Slow Kill kk-9

by Michael McGarrity

  Spalding was an attractive, sophisticated, calculating, and smart woman, with a smugness and a cold edge to her. She’d swatted away Ellie’s attempts to crack her defenses. What would it take to break her down?

  Ellie sat in her parked car looking down at the training track of the Double J Ranch. Across the way, perched on a small rise, was the house where Ken Wheeler, the ranch manager, lived.

  She wondered if Wheeler felt lucky to live on a picture-perfect ranch, working with beautiful, pampered animals, spending every day inside an enchanted bubble sheltered from ugliness, crime, depravity, and violence.

  Cops were supposed to be cavalier about the grotesque and monstrous things people do to each other, immune to the hideous and the horrible. At least, that was the way Hollywood and the hard-boiled crime writers portrayed them. Ellie hadn’t gotten to that point yet, and doubted she ever would. She didn’t even know any cops with that kind of invisible emotional shield.

  Sometimes she yearned to be inside an enchanted bubble, away from it all. It was pure fantasy. As an alternative, she’d settle for bursting Claudia Spalding’s bubble.

  She gazed at Wheeler’s house. White clapboard siding beneath a slanted roof with a single chimney, a porch with a neat front lawn enclosed by a low fence, a detached single-car garage with doors on hinges that swung outward. It was far more lovely and appealing to Ellie than the Spalding mansion.

  At the house, Ellie knocked on the screen door and was greeted by a pleasant-looking woman, who identified herself as Lori Wheeler and went to fetch her husband.

  When Wheeler arrived, he offered Ellie a seat on the porch and a refreshment.

  Ellie accepted both and sat sipping raspberry iced tea from a tall glass, enjoying the scenery and the coolness of the evening. On the enclosed dirt track below, a rider exercised a spirited gray along a quarter-mile straightaway, close to the infield railing. On the rise behind the open-air stalls and barn, a small herd of yearlings, bunched tightly together, wandered up the hill. The smell of wet grass from the afternoon shower still clung in the air.

  Wheeler remained silent while Ellie watched a noisy killdeer, clearly recognizable by two black breast bands, circle and dip, piercing the silence with its call.

  “What can I do for you?” Wheeler finally asked, after the bird had gained altitude to join a scattered flock. An ex-jockey, he was small and thin, but rail-hard. He exuded the quiet confidence of a competent man comfortable inside his skin.

  “You mentioned to Chief Kerney that Claudia Spalding is something of a flirt. Could you be more specific?”

  Wheeler swirled his glass, two fingers of Scotch poured neat. “I didn’t put it that way. I guess you could say she acted coquettish at times, especially with the good-looking younger guys who worked at the tracks. Believe me, she wasn’t alone among the other married women in that regard.”

  “Do you recall any of those younger men she might have seemed particularly interested in?”

  Wheeler drank from the glass and put it on the arm of his chair. “I’ve thought about that some since Chief Kerney asked me about her. It’s more like the other way around. There was this trainer out of Albuquerque, name of Coe Evans, who really had the hots for her. He worked a couple of seasons at the tracks out here, then he went back to New Mexico for a time. Now he trains horses on a TV celebrity’s spread south of Atascadero.”

  The mention of Coe Evans made Ellie sit up straight. “Was there any gossip floating around about the two of them?”

  “Not that I heard. Evans had a live-in girlfriend who kept a pretty close eye on him, and of course Claudia was married, so if anything was going on they kept it hushed up.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” she asked.

  “He’s in his late thirties, I’d guess. Good with horses, but not the best trainer around. He’s one of those people who comes and goes. Turns on the charm and personality with the ladies, his bosses, anyone he can curry favor with.”

  “Anything else?”

  Wheeler sipped his Scotch. “My wife can’t stand him, thinks he’s a real jerk. I can’t say she’s wrong. He’s got a foul mouth when it comes to talking about women. Likes to brag about his conquests.”

  “Are you sure he’s still working in Atascadero?”

  Wheeler nodded. “I saw him in Paso Robles a couple of days ago. That’s what got me thinking about him.”

  The killdeers were back, flying in a swirl above the trees, now pale, soaring shapes wrapped in a light fog that had rolled in from the coast with dusk. One of the few birds that flew at night, they trilled and chattered as though welcoming the impending darkness.

  Ellie got the name of the TV personality Coe Evans worked for, thanked Wheeler for his time, and drove home. In her living room she sat, picked up the telephone, and hesitated, trying to sort out exactly what she would say to Ramona Pino.

  She wanted to share the news about Coe Evans, but she wondered what Pino would think about her ignoring Lieutenant Macy’s order to bow out of the investigation. Granted, their few phone conversations had been cordial, but Ellie didn’t really know Pino. Was she a by-the-book cop who would feel compelled to rat her out to Macy, or more freewheeling when it came to bending the rules?

  It didn’t matter. Pino needed to know Coe Evans had been found. She dialed the phone, gave Pino the news, and then explained why she’d no longer be working the case.

  “It will make my life easier if you don’t let on to Lieutenant Macy or Detective Price that I’m your source of information about Evans.”

  Ramona laughed. “You’ve just eased my load, so the least I can do is cover for you. Besides, who’s to say a CI can’t be another cop? I’ll keep your name out of it when I call Detective Price and ask him to get cracking on Evans.”

  “Thanks,” Ellie said.

  “Are you really going to stay on the sidelines?”

  “I guess I’ll have to.”

  “How about I keep you informed from my end?” Ramona asked.

  “That would be great.”

  The two women talked awhile longer, and Ellie hung up with the feeling that if distance didn’t prevent it, Ramona Pino would make a very good friend.

  Sara called Kerney at home just as he was preparing for bed.

  “I want to apologize,” he said, wondering why Sara called so late. It was midnight, East Coast time. “I shouldn’t be impatient when I’m asking for a favor.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Sara said. “But keep that thought in mind and it will stand you in good stead. You’ve got a green light from DOD to do the exhumation.”

  “So fast?” Kerney asked.

  “We at the Pentagon never sleep.”

  “Are you still at work?”

  “Back at work, actually. Patrick’s tucked into bed, fast asleep, under the watchful eye of a sitter, so you needn’t fret about him.”

  “What did it take for you to pull it off?” Kerney asked.

  “Once I connected with the right person and showed him the material you faxed me, it went smoothly. We’ve opened our own investigation into the matter, and I’m your liaison officer. Aren’t you lucky? If the remains prove to be those of someone other than George Spalding, the Army will assume control of the case.”

  “You’re a marvel.”

  “It’s about time you noticed. The U.S. Attorney and the VA have been notified. Have fun at the cemetery.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “I’m bushed and want to go home,” Sara said.

  “I won’t keep you. Thanks, my love.”

  “Give yourself a hug from me. Good night.”

  The phone went dead. Kerney punched in the home number of Jerry Grant, the forensic anthropologist, got him on the line, and told him they were on for tomorrow.

  He stood at the window and stared into the night, trying to figure out what feelings were eluding him. He felt distant, empty, and totally preoccupied with George Spalding. But why?

  Jerry Grant was a
transplanted Easterner who taught at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque and did contract forensic work for the state police crime lab. Kerney rounded him up at his office early in the morning, and took the fastest possible route south to Fort Bayard.

  A big, beefy man, Grant had thick, droopy eyebrows, a full head of hair badly in need of a trim, and a slightly unruly beard. On the drive, Grant, who’d lived in Albuquerque for ten years, talked eagerly about getting to see a part of the state he’d never visited before.

  Kerney wasn’t surprised by Grant’s lack of familiarity with New Mexico. There were many people now residing in the state, especially urban dwellers, who had no inclination to explore their adopted home ground. But they could talk endlessly about exotic, international tourist destinations.

  Kerney played historian along the way and filled Grant in on the background of the fort: how it was established on the frontier during the Indian Wars to contain the Apaches; how it had been home to the buffalo soldiers, companies of black enlisted cavalrymen commanded by white officers; how it had been transformed into a military hospital at the end of the nineteenth century and was now a state-run long-term care facility.

  When they arrived at Fort Bayard, Grant had to see it, so Kerney took a quick swing through the grounds. He drove by the three-story, ugly block hospital that had been built years after the fort had been decommissioned, and then on to the charming quadrangle where a bronze life-size statue of a buffalo soldier firing a rifle over his shoulder stood on a pedestal.

  A row of officers’ quarters, stately Victorian houses with two-tiered porches, lined the street, and the restored post headquarters building, low-slung and sturdy with a wide veranda, sat at the far end of the quadrangle. Behind the building, the Pinos Altos Mountains rose up, masking from view the high wilderness of stream-cut canyons, vast upland meadows, and rugged summits that ranged for hundreds of thousands of acres along the Gila River watershed and continental divide.

  “This really is an architectural treasure,” Grant said.

  “I’ve always thought so,” Kerney said, remembering the times he’d visited in the past, first as a child with his parents and later on when he and his best friend, Dale Jennings, had competed in the state high school rodeo championships in nearby Silver City.

  At the national cemetery, a Veterans Affairs official up from Fort Bliss met them. Looking none too pleased, he guided the way to the Spalding grave site, with a backhoe and a private ambulance following behind.

  Evergreen trees scattered across the grounds interrupted the stark lines of gray headstones. The brown earth, almost barren except for sparse native grasses, seemed in somber harmony with the scattered trees.

  Kerney signed forms and the backhoe operator went to work, carefully trenching and piling excavated dirt into one large mound. The engine’s sputtering carburetor and the whining of the hydraulics put Kerney on edge.

  He wondered why the noise bothered him so much. Was it because he wanted the dead, many who’d seen so much violence and had been killed in battle, to rest quietly? Or was it also because of his own lingering sense of guilt about the men in his platoon who never made it home from Nam?

  The thought hit Kerney in the gut, and feelings he thought he’d resolved long ago resurfaced, pushed away the emptiness, and brought back vivid flashes of combat. He could feel his mouth grimace, his jaw tighten.

  Digging stopped when the casket was uncovered. Chains were secured to the casket fore and aft, and slowly it was lifted out of the grave onto a waiting gurney.

  The backhoe operator shut the engine down and the silence only somewhat eased Kerney’s mood. He watched Grant stop the ambulance driver before he could push the gurney toward his vehicle.

  “Might as well take a look before we cart this back to Albuquerque,” Grant said matter-of-factly, brushing dirt off the casket lid. “No sense wasting our time.”

  Frozen in place, Kerney watched Grant unfasten the casket lid and push it open.

  “There’s no skull,” Grant said.

  Kerney approached slowly and looked inside at an assortment of bones, wondering if they represented a soldier unaccounted for and still carried as an MIA, one of the 1,800 Americans killed in Vietnam that had yet to be identified, perhaps a man from his regiment or company. Suddenly, putting a name to the remains became as important as confirming that George Spalding was still alive.

  “We got a sternum, two sets of tibias and fibulas, one femur, one humerus, assorted ribs, a scapula, two ulnas, iliums-both with an attached pubis, a collarbone, a radius, and a hip joint-that’s it.”

  Grant looked up from the casket. “No skull, finger, or foot bones. Maybe somebody didn’t want these remains to be positively identified.”

  “That could be.”

  Grant gave Kerney a questioning glance. “Are you okay with this?”

  “I’m fine,” Kerney replied, his voice cold and distant.

  Grant put on gloves and picked up the radius bone. “According to what you told me, Spalding was killed in a chopper crash that exploded on impact, right?”

  “That’s what I understand,” Kerney replied.

  “High-octane fuel burns hot and eats flesh away right down to the bone, especially those that lie close to the skin. I don’t see any evidence of burns here, but of course I’ll run tests for hydrocarbons.”

  “What else?” Kerney asked. His throat felt scratchy and dry.

  Grant pointed into the casket. “Look at the splintered rib and the shattered breastbone. I’d bet this person was fatally shot. Also, the bones look like they’ve been thoroughly cleaned.”

  “Is that unusual?” Kerney asked.

  “The only people I know who clean bones are anthropologists, not morticians. Whoever did it effectively erased any trace evidence.” Grant stripped off his gloves and closed the lid. “Okay, that’s it for now. I can’t tell you much more until the remains are in the lab in Albuquerque.”

  Kerney nodded. The ambulance driver loaded the casket and drove away. He could feel Grant’s stare and turned away from it. Behind him the backhoe roared to life with a coarse vibration that seemed to penetrate his skin. He watched until the operator finished filling the empty hole.

  “You’ll keep me informed?” the VA official asked.

  “Yes,” Kerney said. Without another word, he joined Grant, who was waiting in the car, and headed back to Albuquerque. Preoccupied by his thoughts, he was grateful for Grant’s silence.

  Tied up with paperwork and phone calls, Detective Bill Price didn’t get to leave his office until late morning. The warrant to seize and examine the original document giving Claudia Spalding spousal permission to take lovers was making its way through the system. Additionally, at Ramona Pino’s request, Price had asked for a judge’s order requiring the release of Clifford Spalding’s last will and testament. If all went without a hitch, Price planned to personally serve both before the end of the day.

  Sergeant Pino had also passed on some very interesting information about a man named Coe Evans, including his present whereabouts. Based on the details he’d been given, Price had no doubt Ellie had played a hand in tracking Evans down. He’d said nothing about his suspicions when Lieutenant Macy stopped by his office to tell him the surveillance of Claudia Spalding had been dropped.

  Tomorrow, Claudia would bury her husband, and Price had already decided to watch from a distance to see what she did after Clifford got planted.

  He found the ranch where Evans worked on a lightly traveled two-lane highway that ran from Atascadero to Santa Margarita, a sleepy little farming town. He turned onto the paved driveway, his progress halted by a custom-made gate adorned with the silhouette of a horse, bracketed by two ten-foot squared columns that displayed its famous owner ’s initials. He announced himself over the intercom, held his shield up to the security camera, and stated his business, and the gate swung slowly open.

  The paved drive cut between two low hills where sunlight spilled on pastures and le
thargic brood mares stood beneath oak trees, tails whisking, foals nearby. The drive followed the curve of a small streambed, and descended to a hidden valley revealing a compound of buildings stretched out along both sides of the creek.

  On the north side of the creek, a sprawling, modern timber-frame house with a wall of vaulted windows was placed to take in the view of the rolling hills coursing southward. On one side of it was a guesthouse, and on the other side a detached four-car garage, all tied together by broad cobblestone walkways that wandered through Japanese-style gardens.

  On the other side of the creek two barns faced each other across two large fenced pastures. A tree-lined lane ran between the pastures to a cluster of small cottages, outbuildings, storage sheds, and corrals, then continued on to a dirt landing field at the foot of a hill where a twin-engine plane sat next to a hangar. Sunlight flashed off the metal roof of the hangar like a beacon.

  Price pulled to a stop in front of the house, got out of his unit, and watched a pickup truck coming in his direction rattle over the wooden bridge spanning the creek. The man who jumped out of the truck had an agitated expression on his face.

  “What do you need to talk to me about?” he demanded abruptly.

  “Coe Evans?” Price asked, looking the man over. He was a pretty-boy, with cropped curly hair, symmetrical features, and a solid six-foot frame.

  “Yeah, that’s right. What do you want?”

  “You sound worried,” Price replied pleasantly. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Evans said, glancing up at the big house. “You tell me.”

  “As far as I know, you’re not in any trouble,” Price said. “What can you tell me about Claudia Spalding?”

  Evans looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Not much. I barely know the woman.”

  “How did you come to meet her?”

  “At the tracks where I used to work. She likes the ponies-owns a few and races them. I’d see her around and sometimes we would chat. Small talk stuff.”