“When did Jack leave the center?” Kerney inquired.
Ripple thoughtfully tapped a finger to his lips. “Six, seven months ago, I’d say.”
“We need to see Jack’s file,” Clayton said.
Ripple shook his head. “No can do. Except for routine medical charts, patient records are kept locked up because of confidentiality and all that. You’ll have to come back when the records administrator is here.”
Kerney smiled. “Of course. Did Jack make any close buddies while he was staying here?”
Ripple nodded. “Despite being grumpy and pretty much a loner, he was good friends with another Korean War navy vet, Bud Elkins.”
“Is Bud still here?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ripple answered. “He’s probably playing pinochle in the dayroom right now. It’s really a living room, but the vets have their own words for things.”
“Can we talk to him?” Clayton asked.
Ripple hesitated. “Well, you’re supposed to get admitted through the front entrance and sign in, but seeing that you’re the police and all, I’ll take you to him.”
“That would be great,” Clayton said.
Ripple led them through a large storage room and down a corridor to the veterans wing. In the living room, about two dozen patients, some in wheelchairs, some with walkers close at hand, and some there under their own steam, were busy with after-dinner socializing, reading, playing cards, and watching TV. Bud Elkins, an overweight, rosy-faced fellow in a T-shirt with u.s. navy printed across the front, shorts, and white knee-high diabetic compression socks, looked irritated when Ripple interrupted the card game and said the police wanted to speak with him.
“What the hell for?” Elkins grumbled.
“We’ve recovered a stolen vehicle belonging to Jack Page’s son,” Clayton said. “We’d like to locate him so he can get his property back.”
“Apparently the vehicle registration information is out-of-date,” Kerney added, picking up on Clayton’s improvisation. “Do you know his whereabouts?”
Elkins put his cards down and gave Kerney the once-over. “Aren’t you a little long in the tooth to be a cop?”
“I’m a reserve officer,” Kerney replied with a smile that took in Elkin’s cardplaying buddies. “It’s something I enjoy doing for the community. Do you know his whereabouts?”
“Louis? What Jack told me was he had a little place up some remote canyon. An inholding in the national forest. Ran some cows on a grazing allotment.”
“Can you be more specific about where Louis lives?” Clayton asked.
“It started with an M, I think,” Elkins said. “Or maybe it was the name of the ranch. I don’t remember.”
“That’s it?” Clayton nudged.
Elkins snorted. “All Jack told me was his boy liked to live where nobody could find him, and that was okay by him.”
“Can you describe Louis?” Kerney asked.
“Only saw him that once, when he came to pick Jack up,” Elkins replied. “Maybe your age, but with his gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a scraggly gray beard. Looked sort of like a guy who didn’t bother much with people.”
“Yet he took his father under his wing,” Clayton commented.
“Jack said he wanted to be with family and his son was willing. Can’t fault either man for that.”
“No, you can’t,” Kerney agreed, turning to Ripple, who hovered nearby. “How was Jack’s health when he left?”
“Good,” Ripple answered, eager to help. “Sharp as a tack mentally, but needing a walker because of two bad hips and a busted leg. The docs thought he was too old for replacements. Jack didn’t want them anyway.”
“Well, that’s it, then,” Clayton said. “Thanks for your time.”
Elkins scooped up his cards. “When you see Jack, give him a howdy and tell him that I miss the old curmudgeon.”
“I’ll do that,” Clayton replied.
Ripple escorted Kerney and Clayton to the front entrance and had them sign the visitors log. Under the watchful eye of a CCTV camera, they averted their faces and signed using their fictitious names.
When the automatic doors closed behind them, Kerney squeezed Clayton’s shoulder. “Good work.”
Clayton laughed. “You, too. Think we got away clean with this one?”
Kerney shrugged. “I wouldn’t count on it. When cops show up anywhere it’s usually an event, and all eyes were on us in the dayroom.”
“We could get busted for impersonating police officers,” Clayton reflected.
“Yeah, but it’s a lesser change than murder,” Kerney noted.
“For you,” Clayton said. “So far, I’ve never been busted.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“Do you think Louis Page is alive?”
“Likely not,” Kerney conjectured. “But we’ve got a lot of ground to cover to find out.”
“Find out what?”
Kerney shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ll start with asking the Forest Service who has grazing allotments in the Gila National Forest.”
“There are probably dozens,” Clayton predicted.
“If we strike out, we’ll move on to the Bureau of Land Management.”
Clayton groaned. “How in the hell do we pull that off without police powers?”
“It’s all computerized public information,” Kerney said. “If the Forest Service won’t cooperate, I bet the Sierra Club will have what we need. Tomorrow’s Friday. We’ll work a short day accessing the data banks and head off to Mescalero early. It’s not like we’ve got fresh tracks to follow.”
“Amen to that,” Clayton said.
Before heading back to Deming, Kerney asked Clayton to drive him around the old Fort Bayard grounds. As they slowly passed by the remaining old buildings bordering the quadrangle, Kerney told him the story of his grandfather and his visits to see him during the last year of his life.
“So that’s who Patrick got his name from,” Clayton said. “I never knew that.”
“Now you do,” Kerney said, glad the dark vehicle hid his sudden feelings of sadness.
On Highway 180 five miles north of Deming, an unmarked unit picked up Sara’s Jeep and followed her into town. She didn’t know if the cop behind her was the young agent she’d provoked earlier in the day, and didn’t care. Coming back from the City of Rocks, away from Kerney and Clayton, she’d deliberately let down a little bit to shake off the intense worry that had obsessed her since that bizarre, awful night at Fort Leonard Wood.
Impulsively, she pulled off on the shoulder of the road and called Patrick at home. He told her all was well, the cops were still watching them, and Juan Ramirez would take over the barn chores tomorrow afternoon.
“Granddad and Grandmom will pick me up after school and we’ll drive straight to Mescalero,” he said excitedly. “I’m all packed.”
“It will be a wonderful weekend,” Sara predicted.
“I know,” Patrick said. “Tell dad I figured something out.”
“What have you figured out?”
“Just some tech stuff I think he’ll like,” he answered, sounding pleased with himself.
“But you won’t tell me?” Sara teased.
“I didn’t mean it that way. I’ll show it to both of you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay, I won’t be pushy,” Sara said. “’Bye, kiddo.”
“’Bye, Mom.”
She disconnected, feeling calmer than she had in days, and decided she would not sit in the motel room waiting for Kerney and Clayton. The Deming morning newspaper had featured a story about a special evening fund-raising event open to the public at the local museum, which was housed in a historic National Guard armory. She’d driven past it several times and was curious to find out what treasures it housed.
Back at the motel, she did a quick fix of her face and hair, changed into a clean blouse, wrote a note for Kerney and Clayton, and made the short drive to the museum. The three-story brick building was
lit up, the parking lot full of cars, and people were climbing the wide concrete stairs to the arched entrance.
She found a spot, and hurried up the stairs, eager to have an hour of normalcy surrounded by people unconcerned with murder.
Agent Carla Olivas waited several minutes before following Sara Brannon into the museum. At the lobby desk near the front entrance she stood in line behind folks registering for the event. When her turn came, she filled out a membership application form and paid the five-dollar annual fee rather than identify herself as a police officer. She took a contribution brochure and promised to seriously consider making an annual donation to support the museum’s operating costs.
In the main hall, people were wandering past cabinets filled with crystal, china, teapots, and glassware, displays of veterans memorabilia from the infamous Bataan Death March in World War II, and Native American collectibles. Sara Brannon was nowhere in sight.
Carla passed through various rooms where couples and families were studying shelves of antique dolls, inspecting an authentic old jail cell, examining a genuine ranch chuck wagon, and scrutinizing a glistening gem and mineral collection. She passed through an early 1900s furniture display and spotted Brannon approaching a docent in the lobby. Carla caught Brannon’s eye just as her phone rang. It was Paul Avery.
“What’s up?” Carla asked.
“Deputy Chief Serrano has called off all surveillance,” Avery said grumpily. “Says it’s too expensive and we’ve enough evidence to go to trial. Chief legal counsel and the district attorney agree. Pack it in and go home.”
“Are you okay with that?” Carla asked.
“Orders are orders.”
“Did you find Kim Ward’s mother?”
“Negative. If she’s still alive, she’s not in Socorro, Belen, Los Lunas, or anyplace in between.”
“Ten-four.” Carla pocketed her phone and headed for the lobby, sidestepping clusters of happily chatting people. She slowed as she reached Sara Brannon, who smiled charmingly and nodded politely. With an equally well-mannered nod and smile, Carla walked by.
Two thoughts occurred to her as she wheeled out of the parking lot. There was no doubt that Brannon was a classy lady, not to be underestimated. And, while she was happy to be going home, the case against Kevin Kerney was far from being a slam dunk.
After the agent left the museum, Sara returned her attention to the docent she’d been questioning about a photograph in the Old Timers Room. It showed a man standing next to a fence with two young boys, and it was labeled underneath in capital letters: “JACK PAGE WITH HIS SONS LOUIS AND EARL AT THE FAMILY RANCH.”
“As I said, I didn’t know Jack Page had two sons,” Sara repeated. “I’m a very distant cousin, and family genealogy is very important to me.”
The docent, Edith Grunwald, an older woman with a chubby face and pleasant disposition, shook her head. “Oh, my, I’m not the one to ask. Wait here, and I’ll go find Mr. O’Dowd. He’s who would know.”
Grunwald disappeared into the throng of people in the main room. A few minutes later she returned with a very old, slow-moving man in tow.
“This is Alan O’Dowd,” Grunwald said. “He’s sort of the unofficial historian of the old timers’ photo collection.”
“Thank you for speaking to me,” Sara said sweetly.
O’Dowd looked up at Sara. “I understand you may have stumbled upon a previously unknown relative.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Show me the photograph,” O’Dowd said as he shuffled toward the Old Timers Room.
Inside the room, they had to wait a minute until a line of people viewing the photographs moved past the picture of Jack Page and his boys. O’Dowd got up close for a good look.
“Yep, that’s Jack with his boys, Louis and Earl. Earl’s the older one. Jann’s by her first marriage to Sam Matson. I don’t recall if Jack ever adopted Earl or not, but he treated both boys as his own. If you’re related to Jann, Earl’s kin.”
“I am,” Sara lied delightedly. “This is such interesting news. Do you have any idea how to contact Earl?”
O’Dowd shook his head. “Earl was a bit wild, as I recall, and left Deming to avoid the Vietnam draft, or something like that. The family never talked about it. Don’t know what happened to him.”
“Would anybody know?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“What about his natural father, Sam?”
“Passed years ago,” O’Dowd replied.
“And Jack’s daughter, Loretta? What happened to her?”
O’Dowd shook his head. “She got in some trouble and left town also. That’s all I know.”
Pleased with what she’d learned, Sara thanked O’Dowd and left the museum. The young woman agent following her was nowhere to be seen. Had the state police called the surveillance off? And was that good news or bad news?
On the way to the motel, Kerney had Clayton stop at a gun shop that stayed open late for customers who used the indoor shooting range. He turned down the owner’s offer to test-fire a new Beretta semiautomatic, and bought a Bureau of Land Management map of New Mexico that showed all federal, military, tribal, state, and private lands, including inholdings in the national forests.
He walked outside to find Clayton and his vehicle gone. He was reaching for his cell phone when Clayton pulled up. Kerney opened the passenger door and the smell of take-out pizza filled the air.
“Dinner,” Clayton announced. “My treat.”
At the motel room, they unloaded the extra-large pizzas, drinks, and dinner salads, found Sara’s note explaining her whereabouts, and decided not to wait for her return.
Kerney spread the map out on the bed and, with a slice of pepperoni and green chili in hand, began studying the private inholdings around the Silver City area. At the desk, Clayton was doing a one-finger laptop computer search for federal grazing permits, his free hand otherwise occupied with a slice of cheese and veggies. They were finishing their second slices when Sara arrived.
“Dinner in,” she said. “How charming.”
“Clayton’s treat,” Kerney explained. “There’s also salad and iced tea.”
“Wonderful.” She slipped out of her shoes, claimed a slice of cheese and veggie, and sank into the bedside easy chair. “So, who wants to go first?”
Quickly, they exchanged facts. Louis Page had allegedly returned from the dead to rescue his father, Jack, from the veterans center, and taken him to live on some remote ranch outside Silver City. The discovery of a new family member in the person of one Earl Matson, Louis, and Loretta’s half-brother. Once considered a little wild, his current whereabouts unknown. His natural father Sam Matson reportedly deceased. And finally, Loretta, who had gotten into unknown trouble and left town years ago.
“One more thing,” Sara added. “I’m fairly sure surveillance has been pulled.”
“Great,” Clayton said. “Now we can keep spinning our wheels unobserved.”
“The fact that none of this seems to make any sense means we’re missing something,” Kerney proposed.
“What if we find out that it has nothing to do with proving your innocence?” Clayton asked.
“We tell Dalquist to delay going to trial as long as he can, and we keep digging,” Sara answered emphatically.
“But not this weekend,” Clayton cautioned. “My mother and the aunties are preparing a feast, and Grace, Wendell, and Hannah will be joining us.”
“How wonderful.” Sara sighed. “Two days with family. I’m ready.”
“Me, too,” Kerney said, wondering how many more days he’d get to spend with his family.
CHAPTER 16
Clayton finished his pizza and left for Las Cruces to continue his computer search at home. He and his family would see them in Mescalero tomorrow afternoon.
Alone with Kerney, Sara watched as he sat at the desk studying the map and making notes. His determined expression couldn’t hide his fatigue. Standing behind him, she could see
the futility of the task. Large areas of the land within a hundred-mile radius of Silver City were controlled and managed by the BLM, the state of New Mexico, and the federal Department of Agriculture. An enormous chunk of it was designated wilderness, and there were hundreds of square miles of land in private ownership that abutted remote areas with limited access.
“Stop it,” she ordered.
Startled, Kerney looked up. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re exhausted and what you’re trying to do right now is impossible. What Jack Page’s pal at the veterans center told you about a remote ranch may or may not be true. But this is no way to find it.”
Kerney tossed his ballpoint pen on the desk, took off his reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “What do you suggest?”
“Let’s assume that Louis Page died in Vietnam and verifying it as fact would waste our time. If someone is using his identity, there must be a good reason for him to do so, and we need to find out what it is and who he is. What if it was Earl Matson who took Jack out of the veterans center? The docent I talked to at the museum told me Jack treated Matson as his own flesh and blood. Wouldn’t it be natural for Page to refer to him as his son?”
Kerney pushed back from the desk and stood. “Sure, but why tell Bud Elkins his son’s name was Louis?”
“Unless Jack is demented, why indeed?” Sara replied. “If he knows the difference, that makes him complicit.”
“Which may or may not be a big deal. According to the nursing assistant, he’s got all his marbles.”
“Let’s say Jack lied for an important reason. My command sergeant major at Fort Leonard Wood retired about a year ago and went to work for Homeland Security. He’s now a senior special agent in the Office of the Inspector General. In the morning, I’ll call and ask him to research Earl Matson through the National Security Agency database.”
“Without a DOB, a Social Security number, a reliable physical description, or other identifiers, that could generate hundreds of names.”
“You don’t know NSA,” Sara responded. “We can assume he was born or lived much of his life in New Mexico. Bud Elkins told you he had a gray beard and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. That’s a start. I’ll give my guy some additional parameters as to approximate age and location, which should help narrow the field.”
Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Page 18
