Although his title of Medical Examiner had recently been changed to Chief Autopsy Technician, for obvious reasons Donlan preferred to be called an M.E., rather than a C.A.T. A fifty-something Anglo, his acne-scarred face was framed with a salt-and-pepper Beatles-inspired haircut. He was a large man who carried himself with surprising ease. Donlan had a morose sense of humor that usually irritated Romero. His comments and behavior bordered on disrespect. The last time Romero had attended an autopsy, Donlan handled the child’s body like it was a rag doll. Romero couldn’t forget that.
The year-old Santa Fe County forensic facility was a high-tech morgue, designed for ease of movement. Every precaution was taken to eliminate the possibility of evidence contamination during preparation of the body. Cases brought to the morgue were received in this central area, processed and assigned ID tags. Harry Donlan took it all in stride but preferred the old methods. Slit them open, empty them out, and examine them part by part.
The assistant technician looked to be about seventeen years old. Donlan never introduced him and treated him the same way he treated everyone, as if he were a dunce. If he spoke to the tech, he called him “Hey, you.”
“Pretty nice digs, Doc,” Detective Chacon said.
“Modern and up-to-date,” Donlan bragged. “Makes my life a lot easier. Like the big paycheck, too.”
“So what do you think we have here?” Romero asked, preparing to hear a long lecture.
“Preliminary take on these ladies,” Donlan said. “Throats slit from behind in a left to right direction. I doubt if they knew what was coming—or maybe they weren’t even conscious.” He leaned forward to take a closer look. “Pressure applied by the knife is even, as though the killer held them upright with his or her arm. No sign of a struggle. Quick and clean cut, one swift move.”
“Cold winter weather kept the first two bodies from rapid decomposition,” he continued. “Other two—one died in early spring and the other maybe a few weeks later. Could be as much as six weeks later. The one over there that we’re calling the fifth victim—stabbed in the back first. Evidently she turned to face her perpetrator and then got it in the throat with one quick movement. We’re running tests to determine if the same knife used on the first four victims was used on her, but it’s doubtful. Five wasn’t found in the tunnel with the others and even though the manner of death was similar, I don’t think they’re connected. Once we’ve examined the wounds, we can tell if an identical weapon was used on the other four.”
“You may be right,” Romero said. “That fifth one has nothing to do with the others. Nothing to connect them. Stabbed, yes, but that’s not enough to tie her in to the others. That’s my guess.”
“You don’t get paid to guess, Romero. That’s my job. And it’s a more scientific process than just guessing.”
“Just thought that there’s a big difference between a stab and a slit,” Romero said.
Donlan shot him an exasperated look above the bifocals balanced on the tip of his nose.
“You see that sign over there, Romero? The one that says ‘Quiet.’ Right now that means you.” Romero fumbled for his cigarettes in his chest pocket. “That ‘No Smoking’ sign means you, too,” Donlan said. “You guys want to smoke, do it outside. Smoke can fuck up some of the tests. Now, let me do my work.”
Donlan continued his painstaking examination of the bodies. The autopsy technician took down every word he uttered and filled a form for each victim as he went along. Each body was assigned a case number and file. Hey You took photographs and gathered biological samples. He was efficient and fastidious, making sure each drop of body fluid was wiped away.
“Did you know that scientists have developed a new DNA test that can identify a killer’s ethnicity through some sort of genetic typing?” Donlan asked nobody in particular.
“That would certainly narrow the field in an investigation,” Chacon said.
“Yep,” Donlan said. “The test will even be able to identify eye color. There’s been some real advancements. Can even pick up DNA on a cigarette butt. Amazing stuff.”
The detectives continued to stand while Donlan forged on. Romero’s discomfort was obvious. Donlan turned to the tech. “Hey You, finish cleaning up this place.” Then he looked over to Romero and Chacon. “All right. Class dismissed. You two aren’t going to learn anything more around here. Don’t you have shoplifters to chase or bank robbers to arrest?”
Romero gave him a forced smile. “Yeah, come to think of it, we do. As always, Harry, it’s been a real pleasure.”
Romero and Chacon excused themselves and left the room through a side door. Chacon lit the cigarette he’d been holding in his hand. Like a kid, he was relieved Donlan hadn’t taken him to task about smoking. He passed the light to Romero.
“Damn,” said Chacon. “That’s really tough shit to sit through.”
“Yes,” said Romero. “It doesn’t get any easier, either. Just wait until it’s somebody you know.”
Chapter 35
Joseph Stibbe was a man in his middle forties, and his trim physique reflected the miles he hiked in the Sandia Mountain Range. He kept his brown hair cut short, and his piercing green eyes were generally obscured behind a pair of darkly tinted Ray-Ban sunglasses. On this early August day, as was his practice once a month, he drove the side roads near the Sandias. Employees of the New Mexico Game and Fish Department were required to make sure that roads remained passable and that gates to restricted areas were secured. Neither task was easy; poachers repeatedly cut through fences with lock cutters to gain access.
It had been a month since Stibbe patrolled this area, which included only a few privately owned cabins. The rest of the land was owned by the government and accessible to hunters, fishermen and hikers. In the late afternoon, he reached the road in front of Max Leyba’s cabin. Recent rains had spurred the growth of grass and wildflowers, and both spilled onto the road with a profusion of color. Traffic was light in the area—only one set of tracks besides his own—and those, which led to the cabin, appeared to be weeks old. A white SUV was parked behind the building. He pulled his truck into the driveway, got out, stretched his legs and sauntered toward the door. It stood ajar. Stibbe hollered out for Max. No answer. He shuffled across the porch to the back and checked the SUV. The keys were in the ignition, the windows rolled down. He figured a hiker had parked there while he hiked up one of the nearby trails. Idiot forgot to close the windows. The seats were damp from recent rains.
Max Leyba had recently reported several break-ins at his cabin to local law enforcement. At the time of their last conversation, he had complained that whoever was breaking into the cabin was walking off with his belongings and treating the place like a dumpster. Even the metal coffee pot he had used for years was gone, and the floor was covered with discarded beer cans and cigarette butts. Max didn’t spend much time in the cabin, but he resented it being mistreated. He owned a few cattle that grazed nearby, so anytime a thunderstorm caught him off guard, he took shelter in the cabin. Sometimes, while hunting deer, he spent the night.
As Stibbe crossed the porch, a sweet, cloying odor overwhelmed him. He was familiar with the smell. He again called out for Max, then kicked the door open, keeping his right hand on his weapon. A man wearing Levis, boots and a long-sleeved checked shirt lay on his side, curled into a fetal position. Both his knees were bloody, and under his chin was a gaping wound. The pool of blood around his head had dried. Stibbe gasped, turned, and almost fell in his rush to the door. He held onto the porch railing and vomited over the side. It took ten minutes before he regained his composure enough to dial 911 on his cell phone. He reported his findings and gave the operator directions. For a while he waited in front of the cabin, but then took a seat in his vehicle. It was a few hours before dark. He felt nervous about being alone with a human body and hoped the police would show up before too long. He fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station to get his mind off what he had just seen. No luck. Mostly static.
“Joseph Stibbe,” Whitney said. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. Still with Game and Fish, huh? What’s that make, about twenty years?”
“Just about, Jeff,” Stibbe said. “I thought you’d be Chief by now. Or don’t they let a Gringo run the show in Santa Fe?”
Whitney laughed, took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and offered one to Stibbe. He blew a puff of smoke upwards and said, “Let’s take a look-see at what we’ve got here. The ME shouldn’t be too far behind.”
Stibbe pointed him in the direction of the door. He didn’t want to look again. Whitney walked through the door, careful to not disturb the scene. When he came out, he looked around the yard and peered into the SUV in the back. The car had New Mexico plates. He jotted down the numbers and called them in. There was a .243 rifle in a leather case stuffed in the space between the back seat and the rear window. While they waited, Whitney filled out his initial report. Stibbe told him what he knew about the cabin and the owner.
The State Police Crime Scene tech crew—a group of respected field officers—showed up first. Whitney directed them up the driveway to the front door of the cabin. They unloaded their equipment and taped off the area from the driveway to the cabin and around the back. Two of the crime scene techs conducted a perimeter search and then focused on the vehicle. The other went inside to photograph the room and the body and found Charlie Cooper’s wallet in the back pocket of his pants. For the next four hours the crew videotaped, bagged and tagged evidence, and searched every corner of the room.
The lead tech motioned to Whitney. “Hey, Whit, come here and take a look.”
Whitney doused his cigarette carefully and sauntered over to the center of the room. “Before I bag it up, what do you make of this? Looks like some kind of trap. See, the shotgun is tied to the chair with a long cord, which stretches all the way to the door.”
“I’ve seen something like this before,” said Whitney. “Never saw it in operation though. Looks like the trap was rigged up so that when the door was opened, the shotgun would go off as a warning. This one might have malfunctioned. The guy probably pushed the door open too fast. Instead of the pellets hitting the door, they blew out his knees. Ouch!”
“I took plenty of photographs,” the tech said.
“I’ll make sure to include this in my notes,” said Whitney.
The shotgun trap was dismantled, tagged and boxed, and taken to the van along with Charlie’s pistol.
In the midst of the evidence gathering, the ME from Sandoval County and his assistants arrived in a blue minivan. Captain Whitney led them to the body.
“Looks like this guy was shot through the knees,” the ME said.
“You don’t say,” Whitney responded, his tone sarcastic. “Never would have guessed. What else can you tell us?”
“More interesting, looks like he committed suicide sometime after. Maybe he couldn’t take the pain of getting his knees shot out. Hard to say.”
“The pain got to him?” Whitney asked.
“Doesn’t he have a cell phone on him so he could call for help?”
“Don’t see any. If he had one, the perpetrator—if indeed there was one—took it away from him.”
Whitney whistled. “Real son of a bitch. How long do you think he’s been decomposing?”
“Over a week, maybe. Since today is Friday, it will be a few days before we can start on the autopsy. I’ll fax a copy of the report to the Chief when it’s done.”
His assistants marked the location of the corpse with chalk. The ME motioned to them to remove the body. They carefully pulled the body bag over Charlie’s head, zipped it up, and placed him on a gurney.
Whitney called in for a tow truck to cart Charlie’s SUV back to Santa Fe and began to secure the crime scene. Sometime later, the tow truck came up the hill. Whitney hailed the driver and gestured for him to back up.
Stibbe still looked green around the edges. Whitney walked him to his truck and told him to take some deep breaths. The vehicle report had just come back and matched the driver’s license. Charlie Cooper was the person of interest the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Department had been looking for last week. There was a BOLO on him. Whitney called it back in to Captain Suazo, who relayed the information back to Detective Romero.
A spectacular sunset was on the horizon. The red-orange glow of the half-circle sun blended into the blue-gray skies of evening. Lately, the beauty of these moments had been eclipsed by dark shadows.
Chapter 36
The following morning, Joseph Stibbe took a personal day. He left his uniform hanging in the closet and put on a white cotton T-shirt, a pair of dark Indigo jeans and an old pair of caramel-colored Tony Lama boots. His Albuquerque Isotopes baseball cap concealed his eyes. The shock of finding the body at Max Silva’s cabin had thrown him off-balance. The sight was engraved on his memory. He had personally contacted Max Silva early that morning. The State Police would be on his doorstep soon enough. Because Max had a weak heart, Stibbe didn’t reveal too much over the phone. Better to tell him face to face.
It took an hour to make the thirty mile drive from his house in Golden to Max’s home in Placitas, but Stibbe found the experience calming. As he drove through the Town of Golden, he passed in front of the Catholic Church, a building so white it stood out from its surroundings. He turned onto Sandia Crest Road and followed the winding mountainous road for about fifteen miles before stopping at the base of Capulin Peak to relieve himself. He didn’t encounter another vehicle the entire trip. He relished the solitude of the mountain range cradled by the bluest sky he had seen in a long time.
About an hour later he reached the town of Placitas, once a predominantly Hispanic community in Sandoval County about fifteen miles north of Albuquerque. He turned onto a gravel road, which led him to the end of the driveway in front of a pueblo-style flat-roofed house. Max Leyba sat on the porch drinking coffee. He greeted Stibbe with a warm handshake.
“Come in, come in,” he smiled and led him into the house.
They sat in the modestly furnished living room. From where Stibbe sat, he could see panoramic mountain views from every window. Max handed him a cup of coffee.
“Three sugars, two creams—just how you like it,” he said.
Stibbe forced a weak smile. “Max, I didn’t mean to sound so mysterious when I called this morning.” He took a deep breath. “There’s been a shooting at your cabin; a fellow was found dead there yesterday afternoon.”
Stibbe related the rest of his grisly discovery.
Max blew out a long whistle. “A couple of months ago the place was broken into, on three or four separate occasions. Every time I went to check on my cows, there’d be something broken or missing. I was so pissed off about the break-ins that, a month ago, I went to the cabin and set a trap with an old sawed-off shotgun and a chair. The trip wire led from the chair in the middle of the room to the door jamb and then back to the trigger and then to the doorknob. When the door was pushed open, the shotgun was supposed to go off. It was loaded with number seven birdshot. But,” he continued, “I thought I rigged it so it would go off right away and the pellets would hit the inside of the door and scare the intruder away.”
“Yeah,” said Stibbe. “The guy’s knees were pretty messed up.” He told him the State Police or the Sheriff’s office would be contacting him at some point in their investigation.
“Do you think I’m going to need a lawyer?”
Leyba said.
“Probably wouldn’t hurt,” Stibbe said.
After an hour, Stibbe got up to leave. He told his old friend he would keep in touch. Leyba thanked him for coming and shook his hand.
After Stibbe walked out the door, Leyba sat down and covered his face with his hands. “Di
os Mio,” he sobbed. “I’ve gone and killed someone.”
Chapter 37
Jemimah walked into Romero’s office, a stack of books in her arms. Clarissa greeted her with a knowing smile and pointed to the large cubicle in the corner, where Romero was retrieving a fax. He motioned her over. Jemimah paused to pour herself a cup of thick black coffee, then had second thoughts and dumped it into the sink.
“Hey, Rick. Thanks for making time for me. Thought I’d stop by and see if anything new has popped up on the case.” As much as she hated to admit it, she admired his skills as an investigator. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him that annoyed her so much.
“Still at square one,” he said. “Lots of tips, but nothing seems to pan out. Maybe we’re looking too hard.”
“I have a few theories, if you have a minute,” she said.
“Shoot.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup into the trash. He wanted to say how great she looked, but she’d probably take offense and go storming out. Still, she was beautiful.
“One of the last cases I worked in Texas involved a string of killings with a similar MO. It got me to thinking about that case. We might have a parallel situation here. Our perp seems to have a rage against women, based on the manner in which they were killed. Swiftly. Somewhere along the way, a woman took away his power, or possibly lost hers. So the killer was essentially recouping that power, leaving the victim helpless,” Jemimah said. “Do you follow?”
“Why did you say her?” Romero asked.
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