She switched the radio frequency to the secure channel, keyed the microphone, asked for Lieutenant Molina by his call sign, and brought him up to date when he answered.
At state police headquarters, just a bit further down Cerrillos Road from Kerney’s office, State Police Officer Russell Thorpe was pumped. After several hours of intensive, detailed questioning, Jack and Irene Burke’s description of the man in the blue van had yielded a good sketch of the subject. Thorpe asked the couple to look at mug shots, which they willingly agreed to do, and left them with a technician to scroll through the department’s computerized data files.
At the lab, he checked to see if the tests had been completed on the bullets removed from Kerney’s horse, and got more good news: the rifling of the spent .38-caliber rounds matched a dented, partially flattened bullet that had been retrieved earlier in the morning near the Potter homicide scene. Forensic evidence now conclusively tied both cases together. Thorpe took the stairs two steps at a time and asked to see Chief Baca.
Ushered quickly into Andy’s office by the receptionist, Thorpe stood in front of the desk, handed over the artist’s sketch of the suspect, and gave the chief his news, dampening an almost overwhelming eagerness to blurt it out. Although he was hardly a seasoned veteran, he had no intention of looking like a bonehead rookie in front of Baca.
Andy smiled when Thorpe finished his report. “This is good,” he said. “Things are starting to come together. One of Chief Kerney’s detectives phoned in a sighting of the blue van at a parking lot near the Albuquerque airport, with plates stolen out of Socorro County. The driver left a decapitated dog in a vehicle belonging to Potter’s lover.”
Russell felt stupidly out of the loop. “Sir?” he asked, hoping that would be enough of a hint to get some clarification from the chief.
“I’m sorry,” Andy said. “Let me bring you up to speed. The dog was Potter’s lost mixed-breed collie, and it was left with another threatening note to Kerney. At this point we don’t know if the perp has targeted Potter’s lover as his next victim or is just playing mind games with Chief Kerney. An APB went out on the van thirty minutes ago.”
Thorpe nodded.
“Make a copy of the sketch, leave the original with my secretary, get down to Albuquerque, and hook up with Detective Pino. She’s about to meet with a witness. See if that person can confirm that our perp drove that van. I’ll have Santa Fe PD dispatch let Pino know you’re on the way.”
“I’ve got the Burkes looking at mug shots,” Thorpe said.
“I’ll put an agent with them,” Andy replied. “Call me as soon as you know something one way or the other.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you get back, report to Santa Fe Police headquarters. You’re on this case until further notice.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve earned the assignment, Thorpe,” Andy said, hesitating as he reached for the phone. “When Kerney was my chief deputy, he told me you had the makings of a good officer, and he was right.”
Ramona Pino waited for Thorpe’s arrival at a small city park near a technical college, within easy driving distance of the Albuquerque airport. Except for a busy one-way street that bordered the park and funneled traffic from the downtown core of the city, it was a pretty spot with big shade trees and a thick carpet of grass.
Norm Kaplan had freaked over the news that the dead dog was a Border collie. Kaplan had given the dog to Potter as an anniversary present. After calming the man down, Ramona had asked who knew about his flight home. Kaplan swore he’d told only Sal Molina, Potter’s secretary, and the woman who managed his antique store. A call to the store manager revealed that some unnamed officer had phoned yesterday to confirm Kaplan’s flight information.
Ramona checked in with Sal Molina, who validated her suspicion that the call was bogus. But how did the perp know which parking lot Kaplan had used? Maybe he’d just cruised all of them until he found Kaplan’s car. There weren’t that many, so it would have taken only a couple of hours at most to make the rounds.
While she waited, she spoke to the pathologist who’d examined Potter’s body. The entry and exit wounds weren’t aligned, and the exit wound was larger and more irregularly shaped, which was due to the bullet hitting the sternum. The path of the slug through Potter’s body could mean the killer was smaller in height than his victim, but the pathologist wasn’t about to bet on it.
Thorpe arrived, and while Pino looked over the sketch and the information about the blue GMC van, he caught her up on the forensic results from the examination of the bullets.
Ramona stifled any reaction. Under different circumstances, she would’ve been pleased to know she’d found an important piece of evidence that tied the perp to two crimes. But the news paled in comparison to yesterday’s screw-ups.
“Do we have a make on the gun?” she asked. The number of rifling grooves in a barrel and the direction of their internal twists could sometimes be used to pinpoint the manufacturer.
“Nothing definite,” Thorpe replied, “although it could possibly be a .38-caliber Taurus with a four-inch barrel. Who’s our witness?”
“His name is Mark Cullum, age twenty-two, originally from Clovis. He attends the technical school in the mornings and works afternoons at the parking lot. He’s expecting us.”
Cullum’s apartment was a first-floor boxy affair on a hillside street across from the park. A tall, pleasant-looking youth wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt with the tails out opened the door before Ramona had a chance to knock. He identified himself as Cullum, and asked the officers inside.
The front room was done up in pure college-student decor. An empty beer keg had been turned into an end table, a dart board was nailed to a wall, pine boards and bricks served as a bookcase, and a bicycle leaned against the side of a second-hand couch covered with a cheap throw. The place smelled of sweaty socks and Chinese take-out.
They stood in the center of the room. Thorpe pulled the sketch off his clipboard and handed it to Cullum, who looked at it, shook his head, and handed it back. “That’s not the fella I saw,” he said. “Not at all.”
“What are the differences?” Thorpe asked.
“He had real short hair and a mustache, a real droopy one. And he was wearing aviator sunglasses.”
“What about the nose, the chin, the shape of his head?” Ramona asked, taking the sketch from Thorpe and holding it up in front of Cullum’s face.
“Maybe they’re the same, but don’t bank on it because of me.”
“Did he have any scars or distinguishing marks?”
“None that I remember.”
“What color hair did he have?” Thorpe asked.
“Black, like his mustache. He had a real good tan, like he’d been outdoors a lot, or he was dark-skinned. Other than that, I didn’t notice much about him.”
“Did you get a look inside the van?” Thorpe asked.
“I didn’t pay it any mind.”
“What did you notice about the vehicle?” Thorpe asked.
“It had a dinged-up front bumper and side window curtains. I think it was either blue or black. It was a GMC, that’s for sure.”
“Did he say anything when he left the lot?” Ramona asked.
“Yeah. I said something like ‘that was mighty quick,’ and he said that he needed to get something out of his wife’s car.”
“Did you watch where he went while he was on the lot?” Ramona asked.
“Nope. The shuttle had just brought in a load of customers, so I was humping it.”
“Was he an Anglo, Hispanic, or Native American?” Thorpe asked.
“Anglo, I think.”
“You’re not sure?” Thorpe asked.
“Not really.”
“Did he speak with an accent?” Russell had asked the Burkes the same question.
“Well, not an accent exactly. He sounded kind of country.”
“Meaning?” Thorpe asked.
“You know
, a twang, a drawl, kind of a nasal tone.”
Russell nodded. Cullum’s answer matched what the Burkes had told him. But that seemed to be the only similarity. Thorpe mulled it over.
“What made you write down the plate number?” Ramona asked.
Cullum shrugged. “We had a car broken into a couple months back, on my shift. My boss acted like it was all my fault, so now I’m extra careful.”
They wound up the interview with a few more questions, thanked Cullum, and left the apartment.
“What do you think?” Thorpe asked as they waited for a break in traffic to cross the street. Motorists speeding by slowed down at the sight of Russell in his distinctive black state police uniform.
“Same vehicle, different driver,” Pino replied, stepping off the curb. “It doesn’t make sense, unless our perp has an accomplice.”
“Cullum said the man had a drawl,” Thorpe said as he kept pace with Pino. “So did the Burkes.”
“You think he disguised himself?” Ramona asked as they walked under the welcome shade of the trees.
“It would be easy enough to do, a haircut, a dye job, a fake mustache, and sunglasses, and he’s a different-looking guy.”
“But why keep using the van?” Ramona asked as she unlocked her unit. “It’s been spotted three times already. The perp has got to know we’re looking for it.”
“Everything this guy does seems to have a purpose,” Russell replied. “Maybe he stole the van as well as the license plate and plans to ditch it when he’s done.”
Ramona liked the way Thorpe’s mind worked. She thought about all the dead animals, the threatening notes and messages left behind, Manning’s paintings that had been cut from the frames in the Taos art gallery—each act carefully orchestrated. “There’s got to be more to it than that.”
Russell nodded in agreement. “Yeah, probably. I’ve been thinking he got lost trying to find Kerney’s property. It’s pretty much out of the way and not easy to find without directions. That’s why he was seen twice on the ranch.”
“But he knew generally where to look,” Ramona said. “Which means he probably searched through public records for either the deed of sale for the land or the construction permit.”
“Exactly.”
Ramona reached for her cell phone. “I’ll get my lieutenant to put someone on it. Thanks for your help.”
“Any time, Detective.”
Ramona watched Thorpe get in his unit and drive off. He was a good cop, a nice guy, and the time she’d spent with him had washed away almost all of her irritation about smarmy Detective Danny Roth.
Back at the office, Kerney spent a considerable amount of time fending off the news media, briefing the mayor and the city manager by phone on the status of all the investigations, and getting Larry Otero started on revising all relevant policies pertaining to use of force, SWAT operations, and dealing with the mentally ill. In conjunction with the initiative, he ordered the creation of a new in-service training plan for all sworn personnel.
Lieutenant Casados, who was next in line to see him, reported the results of the ballistics tests on the SWAT officer’s weapons. Kerney told Robert what he was going to do, had Helen cut the orders, then called the SWAT supervisor and the officer who’d shot Kurt Larsen into his office and kicked them off the team.
Both men recoiled like they’d been hit in the gut and wanted to argue with him about it. Kerney told them to be glad they weren’t off the force entirely and facing involuntary manslaughter charges, then sent them out the door.
He took a minute alone to settle down. He’d held his cool during the meeting, although it hadn’t been easy, and he didn’t want his anger with the two men to spill over to the rest of the troops. The attempt worked well enough when Molina came in to give a progress report. Kerney took notes as Sal talked, asked a few clarifying questions, and asked Molina to let everyone know they were doing a good job.
He decided to check on Sara, and went next door to the investigations unit suite, walking past detectives working at desks cluttered with pizza boxes, crumpled napkins, and soft-drink cups. Sara was still in Sal’s office, sitting in a chair with her shoes off, her feet on a cardboard file box, and the telephone receiver cradled next to her ear. She looked tired, but he didn’t dare say it.
She gave him a smile, flicked her hand to send him away, and kept talking into the handset. He smiled in response, hoping he didn’t look too worried, returned to his office, and read over his notes from Molina’s update.
The records search was going about the way Kerney figured it would: Names were going on a list and coming off just about as fast. A lot of potential suspects were still locked up and some were dead. Local ex-felons were being interviewed for alibis, and those living out of the area or in other states were being tracked down through probation and parole offices.
He thought about the message left for him in Kaplan’s car. The perp was getting cocky, maybe even starting to feel invincible. If past behavior held true, leaving the dead dog with the note probably meant he was about to make a move on his next victim.
Ramona Pino and Russell Thorpe had done some good follow-up work to push the investigation along, and the city was saturated with patrol officers from every department looking for the blue van and the driver, be it a long-haired blond male or a mustached subject with matching, short dark hair. But unless they got lucky, they were still a long way from catching the guy.
He looked up to see Sara leaning against the door frame. She took her shoes off, padded barefoot to a chair, and sank down.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
She nodded. “All I managed to accomplish today was absolutely nothing.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Well, I crossed some names off the list.” She placed her hands on her belly. “Did you ever piss anyone off in your unit when you where in ’Nam?”
“Not enough to want to kill me.”
She tapped her handbag. “I had Army archives fax me the complete company roster of your unit. It includes everyone who served with you during your tour. You can look through it when we get home, just to be sure.”
“As you wish, Colonel,” Kerney said, watching Sara rub her stomach. She looked uncomfortable. “How’s Patrick Brannon doing?”
“He’s restless. I think he wants to join the party fairly soon.”
“How soon?”
Sara laughed as she pushed herself upright. “I’ll keep you advised. Take me home, Kerney, and tell me what’s new.”
“He’s still out there.”
Her smile faded. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Lights were on inside the town house. For Potter and Manning, the bald-headed man had worn a long blond wig and a theatrical nose purchased from a costume and special effects company. It was more a deceit than a disguise, designed to convince anyone who saw him that he was a very specific someone else.
Tonight was no different. After he backed the van next to the woman’s vehicle, parked outside a two-car garage, he checked his appearance in the rearview mirror. The hair looked real and the nose was perfect. Good enough to fool anyone, even up close.
He opened the van’s rear doors, and followed the walkway at the side of the garage to a small enclosed patio. He paused to check for any activity in the neighboring units, saw nothing worrisome, and put on a pair of gloves before unlatching the gate. He sidled up to the sliding glass door and glanced inside the house. The room was unoccupied. He used a knife to jimmy the locks, and slipped inside.
He could hear the sounds of movement coming from an adjacent hallway. From the look of things, the woman was still in the process of unpacking and moving in. He found her in the guest bathroom breaking down empty cardboard boxes and stacking them neatly in the tub.
“Come with me,” he said softly, pressing the blade of the knife against her throat as he grabbed her by the hair that fell to her shoulders.<
br />
The woman’s mouth formed a silent scream. She was pretty in a used-up way, with interesting lines around her chin and eyes.
The bald-headed man shook his head. “Don’t say a word.”
He pushed her down the hallway, through the alcove, and into the garage, which was filled with stuff from the woman’s recent move.
He leaned the woman against a wall, the knife still at her throat, and held out the specially prepared cookie he’d made for her. “Eat this.”
The woman shook her head.
“Or die,” the bald-headed man said.
“What is it?” the woman asked through thin lips, her body shaking uncontrollably.
“Eat it and I’ll let you go.”
The woman shook her head.
The man dropped the cookie on the floor and put away the knife. “Have it your way.”
He spun her around, put his full weight against her back, pulled a length of rope from inside his shirt and tied her hands. He forced her to her knees, used more rope to tie her ankles, and rolled her over.
The woman looked up at him from the garage floor. “Why are you doing this?” she whimpered.
“You’ll never know.” He bent down, took a small box of rat poison from his shirt pocket, poured some into his gloved hand, squeezed her mouth open, forced the pellets into her mouth, and pressed her jaw shut.
She died fast, hard, and ugly. A bit too fast to be completely enjoyable.
A cat came in through a pet door and rubbed against the man’s leg. He picked it up before it could sniff the cookie and stroked its back.
“We have lots to do, and not much time,” he whispered to the cat before he broke its neck.
Stuck on protective service duty with Norm Kaplan for the remainder of his shift, Seth Neal was finally relieved by another officer, asked by his superior to work a double, and assigned to the roving patrol team that was looking for the blue van. By ten o’clock at night, the streets were fairly quiet and traffic was light on the through roads in and out of the city. Sheriff’s deputies and state police officers were checking rural camp-grounds and back roads, rangers were cruising in the national forest and at the state park, even motor transportation officers were out on the Interstate and state highways looking for the vehicle. In town, every parking lot, commercial district, and residential area was being patrolled.
Everyone Dies Page 12
