Michael McGarrity - The Judas judge

"Tell me about it," Tim said.

"I was the first responder on the scene. The whole thing was a mess. Waxman did the best he could under the circumstances."

Narvaiz's house was in the high foothills on the highway to Ruidoso. It sat between the village post office and the volunteer fire department. Marcos served as fire chief, a position he'd held for ten years, and his wife ran the post office. Tim had worked many accidents with Marcos and knew him well.

"I know the victim was separated from the bicycle, but Waxman didn't get a photograph of where it came to rest," Tim said.

Marcos laughed. "He ran out of film after he did the three-sixty shots of the victim and the skid marks. You should have heard him cursing about it."

Tim pulled out Waxman's field drawing. "So where did the bicycle wind up?"

Marcos pointed to a spot. "About here."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. I helped him inventory and bag the bike parts for evidence. He wanted the debris cleaned up fast so he could reopen the highway."

"How long was the debris trail?"

"The bike shattered on impact," Marcos said. "From the rear wheel to the handlebars, I'd say it was a good thirty feet."

Tim marked the spot on the field drawing Marcos had pointed to and nodded. "About the same distance Langsford was catapulted over the vehicle."

"What are you looking for?" Marcos asked. "It was a clear-cut hit-and-run."

"The driver's intent," Tim replied.

"What kind of magic do you use to figure that one out?"

"It's guesswork, and I can't prove it, but I think the driver deliberately ran into that bicycle."

"What if the driver was drunk?" Marcos countered.

"Even drunks hit the brakes and take evasive action before impact. Their reactions are way too late and slow, but they do it."

"You got the skid marks from the car," Marcos said.

"They're front-end yaw marks from a hard turn of the wheels into the cyclist," Tim said. "I calculated distance, speed, and zero skid resistance at the scene. The vehicle was traveling at sixty miles an hour. Langsford went flying, landed on his head, and bounced like a deflated rubber ball, according to the autopsy. His internal injuries were equivalent to falling from a three-story building."

"Jesus," Marcos said. "You're saying this was murder, not vehicular manslaughter."

Tim nodded. "I'd never be able to prove criminal intent in a court of law, but Waxman blew the investigation, big time."

After talking with the on-duty motel employees, all of them women except for the manager and the cook in the restaurant, Robert Duran left fairly well satisfied that none had a vendetta against Chief Kerney. Most of them recognized Kerney only as part of the state police contingent staying at the motel, and the few who knew the chief had been responsible for shooting Randy Shockley didn't act distressed about it. On top of that, no one admitted to personally knowing Randy Shockley.

He started working the businesses along the strip across the street from the motel, concentrating on those within easy walking distance.

He stopped in at a fast-food joint, a service station, a package goods store, and a run-down motel that catered to low-budget travelers, and then took a break at a mom-and-pop restaurant. He sat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee. When it came he asked the woman if she'd heard any talk about the shooting of Sergeant Shockley.

"Everybody talks about it, but a little less each day," the woman said.

Maybe pushing fifty, the woman had a pudgy nose and very tiny ears. She swatted at a fly with a counter rag and missed.

"Are people still upset about it?" Robert asked.

"I wouldn't say that. Most of them just think cops are plain stupid.

They steal and then shoot each other. It doesn't make folks feel real safe and protected, if you know what I mean. Why do you ask?"

Robert took a sip of his coffee before answering. "I'm a cop."

"Hey, I'm not one of those people who badmouths the police."

"I can see that. Have you heard anybody express outrage about the shooting? Somebody who felt sympathetic toward Sergeant Shockley?"

"Henry Waters come to mind. But nobody pays any attention to him."

"Why is that?"

"He's obsessed about police work. He's in his forties and has always wanted to be a cop. He's a sweet guy but not too bright. He once had a job as a security guard some years ago but got canned. He usually stops in before and after work for a cup."

"Has he been here today?"

"Yeah, this afternoon. He usually sits at the counter, but today he drank his coffee at a window booth and then left in a hurry."

Robert looked out the window. It had a clear view of the motel parking lot. He asked the woman if Henry had been in for coffee on the mornings Kerney's unit had been vandalized.

"He's been here every morning this week and last," the woman answered.

"What did he say about the Shockley shooting?" Robert asked.

"Something like no police officer deserved to die just because he did a little stealing, and that a cop killer, no matter who he is, was the worst kind of animal."

"Know where Henry lives?" Robert asked.

"I sure don't, but it's in the neighborhood."

"Where does he work?"

"He's a bagger and stock boy at Shop n' Save Hardware."

"Mind if I look in your outside trash bin?"

"Sure. What for?"

Robert put a five-dollar bill on the counter. "You make a good cup of coffee."

Outside in the trash he found a partially used quart of while latex paint and a cheap fifty-nine-cent brush, the bristles stiff with dried paint. Shop n' Save price stickers were still attached. He bagged them, tagged them, and went looking for Henry Waters.

After meeting again with Tim Dwyer, Kerney stood outside the Roswell district headquarters, his thoughts fixed on the officer's assessment of Arthur Langsford's death. Knowing that three members of one family had been murdered in a nine-year span still didn't answer the fundamental questions of who and why. Were the murders linked or unrelated? If they were linked, one killer might well have murdered eight people, and was targeting Linda Langsford as his next victim. If not, three killers were at large, all with different motives.

Each crime had a unique signature, which made the likelihood of distinct killers a strong possibility. Add in the nine years separating Arthur's death from Vernon's murder, and the argument for different perpetrators gained even more credibility.

Kerney wasn't willing to lay aside the equally plausible notion of a vendetta against the Langsfords. What could have caused it remained obscure. In whatever direction he chose to look, no clear-cut motives emerged. All he had was a very rich, highly respected judge with a not-so-secret love life, a dead wife who may have been murdered by mistake, and a son killed for reasons unknown.

As for suspects, there was only Eric Langsford, who still hadn't been found, according to the latest update from Lee Sedillo.

Commuter traffic rumbled along the highway and a faint sunset put an anemic yellow glow on the western horizon. Kerney stepped toward his unit just as Clayton Istee drove up and cut him off. Kerney nodded a greeting.

"My mother doesn't speak for me," Clayton said bluntly through the open car window. He got out and slammed the door.

"I never assumed that she did."

"How would you know what my mother does or doesn't do?"

"I don't," Kerney replied.

"Then don't try to bullshit me about something you know nothing about."

"That wasn't my intent," Kerney said.

Clayton stared hard at Kerney and took a deep breath. "Forget it," he said, turning on his heel.

"Wait a minute," Kerney said.

"What for?" Clayton said, as he swung back around.

"You're too damn hard to talk to. I keep thinking I should try to get to know you better. But every time I see you, you just shut me down."