Michael McGarrity: Under the color of law

"We've got a mess, Chief," Molina said.

"The crime scene was contaminated by an animal-control officer who chased the dog that bit Officer Herrera."

"So I've heard," Kerney said.

"What's the status of the investigation?"

"The crime-scene unit and the ME are rolling. I've got four detectives doing a room-to-room plain-view search. A Mexican national has been living in an RV parked next to the garage. The RV was leased from a local company by Mrs. Terrell on a two-year contract. My guess is the man was hired to build the patio wall, and maybe some other stuff that needed doing, and Terrell provided him with a place to stay during construction. We found his personal belongings and clothes, plus some letters from Mexico addressed to a Santiago Terjo. I've got U. S.

Customs running a records check on the name to see if he's a legal or not."

"Have you confirmed that this is Phyllis Terrell?" Kerney asked.

Molina nodded, "From the photo on a driver's license we found in her purse."

The dead woman on the floor wore charcoal wool slacks, a turtleneck sweater, and a pair of expensive leather walking boots. Kerney noted the diamond jewelry.

"Have you ruled out robbery as a motive?"

"Pretty much. Her purse is on the kitchen counter with her airplane ticket in it, along with two thousand dollars, credit cards, and a wallet. Her travel bags were packed and ready to go."

"What time was her flight from Albuquerque?"

"Seven-twenty," Molina said.

"So, she was up, dressed, and ready to leave by six, at the latest,"

Kerney said.

"That would be my guess," Molina said.

To take advantage of the views the double doors to the patio were glass.

Kerney looked out at the mountains that bracketed the small valley.

Tucked away a few miles from the plaza, it was an area few tourists visiting the city ever saw.

Once farmed by Hispanic families, the neighborhood was now an upscale address with multimillion-dollar retirement and vacation houses perched on the hillsides.

"Would you open your door to a stranger at that time of day?" Kerney asked, turning back to Molina.

"No way, Chief."

"Is this the door the dog came in?"

Molina nodded.

"Yeah. Matt Garcia said it was wide open."

"Does anything bother you about the scene?"

Molina shrugged.

"It's too early to say."

"You're probably right. Mind if I take a look inside?" Kerney asked.

"You're the chief," Molina said.

"Thanks. I'll go in through the garage."

Lieutenant Molina watched Kerney walk away with his distinctive limp.

He remembered when Kerney had been the department's chief of detectives.

A gun battle with a drug dealer had supposedly ended his career with the Santa Fe PD.

But after a long period of recuperation Kerney had returned to law enforcement, serving briefly as a sheriff's lieutenant and a Forest Service ranger before joining the state police as an investigator.

Within weeks Kerney had been bumped up to a deputy-chief slot, which raised a lot of eyebrows in cop shops throughout the state.

Sal wondered what Kerney had in mind for the department. Over the last five years three previous chiefs had been brought in to kick butt, take names, and reorganize the department. Not one of them had given a rat's ass about what sworn personnel thought, needed, or would be willing to do to clean things up and improve the department.

If Kerney followed suit, he might well have a rebellion on his hands.

He watched Kerney turn the corner. Since starting the job, the chief had come to work every day dressed in civvies. Today Kerney wore a well-tailored sport coat, shirt and tie, dress slacks, and a very choice pair of cowboy boots. A lot of officers were grumbling about Kerney's clothes; they said that not wearing the uniform showed a lack of respect for the department. To them it wasn't a good sign of things to come.

Personally, Sal didn't care what Kerney wore, as long as he did the job professionally and treated people fairly. Whether he would or not remained to be seen.

Kerney had been known as a good boss when he was chief of detectives.

But Sal knew that there was only one constant about cops who moved high up the food chain: They changed. Sometimes radically and usually not for the better. He would wait and see which direction Kerney was headed.

Kerney turned the corner of the house, reviewing what he'd seen so far.

Molina had established the entry point to the crime scene at the security gate, using Herrera as the log-in officer. He'd strung several rolls of bright yellow police-line tape up the driveway to mark the route to be used to get to the house, which would make any tracks found outside the path easier to identify. Paw prints and two different sets of footprints in the snow had been flagged for the crime-scene unit to photograph. The victim's body and the area around it was off limits and under Molina's watchful eye to keep it preserved, protected, and free from any further contamination.

Good enough for starters, Kerney thought as he entered the house through the garage. But Molina's reticence to speculate about the crime scene bothered Kerney. Maybe Molina felt ill at ease making guesses with his new boss. Still, Kerney wondered why the lieutenant hadn't raised a question about the murder weapon. Scissors weren't normally used in premeditated murders. In fact, they were much more typically associated with crimes of passion or acts of domestic violence. Which, along with the absence of robbery as a motive, could mean the killer was known to the victim, perhaps well known.

The detectives inside the house didn't stop working as Kerney looked around.

Behind the great room were two master suites, each with an attached study, separated by a long gallery hallway. The open kitchen adjacent to the great room was within a few short steps to a formal dining room.

Another hallway led to an attached, stepped-down guest suite with a private patio containing a marble water fountain.

In Mrs. Terrell's bedroom a detective was visually examining the linens on the unmade bed. In her study, which had built-in shelves filled with framed photographs of family and friends, an officer was reading through the scattered papers on top of a mission-style desk.

Kerney said nothing to the detectives, greeting each one as he passed by only with a friendly nod. He had no intention of disturbing the chain of command by making suggestions, issuing instructions, or asking questions. The Terrell murder was the first major felony case fielded by the department since Kerney had assumed command, and he'd come solely to observe.

The layout of the second study and master bedroom mirrored Mrs.

Terrell's suite, minus any personal touches. No one was working the area, so Kerney took his time. There were books on the shelves, tasteful art on the walls, and a very choice modern sculpture on a tall stand in the corner of the study. But nothing in sight signaled daily use or ongoing occupancy by a family member.

Kerney slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and opened desk and dresser drawers.

All were empty. The walk-in closet contained some dry cleaning on hangers draped in clear plastic, consisting of two men's suits and some starched white dress shirts. On the floor were a half a dozen sealed packing boxes, each labeled with the contents, purportedly consisting of books, photographs, and odds and ends.

Curious about what might have been removed from the suite and packed away, Kerney decided to break his self-imposed rule not to interfere with the investigation. He took out a pocket knife, knelt down, and slit open the box labeled "Photographs." Packed in bubble wrap was an assortment of framed pictures of Ambassador Hamilton Lowell Terrell with foreign leaders, ex-presidents, and other dignitaries, all of them personally inscribed.