Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“There are abrasions at the wrists and ankles, and bruising around the deltoid and pectoral muscles, most likely caused by the violent convulsions brought on by the strychnine.”

“Will you be able to confirm that rat poison was used and not some other compound?”

“I took swabs of the mouth and picked up some good granular samples along the gum lines. I should be able to isolate the inert properties easily. The blood, urine, and tissue work should also show poison traces.”

“What about the puncture wound to the lower abdomen?”

“I’d say it occurred after death,” the pathologist said. “It’s a clean entry, so I doubt the killer did it while she was experiencing poison-induced spasms. I’ll know for sure after I open her up and see where the blood settled.”

“Call me if you learn anything else,” Molina said.

He put the cell phone down and studied the license plate that had been removed from the van. He’d hoped the perp would have left prints on the back side of the plate, but no such luck. It had been wiped clean. He looked up to find the plant biologist standing in front of the desk holding a baggie in his hand.

“This is interesting,” the man said, shaking the baggie at Molina. It held a single stem and one partial leaf of a plant.

“Tell me why,” Molina said.

“It’s Lupinus brevicaulis,” the biologist said as he pushed his eyeglasses back into place. “Short-stemmed lupine. It doesn’t grow here.”

“Where does it grow?” Molina asked.

“Mostly south of Albuquerque along the Rio Grande. But the range extends into the southwestern part of the state and north into the Four Corners region.”

Molina thought about the report Chief Kerney had filed about the dead Merriam Kangaroo Rats found on his front step. According to the wildlife specialist who’d examined the animal, the rat’s range was similar to that of the plant.

He checked his copy of Kerney’s report to make sure. The rat’s native habitat was also along the Pecos River south of Santa Rosa. “Would it be found in the eastern part of the state along the Pecos?”

“Nope. There you’d find the spurred lupine and the low lupine. Neither come close to looking like the petal and stem of this variety.”

“How far south does it grow?”

“All the way into Mexico.”

The van had been lowered from the rack and the techs were about to strip it into parts. “That’s helpful,” Molina said. “Have you got anything else for me?”

The biologist shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But the soil samples may show something once you get them analyzed. I’m done, Lieutenant. I’ll send you a report for your file.”

Molina nodded and jotted down what the biologist had told him. Another fact had fallen into place. Unlike most of the other pieces of evidence, this one was at least linked to something, in this case geography. But that left a hell of a lot of land to cover south of Albuquerque to pinpoint a location for the perp, and it might mean nothing at all to the outcome of the investigation. Still, it would need to be looked into.

Molina considered the fact that the perp had used poison on his latest victim. He’d also poisoned the rats left on Kerney’s doorstep and probably the one Dora Manning had found in her driveway. It was another interesting thread that probably wouldn’t go anywhere.

What did matter was the fact that the perp kept changing how he carried out his lethal attacks. So far, he’d successfully used poison, knives, and guns, and made one failed attempt with explosives. He wondered what he had in store for Kerney, Sara, and the baby. Strangulation? Drowning? Suffocation?

Was the perp a cop? Sal didn’t think so. Anybody could study basic police science and learn fundamental investigative and forensic techniques from a book or a community college class.

Molina looked out the garage door. Morning had come and a shaft of sunlight spread into the open bay. He wondered why the chief hadn’t called to ream him out for sending Ramona Pino down to Mescalero. Surely Kerney had to know he’d done it to get her away from Lieutenant Casados and his IA investigation.

Casados would be fuming when he got to the office and learned about Molina’s ploy. But Sal had a plan on how to deal with Casados, and he was pretty sure it would work.

Milton Lynch’s bushy, untamed eyebrows cascaded down and interfered with his vision. He licked a stubby finger, ran it across his brows to get them to behave, and nodded at the police artist’s sketch that Kerney had placed on his office desk.

“Yeah, I did talk to this guy,” Lynch said. “Except he had his long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a suit.”

“Tell me about him,” Kerney said.

“He said he was writing a book about the ranchers that had been kicked off the Tularosa Basin by the government during and after World War II. Said he was researching the failed attempts of descendants of the ranchers to get compensation from the government for the loss of their land. He wanted to talk to them and get their stories.”

“So he asked for names?”

“Yeah, and you were just one of many I told him about.”

“What about Clayton Istee and his family? Did you mention him?”

“I’m almost sure I did.”

“How did he find you?” Kerney asked.

“I’ve handled probate for a lot of those ranching families over the years,” Lynch replied. “Plus, because I’ve got records of old title searches and copies of last wills and testaments, I’ve given depositions in a number of civil cases brought against the government for damages and just compensation claims that the courts have rejected. What the government did sixty years ago is still a thorn in the side of many of the old-timers and their families who lost everything when the missile range was established. But of course, you know all of this.”

Kerney nodded. “So he found you through court records?”

Lynch snickered. “He probably didn’t have to dig that deep. About once a year the newspaper interviews me for a feature article when another court case for a rancher or an heir hits the docket. It’s always big news around here.”

“What exactly did he want from you?”

“Like I said, just the names of living family members and relatives,” Lynch replied. “He wanted to concentrate on the human side of their stories and the losses they’d suffered at the hands of the government.”

“Did he identify himself?”

Lynch nodded. “He gave me his business card and told me his name, but I can’t say I recall it. This was five, maybe six months ago.”

“Did you keep the card?”

“No, I tossed it.”

“Try to remember the name,” Kerney said.

Lynch shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind. But I do remember he was from Arizona. Tucson, I think.”

“Did he make an appointment to see you?”

“No, he just walked in early in the morning and asked for a quick meeting.”

“Was there anything unusual about him?”

“Not really. Five-ten, average build, maybe thirty years old. Except for the long hair, he was just a normal-looking guy.”

“Did he have any quirks or distinctive mannerisms?” Kerney asked.

Lynch thought for a moment. “He kept rubbing his forefinger against his nose, and it was rosy in color. But it looked more like a skin condition than a cold or an allergy. He wasn’t sneezing or anything.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“He had a bandage on his left hand between the thumb and forefinger, right in that soft spot. I figured he’d cut himself. Why are you asking about this guy?”

“Because he’s a killer,” Kerney said as he stood up and handed Lynch his card. “Call me if you remember the name he gave you.”