Death Song

by Michael McGarrity

  When he got to the shield that had been pinned above the left pocket of Riley’s uniform shirt, Clayton stepped forward and held out his hand. “Let me have that,” he said.

  The tech gave the pathologist a questioning look.

  “I don’t think keeping the badge in evidence will help catch the officer’s killer,” the doctor said. “Give it to the sergeant. Just note where it went on your evidence log.”

  The tech did as he was told.

  Clayton pocketed the shield, which he would return to Paul Hewitt, who would in turn eventually give it to Riley’s son. He stepped back out of the way just as the pathologist made the first long incision down Riley’s naked torso.

  The doctor working on Denise Riley’s body had already cut her open and was busy inspecting the internal organs. Slowly, he raised his head, looked at Don Mielke, and said, “This woman was pregnant. She was almost at the end of her first trimester when she died.”

  Clayton considered whether or not Riley had known that his wife was pregnant. Tim hadn’t mentioned it, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything more than it was none of Clayton’s business. However, surely a wife thrilled to be having a baby would give her husband the joyful news and tell family and friends of the upcoming blessed event.

  Clayton watched Mielke speed-dial his cell phone, turn his head away, and whisper so as not to be overheard. Obviously, Mielke thought the pregnancy was important news that might have a direct bearing on the case.

  Without additional information from Mielke, Clayton didn’t know what to think. Maybe Denise hadn’t known that she was pregnant. The possibility couldn’t be discounted without further probing.

  Mielke closed his cell phone, looked at Clayton, glanced in the direction of the double doors, and stepped outside the autopsy suite. Clayton followed.

  “I just advised my people about the pregnancy,” Mielke said.

  “I figured as much,” Clayton said. “Was this the first you’d heard of it?”

  Mielke nodded.

  “What made you jump on it so fast?”

  “Tim told me that after his first wife gave birth to their son, she demanded that he get a vasectomy, which he did. As far as I know he never tried to have the procedure reversed.”

  “So Denise was carrying somebody else’s child.”

  “I’d say it’s very likely.” Mielke paused. “But what’s interesting is that Denise always made the point of telling the other officers’ wives how much she enjoyed not being a mother, and she made no bones about being pleased that Tim couldn’t get her pregnant.”

  “And that was okay with Tim?” Clayton asked.

  “Yeah. He said at his age he had no desire to start a new family.”

  Mielke rubbed his chin as though he was trying to wipe away a bewildered look that crossed his face.

  “You seem surprised by all of this,” Clayton said.

  “They acted like the perfectly happy couple, but you never know.”

  “You never do,” Clayton echoed. “So maybe now we have a motive.”

  “We’ve got something,” Mielke said, sounding decidedly upbeat.

  “We’ll need DNA testing done on Denise and the fetus,” Clayton said, somewhat surprised by Mielke’s positive reaction.

  “As soon as possible,” Mielke added. “I’m sure you’ll want every male officer of my department to voluntarily provide a mouth swab sample for DNA analysis.”

  “I’ll want a sample from every male employee, sworn or civilian,” Clayton said, “and it will have to be taken in my presence or by someone I designate from outside your department.”

  “Agreed.” Mielke walked to the swinging doors, paused, turned, and gave Clayton a tight smile. “In a way, I’m glad she was pregnant.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I honestly don’t believe Denise would have had an affair with anybody at the S.O.”

  Clayton gave Mielke a questioning look.

  “Except for Tim, I don’t think she liked cops,” he explained. “At least not the officers in my department.”

  “Including you?” Clayton asked.

  Mielke scoffed as he pushed his way back into the autopsy suite. “Let me be the first in line to give you a DNA sample, Sergeant Istee,” he said in a low voice.

  “That would be great,” Clayton whispered in reply, thinking that once again Mielke had handily jumped over a seemingly innocuous question.

  The pathologists had made good progress during Clayton and Mielke’s absence from the suite. Internal organs had been removed, analyzed, and weighed, and fluid specimens from the gastrointestinal tracts had been collected for toxicology testing. The doctor working on Denise Riley reported no vaginal or anal bruising or tearing, but didn’t rule out sexual contact prior to death.

  Mielke asked to have DNA testing done on Denise and her fetus as soon as possible.

  “I’ve already dictated a priority request to have it done ASAP,” the doctor replied.

  Clayton stepped up to the table where the other doctor was busy placing some of Tim Riley’s detached internal organs into his chest cavity. “Will you look and see if he had a vasectomy?”

  “He sure did,” the doctor replied, glancing up at Clayton, “and it was a done by a darn good surgeon, too.”

  “Is there any evidence that the procedure was reversed?’

  “Nope, the part of the vas deferens that was removed hasn’t been toyed with, at least not surgically.”

  Clayton shook his head in dismay at the bad joke. “Thanks.”

  The doctor looked over at Denise’s body on the adjoining table. “These two were husband and wife, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Well then, Detective, I’d be looking for the guy who got the wife pregnant.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Clayton replied.

  When Clayton arrived at the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office the March sun was low in the west, pallid in a windblown, dusty sky. He’d followed Mielke up from Albuquerque and used the time to speculate about the major. Mielke had shared a good deal of personal information about Tim and Denise Riley, which made Clayton wonder about the exact nature of his friendship with the couple. Was it Tim who’d been Mielke’s buddy, or had Denise been the primary object of the major’s attention?

  It was a question that needed an answer, and Mielke’s willingness to be first in line to give a DNA sample didn’t necessarily put the issue to rest.

  Clayton parked next to Mielke’s unit in the rear lot and followed him through the restricted access employee entrance, down a brightly lit corridor, and into a large briefing room that had been set up as a command center for the investigation. Mielke introduced him to several uniformed deputies who were filling out paperwork at a worktable, and it earned Clayton measured looks and freeze-dried smiles. News of the nature of his mission had obviously preceded him.

  After Mielke excused himself to go find the sheriff, Clayton used his time waiting to study the investigation task and duty assignments that had been posted on a large chalkboard mounted on the rear wall of the room.

  Mielke came back before Clayton could digest all the information, to tell him that Sheriff Salgado was in the workout room and would meet with him there. He followed Mielke down another hallway, marveling at the space, the relative newness of the building, the number of individual offices that lined the corridors, the existence of an actual walk-in evidence storeroom, and a secure armory for weapons and ammunition. By comparison, it made the cramped space of the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office in the county courthouse in Carrizozo seem like a shabby suite of low-rent offices.

  The workout room for the deputies was nothing less than a fully equipped gym, with lockers, showers, and bathrooms and every piece of exercise equipment needed for weight training and cardiovascular fitness. It was as nice as the private gym in Ruidoso that Clayton paid money to every month and never got to use half as much as he should have.

  Dressed in sweats and putting in
some time on a motorized treadmill, Sheriff Salgado was the only person in the gym. He jogged at a pace no faster than a slow walk, sweating heavily, red in the face and panting hard.

  Salgado’s thick waist and inner tube–size love handles bulged against his sweatshirt, and his double chin jiggled up and down as he moved. Clayton half expected the man to stroke out or collapse from a heart attack at any moment.

  As Clayton and Mielke approached, Salgado turned off the machine, wiped the sweat from his face with a gym towel, stepped off the treadmill, and gave Clayton a hearty handshake.

  “Glad you could come up and give us a hand,” Salgado said, flashing a politician’s sunny smile.

  “It’s good to be here,” Clayton said. “I think this case is going to take our combined efforts to get it solved.”

  “That’s right, that’s right,” Salgado said. “I want you to use the training and planning lieutenant’s office in the administrative wing so you can have quick access to me if you need it.”

  Clayton didn’t like the idea at all. It would immediately create ill will for him. “I’d rather not inconvenience the lieutenant. Isn’t there someplace else you can put me?””

  “It’s a done deal,” Salgado said. “The lieutenant will double up with one of the patrol commanders while you’re here. Don’t worry about it. Everybody’s on board to catch this killer. That’s the important thing. You need something, you tell me and I’ll get it for you. Where do you want to start?”

  “With you,” Clayton replied. “I’d like to interview you as soon as possible.”

  Salgado looked at his watch. “First things first. Major Mielke will get you settled in, and Sergeant Pino and her P.D. detectives are coming in from the field to meet with you. I’ll see you in my office in the morning. Just let my secretary know what time you want to meet.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” Clayton said, not sure if Salgado was a dim bulb as Paul Hewitt had said, a wily old street cop, or a bit of both.

  Salgado slapped him on the back and headed for the showers. Outside the gym, Clayton and Mielke fell in behind two officers who were sauntering down the corridor engrossed in conversation.

  “Maldonado was in the briefing room when that sheriff’s sergeant from Lincoln County showed up,” the first officer said.

  “So what did he think?” his buddy replied.

  “He said he almost cracked up when he first saw the guy. Said he was dressed like some Apache Johnny Cash wannabe all in black.”

  “He’s Apache?”

  The first deputy nodded. “I bet his first name is probably Geronimo or something like that. Maldonado says wait until you see him. He’s got long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.”

  His buddy laughed. “Maybe he’s a New Age Indian who chews peyote buttons and has spirit visions. And this guy is the hotshot investigator who’s going to find a killer among us? I almost wish the sheriff had asked the state police to do the internal investigation.”

  “You got that right, bro.”

  From the corner of his eye, Clayton could see Mielke watching him, waiting for a reaction. Clayton cleared his throat loudly, and the deputies turned their heads at the sound and didn’t recover their composure quickly enough to mask their surprise.

  “Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” Clayton said as he passed them by.

  Mielke didn’t say a word, but he wasn’t smiling either. He led Clayton to the L-shaped administrative wing and showed him his assigned office. It was next door to where the major hung his hat and in clear view of Sheriff Salgado’s corner suite, the chief deputy’s adjoining office, and a reception area where the sheriff’s executive secretary resided. It offered zero privacy for people coming and going, and with a large glass window, with no venetian blind, that looked out on the reception area, it put Clayton and whoever was with him under constant observation.

  Mielke introduced Clayton to the sheriff’s secretary so he could make an appointment to interview Salgado in the morning. The secretary, a middle-aged Hispanic woman named Joanne Castillo, consulted her daily planner and gave Clayton an early morning appointment with the sheriff. She handed Clayton a key to his new office and made him sign for it.

  Accompanied by Mielke, Clayton unlocked the door and looked around. One wall of bookshelves held bound reports, training manuals, and some law enforcement textbooks. On the wall behind the desk was an assortment of framed certificates that its usual occupant had received for completing training and recertification courses.

  The lieutenant had cleared out his desk and provided an empty metal filing cabinet for Clayton to use. On top of the desk was a three-ring binder casebook which Mielke told him was up-to-date except for the field reports that were still being prepared.

  “Have you arranged for lodging?” Mielke asked. “There are several decent motels that offer reasonable rates for law enforcement officers.”

  “It’s all taken care of,” Clayton replied, unwilling to be more specific about where he was staying and why.

  “We’ll need to know how to reach you.”

  Clayton found a ruled writing tablet in the top drawer of the desk, wrote down a number, and handed it to Mielke. “Call my cell phone.”

  “That’ll work.” Mielke pocketed the note and glanced at his wristwatch. “Sergeant Pino and her detectives should be here in a few. If you need me, call dispatch. Until these murders are solved I’m available twenty-four/seven.”

  Mielke left and Clayton settled behind the desk. He opened the casebook and started reading, but he couldn’t shake the thought that Salgado and Mielke’s cooperation was a pretense.

  To hide what? Clayton asked himself just as Ramona Pino stepped through the door and gave him the first authentic smile he’d seen since arriving in Santa Fe.

  “It’s good to see you, Clayton,” she said as she stepped to the desk and shook his hand.

  “You too. Where are your detectives?”

  “We just got in.” Ramona took a seat in the chair next to the desk. “They’re doing their reports.”

  “You heard that Denise was three months pregnant?”

  Ramona nodded. “And that the daddy couldn’t be Tim Riley.”

  “Did you know him?” Clayton asked.

  “In passing. He seemed competent. A quiet guy, not the macho type.”

  “Any scuttlebutt about why he left the Santa Fe S.O.?”

  “None that I heard.”

  “What has Mielke had you doing?”

  “Interviewing and re-interviewing the Rileys’ neighbors. We’ve talked to most of them twice, but several are out of town and unavailable. One guy is a long-haul trucker who isn’t answering his cell phone, and there’s a retired couple who are vacationing somewhere in Mexico in their motor home.”

  “Has anything come up?” Clayton asked hopefully.

  “Nope.” Ramona looked over her shoulder and through the window that gave a view of Salgado’s secretary at her desk. “So they’ve put you in this fishbowl to keep an eye on you.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t intend to stay here all day every day. In fact, initially I want to keep our interviews with the commissioned personnel informal and low-key. Let’s meet with the deputies in the field, in their squad cars, over coffee, in the break room, or at their homes whenever we can. Have you encountered any male deputies or employees who seem a little skittish to you?”

  “No, but based on how this killer went about his business, I wouldn’t expect him to be anything but cool and collected. Do we even have anything more than a hunch that suggests the murderer could be a cop?”

  Clayton shook his head. “It’s all theory at this point.”

  “Great. Okay, how do you want to do this?”

  Clayton said he wanted the first round of interviews to start in the morning. He’d take the brass, the administrative staff, and the civilian office workers. Ramona and her two detectives would divvy up the three shifts, including all officers and the regional dispatchers housed at the facili
ty. The four of them would convene every morning to set their schedule, and debrief every evening.

  “Let’s meet here in this office at 8 A.M.,” he said as he stood up and tucked the casebook under his arm.

  “You got it,” Ramona said as she got to her feet. “Are you going to see Chief Kerney while you’re here?”

  “Yeah, in about thirty minutes. I’m staying at his place.”

  Ramona followed Clayton out of the office. “I’m going to miss him when he retires at the end of the month.”

  Clayton locked the door. “Raising cutting horses and running a ranch sounds like a pretty good way to retire to me.”

  Ramona laughed. She knew the story of how Kerney had inherited his wealth from a famous Southwestern spinster artist who’d been his mother’s best childhood friend and college roommate. “Think I could get to do something like that on a retired sergeant’s salary?”

  “Maybe if you supplemented your retirement income as a security guard, you could swing buying yourself a broken-down pony.”

  Ramona chuckled. “That’s an ugly thing to say about somebody’s future prospects, Sergeant.”

  “I know it,” Clayton replied with a smile.

  The sheriff’s office door was closed, Mielke was away from his desk, and the secretary was nowhere to be seen. In the briefing room, Ramona introduced Clayton to her two detectives, Jesse Calabaza and Steve Johnson. He spent a few minutes talking to the detectives about his plans for the next day, before excusing himself.

  Outside, the night sky was a low blanket of clouds pushed along by a cold wind that carried the sting of light sleet and the promise of heavy snow. He was northbound on Interstate 25, traveling in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, when the storm hit. He slowed the unit way down, put it into four-wheel drive, and made his way carefully through the whiteout to the exit that would take him to the Galisteo Basin and then on to Kerney’s ranch.

  When Clayton arrived, the dashboard clock told him that the snowstorm had more than doubled the time he had figured to reach the ranch. Through the swirling blizzard, the lights from inside the ranch house looked warm and inviting.