Tularosa - Michael McGarrity

by Michael McGarrity

  The private gave him directions to the sergeant's quarters at the opposite end of the compound. Kerney walked to the two-room suite in the barracks that Master Sergeant Roy Enloe occupied and knocked on the door. It was jerked open by a hairy, naked man who was toweling dry his hair. He seemed unconcerned about his appearance or the stranger at his door.

  "My company clerk just called from the office to say you were coming over. I don't have much time," Enloe said, leaving the door open and walking to the middle of his small sitting room.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "What can you tell me about Sammy Yazzi?"

  "He was a good soldier." Enloe picked up a fresh pair of boxer shorts from the arm of a chair, dropped the towel, and started dressing."He pulled his duty without complaint and never gave me any trouble. I've been over this ground before, Lieutenant, with our own people. Ask me a question I haven't heard."

  "Do you know how I can get a hold of William McVay?" Kerney asked.

  "Bull McVay?" Enloe smiled as he pulled on an undershirt.

  "He's retired. Living up in a trailer park at Elephant Butte Lake. Why do you want to see Bull?"

  "He was Sammy's baseball coach. Maybe he might know something about Sammy's disappearance." Enloe shook his head in disagreement.

  "I doubt it."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Bull likes to talk about three things. Baseball, religion, and the Army. He became a horn-again Christian about three years ago. You can't get him to stop talking about Jesus Christ, the New York Mets, and the air cavalry, especially if he has a few beers in him. That's all he cares about. I don't think he'd have a clue about why Yazzi went A.W.O.L.." Enloe stepped into a pair of stretch denim jeans and sat down to put on his shoes and socks.

  "Why did McVay retire?" Kerney inquired. Enloe talked to the floor as he tied his shoelaces.

  "Bull was planning on being a thirty-year man until his mother got sick. Alzheimer's disease. It was real tough on him to put in his retirement papers, but he felt obligated to look after her. He got her admitted to the state veterans' home up in Truth or Consequences. She served in

  World War Two as a WAC ferry pilot, flying B-17 bombers."

  "Have you seen him since he retired?"

  "No." Enloe stood up and put on a clean shirt that had been draped over the back of the chair.

  "But he should be easy to find. Truth or Consequences isn't that big of a town."

  "Why do you call him Bull?" Enloe snorted as he buttoned his shirt.

  "Wait till you meet him. He's a foot shorter than me and built like a tank."

  "Is he married?"

  "Divorced. That's one reason he's working. The ex-wife gets a third of his retirement pay."

  "Do you know where he works?"

  "I haven't a clue. Somebody at the NCO club might be able to tell you."

  "Thanks for your time."

  Enloe smiled. "No sweat." He walked out the door behind Kerney and hurried across the

  compound to the parking lot.

  Kerney went to locate PFC Alonzo Tony, who was nowhere to be found. His roommate, a slightly overweight boy with bony hands and a pug nose, arrived just as Kerney was about to leave. The soldier told Kerney that Tony worked swing shift at the post communication center, where he served as a cryptographer, and didn't get off until midnight. Kerney asked where Sammy Yazzi bunked, and the boy took him to a two-man room down the hall. Exactly half the room was empty, except for a bunk. The other half contained a precisely made bed with military corners, a foot-locker, and personal gear. The name on the closet door read PFC Robert Jaeger.

  "Where is Sammy's gear?" Kerney asked.

  "At the quartermaster's," the soldier answered.

  "They store your gear if you go A.W.O.L.." Kerney could hear the sounds of the troops returning from dinner. A radio was cranked up to a rap music station. Someone shouted to turn down the noise.

  "What about his bunkmate?" Kerney asked.

  "Bobby? He's on a pass."

  "When is he due back?" The soldier shrugged and looked down the hallway, anxious to be done with Kerney.

  "In a day or two, I guess. Anything else?"

  "No. Thanks a lot."

  The kid nodded and walked away. Kerney made a quick search of the room, checking the closets, the built-in dressers and desks. The room was completely bare of any trace of Sammy.

  Outside, the evening air was cooling quickly and the compound was filled with young men, most of them in civilian clothes, eager for diversion. The Organ Mountains were tipped with a band of pink light as the final shadows of dusk came on.

  The post library, within walking distance of the barracks, near the service club and the post movie theater, was not the most popular attraction on the post. Some housewives browsed through the new fiction display, and a few off-duty soldiers were in the reading room. Kerney found the young woman Sammy had briefly dated busily shelving books in the stacks. Carla Montoya was petite, bouncy, and talkative. Long, curly hair framed her rather ordinary features to advantage. She appeared to be in her early twenties. She answered Kerney's questions willingly, creating a sense of drama for herself in the process.

  "I met him here at work," Carla said, responding to Kerney's overture. "He spent a lot of time at the library when he first came to the base. I thought he was kinda cute. Real quiet-like and serious. He didn't try to hustle me, but was real sincere-like. We dated five or six times. The movies, a couple of dances. Stuff like that."

  "Who broke it off?" Carla shook her head, the curls swirling over her shoulder. She patted them down.

  "Nobody. It didn't get that far. It was just dating, that's all. I like him and everything, but..." She shrugged.

  "Did Sammy talk about himself? His problems?" Carla chewed on her lip.

  "Not really. It wasn't like he was unhappy or anything like that. He talked a lot about how much he wanted to go to art school when he got out. Some place back east. I forget exactly where."

  "Nothing else?"

  "He talked about cars," Carla answered.

  "He had an old Chevy sedan." She rolled her eyes in mock disgust and twirled her finger around a lock of hair.

  "It was really a piece of junk. I mean, embarrassing." She strung the word out.

  "He wanted to buy something better."

  "Did he?"

  Carla hesitated, her fingers toying with a strand of her hair.

  "I'm not sure. I saw him cruising in Las Cruces once after we stopped dating. He was driving a different car. Somebody was with him, but I couldn't tell who it was. I don't think he even saw me. I kinda figured he'd bought himself something better."

  "When was that?"

  "About two months ago. Just before he went A.W.O.L.."

  "What kind of car was Sammy driving?"

  "I think it was a Toyota. Not new. Maybe a couple of years old. Sort of a sandy beige two-door. An economy model." Carla's tone of voice suggested that the car was not at all cool.

  "Have you talked to anyone about this?"

  "Sure. Sammy's father. The Army investigator." She smiled brightly. "And now you. But I just remembered seeing him in a different car. I'd forgotten about that."

  "Where did Sammy keep his car?" Kerney asked.

  "I guess behind the barracks," Carla answered. "That's where the enlisted personnel have to park."

  "Tell me about the Chevy," Kerney asked. Cars meant a great deal to Carla. She described the junky Chevy in detail.

  Kerney left her to resume her book-stacking chores and walked back to the barracks. The parking lot was half empty. He looked for a beige Toyota and a beat-up Chevy. There was no Toyota that matched Carla's description, but there was a white Chevy sedan with a For Sale sign in the window parked at the back of the lot. He wiped away the film of dust from the window where

  the sign was taped. The sign had Sammy's name on it. He circled the vehicle. There was enough light from the streetlamps to see hand and fingerprint smudges in the dus
t on the door near the handle.

  Someone had recently been in the vehicle. He found more smudges on the trunk lid. The car was locked. The interior was clean as a whistle. Kerney found that interesting. The Sammy he knew, on his best days, wasn't that neat. He went to his truck and drove toward the BOQ.

  In the foothills that rose to meet the Organ Mountains, lights from the married officers' quarters dotted the landscape. The orderly at the BOQ gave him the key to a room and said there was more than enough time left to get a meal at the officers' club. Kerney's stomach grumbled and his leg ached. The knee just didn't do too well on long trips in the truck. He carried his bag to the room, unpacked a fresh set of clothes, and sat in the tub under the shower, letting the hot water soak away the throbbing in his knee.

  While dressing, he had an impulse to check in with Sara Brannon. He rejected the notion. There was absolutely nothing to report. He closed the door and locked it. There was no sense making it too easy for the room to be searched.

  Chapter 3.

  Kerney entered the officers' club to find half a dozen men and women sitting at the far end of the bar away from the door. In the back dining area, separated by a waist-high partition, some junior officers and their wives were celebrating a young child's birthday. Laughter and chatter spilled over to the front of the room. Kerney sat at a small cocktail table in the barroom and received quick attention from a waiter. He ordered a light meal--his stomach, unable to digest any food in quantity, demanded it--and nursed a glass of iced tea while waiting for his food to arrive. The walls of the barroom, paneled in a rich walnut, were decorated with framed prints of nineteenth-century military scenes. Replicas of old regimental cavalry flags hung from the ceiling rafters. His meal, a pasta salad with a cream dressing, was served quickly. He ate slowly, enjoying the food. Eating out was something of a treat, and the meal was well prepared.

  He was about to call for his check when Sara Brannon entered the club with a man. Both were dressed casually. Sara, in a loose ribbed pullover shirt, a denim skirt, and a soft pair of suede boots that accented her long legs, looked very classy. Her companion, a tall fellow, dressed in chinos, hiking boots, and a blue chambray shirt, with dark, sun bleached hair that curled up at the nape of his neck, had a studious, intelligent face. Eyeglasses highlighted his scholarly appearance. Sara didn't see

  Kerney as she passed by; her attention was diverted by something the man was saying as he led her by the arm to the bar.

  Hoping to leave undetected, Kerney watched Sara as he waited for the waiter to bring the check. She talked with her hands and seemed much more relaxed and animated than when Kerney had met her in her office. The tendency to fidget with her class ring was a habit, Kerney decided. She unconsciously toyed with it, rubbing her thumb along the band. The waiter came with the check, and Kerney settled up immediately, hoping for a discreet exit.

  Sara saw his reflection in the bar mirror and waved him over.

  "Lieutenant Kerney," she called. Forcing a smile, Kerney veered toward the bar. The man turned and eyed him with interest.

  "I'd like you to meet Fred Utiey," she said. Utiey got off the bar stool.

  "Nice to meet you," he said with a grin, extending his hand. Utiey was in his mid-thirties, about Kerney's height. His hand was calloused and his grip firm.

  "Likewise," Kerney replied.

  "You must be new on the post," Utiey said, reclaiming his seat at the bar.

  "Lieutenant Kerney is with the Dona Ana Sheriff's Department," Sara clarified. Her eyes, guarded and unsmiling, never left Kerney's face.

  "Join us for a drink. Lieutenant." She patted an empty stool next to her. In spite other relaxed veneer, it was an order, not a request.

  Instead of sitting next to Sara, Keroey slid onto the stool beside Utiey, using the man as a buffer, and ordered a glass of white wine. Utiey didn't notice the unspoken exchange.

  "Are you here on official business or just visiting?" he asked. Sara didn't give Kerney a chance to answer. She touched Utiey lightly on the arm.

  "The lieutenant is working on a case with us." With Utiey placated, she gave Kerney a sharp, quick look, while her voice remained unruffled.

  "Fred is the chief archaeologist at the missile range." Kerney hesitated. The lady is pissed, he thought, without a clue as to why. He smiled at Utiey.

  "Your job must be very interesting." Utiey nodded with satisfaction. "It is. White Sands is an anthropologist's dream. There are over five thousand square miles on the base that were hardly touched by modern civilization before the Army took it over. The Apaches traversed the area, mostly to hunt or camp, and Hispanic settlers farmed on the fringes of the basin, but that was about it until cattlemen moved in from Texas, looking for free range. It was really one of the last western frontiers.

  "It's a vast area that's been protected for almost half a century. That means no destruction of historical sites, no pot hunters digging for artifacts, no massive public use of the land. Some of the old ranches are still standing, with everything in them that the previous owners didn't carry away." Utiey paused while the bartender served Kerney his wine.

  "You may not be interested in all this," he said, with an apologetic wave of his hand.

  "But I am," Kerney replied. Utiey gave him an appreciative smile. Kerney leaned back, glanced at Sara, and decided she was really pissed off. The smile on her face didn't hide the antagonistic gleam in her eyes. Utiey continued talking, unaware.

  "I've been here seven years and we've barely begun to touch all the historical sites on the range. I'm excavating right now at a place called Indian Hills, north of here in the San Andres. It was part of the old Pat Garrett ranch. He was the sheriff that killed Billy the Kid. In fact, Garrett himself was murdered at the San Andrews Pass. His killer was never caught."

  "Interesting," Kerney said, taking a sip of wine. He put the glass down, pushed it to one side, looked at Sara in the mirror behind the bar, and inclined his head toward the exit. She caught the cue, interceded by touching Utiey lightly on the shoulder, and gave Kerney a charming smile.

  "I should have warned you not to get Fred started."

  "I enjoyed it," Kerney announced as he stood up. "Thanks for the drink and the conversation."

  "Let me walk you out. Lieutenant," Sara said, touching Utiey again to keep him in place.

  "I'll be back in a few minutes, Fred."

  "Shoptalk?" he asked her with a grin. "Or should I say cop talk?"

  "A bit of both." After another staunch handshake from Utiey, Kerney walked outside with Sara. In silence they waited as the birthday party celebrants trailing behind them passed by, loaded themselves into cars, and drove away.

  "You wanted to speak to me. Captain?"

  "Your little deception didn't work," Sara snapped.

  "I know that Sammy's father once worked for you, and he's hired you to find his son. For some weird reason, Andy Baca decided to give you a badge and make you legitimate."

  "You work fast," Kerney replied.

  "Don't try to butter me up. Lieutenant. I don't like being lied to. I want an explanation and I want it now." The irritation in Sara's eyes made Kerney break contact.

  The full moon was high, projecting a glow that created hushed charcoal shadows in the basin. The distant Sacramento Mountains, blurred shapes, glistened with a satin polish. He turned back to her, looked her square in the eyes, and spoke carefully, admitting the truth to himself for the first time.

  "For a long time, Sammy and his parents were like family to me. I guess I can't shake that off as easily as I thought."

  "So, you're saying this is strictly a matter of an old family friendship." Sara's lips were two thin lines of reproach.

  "I find that hard to believe, if you're being paid."

  "It's not just the money. Sammy is one of the few people I really care about." Sara waited for more, and nothing came.

  "Is that it?"

  "Pretty much. I assume you've learned enough to fill in some of the blanks.
" Sara sighed in exasperation. She knew Terry Yazzi had been with Kerney the day he got shot, and that the friendship between the two men had ended soon after, but there were blank pages that needed filling in.

  "I'd like to hear more," she prompted. Kerney shook his head.

  "It's not relevant. Regardless of what you decide, I'm going to keep working on the case."

  Sara bit her lip. Confronted by the facts, Kerney, to his credit, didn't sulk or cave in. And Andy Baca, after getting an earful from her on the telephone, had stood his ground about Kerney's skills as an investigator.

  "You don't make it easy on yourself," she said.

  "I know. It's your call, Captain. I'd like our agreement to stand."

  "All right," she finally said, "but the clock is ticking, and when the twenty-four hours are up, you leave." Kerney smiled in relief.

  "Thanks." Sara nodded, her green eyes searching his face for the slightest sign of gloating. Satisfied there was none, she switched gears.

  "What have you learned so far?"

  "Nothing. Does Sammy's disappearance fit a victim pattern? Are there any similarities to other A.W.O.L. cases?" Sara shook her head.

  "We looked at that. There are two open A.W.O.L. cases involving young single males. Neither of them has surfaced, but we can find absolutely no connection between them and Specialist Yazzi."

  "How old are the cases?"

  "Recent. One involves a civilian employee and the other is a Navy seaman."

  "Can you arrange for me to speak to Sammy's supervisor?" Kerney asked.

  "I'll set it up and call you at the BOQ in the morning. His name is Sergeant Steiner." She turned to leave.

  "Captain Brannon." Sara looked over her shoulder.

  "What is it?"

  "Bobby Jaeger. Sammy's roommate."

  "What about him?"

  "When is he due back on base?"