Death Song (31 page)

Inside, Clayton made his excuses to Sara and went immediately to the guest quarters. In the kitchen, Kerney joined Sara for a cup of tea. A partially destroyed gut from a drug dealer’s bullet had pretty much done away with Kerney’s coffee-drinking days.

Sara reached out and touched Kerney’s cheek. “I was starting to get worried about you.”

“It was slow going, but we made it. Clayton needs sleep. I ordered him off duty but that didn’t seem to work. So I decided that I didn’t want him staying anywhere else but here tonight.”

Sara’s eyes danced. “That sounds remarkably like what a concerned parent would do.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“A very good thing. Jack Burke called to say he would be out at first light plowing his roads with his grader. He said if you’re not in a fired-up hurry to get to work early, he’d have ours cleared by eight o’clock.”

Jack was Kerney’s closest neighbor, friend, and the man who’d sold him two sections of ranchland. He owned an old Highway Department surplus road grader that he used to keep his ranch roads in good condition. “Bless him.” He took Sara’s hand. “You seem in a good mood.”

“I’m loving this storm. It reminds me of Montana winters on the ranch when we would be snowbound for a week. There were days when nothing moved, when even my father was forced to stay inside until the sky cleared and the winds died down. Those days were magic for me and my brother. The land an unbroken white blanket. The mountains frosted cones. The ranch house cozy and warm. Me in the kitchen with my mother learning how to make biscuits from scratch.”

“Most people nowadays will never have those kind of memories.”

Sara squeezed Kerney’s hand. “Well, we do.”

Kerney raised his wife’s hand to his lips. The Sara he loved was back, at least for a while. There would be rough spots to come, but it was heartening to see her eyes dance and hear that lovely country lilt creep into her voice. “Let’s keep making those memories,” he said.

Chapter Eleven

Overnight the tail end of the blizzard backed into northern New Mexico and dumped an additional six inches of snow on Santa Fe County. At dawn Kerney broke his way through the frozen crust of deep snow to the barn and spent the better part of an hour cleaning out stalls and feeding the horses and Patrick’s pony.

Kerney had kept the stock inside the barn for protection during the storm, and they were restless and in need of exercise. One by one he turned them loose in the corrals, and they pawed, kicked, pranced, stuck their muzzles into the snow, and high-stepped through the drifts near the fence line. Patrick’s pony, Pablito, bucked his way around the perimeter fence, whinnying as he went.

Kerney watched their spirited antics for a few minutes before deciding to leave them outside until after breakfast. As he trudged back to the house, the depth of the snow made him doubt that Jack Burke would have the ranch road plowed by eight o’clock as he had promised. In fact, Kerney doubted that much of anything would be moving in northern New Mexico for at least another day.

He shucked off his coat and boots in the mudroom, sat at the kitchen table, downed a big glass of orange juice, and listened for sounds of movement from Sara, Patrick, or Clayton. All was quiet. He called the regional dispatch center and asked for a report on road conditions.

“It’s a big mess, Chief,” the dispatcher said. “The Interstate is shut down, none of the major city arterials have been plowed or sanded, there are six-foot snowdrifts on some of the county roads, and we’ve got people calling 911 to report that they are stuck in their driveways and would I please send someone to help. There are motorists in ditches, none of the tow truck operators are moving, officers can’t make it to work, and those who have are attempting to transport emergency medical personnel to the hospital or rescue stranded motorists along the Interstate.”

“Put me through to the shift commander.”

“Deputy Chief Otero is ten-eighty-one if you want to talk to him.”

Somehow Larry had made it to police headquarters. “Ask him to stand by for my phone call,” Kerney said.

“Ten-four.”

He called and talked to Otero, who told him that the graveyard shift had been held over to pull a double, and only about half of the first shift had reported for duty.

“I’ve told all commanders to respond to emergency calls, only if we can even get to those locations,” Larry added, “and I’ve authorized all nonessential civilian personnel to take a snow day.”

“Very good.”

“Also, the state police report that the governor is going to declare a state of emergency. He’s calling out the National Guard to assist.”

“That will help a lot.”

“Sergeant Pino and Detective Chacon are on their way to the Cañoncito crime scene. Pino wants to know if you have contact with Sergeant Istee.”

“Tell her affirmative and to proceed without us. We’ll be at her twenty later in the morning. Speaking of Sergeant Istee, he needs to borrow a vehicle. What do we have on the lot?”

“If he can get here, there’s an unmarked Crown Vic with a rebuilt motor he can use.”

“I’ll let him know,” Kerney said. “Thanks, Larry.”

“I’m here if you need me,” Otero said before disconnecting.

Kerney checked the pantry and refrigerator to see what he could whip up for breakfast. He had no idea how long Clayton would sleep, so he decided he would make blueberry pancakes—one of Patrick’s all-time favorite meals—and keep a batch warming in the oven for Clayton.

He put the teakettle on the stove, got the coffeepot started for Sara, and was halfway through his prep when Patrick came into the kitchen still wearing his pajamas and holding his copy of
Herman and Poppy Go Singing in the Hills
, a storybook of the friendship between a horse and a pony.

“Good morning, scout.” Kerney picked up his son and gave him a smooch. “It’s blueberry pancakes for breakfast.”

“Yummy.” Patrick grinned and threw his arms around Kerney’s neck. “Mom says it’s a snow day and everybody has to stay home.”

“Some of us can’t, sport.” Kerney lowered Patrick to the floor. “But the time is coming when I won’t have to go to work anymore.”

“And you won’t be a police chief anymore,” Patrick added.

“That’s right,” Kerney said, wondering how
that
was going to feel.

He poured Patrick a glass of orange juice and sat him at the kitchen table. Between sips of his juice, Patrick read the fantastic adventures of Herman and Poppy aloud. Only Sara’s arrival temporarily interrupted the telling of the tale. Clayton followed along soon after, looking a whole lot better after a good night’s sleep.

Kerney put the finishing touches on breakfast and served it up while Patrick regaled the table with the part of the story where Poppy the pony goes missing and Herman the horse goes looking for his friend.

Clayton said it was one of the best stories he’d ever heard.

Patrick replied there was one that was even better and hurried off to his room. He returned with his all-time favorite book, a dog-eared copy of
Pablito the Pony
, and promptly started reading it to Clayton.

After breakfast, all hands pitched in to clear the table and stack the dishwasher. Chores done, the foursome went to the barn to put the horses back in their stalls. On their return to the house, Jack Burke and his road grader came into view. From the front courtyard they watched as he cut a swath in the snow wide enough for one car to get through and cleared the driveway to the ranch house.

At Sara’s insistence, Jack came inside for a cup of coffee. Patrick promptly climbed onto Jack’s lap as he sat at the kitchen table and asked if he could have a ride on the road grader. With Sara’s permission, Jack agreed to give him a short ride to the lip of the canyon and back.

“Can I drive it?” Patrick asked.

“You sure can,” Jack said, getting a nod from Kerney.

Patrick’s eyes lit up. He jumped off Jack’s lap, ran to the mudroom, returned with his boots and cold weather gear in hand, and started getting ready to go back outside.

“Guess I’d better hurry up and finish this coffee,” Jack said with a grin.

“We have to go as well,” Kerney said, gesturing toward Clayton. “Thanks for plowing our road.”

“No need for thanks,” Jack replied. “I like driving that big old grader about as much as Patrick does.”

Bundled up and ready to go, three men and one excited little boy trooped out into the fierce glare of sunlight bouncing off the thick layer of snow.

In the truck, Kerney lowered the visor, honked the horn, waved at Patrick and Jack, and started down the road. Even with the plowing Jack had done, it was slow going. Kerney made the turn onto the highway, looked at Clayton, and grinned.

“What?” Clayton asked.

“I was just thinking that you look a hell of a lot better once you get a good night’s sleep.”

Clayton smiled slightly. “Too bad it didn’t make me any smarter. Maybe then I’d have some ideas of what we should do to solve the murders.”

“Sometimes the solution is in the little details.”

Clayton nodded. He’d slept hard until just before he woke, when the dream of Tim Riley dressed as an Apache warrior and the faceless, laughing woman had returned. What did it mean? Why couldn’t he shake free of Riley’s ghost? Today he’d worn black jeans and a black wool sweater to protect himself from ghost sickness. But maybe it was too late.

“Are you okay?” Kerney asked, noting the dark expression on Clayton’s face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Clayton replied, forcing a smile, trying to make himself believe it.

At the Cañoncito double-wide Ramona Pino and Matt Chacon found an empty fifty-five-gallon oil drum in the stables and rolled it over the snow to the well house. At the woodshed they gathered up and carried armloads of kindling and firewood until they had enough to keep a good fire going for several hours. Matt got the fire started with blank paper from a writing tablet, and soon the warmth from the drum had noticeably raised the temperature under the improvised canopy that had been put up hastily during yesterday’s storm to protect the area from additional moisture contamination. But the canopy kept the smoke from rising, and after deciding the extra warmth wasn’t worth smoke-filled lungs and watery eyes, the two detectives cut it down.

Once the smoke had dissipated, Ramona crawled into the well house and turned on the battery-powered camping lantern. The partial roof on the structure and the temporary canopy had helped to keep deep snow from covering the dirt floor, but with a probe she could tell there was still a good twelve inches to dig through.

With the lantern instead of a flashlight and the morning sunlight streaming through the damaged roof, illumination inside the well house was much improved. Ramona did a careful visual inspection of all the surfaces that might have been touched by Brian Riley or anyone else who’d entered the structure, paying particular attention to the door, walls, and the metal parts of the old well motor and pipes that were exposed.

A good investigator knew that a person coming in contact with anything could leave a trace. Knowing what to look for could turn up a critical piece of evidence. It could be a hair, a fiber, a drop of blood, a mark left by a tool, a fingerprint, a footprint, or a toothpick with dried saliva on it. Cases had been solved and murderers convicted based on plant life, insects, and soil samples found at crime scenes.

On the rough-cut boards to the door there were what looked like some short dark hairs, quite possibly from rodents, stuck to the wood. It would be up to the lab to decide if the hairs were human or not. Using tweezers, Ramona removed each hair and bagged it separately.

She dusted for prints on likely surfaces and lifted several good ones from the metal door latch, the old motor, and one of the broken roof joists that hung down five feet above the dirt floor.

The snow accumulation behind the motor had an uneven indentation that Ramona closely examined. There were several scoop marks in the snow, made possibly by gloved hands. Brian Riley had come here yesterday looking for something, and this looked to be the likely spot.

Using a small trowel, Ramona began removing the snow by scraping away a thin layer at a time. When her trowel scratched something solid, she brushed the snow away to expose some wooden boards frozen to the dirt floor. Gently she pried the frost-covered boards loose and inspected them. There looked to be the outline of fingerprints on one of them. If so, when the frost on the board melted, the prints would mostly likely vanish.

Ramona quickly dusted the impressions, photographed the prints, and then examined the shallow pit the wooden slats had hidden. The earth had been disturbed, as though something had been dug out. A rectangular, dimpled outline around the edge of the pit suggested the object had been about the size of a briefcase.

Ramona photographed the pit, and the flash from her camera reflected off something shiny at one corner that was almost completely covered in dirt. She tried to pick it up with tweezers but couldn’t pull it free. Using the trowel, she pried it loose, slipped it off the trowel into a clear plastic bag, and zipped it closed. It was a gold coin, a 1974, one-troy-ounce South African Krugerrand. She put it in her coat pocket along with the other evidence she’d collected and went outside.

“Is it my turn?” Matt Chacon asked, standing next to the fire in the oil drum, looking warm and dry.

“Look at this.” Ramona handed Matt the bagged coin.

“A one-ounce Krugerrand. First produced in 1970. The obverse depicts Paul Kruger, the first president of the South African Republic, and the reverse shows the springbok, the national animal. During the apartheid years in South Africa, Krugerrands were banned from the United States.”

“I didn’t know you were a numismatist.” The heat from the fire felt wonderful. Ramona edged closer to the oil drum.

“Hardly that. I earned a coin collection merit badge in Boy Scouts.”

“I’m impressed. So how much is it worth?”

“If I remember correctly, Krugerrands contain exact amounts of gold, so the value of each coin is equivalent to the current market price of gold.”