Death Song (24 page)

“So the perp has been watching her apartment,” Clayton said, “hoping Riley would come around, and instead the cops show up with Robocker in tow under their protection.”

“Which might have been enough to convince the perp it was time to cancel Robocker just in case she had been talking.”

“That can’t be the larger purpose,” Clayton said wearily.

Kerney patted Clayton on the arm. “I didn’t say I knew what it was; just that there might be one. Let’s go with the thought that we’ve got four homicides, five including the unborn fetus, and Brian Riley is the key to what ties them together. Let’s find him before the killer does.”

“So far that’s been easier said than done.”

Lee Armijo returned with news that the trash had been hauled away yesterday afternoon, the tenant who’d moved out of the apartment was being interviewed by detectives, officers were tracking down the workmen who’d been in the apartment since it had become vacant, and a fresh team of detectives were about to start a new canvass at their present location.

“I put a uniform to work going through the trash bin anyway and told him to look for the packing box and assembly instructions for the telescope,” Armijo said. “If he comes up empty, I told him to get a list together of any and all businesses in the city that sold that particular make and model so we could start making the rounds.”

“Good deal,” Clayton said.

“The forensic techs will be here in a few,” Armijo added, “and they ask that you not touch anything, as you might contaminate evidence and thus prevent them from solving the crimes.”

“They truly said that?” Kerney asked.

Armijo nodded. “Apparently they consider you and Sergeant Istee country cousins who have little appreciation for or knowledge of their considerable skills, or they’ve been watching too many crime scene investigation television shows.”

“Tell them I want comparison fingerprints from the previous tenant and everyone who’s been in this apartment since it was vacated,” Kerney said.

“Consider it done,” Armijo said as the first crime scene tech entered the apartment. He repeated Kerney’s request, pointed at the bedroom door, and told the tech to start in there. “Now, if you guys have a few minutes to spare, my chief, several of his deputy chiefs, and every officer at the crime scene above the rank of sergeant are waiting for you in the mobile command center. They very much would like to know—as my chief put it—‘what the fuck is going on. ’”

“Whatever,” Clayton said, stifling a yawn as he headed for the door.

As the men left the apartment, Kerney noticed dark circles under Clayton’s eyes. He looked totally worn out and in need of sleep. Kerney knew Clayton had been working full throttle for over twenty-four hours and was about to run out of steam.

At the mobile command center, Scott Kruger, the APD chief of police, a man Kerney knew and considered to be more of a politician than a cop, greeted him at the door, pulled him aside, and waited until Armijo and Clayton entered the vehicle before speaking.

A chunky man with a thin face, Kruger looked decidedly uptight. “Tell me this Indian cop knows what he’s talking about.”

“What do you mean?”

“My homicide captain tells me that this Sergeant Istee from Lincoln County says the murder of my officer and the cocktail waitress is directly related to the killings of the deputy sheriff in Capitan and his wife up in Santa Fe.”

“There’s good reason to believe that.”

Kruger grunted. “You mean it’s just a hypothesis?”

“And a very good one,” Kerney noted, already tiring of Kruger’s blustery style. It was a poor substitute for command presence, which the man totally lacked. “It’s one that I agree with, based on Sergeant Istee’s analysis.”

“And this Sergeant Istee, will he walk us through how he arrived at all of his insights?” Kruger asked without trying to mask his sarcasm.

“I’m sure if you ask nicely, he will,” Kerney replied.

“The dead deputy’s son, this Brian Riley, he’s a suspect?”

“Perhaps,” Kerney replied. “We won’t know until we find him.”

Kruger grimaced. “So I got nothing to tell the media, right?”

“After the briefing, I’d like us to make a full-bore effort to find Brian Riley, including asking the media for their assistance. That should make for a juicy breaking-news story.”

Kruger’s expression brightened as he stepped toward the mobile command center’s door. “Okay, Kerney, I’ll stay on the same page with you for a while.”

“That’s great,” Kerney replied, straight-faced.

The mobile command center was an oversize recreational vehicle crammed with communication equipment, computers, workstations, and now several more cops to add to the assembled crowd. Kruger pushed his way to the front of the vehicle, introduced Kerney and Clayton, and asked his homicide captain, Jerry Apodaca, to start the briefing.

Apodaca reported that the sliding glass door to the balcony of Robocker’s apartment showed tool marks and had been jimmied open. He noted that shoe scuff marks had been found on the exterior stucco wall below the balcony and there were telltale abrasions on the balcony’s painted wrought iron railing, suggesting that the perp had used a rope and climbed to reach Robocker’s bedroom. A motion-detection pathway light behind Robocker’s building had been disabled by the perp to provide concealment, and none of the residents with a view of the victim’s apartment balcony reported hearing or seeing anything unusual around the time of the murders.

Although Apodaca wasn’t certain about the sequence of events that occurred after the perp gained entry, the medical investigator had concluded that Officer Connors had suffered a blunt-force trauma to the head prior to being shot, which suggested the perp first disabled and disarmed the officer before proceeding with the executions. There was, Apodaca, said, no other way to describe the killings.

Apodaca reported that given the body temperature of both dead women, the MI estimated the killings took place no more than a hour before Detective Armijo and Sergeant Istee arrived at the apartment. He ended his presentation by noting the perp had to be well trained and in good physical shape to have successfully climbed into Robocker’s apartment.

Next up was Armijo’s lieutenant, Doug Bromilow, who ran down the sequence of events that led to the discovery of the marijuana factory in Four Hills. He deferred to Lee Armijo to provide the alleged tie-in between Morton Birch, Minerva Stanley Robocker, and Brian Riley, and then retook center stage to note that his ongoing investigation had yet to learn anything from the suspects, their known associates, witnesses, or neighbors that connected Brian Riley to any person who was part of the marijuana manufacturing and distribution scheme.

Kerney and Clayton finished up the session with a background synopsis that included the current status of the Santa Fe and Lincoln County murder investigations. Then Kruger asked for questions from the troops. The most persistent issue that surfaced, and rightfully so, was the total absence of a motive that would clearly connect the murders.

A few of the APD brass questioned the theory of a single shooter, but there was consensus that the killings were neither crimes of passion nor the work of amateurs. Kerney almost thanked the group for their stunning insight, but held back on the sarcasm and instead made a pitch to concentrate all efforts on finding the one person who might be most helpful to the investigations, Brian Riley.

The briefing ended with Kruger ordering his troops to go find Brian Riley pronto. After the exodus of officers from the stuffy, sweaty, mobile command center, Kerney watched Chief Kruger hurry down toward a small gathering of news reporters waiting behind a police barrier.

“I can’t be your tour guide anymore, gentlemen,” Armijo said. “My LT wants me to head back to the office and do my shift reports.”

“Thanks for your help,” Clayton said, shaking Armijo’s hand.

“Anytime,” Armijo said as he tossed off a causal hand salute in Kerney’s direction.

Kerney returned the salute. “Thanks, Detective.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” Armijo ambled away in the direction of his unmarked unit.

Clayton turned to Kerney. “Can you drop me off at my motel so I can pick up my stuff and check out?”

“Sure,” Kerney said, “but don’t check out. Get some rack time. You look like you could use the sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re running on fumes,” Kerney countered, “and I don’t need you searching for Brian Riley in that condition. Not when just about everyone who wears a shield in this state is looking for the kid.”

“This is my investigation and I can pull my own weight,” Clayton said hotly, giving Kerney an antagonistic look.

Kerney inched closer. “I’m not asking you, Sergeant. You’re off duty for at least the next eight hours. Do I make myself clear?”

For a moment Clayton remained silent, staring Kerney in the eye. Then for some unknown reason he smiled and started to laugh.

“Okay, you win, what’s so funny?” Kerney asked.

Still laughing, Clayton waved off Kerney’s question. “Nothing. Just a thought I had.”

“What thought?”

“You really want to know?”

“I do.”

Clayton stopped laughing, looked at Kerney, and shook his head. “Well, it may not be funny to you, but for the first time in my entire life, my father just ordered me to go to my room and to go to bed.”

Clayton walked away and started laughing again.

“That is pretty funny,” Kerney said as he caught up.

“And ridiculous too,” Clayton added.

The motel was a short drive from the crime scene, and by the time they arrived, Clayton was asleep and snoring heavily, his head resting against the glass of the passenger-side window. Kerney sat and watched him for a few minutes before gently shaking him awake.

Clayton rubbed his face with his hands, covered a yawn, and gave Kerney a sideways glance. “If it’s all right with you, Chief, I think I’ll catch a couple hours of shut-eye.”

“That’s a good idea,” Kerney replied. “I’ll see you in Santa Fe later in the day.”

Clayton got out of the unit and looked in at Kerney. “See you then.”

On the drive back to Santa Fe, Kerney thought about the letters Denise Riley had written home to her sister Helen Muiz during the years she’d lived away from her family. He’d only given them a quick look and hadn’t formed a clear impression, but there was something hackneyed about them, especially in the later letters Denise had written. It was as though, with the passage of time, she’d depleted her storehouse of fresh things to write home about. He wanted to analyze the letters to see if he could isolate any repetitive words or phrases Denise used, identify any stock comments or observations she made, and find any threads in the letters that might point to thinly disguised, reworked fabrications.

The fact that the federal government had no record of Denise ever applying for a passport, being issued one, or traveling outside of the United States had piqued Kerney’s interest. Once he finished analyzing the letters, he would deliver them to the Department of Public Safety crime lab and ask the Questioned Documents specialist to do a thorough analysis. He wanted to know what type of pens and inks were used, the manufacture of the paper and envelopes, if the stamps and cancellation marks were authentic, whether the handwriting was Denise’s, and if so, was consistent throughout the letters—everything the specialist could tell him.

And of course, he wanted to have the answers right away.

Chapter Nine

Loud pounding at the motel room door brought Clayton out of a deep, dreamless sleep. He rolled over, opened an eye, and tried to focus on the tabletop clock radio. It was exactly three hours since his head had hit the pillow. Light-headed and groggy, he got out of bed, padded barefoot to the door, and looked through the security peephole. Detective Lee Armijo was about to pound away again on the door.

“Okay, okay,” Clayton yelled, hitting the light switch and opening up. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he asked as Armijo stepped inside.

“I’m a narc,” Lee replied. “We all take drugs to stay awake.” There were dark rings under his eyes. “Get dressed while I make the coffee. I figure that’s probably your drug of choice.”

“I rarely self-medicate,” Clayton replied.

Armijo guffawed, took the in-room coffee carafe off the machine on the dresser next to the cheap twenty-inch color TV, went to the bathroom, and filled it with water.

“What are you doing here, Detective?” Clayton asked as he stuck a leg into his jeans.

“Please, Sergeant, call me Lee. After all, we did spend last night together.” Armijo returned from the bathroom, stuffed two individually wrapped packs of coffee in the machine, poured in the water, and pushed the button. The machine sighed and started to gurgle.

“But to answer your question,” Armijo continued, “I started thinking that maybe Brian Riley might be involved in the drug trade as a user, given his association with Robocker, in spite of the fact that our good pal Mort Birch told us he didn’t know him. So I called some of my snitches.”

Clayton sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. “And?”

“One of them, Ed Duffy, a good Irish-American lad who sadly turned to a life of crime as a juvenile, swears that Brian Riley is crashing at a house on Cornell Drive near the university. Duffy says he saw him there two nights ago.”

Clayton tucked in his shirt. “How reliable is your snitch?”

Armijo poured Clayton a cup of coffee and handed it to him. “Duffy, bless his heart, provides very good intel because I have him on a short leash and he can’t afford to screw up. If he pisses me off for any reason, I’ll have his probation officer violate him on a commercial burglary beef. He’ll go straight to the slammer and pull a dime.”

Clayton took a sip of coffee, made a face, and put the cup on the bedside table. “This stuff is terrible.”

“It’s my super high-octane formula,” Armijo explained as he threw Clayton his coat, “designed to get your motor running. Let’s go. Bring your coffee with you. On the way, I’ll tell you what else I learned from Duffy. It’s all very interesting stuff.”