect, and only an artist’s sketch that could possibly ID the unknown perp when and if he was found.

Kerney switched his thoughts to Clayton and Grace’s situation. Even with insurance, which he assumed they had, there would be immediate and large out-of-pocket expenses. Aside from temporary housing, the family would need clothes, bedding, kitchen utensils, everything necessary to set up housekeeping again. Beyond that, some of what had been lost could never be replaced, and rebuilding their home would only be a small part of what it would take to restore the family to some sort of emotional normalcy.

He wondered if Clayton would accept an offer of financial help. Although their relationship over the past few months had improved slightly, they were still basically strangers to each other, and Clayton was an extremely proud man who might not take kindly to the idea. Kerney decided he’d make an overture anyway.

Flying low through the pass to Mescalero, Kerney could see smoke in the night sky. The pilot circled over it, but the cover was too thick to give them a view of what was happening on the ground.

They landed in the parking lot of the tribal administrative offices, where a state cop was waiting to take Kerney to the Naiche residence. During the short drive, Kerney learned that Clayton and Grace had lost both of their vehicles in the blast, that the explosives expert and his dog had escaped without injury just before detonation, and that burning debris had ignited a fire that scorched two acres around Clayton’s house before it had been brought under control.

The dirt lane in front of the Naiche residence was lined with police, emergency, and private vehicles with firefighter license plates. Kerney entered the front room and saw Clayton, Paul Hewitt, and a group of tribal officers organizing a crime scene investigation and a first-light reconnaissance of the foot trails leading into the mountains. The explosives specialist, who was covered in dust, sat to one side in a chair with a clipboard on his lap and a dog at his feet, writing notes.

Paul Hewitt, a big, somewhat beefy man who had grown a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard since Kerney last saw him, spotted Kerney first, gave him a curious look, and touched Clayton on the arm. All talk ceased as Clayton stepped away from the group and approached him.

“When did it happen?” Kerney asked.

“About an hour and thirty minutes ago,” Clayton answered. “The firefighters have it just about put out and we’re waiting for clearance to go in.”

“Are Grace and the children all right?”

“Everyone’s safe.”

“And the damage?”

“According to the reports, it’s all blown to hell. From what I saw, that’s just about right.”

Kerney searched Clayton’s face looking for anger, shock, or outrage. All he saw was a slight tightness at the corners of Clayton’s mouth. He scanned the group behind Clayton. The officers gazed at him silently.

“Tell us what you know,” Clayton said as he rejoined the group.

“This guy isn’t going to be easy to catch,” Kerney said as he followed along and handed Clayton a manila folder he’d carried with him. “We’ve had two sightings, and have an inconclusive shot of him on a surveillance video tape. That folder contains a copy of a police artist’s sketch of the perp along with physical descriptions we got from witnesses.”

Clayton studied the material before passing it around. “This is it? You haven’t made an ID?”

“He’s still an unknown subject,” Kerney replied.

“And you’ve got nothing from forensics?”

“We have a lot of evidence, but nothing that allows us to identify him yet,” Kerney replied. “So far, he’s killed three times. His victims have been a former assistant district attorney, a former forensic psychologist, and an unidentified woman whose body he left in a van outside the municipal court in Santa Fe earlier tonight.

“Before he strikes, he likes to get his victim’s attention. He’s left dead rats at houses, killed a pet dog, and swiped a number of valuable paintings belonging to one of the victims. After the first homicide, he’s been leaving messages at the crime scenes. I’m his final target.”

“You know that for sure?” Clayton asked.

“I do.”

“How?”

“He slaughtered my horse, left poisoned rats outside my house, and called me.”

“What did he say when he called?” Hewitt asked.

“That everyone will die. Then he asked if I’d figured out who was next on his list before he comes after me. He also said he planned to wipe out my bloodline completely. That’s why I called Grace and told her to get the children and leave the house.”

“So who else is on his list?” Hewitt asked.

“My wife and our unborn child. But since he missed taking out Clayton and his family, he may try again before he moves on.”

The hush in the room was broken only by the cough of one of the officers. The men tensed and exchanged hard looks. A killer who had targeted two cops was bad enough. But to go after their families went beyond the unthinkable.

Clayton bit his lip. “How did the perp find out that I’m your son?”

“I don’t know,” Kerney said. “But I plan to look into it. Who have you told on your end?”

“It’s common knowledge on the Rez,” Clayton replied.

“That could mean a couple of thousand people know about it.”

“At least.”

“You can’t waste time trying to interview the entire tribe,” Kerney said. “I’ll work my list and see where it goes.”

Clayton nodded. “When do we get all of your case material?”

“One of my detectives is en route. You should have it soon. What have you got going?”

“We’re patrolling the tribal roads that lead to the trails into the mountains behind us,” Paul Hewitt said. “But nobody has been spotted, and the perp’s had more than enough time to clear the area. The feds are on the way, and once they get here, it’s their ball game. So for now, we’ll seal off the crime scene and get the sketch distributed to all personnel. That’s the best we can do until daylight.”

Kerney nodded and turned to Clayton. “I’d like a minute of your time.”

The officers, including Paul Hewitt, took the cue and filed out.

“Thanks for calling Grace,” Clayton said when they were alone.

“How is she doing?”

“She’s pretty shook up, but coping.”

“And the children?”

“Hannah’s too young to know what really happened, but Wendell’s taking it hard.”

“What about you?”

Clayton glanced away. “I’m trying not to think about it.” The strain showed clearly in his eyes.

Kerney changed the subject. “Aren’t you and the sheriff outside your jurisdiction?”

“No, all department officers are cross-deputized under an agreement with the tribal government.”

“Do you want me to talk to Grace?” Kerney asked.

“Yeah, she wants to know what’s going on. She’s at the back of the house with her parents and my mother.”

“I’d like to help out financially. After all, I’m the reason you’re all in this mess.”

Clayton shook his head. “We’ll be okay.”

He took Kerney into a family room where Grace, her parents, and Clayton’s mother, Isabel Istee, were waiting. Clayton introduced him to his in-laws, Orlin and Lillian Chatto, while Isabel took Hannah and Wendell out of the room. When she returned, Grace raised her dark eyes to Kerney’s face.

“Why has this happened?” she asked. She wore borrowed clothes that hung loosely on her slender frame, and her narrow-eyed gaze held a tangible pain.

“It’s complicated,” Kerney replied. “To put it simply we have a killer who’s seeking revenge. Who he is and why he’s doing it are still unknown.”

“Why did he try to kill us?” Grace asked.

“Because I’m Clayton’s father,” Kerney replied. “He wants all my blood relatives dead before he attempts to kill me. But I’m not his only target. He’s already murdered three people, and we believe the killings have something to do with an old criminal investigation of mine. Two of the victims worked with the courts. One was a former prosecutor and the other was an ex-forensic psychologist.”

“And that’s all you know?”

“It narrows down the field considerably,” Kerney answered. “We’re reviewing every possible suspect.”

“Will he try to hurt us again?”

“We won’t let him do that,” Kerney replied. “You’ll be protected.”

Grace looked at Clayton for confirmation, who nodded his head. “If you don’t know who he is, how can you stop him?” she asked in a disbelieving tone.

“He’ll make a mistake,” Kerney replied, “or the evidence we’ve collected and the work we’re doing will lead us to him.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I am.”

“You said he wants to kill everyone related to you.”

“Yes.”

“Including Sara?”

Kerney nodded. “She has twenty-four-hour police protection, just as you and the children will have as soon as you leave here.”

“And your baby. Has he been born yet?”

“He’s due any day.”

“Yet, with all of that you came here.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Kerney looked at Clayton. “Because for the sake of us all we have to catch this man.”

“Yes, you must,” Grace said, forcing a smile. “You saved our lives.”

“I think it was more a question of lucky timing,” Kerney said, as he looked directly at Clayton. “I would like to help you and your family recover from this.”

Orlin Chatto stood up before Clayton could respond. Probably Kerney’s age, he was barrel-chested with a slim waist. His nose was broad above a round, full chin.

“Perhaps such talk should wait,” he said, “until all of us have had time to think about what has happened.”

“Yes, of course,” Kerney replied, getting to his feet.

Orlin nodded. “It is late and we should go. Grace and the children will stay with us.”

“You’ll have a police escort and an officer will be on duty outside the house,” Clayton said to his wife.

“Will I see you in the morning?” Grace asked him.

“As soon as I can get free,” he said.

Isabel, who’d remained frozen in silence on the couch during the conversation, her hands clasped in her lap, rose and went to gather up the children. When they came into the room, Orlin Chatto shook Kerney’s hand, said good night, and ushered his wife outside. Grace, Clayton, and the children followed behind.

Kerney watched from the front door as Clayton put his family in his father-in-law’s car. The state police officer took the lead in his unit and the two vehicles slowly drove away.

Isabel brushed past him in the doorway and turned to face him. An expression of cold anger, which had been carved across her face from the moment she saw him, remained.

Kerney looked at the woman who in his distant past had once meant so much to him. Eyes that had once danced with humor now flared with accusation, and her soft mouth was a thin, angry line.

As a cop, he’d taken the brunt of people’s misplaced outrage many times before. But this time it felt justified. He waited for her to confront him, but she left without saying a word, stopping only to give Clayton a hug before hurrying to her car.

“Are you leaving?” Clayton asked as he drew near.

“Not yet,” Kerney answered. “I want to see what turns up at the crime scene. It could yield some important evidence.”

“Thanks for not going into too much detail with the family.”

“It would have only served to upset them more than they already are. Grace handled it well.”

“She’s a strong person.”

“Yes, she is,” Kerney said, reaching for his cell phone. “I need to make some phone calls.”

“I’ll let you know when the feds get here.”

Kerney searched Clayton’s face. Although he was still keeping the lid on, the strain had become more visible, especially around his mouth. He wondered when Clayton would let himself feel something. It needed to happen soon.

“Good deal,” he said.

Clayton left Kerney at the house and checked in with tribal dispatch on his handheld. Officers were still out on the back roads, the fire was out, firefighters were scouring the surrounding woods looking for any flare-ups, and Perry Dahl had returned to the bomb site, accompanied by officers who’d secured the perimeter.

He disconnected and started walking through the trees in the direction of the spot where his home had once stood. He forced himself to move at a steady pace and tried to prepare himself for what he was about to see. Ahead, the spotlights and headlights of police cruisers and several fire trucks broke the darkness, illuminating the ruins of his home. Crime scene tape had been strung across his driveway, and officers were posted at strategic locations.

He approached quietly, not wanting to be seen. They’d lost all the landscape trees at the front of the house as well as a stand of pines on the back of the lot. The charred trunks of the tallest trees rose thirty feet into the sky.

Where the house had stood there was nothing but rubble. Large, twisted sections of the corrugated metal roof partially covered the few standing walls, and the metal headboard of Wendell’s twin bed jutted through a shattered window frame.

He moved closer and looked away from the light, letting his night vision adjust. What appeared to be the refrigerator lay on its side next to his two burned-out vehicles, both of them resting on wheel rims over black puddles of melted rubber.

He saw a flashlight beam at the rear of the house and Dahl came into view, casting his light over the littered concrete pad where the new tool shed had been, then over the remnants of the propane tank scattered under some trees that had been burned halfway up the canopy. If the fire department hadn’t been standing by before the explosion, the whole forest could have gone up in flames.

The swing set and slide had been taken out by the exploding gas tank, and the vegetable garden was nothing more than a scorched plot enclosed by the post-and-wire fence.

It was worse than he’d imagined. His hands were shaking, so he stuffed them into his trouser pockets. He started to sweat in the cool night as a lump rose up in his throat and he thought about what might have happened to Grace and the children. He waited for the dizzy feeling of shock to pass. Finally, his heart stopped pounding in his chest and the tremors in his arms and legs lessened.

He watched Dahl put his dog in his unit and drive away. Quickly, he made his way back toward the Naiches’ house, trying to convince himself that the burning sensation in his eyes came from the lingering smoke and soot in the air. He saw Perry Dahl talking to Kerney and Sheriff Hewitt at the front of Eugene and Jeannie’s house and hurried to join them.

“What have I missed?” Clayton asked as he reached the men.

Bits of ash clung to Dahl’s short-cropped hair and speckled his unshaved face. His shoes and trousers were caked with black soot and mud. Clementine, his German shepherd, sat at his feet busily cleaning gobs of muck from her front paws.

“Not much,” Dahl replied, as he reached down to scratch Clementine’s head. “I just started my briefing. I’m thinking the plastique was homemade, which means there won’t be any detection agent that could lead us back to a manufacturer.”

Dahl unsnapped Clementine’s leash. “The two charges were shaped to do maximum damage upwards through the floor. I’d say they were a pound each. One was placed next to the gas line that ran under and up into the house from the outside propane tank, which guaranteed a secondary explosion.”

“Where was the second charge placed?” Clayton asked.

“Facing the house from here, on the left side,” Dahl replied. He wrapped the leash around his hand and stuck it in his back pocket. “Which I assume is where the bedrooms were located.”

Clayton nodded and said nothing.

“What kind of chemical agents were used?” Kerney asked.

“That will have to wait until we can run some tests,” Dahl answered. “But it could’ve been anything from a potassium or chlorate compound, a phenol derivative, to an antifreeze concoction treated with calcium chloride then filtered to remove the water and the calcium chloride, which is my best guess right now.”

“Why do you say that?” Hewitt asked.

“Because it acts like a nitro-gelatin explosive, which means it’s highly flammable, and there was fire almost immediately after the explosion on both sides of the house.”

“Do you have anything that can help us find the perp?” Kerney asked.

“The hardware that was used is our best bet,” Dahl said. “Based on what I saw, I’m thinking he built everything from scratch, which means he had to buy the components somewhere. But more than that, I’d also be looking for someone with electronics experience, who is good with his hands, has had some formal training, and has a basic understanding of chemistry.”

“An amateur couldn’t do it?” Clayton asked, forcing himself to stay focused on the subject. He wanted to find the asshole and kill him.

“He’d have to be very gifted,” Dahl replied. “No matter what you’ve heard about bomb-making instructions on the Internet, none of this stuff is that easy to do, especially the electronics.”

“Give us an example,” Hewitt said.

“A radio detonator was used to trigger the charges placed inside the house,” Dahl replied. “To do that the perp had to accomplish two things to ensure success: first, use a microwave transmitter so the signal would penetrate into the structure, and second, shield the signal so that a random transmission wouldn’t prematurely set off the plastique. That takes a high degree of knowledge and skill.”

“So we start checking electronic suppliers to see who has been buying what,” Kerney said, “and look for a perp with some formal training or education in the field.”

“Yeah,” Dahl said. “I can work up a list of what I think he used to build the device and start calling supply houses and retailers. And if I can find any intact pieces of the wire he used, that might be helpful. But don’t get your hopes up. If he was smart, he bought from a lot of different places, probably off the Internet and by mail order.”

“What else?” Clayton asked.

“I’ll see what the feds have on known bombers with similar MOs. Also, most of these guys like to watch their shows, especially the big blasts, and this one was designed for maximum devastation. You might get lucky in the morning and find a shoe print or some trace evidence on a trail or at the spot where he detonated the explosion.”

An unmarked car pulled up next to Clayton’s unit and two feds got out.

Kerney looked at Clayton’s mud-caked boots. He’d been to the site, of that he was certain. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“If you want to bail out, you can,” Hewitt added.

Clayton shook his head and managed a thin smile. “I’m just pissed off, big time. It sucks to be a victim.”

The two feds approached, flashed their shields, and immediately started asking questions.

Kerney had been unable to contact only one person on his list of those who knew about Clayton, the executor of Erma Fergurson’s estate, a man named Milton Lynch. Lynch was a probate and tax attorney based in Las Cruces, a hundred miles away.

It was Erma’s legacy that had made Kerney a rich man, and Lynch had handled all the paperwork, including the college funds Kerney had set up for Wendell and Hannah.

At dawn, Clayton went into the mountains hoping to cut the perp’s trail. Kerney radioed the chopper pilot and asked him to get clearance to fly to Las Cruces over the restricted airspace of White Sands Missile Range before he sought out Paul Hewitt.

“Will you give me a ride to the chopper?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Are you going to establish a fund to help Clayton and his family?” Kerney asked as he got in Hewitt’s vehicle.

“You bet, as soon as I get to the office.”

Kerney handed him a folded check. “This is an anonymous contribution.”

“Whatever you say,” Hewitt replied as he slipped the check into a shirt pocket.

“Good,” Kerney replied.

“What’s between you and Clayton is none of my business, Kerney,” Paul said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I’m proud to be Clayton’s father, Paul,” Kerney said as they coasted to a stop at the tribal offices where the chopper waited. “He’s a good man and a fine police officer. When we have the time, I’ll tell you the story of how we found out about each other. Or maybe Clayton will.”

“I’ll let you know if he does,” Hewitt replied.

“Look after him, Sheriff,” Kerney said as he got out of the car. “He’s due for a letdown from all of this.”

Hewitt replied with a nod. “I know it. You be careful.”

He watched Kerney get into the chopper and take off before opening the folded check. He knew Kerney had inherited a pile of money through the sale of a ranch left to him by an old family friend.

He looked at the amount and whistled. Make that a big pile of money. Kerney’s check would easily cover the cost of buying two new vehicles for the Istee family, free and clear.

It was a pleasant nighttime drive that took Samuel Green from the town of Tularosa, north to Carrizozo, and then west toward San Antonio and Interstate 25. Just past Stallion Gate, a restricted access road on the north boundary of White Sands Missile Range, Green left the highway and followed an unpaved county road that wound through some low hills on the east side of the Rio Grande Valley near the small city of Socorro.

Most of the land was controlled by the Bureau of Land Management, but there were a few private parcels tucked into the barren hills that overlooked the valley farms and the mountains to the west of the city. Green stopped at the gate to a private road, unlocked it, and drove up the hill to a small adobe house once owned by Noel Olsen. But now that Olsen was dead, he didn’t own anything anymore.

Green had created his plan with two main goals in mind. First and foremost were the killings, and they were going well. The failed attempt to blow up the Istee family was a disappointment, but partially successful nonetheless in exacting heavy retribution against Kerney’s family. He would let it go at that for now, and keep his option open to kill them later, perhaps as some sort of epilogue.

Green’s second goal was equally simple, yet complex in its execution. He wanted not only to succeed with his plan but to survive it and enjoy the emotional fruits of his labor. To do that, he’d decided to give the cops a perpetrator to look for and never find. Thus, the recently deceased Noel Olsen.

Green slipped on a pair of plastic gloves, entered the house, and removed Olsen’s hiking boots. Even with two pairs of socks, the oversized boots had been uncomfortable to wear and his feet were sore. He padded into the bedroom, put the boots in the closet, slipped on a pair of Olsen’s running shoes, and turned to the body on the bed.

“You made a lovely bomb,” he said as he pressed Olsen’s thumb and fingers on Dora Manning’s cell phone. He did it several times to make sure there were a number of partial and smudged prints for the police to find, and repeated the process with the radio transmitter used to detonate the plastique.

Green had kept Olsen captive and alive for the two weeks it had taken to order the parts and make the bomb. During the times he was gone, he’d sedated Olsen with a major tranquilizer and left him manacled, handcuffed, gagged, and chained to a fifty-gallon water heater in the utility room.

He left the room and dropped Manning’s cell phone and the radio transmitter on the work table in the small second bedroom where Olsen had played with all his electronic toys and built the bomb. In the corner were the containers of chemicals Olsen had used to make the plastique, and buried under a stack of paper were receipts for some of the components that had been bought to make the hardware. The cops would find additional information on Olsen’s laptop computer, which should also make them happy.

In the utility room, he bundled up the clothes Olsen had worn and fouled during his confinement, packed them in a travel bag along with the restraints, added some of Olsen’s toiletries from the bathroom, and left it near the front door.

Back in the bedroom, he wrapped the body in a sheet and carried it out to the car, carefully staying on the gravel path to avoid leaving footprints that would show the weight he was carrying. He stuffed the body in the trunk, made a second trip for the travel bag, and closed the lid.

He went to the toolshed behind the house and checked on the two Merriam Kangaroo Rats he’d caught that were in a cage on a shelf. Their little eyes blinked rapidly in the glare of his flashlight. He fed them some poisoned bait and watched their contortions as they died. The cops, who got off on finding little details that corroborated their facts, would be pissing in their pants with excitement when they found the rats.

Green checked his watch. He figured it would be a good ten to twelve hours before the cops got here. First, they had to identify the body he’d left in the van, which should be done by now. Then, they had to make the connection to Olsen, which would take some head work and digging, but not that much. After all, the dead woman had at one time been Olsen’s parole officer in Las Cruces.

At the age of twenty, Olsen and two undergraduate buddies from New Mexico State University had been arrested for the rape and murder of a woman in Santa Fe. Because he hadn’t participated in the rape, Olsen had been allowed to plead to a lesser charge in exchange for testifying against his co-defendants. He’d done his time, finished his parole, completed his engineering degree, and had his voting rights restored, which meant he wasn’t going to be hard to find.

But what made Olsen the perfect suspect was the fact that Kerney had busted him, Potter had prosecuted the case, and Dora Manning had done the psych evaluation for the court. It had taken Green a year’s researching to find the ideal candidate to become the cops’ one and only prime suspect.

He got in Olsen’s car and drove away. By the time the cops arrived, Olsen’s body would be at the bottom of a lava tube in the El Malpais National Monument, his car would be at a chop shop across the border in Juarez, and Green would be on his way back to Santa Fe ready to implement the final phase of his plan.