Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“I’ve got to tell you,” Cheney said, “this doesn’t look like a good rat habitat to me. They prefer open, native grassland and more arid, sandy places.”

They walked the property several times and found no evidence of burrows. Back at the guesthouse, Tug took a small address book out of his truck and flipped through the pages. “I know a retired wildlife biologist here in town,” he said. “Maybe he can tell us something about the rat.”

On his cell phone, Tug spoke to the biologist, a man named Byron Stoll. He described the situation and the dead rodent. The information intrigued Stoll, who agreed to come and take a look for himself.

Within ten minutes, Stoll arrived on a motorcycle. “Can’t say I’ve heard of many kangaroo rats in Santa Fe,” he said, pulling off his helmet and shaking Sara’s hand.

A slightly built man in his sixties, Stoll had a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed matching mustache and beard. He went straight for the box containing the dead rat and opened the lid.

“This is a D. merriami, commonly known as the Merriam Kangaroo Rat,” he said.

“How can you tell?” Sara asked, looking over Stoll’s shoulder.

“Four toes per hind foot,” Stoll answered. “The Ord rat has five, although that extra toe is sometimes hard to see because it’s so tiny. But this is clearly a Merriam.”

Stoll looked at Tug and Sara. “This animal shouldn’t even be here.”

“What do you mean?” Tug asked.

“There are three species of native New Mexico kangaroo rats. The Ord, Merriam, and the Bannertail. The Bannertail is easy to spot because the last one-third of its tail is white. When you called, I would have bet you had a dead Bannertail on your hands, because they have a preference for places where grass is readily available. But the Merriam is only found from about Albuquerque southward in the Rio Grande Valley, and over by Santa Rosa, along the Pecos River Valley.”

“Which definitely means it was brought here,” Sara said.

“Without a doubt,” Stoll said.

“Maybe it was a pet that was turned loose by its owner,” Tug said.

“That could be,” Stoll replied. “They’re relatively gentle and easily handled.”

“I’d like to know specifically what killed it,” Sara said, turning to Tug.

“It was undoubtedly poisoned,” Stoll said.

“Where can we have it tested?” Sara asked.

“There’s a lab in Albuquerque,” Tug replied.

“No need for that,” Stoll replied, smiling at Sara. “I’ve got a small lab at home. I’ll run some toxicology tests after dinner and give Tug a call.”

“I think it should be handled by a police lab,” Sara said.

Stoll laughed. “It would still come to me in any case. I do contract work for a number of law enforcement agencies. Don’t worry, I’ll enter it into evidence and preserve the chain of custody.”

“That will work,” Sara said.

Stoll strapped the box with the rat on a rack over the rear wheel of his motorcycle, waved goodbye, and roared off.

“Call me after you hear from Mr. Stoll,” Sara said as she walked Tug to his truck.

“I will,” he said. “I think you and Kerney need to be cautious for a while.”

Sara smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m armed and dangerous.”

Drenching rain beat down on the roof of the mobile command trailer as Kerney and the district attorney, Sid Larranaga, listened to Ramona Pino give her report. The thunderstorm had blown in just as the crime scene techs were finishing up at the shooting site, and the search-and-rescue team was carrying Larsen’s body down the mountain trail, accompanied by detectives and Kerney’s Internal Affairs commander.

“That’s all you got from the house search?” Larranaga asked when Detective Pino stopped talking.

“Yes, sir,” Ramona replied, pushing a strand of wet hair away from her face. She’d gotten soaked running from her unit to the command trailer, which only made her feel more miserable about the situation.

“I’m taking this to the grand jury,” Larranaga said, running a hand over the lapel of his suit jacket. He glanced hard at Kerney and nodded toward the door.

“You’re excused, Detective,” Kerney said. He waited for Pino to leave before addressing Larranaga. “That’s a premature call to make, Sid. Why not wait until you hear what my Internal Affairs commander has to say?”

Larranaga snorted and shifted his bulk in the chair. “It was stupid to call out SWAT and you know it. Even if your IA commander agrees with that assessment, the public is going to want an independent review made on this case. I’m charging the officers who shot Larsen with involuntary manslaughter. This was a lawful act, incautiously done, that resulted in the death of what clearly appears to be an innocent man. The grand jury can decide if it was justified or not.”

“Is that the way you intend to present it?” Kerney asked.

“I don’t know,” Larranaga replied. “But I will tell you this: I’ve got growing reservations about this big love affair cop shops have with special weapons and tactics units. This whole thing with the combat boots, military-style fatigues, automatic weapons, and all that high-tech stuff is getting to be a bit much. You’re supposed to police the community, not act like some sort of quasi-militia.”

“SWAT has a role to play in policing,” Kerney replied.

“Sometimes,” Larranaga said. “But not when a poor, unbalanced sucker who’s scared shitless is hiding in the woods because his deranged girlfriend has blown things all out of proportion.”

“Are you going to sacrifice my people to make your point?”

“Do you disagree with my analysis of the situation?” Larranaga shot back.

“No.”

Larranaga stood up. “Then make damn sure all the facts are available to present to the grand jury. The only defense you’ve got is to provide conclusive proof above and beyond the officers’ statements that they were forced to stop the action when they came under fire. You’d better hope and pray the evidence is there. I want the reports on my desk by morning.”

“What are you going to tell the media?” Kerney asked.

“For now, nothing,” Larranaga said. “I’ll announce my decision tomorrow after I’ve read your reports.”

Larranaga flipped up the collar of his suit jacket and left, running through the rain to his car. Through the open trailer door Kerney saw Otero and Molina sitting in a nearby unit. He gestured for them to join him and spent a few minutes discussing Pino’s report, Larranaga’s reaction, and laying out exactly what he wanted to see on his desk no later than six o’clock in the morning.

Molina opened his mouth to speak, and Larry Otero cut him off.

“I’ll take responsibility for authorizing SWAT,” he said grimly.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Kerney answered sharply, as he moved toward the door. “This is my kitchen, and I’ll take the heat.”

I t took Kerney a minute to realize that the new vehicle parked next to his truck outside the guesthouse belonged to Sara. Stirred by the uneasy realization that he’d spaced out their appointment to take delivery of the car, he hurried inside to apologize. He shucked off his wet windbreaker, hung it on the hall closet doorknob, and called her name as he walked into the living room.

Sara answered from the kitchen. She sat at the table eating her dinner, a bowl of pasta with asparagus in a cream sauce. Kerney’s. 38 sat next to the place mat by her right hand.

He lowered himself into a chair, eying the handgun. “Sorry I couldn’t get back in time to take you to pick up your car.”

“I managed.” Sara stood, moved to the stove, and spooned out a bowl of pasta. She seemed calm, not at all upset with him.