The Big Gamble

by Michael McGarrity

  Paul Hewitt smiled. “You do look a mess, Ray. How about you wipe the dirt off your face, wash your hands, and I buy you some biscuits and gravy?”

  “I could use some breakfast,” Bonnell replied.

  Sergeant Oscar Quinones and Deputy Von Dillingham arrived in a hurry. Clayton briefed them, paying particular attention to how the men reacted to the news that he’d been assigned by the sheriff as lead investigator. He didn’t need an attitude flashed at him for being placed in charge.

  Quinones didn’t even flinch. A retired border patrol supervisor who’d been with the department for five years, he’d worked on many task forces, investigations, and multiagency operations run by lower-ranking officers.

  “Where do you want us to start?” Quinones said when Clayton finished.

  “We’ll work it as two separate crime scenes,” Clayton said, looking at Dillingham for a reaction, “starting with the male victim. Search the body and the backpack, and bag and tag all evidence. Then we’ll do a field search around the perimeter.”

  Dillingham pulled a toothpick from his mouth and smiled. “What about the female victim?”

  “We treat it as a buried body and do an excavation,” Clayton said. “But not until victim number one is removed and all evidence recovered.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Dillingham said.

  The crime scene techs appeared as they were finishing up the perimeter search. Motorists passing by slowed down to check out the emergency vehicles parked just off the highway, creating a potentially hazardous situation. At Clayton’s request, another deputy was sent out to keep traffic moving and the curious locals at bay.

  The officers and the techs worked deep into the night. Piece by piece, they brought out an accumulation of trash, broken pieces of old wooden fruit baskets, bits of rope, a rotting ball of twine, and several cracked glass gallon jugs. In the cellar, they used tweezers, paint brushes, magnifying glasses, trowels, and other small tools to dig around the female victim for evidence. The most surprising discovery came when the female skeleton was finally unearthed. Patches of leathery skin showed that the dry cellar had caused a certain degree of mummification. Bits and pieces of apparel still covered parts of the trunk and lower extremities. Earrings lay next to the skull, and a turquoise and silver ring loosely encircled a finger bone.

  By the time the search concluded and the bodies were removed, midnight had come and gone. Another hour passed doing some preliminary paperwork. Clayton released Quinones and Dillingham and drove home feeling fairly certain, based on a missing-person report in the computerized National Crime Information Center’s files, that the dead woman was Anna Marie Montoya, who had disappeared from Santa Fe without a trace eleven years ago.

  A match of the victim’s teeth with dental records would make the identification conclusive. The state police tech supervisor promised to track down the dental records first thing in the morning and call him with the results.

  The Istee family lived on a dirt road just outside the tribal village of Mescalero. Nestled in tall pines at the end of the lane, the house had two bedrooms and only one bath, which was woefully inadequate for a family of four. Soon his son and daughter would need their own rooms, so next up on Clayton’s home improvement list was a master bedroom and bath off the living room, away from the children, which he would build himself. He’d spent hours drawing up the plans and figuring out a budget with his wife, Grace. Financially, he could swing it. But with the new job, finding the time to do it was the problem.

  In the kitchen Clayton stripped off his dirt-caked clothes, cleaned up as best he could at the sink, and slipped quietly into bed without disturbing Grace. He slept hard until his son, Wendell, jumped on the bed to wake him up.

  “Mommy says you made a big mess in the kitchen,” Wendell said when Clayton opened his eyes.

  Wendell, age three and fast approaching four, had recently turned into something of a motormouth, and Clayton was secretly hoping this new behavior wouldn’t last too long. “Your mother said that?”

  “Uh-huh. The floor and the sink are all yucky.”

  “Go clean it up for me,” Clayton said.

  “Mommy already did.”

  “Then go away and let me sleep,” Clayton said.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause it’s breakfast,” Wendell said.

  “Okay, I’m up.”

  Clayton pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, and with Wendell leading the way, found his wife and his two-year-old daughter, Hannah, at the kitchen table.

  “I got him up,” Wendell said proudly as he slid into his chair.

  The family took its meals at a table in a dining nook adjacent to the kitchen. After tearing out a partial wall that originally separated the two areas, Clayton had added a bay window to bring in light and create a feeling of openness. He took his chair at the head of the table, which gave him a view of the woods at the side of the house, and smiled at his wife and daughter.

  In her high chair, Hannah, who considered herself an adult, spooned cereal into her mouth and looked at her brother with quiet, thoughtful eyes. Then she wrinkled her nose at him.

  “She made a face at me,” Wendell said.

  “Yes, she did,” Clayton said. “Eat your breakfast.” He turned to Grace. “I caught a homicide case yesterday.”

  “You were so late coming home, I thought something important might have happened,” Grace said.

  “What’s a homicide?” Wendell asked.

  “A very bad thing,” Clayton said, rubbing Wendell’s head. “Almost as bad as interrupting people when they’re talking.”

  Wendell dropped his eyes and stuck a spoonful of cereal in his mouth.

  Keeping Wendell quiet with occasional long, cool looks, Clayton summarized his activities at the fruit stand for Grace.

  She listened without interruption. “It sounds very complex,” she said when Clayton finished.

  Clayton nodded. “It was.”

  “Well, you said you wanted a job with a challenge.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?” Clayton asked. He studied his pretty wife’s face, searching her calm dark eyes for any sign of discontent.

  “What’s sarcastic?” Wendell asked.

  “We’ll look it up together in the dictionary later, Wendell,” Grace said gently. “No, I’m not. You have to stop thinking that I’m unhappy because you changed jobs.”

  “You’ve been complaining that I’m hardly home.”

  “Not complaining, just noting.” Grace looked at her children and smiled. “We all miss you.”

  “You should smile more,” Clayton said.

  “It is not my nature,” Grace said, as her smile widened.

  “You’re so modest,” Clayton said, teasing.

  Grace lifted her chin. “Of course, I’m a respectable, married woman,” she replied, teasing him back. Her expression turned serious. “You’ve been among the dead. Wear something black today to protect against the ghost sickness.”

  Clayton nodded. “I may have to go up to Santa Fe.”

  “I’d like to go with you,” Wendell said.

  Hannah banged her little fist on the high chair’s hinged table. “I get down now,” she said.

  Grace released her and put her on the floor. She made a beeline for Clayton. He picked her up, put her on his lap, and gave her a kiss.

  “When will you know?” Grace asked.

  “I’ll call you later today.”

  In the l960s a beautiful two-story redbrick courthouse on the main street in Carrizozo had been demolished and replaced by a nondescript building constructed on the same site. Clayton had only seen pictures of the imposing old courthouse, but those photographs looked a hell of a lot more inviting than the sterile functionalism of the present building.

  Tucked away in part of the courthouse, the sheriff’s department suffered from a serious lack of space. Clayton used a small desk pushed up against a wall in the hallway that led to the supply
closet to do his paperwork and organize all his supporting documentation.

  First he worked on the John Doe case. Based on the remnants of information found in the backpack, the victim was likely one Joseph John Humphrey, a homeless Vietnam veteran originally from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

  Among Humphrey’s few belongings was the business card of a Veterans Administration alcoholism counselor in Albuquerque. He spoke to the counselor, faxed a copy of Humphrey’s driver’s license photo to the man, and got a quick identity confirmation. He also learned that Humphrey had been diagnosed with inoperable liver cancer and had no more than three months to live.

  After disconnecting, he phoned Shorty Dawson, the ME, for a preliminary cause-of-death report.

  “I can’t tell you anything definite,” Dawson replied.

  “The victim’s flesh and clothing were melted together.

  The body is gonna have to be peeled like an onion.

  Then they can open him up and take a look inside.”

  “Where’s the body now?” Clayton asked.

  “In Albuquerque,” Dawson replied. “We should get the final autopsy results by tomorrow. But, tentatively it sure looked to me like the guy sucked down carbon monoxide.”

  “How could you tell that?” Clayton asked. “The flesh was too burned to show any discoloration. Even if the skin had looked cherry red, lividity isn’t conclusive for carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  There was a short silence before Dawson replied. “Look, Deputy, I said my opinion was just tentative. My job is to find the victim legally dead and offer an informed opinion as to cause and time of death. We’ll both just have to wait for the autopsy to find out what really killed him.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Dawson,” Clayton said.

  He hung up wondering if Humphrey had committed suicide to avoid letting the cancer kill him. That didn’t make any sense. Humphrey could have chosen many easier, less horrific ways to die than by smoke and fire. Maybe it was an accidental death. He decided to stop speculating about it until the autopsy report came in.

  He filled out his paperwork, including a notation that if no family members could be found—the Harrisburg police were still looking—Humphrey’s VA counselor would arrange to have the body cremated and interred in the National Cemetery at Fort Bayard, outside Silver City.

  Humphrey’s status as a Nam vet made Clayton think about his natural father, Kevin Kerney. He knew very little about Kerney’s service experience other than that he’d served as an infantry lieutenant in Vietnam during the latter stage of the war. Until six months ago, Clayton hadn’t even known that much. Then he’d busted Kerney for trespassing on Apache land, which ultimately led to his mother’s disclosure of the long-kept secret of his father’s identity.

  Clayton had learned that his mother had once been Kerney’s college sweetheart. She deliberately became pregnant without Kerney’s knowledge just before he’d graduated and gone off to serve in Vietnam. For almost twenty-eight years, neither father nor son knew of each other’s existence.

  Clayton was still struggling with it all. He had no idea how Kerney was coping. What he did know was that Kerney had recently been installed as the Santa Fe police chief. He gave a passing thought to calling him to ask for information and assistance in the Anna Marie Montoya case.

  He reached for the phone and pulled his hand back. Late last year, Kerney had stood on Clayton’s front porch and given him two ten-thousand-dollar certificates of deposit for Wendell’s and Hannah’s education, with no strings attached. At the time, Clayton had been both stunned by the gift and suspicious of it. Thinking back over the event, which he’d repeatedly played through his mind, Clayton knew he’d handled it badly. Instead of being gracious, he’d challenged Kerney’s gift-giving motives and failed to thank him for his generosity. Finally he’d never followed through on a promise to invite Kerney and his wife to dinner, in spite of Grace’s nagging him to do so.

  Because of his bungling, Clayton felt the opportunity to develop some sort of relationship with Kerney had come and gone. He didn’t know what he could do, if anything, to set things right.

  Although he lacked final confirmation that the earthly remains of Anna Marie Montoya had been discovered, Clayton had enough evidence to move ahead. The clutch purse with the ID, the jewelry and bits of clothing found at the scene that matched information contained in the NCIC missing person report, and the size and sex of the body made it almost positive. It was time to get rolling. He called the Santa Fe Police Department, identified himself, and got put through to a detective sergeant named Cruz Tafoya.

  Tafoya heard Clayton out before asking questions.

  “Were you able to confirm the victim was killed at the crime scene?”

  “No,” Clayton replied, “and I don’t think we’ll be able to. Any trace evidence was washed away. Personally, I think she was killed elsewhere and then buried in the cellar. It’s only five feet deep by eight feet square.”

  “So the killer had to know about the cellar,” Tafoya noted. “Is the fruit stand still in use?”

  “It’s been abandoned for years,” Clayton replied. “We’re looking into who owns the property.”

  “Good idea,” Tafoya said. “You’re gonna want a copy of our case file.”

  “Roger that.”

  “I’ll put one together. Should I mail it or will you come and get it?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Clayton replied, thinking he needed to clear travel plans with the sheriff. “But I’m probably coming to Santa Fe sometime soon.”

  “I’ll have a detective update the file,” Tafoya said. “At least the family will have some peace of mind about what happened to the victim.”

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Clayton said. “Once I get a positive ID, will your department notify the family?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “I’ll need to talk to the detective who handled the case.”

  “If he’s still around,” Tafoya said.

  “Can you find out?” Clayton asked.

  “Give me a minute.”

  In the receiver Clayton heard movement, footsteps, silence and then paper shuffling followed by Tafoya’s breathing.

  “Well, what do you know about that?” Tafoya said into the telephone.

  “What?” Clayton asked.

  “The original primary investigator on that case was our new police chief.”

  Clayton grunted in surprise. “Could you have Chief Kerney call me?” He rattled off his phone number.

  “You got it,” Tafoya replied.

  Clayton hung up and walked to the sheriff’s office. Paul Hewitt looked up from some paperwork on his desk and wondered why Clayton, who’d been relieved of patrol duties to work the homicide, had decided to wear a black cowboy shirt on a day that was going to be much too warm for such a garment.

  “Would you like an update on the cases, Sheriff?” Clayton asked.

  Hewitt gestured at a chair. “Have a seat and fire away.”

  Clayton left Sheriff Hewitt’s office with authorization to conduct his investigation in Santa Fe, as needed. He was given a travel, meals, and lodging allowance and told to stay within budget or make up the difference out of his own pocket. He found Sergeant Quinones and Von Dillingham in the small staff lounge, inventorying evidence and doing paperwork.

  “The county clerk’s records show that the fruit stand is owned by Hiram Tully. He’s got a Glencoe address,” Quinones said, handing Clayton the information.

  “I’ll go talk to him,” Clayton said.

  “Are any autopsy reports in yet?” Dillingham asked.

  “Not yet. Shorty Dawson thinks Humphrey died from carbon monoxide poisoning, but he’s not sure.”

  “Shorty loves to play pathologist,” Quinones said, logging an evidence bag on an inventory sheet. “We’re almost done here. What’s next?”

  “Field interviews,” Clayton said. “Find out if anyone who lives near the fruit stand saw or heard anything before the fire broke ou
t. I’ll be back to assist as soon as I can.”

  “Roger that,” Quinones said, turning his attention to the bagged and tagged evidence.

  Clayton left the office and drove the state road that took him past the burned-out fruit stand, through the ranching town of Capitan, and on to the historic hamlet of Lincoln, where rows of lovely old territorial buildings along a narrow pastoral valley drew tourists in search of the Billy the Kid legend.

  Where the road ended at the Highway 70 junction, Clayton swung west toward Glencoe and found his way to the Tully place. A small valley settlement on the Ruidoso River surrounded by national forest, Glencoe consisted of farms and orchards, a post office, and a few businesses along the highway that funneled traffic east and west over the Sacramento Mountains.

  The Tully ranch house was a beautifully maintained, low-slung, whitewashed adobe hacienda with a deep veranda. Several hundred yards behind the house the river wandered against the base of the mountains. On either side of the ranch house, apple orchards in early bloom fanned out and rolled down to the riverbank, putting a sweet scent into the air.

  Early-to-leaf mature poplar trees overhung the residence, branches shimmering in the midmorning sun under a gentle breeze. Large ornamental evergreens bracketed carefully tended flower beds that bordered a semicircular driveway.

  Clayton parked his unit, walked the gravel path to the veranda, and knocked on the front door. The woman who answered appeared to be in her late twenties, close to his own age. Attractive in a wholesome way, she had short-cut blond hair, hazel eyes, and perfectly straight white teeth.

  Grace had already warned Clayton that Hannah would need braces. How she knew that with Hannah still years away from losing her baby teeth was a mystery to him. He identified himself to the woman and asked to speak to Hiram Tully.

  “My grandfather recently had a stroke,” the woman said. “He’s in the hospital in Roswell.”

  “And you are?” Clayton asked.

  “Page Seton,” she said. “Why do you need to speak to my grandfather?”

  “He’s listed as the owner of an abandoned fruit stand on Highway three-eighty. It burned down last night.”