Everyone Dies (21 page)

“What about the puncture wound to the lower abdomen?”

“I’d say it occurred after death,” the pathologist said. “It’s a clean entry, so I doubt the killer did it while she was experiencing poison-induced spasms. I’ll know for sure after I open her up and see where the blood settled.”

“Call me if you learn anything else,” Molina said.

He put the cell phone down and studied the license plate that had been removed from the van. He’d hoped the perp would have left prints on the back side of the plate, but no such luck. It had been wiped clean. He looked up to find the plant biologist standing in front of the desk holding a baggie in his hand.

“This is interesting,” the man said, shaking the baggie at Molina. It held a single stem and one partial leaf of a plant.

“Tell me why,” Molina said.

“It’s Lupinus brevicaulis,” the biologist said as he pushed his eyeglasses back into place. “Short-stemmed lupine. It doesn’t grow here.”

“Where does it grow?” Molina asked.

“Mostly south of Albuquerque along the Rio Grande. But the range extends into the southwestern part of the state and north into the Four Corners region.”

Molina thought about the report Chief Kerney had filed about the dead Merriam Kangaroo Rats found on his front step. According to the wildlife specialist who’d examined the animal, the rat’s range was similar to that of the plant.

He checked his copy of Kerney’s report to make sure. The rat’s native habitat was also along the Pecos River south of Santa Rosa. “Would it be found in the eastern part of the state along the Pecos?”

“Nope. There you’d find the spurred lupine and the low lupine. Neither come close to looking like the petal and stem of this variety.”

“How far south does it grow?”

“All the way into Mexico.”

The van had been lowered from the rack and the techs were about to strip it into parts. “That’s helpful,” Molina said. “Have you got anything else for me?”

The biologist shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But the soil samples may show something once you get them analyzed. I’m done, Lieutenant. I’ll send you a report for your file.”

Molina nodded and jotted down what the biologist had told him. Another fact had fallen into place. Unlike most of the other pieces of evidence, this one was at least linked to something, in this case geography. But that left a hell of a lot of land to cover south of Albuquerque to pinpoint a location for the perp, and it might mean nothing at all to the outcome of the investigation. Still, it would need to be looked into.

Molina considered the fact that the perp had used poison on his latest victim. He’d also poisoned the rats left on Kerney’s doorstep and probably the one Dora Manning had found in her driveway. It was another interesting thread that probably wouldn’t go anywhere.

What did matter was the fact that the perp kept changing how he carried out his lethal attacks. So far, he’d successfully used poison, knives, and guns, and made one failed attempt with explosives. He wondered what he had in store for Kerney, Sara, and the baby. Strangulation? Drowning? Suffocation?

Was the perp a cop? Sal didn’t think so. Anybody could study basic police science and learn fundamental investigative and forensic techniques from a book or a community college class.

Molina looked out the garage door. Morning had come and a shaft of sunlight spread into the open bay. He wondered why the chief hadn’t called to ream him out for sending Ramona Pino down to Mescalero. Surely Kerney had to know he’d done it to get her away from Lieutenant Casados and his IA investigation.

Casados would be fuming when he got to the office and learned about Molina’s ploy. But Sal had a plan on how to deal with Casados, and he was pretty sure it would work.

Milton Lynch’s bushy, untamed eyebrows cascaded down and interfered with his vision. He licked a stubby finger, ran it across his brows to get them to behave, and nodded at the police artist’s sketch that Kerney had placed on his office desk.

“Yeah, I did talk to this guy,” Lynch said. “Except he had his long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a suit.”

“Tell me about him,” Kerney said.

“He said he was writing a book about the ranchers that had been kicked off the Tularosa Basin by the government during and after World War II. Said he was researching the failed attempts of descendants of the ranchers to get compensation from the government for the loss of their land. He wanted to talk to them and get their stories.”

“So he asked for names?”

“Yeah, and you were just one of many I told him about.”

“What about Clayton Istee and his family? Did you mention him?”

“I’m almost sure I did.”

“How did he find you?” Kerney asked.

“I’ve handled probate for a lot of those ranching families over the years,” Lynch replied. “Plus, because I’ve got records of old title searches and copies of last wills and testaments, I’ve given depositions in a number of civil cases brought against the government for damages and just compensation claims that the courts have rejected. What the government did sixty years ago is still a thorn in the side of many of the old-timers and their families who lost everything when the missile range was established. But of course, you know all of this.”

Kerney nodded. “So he found you through court records?”

Lynch snickered. “He probably didn’t have to dig that deep. About once a year the newspaper interviews me for a feature article when another court case for a rancher or an heir hits the docket. It’s always big news around here.”

“What exactly did he want from you?”

“Like I said, just the names of living family members and relatives,” Lynch replied. “He wanted to concentrate on the human side of their stories and the losses they’d suffered at the hands of the government.”

“Did he identify himself?”

Lynch nodded. “He gave me his business card and told me his name, but I can’t say I recall it. This was five, maybe six months ago.”

“Did you keep the card?”

“No, I tossed it.”

“Try to remember the name,” Kerney said.

Lynch shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind. But I do remember he was from Arizona. Tucson, I think.”

“Did he make an appointment to see you?”

“No, he just walked in early in the morning and asked for a quick meeting.”

“Was there anything unusual about him?”

“Not really. Five-ten, average build, maybe thirty years old. Except for the long hair, he was just a normal-looking guy.”

“Did he have any quirks or distinctive mannerisms?” Kerney asked.

Lynch thought for a moment. “He kept rubbing his forefinger against his nose, and it was rosy in color. But it looked more like a skin condition than a cold or an allergy. He wasn’t sneezing or anything.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“He had a bandage on his left hand between the thumb and forefinger, right in that soft spot. I figured he’d cut himself. Why are you asking about this guy?”

“Because he’s a killer,” Kerney said as he stood up and handed Lynch his card. “Call me if you remember the name he gave you.”

Lynch’s expression darkened. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” Kerney said as he headed for the door, eager to get back to Santa Fe.

Sal Molina didn’t have to wait until he got back to headquarters to have Robert Casados in his face. Casados stomped into the garage, curled his lip and said in a loud voice, “Stop fucking with me, Sal.”

All the techs quit what they were doing and glanced at the two men.

“Let’s take it outside,” Molina said to the young lieutenant. He put down the inventory sheet of all the parts from the van that had already been inspected by the techs and got to his feet.

“You sent Pino out of town, and you knew I had an interview scheduled with her first thing this morning.”

“Outside, Lieutenant,” Molina said gruffly as he moved away from Casados.

The bright July sunlight made Molina blink. He walked Casados into some shade at the side of the garage. “Now, what’s your gripe?” he asked.

“You heard me. I’ve got a job to do and you’re messing with me.”

“I sent Detective Pino to Mescalero because I wanted to talk to you before this goes any further.”

“I could write you up for interfering with my investigation,” Casados said.

“Do you want to flex your muscles or hear me out?” Molina asked.

“What do you want to say?”

“I put pressure on Pino to find a suspect in the Potter homicide, but she isn’t going to tell you that. I told her to take a hard look at Mary Beth Patterson and Kurt Larsen, and she isn’t going to tell you that either.”

“That doesn’t excuse Pino’s lack of judgment,” Casados said.

“Ain’t hindsight a wonderful thing?” Molina shot back. “She had two mentally ill people known to hold a grudge against the victim, and one of them was armed and potentially dangerous.”

“She still fucked up,” Casados replied. “So did Sergeant Tafoya.”

“No, Bobby, I fucked up,” Molina said, poking himself in the chest. “I put the pressure on them. I requested the SWAT call-out. I wanted Larsen to be our perp, and because of that I didn’t ask the right questions.”

“Pino fed you misinformation because she didn’t do her job right.”

“She’s not a social worker, dammit, and the tip that Larsen and Patterson might be credible suspects came from Chief Kerney. Are you also going to write him up for feeding me misinformation?”

“That’s absurd.”

“Pino acted based on what she’d been told to do by me, and the reasonable suspicion she got from her conversation with Patterson. You want accountability for this screw-up? You’re looking at it.”

“You can’t cover for your people this time, Sal.”

“Why not? I did it for you when you were in my unit. More than once, if I recall correctly.”

“Are you asking me for a favor?” Casados demanded.

“No favor,” Sal replied. “But I will give you what you need to put this to rest. You recommend to the chief that I’m to be severely reprimanded and asked to retire. I’ll turn in my paperwork immediately.”

“Why scapegoat yourself?”

“I want to retire, Bobby. I haven’t slept in two days, haven’t seen my wife, haven’t even changed my shirt. I’m maxed-out on my pension benefits, so I’m not gonna get any richer. I just want to rest for a week and then go fishing.”

“Tafoya’s on the list for lieutenant and Pino’s next in line for sergeant stripes,” Casados said.

“Yes, they are, and you worked with both of them in my unit. Are they seasoned? Are they capable of command? Of course they are. But forget about all that. The final decision to promote rests with the chief. Let him sort it out. That’s his job, not yours.”

Casados bit his lip.

“There’s one more thing,” Molina said.

“What’s that?”

“Chief Kerney knows I sent Pino down to Mescalero and I haven’t heard a peep out of him about my decision. If he’d wanted to countermand my order and chew my butt out, it would have happened long before you got to work this morning.”

Casados stood with his hands on his hips, tapping his fingers against the butt of his holstered sidearm. “Are you telling me Kerney’s behind this scheme?”

“No, I’m telling you I know the man and I think he’ll want to make a decision that’s best for all concerned. All you have to do is give him the opportunity.”

“If I go with this, you can’t back out, Sal,” Casados said.

Molina laughed. “Hell no. I’m doing myself a favor, Bobby.”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Sal said as he walked back into the sunlight. “Now leave me alone. I’ve got work to do, and not much time to do it.”

Detective Matt Chacon knew that unlike the TV cop shows-where actors sit in front of a computer monitor and instantaneously pull up a digital fingerprint record that matches a perp or a victim-trying to ID someone using prints in the real world can be mind-numbing work. There are thousands of prints that have never been entered into the computer data banks, and thousands more on file that, because of poor quality, are virtually unusable for comparison purposes. On top of that, figure in the small cop shops who haven’t got the money, manpower, and equipment to transfer print records to computers, and the unknown number of print cards that were left in closed felony cases and sit forgotten in basement archives at police departments all over the country, and you’ve got a data-bank system that is woefully inadequate and incomplete. Finally, while each fingerprint is unique, the difference between prints can be so slight that a very careful analysis must be made to confirm a perfect match. Even then, different experts can debate the results endlessly, since it isn’t an exact science.

Chacon had started his career in law enforcement as a crime scene technician with a speciality in fingerprint and tool-mark identification, so of course Lieutenant Molina had sent him off to the state police headquarters to work the state and federal data banks to see if he could get a match.

He’d been at it all night long and his coffee was starting to taste like sludge, his eyes were itchy, and his butt was numb. Using an automated identification system, Chacon had digitally stored the victim’s prints in the computer and then started scanning for a match against those already on file.

The computer system could identify possible matches quickly, but then it became a process of carefully analyzing each one and scoring them according to a detailed classification system. So far, Chacon had examined six dozen sets of prints that looked like possible equivalents and had struck out. But there was another baker’s dozen to review.

He clicked on the next record, adjusted the monitor to enhance the resolution of the smudged prints, and began scoring them in sequence. Whoever had printed the subject had done a piss-poor job. He glanced at the agency indentifier. It was a Department of Corrections submission.