Marge said, “Roseanne made it back into Burbank.”
“Maybe Holmes came down on the same flight as her and killed her in L.A.”
“Scott, we checked the passengers list coming down. Holmes wasn’t on it.”
“Maybe he used a pseudonym.”
Decker rubbed his temples. “I don’t want to think about that possibility yet. First let’s find out if Raymond Holmes is Ramon Hernandez. Right now I can only deal with one headache at a time.”
35
IF RAYMOND HOLMES was worried about his cover being blown, it wasn’t apparent from his daily actions. The contractor remained in San Jose, posing as a solid citizen. Perhaps he was, although the big man was a near perfect double for the age-progressed image of Manny Hernandez. Oliver also found him vaguely disreputable. Not that Holmes was a hard sell. His pitch was the opposite—feigned apathy. His homes were the best, and the market was heating up and the house that Oliver was interested in already had multiple offers, so if he was serious, he’d better get his offer in there or he’d just be plain out of luck! Throughout the interview and inspection, Oliver managed to get several good pictures of Holmes under the guise of snapping photos of the house for sale.
While Scott was occupied with Holmes, Marge was sorting through his paper trail on file with the hall of records. Holmes had filed his first income-tax return in San Jose twenty-two years ago, his occupation listed as an independent contractor. That was as much as Marge could get out of the bureaucrats. She’d need a subpoena to see the actual return. Through a stroke of good luck—a simpatico government employee—she was able to pull his contractor’s license, which, as far as Marge could tell, was up-to-date and legitimate. From his contractor’s license number, she obtained his original application for a contractor’s license in San Jose. From that form, she was fortunate enough to get his date of birth and his Social Security number.
After an hour on the phone with records in Santa Fe, Marge was told that there was on file a marriage certificate for Ramon Hernandez and Isabel Devargas. Unfortunately, Holmes’s DOB and SSN didn’t match Manny’s DOB or his SSN. Ramon Hernandez did have a birth certificate from Santa Fe County. Not surprisingly, that date of birth matched the one on the Hernandez’s marriage license. Maybe Raymond Holmes had taken on someone else’s identity. Maybe Raymond Holmes was just some poor schnook named Raymond Holmes.
When Marge and Oliver returned from San Jose, they were no closer to proving a connection than they had been before they left. As much as they wanted to, the detectives couldn’t bring in Holmes just because he looked like a computerized age progression of a guy who might or might not be dead.
The next day, Marge and Oliver handed Decker their meager reports and the digital camera with a few nice close-ups of Holmes. Decker read over their writings, then said, “He’s lived in San Jose for the last twenty-two years. Where was he before that?”
“No idea,” Marge said.
“Any idea where he filed his taxes before he lived in San Jose?”
“I can’t get that information without a warrant. And we can’t get a warrant without some evidence.”
“What about Holmes’s birth certificate?”
“Holmes’s date of birth doesn’t match Hernandez’s DOB.”
“I didn’t ask that,” Decker said testily. “I asked if you could get a copy of Raymond Holmes’s birth certificate.”
“How? I don’t even know where Raymond Holmes was born.”
“But you have his DOB and his SSN.”
“I’m not computer savvy, Pete.” Marge was holding in her own frustration. “How do I use a date of birth and a Social Security number to locate his birth certificate?”
“What about the Social Security Administration? They have to have had a birth certificate to generate a number.”
“Loo, you know as well as I do that they’re not going to give me the information unless I have the subpoenas or an executed warrant. If you can think of a judge that’ll give me the paperwork with what we have, then I’m willing to go to bat.”
She was right. Something would have to break or they were at a complete standstill. “At least find out what paperwork you need to get the information. Also, you can talk to someone in computers upstairs and find out if a birth certificate is accessible from somewhere other than SSA.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“I think I speak for Marge when I say I hope we’re not spinning our wheels,” Oliver said. “We don’t have anything on this guy, Loo. I mean, we might have been able to bring him in for Roseanne Dresden, but since he’s already passed a polygraph, we’ve even lost that excuse.”
“Too bad we don’t have Manny’s old toothbrush,” Marge said. “It would be easier to get DNA off of Raymond Holmes from an old discarded coffee cup than it would be to crack some of these bureaucracies.”
Oliver said, “You know, that’s not a half-bad idea. If you want, I could call up the Devargases and find out if they’ve saved anything from Manny.”
“They threw away his pictures, Oliver, I doubt if they saved his toothbrush.” Decker thought a moment. “But sure, go ahead. If that doesn’t work, how about rounding up a witness who can positively identify Raymond Holmes as Manny Hernandez.”
“Like who?”
“My first thought is the Devargases, but even if they did pick out Holmes as Manny, their opinions wouldn’t likely hold up in court unless we have corroborating witnesses. How about Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe or Christian Woodhouse?”
Marge said, “She hasn’t seen Manny in thirty years.”
“Ditto for Woodhouse,” Oliver said.
“Well, they’re all we’ve got right now that wouldn’t be considered prejudicial. Make up a six-pack of pictures, and show it to Alyssa. If you can’t get any satisfaction with her, we’ll work on getting an interview with Christian Woodhouse. Being as he’s out of town, let’s go with Alyssa first.”
“You’re the boss,” Marge said. “If you’re looking for witnesses, you could also go to Santa Fe Correctional Center and show Martin Hernandez a photo array. Maybe he’d be able to identify Raymond Holmes as his son. I know he’s an old man and has been in prison for the last fifty years, but it’s worth a shot, no?”
Decker hit his head. “Maybe Martin Hernandez wouldn’t be able to identify Holmes as his son, but his DNA wouldn’t lie. I’m sure his DNA is on file with Santa Fe Correctional. Next, we’d need Holmes’s DNA.” He looked at Oliver. “Scotty, go back to Raymond Holmes and tell him you’re very interested in the house. Go buy him a cup of coffee and bag the discarded container. Get any bit of trash that might contain DNA. If we get a fifty percent indicating that Martin Hernandez is Holmes’s father, it might be compelling enough evidence for a judge to issue a warrant for his ID. I should’ve thought about it yesterday. Now I have to justify the expense of another visit.”
Decker put the reports on his desk and handed the camera back to Oliver.
“Go download and print the pictures of Raymond Holmes today. Make copies for your records, give copies to Norton Salvo for forensic comparisons, and give me copies as well. Tomorrow, when I’m in Santa Fe, I want to show the photographs of Raymond Holmes to the prison guards and see if he looks familiar to anyone who works there. Lastly, I also want to check the prison logs and see who Martin Hernandez’s visitors have been for the last forty years.”
Oliver said, “You think if Raymond Holmes is Manny Hernandez and he was visiting his dad, he’d be stupid enough to sign in under his own name?”
Decker said, “If Holmes is Hernandez, the guy’s arrogance is over-the-top. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he must know that we’re eventually going to identify the bones as his late wife, Beth. Yet he’s going about his business, selling houses.”
“So maybe it’s not him,” Marge said. “Because if he is Manny, he’s got to know that once we identify Beth, he’s not only going to be our number one suspect in his wife’s death, but now he moved up with
a bullet to the one spot in Roseanne Dresden’s disappearance.”
“Maybe he thinks he’s clear because he passed the polygraph,” Oliver said.
“We’re assuming that this guy knows he might be indicted for murders and yet he sticks around and goes about his business selling houses.” Marge shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Crazy,” Decker said, “but never underestimate the power of complacency.”
A SEVEN A.M. flight was early even for a stalwart like Decker, but he needed a full day’s worth of time. Even losing an hour because of the time change, if all went well, he’d make it to Santa Fe by eleven. As he tooled down Interstate 25 North, the traffic was light and the sky was the biggest and bluest expanse that Decker had ever seen. It was sunny and gorgeous: a shame to waste such lovely weather on a visit to a penitentiary.
Santa Fe Correctional was fifteen minutes out of the city, a maximum-security institution that housed a minimum-restrict facility as well. It was a one-story complex on flat ground, the terrain composed in the main of purple sage, stunted piñon pines, juniper, wild sumac, and lots of tumbleweed. The guard tower looked like a mile-high skyscraper against the empty ethers. The air was a pleasant temperature, but as dry as a bone. Decker could feel his lips and sinuses crack by the second.
After presenting his ID at the window and signing in, he passed through a sally port and was met on the other side by a guard named Curtis Kruse—a man in his sixties with a beer gut that strained the shirt of his khaki uniform. His arms were short but stretched with muscle, his legs were as solid as oak trunks. He had a round face, a double chin, thick white hair, and steel-gray eyes as reflective as mirrors. His handshake was firm but not obnoxiously strong.
“Welcome to the Land of Enchantment.” Kruse led Decker into a tiny room that held a steel table and two chairs, all the furniture bolted to the floor. Nothing on the walls except a one-way mirror and two video cameras nestled in the ceiling corners. The guard shut the door. “Hope you get a chance to see more than a penitentiary.”
“I don’t think it’s in the cards today, but I told my wife I’d bring her back for a vacation.”
“Can’t get better weather than this unless you got allergies. The wind’s a killer.”
“It’s as still as stone today,” Decker told him.
“Just wait until the afternoon, sir, and you’ll find out why Albuquerque’s the capital of hot-air ballooning. Anyway, I’ve been told that you’re here for Martin Hernandez. Marty’s been a good boy lately…lately, as in the last ten years.”
“I heard his time is almost up.”
“Two years, three months, and some-odd days. He can probably tell you the time down to the minute.”
“I’m sure he could. You weren’t here when he was originally sentenced, were you?”
“Now, that’s a polite way of asking how long I’ve been working at SFC.” Kruse smiled. “I’ve been here for twenty-two years. Before that I was in Casper, Wyoming, in the police department. The missus and I moved out to Santa Fe because the winters are a lot milder. She don’t like the cold except if she’s skiing. When I came in, Martin was already a veteran.”
“Was he ever problematic?”
“He had his moments like most of the fellas here,” Kruse said. “I know he was in solitary more than once, but he didn’t make it a habit like some of the others. As he got older, you know how it is. The testosterone goes down and so does the aggression. Lately, Martin has reinvented himself as a hotshot animal trainer.”
“Yeah, I read something about that in the papers.”
“He has a way with the beasts. He should know ’em by this time. He’s been living with them for the last forty years.”
“How did he get into the dog program?”
“Good behavior and seniority.”
“How old is Martin?”
“Seventies. I can get you the exact date if you need it.”
“Sure. So you’ve been here in Santa Fe Correctional for twenty-two years?”
“I said it, so it must be true.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to show you some photographs. Just want to know if you’ve seen any of these guys before.”
“Sure, I’ll have a look.”
Decker took out two sets of six-packs with only one array containing a black-and-white close-up of Raymond Holmes. Forensics had tried to make it look as official as possible, but it clearly wasn’t a mug shot. To counterbalance the odd photo, forensics had also interspersed six other photographs of similar-looking people, all the snapshots taken with the same camera.
Kruse peered at all the images carefully. He knew implicitly that he was being asked to make an official identification and he didn’t want to make a mistake. A minute later he pointed to Raymond Holmes. “This is the guy you’re looking for, right?”
“You’ve seen him before?”
“He’s been coming around twice a year for the last, hmm…maybe fifteen years to visit Martin Hernandez. What’d he do?”
“You’re sure about him?”
“My eyesight is still twenty/twenty. Besides, Martin doesn’t get any other visitors. His wife used to come, but she died, I think, years ago. If it would help you out, you can ask some of the other guys. They’ll pick him out without a problem.”
“It would help tremendously.”
“What’d he do?”
“We’re not sure yet and that’s the God’s honest truth. Right now we’re trying to identify him. He’s going under the name Raymond Holmes, but we think he might be Martin Hernandez’s son.”
“That would make sense. He comes on Martin’s birthday and usually sometime between Christmas and New Year’s. And like I said, he’s easy to remember because the old guys don’t get many visitors and not one who comes so regular.”
“He would have to show ID to get in here, right?”
“You want to know what name he uses when he comes to visit Hernandez.”
“Exactly.” Decker nodded.
“That shouldn’t be too hard to find out, Lieutenant. Like I said, he comes every year on Hernandez’s birthday and during Christmas and New Year’s. Hold on and I’ll check the logbooks.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your help.” Decker laughed. “You have no idea how much I appreciate it. We’ve been hitting a lot of walls.”
“I know the feeling. While you’re waiting for me to come back, I’ll send in Curly and Doug.” Kruse smiled, showing teeth the color of egg yolks. “I betcha a Franklin they’ll pick him out first try.”
“I’ll pass on the bet.”
Kruse’s laughter was between a snort and a cackle. Decker could hear it even after the man left. Curly came in ten minutes later and picked out Holmes straightaway. He matched Kruse’s words about Holmes’s visits to Hernandez almost verbatim. When Doug came in, he played the same tape loop as Curly and Kruse. For good measure, a third man named Jimbo rounded out the quartet of identifiers. None of the four remembered Holmes by name, but they all remembered his face and the man he visited. The three guards were swapping Martin Hernandez stories when Kruse returned. He had made a copy of the logbook page dated December 27. The signature was bold, loopy, and very clear.
Raymond Holmes
It would be appealing to confront Holmes right now, but it would be more profitable to get a partial DNA match. Then they could challenge Holmes with the indisputable forensic information and see how he’d react.
Of course the DNA identification was predicated on Martin Hernandez being Manny Hernandez’s biological father.
Decker’s thoughts pounced upon another idea. He wondered if Holmes had ever been fingerprinted as Ramon Hernandez. If Holmes had been in the prison system in the last fifteen years under any name, his fingerprints would be in AFIS. But since he’d been a model citizen in San Jose for twenty-two years, it was unlikely.
Decker pondered other alternatives. If Holmes had ever been in the military, even under a different name, his prints
would be on file with the army. His mind was sprinting past a panoply of ideas when Kruse’s voice interrupted him. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to talk to Martin Hernandez?”
“That would be terrific.”
“You stay right here, sir. I’ll bring in the Dog Whisperer.”
36
LED BY CURLY on one side and Kruse on the other, Martin Hernandez, in his jail jumpsuit, looked like a walking orange. His girth appeared to measure half his height and his face was grizzled and gray. His gait was a slow shuffle due to age and leg chains. They placed him down on one of the bolted chairs and cuffed an ankle to a table leg. He sat back, crossing his arms in front, his buttocks spread over the seat.
Kruse said, “You gonna behave, Martin, or do I have to put on the handcuffs?”
“I’m gonna be a free man, sir.” His voice was high and raspy. When he smiled, there wasn’t much tooth matter left—a couple of pegs in front and a couple of molars in back. “I’m not gonna do nothing to stop that from happening.”
“Now, that’s thinking smart.”
“Can I trouble you for a smoke, sir?”
Kruse looked at Decker. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks,” Hernandez said to Kruse.
“Thank him,” Kruse said of Decker. “Now, I’m gonna take you at your word, Martin. I’m gonna figure you to behave properly. Am I wrong for thinking that?”
“Not wrong at all, Officer Kruse.”
“This man wants to ask you a few questions. You answer them honestly and to the best of your ability, okay?”
“Okay, I can do that.” When Hernandez spoke, he forced out sound from his throat. “A smoke will help. Maybe a cup of coffee, too. My throat.” He cleared phlegm. “It gets dry when I talk.”
“So why are you smoking, Martin?”
“Man’s gotta have something to do here, sir.”
Kruse laughed again. “That’s true. Okay, I’ll be back with your smoke and coffee.”
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