Death Song (33 page)

“Is that who we’re looking for?” Matt asked. “Those are some really tiny feet.” Matt had met or seen somebody recently with feet like that, but couldn’t remember who or where. “Would he be small in height as well?”

“Not necessarily,” Clayton answered.

Kerney’s phone rang. It was Claire Paley, the questioned documents expert with the state crime lab.

“I didn’t expect you to be at work today,” Kerney said.

“You wanted quick results,” Claire said in her lilting, girlish voice. “Besides, I was born and raised in northern Minnesota. Three feet of snow is hardly enough to keep me from getting to work.”

“What kind of results do you have for me?”

“Come to my office and I’ll show you,” Claire answered. She disconnected before Kerney could question her in detail.

Kerney and Clayton left Matt Chacon and Ramona Pino behind to finish up at the well house and made the slow drive to the state crime lab on barely passable roads and streets. The cold, harsh light from a yellow sun blurred the rolling hills beneath the mountains. On the mountaintops, strong breezes whipped snow into the clear blue sky, creating the illusion of undulating clouds. In the city, long shadows cascaded across deep, untrammeled snow cover that created an oddly different landscape, empty of people and movement. Trees bowed under the weight of snow, branches almost touching the ground. So much snow had fallen that streets and sidewalks were invisible. Traffic lights at deserted intersections blinked and changed colors in sequence along empty thoroughfares.

Large drifts had softened the shape of buildings, hiding much of the boxy ugliness of the businesses along Cerrillos Road, the main route through town. Where major roads had been plowed, only one lane in each direction was passable, and the mounds of snow pushed to the curbs climbed halfway up the lampposts and street signs. In the parking lots only the telltale humps scattered here and there gave evidence of those few cars that had been abandoned by their owners during the storm.

For the moment, it was a world almost without motorized vehicles or the constant background noise of engines. Kerney liked the look of it a lot, but he was glad to be driving his truck to the crime lab and not hoofing it down Cerrillos Road.

At the Department of Public Safety, the parking lot was empty except for a Subaru with a Minnesota Vikings bumper sticker that sat near the public entrance. They found the front entrance unlocked, but no one was on duty at the reception area to sign them in and pass them through the electronically controlled interior door.

Kerney called Claire on his cell phone, and she came and got them. As they walked down the hall, he introduced her to Clayton and asked what she’d discovered.

“That depends on whether or not what I’ve found makes any sense to you,” Claire said as they entered the lab. She led Kerney and Clayton to a large worktable where some of Denise’s letters were arranged, protected in clear plastic sleeves.

“First, my analysis of the handwriting conclusively shows that all the letters were written by Denise.” Claire peered at Kerney over the bifocals perched on her nose. “Secondly, you wanted to know if the foreign stamps and cancellation marks on the envelopes are real. They are. Then, as you asked, I looked carefully at the paper and watermarks, and found they are of both domestic and foreign manufacture, the highest quality paper being Canadian in origin. The inks used were easily identified by the chemical footprint added by the manufacturers.”

Claire glanced from Kerney to Clayton. “You do know that the manufacturers change the chemical composition each year, which makes dating the substance a relatively easy task.”

“Of course,” Kerney replied.

“So, by comparing the dates in the letters with the paper watermarks and the ink used in composition, I can say without a doubt that they were all written in the year in which they were mailed. However, it is not possible to narrow down the actual composition of the letters to anything less than a twelve-month time frame.”

Claire paused for questions.

Kerney knew from experience that Claire was very precise in her presentation of facts, and it was best not to rush her. Besides, she’d braved the elements to get this work done, and he owed her big-time. “We’re with you so far,” he said.

“Good. I examined the cross-overs and obliterations, and they all fell within the category of misspellings or poor word usage.” Claire pointed at the letters on the table. “You wanted me to identify and decipher, if possible, any impressions of handwriting on the paper. The letters before you are the only documents I found with that kind of indentation. Four of them show signatures in Denise Riley’s handwriting. The names used are Diane Plumley, Debra Stokes, Dorothy Travis, and Mrs. John Coleman.”

“All in Denise’s handwriting,” Clayton said.

“That’s correct.” Claire pointed a finger at the letter closest to her on the table. “This document, however, contains more decipherable information than just a signature. Again, it was written in Denise Riley’s hand. The return address on the envelope and salutation shows that it was mailed to Helen Muiz by Denise Riley from Brisbane, Australia. The indented writing in the letter is a short thank-you note to a Jann and Jeffery McCafferty for a lovely dinner party. Not every word is readable, but it’s dated September 17 and signed ‘Dot,’ which of course could be short for Dorothy.”

“Excellent work, Claire,” Kerney said.

“Thank you.” Claire patted an errant strand of hair back into place. “But is it helpful information? Do any of these aliases Denise used years ago have a bearing on your case? And who are Jann and Jeffery McCafferty?”

“We don’t know yet,” Clayton said. “But every factual detail helps.”

Claire looked decidedly piqued by Clayton’s response. “How unforthcoming you are, Sergeant.”

“We do know that the State Department has no record of having issued a passport in Denise Riley’s maiden name,” Kerney said quickly. “The aliases you’ve found may very well help us clear that up.”

Claire smiled warmly. “Good. I’ve made photocopies for you of the indented handwriting I was able to discern under oblique light.” Claire handed Kerney a manila envelope. “I was going to forward the letters to our fingerprint specialist today, but he’s not at work because of the snow.”

“What if I send Detective Matt Chacon here to work with you on that?” Kerney asked. Matt Chacon had started his law enforcement career as a civilian fingerprint and tool-mark specialist in the state crime lab, before becoming a police officer with the Santa Fe P.D., and in addition to being a questioned documents expert, Claire was also certified as a forensic fingerprint specialist.

“Under your supervision of course,” he added.

Claire hesitated, frowned, and thought it over.

“I’ll clear it with Chief Baca,” Kerney added.

Claire’s expression brightened. “Well, it is your case evidence, and since I’m here now I might as well stay for a while and work with Matt.”

“You’re a sweetheart, Claire,” Kerney said.

Claire adjusted her eyeglasses in a failed attempt to hide a blush.

After Kerney called Andy Baca, who gave the green light for Matt Chacon to work in the lab, Clayton called Matt, filled him in on the plan, and asked him to get to the state crime lab pronto.

Clayton disconnected. “Matt is on his way.”

Claire walked the men to the reception area, where Kerney paused at the door and thanked her again.

“I’m going to miss you when you retire Chief Kerney,” she said in her tiny, breathless voice.

“I’ll miss you too, Claire,” Kerney said, holding her hand in his. When he released her hand, she turned quickly and hurried away.

Outside Clayton chuckled. “You made her blush twice. I didn’t know you were such a ladies’ man.”

“Get real.”

“I can’t get over that little-girl voice of hers. It’s just doesn’t fit with who she is, what she does, and the way she looks.”

“Claire’s a force to be reckoned with in more ways than one. State police agents have used her to catch Internet sexual predators. If a pedophile wants to talk directly by telephone to the fictitious underage female he’s solicited in the phony chat room the department runs, Claire acts as bait. I understand she has a flair for the theatrical and does a great Lolita. She’s helped to put a few really bad scumbags in the slammer for a long time.”

“Isn’t that something.”

“Yes, she is,” Kerney said as they piled in the truck. “Let’s start running down Denise Riley’s aliases, and see if we can find out who Jann and Jeffery McCafferty are.”

“Okay.”

Kerney cranked the engine and turned to Clayton. “I don’t know why Claire found you so unforthcoming. I thought ‘every factual detail helps’ was a perfectly reasonable response. Much in keeping with my thought earlier in the day that sometimes the solution to a crime is in the little details.”

Clayton groaned. “Don’t try to bust my chops. That’s conduct unbecoming a parent.”

Kerney laughed, let the clutch out, and slowly drove out of the slippery parking lot. “Tit for tat,” he said.

Matt Chacon’s years of experience as a fingerprint technician had taught him that the best detection techniques depended on the nature of the surface to be examined, the presence of any contaminants such as blood or fluid, whether or not the surface was wet or dry, and the likely age of the prints.

Since he would be dealing with dry stationery that had been kept out of direct sunlight for a number of years and quite possibly handled by several of the victim’s family members, Matt decided to start with a simple visual inspection of the documents. In the crime lab, he sat on a stool across from Claire Paley at a large examination table. Wearing gloves and using tweezers, they removed each piece of paper and envelope from its protective plastic sleeve and studied it under white light. The few latents revealed by the white light were immediately documented and recorded, but they would have to use ultraviolet light to bring out the invisible prints.

Matt looked across the table at Claire. “When we finish the visual, we’ll put everything under ultraviolet. Do we have an autopsy fingerprint card for Denise Riley?”

“Yes,” Claire said, “plus Chief Kerney provided fingerprint cards for Helen Muiz, her husband, and other members of her family.”

“If nothing else, the chief is very thorough,” Matt said gloomily. Many officers in the department, Matt included, weren’t happy with the idea of losing Kerney as their top cop. He’d restored professionalism and pride to an organization that had been badly mismanaged by his predecessor.

An hour into the ultraviolet scan, Matt looked at the stack of untouched documents enclosed in clear plastic sleeves. With the number of latents that were showing up on each piece of stationery, he estimated it would take several days to finish the job. He called a halt to the process.

“There’s no way we can get through all of this in less than two or three days,” he said.

“I agree,” Claire said. “What do you suggest?”

“There’s a barely visible latent on a protective clear plastic coin sleeve that might match up with a print from a fixed surface at the crime scene. But since it’s on a nonporous surface, we need to enhance it.”

Claire rose from her stool. “Let’s get started. We’ll use laser light first, and if that doesn’t work, there are a couple of other techniques we can try.”

Clayton sat at a small conference table in Kerney’s office at police headquarters, paging through the cold case file of the coin collection robbery that the Brisbane P.D. had faxed.

Across the table, Kerney was on the phone talking to federal officials at government agencies. Since arriving at headquarters, he’d been asking every relevant bureau within the State Department, Justice Department, and Homeland Security to do an expedited computer database search on Denise Riley’s aliases.

Clayton waited for Kerney to hang up and then quickly said, “The victim of the coin collection theft was, or is, Andrew Edgerton.”

Kerney raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“The last entry in the case file is two years old, and Mr. Edgerton was not in good health at that time. If he is still alive, he’ll turn seventy-nine on May 18.”

“What was the date of the theft again?”

Clayton flipped back to the face sheet and read off the date.

Kerney had made the copies of the letters Denise had sent to Helen Muiz before taking the originals to Claire Paley. He went to his desk, fanned through them, and found Denise’s Australian correspondence.

“Denise was in Australia at the time of the heist,” he said. “Does the case file give a phone number for Andrew Edgerton?”

“It does.”

“Read it off to me.”

“What time is it in Australia?” Clayton asked.

“I don’t know,” Kerney replied. “If it’s the middle of the night and Edgerton is dead, it won’t matter that I might have disturbed him. If he’s still alive, maybe he’ll be happy I woke him up and reminded him of the fact. Give me the number.”

Clayton read it off. Kerney wrote it down, looked up the international calling code for Australia in the phone book, dialed the number on his desk phone, and motioned to Clayton to turn on the speaker phone that sat in the center of the conference table.

Kerney looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, which meant it was sometime tomorrow morning in Australia. He listened for the call to go through, and when he heard the distinctive ringtone, he hung up the handset and joined Clayton at the conference table.

A man with an elderly voice answered the call and Kerney asked if he was speaking to Andrew Edgerton.

“That’s right.”

Kerney introduced himself as the Santa Fe, New Mexico, police chief, told Edgerton that Sergeant Clayton Istee was also on the line, and asked if Edgerton would mind talking about the theft of his coin collection.

“Have you found the collection?” Edgerton asked. “Did the thieves take it to the United States?”

“We only found one coin,” Kerney replied, “so I can’t tell you if the coins were smuggled into the country.”