***
Unlike real cities with real morgues and coroners, the Santa Fe local-yokels stashed their stiffs at the regional hospital. That made scooping up the body, as Applewhite had so inelegantly put it, a relatively easy chore for Charlie Perry. He followed the rent-an ambulance to an HMO facility in Albuquerque near the air force base, within shouting distance of the VA hospital. Two white-coats and an armed uniformed security guard waited at the back door.
The white-coats transferred the corpse to the gurney and the guard led the way into the building. Perry tagged behind. The inside didn't look anything like an HMO clinic. There were laboratories, research suites, and communications rooms, offices identified by numbers only, contamination vaults and refrigerated storage lockers posted with radioactive warning signs, a video surveillance room, and finally a real morgue.
The white-coats dumped the body on a stainless-steel autopsy table and left. The guard remained in the room. Perry smiled at the guard. He got a tight nod back. CIA, thought Charlie. Maybe omething to do with the vast nuclear weapons stockpile stored in the mountains on the air force base. He thought human radiation exposure, epidemiology testing for rare forms of cancer, forensic pathology studies to determine unusual causes of death, psych testing to assess mental functioning.
Charlie decided it was smart to put the facility right next door to the base and close to the VA hospital so all the civilian and military worker bees could be easily examined, probed, and tested, to study the effects of exposure to plutonium, uranium, anthrax bacilli, Ebola, or whatever else the government was playing around with.
A man in a lab coat walked in. He flipped off the sheet covering the cadaver and did a visual head-to-toe inspection. Maybe on the early side of forty, he wore a Naval Academy class ring.
"Cause of death appears to be blunt trauma to the head, with some very interesting lacerations," the man said. "Someone drew blood, did a mouth swab, and took a skin sample. What's that all about?"
Perry froze. That son of a bitch Kerney had all he needed to wash the Terrell homicide cover-up down the tubes. He didn't know whether to lie or tell the truth. He knew Applewhite wasn't FBI. But was she CIA? Military intelligence? State Department counterintelligence? He had every reason to believe she'd killed four, possibly five people. It was time to start covering his ass.
"Who took the samples?" the doctor asked.
"I had those done," Perry lied.
The doctor nodded.
"Want me to open him up?"
"If you think it's necessary."
"What do you need?"
"The local police are calling it a homicide," Perry replied.
"I doubt they're wrong. What do you want done?"
"It needs to become an accidental death," Perry said.
"Who gets the autopsy report?"
"The Red River town marshal."
***
Sal Molina's undercover vehicle was a minivan equipped with a radio, a pinpoint shielded privacy light, cell phone, 35mm camera, night-vision binoculars, video camera, and an array of weapons held in a rack above his head. While it looked like an anonymous soccer mom car, a souped-up eight-cylinder engine powered the vehicle and a new suspension gave it a surefooted feel on the road. The van could top out at 140 mph and manage a high-speed emergency U turn without nipping over. It had been used by a local real estate agent to transport crack cocaine to wealthy clients who divided their time between Santa Fe in the summer and trendy, upscale Colorado skiing destinations in the winter.
Sal had tailed Charlie Perry and the ambulance to Albuquerque. Watching Perry play body snatcher demolished the last of his doubts about Chief Kerney's plan. He took snapshots, scribbled surveillance field notes, and followed Perry back to Santa Fe, expecting to spend the remainder of the night parked outside of Charlie's hotel. Instead, he waited and watched as Perry parked at the back of the federal courthouse two blocks from the plaza and went inside.
The FBI offices were next door in the post office building. What was Perry doing at the courthouse? Unless he had a late-night meeting with a judge or a federal prosecutor from the U. S. attorney's office in from Albuquerque, it made no sense. Other than Charlie's unit there were no cars in the spaces reserved for judges and staff. But behind the post office there were five nice, shiny new Ford sedans that screamed FBI.
Only one full-time resident agent, Frank Powers, worked out of Santa Fe. Why the late-night caucus?
Sal reached for the Santa Fe telephone book, found a number, and dialed up a retired sheriff's captain who worked as a federal court security officer. Six years ago Molina had busted the man's youngest son for drug dealing, turned him into a snitch, and let him walk. After the kid cleaned up his act, Molina had cut him loose.
A sleepy voice answered on the second ring.
"Jake."
"Yeah."
"It's Sal Molina. Who's holding a late-night convention at the courthouse?"
"Man, I don't know what you're talking about. The courthouse is locked up at night."
"Wrong answer, Jake. I just watched an FBI agent go in the back door."
Sal heard Jake catch his breath. "I don't know nothing about that," Jake said.
"I hear Joey's doing okay. Married. Kid on the way. Got a good job as an auto mechanic with the highway department."
"Jesus, don't do this to me, Sal." The words came out pinched.
"That's not a trade someone learns in the slammer," Sal said evenly.
"Okay, okay, I owe you. There's an off-limits suite of rooms in the basement. People come and go. I don't know what they do down there."
"I need more than that, Jake."
"This has to stay off the record," Jake said. "I'm not supposed to talk about it."
"You've got my word."
"You gotta pass through a retina- and palm-print-scan foyer that's behind a keypad access door on the first floor, just off the back entrance. That's all I know."
"You said you see those people come and go, Jake. Who do you think they are?"
"Some are FBI suits and Beltway types, but most of the current crew look like computer geeks to me."
"Is the basement in constant use?" Sal asked. "Staffed regularly?"
"The last group to use it was the Secret Service. They were here when the vice president came to Santa Fe."
"When did the computer geeks set up shop?"
"About two months before the FBI task force came to town on the Terrell homicide."
Sal decided not to push it any further. "Thanks, Jake. Give my best to Joey."
***
After sampling the Mitchell audiotapes to get the meat of each interview, Kerney worked up a set of questions he would use in the morning. He planned to call some of the people Mitchell had interviewed.
He figured it would be safe to use each of the new cell phones three or four times before the feds got on to it.
He stared at Mitchell's list of names and numbers. How did the priest make contact with these people? There was no phone in his room at the brothers' residence hall, and the two phones in the common areas where the brothers congregated weren't suitable for private conversations.
Kerney went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and used one of the cell phones to call the residence hall. Brother Jerome answered.
Kerney identified himself and jumped right to the point. "Did Father Mitchell have access to a campus telephone?"
"None was assigned to him, but he did use my office telephone when he needed to make a call. He used a calling card when he was in the field that was billed to my number. He was very prompt about paying the college for the charges."
"Do you have a record of his calls?" Kerney asked.
"Of course. Every personal and long-distance call charged to the college must be logged on a special form. Each month we get a printout of all charges incurred from each office telephone. Every faculty and staff member is honor bound to identify non business calls and reimburse the college."
"Do
es that include local calls?" Kerney asked.
"I have my department faculty and staff log all calls, regardless of whether they're local or long distance. That policy applied to Father Mitchell."
"I need copies of those records, Brother Jerome. Can you have them ready for me in fifteen minutes?"
"Certainly. Come to my office."
Kerney got to the college in a hurry and gathered up the copies, thanked Brother Jerome, and left. Back at home he stuck a Steve Mcqueen movie in the VCR to entertain his unknown listeners, and started in on the log sheets. Each showed date, time, and number-called information. Using Mitchell's notes, Kerney matched a good two dozen names to numbers. In the morning he'd work all of Mitchell's most recent calls, starting with area residents.
Kerney switched his attention to the computer printouts and broke into a smile. Over the last three months Mitchell had made , eight--no, ten--phone calls to Phyllis Terrell in Santa Fe and Virginia. The connection was getting stronger and the proof more convincing.
Chapter 10
Fred Browning was on a natural high. The new job in Silicon Valley had turned into a very sweet deal. A company vice president had met him at the San Francisco Airport and chatted him up on the drive to the corporate headquarters.
He offered Fred a big bump in salary, the rent-free use of a town house for the first six months, and a stipend to pay all relocation expenses.
With Tim Ingram's promise of a job that would get him back to Albuquerque in a year, Fred jumped at the offer. Before catching an evening flight back to Albuquerque, he spent the day signing preemployment paperwork, touring the facility, and meeting with members of his new security staff. During the Phoenix layover he called Tim Ingram and gave him the news.
Tim proposed they should celebrate by heading down to the lake a day early instead of waiting until Saturday. Fred thought that was a fine idea. He downed a couple of self-congratulatory whiskeys in the airport bar, had another one on the short hop to Albuquerque, and rolled up the jetway with a bit of a buzz. Tim greeted him inside the terminal.
Fred grinned at his friend. "Is it Friday already?" he asked.
"No," Tim said, grinning back. "But knowing you, I figured you would have already started celebrating. I bet you're a point or two over the blood alcohol legal limit."
"Maybe just barely."
"Come on, I'll give you a ride home."
"What about my car?" Fred asked.
"Leave it here. You can pick it up on Sunday when we get back from the lake."
Fred shrugged. "Why not? Let me buy you a drink."
"Not necessary," Tim said. "I've got a flask in my glove box
"That'll do."
Browning took two hits from the drug-laced flask and passed out on the short drive to the air force base. Ingram checked his carotid artery and found a strong pulse. As an intelligence operative Ingram had carried out a number of disagreeable assignments. But delivering a man to be killed, especially one he'd worked hard to keep alive and who wasn't a clear security threat, made Ingram feel like a sadist. At least he wouldn't have to watch Fred Browning get wasted.
He flashed his headlights as he approached the guard gate, and the air policeman waved him through. On the tarmac a car and a helicopter waited. Ingram rolled to a stop. Applewhite opened the passenger door, gave him a cold look, and jammed a syringe into Browning's neck.
Ingram wanted to shoot her, stomp her, slug her. Instead he counted seconds.
Browning convulsed and died in less than a minute. He got out of the car, sucked in some fresh, cold air, and watched the body get loaded into the helicopter.
Smiling, her eyes dancing, Applewhite came around the front of the car.
"You're a stone-cold bitch," Ingram said.
Applewhite laughed at her old West Point classmate.
"I didn't want to leave you out of the loop, Tim."
"You like killing people, don't you, Elaine?"
"This Bureau detail has made you soft," Applewhite said darkly.
Ingram watched the chopper take off. In two hours Browning's body would
be fed into a high-temperature furnace at a primate research laboratory
on a southern New Mexico air force base.
"Ashes to ashes," Applewhite said.
Ingram turned away, drove to his quarters, swallowed a quick double shot of single mash, and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It didn't matter that the hit had been sanctioned by the chain of command, an innocent man was dead. That made it capital murder. In a just world he would be arrested, charged, convicted, and sentenced for the crime.
None of this should have happened. Not to Browning, Terjo, or Stewart. He turned out the light, wondering what had become of the fresh-faced, idealistic kid from Iowa who'd wanted to be a career officer, a war-fighter, a kick-ass, gung-ho soldier? Could he ever put on the uniform again?
***
Bobby Sloan's undercover four-by-four Chevy Blazer came with all the customary surveillance goodies, plus the added bonus of a laptop computer linked to federal crime information computers and state motor vehicle data banks. After checking out the vehicle Bobby had clipped a wallet-size photograph of his wife to the visor, just like in his regular unit. Lucy had never been a babe in the Hollywood sense of the word, but she was his babe. The photo reminded Bobby that his first priority on the job was to survive and go home to Lucy when work was done.
Tailing Applewhite to Albuquerque had been a breeze, but he'd been forced to break off contact when she entered Kirtland Air Force Base at a guard checkpoint station. Bobby waited away from the gate and down the street to avoid raising suspicion. Over the years Sloan had trained dozens of new detectives in undercover and surveillance techniques. He'd always hammered away at the mantra to observe, record, take nothing for granted, and get the details. Bobby practiced what he preached.
Only a few cars entered the base while Bobby waited. He used his time spotting license plates through binoculars, running MVD record checks on the laptop, and writing down the information. It was a boring task, but it kept him focused. His interest jumped when a car approached the gate, flashed its headlights, and got waved through without stopping.
Somebody important was in a hurry.
Sloan ran the plate, got the name of the registered owner, and searched motor vehicle files for driver's license information. The likely driver of the car was a. Timothy Ingram. Sloan saved the information, which came with a color photograph of the subject, on a floppy disk.
***
After spending all night poring over the Mitchell evidence, Kerney allowed himself two hours of rack time and fell asleep immediately. The alarm jarred him awake. He cleaned up, spooned down a bland-tasting bowl of instant oatmeal, and played back Sara's telephone messages.
Message 1: "You sounded edgy the last time we spoke. Call me. I'm worried about you."
Message 2: "Are you busy? Should I cancel the weekend trip? Call me."
Message 3: "Nobody at your office knows where you are. I can't spend all day trying to track you down. Dammit, Kerney, where are you! I'm flying in. Meet me at the airport if you can."
Kerney winced. Sara was justifiably pissed at being ignored. He'd put Molina and Sloan deep undercover. That meant no contact with their families or the department, no disclosure of the assignment, and no communication that could compromise the operation. Stupidly, he'd been
operating with the same mindset, which was exactly the wrong thing to do. He needed to act like everything was normal.
Kerney checked the clock. Because of the difference in time zones it was an hour later at Fort Leavenworth. If Sara was true to form, she would be out on her morning run before heading off to classes. He called and left a message. The week had been hellishly busy, he couldn't wait to see her, nothing was wrong, and he was sorry he hadn't called sooner. He'd pick her up at the airport.
He went to the bathroom, ran the shower, and called Reynaldo Valencia, a professor of Latin American s
tudies at the university in Albuquerque. Mitchell had phoned the professor a number of times from Brother Jerome's office. He woke Valencia up and explained his reasons for calling. Valencia agreed to meet with him immediately.
His house phone rang before he could leave. He picked up and Helen Muiz asked him if he was ever planning to come into the office again.
"What's up?" Kerney asked.
"Mr. Demora, the city manager, is eager to see you."
"About?"
"He wouldn't say. But he left three messages last night after six P. M."
"You're at the office early."
"Someone has to hold things together in your absence."
"I have a deputy chief now, Helen."
"Yes, and thank goodness he's here to assist me. You also have other tasks waiting that need your attention."
"Can they hold?"
"I suppose so." Helen sighed.
"Call Demora and ask him if this afternoon would be convenient."
"And where will you be until then?"
Kerney thought fast. "I have a doctor's appointment in Albuquerque."
"Is something wrong?"
"Just the knee acting up again."
"You should get it looked at," Helen said sympathetically. "You've been limping rather badly lately. I'll put you down on sick leave for the morning."
Even though he had no visible tail, Kerney ditched his unit in front of his orthopedist's office in Albuquerque and called a cab to pick him up at the back of the building. Reynaldo Valencia lived near the university on a street named for one of the early presidents. The house was a fifties post-war, Santa Fe-style single-story residence sheltered from the street by mature shrubs and large trees.
Valencia was a tall man with graying hair that matched the color of his neatly trimmed mustache. He greeted Kerney with a serious, questioning expression and guided him to a family room that proclaimed an enjoyment of books and learning. Shelves crammed with books filled walls from floor to ceiling, magazines, journals, and newspapers filled table tops and thick dictionaries and atlases rested on pedestal stands.
"I don't know if I can help you," Valencia said. He gestured at a comfortable chair and took a seat in a rocker. He spoke perfect English with a slight Spanish accent.
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