“Don’t try to use your interrogation skills on me, Kerney. When are you taking me out to dinner?”
“Is tomorrow night soon enough?” he replied.
“That will work.”
Later, as Sara slept beside him, Kerney tired to figure out what was bothering her. Was she in a bind at work because of her assignment to prepare a report on the sexual assault of servicewomen? Was she avoiding the issue for his sake while he was here? Or was it something he’d completely missed, something he had done?
It wasn’t like Sara to hide her feelings or skirt an issue. He didn’t know what to do other than wait it out.
Chapter 15
Kerney’s time with Sara and Patrick passed quickly, but not without incident. By the end of his first week in Arlington, Sara seemed preoccupied and distant. She slept poorly at night but wouldn’t talk about what was bothering her. As a result, their evening conversations kept to chitchat about Patrick, her plans to build a covered patio in the backyard, the events of Kerney’s day at the academy, and similar mundane subjects.
Over the weekend, Kerney forced down every instinct he had to confront her uncharacteristic reserve. Sunday night, he could no longer contain himself.
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong,” Sara said in response to his question. She shifted her position on the couch to look at him and put her after-dinner liqueur on the coffee table.
“That covers a lot of ground,” Kerney said from the other end of the couch.
“Meaning?”
Kerney sipped his cordial. “You’re not one to leave things unsaid.”
Rain began pattering on the side of the house and coming in through the old wooden window screens. Sara got up and closed the windows. “Don’t get bullheaded on me, Kerney. Just give it a rest. Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re irritable, not sleeping well, and evasive every time I ask you what’s wrong.”
She returned to the couch. “If so, it’s for good reason.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
She gave him a feisty look. “Okay, I’ll make it short and sweet. I don’t want to tell you what’s going on because you’ll harangue me about resigning my commission.”
“I harangue you?”
“You have a tendency to lecture.”
Kerney shook his head in rebuttal. “I don’t mean it to sound that way.”
“I believe that’s true,” Sara said. “But you knew what you were getting into when you married me. I’m career Army, and that fact alone makes family life hard. We live apart by your choice, and that makes it even more difficult. But never once have I asked you to quit your job, leave Santa Fe, and follow me from post to post until I retire. You could give me the same consideration.”
Kerney was silent for a time. Finally he said, “I can see how you might think I’ve been pestering you to quit the Army. I won’t do it anymore.”
“Thank you.”
“But I don’t think you’re telling me the whole story. Does it have something to do with that assignment on the rape of servicewomen?”
“Mostly,” Sara replied.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not yet.” She slid closer to Kerney and ran her hand up his leg. “I know I’ve been a bit preoccupied with work, but I haven’t been unapproachable, have I?”
“Are you trying to distract me with sex?” Kerney asked, breaking into a smile.
“Is it working?” Her hand moved to his crotch. “Oh my, what’s this?”
Late in Kerney’s second week at Quantico, Claudia Spalding was still on the loose despite intensive efforts to locate her, and Ramona Pino, who was back in Santa Fe, had been unable to find a money trail between Clifford Spalding and any past or present members of the Santa Barbara Police Department. However, fresh information about the George Spalding investigation had begun to come in. First, Jerry Grant, the forensic anthropologist, called.
“The narrowly angled pelvis, the rounded head of the femur, and the length of the femur, confirm it to be the skeleton of a male, slightly less than six feet in height,” Grant said.
“You already told me this in Albuquerque,” Kerney said.
“But I needed to verify my observations,” Grant replied. “Now it’s fact. The joints were completely fused with the bones and showed only slight wear, which is consistent with an age range of thirty to thirty-five years.”
“Did you find anything that would help ID the remains?” Kerney inquired.
“Nothing,” Grant said, “and lacking a skull, I couldn’t even determine race. But there were no tool marks that would indicate the body had been dismembered.”
“That’s interesting.”
“I thought so. What I did find was microscopic evidence that the body had decomposed badly before interment.”
“I thought you said the bones had been cleaned.”
“Yes, but not well enough. The evidence suggests the remains were exposed to the elements for a period of time. In Vietnam, a body could decompose down to cartilage, bone, and sinewy ligaments in a matter of a few weeks. That could explain why the skull, hands, and feet were missing. Predators could have easily scattered those bones.”
“But you’re sure the man was shot?”
“Absolutely. My best guess is by an automatic weapon, but I couldn’t swear to it in court. I asked the Central Identification Laboratory in Hawaii to run all the information through their database. It yielded a list of seventy-six military and civilian Americans and thirty-nine foreign nationals who fall within the parameters. I’ll fax it to you.”
“Great.”
“By the way, the Armed Forces DNA lab at Walter Reed has the results from the bone sample I took. They said they were expecting it when I called to tell them it was on the way. You must know people in high places.”
“I do,” Kerney said. “Has the lab in Albuquerque finished the mitrochondrial DNA comparison tests?”
“You should hear from them today,” Grant replied. “I’ll fax my report to you along with the list from Hawaii.”
Sara called shortly afterward. “Vincent DeCosta, the sergeant George Spalding served with in Vietnam, has a cousin. He says DeCosta’s younger brother, Thomas, emigrated to Canada during the Vietnam War to avoid the draft, and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
“Where in Canada?”
“I don’t know,” Sara replied. “We’ve asked the Canadian authorities to locate him if possible.”
“Debbie Calderwood said she lives in Calgary, Canada.”
“That’s why I thought you’d like to know. I’ve got to run. I’m a busy girl.”
Kerney called Ramona Pino. “Was there a Canadian connection in any of Clifford Spalding’s personal or corporate financial records?”
“He owns several hotels in Canada, and a third of the proceeds from his estate will go to a foundation he established in Canada, the High Prairie Charitable Trust.”
“What do you know about the foundation?” Kerney asked.
“Nothing, Chief.”
“Look into it,” Kerney said. “I want as much information as you can get. When it was incorporated, who directs it, what its purpose is, who the board members or trustees are, and any financial statements and annual reports.”
“Didn’t Debbie Calderwood tell her old college roommate that her husband ran a philanthropic organization in Calgary?” Ramona asked.
“She did,” Kerney replied. “Query the Calgary police for information about her, her husband, a man named Vincent DeCosta, and his brother Thomas. They may have changed their names. Fax them the police sketch of Debbie.”
“Who’s this DeCosta?” Ramona asked.
“He’s an Army deserter who served with George Spalding in Nam.”
“I’ll get on it, Chief.”
Kerney put the phone down and went back over his notes on Ed Ramsey. During the past few days he’d used his free time at the academy checking into Ramsey’s background.
Ramsey had started his law enforc
ement career in Missouri and worked briefly for a small department in Illinois, before moving to California and joining the Santa Barbara Police Department as a patrol officer and then moving up through the ranks. The police standards and certification boards in all three states had no disciplinary reports or formal complaints about him on file.
Ramsey’s credit history proved to be more interesting. He had a sizable mortgage on his Stafford home, as well as personal loans for a boat, motorcycle, and two automobiles. Additionally, the report showed another real estate loan in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars for property in Maine. The bank that held the note reported it was for a summer home on the coast near the town of Camden and that Ramsey had purchased it two years ago. Ramsey’s total loan payments added up to a six-figure annual nut.
He used his credit cards frequently, occasionally for big ticket items, but always paid the balances in full each month.
From the FBI Personnel Office, Kerney learned that Ramsey’s civil service position was rated as a GS 12. From the California Public Employees’ Retirement System, Kerney learned how much Ramsey received annually through the pension fund. Even if Ramsey was at the top end of his salary scale, his combined income from wages and retirement pay fell far short of the money needed to fuel his lifestyle. It pointed to an additional income stream that Kerney couldn’t find until he knew where to look.
That afternoon, Kerney sat in on Ramsey’s media relations class and did a Q&A about his efforts to improve coordination between his department and community agencies serving chronically mentally ill patients. Kerney explained how the deaths of two seriously mentally ill individuals had prompted him to appoint an ad hoc citizen task force to develop and implement a special training program for all sworn personnel.
After class, Ramsey shook Kerney’s hand and thanked him for his participation.
“When do you head home to Santa Fe?” Ramsey asked as they walked down the hallway.
“I’m at work Monday morning, with a full plate waiting for me.”
Ramsey flashed an understanding smile. “Isn’t that always the case? From what I’ve been reading in the newspapers, you’ve still got the Spalding homicide hanging fire.”
“She’s still out there, but we don’t know where. I understand you met her husband some time back.”
Ramsey laughed and nodded. “When he was married to his first wife. We called her Crazy Alice. I spoke to him a few times.”
“How did that come about?” Kerney asked as they descended the stairs to the ground floor.
“The woman had some hare-brained idea that her dead son was still alive. She was obsessed by it, and kept calling my department to report alleged sightings. Spalding found out what she was doing and came in to set the record straight. He brought full documentation with him of his son’s death in Vietnam. He said he couldn’t control her behavior, and asked for my understanding in the matter. From that point on, I had my detectives humor her whenever she called with a new lead.”
Kerney nodded knowingly. “Cranks and crazies, they’re everywhere.”
“That’s what makes a chief’s job so much fun. But when they’re rich and influential, you’ve got to placate them a bit more than the average civilian. Any ideas of why the current Mrs. Spalding killed her husband?”
Kerney stopped in front of his office. “A few.”
“Probably for the money,” Ramsey said. “He had a shitload of it.”
“Interestingly, that hasn’t popped up as a motive.”
Ramsey shrugged. “I guess there are as many motives to kill as there are victims. We need to get you back here to teach again.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. I’ll make it happen.”
After Ramsey waved good-bye and disappeared around a corner, Kerney smiled. From what he’d said about Alice Spalding, Ramsey clearly knew Kerney had been snooping into the case, and his most likely informant was Dick Chase. Ramsey had stopped short of probing the subject more deeply, but his curiosity about it had been real. It was also interesting that Ramsey had focused on money as a motive for Clifford Spalding’s murder. Did he have a personal interest in Spalding’s wealth that made him jump to that conclusion?
Kerney was now convinced, in spite of what Ramona Pino had told him to the contrary, that there had to be a money trail connecting Clifford Spalding, Ed Ramsey, and Dick Chase.
On his desk he found a note to call the lab in Albuquerque. He dialed the number and spoke to a senior tech, who gave him the results of the DNA comparison testing. The remains were not those of George Spalding.
Friday night, Sara came home at a reasonable time with news from the Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory at Walter Reed. As she fed Patrick his dinner in his high chair, she told Kerney what had been discovered.
“The remains in Spalding’s casket belong to a chief petty officer. He was lost overboard when his strike assault boat came under fire during a mission to pick up a SEAL team operating near the Cambodian border in 1972. According to eyewitness reports, he took rounds in the chest. Several other sailors were wounded.”
“At least he wasn’t a murder victim,” Kerney said, “which means we have one less crime to worry about. How was his body retrieved?”
Sara wiped Patrick’s chin with a napkin. “There’s no record that it was, at least by our personnel. The file does show that South Vietnamese naval commandos mounted several search and recovery missions for his body after the SEAL pullout. But there are no follow-up action assessment reports. They were probably burned before Saigon fell. Lots of official documents were destroyed to keep them out of the hands of the North Vietnamese.”
“What about mortuary records?”
Sara held out the spoon to Patrick. He took it and banged it on the high chair. “According to the quartermaster corps, the sailor ’s remains were never received at either Da Nang or Tan Son Nhut. From what we now know, the likely scenario is that after Spalding faked his death, someone at the mortuary sent the body bag home under Spalding’s name, and whoever processed it stateside made sure no questions were asked.”
“I wonder how many gemstones were in the body bag, and how Spalding left Nam without getting caught.”
“Given his job, it would have been easy for him to assume a dead soldier ’s identity. He probably came home on a chartered troop transport flight.”
“He would have needed orders to do it.”
“Which a processing clerk could have provided for a hefty bribe.”
“That makes sense,” Kerney said. “Has the sailor ’s family been notified?”
Sara shook her head as she tried to get Patrick to eat more dinner. He pushed the spoon away. “No, but when they are told, there will be no mention of the fact that his remains were unearthed in a casket buried over thirty years ago under another man’s name.”
“I think he’s finished eating.” Kerney took Patrick out of his high chair and plopped him on his lap. “That would be an embarrassment to the military.”
Sara gave him a guarded look. “Do you think they should be told the truth?”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Kerney said. “The family has had over thirty years to wonder, hope, and grieve. Let them bury him and move on. What are the Army’s plans to find George Spalding?”
“JAG and CID have mounted a full-scale investigation into the entire gemstone smuggling operation. It’s quite possible that a quartermaster officer, who has since retired at a fairly high rank, may have been involved.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The officer in question authorized the release of the remains to Clifford and Alice Spalding and logged in the body bag containing the gemstone shipment that was intercepted.”
Patrick smeared a sticky hand on Kerney’s shirt and burped. “Are you still in the loop on the case?”
Sara shook her head. “Only peripherally, but I’ll keep an eye on it. When will you tell Alice Spalding about her son?”
; “Not right away,” Kerney replied. “Although with her deteriorating mental condition it might not matter when I did. Are you busy tomorrow night?”
“Of course not, it’s Saturday.”
“Good. I’ve booked dinner reservations at a Georgetown restaurant. Afterward, we have tickets for a chamber music concert in the city. I’ve already arranged for a babysitter.”
Sara smiled. “That sounds nice.”
Kerney lifted a very smelly Patrick off his lap. “I think our young friend needs his diaper changed.”
“Your turn,” Sara said. “I’ll do the dishes.”
Kerney took Patrick away and cleaned him up. Through the open door he could hear Sara loading the dishwasher. She was still a bit preoccupied and overworked, and not her usual self. But the tension between them had diminished.
Kerney thought it best to let the situation ride. He didn’t want anything to spoil his last two days in Arlington.
He put a clean diaper on Patrick and tickled his belly. “Let’s have a great weekend, Champ, before I head back to Santa Fe.”
Patrick giggled in agreement, burped, and kicked his little feet in the air.
A late afternoon summer sky greeted Kerney upon his return to New Mexico. The sun flooded golden light on the desert and made the distant peaks behind Santa Fe flutter miragelike against a hot blue horizon.
The thought of returning to the solitude of his empty ranch house depressed Kerney. After two weeks with Sara and Patrick, he didn’t want to face the feeling of loneliness that would surely come as soon as he got home. Instead, he went to his office. On his desk was a memo from Ramona Pino and some material on the High Prairie Charitable Trust. According to the memo, the Calgary Police Department and Canadian federal authorities had not yet completed background checks on the staff and board members of the trust. Efforts to locate Debbie Calderwood, George Spalding, and the DeCosta brothers had just gotten under way.
Kerney turned to the charitable trust documents. Established twenty-eight years ago as a private foundation, its mission was to conserve, protect, and restore native prairies in Alberta and Saskatchewan, preserve historical sites in both provinces, and provide scholarships to agricultural students at Canadian colleges.
Slow Kill Page 27
