Death Song (8 page)

The report that Tim Riley’s wife had also been murdered reached Clayton by way of a phone call from Sergeant Ramona Pino. Clayton had worked with Pino once before, on a case involving a revenge killer intent on wiping out Kevin Kerney and his entire bloodline, including Clayton and his family. The perp had almost succeeded, but Clayton had gunned him down in Santa Fe before he could kill Kerney, Sara, and their brand-new baby boy, Patrick.

After winding up the search for evidence at Tim Riley’s rented cabin, Clayton convened a meeting of his team at the Capitan town hall and brought them up to speed on what he knew about Denise Riley’s murder in Santa Fe County.

“I doubt that these murders are coincidental,” Clayton told the group, “but until we have either a motive or a suspect, I want some people backtracking on Tim Riley’s time here in Lincoln County. I want an accounting for every minute of every day in the week Riley was here.”

Clayton paused and looked around the room, which contained every available deputy plus Paul Hewitt, Craig Bolt, and the two Capitan village officers. “I’ll get to the assignments in a minute, but remember this: I don’t want reports coming in with any gaps,” he warned. “I want his entire week reconstructed. Names, dates, times, places—you all know the drill. You’ll be looking for any unusual event, altercation, heated exchange, or misunderstanding that may have happened which could have led—no matter how remotely—to his murder.”

“What if Riley’s murder has nothing to do with anybody in Lincoln County?” Chief Craig Bolt asked.

“It’s very possible,” Clayton answered. “When a husband and wife get murdered in separate locations within hours of each other, it makes you wonder if maybe all was not sweetness and light on the home front. But with no motive and no suspect, we have to focus on the victims for now. So as soon as this meeting is over, some of you are going to start an all-out, deep background check on both Tim Riley and his wife. I’m sure the Santa Fe County S.O. will be doing the same.”

Clayton walked to the whiteboard, drew a line down the middle, and wrote Tim Riley’s name on one side and Denise Riley’s name on the other.

“Here are some things to think about,” he said. “At the cabin crime scene, the killer probably spent a minimum amount of time in the area and quickly killed his victim after he arrived home. Very little physical evidence was left behind. In fact, all we have so far is a partial footprint on the cabin porch that is probably from a man’s boot, size eight, which correlates with my theory that the killer may be small in stature—not more than five seven or eight. Murder weapon, a shotgun, fired at point-blank range of no more than four feet.” Clayton wrote the information under Tim’s name.

“In Santa Fe,” Clayton continued, “Denise Riley’s throat was cut with a knife after she’d been attacked in a tack room in a barn at the couple’s double-wide in Cañoncito. She was dragged to a nearby horse trailer, killed there, and then locked in the trailer. It’s possible that she was sexually assaulted either prior to or after her death. A detective at the scene thinks the killer made an attempt to partially cover the lower half of the victim’s body, which suggests the perp knew the decedent. Time of death was approximately sixteen to twenty hours before Tim Riley’s murder.”

Clayton wrote down the information under Denise’s name. “Don’t let the differences in the methods between the two homicides make you think we are dealing with two distinct perpetrators.”

He turned to the whiteboard once again and underlined Tim Riley’s name. “At first glance, our homicide looks professional. However, that doesn’t necessarily mean it was a contract killing carried out by a specialist.”

“But it could mean exactly that,” Paul Hewitt said from the back of the cramped room. “Basically, the killer waited in ambush, fired one shot from close range at a sure kill area of the body, the head, and left behind little physical evidence.”

“I’m not discounting those facts, Sheriff,” Clayton replied. “But from my analysis of the crime scene I think the shooter could have killed Deputy Riley when his back was turned, but chose instead to let his victim see it coming. Additionally, by literally taking Riley’s face off with a shotgun slug, the killer depersonalized his victim. It’s as if he tried to erase the most easily recognizable part of the man. To me, that makes the murder decidedly personal, just as the killing of Denise Riley appears to be.”

“Personal in what way?” Hewitt asked.

“If I knew that, I’d have motive,” Clayton replied. “The one thing I’m fairly sure of, as I mentioned before, is that the shooter is male, possibly slight in build, and shorter than Riley by two to three inches.”

Clayton wrote the physical information of the shooter on the chalkboard. “I’m guessing that we’re dealing with a single perpetrator, and I agree with Chief Bolt that chances are slim to none that our killer is local. With that in mind, we need to be surveying motels, gas stations, eateries, and be talking to people about any strangers who might have recently been asking about Riley or the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office.”

Clayton put the chalk on the tray. “Finally, we need to retrace everywhere Riley went while on patrol last night.”

“I’ll do that,” Paul Hewitt said.

“I’ve got you down to handle the news media, Sheriff.”

“The media can wait,” Hewitt growled. “Besides, we’ve got nothing to tell them.” He looked around the room. “So I expect all of you to keep your lips zipped about this case until further notice. It’s ‘No comment’ to any questions. Got that?”

Heads nodded.

“Okay,” Clayton said as he looked at the sixteen officers in the room. Excluding himself, Hewitt, and Bolt, only two of the field officers had any solid investigative experience. “Here are your assignments.”

He read off names and tasks, putting the heaviest burden on himself and the two experienced officers, knowing that it meant double shifts until they broke the case or it became too cold to work full-time any longer.

Clayton closed his notebook, looked at the sober faces of the officers sitting in front of him, and nodded at the door. “Let’s go out and catch this killer,” he said.

Sara’s favorite gelding, a baldfaced dark sorrel named Gipsy, and Patrick’s pony, Pablito, were missing from the corral when Kerney arrived home. He saddled Hondo and rode up the hill, past the ancient piñon tree where Soldier, the wild mustang he’d bought, gentled, and trained years ago during his bachelor days, was buried. He paused for a minute and then turned in a westerly direction toward the live spring at the edge of the ranch property that was always a favorite horseback riding destination for the family.

A fresh pile of horse apples near the water tank and windmill told Kerney he was on the right trail. He clamped his cowboy hat down hard, lowered his head against a stiff, cold southwesterly wind, rode Hondo at a slow trot, and tried to clear his mind of the events of the last ten or so hours. The Cañoncito crime scene had been grim enough, but the impact on the family of the devastating news of Denise Riley’s murder had been heart-wrenching to witness.

The wind eased. Kerney raised his eyes and blinked away some dust as he reached the top of the small hill that overlooked the pond and live stream. Several hundred years ago, during the days of the Spanish conquistadors, the pond had been a stop along a wagon road that ran from the village of Galisteo to El Rancho De Las Golondrinas, a way station on the El Camino Real south of Santa Fe. The ruts of the road were still visible under the overarching bare branches of several old cottonwood trees that once shaded a hacienda, which was now nothing more than a rock rubble foundation covered by cactus and shrubs.

Under the trees, Gipsy and Pablito stood quietly. Down by the stream, Kerney spotted Sara and Patrick watching a small flock of Canadian geese that had stopped during their northerly spring migration to feed on the tall grass that surrounded the pond.

Hondo’s whinny startled the geese, and the flock rose skyward, honking deeply in unison, the sound of their wings creating a back-beat rhythm as they circled and flew north in a loose formation.

Kerney rode down to his wife and son, and Patrick gave him a stern look when he arrived.

“You scared the birds away, Daddy,” he said.

“That was Hondo, not me.” Kerney patted Hondo’s withers, bent low in the saddle, and extended his hand. Patrick grabbed on and Kerney swung him up onto his lap. “You’re getting heavy.”

“I’ll be four this year,” Patrick announced proudly.

“That’s a fact,” Kerney said, smiling down at Sara. The cold March wind had put some color in her face, highlighting the line of freckles that ran across her cheeks and nose. “Are you ready to head home?” he asked.

Sara smiled. “Now that you’ve scared the geese away, we might as well.”

Kerney groaned.

“Did you find Helen’s sister?” Sara asked.

Kerney nodded. “We did,” he said flatly.

“Not good?”

“It doesn’t get any worse.”

Sara stepped to Hondo and put her hand on Kerney’s leg. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know if I can do anything more.” Kerney jiggled the reins and Hondo broke into a walk. “In three weeks I’m going to be just another retired cop, a civilian, and it may take a lot more time than that to put this case to rest.”

“But it happened to a family member of one of your people, on your watch,” Sara said, her head suddenly filled with the images of the firefight in Iraq, the wounded soldiers on the ground. The acid smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils.

“I know,” Kerney replied. He reined up next to Pablito and put Patrick on his saddle.

“Can we come back to see the birds tomorrow?” Patrick asked.

Sara swung into the saddle, and Gipsy pranced sideways next to Pablito. “Yes, we can.”

“Does anybody besides me want blueberry pancakes when we get home?” Kerney asked. It was one of Patrick’s favorite meals.

“I already had breakfast,” Patrick said glumly as the three-some wheeled their horses toward home. “Cereal.”

“Is there a rule that you can only eat breakfast once a day?” Kerney asked his son.

Patrick shrugged and gave his mother a questioning look.

“I think there are special times when breakfast is a meal you can have twice a day,” Sara said with a laugh.

“The boss says yes to blueberry pancakes,” Kerney said.

Patrick grinned and spurred Pablito into a trot. “Okay,” he yelled, taking the lead on the trail.

Clayton Istee always looked forward to evening meals with his family. As a police officer, he’d missed far too many of them over the years, and now that the children were getting older—Wendell had turned eight and Hannah was approaching six—he knew it was more important than ever to be home for dinner as much as possible. He didn’t want to become one of those cops who sacrificed their personal lives or lost their families through divorce all for the sake of the job.

He’d called Grace late in the day to tell her he’d be home for dinner no matter what, and when he finally broke away from the investigation he was fairly certain that there would be no new developments that would interfere with his plans. In fact, in terms of developing leads, identifying suspects, and collecting any useful evidence, the day had been a complete and utter bust.

Clayton rolled the unit to a stop next to his pickup truck, which Sheriff Hewitt had arranged to have brought back to his house, and beeped the horn twice to announce his arrival. As he dismounted the vehicle, his son, Wendell, threw open the front door, bounded across the porch, and ran to the unit to greet him.

“I saw you on TV,” Wendell said, looking up at his father. “The evening news.”

Clayton nodded and said nothing. Earlier in the day, a camera crew from an Albuquerque television station had filmed him and the state police crime scene techs carrying evidence from the cabin.

Politely, Wendell waited a moment to see if his father was taking his time to consider a response. Clayton said nothing.

“The man who died,” Wendell said. “The deputy…”

Clayton pressed his forefinger against his son’s mouth before he could say more. “It is best for us not to speak about that. What has your mother fixed for dinner?”

“Spaghetti,” Wendell said. “With meatballs.”

Clayton rubbed Wendell’s head. “Good. I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Wendell said.

In the kitchen, Grace was ladling spaghetti sauce onto plates of pasta while Hannah set the table. Without being asked, Wendell pitched in and helped his sister.

Clayton got quick kisses from his wife and daughter, along with instructions to go wash up for dinner. He locked his sidearm away in the gun cabinet where he kept his hunting rifles, gave his hands and face a good scrub, and returned to find his family seated at the table awaiting his arrival.

He eased into his chair and glanced from Wendell to Hannah. “Whose turn is it to tell us everything they did at school today?”

“It’s my turn,” Hannah said as she twisted her fork around some pasta.

“Okay,” Clayton said, smiling at his beautiful daughter, who had her mother’s eyes, small bones, and finely chiseled features. “Let’s hear all about it.”

Hannah took a bite of spaghetti and then began recounting her day at school.

After the table had been cleared, the dishes done, and the children put to bed, Clayton and Grace snuggled together on the living room couch.

“Your mother wants you to call her,” Grace said.

Clayton raised an eyebrow. Isabel Istee, a former member of the tribal council, continued to exert considerable influence over government affairs and was always pushing Clayton to get involved in politics. “Did she say what was on her mind?” he asked.

“No,” Grace replied, “but I can hazard a guess. Rumor has it that the tribal police chief position is about to open up, and after your close encounter with Bambi’s father yesterday, Isabel wants you off the streets and safely ensconced behind a desk. Today’s murder of the deputy only makes it a more urgent issue for her.”