Slow Kill

by Michael McGarrity

  The owner, Jeffery Jardin, lived most of the time in southern California, where he owned a high-tech manufacturing business with major defense and military contracts. But his passion was racehorses, and the ranch showed that he pursued it seriously. Kerney guessed the size of the spread at about five hundred acres. He wondered what the value of the land was on the pricey California market.

  Hilt told Kerney that in the morning he’d meet Ken Wheeler, a former jockey who oversaw the operation and culled the horses that weren’t suitable for racing. Kerney hoped he’d find what he was looking for: two riding horses for personal use, one stud to service Jack Burke’s mares, and some two- or three-year-old geldings Riley Burke could train as cutting horses.

  Tucked into a separate part of the valley, away from the road, stood the training track and a set of fenced pastures that held good-looking colts and two-year-olds. Open-air covered stalls and a barn stood adjacent to the track. At one end of the stalls a circular pen contained a hot walker. Driven by an electrical motor, the device had four arms that looked like oversized propeller blades mounted on a triangular-shaped base. After training runs, the horses were hitched to the arms and mechanically walked to cool them down.

  On a hill overlooking the track were three houses, one a two-story Victorian with a low-pitched hipped roof and spindlework porch railings. It was flanked by two modest, single-story houses built with wood cladding and brick. All were nicely landscaped and sheltered by oak trees.

  As Hilt pulled to a stop in front of the barn, he pointed at a smaller Victorian house on the far side of the track. “That’s where Ken lives,” he said. “He’ll meet you at the office tomorrow at seven. Want to look at some pretty horses?”

  “You bet,” Kerney said as he climbed out of the truck.

  Hilt spent the better part of an hour walking Kerney through the barn and stalls and into several nearby pastures. The horses were slick and well cared for, and the grounds, barns, and stalls were clean and tidy. Kerney learned that the ranch employed a full-time veterinarian, two tech assistants, two trainers, and a variety of stable hands, groomers, exercise riders, and laborers—many of them Mexican. Low-cost housing was provided for a dozen key employees.

  The two men entered a pasture, and several colts came trotting over to greet them. Hilt recited their bloodlines while Kerney gave them the once-over. He found himself enjoying Hilt’s company and the talk of horses. He stroked a chestnut colt’s neck and ran a hand over its withers, thinking it was decidedly refreshing to get away by himself and forget about being a cop.

  Back at the guest cottage, Kerney found an overnight bag and briefcase on the floor of the largest bedroom, but no sign of the man who was sharing the accommodations with him. He dumped his stuff in another bedroom and looked around the cottage. Whoever decorated the place had a penchant for green and an obsession with frogs. The carpet, wallpaper, tile work, and even the kitchen ceiling were all various shades of green. Ceramic, glass, and pottery figurines of frogs sat on every table, dresser, and countertop, and framed prints of jumping frogs, singing frogs, and comical-looking standing frogs hung on the walls of each room. It seemed like a big silly joke that had gotten slightly out of hand. Still, it made him smile.

  The kitchen was fully equipped and stocked. But Kerney decided to take himself out to dinner and do a little sightseeing before it got dark. Hilt had told him of a good restaurant in a nearby village and given him directions.

  Kerney changed into a fresh shirt, fired up the rental car, and drove away, pleased with how the day had gone.

  Always an early riser, Kerney was up at five. He showered, dressed, and sat on the porch of the guest cottage in the cool predawn air drinking a glass of juice and enjoying the sounds of whinnying mares in a nearby pasture. Last night, after an early dinner, he’d driven to the ocean in time to watch a spectacular, romantic sunset, which only made him miss Sara’s company.

  When he’d returned to the ranch, an imported luxury sedan was parked in front of the cottage, and the door to his bunkmate’s bedroom was closed. To avoid disturbing the man, Kerney had read quietly in his room for a few hours before turning in.

  From the porch he could see a night watchman moving down a line of corrals where brood mares about to foal were kept under observation. Kerney strolled over to join him. In front of the office was a five-gallon bucket filled with horse biscuits. He stuffed some in his jacket pocket and caught up with the watchman. Even in the dim light he could tell the mares were pampered ladies. He fed biscuits to those who came up to the corral fences to greet him.

  He wandered up and down the stalls that held the mares with their newborn foals. Workers, including a veterinarian checking on the expectant mothers, soon began arriving. Barn boys started cleaning stalls and filling feed bins. One young man raked a herringbone pattern in fresh sawdust that he’d spread down the center aisle.

  After watching for a while, Kerney went back to the cottage. There was no sound of movement behind the other guest’s closed bedroom door. Hilt had told Kerney that the man had an early morning appointment with the owner, who personally handled the sale of all racing stock. Kerney knocked on the door to give the guy a wake-up call. He got no response, so he knocked again and called out. Still nothing.

  He opened the door and turned on the light. Lying faceup on the duvet covering the bed was a man, probably in his late sixties. One look told Kerney the man was dead.

  He stepped over to the body, checked for a pulse at the carotid artery to make sure, and backed out of the room, touching nothing else.

  The last thing Kerney had expected to see was a dead body. He went to find Devin Hilt, knowing full well his morning would be shot as soon as the local cops showed up.

  According to the California driver ’s license found on the body, the dead man was Clifford Spalding, age seventy-one, from Santa Barbara, a two-hour drive down the coast.

  Sergeant Elena Lowrey of the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department thought it quite likely the deceased had died of natural causes. There were no visible wounds to the body, no defensive marks, no signs of a struggle. But until the coroner agreed with her observations and the autopsy findings confirmed it, she would handle the call as a death due to unknown causes.

  If everything looked copacetic, there might be no need to call out the detectives and the crime scene techs.

  She stood at the foot of the bed for a minute and watched the coroner begin his examination before stripping off her gloves and exiting the cottage. Outside on the front lawn three men waited: Kevin Kerney, who’d discovered the body; Devin Hilt, who’d called 911; and Jeffery Jardin, the ranch owner.

  Behind them, near the barn and stables, two employees, who looked to be Mexican nationals, worked at cleaning out a cooldown corral while keeping a wary eye on the proceedings.

  Lowrey, who had an Anglo father and Mexican American mother, bet that neither man held a green card. She had no desire to pursue it. Her grandfather, a migrant worker, had been deported years ago because of a disorderly conduct conviction stemming from a clash with police at a farmworkers rally. He could never legally return to the States, although he did sneak in for occasional visits, especially when Ellie’s kid sister, the baby-producing sibling of the family, added another grandchild to the clan.

  She stepped off the porch and spoke to Jardin. “Can I use the ranch office to take statements?”

  Jardin, a man in his sixties who sported a great tan, a full head of hair, and a worried expression, nodded.

  “Thanks,” Lowrey said, switching her attention to Kerney, whom she guessed to be around fifty, and good-looking for a man his age. He stood six-one, had a nice build and deep-set, pretty blue eyes.

  “I’ll start with you,” Lowrey said to Kerney. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

  Kerney nodded and followed the sergeant to the office, noting that even with the body armor she wore under her uniform shirt she cut a trim, well-shaped figure. A shade over five-five, she wore her thick
dark hair rather short.

  Kerney had come to the ranch as a potential buyer, not a police chief, so he doubted anyone knew he was a cop. Nonetheless, he’d told Hilt it would be best to keep everyone away from the cottage, a suggestion Devin readily accepted. Like most civilians, Hilt had no desire to stare death in the face.

  Kerney sat with Lowrey in the ranch office and answered her questions directly. He’d never met the man and didn’t know him or his name. He only knew that he would be sharing the cottage with another visitor who was looking to buy horses. He’d returned from dinner last night to find a car outside and one of the bedroom doors closed. He’d simply assumed that Spalding was sleeping or desired some privacy. He’d read for a time before retiring and had heard no sounds from the man’s room. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred during the night to arouse any suspicions about Spalding’s welfare. He’d discovered the body after attempting to wake Spalding with a knock on the bedroom door. He’d touched only the light switch in the bedroom and Spalding’s carotid artery to confirm he was dead.

  Lowrey asked for the name of the restaurant where he’d dined, which Kerney provided, and asked how long he’d be staying at the ranch.

  “I leave tomorrow,” Kerney said.

  Lowrey nodded. “We might have to ask you to stay over, Mr. Kerney, until we clear things up.”

  “If it’s possible, I’d rather not do that, Sergeant,” Kerney said as he took his police commission card from his wallet and gave it to Lowrey.

  The sergeant glanced at it and gave Kerney a reproachful look. “You could have told me who you were up front.”

  Kerney shrugged and took his ID back. “I knew we’d get around to it,” he said. “Besides, until you say differently, I’m a person of interest to your investigation. But I would like you to extend the courtesy of allowing me to go home tomorrow.”

  He replaced the ID in his wallet and gave her a business card. “You can confirm who I am. Call the dispatch number and ask to speak to Deputy Chief Larry Otero. They’ll patch you through to him.”

  Lowrey nodded. “I’ll do that. Until we know more, this looks like an unattended natural death.”

  “So it seems,” Kerney said as he got to his feet. “But it’s always best to do it by the book.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me you were a police chief?” Lowrey asked.

  “Because I came here as a civilian,” Kerney said, “which occasionally is a very nice thing to be.”

  Lowrey smiled, and a dimple showed on her right cheek. “Point well made, Chief. Will you ask Mr. Hilt to join me, and stand by in case I have any more questions for you?”

  Kerney nodded and left the office.

  If Clifford Spalding had expired in his own bed, the coroner, Deputy Sheriff William Price, would probably have done a quick death assessment and let it go at that, trusting the autopsy to pinpoint the cause. Instead, he decided to be a bit more thorough. First he checked the eyes for any signs of changes in the vitreous humor, which usually turns cloudy within eight to ten hours after death. The fluid was clear and there was no evidence of the minute blood clots caused by strangulation that show up as tiny red dots.

  He inspected the mouth for any sign of blockage or corrosive burns, the neck for bruising or ligature marks, hands and arms for defensive wounds or needle marks, and fingernails for any traces of skin. He ran a gloved hand over the skull and found it to be intact with no telltale indication of blunt trauma. He stripped off a glove and felt the armpits with the back of his hand. They were cool to the touch.

  There were early signs of rigor mortis, which usually occurs within two to four hours after death. That, along with the absence of any changes to the vitreous humor and the coolness of the armpits, indicated that the man had been dead for six to eight hours.

  The body was clad in an undershirt, slacks, and socks. Using scissors, Price cut the undershirt and pants away, then turned the body facedown on the double bed and used a rectal thermometer to take the body’s temperature. Then he checked the room temperature. The difference between the two readings brought his estimate of the time of death down to no more than six hours ago.

  Blood pools and settles after death, appearing as a purple discoloration of the skin, and the lower back showed signs of it. Price pressed a finger against the spot and the color didn’t blanch white, which was another good indicator that Spalding had been dead for about six hours, and, more important, hadn’t been moved.

  He looked over the body one more time. There were no surgical scars. The gluteus maximus and leg muscles were firm, indicating the man had been physically active.

  Price guessed that either a heart attack or a stroke had killed the man. He took off his gloves and went to give Ellie Lowrey the news.

  After admitting that he had almost no experience with cops or dead people, a nervous Devin Hilt confirmed what he could of Chief Kerney’s story. Ellie Lowrey probed with a few more questions to reassure herself that all seemed as it should before letting Hilt go and calling Kerney’s deputy chief to verify his identity.

  Bill Price came in just as she was about to begin her interview with Jeffery Jardin, the ranch owner.

  “The body shows no signs of death by unnatural causes,” he said.

  “You couldn’t seriously think that Clifton Spalding was murdered here,” Jardin said in a bit of a huff.

  Price smiled benignly. Civilians were always uneasy about the thought of homicide. He’d faced the same reaction from people time and again over the years. “We always try to rule that out first,” he said.

  He turned his attention to Lowrey. “I’d say he died in his sleep, either from a heart attack or a stroke, about six hours ago. The autopsy will tell us more.”

  Lowrey nodded. “Thanks. Ask the EMTs to keep everyone away from the cottage until I finish my interviews. I’d like to take another look around before we wrap it up.”

  “You got it,” Price said, stepping out the door.

  “Are you people always so suspicious?” Jardin asked.

  “Careful would be a better way to put it,” Lowrey replied. “How well did you know Mr. Spalding?”

  “Well enough, on a business and social basis. Over the past ten years, he’s bought about six horses from me, some that he ran in qualifying and small purse races. He didn’t seem to care if they won or lost. It was a hobby for him, or rather for his wife, who I think basically liked the social scene at the track. He stabled his horses here and used my trainers. My ranch manager arranged for jockeys and the horses’ transportation to and from the track. We basically did everything except race the horses under my colors. His wife keeps two of the horses he bought for pleasure riding, although they’re good enough to race. I usually dealt with her.”

  “That’s a pretty expensive hobby his wife has.”

  “Clifford could afford it. He owns, rather did own, a number of resort hotels up and down the coast.”

  “You said you knew him well,” Lowrey remarked.

  “For about the last ten years,” Jardin replied, “after he married his second wife. I met them when they were first looking to buy racing stock. After that, I’d see them at the track, and we’d get together occasionally for dinner and drinks. Claudia, his wife, is a good twenty years younger. She divides her time between Santa Barbara and Santa Fe. Clifford built a house for her out there where she could keep some horses. I think she’s in Santa Fe now.”

  “If you usually dealt with Spalding’s wife, why did he come here this time?” Lowrey asked.

  “Claudia had her eye on a horse she liked, and Clifford said he wanted to buy it for her as a surprise anniversary present.”

  “Do you have Mrs. Spalding’s Santa Fe address?”

  “My ranch manager should. He made the arrangements to have the horses she keeps in Santa Fe transported there.”

  Jardin glanced at his wristwatch, an expensive, wafer-thin gold timepiece that probably cost more than Lowrey’s personal vehicle.

  “Jus
t a few more questions,” she said, “and then we’ll be done.”

  Kerney waited on the porch outside the office with the ranch manager, Ken Wheeler, and watched the coroner come and go. No longer a jockey, Wheeler had still managed to keep weight off his wiry frame. He sported a wide mouth that seemed ready-made to break into easy smiles, and had tiny ears that lay flat against his head. At six-one, Kerney towered over the man.

  Wheeler told Kerney that he had two twelve-year-old halterbroken mares, four three-year-old geldings that didn’t seem to have the heart to race, and a young stud named Comeuppance available for sale.

  Wheeler thought the mares, once saddlebroken, would serve well for pleasure riding, the geldings were sure-footed and quick enough to be good cutting horses, and the stallion would do just fine at stud, if the new owner didn’t expect fast runners from his lineage.

  Kerney knew, if he decided to buy it, the stud horse would be his most expensive purchase. “Is that his only flaw?” he asked.

  “I believe so,” Wheeler replied, his deep baritone voice quite a contrast to his diminutive size. “But you’ll get to see for yourself. He’s got good bloodlines, but none of his yearlings or two-year-olds look promising for the track. The boss says we sure aren’t going to make any money keeping him, and I agree.”

  Before Kerney could reply, Sergeant Lowrey stepped onto the porch.

  “Mr. Wheeler,” she said, “could you get me Mrs. Spalding’s Santa Fe address?”

  “Sure thing,” Wheeler said as he slipped past Lowrey into the office.

  Kerney raised an eyebrow. “Santa Fe, New Mexico?”

  “She has a house there,” Lowrey said, “and according to Mr. Jardin that’s where she is. Do you know her?”