Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“Pino had no actual knowledge that Larsen had a gun,” Casados said, as he referred to a note. “She based her premise on Patterson’s non-verbal reaction to the question. In fact, the counselor Pino spoke to, Joyce Barbero, made it clear that guns were not allowed at the independent living center.”

Casados set his note aside and reached for another slip of paper. “However, the presumption that Larsen ran to elude the police does have credibility. Patterson placed a call to Larsen’s cell phone minutes after Pino left the apartment. Why he ran is still in doubt, although it could very well be because he knew it was illegal for him to possess a handgun.”

“Why do you say that?” Kerney asked.

“Twice in Santa Fe and once in Albuquerque he tried to buy a pistol, and was turned down each time when the records check came back identifying him as mentally ill. He got red-flagged through an out-of-state arrest stemming from a road rage incident some years back where he’d brandished a weapon at a passing motorist who’d cut him off in traffic. He got a deferred sentence based on his military record, his previous psych history, and a court-ordered agreement to enter and successfully complete a treatment program, which he did. As far as I know, it was his first and only offense.”

“How did Larsen go from being an informant wanted for questioning to a murder suspect?” Kerney asked.

“According to everyone I’ve talked to and the tapes of the radio traffic, he didn’t,” Casados replied. “The orders were to proceed with caution and find and apprehend only. Sal Molina made it clear that Pino and Tafoya briefed him fully by phone before he bumped the request up to Deputy Chief Otero to call out SWAT.”

“Do you think Molina is covering for his people?”

“Only insofar as he’s willing to take the hit on this as their supervisor,” Casados replied. “Sal has nothing to lose, he can retire and go fishing. Tafoya and Pino still have most of their careers in front of them. He’d hate to see their chances for advancement get derailed.”

“So what went wrong?” Kerney asked.

“Since it wasn’t a hostage situation, nobody thought to put a negotiator on the team that went looking for Larsen. That might have made all the difference.”

“Nobody on the team tried to talk Larsen into surrendering?”

“After Larsen opened fire, the SWAT commander ordered Larsen to toss his weapon and give up peacefully. All four officers said he responded with more gunfire.”

“They had cover and concealment?” Kerney asked.

“Affirmative, although the evidence at the scene shows that Larsen came close to taking out the point man.”

“How many rounds did the team fire?” Kerney asked.

“In all, thirty-five,” Casados said, giving Kerney an uneasy look. The figure was exact; policy required every officer to account for all department-issued ammunition down to the last cartridge. But that wasn’t what bothered Casados.

“Did all the officers fire their weapons?” Kerney asked, reading Casados’s discomfort.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of firepower to stop the action of one man with a handgun. How many shots did Larsen get off?”

“I checked his magazine. Larsen fired four times, and he wasn’t carrying any spare clips.”

Kerney’s expression turned sour. “What else, Lieutenant?”

“Larsen took three rounds in the back, Chief.”

“Shit,” Kerney said.

“According to the team, Larsen was belly crawling to safety and firing at the same time. The point man caught him with a burst when he rolled towards some rocks.”

Kerney pushed back his chair and stared out his office window. This wasn’t good. In fact, it sucked.

“Do you want me to write up my report and submit it?” Casados asked.

“Not yet. I want you to tack the Patterson suicide onto your investigation,” Kerney replied, as he got up and walked to the window. “Go over all that happened with Patterson and Detective Pino from first contact to the time she was hospitalized.”

“Yes, sir. Is that all for now?”

Kerney turned and nodded. “Thanks, Robert. You’ve done a good job.”

Casados assembled his paperwork and left quietly.

The DA wasn’t going to like what Kerney had to tell him, and he was due at Sid Larranaga’s office in fifteen minutes.

Kerney didn’t like it either. The problem was much bigger than the tragic mistakes that had been made by his people. Maybe Sid was right about the overeager-ness of cop shops to use special weapons and tactics in every apparent high-risk situation.

He thought about it a bit longer. No matter what kind of discipline had to be served up to individual officers, the overriding problem was officer training. Sworn personnel needed to deal effectively with mentally ill informants, suspects, witnesses, and victims, no matter what the situation. He would get the ball rolling on a mandatory in-service program. It wouldn’t stop the uproar from the community, but it was still the right thing to do.

He looked for Sara on the way out, found her in Sal Molina’s office at the computer, and told her he’d be back shortly. He clamped his mouth shut to avoid asking if she was all right.

She waved him away with her hand, and he left the building trying to convince himself the day could only get better.

M echanical problems with the plane delayed Norm Kaplan’s arrival in Albuquerque by over four hours. From the second-level observation deck, Santa Fe Police Officer Seth Neal, who’d been cooling his heels all that time, watched the plane land, turn, and taxi slowly to the terminal. He walked to the gate and asked the woman at the check-in counter to have a flight attendant advise Kaplan that a police officer would be waiting for him when he deplaned. He reassured her that everything was cool, and the woman’s somewhat startled, questioning look disappeared.

Neal, who normally rode a motorcycle during the summer months and drove a squad car the rest of the year, didn’t particularly like the assignment he’d been given. As a traffic officer, Neal’s notion of a good day at work consisted of writing tickets, running speed traps, investigating accidents, pulling dignitary escort details, and busting drunk drivers.

Conspicuous in his uniform with tight-fitting pants and motorcycle boots, Neal stood to one side of the open jetway door as the first-class passengers hurried past, casting curious glances in his direction. A tall man dressed in jeans and an expensive pumice-colored linen sport coat broke ranks and veered toward him.

“Mr. Kaplan?” Neal inquired.

Kaplan nodded. A pained, tired expression carved deep lines around his mouth. “Have you caught Jack’s killer?” he asked.

“No, sir. I’m here to escort you to Santa Fe.”

“Why?”

“The detectives need to speak with you as soon as possible,” Neal replied.

“I have my own car,” Kaplan replied.

“Yes, sir, I know. I’ll take you to it, and follow you to Santa Fe.”

“Why do you need to do that?” Kaplan asked, his eyes searching Neal’s face.

“It’s just a precaution,” Neal replied. “Did you check any luggage?”

“What kind of precaution?” Kaplan asked, his voice rising.

Neal touched Kaplan’s arm to get him moving. “The detectives will explain it. Do you have any luggage checked?”

Kaplan nodded and Neal prodded him down the long corridor toward the lower level. In the baggage claim area, Neal kept Kaplan away from the passengers who ringed the carousel waiting for their luggage to arrive as he searched the crowd looking for any suspicious characters.

As luggage began tumbling down the conveyer belt, Kaplan asked questions about the investigation. Neal told him what he knew, which wasn’t much, and Kaplan groused about the scantiness of the information.