Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel

by Michael McGarrity

  “Before we left, I put the home security video app on my phone. You’ve got to see this.”

  When they were traveling a lot to visit Sara at her duty stations, Kerney had installed an expensive video security system at the ranch, but rarely checked it. “See what?” he asked.

  “Juan snooping around inside our house.”

  “Okay, hang on.” Kerney touched the app icon and watched a replay of Juan going from room to room, looking at the family calendar on the fridge, poking through the papers on Kerney’s desk in the library, even wandering through the guest quarters. If Juan was acting under police orders, the video would cause serious damage to the prosecution’s case against him.

  “That was a smart thing to do, son,” he said. “This is going to be a big help.”

  “Thanks.” Pride filled Patrick’s voice.

  “Do one more thing. Show it to your mother, so she can call our lawyer. He’ll know what to do with it.”

  “Okay.”

  “And thanks again. You’re one sharp hombre.”

  He disconnected, dropped some bills on the counter, and got back to the Big Jim’s ten minutes before Bobby Ripple clocked in. His eyes widened in surprise when Kerney closed in on him at the doorway to the staff lounge.

  “Jesus, I never expected to see you again.”

  “Did I get you in trouble?”

  “Just a slap on the wrist, but I got a great story to tell. Guys will be buying me beers at the VFW for months.”

  Kerney held out his phone with the age-enhanced forensic drawing of Earl Matson Page on the screen. “Is this Louis Page?”

  Bobby Ripple nodded. “That looks like him.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, he even introduced himself to me when he came for Jack. I remember it clear as a bell, because most folks don’t wait until after the evening meal to take a family member home. It isn’t usual.”

  “Will you write out a statement to that effect?”

  “Right now?”

  Kerney handed him a pencil and a tablet. “Right now.”

  With Bobby’s written statement in his pocket, Kerney called Sara from the truck and gave her the news. “Now all I have to do is find him,” he added.

  “I’m leaving for Silver City right away.”

  Kerney cranked the engine and turned on the AC. “Don’t do that. If I need help, I’ll ask Clayton to jump in. For now, it’s just legwork.”

  “Where will you start?”

  “At the Grant County Assessor’s Office.”

  Many times, Flavio had passed through Mimbres on his way to his favorite mountain fishing holes. More a settlement than a village, it was named for the river that trickled through the lovely valley, the foothills of the Black Range of the Gila National Forest pressing against it. A two-lane blacktop rose into the high forest and dead-ended at a popular lake and tourist vacation spot.

  Flavio stopped at three houses in the village without any luck. His next stop, a house on lush river bottomland, was protected by several towering cottonwoods. On a driveway fencepost a sign read Fresh Eggs for Sale. The name on the mailbox was B. Velarde.

  He heard chickens cackling from behind the house. He knocked on the front door and a woman stepped onto the porch. In her early seventies at most, she stood no more than five-foot-one and weighed at best a hundred pounds. Browned by the sun, wearing a weathered sun bonnet, she greeted him with a smile and a shake of her head.

  “No more eggs until tomorrow. I always forget to take the sign down.”

  “My bad luck,” Flavio said, as he flashed his retired police chief badge. “I’m Flavio Sapian. Actually, I’m looking for somebody who knows Jack Page and his son.”

  “Bianca Velarde,” the woman replied. “They haven’t been here for years. He only used it to keep a few cows.” She sat on the porch step and patted it with a hand.

  Flavio accepted the invitation and joined her. “Any ideas on where they went?”

  Bianca shook her head. “No one in the valley ever heard from them again.”

  “Where is Jack’s old place?”

  Bianca pointed her chin in a northeasterly direction. “One canyon up, all the way to the end of the road, if you can call it that. It gets really rocky and rutted about a mile in.”

  “Does anyone live there?”

  “Oh, yes, TM and Lucille Trimble. She’s old now, in her late eighties and feeble. I don’t see her much.”

  “And the man?” Flavio nudged. “What about him?”

  “Younger than Lucille and not real friendly. He’s disabled, and walks with a bad limp.”

  “Not friendly?”

  Bianca shrugged an apologetic shoulder. “They both keep to themselves, but that’s not unusual for older people nowadays. I’m getting to be the same way.”

  “Does TM have a name?”

  “I don’t know him by anything other than TM. Maybe Deanna Madrid, our postmistress, does.”

  Flavio asked for a description. She described TM as five-ten, clean-shaven, and mostly bald.

  “He walks with a limp in his right leg,” she added.

  “Have you visited with TM and Lucille at their home?” he asked.

  Bianca shook her head. “Oh, no. I’ve only been there once, years ago when I was still active in our volunteer fire department. We had to use their road to reach a brush fire started by a dry lightning strike. It’s posted. No one goes up there.”

  Flavio got to his feet. “Thanks.”

  With a concerned look, Bianca rose. “Have they done something wrong?”

  Flavio shook his head. “Not as far as I know. Next time I’m in the neighborhood, I’ll stop by early enough for a dozen eggs.”

  “You won’t regret it. My chickens produce the best eggs in the county.”

  “I bet they do.”

  At the post office, Deanna Madrid, the postmistress, refused to give Flavio any identifying information about TM and Lucille Trimble. It made him miss the authority cops had getting around roadblocks to learn information quickly. He suspected it was even more frustrating for Kerney. Back in his truck, he tried calling Kerney but couldn’t get a signal.

  A few miles back, a road sign advertised a coffee shop off the highway. He decided to get something to eat and try Kerney from there.

  In one way, Silver City reminded Kerney of Santa Fe with a historic, interesting core and a lot of nondescript strip malls, franchise retail stores, and fast-food chains. Located along a main highway through town, the building housing the county assessor’s office was no better. A faux-Southwest façade hid a single-story rectangular box, and the small scrubby hill behind it offered no reprieve to the dullness.

  Inside, the assessor’s online property search program had Kerney hoping the visit might be worthwhile after all, until he turned up goose eggs. No property in the country was owned by Jack Page, Louis Page, Earl Matson Page, or Loretta Page. He tried Jann Page, and got nothing back.

  With sinking expectations, Kerney called the four property owners listed with the same surname, only to have his suspicions confirmed. None claimed any knowledge of or kinship to Jack and his children. Just in case someone was lying, he wrote down their names, addresses, and phone numbers.

  On his way to his truck, traffic noise on the highway and a hot sun that promised a spring afternoon scorcher in the high, thin air damped his spirits. His phone rang, and he answered Flavio’s call.

  “Do the names TM and Lucille Trimble mean anything to you?” he asked. “The TM guy walks with a limp in his right leg.”

  Kerney stopped in his tracks. “That’s who I’m looking for. Are you packing?”

  “Affirmative. Concealed-carry permit. You?”

  “Same,” Kerney replied. “Do you have a location?”

  “Roger that. Meet me in Mimbres by the post office.”

  “I’m bringing some sheriff deputies with me, if they’ll come. ETA within the hour.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Kerney dis
connected and walked to the sheriff’s office, where a secretary informed him both the sheriff and the undersheriff were at a conference on terrorism in Honolulu. However, Lieutenant Steven Campos, commander of the Patrol and Traffic Division, was available.

  She called Campos, and within a minute he appeared from a back office.

  Tall and solidly built, Campos sized Kerney up. “What can I do for you?”

  “You know who I am?” Kerney asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And what I’m charged with?”

  Campos nodded.

  “I’ve got a solid lead on Todd Marks, the man I believe killed Kim Ward, the woman I’m accused of murdering. I’d like you to come with me and take him into custody.”

  The lieutenant’s expression changed from doubtful to interested. “You’re serious?”

  “I’m very serious. Flavio Sapian is waiting for us in Mimbres.”

  “I know Chief Sapian. I served under him at the Deming PD.”

  “Then you know this is no joke.” Kerney speed-dialed Flavio and held out his phone to Campos. “Here, talk to him.”

  Campos took the phone, identified himself, and asked Flavio for an explanation. He listened, disconnected, and asked Kerney if there were outstanding warrants for Marks or the woman he lived with.

  “I don’t know. But Marks is a person of interest in a murder investigation. The state police have been looking for him. You have the right to identify, question, and take him into custody as a material witness.”

  Campos pursed his lips and thought it over. “And you won’t interfere?”

  “I will not.”

  After writing down Kerney’s number, Campos handed him the phone and turned to the secretary. “Have dispatch contact Corporal Little and tell him to meet me at the Mimbres post office. No lights or siren.”

  He returned his attention to Kerney. “You’ll ride with me, but first I’m going to check for wants and warrants on the subjects.”

  “I’ll be waiting right here,” Kerney replied as Campos stepped away.

  Within a few minutes, Campos returned and reported no outstanding wants or warrants. As they left the building, Campos said, “You’d better tell me all you know.”

  “Absolutely,” Kerney said.

  After meeting up at the post office, Corporal Jim Little parked his street cruiser at the turnoff to the canyon, and joined Lieutenant Campos in his four-wheel drive unit. Kerney rode with Flavio in his truck, with instructions to stay back and away from any action. GPS put the Trimble property five-plus miles in at the head of a canyon on a mostly bad road.

  “Do you have your pistola?” Flavio asked Kerney.

  “It’s back in my truck.”

  He popped the glove box to reveal a Smith & Wesson two-inch revolver. “Be my guest.”

  Kerney gladly grabbed the weapon. “Where’s the rest of your arsenal?”

  Flavio tapped his right cowboy boot. “My baby Beretta. Did you convince Steve Campos that you were innocent?”

  The road turned crappy. Up ahead, the SO unit dipped and swayed over and around rocky obstacles. “I’ve got him questioning my guilt, un poquito.”

  Flavio laughed as he worked the steering wheel. “What are you going to do if TM turns out to be your man?”

  “I suggested Campos ask him to confess.”

  Flavio laughed even harder. “You didn’t call your wife, did you?”

  “No need to worry her.” Up ahead, Kerney could see they were losing ground on the SO unit. “Speed it up, will you? I don’t want to miss out on all the fun.”

  The canyon widened, with mountains beyond and some overgrown fenced pastureland on either side of the bone-rattling road. Soon the outline of an older double-wide appeared in the distance, with a tall TV antenna tethered on the roof by three steel cables. A single electrical line on a series of poles crossed a side canyon and connected to both the double-wide and a small, windowless building that looked to be a pump house. Across from the double-wide, a large, tin-roofed, open-air shed held enough firewood for at least two winters. An ATV and a battered Ford four-wheel drive truck were parked a few yards beyond where the ranch road ended.

  “Looks peaceful enough so far,” Kerney said as he checked the cylinder of the revolver. It was fully loaded.

  CHAPTER 17

  Todd Marks put the phone down and went into Lucille’s bed-room. As usual, she was asleep in her reclining easy chair, snoring with her mouth open. He liked her that way. Awake, she’d be wandering through the double-wide, talking trash, bumping into things, turning on the stove burners for no reason, or straying into the fields outside. Decades of boozing had pickled her brain.

  When he had to leave her to tend his marijuana crop up in the high country, he’d lock her in her bedroom. She remembered to use the bathroom some of the time, but he was always cleaning her up.

  Marks paid the bills by supplying high-quality marijuana to an Albuquerque dealer. He kept production small to avoid drawing unwanted attention.

  He pulled a chair next to Lucille and sat. He’d watched the television reports about the Kevin Kerney murder investigation. Although it had taken forty-five years to pin the crime on Kerney, Todd had started to think he’d finally pulled it off. He couldn’t believe the dumb cops had never found the silver chain he’d wrapped around the juniper branch where he’d buried Kim. But now that a cop was asking questions about him at the post office, he was starting to worry that somebody had wised up.

  He bent close to Lucille. “You still sleeping?”

  She snorted and turned away.

  “That’s good. Remember all those letters I sent you long ago saying I was looking for Kim and wouldn’t stop until I found her? It was pure bullshit. I knew where she was, but I wanted you to believe I’d done nothing wrong.”

  Marks leaned back. “I always thought you suspected I’d killed her, and I didn’t want you saying that to the police. I truly didn’t mean to do it. She just got me so pissed off.”

  He shook his head. “I never expected you’d write back to me. If you hadn’t, I would probably be still locked up for knifing that old man in Canada. I had no one to run to except you. You saved my ass.”

  He paused to listen for any sound outside. All was quiet. “I guess I needed your forgiveness, and you needed to believe Kim was alive. I know you miss her. Sometimes I do, too.”

  Marks chuckled, reached for weed he kept in a pouch in his shirt pocket, rolled a joint, and lit up. “The cops are coming for me, and this time I’ve got nowhere to go. Do I put a bullet in your head and kill myself, or take on the cops?”

  Lucille didn’t move. He flicked an ash off the joint, took a long drag, and smiled. It was a no-brainer. He’d take on the cops. Maybe Kerney would be with them. He’d heard on the news that he was trying to solve the case with the help of a hotshot lawyer.

  He thought about waking Lucille up and giving her a sleeping pill, and decided against it. Instead, he covered her with a blanket, went to his bedroom, took his Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifle from the gun cabinet, and set it up on a table under an open window in the spare bedroom that had a clear view of the road.

  He sat on a straight-backed chair, rolled three more joints, placed them next to a jar lid he used as an ashtray, and waited. Minutes passed before he heard engines on the road. He got to his feet, stubbed out his joint, lit another one, and settled on his knees behind the fifty-caliber. Soon two vehicles came into view, a sheriff’s SUV followed by an unmarked four-by-four pickup. Through the scope he could see two occupants in each vehicle.

  He put his smoke on the jar lid, sighted on the SO unit, and fired two rounds, one into the engine block, the other through the windshield. The SUV careened into a fence post and ground to a stop, its hood dug into the bottom of the post, rear tires in the air. Marks switched to the truck and pumped two rounds into the passenger door as the driver pulled a quick one-eighty. It retreated under a cloud of road dust.

  He relaxed, took an
other hit off the joint, and waited for movement inside the sheriff’s unit.

  Crouched below the dashboard, Steve Campos watched blood pour from Jim Little’s head wound and puddle on the seat. He keyed his radio, told dispatch he had an officer down, and called for backup.

  “We’re taking fire from an active shooter,” he added. “Roll SWAT, send every deputy to my location, and put a medevac in the air right now.”

  He dropped the microphone and called Kerney’s cell phone. Flavio Sapian answered.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, but Kerney’s not. He’s hit in the shoulder and the chest. I’ve got pressure on the chest wound but it looks nasty.”

  “Can the shooter see you?”

  “Negative.”

  “Stay put,” Campos ordered. “My corporal has a bad head wound and I’m pinned down.”

  His first-aid kit was tucked away in the back of the unit, out of reach. Campos struggled out of his shirt, ripped it up the middle, and tied it around Jim Little’s head. It turned red in seconds.

  He needed that first-aid kit. Slowly, he opened the driver’s-side door. Two fifty-caliber slugs almost tore it off the hinges.

  Dispatch radioed a fifteen-minute ETA.

  Campos doubted help could get there fast enough to save Jim, but Jesus, he hoped so.

  He huddled below the dashboard, listening to radio traffic, and watched Jim Little die, wondering what he’d say to his wife and four-year-old daughter. Occasionally the shooter fired another round at the unit. The explosion of lead on steel as the bullets tore into the SUV jangled his already frayed nerves.

  Volunteer firefighters were the first on scene, and Campos listened as an EMT radioed his assessment of Kerney’s wound to a surgeon at the Silver City hospital. The prognosis was guarded. Chopper ten minutes out.

  Flavio was unharmed. At least there was that good news. Campos broadcast a description of the crime scene, and the shooter’s location inside the double-wide. On a back channel, he requested State Police Sergeant Scott Thorndike’s assistance. Thorndike had two Afghanistan tours and over a dozen Al-Qaeda kills under his belt as a Marine sniper. He was one of an elite few. Within minutes, Thorndike radioed he was in the air. He wanted information about surrounding terrain he could use as cover.