“The day after tomorrow, if all goes well.”
He patted Kerney’s good shoulder. “Excellent. Rest now and recuperate.”
Dozing off, Kerney yawned his reply.
Clayton’s attempt to interview Lucille Trimble in her hospital room had been rebuffed by both the Grant County Sheriff’s Office and the district attorney. Trimble would remain in police custody until released to a long-term care facility. An Adult Protective Services caseworker had been assigned to manage the necessary paperwork needed for the transfer. First, the issue of Trimble’s placement eligibility had to be addressed.
Clayton’s calls to the caseworker went unreturned, but a supervisor in the office told him the process could take weeks. In the meantime, a temporary emergency transfer to a nursing home was in the works. Since Trimble had no known family, only authorized government representatives would be allowed to visit her at the facility.
Clayton called Dalquist and explained his dilemma.
“She may be demented like they say, but I still need to talk to her,” Clayton added.
“Let me see what I can do,” Dalquist replied. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
He reached out by telephone to Louise Fowler, a Silver City lawyer specializing in services to senior citizens.
“This involves the Kevin Kerney case and the killing of Deputy Little, correct?” Fowler probed.
“Correct. The woman in question, Lucille Trimble, suffers from Alzheimer’s or dementia, so an interview may not yield much, but we’d be wrong not to try. She has no known relatives. Can you help?”
“Perhaps. I do a fair amount of pro bono family guardianship cases for elderly clients. The judge might be willing to grant me temporary guardianship until all the placement issues can get sorted out. She’s not a big fan of Adult Protective Services.”
“That would be of enormous help,” Dalquist said. “I expect you to bill me for your services.”
“Who’s your investigator?” Fowler asked.
“Clayton Istee.”
Fowler sighed. “Kerney’s son? What are you dragging me into?”
“His services on behalf of his father are completely voluntary and under my direct supervision.”
“Give me his contact information,” Fowler said. “But be advised, I will be present when he interviews Trimble.”
“Of course.”
Dalquist gave Fowler what she needed, and asked when she might be able to approach the court.
“I’ll have to check her docket, but later today isn’t out of the realm of possibility.”
“Thank you,” Dalquist said. “Please stay in touch.”
At six that evening, accompanied by Louise Fowler, Clayton entered Lucille Trimble’s hospital room. She was sitting up in bed, watching cartoons on a muted, wall-mounted television. Clayton sat at her bedside and touched her hand. Only then did she turn away from the TV and look at him.
“Are you a fucking wetback?” she asked harshly, staring at his face.
“I’m Apache,” Clayton answered. Trimble was ancient. Deep wrinkles cascaded down her cheeks. Her eyes were hollow and sunken. She looked as if she could die any minute.
“You’re a damn wetback,” she hissed.
Clayton smiled. “Whatever you say.”
Trimble laughed bitterly. “Where’s my Todd?” she asked in a singsong baby voice.
“At home, waiting for you,” Clayton lied. “Is he your son-in-law?”
Trimble held up her left hand and wiggled her ring finger, circled by a yellow gold band. “He gave me this.”
“Can I see it?”
“Promise to give it back?”
“I promise.”
She took off and handed him the ring. Engraved inside were the initials TM and KW, for Todd Marks and Kim Ward.
“Your daughter’s wedding ring,” Clayton commented, handing it back.
“Mine,” Trimble snapped, as she replaced it on her finger. “It’s all written down.”
“What is?”
“Not my fault!” Trimble snarled. Suddenly she started to cry.
Clayton waited until Lucille’s sobs ceased. “I’m sorry.”
“My little pills,” she said, baby-talking again. “I want them.”
“Tell me what’s written down,” Clayton nudged.
“The letters. A, B, C, D . . . I forget.”
Trimble turned away from Clayton and said no more.
Fifteen minutes of continued silence convinced Clayton there was little chance he’d learn anything else that night.
“We can try again in the morning,” Fowler suggested as they left the hospital. “But I must say that was pretty weird.”
Clayton nodded. He liked Fowler. Late middle-aged and motherly, she exuded an air of nonjudgmental compassion. “I wonder what’s written down.”
Fowler laughed. “Other than the alphabet?”
“Yeah.”
Fowler hit the unlock button on her car’s remote. “See you tomorrow.”
With twilight fading and a full moon on the rise, Clayton drove to the Barranco Canyon cutoff, where a solitary volunteer firefighter had his truck blocking the road.
“No entry,” the Hispanic man said.
“The cops aren’t securing the area?” Clayton asked.
“Only during the day shift. The sheriff doesn’t have enough deputies. We’re covering at night in four-hour shifts.”
“Any people trying to sneak in?”
“Like you?” the man asked suspiciously.
Clayton laughed. “I’m not that curious.”
“That’s smart, because it’s a rough road or a long walk to the site.”
“That’s good to know.” Clayton put his truck in gear. “Take care.”
The firefighter waved as Clayton drove off. Out of sight a quarter mile up, he parked behind some trees lining the highway, got out a backpack containing emergency food and water, grabbed a flashlight from the glove box, and began hiking to the rise that defined the mouth of Barranco Canyon. If Lucille Trimble wasn’t talking complete nonsense, there was something important written down at the double-wide, and he was determined to find it.
CHAPTER 19
Clayton dropped into Barranco Canyon far enough away from the roadblock to avoid being seen or heard. Under a moonlit sky, he set a steady pace up the rocky, rutted road. Here in the middle of the Mimbres Apaches homeland, he could feel the tug of ancestors whispering in his ear. He gained stamina and speed as he followed the twisting canyon into higher terrain, remembering the famous Apache warrior Victorio, who during the Indian Wars had found sanctuary with his people in the black mountains that loomed above.
His footsteps broke the silence of the night, and his thoughts strayed to his days as a young Mescalero police officer patrolling the remote reaches of the reservation high in the Sacramento Mountains. It had been among his happiest times. Maybe the ancestors were beckoning him to return. The idea made him smile.
Without realizing it, he’d started into a trot along a sandy stretch of roadbed that crossed an arroyo. Up ahead, tumbled rocks and half-buried boulders forced a slower pace, but he kept on without pause.
The double-wide came into view with a light on inside. The old pickup parked outside might have belonged to Todd Marks. Clayton made no assumption. He slowed, veered off the road behind the bullet-riddled sheriff’s unit, and quietly circled the dwelling. Crime scene tape secured the front door. A window facing the road was also crisscrossed with tape.
With his semiautomatic in hand, he cautiously climbed the creaky front steps, stood to one side, and slowly opened the unlocked front door. He called out, got no response, and waited a beat or two before entering low and fast. He cleared the residence room by room, turning on all the lights as he went.
The place was a shambles, with kitchen cabinets torn from the walls, furniture upended and smashed, broken glass littering the frayed carpet, bedroom dresser drawers ripped apart, mattresses cut open. Someone
had ransacked the place, and Clayton was certain it wasn’t the police. No matter how angry officers might have been about Corporal Little’s death, tempers would have been checked and the proper search protocol observed.
Was the culprit looking for something specific or merely on a rampage? Either way, something might have been missed. He also wondered what evidence the cops had gathered and removed.
He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started a search in the master bedroom. Even amid the disarray he could tell that Lucille Trimble had occupied the room alone. There was no men’s clothing in the closet, empty boxes of women’s diapers littered the floor, some prescription bottles dumped in the adjoining bathroom sink were in her name, and the medicine cabinet contained only female toiletry items.
The closet had the musty smell of limp, old clothes. He searched every item, went through the jumble of women’s shoes on the floor and a messy pile of wadded-up sweaters on the single high shelf.
Back in the bathroom, he did a thorough search. A wastebasket filled with soiled adult diapers that smelled of old urine and dried feces made him want to retch.
He moved on to a smaller bedroom that had obviously served as Todd Marks’s sleeping quarters. A twin-sized box springs and mattress sat on the floor under a pile of bed linens. A computer cable dangled to the floor from a combination printer-copier on a small bookcase, but the computer was missing. No doubt the police had taken it. A gun cabinet, empty of weapons, sat against a far wall.
He pawed through bills, receipts, and junk mail strewn around an upended side table. On the floor next to the bed, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts was amazingly undisturbed.
The hope that he might find something written down that would help exonerate Kerney suddenly seemed foolish.
He pushed aside his doubts and kept looking, going through all of Todd’s clothing before moving into the living and dining area, where an overturned faux-leather couch and matching chair faced the smashed screen of a large analog television. A corner woodstove leaned precariously against the tiled wall, the unattached chimney flue hanging perilously from the ceiling. A dusting of black soot covered everything.
In the kitchen, he found the refrigerator unplugged and food rotting inside. He searched around the electric water heater in the small closet next to the half bath and finished up in the bedroom where Todd Marks had set up his fifty-caliber. The back wall was crusted brown with his blood.
He returned to the living area and took a second look, hoping to discover something of a personal nature, some evidence of a family history—a book of treasured snapshots, a framed rodeo poster from Todd’s glory days on the pro circuit, perhaps a belt buckle Kim Ward had won for barrel racing. But the place seemed scrubbed clean of any past life or treasured memories. Surely the police wouldn’t have taken every family memento.
Clayton sat on the front step, wondering if the vandalism was a cover-up of some sort. If so, who would have done it, and why? Drawing a blank, he walked to the truck. There was no key in the ignition, but he found a vehicle registration in Lucille Trimble’s name tucked in the visor along with an out-of-date auto insurance certificate. He searched the glove box, looked under the seats, and examined the debris and bags of smelly household trash in the truck bed. He had a feeling Marks either dumped or burned his trash somewhere on the property. That search, if necessary, would have to wait for another day.
He leaned against a front fender and shook his head. It made no sense. People didn’t live in the same place for years without accumulating and keeping some personal stuff.
He poked around the woodshed and inspected the well house that revealed the petrified remains of a dead bull snake curled up in a corner. He circled the double-wide, shining his flashlight on the aluminum skirting covering the concrete block pillars that elevated and held the dwelling in place. A portion of the skirting had been cut out and replaced with a rough-sawn wood cap. He pulled it loose and peered inside. His flashlight beam caught a scurrying rat headed for darker recesses, and six cardboard packing boxes resting on a warped piece of plywood just out of reach.
He made a full, careful sweep with his flashlight for any more disturbed or angry critters before crawling in. He pulled the boxes out one by one, and carried them inside.
At the dining table, he opened a box and found the personal mementos that had been missing from the house. There were rodeo trophies, belt buckles, ribbons, awards Kim had won in high school, and several high school yearbooks. There were programs of events she’d entered, a scrapbook of newspaper clippings, a diary with some sketches of horses, favorite quotes, and observations about boys she liked.
The second box contained some legal papers, including a divorce decree granted six months before Kim’s birth to Lucille Ward from Joseph Ward, but no marriage certificate. There was also a copy of a thirty-year-old restraining order against Douglas Butler, ordering him to permanently stay away from Lucille. Attached to it, and dated a year later, was a copy of a district criminal court proceeding, sentencing Douglas Butler to a year and a day in jail for stalking. Included with it was the victim’s statement Lucille Ward had given to the court. Another legal document, dated three months after Butler’s conviction, changed Lucille’s surname from Ward to Trimble.
The reasons for changing her name made sense, but why Trimble? Was it a family name?
In the third box was a packet of old handwritten letters from Todd to Kim. One accused her of infidelity. It was postmarked from Lubbock, Texas, and mailed to her at her mother’s address in Deming. It read in part:
I know you’ve been sleeping around. Don’t think you can sweet talk me with your bullshit, and don’t try to run and hide like you did last time, because I’ll find you.
It had been sent a month before Kim went missing from Erma Fergurson’s house.
In an earlier letter, Todd begged Kim to forgive him for hitting her, promising never to do it again. In yet another, he blamed his drinking for slapping her at an El Paso bar. It wasn’t the jackpot that could completely clear Kerney’s name, but it was solid evidence that bolstered his defense.
He went through the remaining boxes. In the bottom of the last one he discovered another packet of letters from Todd written to Lucille. Some were addressed to her in Belen, others had been sent to her post office box in Mimbres. They were short notes, spanning the years 1974 to 1990, and mailed from places throughout the West and Canada. In each, Todd wrote of his continuing search for Kim, telling Lucille where he’d been looking for her, and that he’d never give up. It was pure claptrap.
Clayton felt pumped about what he’d uncovered, but it had to be used properly. He’d broken the law by trespassing and tampering with evidence at a crime scene. If he gave the actual letters and documents to Dalquist, the court would rule they were illegally obtained by the defense and therefore inadmissible. Plus, he could be charged with larceny. If he was found guilty, three misdemeanor counts against him, that would be more than enough to revoke his police officer certification.
Clayton used his smartphone to make copies of everything of value he’d found, and put the boxes back under the double-wide. Early dawn had arrived, and chances were good the police would be returning. He splashed water on his face at a frost-free spigot and ate an energy bar before dialing Agent Carla Olivas’s cell phone.
“I need your help,” he said when she answered.
“Oh, for chrissake, just turn yourself in and make bail,” Olivas replied.
“What?”
“You don’t know? There’s a warrant out on you for impersonating an officer. Kerney’s already been placed under arrest and is under guard at the hospital. Where are you?”
“Where are you?” Clayton countered, masking his surprise. Not three, but four misdemeanors. Whoopie. It just kept getting better.
“Home in Alamogordo. I’m on my two days off.”
“Good. I’ll call you in three hours.”
“About what?”
“Overlo
oked evidence.”
“What overlooked evidence? Where?”
“Don’t push me, Carla. I’m doing you a favor.”
“I’ll take your call, but I’m reporting this conversation.”
“Of course.” Clayton disconnected, filled his water jug at the spigot, and started down the ranch road.
He’d been up all night, but he didn’t feel tired. It felt good to be moving, and he kept a steady pace. Near the mouth of the canyon, he heard the familiar squawk of a police radio. He scrambled up a low ridgeline and hurried to his truck.
The sight of it brought him to a full stop. It was half stripped. The tires and wheels were missing, along with the tailgate, the hood, the battery, the optional fog lights, and his tool bed box. The multimedia navigation system had been ripped out of the dashboard, and the front bucket seats were gone, along with the floor mats.
Muttering, he hot-wired the ignition to make it look as if the truck had been stolen, removed the license plate and vehicle documents, zipped them in his backpack, and started walking toward Mimbres. As soon as he got a signal, he called Wendell in Las Cruces. Fortunately, his first class hadn’t started.
“Hey, Dad,” Wendell answered.
“Come get me. My truck has been stripped and I need a ride.”
“What? Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’ll be at the coffee shop in Mimbres. It’s a village east of Silver City. You can’t miss it.”
“That’s a couple of hours away.”
“Yeah, I know,” Clayton replied, as he walked past an older reserve deputy standing next to his unit at the Barranco Canyon roadblock. He waved cheerily and kept moving. “Don’t get stopped for speeding. See you when you get there.”
“I’m on the way.”
At the coffee shop in a back booth, he ordered a big breakfast and considered calling his insurance company. He decided against it. The truck, or what remained of it, would be found sooner or later. He’d deal with it then.
For now, it was talk to Dalquist, get home, and find out from Sara what was happening with Kerney. A cup of hot coffee helped clear his head. Jeez, what a night.
Residue: A Kevin Kerney Novel Page 22
