Michael McGarrity: The big gamble

"You were so late coming home, I thought something important might have happened," Grace said.

"What's a homicide?" Wendell asked.

"A very bad thing," Clayton said, rubbing Wendell's head. "Almost as bad as interrupting people when they're talking."

Wendell dropped his eyes and stuck a spoonful of cereal in his mouth.

Keeping Wendell quiet with occasional long, cool looks, Clayton summarized his activities at the fruit stand for Grace.

She listened without interruption. "It sounds very complex," she said when Clayton finished.

Clayton nodded. "It was."

"Well, you said you wanted a job with a challenge."

"Are you being sarcastic?" Clayton asked. He studied his pretty wife's face, searching her calm dark eyes for any sign of discontent.

"What's sarcastic?" Wendell asked.

"We'll look it up together in the dictionary later, Wendell," Grace said gently. "No, I'm not. You have to stop thinking that I'm unhappy because you changed jobs."

"You've been complaining that I'm hardly home."

"Not complaining, just noting." Grace looked at her children and smiled. "We all miss you."

"You should smile more," Clayton said.

"It is not my nature," Grace said, as her smile widened.

"You're so modest," Clayton said, teasing.

Grace lifted her chin. "Of course, I'm a respectable, married woman," she replied, teasing him back. Her expression turned serious. "You've been among the dead. Wear something black today to protect against the ghost sickness."

Clayton nodded. "I may have to go up to Santa Fe."

"I'd like to go with you," Wendell said.

Hannah banged her little fist on the high chair's hinged table. "I get down now," she said.

Grace released her and put her on the floor. She made a beeline for Clayton. He picked her up, put her on his lap, and gave her a kiss.

"When will you know?" Grace asked.

"I'll call you later today."

In the l960s a beautiful two-story redbrick courthouse on the main street in Carrizozo had been demolished and replaced by a nondescript building constructed on the same site. Clayton had only seen pictures of the imposing old courthouse, but those photographs looked a hell of a lot more inviting than the sterile functionalism of the present building.

Tucked away in part of the courthouse, the sheriff's department suffered from a serious lack of space. Clayton used a small desk pushed up against a wall in the hallway that led to the supply closet to do his paperwork and organize all his supporting documentation.

First he worked on the John Doe case. Based on the remnants of information found in the backpack, the victim was likely one Joseph John Humphrey, a homeless Vietnam veteran originally from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Among Humphrey's few belongings was the business card of a Veterans Administration alcoholism counselor in Albuquerque. He spoke to the counselor, faxed a copy of Humphrey's driver's license photo to the man, and got a quick identity confirmation. He also learned that Humphrey had been diagnosed with inoperable liver cancer and had no more than three months to live.

After disconnecting, he phoned Shorty Dawson, the ME, for a preliminary cause-of-death report.

"I can't tell you anything definite," Dawson replied.

"The victim's flesh and clothing were melted together. The body is gonna have to be peeled like an onion. Then they can open him up and take a look inside."

"Where's the body now?" Clayton asked.

"In Albuquerque," Dawson replied. "We should get the final autopsy results by tomorrow. But, tentatively it sure looked to me like the guy sucked down carbon monoxide."

"How could you tell that?" Clayton asked. "The flesh was too burned to show any discoloration. Even if the skin had looked cherry red, lividity isn't conclusive for carbon monoxide poisoning."

There was a short silence before Dawson replied. "Look, Deputy, I said my opinion was just tentative. My job is to find the victim legally dead and offer an informed opinion as to cause and time of death. We'll both just have to wait for the autopsy to find out what really killed him."

"Thanks, Mr. Dawson," Clayton said.

He hung up wondering if Humphrey had committed suicide to avoid letting the cancer kill him. That didn't make any sense. Humphrey could have chosen many easier, less horrific ways to die than by smoke and fire. Maybe it was an accidental death. He decided to stop speculating about it until the autopsy report came in.

He filled out his paperwork, including a notation that if no family members could be found-the Harrisburg police were still looking-Humphrey's VA counselor would arrange to have the body cremated and interred in the National Cemetery at Fort Bayard, outside Silver City.

Humphrey's status as a Nam vet made Clayton think about his natural father, Kevin Kerney. He knew very little about Kerney's service experience other than that he'd served as an infantry lieutenant in Vietnam during the latter stage of the war. Until six months ago, Clayton hadn't even known that much. Then he'd busted Kerney for trespassing on Apache land, which ultimately led to his mother's disclosure of the long-kept secret of his father's identity.

Clayton had learned that his mother had once been Kerney's college sweetheart. She deliberately became pregnant without Kerney's knowledge just before he'd graduated and gone off to serve in Vietnam. For almost twenty-eight years, neither father nor son knew of each other's existence.

Clayton was still struggling with it all. He had no idea how Kerney was coping. What he did know was that Kerney had recently been installed as the Santa Fe police chief. He gave a passing thought to calling him to ask for information and assistance in the Anna Marie Montoya case.

He reached for the phone and pulled his hand back. Late last year, Kerney had stood on Clayton's front porch and given him two ten-thousand-dollar certificates of deposit for Wendell's and Hannah's education, with no strings attached. At the time, Clayton had been both stunned by the gift and suspicious of it. Thinking back over the event, which he'd repeatedly played through his mind, Clayton knew he'd handled it badly. Instead of being gracious, he'd challenged Kerney's gift-giving motives and failed to thank him for his generosity. Finally he'd never followed through on a promise to invite Kerney and his wife to dinner, in spite of Grace's nagging him to do so.

Because of his bungling, Clayton felt the opportunity to develop some sort of relationship with Kerney had come and gone. He didn't know what he could do, if anything, to set things right.

Although he lacked final confirmation that the earthly remains of Anna Marie Montoya had been discovered, Clayton had enough evidence to move ahead. The clutch purse with the ID, the jewelry and bits of clothing found at the scene that matched information contained in the NCIC missing person report, and the size and sex of the body made it almost positive. It was time to get rolling. He called the Santa Fe Police Department, identified himself, and got put through to a detective sergeant named Cruz Tafoya.

Tafoya heard Clayton out before asking questions.

"Were you able to confirm the victim was killed at the crime scene?"

"No," Clayton replied, "and I don't think we'll be able to. Any trace evidence was washed away. Personally, I think she was killed elsewhere and then buried in the cellar. It's only five feet deep by eight feet square."

"So the killer had to know about the cellar," Tafoya noted. "Is the fruit stand still in use?"

"It's been abandoned for years," Clayton replied. "We're looking into who owns the property."

"Good idea," Tafoya said. "You're gonna want a copy of our case file."

"Roger that."

"I'll put one together. Should I mail it or will you come and get it?"