Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

Andy Baca, Larry Otero, and Helen Muiz were in Kerney’s office sitting at the small conference table that butted up against the desk. Sara limited her shower of kisses for Andy to one sisterly peck on the cheek while Kerney went to his desk and waited for an explanation.

None came, so as Sara took a seat next to Andy he asked for one.

“Larry and I thought it best to centralize the investigation and bring in more resources,” Andy replied, scratching a jowly cheek. “The DA and the sheriff agreed to get on board, and your off-duty personnel just started showing up this morning as volunteers. Seems like nobody wants to see you wind up dead. Although for the life of me, I can’t understand it.” He broke into a big grin. “So, we need to catch this guy, so we can get all these folks back to normal duty before we run out of money to pay for the overtime.”

Kerney shook his head in disbelief, a smile flooding his face. Of the three, only Andy had the chutzpah to mastermind this ploy. But he knew Helen and Larry had tagged along as willing co-conspirators.

“Okay, where are we?” he asked.

“We have a possible suspect that Russell Thorpe got a line on,” Andy said. “Unknown white male, thirty-something, driving a blue GMC van, who was seen twice on the ranch road to your new place. Thorpe is meeting with Jack and Irene Burke right now to have a composite sketch made.”

“They saw him?”

“Up close and personal,” Andy replied. “A man delivering adobes to the building site also spotted him on the ranch.”

“Excellent work.”

“Detective Pino found the slug that Jack Potter took in the chest,” Larry Otero said. “We’re waiting to hear if a match can be made to the bullets that killed your horse.”

“More good news.”

“The caliber doesn’t match Kurt Larsen’s gun.”

“I didn’t expect it would,” Kerney said.

“Lieutenant Molina has, according to your instructions, started a full case review,” Helen Muiz said. “With the extra manpower available, we’ve expanded it a bit to include all felony cases within the first judicial district, the county, and the state police district office, so that we don’t miss any possible suspects.”

“That’s smart,” Kerney said.

“First up for review are the people on the list you prepared last night,” Larry said. “Tafoya and Pino are working those cases. We’ve got a team pulling names of new possible suspects, another team working prisons, jails, probation and parole personnel to track them down, and Foyt is heading up the court records search.”

“Give me all those names and identifying information,” Sara said, “and I’ll cross-check them with the armed forces record center in St. Louis.”

“I’ll get that to you right away,” Helen Muiz said, smiling at Sara and writing herself a note, “and set you up with a desk and computer.”

Andy stared at Sara’s belly and gave her an uneasy look.

“Don’t say a word, Andy,” Kerney said.

Sara patted Andy’s arm. “I promise not to have the baby at police headquarters.”

Dubiously, Andy looked away.

“What else?” Kerney asked.

“You’re booked with meetings,” Helen answered. “Sal Molina, Lieutenant Casados, and the district attorney at his office, in that order.”

“Larranaga is taking the police shooting to the grand jury,” Larry Otero said.

Kerney nodded. “Has he met with the media?”

“Yeah, but he toned his rhetoric down a bit,” Larry replied, “and said he was doing it in the best interest of all parties concerned. He didn’t publically slam the SWAT call-out or dwell on the Patterson suicide.”

“Fair enough,” Kerney said.

The meeting broke up and Sara stayed behind for a moment.

“I like your Helen Muiz,” she said.

“I wonder why?” Kerney replied, knowing full well both women possessed similar attributes: natural femininity and singular tough-mindedness.

“And I’m in love with Andy Baca.”

“Stay away from him. He’s a married man.” He gave her a kiss and sent her on her way just before Sal Molina knocked at the open door.

Sal looked bleary-eyed and ready to nod off, but his head seemed to be working clearly. He sat at the conference table occasionally running a hand through what remained of his hair, and asked Kerney to come up with some more possible suspects.

Kerney added the names of a serial rapist he’d caught on the strength of nothing more than a shoe print outside a bedroom window, a stepfather who’d molested his wife’s ten-year-old daughter, and a punk who was pulling twenty-five years for murdering an old lady because she’d refused him a glass of water when he was drunk and thirsty. He dug deep into his memory and added several more names, including several individuals he’d shot and wounded over the course of his career.

“I gotta ask you a few more questions, Chief,” Sal said as he straightened out his slumping shoulders. “Have you pissed off somebody’s husband or boyfriend that I need to know about?”

“No.”

Sal gave him an uncomfortable glance. “Were you ever intimately involved with Jack Potter or Dora Manning?”

Kerney put his arms on the desk, clasped his hands, and looked Molina in the eyes. “You mean sexually, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I was not.”

“What about Norm Kaplan?”

“Same answer.”

“Did you ever have a confidential informant you either had to lean on hard or bust? A guy who might still be pissed off about it?”

“Two,” Kerney said, and gave Molina their names.

“Did you ever put somebody in the slam you knew didn’t belong there?”

“You’re asking if I falsified evidence or gave perjured testimony.”

“Yeah.”

“No, I haven’t done that.”

“How about any threats you might have made to a perp?” Molina asked.

Kerney thought about Bernardo Barela, a young man who’d raped, murdered, and mutilated a woman near Hermit’s Peak, and then killed his accomplice, a state police officer’s son, to keep him silent.

As far as Kerney knew, Barela was on death row awaiting execution. He’d personally promised Bernardo that he would hunt him down and kill him if he ever got released, and that vow still stood.

Kerney nodded and gave Sal a brief summary of Barela and his crimes.

“Anyone else?” Sal asked.

Kerney shook his head, unclasped his hands, and leaned back in his chair. “No.”

Sal closed his notebook. “That’s it, Chief.”

“What about the Patterson death investigation?”

“From all indications, it was a clear-cut suicide,” Molina replied. “Detective Pino is pretty shook up about it, and Cruz Tafoya is in the same boat about the Larsen shooting.”

Kerney responded with silence.

“They’re good detectives, Chief.”

“They’ll just have to sweat it out until Lieutenant Casados finishes his IA investigation.”

“When will that be?” Molina asked, as he got to his feet.

“I’ll let you know, Sal.”

Molina stood at the door and nodded. “Sorry about all those questions, Chief.”

“They were the right ones to ask,” Kerney replied.

Lieutenant Robert Casados had two pastimes: weightlifting and singing baritone in a barbershop quartet. At six-foot-two he was a bit taller than Kerney, and carried himself with the easy poise of a big man used to being treated with deference. His size and voice gave Casados a command presence, which usually made just about everybody, including cops, eager to cooperate with him. Along with his physical attributes, Casados had an analytical mind and a degree with honors in sociology.

Sitting with Casados at the conference table, Kerney listened while the lieutenant laid out his findings. The SWAT call-out had been premised solely on Detective Pino’s unconfirmed belief that Larsen was armed with a gun, followed by the supposition of both Pino and Sergeant Tafoya that Larsen was attempting to elude them.