Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

A few minutes early, Kerney spent his time waiting for Perrett reading a brochure that detailed the scope and mission of the center. It received major funding from a variety of government agencies and private foundations and had half a dozen ongoing projects to develop and test new treatment approaches to hard-core addiction with an emphasis on minority populations. Kerney was halfway through a second brochure when the secretary buzzed him in to Dr. Perrett's office.

Jeremiah Perrett was a man of late middle age who obviously put time and energy into remaining fit. His biceps filled the sleeves of his collarless shirt, and he had a well-developed upper torso. He kept what hair he had cut short, and his blue eyes, partially hidden behind a pair of fashionable glasses, signaled a no-nonsense outlook on life.

If he was gay, as Osterman said, it didn't show in either his mannerisms or appearance. But living in Santa Fe, Kerney was used to meeting gay men of all ages who proved that homosexuals were by no means all swishy queens.

Perrett stood up, reached across the desk, gave Kerney a hearty handshake, and sat back down. "My secretary said this is about Anna Marie Montoya."

The office furnishings were far too nice to have been bought with grant or public money. No bean counter would have allowed such indulgences. Kerney eased into a comfortable wicker lounge chair with leather cushions. The expensive walnut desk was twice normal size, and Perrett's desk chair was a high-end model that likely sold for eight or nine hundred dollars. The wall art consisted of tasteful, nicely framed posters of old Broadway musicals. Clearly, Perrett had furnished the office with his own funds.

"Are you aware that Anna Marie disappeared some years ago and her remains have just recently been discovered?" Kerney asked.

Perrett nodded. "Yes, of course. Very tragic."

"How well did you know her?"

"Fairly well. I became her advisor when she transferred from university studies to major in psychology. She was a good student with an intuitive talent for working with people. She held promise as a researcher, but she enjoyed direct client involvement more than pure science."

"Yet she worked for you on a research project in northern New Mexico."

Perrett nodded. "She took my senior research seminar and I recruited her to be a field worker the summer after she graduated. She was bilingual. Native Spanish speaking, in fact. A very desirable asset, since we were working to develop a culturally unbiased intake assessment tool for Spanish-speaking alcohol and substance abusers."

"That must have been difficult to accomplish," Kerney said, hoping that focusing on Perrett's professional interests would loosen him up a bit.

Perrett's eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. "Yes, very frustrating. Do you have some knowledge of research methodology?"

Kerney smiled. "Not really. What I know consists only of dim memories from an undergraduate psych course I took years ago. Did you get the results you hoped for?"

Perrett smiled, showing his pearly whites and a hint of smug satisfaction. "Indeed, we did. The assessment instrument we developed is now used in Hispanic alcohol and chemical dependency treatment programs throughout the country."

His reaction, and a framed photograph on the credenza behind the desk of a former first lady presenting him with an award, confirmed to Kerney that Perrett was a man who took great satisfaction in his accomplishments.

Kerney stroked him. "That must be very gratifying."

Perrett gave a modest shrug and said nothing.

Kerney turned the conversation back to Anna Marie and asked if she'd ever come to him with any personal problems.

"None of a serious nature, as I recall."

"What do you remember?"

Perrett reflected for a moment. "Best not to trust to my memory," he said, rising from his chair. He opened an antique oak filing cabinet and sorted through a drawer. "Anna Marie used me as a reference when she applied to graduate school, so it's quite likely I still have my advisor notes attached to my copy of the letter of recommendation."

He returned to his chair with a folder in hand and thumbed through it. "Yes, here it is. She had met a young man, early in her senior year, who she was attracted to but not sure about."

"Another student?" Kerney asked.

"She didn't identify him as such," Perrett said, scanning his notes.

"Did she give you a name?" Kerney asked.

"If she did, I didn't write it down."

"What were her concerns about him?"

"A fear that he was just interested in sex."

"Nothing more than that?"

"For a young, heterosexual Hispanic woman raised as a Catholic that would not be a minor issue."

"Was she sleeping with him?" Kerney asked.

"Considering it," Perrett said, setting the folder aside.

"Did she ever tell you what decision she made?"

Perrett shook his head.

"What can you tell me about the young man?" Kerney asked.

"He had money and lived off campus. Other than that, nothing. Perhaps one her former roommates could tell you more."

Kerney left, thinking the fresh information about a hitherto-unknown boyfriend at least gave him another new thread to follow. He didn't know how far it would take him, but it felt like a potential bright spot in an otherwise stalled-out cold case.

He shook off the brief snippet of optimism, called information for Cassie Bedlow's number, got an address, and headed toward the northeast heights.

The attorney Harry Staggs had called was Warren Tredwell, a former prosecutor who advertised his services on a billboard along the busiest highway into Ruidoso. The sign promised to secure justice for all who called his toll-free number. A tall man with the frame of a long-distance runner, Tredwell had a bushy mustache and dark, intense eyes. His suspicious glare and pursed lips didn't match up at all with the affable smile that greeted motorists passing by the billboard.

Clayton uncuffed Staggs and waited outside with Paul Hewitt while Tredwell consulted privately with his client. The Ruidoso SWAT team was long gone, and Artie Gundersen's crime scene techs were gathering evidence in Ulibarri's cabin. After a heated exchange between Hewitt and the Ruidoso police chief, the city detectives who'd arrived on the scene had been sent packing. Quinones and Dillingham were busy interviewing the two remaining Cozy Cabins guests, who'd returned to find a full-bore homicide investigation underway.

After a long wait Tredwell stepped outside shaking his head, looking somewhat amused. "Listen," he said, giving Hewitt a hearty pat on the back, "forget about this bullshit arrest and my client will talk to you."

"I can't do that," Clayton said, before Hewitt could respond. "The law clearly states that a suspect can't be unarrested."

"It's your call, Sheriff," Tredwell said, ignoring Clayton and smiling at Hewitt. "But no judge will let it stand. Mr. Staggs was in his own home and your deputy had no exigent circumstances to make the arrest."

"There's plain-view evidence that Staggs was running an illegal gambling operation," Clayton replied.

Tredwell shook his head. "My client explained to you that he often has friends over for a companionable game of poker. There's nothing illegal in that. Having playing cards and poker chips for recreational purposes is hardly probable cause to make an arrest."

"What's the bottom line here, Tredwell?" Paul Hewitt asked.

"Mr. Staggs feels his reputation has been damaged and his civil rights have been violated," Tredwell said, spreading his arms out in supplication to an invisible jury. "Look at what happened: Mr. Staggs, a good citizen, agrees to cooperate with the police and gets arrested for his trouble. All because Deputy Istee jumped to an erroneous conclusion."