Death Song

by Michael McGarrity

  “Everybody should have completed their assignments before I get back from Santa Fe,” he said. “If nothing new or promising develops, have them back up and start all over again.”

  Hewitt leaned back. The springs of his old wooden desk chair squeaked in protest. “I can’t see keeping this investigation going full bore unless we get a break or a credible lead sometime soon. When do we get the forensics back?”

  “The state crime lab said they would give it priority, but they didn’t make any promises.”

  Mug in hand, Hewitt took another jolt of java. “Want some?” he asked.

  Clayton shook his head. What Hewitt called coffee was nothing more than high-octane sludge.

  Hewitt put the mug down, put his elbows on the desk, and intertwined his fingers. “You do appreciate that solving this case may rest largely with the Santa Fe County sheriff.”

  “Is that a good or bad thing?”

  “Luciano Salgado is a retired traffic cop who never made it past the rank of sergeant when he was with the Santa Fe P.D. He’s a good-hearted, likable guy but something of a dim bulb in the gray matter department.”

  “That’s not encouraging. What about his ranking officers?”

  Hewitt wrapped his hand around the coffee mug. “Leonard Jessup, his chief deputy, wants to be the next sheriff. I’ve heard that he pretty much runs the S.O. for Salgado, who doesn’t like to spend a lot of time at the office. Jessup worked for fifteen years as an agent with the Department of Public Safety SID before Salgado tapped him to be his chief deputy.”

  Clayton grunted. SID—Special Investigations Division—enforced alcohol, tobacco, and gaming laws within the state, and although it was important work, Jessup’s years of experience busting clerks who sold liquor and cigarettes to underage minors was no substitute for investigating violent crimes and major felony cases.

  “What’s the scoop on this Major Mielke I’m supposed to work with?” he asked.

  “Like Salgado he’s a hometown Santa Fe boy,” Hewitt replied. “The difference is that Mielke’s been with the S.O. since the day he pinned on his shield. He worked his way up through the ranks and has survived in his exempt position through two administrations. He’s got the credentials: FBI Academy courses, plus he’s a graduate of their executive development program for local law enforcement administrators. He’s the guy with the hands-on, major case investigating experience in the department.”

  “Let’s hope his hands don’t get tied by the powers that be,” Clayton said. “What’s he like?”

  Hewitt reflected momentarily. “Personable and quiet spoken. Other than that, I really don’t know him well. Physically, he’s tall, thin, middle-age. I’d put him in his forties but he looks a bit more worse for wear. Rumor has it that he’s something of a ladies’ man and drinks too much.”

  “That’s great,” Clayton said.

  “He doesn’t outrank you on this investigation. Work around him if you have to.”

  Clayton stayed quiet. By culture and personality, he didn’t find silence or gaps in conversation uncomfortable. As a consequence, Hewitt had learned to wait him out.

  “This could get sticky,” Clayton finally said.

  “What are you thinking?” Hewitt asked.

  “Why is Salgado retaining control of the Denise Riley homicide investigation when every indication points to a connection between her murder and that of her husband’s? He should have turned the case over to the state police.”

  “He can’t just walk away from this,” Hewitt replied. “I know I sure as hell can’t either.”

  “I’m not saying either of you need to. But without any viable suspects there is no way the Santa Fe Sheriff’s Office can avoid investigating itself. At the very least, it will require taking a very careful look at the personal and professional relationships Riley and his wife had with members of the department.”

  Hewitt slugged down more coffee. “That’s where you come in, Sergeant. Sheriff Salgado and I have talked it over. Rather than call in the state police, who often take great pleasure at being heavy-handed in such matters, you’re going to take charge of an investigation that probes Tim and Denise Riley’s past and present relationship with members of the Santa Fe S.O. and their families. Three Santa Fe Police Department officers will be assigned to assist you, Sergeant Ramona Pino and two detectives. Sheriff Salgado assures me that you and your team will be allowed to follow any and all legitimate lines of questioning. If you run into any obstacles, you are to immediately let me and Salgado know, and we’ll deal with it.”

  Clayton nodded and said nothing more on the subject, although he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Getting cops to cooperate in an investigation that could point a finger at one of their own as a murder suspect wasn’t going to be straightened out and made smooth as silk by written or verbal orders issued by Paul Hewitt and Luciano Salgado. Besides that, cops were crafty; they could obviate and obfuscate with the best of the con artists and criminals they dealt with on a daily basis.

  “We still need to locate a next of kin for Tim Riley,” Hewitt said, taking Clayton’s silence as deference to his rank, which it was.

  “He has an ex-wife and an eighteen-year-old son who lives on his own,” Clayton replied. “I don’t know where, and I’m not sure if Riley’s parents are living or dead.”

  “Find out,” Hewitt said, “and get me the whereabouts of the son as soon as you are able.”

  “Ten-four,” Clayton said. “How long do I stay up in Santa Fe?”

  “For as long as it takes to do the job,” Hewitt replied. “Chief Kerney has offered to put you up at his ranch for the duration of your stay and he has advised me that you are not allowed to turn down his invitation.”

  Thrown off guard, Clayton blinked once and clamped his jaw shut. Finally he said, “How did this invitation come about?”

  “I called him,” Hewitt replied. “When we’re at meetings together, he always asks about you, and I know for a fact that he’s eager to do anything he can for you and your family.”

  Paul Hewitt would never meddle in his personal family life without encouragement, and the only person Clayton could think of who would put him up to such a trick was his wife, Grace.

  After a long silence, he looked at his watch and said, “I’d better go home and pack if I expect to get up to Albuquerque in time for the autopsy.”

  “Good idea,” Hewitt replied. He opened the center desk drawer and handed Clayton a check. “That should cover your per diem expenses in Santa Fe for the first week. Let me know when you need more.”

  Clayton folded the check, put it in his shirt pocket, and gave Paul Hewitt a long, measured look.

  “Is there anything else, Sergeant?” Hewitt asked, a smile playing on his lips.

  Slowly Clayton got to his feet, turned, and left Paul Hewitt’s office without saying another word.

  To accommodate working parents, the tribal child development center opened at five-thirty on weekday mornings, and it was Grace’s week to pull the early shift. Intent on having some words with his wife, Clayton bypassed going home to pack and drove directly to the center.

  Built with profits from gaming, it was a new facility in the village of Mescalero, within easy walking distance of the tribal administration building. The front of the building consisted of a long sloping roof that overhung a series of windows bracketed by two arched entrances at the corners, which were supported by concrete columns made to look like cut stone blocks.

  Grace’s car was in the parking lot, and Clayton barged through the entrance with every intention of confronting Grace immediately with his suspicions. He slowed down when he spotted her sitting on the rug in the middle of the play area, holding a crying child in her arms. Three other children, all sleepy-eyed toddlers, were at a small table waiting for Grace to give them a breakfast snack, which sometimes comprised their entire morning meal.

  Grace looked up and saw Clayton, waved him off with a shake of her head, and nodded in the direction
of her office. Clayton headed toward the rear of the building knowing that he’d find Wendell and Hannah in Grace’s office. When she pulled the early shift during the school year, the children came with her and then took the bus from the center to school.

  Through the open office door, Clayton saw his son sitting at his mother’s desk reading a book while his little sister stood close by, sounding out some of the words Wendell was reading.

  “Stop bothering me,” Wendell snapped, pushing Hannah away hard with his hand.

  “I don’t ever want to see you push your sister like that again,” Clayton said as he stepped into the office.

  Red-faced, Wendell lowered his head and gazed at the desktop.

  “Apologize,” Clayton demanded.

  “Sorry,” Wendell mumbled.

  “Say it like you mean it,” Clayton ordered.

  Wendell straightened up and looked at his sister. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”

  “That’s okay,” replied Hannah, who had taken her brother’s physical rebuff in stride. “What are you doing here, Daddy?”

  “I came to tell both of you and your mother that I have to work up in Santa Fe for a while. I’ll be staying there.”

  “Will you be gone for a long time?” Wendell asked.

  “I don’t think so. But I’ll be back in time for us to go turkey hunting together.”

  Wendell smiled. For the past two years in the early spring, his father had taken him turkey hunting. They had yet to bag a bird, but from a distance they had seen some big toms through the breaks in the thick underbrush.

  “If you promise to look after your sister and treat her with respect,” Clayton added.

  “I promise,” Wendell said solemnly.

  “Good.” Through the glass wall that looked out on the common area where the children congregated, Clayton saw Grace approaching her office. “Now both of you give me a minute alone with your mother.”

  He got a hug from both children as they left the office.

  Grace smiled at Hannah and Wendell as they scooted around her. “I thought you were on your way to Albuquerque and Santa Fe,” she said.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know,” Clayton replied.

  Grace’s smile vanished. “Know what?”

  “I think you put a bee in Paul Hewitt’s bonnet about me staying with Kerney while I’m in Santa Fe.”

  Grace shook her head, walked behind her desk, and sat. “I did no such thing.”

  “Then why would Hewitt tell me that he knows Kerney would do anything to help me and my family?”

  “Kerney could have told him so,” Grace said. “If not, Sheriff Hewitt probably figured it out for himself when Kerney gave him a check for fifty thousand dollars to help us get back on our feet after our house was destroyed.”

  “Hewitt told me that money came from a wealthy citizen who wanted to remain anonymous.”

  Grace laughed harshly. “And you believed him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ve been deluding yourself,” Grace replied. “Kerney was that wealthy citizen.”

  Clayton gave Grace a speculative look. His wife was not a woman who told lies. “You know this for a fact?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “And the sheriff told you?”

  Grace smiled sweetly. “He did, after I explained to him that as Apaches we would be sorely embarrassed and lose face if we could not acknowledge another person’s generosity.”

  Clayton almost choked in disbelief. What Grace had told Paul Hewitt was an absolute fabrication. In fact, the reverse was usually the case. Among the Mescalero, when giving or receiving a kindness it was polite to avoid making a big to-do about it, which served only to cause embarrassment. Gifts offered had to be accepted without question or fanfare. At best, one might say one was grateful for another’s generosity, but only on the rarest of occasions.

  “Why would you tell him such a thing?” he asked.

  “Since we rarely share our customs with outsiders, how would he know otherwise?” Grace asked. “Besides, surely you suspected that Kerney gave that fifty thousand dollars to us. I think in your heart you’ve known all along where the money came from and just didn’t want to admit it to yourself.”

  Although he knew his wife was right, Clayton shook his head vigorously. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  “Because I had no desire to deal with your false pride.” Grace rose, approached Clayton, and looked up at him with serious eyes. “So tell me, in this matter, who has been the better Apache? Kerney, who in spite of your pride, found a way to help us as part of his family? Or you, who has rejected most of his attempted kindnesses as though he were the enemy?”

  Grace’s words struck home. As a child, Clayton’s uncles had taught him the four laws of the Mescalero Apaches: honesty, generosity, pride, and bravery. But a man could not be proud, brave, or honest unless he was first and foremost generous.

  From the time he’d turned down Kerney’s offer to help him rebuild his home, Clayton had felt ill at ease with his decision. Whether Kerney knew it or not, in the ways of the Apache people, Clayton had insulted him. To repeat such an offense would show Clayton to be a man who’d lost his dignity.

  “I will stay with Kerney and his family while I’m in Santa Fe,” he said with great seriousness.

  Grace giggled. “Don’t make it sound like you’ve been sentenced to a week in the county jail.”

  Clayton laughed in spite of himself and gave Grace a hug. The sound of the school bus horn outside the building ended the conversation. Grace and Clayton walked their children to the entrance, watched them board the bus, and waved when it drove away.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” Clayton said.

  “See that you do.”

  Grace raised her face for a kiss and Clayton brushed her lips with his.

  “You can do better than that,” she said as she grabbed his arm and pressed closely against him.

  He gave her the full treatment—lips, corners of her eyes, tip of her nose, nape of her neck, a nibble on her earlobe—and left her smiling at the door.

  There was no doubt in Clayton’s mind that the nervous man sitting outside the New Mexico chief medical investigator’s office, thumbing through an open file folder was Major Don Mielke of the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office. He was thin and haggard-looking with long legs, a narrow frame, slightly rounded shoulders, and the rosy complexion of a man who drank too much.

  Clayton stepped up to Mielke and introduced himself. Mielke nodded, gestured to an empty chair, and shook Clayton’s hand after he sat down.

  “My chief deputy said you’d be here for the autopsies,” Mielke said.

  Clayton caught the faint scent of a cough drop on Mielke’s breath. “When do we get started?” he asked.

  Mielke looked at his watch. “The chief MI and his senior pathologist will be here in ten minutes. They’ll do the autopsies simultaneously, so I’m glad you showed up on time. I’ll cover Denise Riley, you take Tim Riley.”

  Clayton nodded. “Did you know them well?”

  Mielke shot Clayton a sharp look. “Yeah, you could say that, but let’s save your interrogation into my relationships with the deceased until after we finish up here.”

  Clayton smiled apologetically. Mielke’s annoyance at his innocent-sounding question signaled that the fun and games had begun. “I only asked because I thought you might have an idea, a theory, or maybe even a half-baked guess about why they were killed.”

  Mielke shook his head. “If I had one single, off-the-wall, scatterbrained notion about who did this or why, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you, Istee.”

  Clayton kept smiling. The major’s answer was a neat feint that gave absolutely nothing away. “That’s good to know.”

  A lab assistant opened the swinging door and invited Clayton and Mielke to enter. Inside the autopsy room, a stark, brightly lit, spotlessly clean space, Tim and Denise Riley had been reunited for what might be the very last t
ime, unless they were to be buried together. Their stiff bodies were stretched out on adjoining tables still clothed in the garments they’d worn dying.

  All that had been human about them was gone. Under the harsh light Tim Riley’s mangled face looked even more gruesome, and although Clayton could see that Denise Riley had once been lovely to look at, her slashed throat spoiled the image.

  He stepped up to the table for a closer inspection of the fatal wound. It was a straight, clean cut that severed the jugular and showed no evidence of hesitation. The incised cut had edges that were sharp and even, which made Clayton suspect that the killer had struck from behind his victim with one swift swipe of his knife. He wondered why there had been no mention of such a clean kill in the reports he’d received from the Santa Fe S.O.

  The two pathologists who entered the room were suited up and ready to go to work. After introductions were made, Clayton stepped back and watched the procedure. Talking quietly into the overhead microphones above the tables, the doctors dictated their findings as they first noted the state of the victims’ clothing, the physical characteristics of the bodies, and the visible evidence of injuries and wounds.

  Although he would never admit it, Clayton had a hard time staying for any length of time in the presence of death. He forced himself to remain still. It wasn’t the autopsy that got to him as much as it was the Apache belief that before the dead went to where the ancestors dwelled they could infect you with a ghost sickness that could kill.

  To ward it off, it was an Apache custom to wear black, and Clayton had come to the autopsies fully protected. He wore a black leather jacket, black jeans, black cowboy boots, and a sturdy black belt with a silver buckle that held up his holstered sidearm. Even the white cowboy shirt he wore had black stitching around the cuffs, collar, and pockets, and his shield, clipped to his belt, had a diagonal black stripe to signify the death of a fellow officer.

  The doctor assigned to Tim Riley had worked his way through the last phase of his external examination. The lab assistant, who’d been photographing both bodies, swabbing cavities, combing for pubic hairs, and taking fingernail clippings, began to bag and tag Riley’s clothing.