Michael McGarrity - Under the color of law

The minister closed his prayer book, raised his head, and the group began to move away. Terrell shook hands with Thayer and whispered something in the man's ear, then found his way to Proctor and Susan Straley and walked with them to the waiting cars. Frank Powers, the resident FBI agent, led the way.

Terrell passed Kerney by without a look or a word. Below, where the cars waited, television cameramen started filming video.

He watched the procession leave before paying a visit to his godson's grave. He stood in front of the plain military headstone. The windblown dust that whipped his face only partially caused the wetness in his eyes. Sammy had been murdered while serving in the army. Kerney had solved the case with the help of Sara Brannon, who then commanded the provost marshal criminal investigation unit at White Sands Missile Range. Through the bitter loss of a young man he'd known since birth, Kerney had met his wife.

Until this morning it had been several days since he'd talked to Sara.

He'd deliberately phoned her just before her classes to avoid any lengthy discussion about his work. They talked about the need to get the land bought and the house built, and how Sara was feeling. She reported the pregnancy was going just fine and suggested Kerney should call her back in the evening when they had more time to talk.

He returned to his unit and through the windshield looked beyond the last long rows of headstones that stopped at a swath of freshly cleared ground recently prepared to accommodate the upsurge in deaths of aging World War Two veterans and their spouses. He dialed a number on his cell phone and the agent in charge of the State Police Intelligence Unit picked up. Kerney had borrowed the agent's services from Andy Baca.

"How did it go?" Kerney asked, keeping his question vague.

Although the electronic-surveillance van that had been parked across the street from police headquarters had disappeared last night, Kerney remained cautious.

He scanned the tree-covered ridgeline above the clearing and saw no sign of the agent.

"Ten-four, Chief," the agent said.

"I'll get something for you soon."

"Roger that, and thanks," Kerney said. He disconnected and drove away.

Hidden in the tree line, using a camera with a telephoto lens, the agent had been taking photographs of everyone in attendance at the services.

It was a long shot, but just maybe somebody invited to the services might provide a clue to what was really going on.

He called Larry Otero, told him he was taking the rest of the morning off and would be back in the office by noon.

"Steven Summer wants to meet with you, Chief," Otero said.

"He's Officer Herrera's lawyer. He specializes in human-rights and discrimination cases."

"You handle it."

"I already made the offer. He only wants to meet with you."

"Have Helen make an appointment for him late this afternoon."

"Summer is an ex-city counselor, Chief. He's tight with the mayor, the city manager, and a couple of his cronies are still on the council. He might not appreciate being put off."

"Should I be more accommodating?" Kerney asked.

"I'd make him wait," Otero said.

"But then, I've never liked the guy anyway."

"I'll see him at four-thirty."

The doctors at the hospital had kept Brother Jerome overnight for observation.

Sloan picked him up early in the morning, drove him to the campus, and gladly settled into a chair while Brother Jerome sorted through the papers on his office floor.

Sloan looked around the office in the light of day. Discounting the littered floor, the room reflected Brother Jerome's fastidious personality. Office decorations consisted of a crucifix hung on the wall; a hand-carved wooden statue of St. John Baptiste de la Sane, founder of the Christian Brothers, placed in the center of the top shelf of a large built-in bookcase; and a few family photographs neatly positioned on a plain rectangular credenza behind the desk. A window broke the march of a row of file cabinets neatly lined up against a wall. There was no evidence of clutter. Even the file trays on top of the cabinets were trimmed out in an orderly line.

Lack of sleep made Sloan light headed, and he eagerly accepted a cup of coffee from the worried office receptionist who stepped in to see if there was anything she could do to help Brother Jerome. Sloan told the woman everything was under control and asked her to keep staff and faculty members at bay until they finished up.

Sloan's long night had been fruitless. Security at the college was minimal. The college had an open campus policy. There was no visitor check-in system, no procedure for recording or flagging unauthorized vehicles, and no thorough security patrols of buildings after normal working hours. He'd learned that about the only thing the lone night-shift security officer did was cruise in a car, keep an eye on the dorms, shut down loud student parties that went on too late or too loud, turn off lights that had been left on in classrooms, and rattle a few doorknobs. As a result Sloan had learned nothing that gave him a clue about Brother Jerome's attacker.

However, he did learn from reading the morning newspaper that somebody on campus, probably the security guard, had leaked the story to the press. The front-page headline read "Professor Attacked at the College of Santa Fe." Not wanting to raise his blood pressure, Sloan had scanned only the first paragraph of the story. But that had been enough to make him fantasize finding the dip-shit security guard and punching his lights out.

Brother Jerome picked up the pile of papers and envelopes, now nicely sorted by size and type, placed it on his desk, and shook his head.

"Nothing was taken as far as I can tell," he said.

"My lecture notes for today's classes are all here, my grade book hasn't been tampered with, and none of the student term-paper outlines are missing."

"Check again," Sloan said, "just to be sure."

He waited while Brother Jerome sat at his desk, carefully went through the stack, and placed each item to one side after reviewing it.

"One thing," he said, looking up at Sloan.

"An envelope came for Father Mitchell yesterday, and it doesn't seem to be here."

Sloan's tiredness vanished.

Kerneys plans to move out of the small guesthouse he rented in the South Capitol neighborhood had been delayed by the workload of his new job. He changed from his uniform into cold-weather civvies, and drove his truck to the end of Upper Canyon Road, where he left it in the parking lot of the New Mexico Audubon Society. The house, which bordered the edge of the Santa Fe watershed and reservoir system, had once belonged to a well-known local artist.

He started up a hiking trail that led into the mountains, but as soon as he passed out of sight of the building, he veered off the path jumped a fence, and entered the restricted area of the Santa Fe watershed. He cut across below the lower reservoir to the hills beyond, where Phyllis Terrell's house overlooked the valley, and made a hard climb up the foothills, his bad knee protesting with each step. He topped out at a circular dirt road that served the expensive houses bordering the watershed, hobbled his way to Alexandra Lawton's front door, and rang the bell.

The door opened. Lawton looked over Kerneys shoulder at the empty driveway and then down at his snow-covered hiking boots and wet pant cuffs.

"You walked up here?" she asked.

"Why?"

"I needed the exercise," Kerney replied.

"Please, Chief Kerney, I doubt that was the reason."

"I wanted to talk with you privately and off the record."

Lawton stepped back to let Kerney enter.

"Come in."

"Could we talk outside?"

The wind had subsided and wet heavy snowflakes drifted out of a slate-dark sky, covering the teakwood patio furniture.