Michael McGarrity - The Judas judge

"No, but he constantly made threats to his classmates if he perceived a slight. Most of the time it went no further than minor altercations. Shouting matches, usually."

"Just threats?"

Trumble nodded. "It was pure bravado. He got his butt whipped when things escalated beyond the pushing and shoving point."

"How did the judge react to Eric's troubles?"

"By the time Eric reached us, we didn't see much of Judge Langsford. That's not unusual. The youngest child typically gets the least amount of parental attention, and the judge was a busy man."

"Can you get me a list of their high school friends?"

"Why are you investigating the Langsford kids? I thought it was the judge's murderer you were after."

"We still don't have a motive for the slaying."

"Do spree killers need motives?" Trumble asked. "There's always the grudge factor to consider."

"Judge Langsford was a well-respected man."

"The defendants in his court may not have thought so."

Trumble looked at Kerney sharply. "Good point. But I can't think of any classmates of the Langsford children the judge sent to jail."

"We have to look into every possible lead," Kerney said.

"I suppose you do. Stop by my office during school hours. I'll get out the yearbooks and give you names."

"That would be very helpful."

"A lot of those students have scattered, you know."

"Their names will be helpful, nonetheless."

Linda Langsford lived outside of Roswell near an old farming area known as East Grand Plains. Set apart from neighboring dwellings, her house was sheltered in a grove of trees and cushioned by an expanse of lawn that ran down to the private road. The house, modern and expensive-looking, had a long screened porch under a gently sloping metal roof that gave an inviting feeling of openness. The core had a barn like high-pitched roof flattened on the top. Where the roof lines joined, a massive chimney protruded, stepped down a bit from the higher elevation, creating a spare sculptured effect.

Three vehicles were parked outside. Kerney knocked on the screen door, called out, and a gangly older man with a blocky chin and a sharp nose came to greet him. He introduced himself as the Reverend Matthew Blakemore.

Kerney showed his shield and asked for Linda Langsford.

"She's indisposed," Blakemore said solemnly, barring Kerney's entry.

"Can't you come back at a later time?"

Kerney adopted a formal tone. "There are certain matters Ms. Langsford needs to attend to, not the least of which is the release of her father's body for burial."

"I see. Come in."

A breezeway connected the porch to the interior great room of the house, where three pairs of doors led off to more private living areas. The fireplace, designed to warm both the great room and the porch, dominated the room. Drew Randolph, Langsford's law partner, stood in front of the fireplace mantel, hands behind his back.

He interrupted Blakemore's attempt at an introduction. "I've met Mr. Kerney."

Blakemore reacted with a step back. "I'll see if Linda can speak to you." He turned and left the room.

"How is she?" Kerney asked Randolph.

"Wavering between grief and shock. Exhausted. She drove like a maniac to get home."

"Is she coherent?"

"Has Eric tried to contact her?"

"No, but she did say there were three hang-up phone calls on her answering machine when she got home."

Footsteps on the Saltillo tile floor stopped further conversation.

Linda Langsford entered the room with Blakemore behind her. Dressed in jeans and an bulky sweatshirt, she wore round glasses that seemed deliberately intended to hide her attractiveness. Long light-brown hair covered her neck. Her eyes blinked and she raised a hand to shield them from the glare of the brightly lit room. "Mr. Kerney," she said. "Thank you for seeing me."

"I understand I need to make arrangements to have my father's body released," she said wearily, dropping her hand.

"Can I do it by telephone?"

"Of course, once you've decided on a funeral home."

"Where is his body?"

"In Albuquerque, at the office of the medical examiner. I'll leave a phone number with you."

"Have you caught his killer?"

"Not yet."

"You must."

"We hope to. You and I need to talk."

Linda nodded. "I want to know everything you're doing. Can it wait until tomorrow?"

"After the funeral might be better, Linda," Reverend Blakemore interjected.

"No, Chief Kerney will need to see me before then," Linda said, placing a hand on Blakemore's arm to quiet him. "Tomorrow, Mr. Kerney?"

"That will be fine. Late morning?"

"I understand you had three hang-up messages on your answering machine.

Did you save them?"

"No."

"Do you have caller ID?"

"I didn't recognize any of the numbers, so I deleted them. They were from unnamed callers. Why do you ask?"

"Did you receive any anonymous calls at work before you started your vacation?"

"No."

"Didn't you tell me you recently had two anonymous calls on your direct office line?" Randolph asked.

"Oh, I'm sure they were just wrong numbers."

"The callers said nothing?" Kerney asked.

"No, I just heard them disconnect."

"I think that's enough for tonight, Officer," Blakemore said.

"Of course."

Kerney walked into the night and a series of pathway lights flicked on to guide his way. By the time he got back to the motel in Alamogordo it would be too late to call Sara. He mulled over Clayton Istee's criticism of his failure to inform her of his newfound status as a father.

He didn't think he was trying to hide anything from Sara. Or was he. Kerney shook off Clayton's implied accusation of racism. That wasn't it at all. He was a good deal older than Sara, but that had never been an issue for him up until now. Discovering a fully grown son, and two grandchildren to boot, forced Kerney to consider a completely new mind-set. He'd never thought of himself as old before. Worn down and beat up a bit, for sure, but not old.

At his unit Kerney got in touch with Lee Sedillo and asked for a priority telephone check of recent calls made to Linda Langsford's home and office numbers.

The command trailer was empty when Kerney arrived, and a stack of field reports awaited his attention. He ran through them quickly, pausing to concentrate on the follow-up report regarding Kay Murray's alibi.

The room service waiter had positively identified Murray as the woman in Joel Cushman's room early Friday morning. The front desk attendant verified that Murray had returned to the hotel at eleven o'clock the night before. Housekeeping noted Cushman's bed had been used for more than just sleeping, and hotel security confirmed that Cushman's and Murray's cars had remained in the parking lot all night.

Cushman and Murray had used no taxicabs or shuttle vans to get to the airport, and had not booked any commercial or private flights that could have taken them within striking distance of the crime scenes.

Cushman's alibi about his time apart from Murray in Albuquerque also held up. His attendance and participation at the Christian conference was confirmed by a number of sources. Following the dinner banquet and prayer fellowship, Cushman had met with a man in his room who'd sought him out for some informal Christian counseling and didn't finish the session until ten o'clock.

Penelope Gibben also looked to be in the clear. On the night of the murders, she'd attended a museum foundation function to honor the outgoing board of directors, traveling to and from the event with a companion. Dropped off at home after ten-thirty, she would not have been able to make the long drive to Carrizozo and start killing people in a timely fashion.

Kerney pushed the reports away. He had paperwork but no progress, motive but no clear suspects, an old crime and a new crime that might or might not be linked, and six dead people who deserved justice.