Under the color of law

CHApter 3

About the only thing Cloudy Herrera liked about working days was that the shift started at six in the morning and usually nothing much happened for an hour or two. Assigned to the north patrol, Cloudy expected he'd catch some false burglary alarm calls and take spillover assignments on the south side of the city where the units stayed busy with shoplifting, assault, auto theft, vandalism, and traffic accidents.

So far his radio had been quiet.

At a stop-and-rob convenience store just off the Interstate, Cloudy bought an extra large coffee, left it on the counter, and went to empty his bladder in the public restroom. As he zipped up, his call number came over the handheld radio.

Cloudy keyed the microphone clipped to his shirt and responded.

"Unattended death at the College of Santa Fe," the dispatcher said.

"See Brother Jerome Brodsky at the Christian Brothers residence hall."

Cloudy acknowledged and checked the time. It was five minutes after seven.

"ETA four minutes," he added, hurrying to his unit.

Morning traffic was still light and he could get to the campus running with lights only in plenty of time. Halfway there he remembered he'd left his coffee behind on the counter, which had cost him a buck and some change. That didn't make him happy, but the thought passed when he realized he didn't have a clue where the Christian Brothers' residence hall was located on the campus. He called dispatch and asked for directions.

Two dead bodies in two days, a first in his three years on the force.

He parked in front of the old World War Two barracks where the brothers lived. There better not be any damn dogs around, he grumbled silently, thinking about his ruined uniform trousers.

He announced his arrival and the shift sergeant came on the horn to say he was rolling and would be there in two.

"Ten-four," Cloudy replied, staring at a tall, older man in long black robes who came hurrying down a pathway to a gate, his expression dazed and shaken.

Kerney passed the National Guard recruitment billboard, turned off the frontage road that paralleled the Interstate, and drove toward the new armory. He parked and listened for a minute to the radio traffic about an unattended death at the college before entering the building. Inside a female staff sergeant dressed in army fatigues directed him to the conference room where the FBI task force had set up shop. He entered the room to find Lieutenant Molina at a conference table large enough to seat the Joint Chiefs, the National Security Council, and the whole White House cabinet. With Molina were every on-duty detective, an eight-man FBI crew, and Special Agent Applewhite, who assisted a man at the head of the table as he quickly scanned through a document folder.

The two men who'd accompanied Ambassador Terrell to Santa Fe were not present.

The surprised look on Sal Molina's face as he considered the sight of Kerney in uniform almost made Kerney smile. Molina's reaction alone made wearing the blues worth the effort.

The man with Applewhite looked up, nodded at Kerney, rose, and came around the table to greet him.

"Chief Kerney," Charlie Perry said.

"It's good to see you again."

"Hello, Charlie." Kerney shook Perry's hand, thinking back to his summer as a seasonal ranger in the Gila Wilderness, where he'd met Perry, who'd been undercover at the time, investigating a militia group in Catron County. He'd butted heads with Perry, who had treated him as a washed-up ex-cop, hamstrung his attempts to link the militia to a lucrative game-poaching operation, and forced him off the job-all out of pure ego. But with the help of a state game and fish officer named Jim Stiles, Kerney had still managed to punch a big hole in the militia's leadership and make some rock-solid arrests.

"Seems you've resurrected your career since last we met," Perry said.

The sarcastic bite came from Perry's choice of words, not his tone.

Kerney studied the younger man's face. Trim and lean, Perry matched Kerney's six-one height. Perry had missed one long neck hair when shaving. It curled below his Adam's apple just above his shirt collar.

Another jutted out on the side of a nostril. Judging by his past experience with the man, Kerney assumed Perry was too vain to realize he needed glasses.

Perry stared back at Kerney cockily, his brown eyes showing a touch of disdain.

"Looks like you've moved up in the food chain yourself, Charlie," Kerney said.

"Let's get to work."

"We're ready when you are," Perry replied, gesturing at the table.

After introductions Applewhite passed out folders and Perry guided the group through the documents, which laid out very little about Phyllis Terrell's personal history or her extramarital affairs, and gave a brief resume on Hamilton Lowell Terrell, who after his retirement from the army had served as ambassador in both Panama and Ecuador, and who now carried the rank of ambassador without portfolio. Included in the paperwork were the names of three men who allegedly had been Mrs.

Terrell's lovers during the past two years, and some supplementary information on the considerable net worth of the surviving members of the Straley family, including the victim's father and sister.

"This is all you're going to give us?" Molina asked when Perry closed the file and put it to one side.

"You have the names of two local men who may have been sexually involved with the victim," Perry replied.

"That should be enough to keep you and your people busy."

"And the third guy down in Ramah?" Molina asked, consulting his notes.

"Scott Gatlin."

"I have an agent on the way there now," Perry replied.

"We'll handle it."

"What about the papers and items that were removed from Mrs. Terrell's residence last night?" Molina asked.

"Nothing of value to the investigation was taken," Perry said.

"I'm supposed to trust you on that?" Molina snapped back.

Perry fiddled with his pen before replying.

"The ambassador's personal property was secured at his request and consisted of nothing more than photographs, books, and memorabilia."

"Then why wasn't I allowed to inventory the contents last night before the boxes were removed by your two agents?"

"Because, as I just said, it had no bearing on the case," Perry replied.

"I want to do a full-scale search of the residence," Molina said.

Perry reached for another folder.

"Agent Applewhite asked the ambassador to sign a permission-to-search form late last night. He was more than willing to do so."

Perry passed it down the table, watched Molina read it, and then turned his attention to Kerney.

"I'd like Agent Applewhite and another agent to assist in the search, if that's all right with you, Chief."

"No problem," Kerney said.

Perry smiled thinly.

"Good. Then there's only a few more issues to cover. Susan Straley has arrived from Virginia and Proctor Stra ley is on his way to Santa Fe now. My people will conduct the necessary interviews. Also, I've called a press briefing at noon to release the name of the victim, announce the formation of the task force, and read a prepared statement from the ambassador."

Perry's smile widened.

"Unless you'd rather handle it, Chief Kerney."

"Go for it, Charlie," Kerney said, looking at the tidy, neat rows of agents flanking Perry at the far end of the table.

"But tell me, what will the rest of the task force be doing while we're searching the house and interviewing Mrs. Terrell's boyfriends?"

Perry stood up.

"I'm unable to discuss that, but I'll keep you informed to the extent that I can. Let's get to it."

Outside, Kerney waited for Sal Molina to appear. Sunlight and an unseasonably warm day had melted the remaining snow on all but the foothills and mountains, and the intense blue sky seemed limitless. On the Interstate a steady stream of vehicles moved in both directions.

Molina came out the door in a hurry, cell phone in hand.

"That unattended death at the college was a homicide, Chief. A priest had his throat cut."

"Do you have any more specifics?"

"That's all I know. I can only spare one detective."

"I'll back him up," Kerney said.

"Great."

"Contact the Armed Forces Record Center in St. Louis. See if they'll release a copy of Ambassador Terrell's service jacket."

"You don't buy the killed-by-a-lover theory?"

"Right now I don't buy any theory. Since the feds have locked us out of the trade-mission slant, let's take a look at Terrell through the back door. Put someone on a computer, have him surf newspaper archives, and find out what Terrell did between the time he retired from active duty and his appointment as an ambassador. I want it as specific and complete as possible."

"You got it."

"And I want Proctor and Susan Straley interviewed by our people after the feds are finished with them."

"That will raise the feds' eyebrows." Molina watched as Kerney rubbed his chin and looked at him thoughtfully.

"Anything else?"

Kerney hesitated before responding. He had to start trusting his senior officers, otherwise he would never find out who he could count on.

"Find out who told Applewhite that we'd picked up Santiago Terjo for questioning. The information had to come from within the department."

"You want Internal Affairs to handle it?"

"No, you do it. Concentrate on the detectives, officers, and technicians who were at the crime scene."

Molina inclined his head toward the door.

"What in the hell was going on in there with you and Agent Perry?"

"It's old business," Kerney said.

"Make sure you put Applewhite and her partner under constant observation during the house search. I don't want anything else disappearing from the residence. Take photographs while you're there.

If Applewhite questions it, say it's department policy. Get me a few good shots of her."

Applewhite came out the door with another agent before Molina could ask what in the hell was going on.

"We're ready to roll, Chief," she said, with a nod and a smile in Molina's direction.

"Lieutenant Molina will guide you to the house," Kerney said as he stepped away to his unit.

After World War Two the College of Santa Fe, an independent institution founded by four Christian Brothers in 1859, had relocated from a site near the plaza to the surplus Fort Burns Army Hospital at the edge of town. Now besieged by urban sprawl and bordered by major roads, the campus was more or less tucked away from view except for the main entrance off St. Michael's Drive.

Over the past twenty years the college had built a reputation for its liberal arts, performance, and fine arts programs.

Kerney drove past the flashy new garnet-red Visual Arts Center, an ultramodern building of exceedingly sharp angles, rows of geometrically square and rectangular windows, stiff jutting cornices, and pyramid domes, to the old army barracks, where two squad cars, an unmarked unit, a crime-tech vehicle, and an ambulance were parked.

Officer Herrera once again stood guard, positioned at the gate to the courtyard entrance with clipboard in hand next to a sign that read,

"Christian Brothers Residence."

Kerney wondered if Herrera was good at anything other than checking people in and out of crime scenes. He had his doubts.

He sat in his car for a long minute looking at the barracks, which sported new roofs and siding, but clearly proclaimed a wartime heritage.

Although brown and dormant, the courtyard was a showcase of ardent gardening and careful landscaping, with curving walkways, carefully pruned shrubs, a grass lawn, mulched flower-beds, and ornamental trees.

Around the perimeter of the buildings mature pine and cedar trees over arched the roofs and provided screening.

Kerney wondered how long it would be before the college tore the barracks down, and hoped it never happened. Not every structure worth saving had to be an architectural marvel, and there was something to be said for preserving a few reminders of a time when the country had been defended by millions of citizen soldiers.

"Did you see the body?" Kerney asked as he signed in with Herrera.

"Just for a minute," Cloudy answered.

"Then Sergeant Catanach arrived and stationed me out here."

"Did you detain any witnesses?"

"Like I said, Chief, the sergeant took over."

Kerney looked into Herrera's dull gray eyes and decided to trust the hunch that popped up.

"Did anyone from outside the department come by the Terrell crime scene yesterday?"

"Yeah, an FBI agent stopped by just before I was relieved. Some woman.

I don't remember her name. Applegate, or something like that."

"What did she want?"

"Just to know what was happening with the case."

"And?" Kerney prodded, trying to keep a scolding tone out of his voice.

"I filled her in."

"What did you tell her?"

"That we had a suspect, the Mexican guy."

"Did she ask permission to inspect the crime scene?"

"No."

"Did you document the conversation?" Kerney asked.

"What for?" Herrera said with a shrug.

Kerney forced a smile.

"Contact Lieutenant Molina, tell him what you told me, and write up a supplemental report. Have it ready for me before I leave."

Herrera shrugged again.

"Okay."

Sergeant Tony Catanach was in the dining room where he had assembled the brothers, who sat clustered together silently at two tables. Kerney scanned the group: all the men were middle aged or older; but some were dressed in casual civilian attire, while others wore clerical garb.

Several had their heads bowed in prayer.

Catanach gave an approving glance at Kerney's uniform and stepped into the hallway. A young man in his early thirties and a five-year veteran of the force, he was a newly minted sergeant who took his job seriously.

"I was just about to start taking statements, Chief," he said.

"Bring me up to speed."

"The victim is Father Joseph Mitchell, a Maryknoll priest. His throat was slashed. Entry may have been gained either through an unlocked window or a door."

Along the corridor of the nicely remodeled barracks a series of doors gave access to the dining room, a library, a large lounge, an entertainment room, and a chapel.

"Where's the body?" Kerney asked.

Catanach inclined his head toward the row of hallway windows that looked out on the courtyard and an adjacent two-story barracks, connected to the common area by a passageway.

"The brothers' bedrooms are across the way. Father Mitchell had a first-floor room right inside a door that leads directly to the courtyard. The screen was off his unlatched window, but all the others are still in place. Nobody can remember if the entrance closest to Mitchell's room was locked or not. The brothers aren't real concerned about security. There isn't any sign of forced entry, and if you walk around you'll see four more doors that also could have been used by the killer to gain entry."

"Have you got everyone here?"

"No," Catanach said.

"There are twelve residents, if you count Father Mitchell.

Seven are in the dining room and four of the brothers are in their offices canceling their classes. They'll be back in twenty minutes.

I've asked them not to discuss Father Mitchell's death."

Catanach consulted a pocket notebook.

"Robbery may have been the motive, Chief.

A laptop and desktop computer were taken, along with a tape recorder, a camera, and a VCR. Detective Sloan is in the room waiting for the body to be removed."

"What do you know about the victim?"

"Not much, yet. He was a visiting scholar-in-residence working on a research project. Brother Jerome Brodsky, chair of the social science department, supposedly knows the most about Father Mitchell. He'll be back in twenty."

"What else?" Kerney asked.

"Check out the knife wound, Chief. One deep cut at the jugular. No hesitation marks, nothing sloppy, and no cuts on the victim's hands to indicate any struggle with his attacker. I'd say the priest was probably asleep at the time."

"I'll take a look and be back to help take statements," Kerney said.

Bobby Sloan, a thirty-year veteran of the department, pulled back the sheet covering Father Mitchell's body.

"A clean kill," he said to Kerney.

"This wasn't done by your typical addict looking to steal something so he could fence it and score. The incision is deepest right at the jugular. The killer knows his anatomy."

Kerney agreed, the angled wound was clean, sharp, and long, slicing through the jugular, an axillary vein, and the larynx. The cut had been made where a trained assassin would strike with a knife, and the edges of the wound were close together. Blood had flowed freely.

Kerney scrutinized the dead man's face. His gray hair was cropped short and receded at the temples. Age lines around the mouth and eyes and a fullness to the cheeks suggested the priest had seen the passage of five decades, maybe more.

"Seen enough?" Sloan asked.

Kerney nodded.

Sloan nipped the cover over Mitchell's face and gestured to the two paramedics who waited in the hall with a collapsible gurney. The men stepped inside and removed the body while Kerney and Sloan stood to one side.

The sleeping room was small, no more than a hundred square feet, with a tiny adjacent bathroom. The furniture consisted of a twin bed, a bedside table, a student-size writing desk, and an almost empty bookcase-all obviously postwar items bought at surplus. In one corner a built-in shelf and rod served as a clothes closet.

"We've searched the room, photographed, and vacuumed," Sloan said.

"The techs are dusting every door to the building for prints," Sloan said.

"There are no tool marks on the doors or windows suggesting forced entry. The ground froze last night, but we've found no footprints outside the window."

"What was on the bookcase?" Kerney asked.

"Before he left for his office, Brother Jerome said it was mostly empty.

But you know, Chief, with two computers you'd think there would be a box or two of floppy disks around. There weren't any in the room."

"Any personal items?" Kerney asked.

"Nothing in his clothes. But we did find some letters from his mother in Houston. He had a Louisiana driver's license with a New Orleans address that checked out to be a Catholic seminary. New Orleans PD is making contact."

Only a few investigators from Kerney's earlier tenure as chief of detectives still remained with the department, and Sloan was one of them. From past experience Kerney knew him to be reliable, hardworking, and a straight talker.

Somewhat older than Kerney, Sloan had a missing tooth near the front of his mouth and an unconscious habit of probing it with his tongue.

Through the window Kerney saw Officer Herrera lounging against the fender of his squad car, smoking a cigarette, watching the ambulance drive away.

"Tell me about Herrera, Bobby," Kerney said.

Sloan snorted.

"As a cop he's worthless, Chief, and as a person he's piss-poor company.

The last chief didn't have the balls to can him. His uncle is on the city council. Serves on the finance committee."

"I see."

"You need anything else from me?" Sloan asked.

"Continue with the crime-scene work-up," Kerney replied.

"I'll help Catanach take the witness statements."

"That's a big help," Sloan said.

"How do you like being back with the department, Chief?"

"I'm glad to be back, Bobby."

Sloan grinned.

"Just don't sweat the small stuff, Chief. Most of us know what we're doing."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Along with the clerics in residence two women employees worked as housekeepers and cooks. Sergeant Catanach had rounded them up with the brothers and was in the dining room conducting interviews. Kerney took over the lounge, a large room with a stone fireplace, comfortable easy chairs, and an overflowing wall of hook shelves, and began taking statements.

Kerney learned very little about Father Mitchell from the people he interviewed.

An historian working on a compendium of late twentieth-century military aid to South American countries, Father Mitchell had been in residence slightly less than a year. He rarely discussed his work and when engaged in conversation about it responded very vaguely. The brothers knew Mitchell had served as an army chaplain, had taught for a spell at a Midwest Catholic college, and held an advanced degree from an Ivy League university. He'd been murdered a week short of his fifty-ninth birthday.

Brother Jerome, chair of the social science department, was the last faculty member to return from his office. A tall, reserved, intelligent-looking man in his early sixties, dressed in a clerical robe, he sat across from Kerney with his hands folded in his lap. Only the rapid blinking of his eyes gave a hint of his dismay and shock about Father Mitchell's murder.

"You found Father Joseph," Kerney said.

"Yes. He'd missed morning prayers and didn't appear for breakfast. I thought he might be sick."

"What time was that?"

"About seven o'clock," Brother Jerome said, "There was so much blood I knew he was dead as soon as I stepped into the room."

"The door was unlocked?"

"Yes, and all his personal possessions were missing. I gave a list of what I knew he kept in his room to the sergeant."

"How long was it before you called to report the death?"

"Within a few minutes. Almost immediately."

"Did you see anybody nearby?"

"I saw no strangers, if that's what you mean, and everyone else had been to prayer and breakfast."

"Your colleagues seem to know very little about Father Joseph."

"He kept to himself and we respected his privacy. I may know a little more, since I granted Father Joseph's request for a visiting scholar's appointment."

"So far all I've learned is where he earned his advanced degrees, where he recently taught, and that he served a hitch as an army chaplain,"

Kerney said.

"Father Joseph retired as an army chaplain with the rank of major about a dozen years ago. He was stationed all over the world. He took his master's in history at a university in Georgia while on active duty, and completed his Phd after he retired."

"What else can you tell me about his professional life?" Kerney asked.

"His research interest was military history. Much of it he did on the Internet."

"What brought him to Santa Fe?"

"He was gathering oral histories from some significant primary and secondary sources. Mostly retired military officers living in the state, I believe."

"Did Father Joseph mention any names?"

"Not to me. But he spent a fair amount of time conducting interviews."

"Did he talk about his personal or family life?"

Brother Jerome shook his head.

"Only in the most general of terms. We shared a few reminiscences one evening shortly after he arrived. He has a widowed mother who lives in Houston. And his only younger brother died while serving as a military attache at an embassy in Latin American some time ago. He wouldn't say more about it and never seemed willing to discuss it again."

"Did you ever try?"

"Yes. Father Joseph said it was just an everyday sort of tragedy in today's America."

"How would you characterize Father Joseph's political views?" Kerney asked.

"Very liberal. Are you looking to do a bit of witch hunting, Chief Kerney?"

"That's not how the question was meant. Understanding Father Joseph may help me catch his killer. This could be the act of an everyday criminal.

On the other hand it could be connected to something in Father Joseph's past. Did you learn anything about the younger brother?"

"He was career military, I believe. A colonel in the army."

"Did Father Joseph speak to you of any personal or family problems, conflicts with others, or worries he might have had?" Kerney asked.

"No. He seemed very content and at ease with himself and others. He was a fine man and a good priest."

"What about contact with students?"

"He had no teaching responsibilities," Brother Jerome replied, "although he may have had some casual association with individual students."

"Did he keep any papers or documents outside of his room, or show you his work in progress?"

"I never saw his manuscript or research notes. He did have a briefcase he carried with him whenever he left the residence."

"Did Father Mitchell have a car?"

"Yes, he drives a brown Toyota. It should be parked outside."

"We found no briefcase in his room," Kerney noted.

"I see," Brother Jerome said.

"Would you like to look for it?"

"If it's not a bother."

"By all means."

No briefcase was found during the search of the residence hall, and nothing turned up in the car search. After checking in with Catanach and Sloan, Kerney left the residence hall to find Officer Herrera hurriedly finishing his supplemental report.

Cloudy handed over the paperwork and had Kerney sign the crime-scene log.

"Is your report complete?" Kerney asked.

"Yeah. There wasn't much to say."

At his office Kerney entered the information he'd gathered from his interviews into the computerized paperwork system. He finished and looked over the list of stolen items. The perpetrator had cleaned out all the priest's research plus two computers. Two trips would have been necessary to cart it away, which heightened the chance of discovery. No professional thief would risk getting caught unless the stolen items had more than a monetary value. It upped the probability that Father Joseph had been silenced by someone who wanted to avoid exposure or keep a secret. But of what?

He accessed the Terrell case file and read through the forensic notes that had been posted earlier that morning. Semen had been found on the bed sheets, along with some pubic and head hairs not from the victim, which didn't match the samples taken from Santiago Terjo. Autopsy findings showed Phyllis Terrell had engaged in sexual intercourse no more than a few hours before her murder. DNA analysis confirmed Terjo wasn't Terrell's bed partner, at least not on the night of the murder.

He scrolled through the supplementary report menu and pulled up Sal Molina's notes on Terjo. The man had stuck with his story during Sal's second full-press interrogation. But Kerney still felt Terjo was holding something back. Maybe the night spent in jail would induce him to be more forthcoming.

He shut down the computer and switched his attention to Alonso Herrera's personnel file. After a year on patrol Herrera had been transferred to the Crime Prevention Unit. Six months into the assignment he'd requested a return to patrol and had been assigned to a different team. Ratings from his field training officers and supervisors fell in the adequate range and nothing in the file reflected negatively on the officer.

Kerney found Herrera's unusually rapid transfer to the crime prevention unit interesting. From experience he knew junior officers rarely moved so quickly off patrol duty. Normally, it took between three to five years for a uniformed officer to get bumped up to a specialist slot.

Occasionally, an exceptionally sharp officer could make the cut in two years, but that was rare. From what Kerney had seen of Herrera, he certainly didn't fit the criteria of an officer on a fast track.

He switched his attention to the supplemental field report Herrera had given him on his way out of the crime scene, first reading for content and then for competency. Because of a patrol-officer shortage on the swing shift, Herrera had been held over at the Terrell residence for several hours, and according to his report Applewhite had appeared about an hour before her arrival at police headquarters. Herrera's penmanship was sloppy, his use of grammar and syntax unbelievably bad, and his spelling bordered on semiliterate.

Kerney buzzed Helen Muiz and asked for a quick meeting. Helen came in, notebook and file folder in hand, and sat with Kerney at the conference table. Today's outfit was a smartly tailored pair of slacks complemented by a cashmere sweater.

"You look very nice today," Kerney said.

"As do you," Helen replied.

"You mean the uniform?" Kerney asked, tugging at the collar with the four stars.

"Yes, and it's about time you started wearing it."

"Should I wear it every day?" he asked.

"Frequently will do," Helen replied.

"A response to your FAA inquiry regarding the aircraft identification numbers on the corporate jet used by Ambassador Terrell came in while you were out. The plane is leased by Trade Source Venture International.

According to its Web site the company engages in multinational high value technology start-up enterprises-whatever that means."

"It usually means, give us your money," Kerney replied.

Helen smiled agreeably and referred to her notebook.

"I did some digging on your behalf. Trade Source is headquartered in Virginia, but they control a local subsidiary, called APT Performa, which has offices in the business park off Rodeo Road. It's a Los Alamos National Laboratory private-sector technology-transfer spin-off company, that develops state-of-the-art high-tech computer security software bundles."

"Whatever that means," Kerney said before Helen had the chance.

"Exactly. The CEO is a Mr. Clarence Thayer. Trade Source is on the NASDAQ exchange. I've asked a stockbroker friend to send over all the information she has on the company. You'll have it this afternoon."

"You should have been a cop, Helen."

Helen's eyes smiled.

"You don't want to hear my response to that comment, Chief."

"Probably not. Give me the back channel scoop on Alonso Herrera."

Helen's expression turned sober.

"Do you really want to step into that open manhole right now?"

"That bad?" Kerney asked.

"You know about Herrera's uncle?"

"I just learned who he was."

"Herrera was bounced from his patrol team and sent to the crime-prevention unit in an attempt to keep him off the streets."

"Be more specific," Kerney said.

"Shoddy paperwork, poor attitude toward the public, abuse of sick leave, sub par performance, citizen complaints about the use of excessive force."

"There's nothing documented in his file."

"Not anymore there isn't," Helen replied.

"Your predecessor ordered the file purged and Herrera's performance evaluations upgraded to adequate. As a result the department got a nice bump in the annual budget that sailed through the finance committee and the city council without a hitch."

Helen passed the file folder she'd brought in to Kerney.

"When you asked me for Herrera's personnel file, I thought we might have this discussion. That file contains copies of the original disciplinary reports and performance evaluations on Officer Herrera, along with some internal memoranda. When I heard that you were to be our next chief, I was glad I saved them."

"You are insubordinate," Kerney said with a laugh.

"Only when it's in the best interest of the department."

An incredulous expression creased Kerney's face as he read the material.

He set the folder aside and said, "Herrera starts his days off tomorrow.

Prepare an order assigning him to permanent duty in Fleet Management upon his return to work."

"Are you sure you want to do that now?" Helen asked.

"I might as well find out right away if I'm going to survive in this job or not."

"You'll be making an enemy on the city council."

"I'll add him to my list. Captain Otero wrote some strongly worded memos protesting the decision. Is that why he was removed as a field-operation captain and placed in charge of Technical Services?"

Helen nodded.

"It tubed his career. He's got a short-timer's calendar in the top drawer of his desk, and he's counting the days until he can take early retirement."

"How close is he?"

"Sixty days."

"Have him come see me," Kerney said.

"May I tell him why? With the old chief the senior commanders never knew what to expect when called to appear at the Crystal Palace."

"Tell him I've a few minor questions about the fleet-replacement schedule. Set up the appointment for late this afternoon, and get me his personnel jacket. I want to take another look at it. I may have found my deputy chief."

Helen grinned.

"What?" Kerney asked.

"Nothing," Helen said lightly as she rose and left the office.

Detective Sloan had accepted Kerney's offer to scout out Father Joseph's military records and make contact with the priest's mother, so he turned to those tasks, first calling the Armed Forces Record Center.

Kerney got nowhere with the civilian employee he spoke to. Terrell's records could not be released without his written permission.

He called the retirement home where Mrs. Mitchell resided, and spoke to a caseworker. Mrs. Mitchell, age eighty-seven, was in failing health but mentally alert. Leaving out many of the details, Kerney gave the caseworker the news of Father Joseph's death. The woman suggested it would be best for her to pass the information on to Mrs. Mitchell to soften the impact.

"By all means, please do that," Kerney said.

"But Mrs. Mitchell will still need to speak to the police. I'm going to ask the Houston Police Department to have an investigator meet with her as soon as possible."

"Why is that necessary?" the woman asked.

"To learn as much as we can about Father Mitchell, and find his killer."

The caseworker sighed and hung up.

By phone Kerney put in his request to the chief of detectives of the Houston PD, who agreed to get someone on it right away. As an afterthought Kerney asked for any information Mrs. Mitchell might have on the death of her other son, Colonel Mitchell, United States Army, first name unknown.

He hung up and read through Captain Larry Otero's personnel file. Otero had attended a number of traffic-safety institutes, was a graduate of two FBI police-management training courses, and had earned instructorship status in field-officer training, officer survival techniques, and DWI enforcement. He held a BA degree in criminal justice, and up until the prior administration his performance ratings had been excellent.

Aside from his present assignment and his prior position as a patrol captain, Otero's job experience included a tour in Traffic Services as commander, a stint as an Internal Affairs lieutenant, and two years as a sergeant in crime prevention.

At forty-two Otero was seasoned, capable, and knowledgeable about a wide range of department operations, which was exactly what Kerney needed in a deputy chief. He also liked the tone of Otero's clearly written, dissenting memos about the Herrera whitewash. The man had backbone and principles.

It could work out to be a good match, he thought, as he closed the file and checked the time. Charlie Perry's press conference was due to begin soon.

Although he knew he had to go, he disliked the thought of watching Perry do the FBI spin-doctor routine that inevitably accompanied such events.