Under the color of law

Chapter 6

Late in the afternoon Bobby Sloan released two of the state police agents who'd assisted in his investigation and held a debriefing session with the senior agent, Lalo Escudero. Escudero, an old friend who'd tipped more than a few beers with Sloan over the years, sat in the cubbyhole that served as Bobby's office reading off the list of people who'd been interviewed over the last two days. At his desk Sloan checked off the names one by one.

"That's it," Escudero said, looking at the sprawling stacks of files, reports, and paperwork on Sloan's desk.

"How in the hell do you find anything in that mess?"

"It's all organized," Sloan said.

"As far as I can tell, we've talked to every faculty member, student, and staff member at the college who had any contact with Mitchell."

"Including a few whose only interaction with the priest was sharing a table with him at the college library or using the men's room at the same time he was taking a leak," Escudero noted.

"So, nobody's lying, or withholding information?" Sloan asked.

"So it seems," Escudero replied.

"Supposedly it's not unusual for an academic researcher to stay tight lipped about his work."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard that from every faculty member I talked with,"

Sloan said.

"I'm thinking about personal stuff Mitchell might have talked about.

You know, his hobbies, his years in the army, what he liked to read.

Anything like that."

"The man kept to himself," Escudero said.

"Why?"

"Hell if I know," Escudero said.

"Maybe that was his personality."

"Or he was hiding something," Sloan said, stifling a burp.

"Maybe. But other than the robbery, you've got no motive for the murder.

Nobody had a grudge against him, he wasn't embroiled in any controversial campus politics, and nobody disliked him."

Sloan looked at the blank piece of paper he'd placed on his desk for note taking, removed his reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

"So say he wasn't killed by somebody on campus," he said.

Escudero rolled his eyes.

"What?" Sloan demanded.

"Either way, you've got robbery as a motive."

Sloan shook his head.

"Come on, Lalo. Robbers are the sloppiest killers on the fucking planet.

They get surprised by the victim, panic, pull off a couple of caps, bolt, and leave most of what they wanted to steal behind. We get prints, find witnesses, get a make on a vehicle, cruise the pawnshops, and make a bust."

"Okay," Escudero said.

"Mitchell was retired army and his research project involved interviewing ex-military types."

Sloan elaborated on Lalo's guess.

"Are you saying officer X or sergeant Y dusted Mitchell because of his research?"

"That would explain the professional kill," Escudero replied.

"The killer could have been one of those special forces types."

Sloan covered his mouth, burped, and noted the idea on the paper.

"Let's say Mitchell gets whacked because of his research. Something from the past he was writing about, maybe gonna publish. Now the robbery starts to make sense. The killer wasn't sure what Mitchell had or where it was, so he cleaned out everything."

"Or he knew exactly what he was looking for and staged the rest of the rip-off to throw us off the track."

"That, I don't buy," Sloan said, suppressing a burp.

"The perp didn't waste time killing Mitchell. I doubt he wanted to risk getting caught lugging a bunch of unnecessary stuff away."

"Okay, what's the motive?" Escudero replied, pausing to let Bobby finish another belch.

"Revenge?"

"More likely fear of exposure," Sloan replied, "if it was related to Mitchell's research. But what if the perp killed him for something that didn't have diddly to do with the army? Maybe it was personal.

Maybe the priest was a pedophile and the church was hiding him away."

"What we know about the victim doesn't tell us much," Escudero said, watching Bobby burp again.

"Maybe you should forget about figuring out the motive for now and concentrate on the victim."

"Yeah," Sloan said.

"You'd think if the perp didn't know exactly what he was looking for, he would have left something behind about Mitchell's research that would give us a clue."

"No good motive, no hard evidence, no known suspects," Escudero said.

"Your case is a piece of shit, Bobby. When do you want our paperwork?"

"Tell me about it. Tomorrow will do." Sloan let out a long belch and patted his stomach.

"We're finished talking, right? I want to get out of here before you start blowing farts."

"It's just gas," Sloan said.

"You sound like a bullfrog in heat," Escudero said.

"You gotta stop eating that junk food."

Sloan grimaced.

"Thanks for the advice and the help."

"Any time."

Lalo left the cubicle and Sloan picked up the page of notes he'd just made and let the paper float down to the desktop. Was Mitchell killed for revenge? Was Mitchell killed to cover up some past crime? Was he killed because of what his research had uncovered?

He hated this kind of homicide. The chances were good it would go unsolved unless someone stepped forward with solid information or another crime occurred that could be tied conclusively to the murder, with sufficient evidence to target a suspect.

He rocked his chair back and reached down for a thick three holed binder on the floor. Although forms and reports were now computerized, Sloan still used a homicide casebook to keep his material organized. He thumbed through the pages, stopping to look once again at the two yellow Post-it notes he'd found as page markers in Father Mitchell's Bible.

Mitchell had written INS COM on one Post-it and "video" on the other.

Sloan had no idea what INS COM meant. Maybe it was a stock-market abbreviation, the name of a corporation, or an acronym of some sort. He would try and track it down.

No videotapes had been found in Mitchell's room, so maybe that note was a reminder to return a borrowed or rented movie. There were several video players and televisions in the common areas of the Christian Brothers residence hall.

Although it was probably a dead lead, tomorrow he would ask around to see if Father Mitchell was a movie buff, and check the video stores near the college on Cerrillos Road.

But maybe it referred to something else. Mitchell supposedly was taking oral histories of retired veterans for his research. Was he making audio or video recordings?

Sloan decided not to get excited about the idea until morning. He started writing his report, and his gut rumbled as the gas built up. He needed to stop by the drugstore and get something for it on his way home.

Kerney's last meeting of the day was with Tobias Maestas, the lieutenant in charge of training. Maestas, a low-key, competent officer, sat stiffly across the conference table and with a pained expression on his face described how Kerney's predecessor had gutted the annual in-service training budget by taking himself and a few high-ranking cronies to expensive out-of-state law-enforcement seminars and conferences.

As a result, unless new money could be found or existing funds transferred from another budget category, firearms instruction and range re qualification testing with the department's newly adopted Smith amp; Wesson 45 caliber semiautomatic would have to be curtailed until the start of the new fiscal year in July.

Kerney heard Maestas out, thinking that every new day on the job seemed to bring another surprising revelation of past mismanagement. He glanced at the weapons-training cost estimate and the instruction schedule Maestas had prepared and closed the file.

"We have six unfilled patrol officer positions," Kerney said.

"I'll ask Chief Otero to transfer the funds you need out of personnel costs into the training budget. Go ahead and set it up, Lieutenant."

Maestas smiled as though he'd won the lottery, thanked Kerney, packed up his paperwork, and left. Almost immediately, Sal Molina stuck his head inside the open door.

"Got a minute, Chief?" he asked.

"Sure," Kerney replied.

"We've cleared last summer's drive-by shooting. The Albuquerque PD picked up our suspect on a fugitive warrant early this morning during a DWI traffic stop. He's hooked into the county jail."

"That's good news."

"I couldn't find a record of any calls made by Applewhite to Taos,"

Molina said.

"I even checked to see if she'd placed calls to some nearby resort communities like Red River and Angel Fire. I struck out there too."

"Let it go, Lieutenant. The case is closed." Kerney held out the hand-delivered FBI report.

In it was a copy of Gatlin's handwritten confession and the initial DNA test results confirming that the pubic hair and semen stains found at the crime scene were from Gatlin.

Molina shook his head as he read the paperwork.

"This is bogus, Chief. How many rape-murders do you know about where the perp quarrels with his victim, lets her dress and pack for a trip, and then stabs her with a pair of scissors?"

"I can buy it," Kerney said.

"We know there was no forced entry at the house. We can assume with very little doubt that Terrell knew her murderer. It's also pretty clear by the killer's choice of weapons that the attack was an act of passion or rage that wasn't premeditated. Put that together with the fact that Terrell and Gatlin had been lovers, that prior to the murder Gatlin had repeatedly threatened violence, and you've got a case.

Gatlin's confession and the lab findings ice the cake."

Molina dropped the paperwork on Kerney's desk and looked at Kerney with angry eyes.

"How does that explain Ambassador Terrell coming to town with two cleaners in tow who remove and erase any pertinent evidence we might have found during a full house search? Then Charlie Perry shows up waving national security in our faces, takes over the investigation, won't give us squat, and watches our every move. Then, big surprise, within two days Perry dumps a neat and tidy solution in our laps that we have absolutely no way to verify."

"Agent Perry made it clear there would be elements to the investigation we would not be privy to. National security matters do not fall within our domain."

Molina leaned forward and put his fists on Kerney's desk.

"Let me and my people keep working this case, Chief. You know it's the right thing to do."

Kerney bit his lip and shook his head.

"No, Lieutenant, and that's final."

Without another word Molina turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.

Kerney stared at a blank wall and tried to remain calm. Molina was right, of course, and his blistering indictment of Kerney's decision was perfectly reasonable.

He got up, turned out the lights, and walked to a window that gave a view of the shopping mall on the other side of Cerrillos Road. A van with dark-tinted glass covered with curtains and several roof-mounted antennas had been parked in the lot day and night since Charlie Perry had arrived on the scene. Preoccupied with all that needed doing, Kerney had taken a full day to snap to the realization that he was under electronic surveillance.

He rationalized his slow uptake by thinking he'd never been spied on before, at least not to his knowledge. It gave him no satisfaction. He hoped that Charlie Perry would be lulled to sleep after listening to the tape of his conversation with Sal Molina. What he would do while Charlie was snoozing still had to be thought out.

Charlie Perry waited in his car for the custodian to turn out the lights and leave the college administration building. Earlier in the day, pretending to be gathering information about the college for a cousin, Perry had met with an admissions counselor. During his visit he'd scoped out the exit doors, located the faculty mailroom, and noticed the absence of a security system. Then he'd taken a self guided walking tour around the campus.

The custodian drove away. Perry put on plastic gloves, walked from his car to a side entrance, picked the lock, and hurried down a long corridor to the mailroom. Using a pocket flashlight he located Father Mitchell's empty mailbox.

He searched a bin of unsorted mail and found nothing addressed to the priest.

The manila envelope Randall Stewart had mailed for Phyllis Terrell had to be around somewhere, but where? He checked every mailbox to make sure the envelope hadn't been mis routed and looked through the outgoing mail bin in the hope it might have been forwarded by the clerk to Mitchell's home address. Nothing.

He found a dog-eared campus directory and paged through it for Brother Jerome Brodsky's office location. Mitchell's resident scholar appointment had been in the social science department, which Brodsky chaired. Maybe Brother Jerome had picked up Mitchell's mail. If not, Perry would be forced to go through every faculty office in the department until he found it.

Outside, Perry stood in the shadow of the administration building as a group of students walked by on their way from the nearby library. Night classes had ended over an hour ago and Perry figured the faculty had long since departed from both classrooms and offices. The lone security guard on duty was parked some distance away, next to a dormitory, keeping an eye on female students returning to their rooms.

He hurried across the parking lot and made his way to a row of ratty old army barracks that served as faculty offices. Getting in the darkened building was a breeze, but it took him a few minutes to gain access to the locked suite of offices and another thirty seconds to open Brother Jerome's door.

Perry saw the envelope lying address-side up on the top of Brother Jerome's desk. He grabbed it just as the hinges on the outer suite door squeaked. Lights flicked on in the reception area. He flattened himself against a wall by the door, stuffed the envelope in his waistband, and pulled his handgun. Brother Jerome walked in and Perry tapped him once with the barrel at the base of the skull to put him down, and again a little harder to put him out.

Perry quickly trashed the office, took a laptop computer to make it look like a burglary, stepped over the unconscious body, and headed for the parking lot, his hands sweating inside the plastic gloves.

A squad car with flashing lights, two unmarked units, a campus security vehicle, and a fire department EMT ambulance were parked outside the old army barracks.

Inside a small reception area a woozy Brother Jerome sat in a straight-back chair while an EMT tended to him. A useless-looking campus security officer stood nearby giving a statement to a patrol officer.

Sal Molina and Bobby Sloan conferred in the open doorway to an office.

They stopped talking when Kerney approached.

"What have you got?" Kerney asked.

Molina spoke first.

"Brother Jerome interrupted a burglary in progress, Chief.

He came back to grade some papers, found the doors open, and got cold-cocked when he walked into his office."

"There's no sign of forced entry," Sloan said.

"But just about anyone could have picked the locks on the door to the reception area and the office."

"Or they were left open," Molina added, "which isn't unusual. Sometimes the brothers don't lock up if they're just stepping away from their desks for a few minutes."

"Did Brother Jerome find the entrance unlocked?" Kerney asked.

"Yes," Bobby Sloan said.

"Did he see his attacker?" Kerney asked.

"Nope," Sloan said.

"He saw that his office door was open, walked in, and got clobbered."

"How is he?" Kerney asked.

"He's got a mild concussion," Sloan said.

"The EMTs are gonna transport him to the hospital for a medical evaluation. Except for a laptop computer he doesn't know what else was taken. But the file cabinet where he keeps his test exams wasn't tampered with, so probably a student didn't do this."

"He was laid out neatly," Molina added.

"From the bumps on his head I'd say he was tapped once to put him down, and given a second hit to put him out."

"Not something a typical college kid would know how to do," Kerney said.

He looked at the papers, telephone, and desk lamp that were strewn on the floor. A chair had been overturned, and some books had been pulled off a bookshelf.

"Okay, let's say the perp panics when Brother Jerome shows up, and knocks him out to avoid discovery. As far as we know, only a laptop is missing. Why trash the office?"

Sloan shrugged.

"Maybe the perp was looking for something else."

"Like what?" Kerney said, scanning the office.

"The perp has the laptop and there's nothing left in plain view worth stealing. Were any of the offices closer to the entrance entered?"

"Nope," Sloan replied.

"The burglar made a beeline for this one."

"Brother Jerome sponsored Mitchell as a resident scholar," Kerney said.

"I thought about that," Sloan said.

"Any thief with half a brain would have waited a few more hours until the campus was quiet before pulling a break-in," Kerney said.

"Unless he was desperate to get his hands on something important."

"Like something of Mitchell's that wasn't in his room the night of the murder," Sloan said, eyeing the mess on the floor.

"I'd love to make that connection, Chief. If we can tie this to the homicide, then maybe I can get a handle on a motive."

"Assume it for now," Kerney said.

"None of us would be here if Father Mitchell hadn't been murdered in his room less than fifty yards away."

"This has a completely different MO than the Mitchell homicide," Molina said.

"I agree, LT," Sloan replied.

"But the crimes could still be linked."

Kerney focused on Sloan.

"Where are you with the Mitchell case?"

"Running into brick walls, Chief. I've got a few more leads to chase down that don't look promising. I'll know if I've got anything in the morning."

Kerney watched the EMT take a still wobbly Brother Jerome to the waiting ambulance.

"As soon as he's able, have Brother Jerome inventory everything in his office."

"I've already got it on my list, Chief."

"Start interviews now. Talk to the brothers, campus security, janitors, library staff-anybody who is usually around after night classes end."

Kerney glanced at Sal Molina.

"I want you and Detective Sloan to head up this investigation. Pull in as many people as you need. Soft-pedal it as an aggravated burglary, not connected to the Mitchell homicide."

"Whatever you say," Molina replied.

"As a precaution, let's button down the Brothers' residence," Kerney said.

"Put a uniformed officer on-site around the clock starting now. Call me if anything breaks."

Molina held his tongue until Kerney had limped his way out of the building.

"This isn't the way I want to spend my time," he said.

"I think the chief may be onto something here, LT," Sloan said, rubbing his aching gut.

"Yeah, maybe, but I'd rather be working the Terrell homicide."

"That wasn't his call to make," Sloan said.

"Give the guy a break, he's doing the job."

"You think so?" Molina asked.

"I do."

"Well, he hasn't got my vote yet."

Fred Browning sat in a back booth of his favorite Albuquerque sports bar staring at his double whiskey. Televisions positioned throughout the dimly lit room, all turned to the same station, showed halftime highlights of a West Coast college basketball game while a color commentator blithered. Buff-looking college-age waitresses, dressed in skimpy workout shorts and tank tops, cruised through the crowd taking drink and food orders, with easy smiles and sassy prattle designed to loosen wallets for big tips.

Browning had planned to get slam-dunk drunk, but instead he'd been sipping the same whiskey for almost an hour, trying to sort out why he'd been laid off. A good dozen patrons waited at the front of the room to be seated, and his waitress looked longingly at the four-person booth he occupied as she passed by.

He ordered another double and some food, dropped a fifty on her tray when she brought it, and told her to keep the change. Placated and pleased, she walked away, toned buns twitching under her tight-fitting nylon shorts.

Browning's day had turned crappy real fast when the plant manager had dumped him from his job without anything more than bullshit explanation.

The promise of a nice severance package and a position with a Silicon Valley company hadn't done much to lift his spirits.

With two grown children and aging parents living in Albuquerque, Fred had no desire to leave New Mexico to move to a place that sucked big time-where a one-bedroom apartment cost over a thousand a month in rent and everybody worth less than ten million was considered poor.

He'd taken the severance pay and turned down the job.

He looked up from his drink and overcooked hamburger and saw Tim Ingram standing at his table.

"Hey, buddy, I've been looking for you," Ingram said.

"I heard what happened."

"Bad news travels fast," Fred said.

"Tell me what happened. I'd damn well like to know. Hell, I was doing the job. They had no cause to can me."

"Hell, no, they didn't," Ingram said, easing himself into the booth.

"Look, don't take it personally. This is the new world order. All it takes is a little downward blip in the market, a little dip in projected profits, and corporate America decides somebody has to go, loyalty be damned. You don't think management is going to cut back on their stock options just to keep regular guys like you and me working, do you?"

"That makes me feel a whole lot better about myself," Fred said sarcastically.

"I know it doesn't," Tim said, reaching out to snare a trench fry off Browning's plate.

"Did they give you any idea why you were downsized?"

"Just the usual bullshit about corporate restructuring."

"Why do you think it happened?" Ingram asked.

"About six months ago I started feeling out of the loop. We opened a new R-and-D production unit and a bunch of new programmers and technicians were shipped in from out-of-state to work on it. Me and my people were given no information, and told only to provide tight physical security for the unit."

"Of course, you challenged the decision."

"Big time. All it got me was a pat on the back for being dedicated to my job and an order to back off."

"What do you think is going on?"

Browning shook his head.

"I haven't a clue, but the visitors to the unit look like heavy hitters from back east."

"Heavy hitters?"

"Yeah, high-ranking government officials, research scientists-people like that. Best I can figure is they're designing and producing some sort of stealth chip."

Ingram laughed.

"A stealth chip. That's funny. What the hell is a stealth chip?"

"I'm guessing it's to instantly track hackers who break into networks and Web sites."

"How did you come up with that idea?"

"From snatches of coffee-room chatter I've overheard."

"Well, come to think of it, it makes a lot of sense."

Browning shrugged.

"Like I said, I'm guessing."

Conversation stopped while the waitress took Ingram's drink order.

"So what are you going to do next?" Ingram asked when she walked away.

"Hell if I know."

"Nothing on the horizon?"

"Yeah, a job in California was offered, but I turned it down. I got family here, a house, all my relatives, and this is where I want to stay."

"Was it a good job?" Ingram asked.

Browning nodded.

"Commensurate to my old job with a nice salary boost and all relocation costs paid."

Ingram smiled kindly.

"I know you're helping your kids with their monthly mortgages and covering a big chunk of your parents' expenses. Plus, you've got your own bills. That severance package and your police pension isn't gonna take you very far."

"Don't I know it."

"Here's an idea: Take the California job for six or eight months and then come back as my replacement."

"You're planning to leave?"

"Always have been. I've got a lock on a sweet job back east. Big corner office, leggy personal secretary, lots of perks. But I want to finish up here before I make the move. And I get to pick who steps into my shoes.

Why shouldn't it be you? In fact, I was planning to talk to you about it in a couple of months to see if you'd be interested."

Browning's expression brightened.

"I could handle Silicon Valley for a while if I knew I was coming back."

"Sure you could," Ingram said.

"And it would be a hell of a lot easier for me to justify your appointment if you're not coming to the job from the unemployment line."

Browning leaned back, let out a sigh of relief, and smiled.

"This could work.

You're one hell of a good friend."

"Hey, you're the one who'll be doing me a favor," Ingram said, reaching for another french fry.

"Is it a deal?"

"My boss left the job offer on the table. I'll call him in the morning and say I've changed my mind."

The waitress set Ingram's drink on the table. He raised it and watched Browning do the same.

"Great. We've got the weekend coming up, amigo. How about heading down to the lake for a day of fishing?"

"Sounds good to me."

Browning started eating his hamburger and talking about some new lures he'd bought. Ingram kept the chatter going with smiles and nods.

Browning didn't have a handle on the project, of that Ingram was certain, but his stealth-chip idea wasn't completely off the mark either. If Fred had managed to ferret out any specific information, he wouldn't have survived the night. As it was, the poor son of a bitch was in for a big surprise down the road when he realized he'd been left stranded in Silicon Valley.

Browning finished his burger and drink, and Ingram walked him to the parking lot. He left with Fred's effusive thanks ringing in his ears, thinking the man didn't know how lucky he really was.

Charlie Perry handed Ambassador Terrell the manila envelope and waited in the doorway to the presidential suite.

"Consider your answer very carefully, Agent Perry," Terrell said.

"Did you open it and read the contents?"

"I did not, sir."

"Very well. Come in. I want to be brought up to date."

Perry sat in an easy chair and watched as Terrell slipped the manila envelope into a briefcase and locked it.

Terrell turned and said, "You may begin."

"Kerney has shut his investigation down," Perry said.

"You're absolutely sure?" Terrell asked before Perry could continue.

"Positive. He gave his violent-crimes supervisor the order earlier this evening after our report crossed his desk."

"At least that went as expected," Terrell said as he sat across from Perry.

"Terjo is in Mexico. Both Fred Browning and Randall Stewart have been contained and counseled, so to speak."

"Give me specifics," Terrell said.

Perry summarized the ploy Special Agent Ingram had used on Browning, and the gist of his interrogation earlier in the day with Stewart.

"It should suffice," he added.

"I hope so," Terrell replied.

"There's no reason to take it any further, for now."

"Agreed. And Father Mitchell's briefcase?"

"It hasn't surfaced."

"You'd better find it."

Perry wanted to point out that none of this would have been necessary if Terrell hadn't downloaded and kept military and government secrets on his personal computer at his Washington home, and used a dip-shit stupid password that even his dead cunt wife was able to break on her last visit back east.

"We're looking," he said.

"That's not good enough."

"We'll find it."

"See that you do. That's all, Agent Perry."

Perry walked down the hotel corridor to the elevators. Ever since the assignment landed in his lap, he'd been trying to figure out what kind of Beltway clout Hamilton Lowell Terrell had that kept him out of jail, protected him from exposure, and sanctioned the killing of two civilians. For the same degree of stupidity in similar situations a Chinese-American scientist from Los Alamos had been kept in solitary confinement for almost a whole year and a former CIA director had been forced to endure public censure by members of Congress.

The only solace in the whole mess was that the Bureau hadn't been asked to do any of the actual killing. At least, not yet.

The elevator door opened and Perry stepped inside the cage, shaking his head at the thought that whatever Terrell had going for him, it was some powerful political voodoo.

Hamilton Lowell Terrell dialed the phone and Applewhite answered on the first ring.

"Was our friend able to return to Mexico as he had hoped?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not, sir," Applewhite said.

"His travel plans were interrupted."

"That's unfortunate. Perhaps new arrangements can be made."

"They already have been."

"Good news, indeed. However, now those two other friends of ours need assistance setting their itineraries."

"I thought that was already accomplished and under control," Applewhite replied.

"Not to their satisfaction," Terrell said.

"I see. How soon do our friends need to leave?"

"With all due speed," Terrell replied.

"I understand."

He replaced the receiver, went to the bedroom, and looked through the suits and shirts he'd asked the head concierge to have dry-cleaned and laundered.

Tomorrow he would bury his wife. He selected the sober Savile Row three-button, a solid neutral tie, and a white Oxford shirt. That would do nicely.