Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

After leaving Sara, Kerney went to the house on Upper Canyon Road to shower and shave. For good reason, the place didn’t feel safe. Each sound he heard put him on edge, and he kept the bathroom door open and his semiautomatic close at hand. He dressed quickly in a fresh uniform, holstered his weapon, and walked into the bedroom.

Sara had asked for some fresh clothes. Kerney packed them in an overnight bag-two days’ worth-along with her toiletries. He zipped the bag, took it into the living room, and dumped it on the couch. On the writing desk were the architectural plans for the new house, which Sara wanted him to bring to her. Next to the plans was a handwritten list of things Sara wanted for the new house: a kitchen island, lamps and end tables, bedroom linens and a seven-foot sofa, cooking utensils. On the architect’s drawing she’d marked places where she planned to arrange the antique pieces she’d inherited from her grandmother.

Sara’s wish list made Kerney ache for a return to sanity in their lives, and for everyday conversations about what furniture to buy, what trees should be planted around the house, and their ongoing debate about whether or not they should add a pergola to the patio inside the courtyard entrance.

Was it really only last night that Drake’s body had been found in the blue van? Time felt drawn out and chaotic, and his life turned upside down by a nameless, faceless murderer.

He placed Sara’s list on top of the plans, rolled them up, and snapped rubber bands around them, thinking that all he wanted to do was find out who to hunt down and kill.

Outside, Sal Molina stood waiting by his unmarked unit. “Have you got something for me, Lieutenant?” Kerney asked.

Sal shook his head. “Nothing about the murders, Chief.”

“So what brings you here?”

“You didn’t pull my chain when I sent Ramona Pino down to Mescalero last night.”

“I thought about doing it,” Kerney said. He debated saying more and decided not to.

“Bobby Casados is going to recommend that I be officially censured and forced into retirement,” Molina said, as he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. “I wanted you to know it was my idea.”

“Is this what you want?” Kerney asked.

“Yeah, it is. I put pressure on Detective Pino to make a quick arrest and I also made the call to bring in SWAT.”

“A lot of mistakes in judgment were made, Sal, up and down the line,” Kerney replied.

“That wouldn’t have happened if I’d thought things through before I reacted. I finish my work week tomorrow. I’ll have my retirement papers on your desk by the end of shift today.”

“No deal, Lieutenant,” Kerney said.

Molina shook his head abruptly. “There’s no need for Pino or Cruz Tafoya to take a hit for this.”

“That’s not my point,” Kerney said. “I can’t have my best investigator walking out on me until this case is completely wrapped up. Then you can retire. We can talk about under what conditions you leave the department when the time comes.”

“You may not have the luxury of waiting,” Sal said. “There are seventy-five people from a group called the Friends of the Mentally Ill holding a protest vigil outside headquarters right now, and they want blood. The media is covering it big time.”

“I’m not going to cave into that kind of pressure, Sal,” Kerney said. “Not from a protest group, the DA, the city manager, or the media. If they want a pound of flesh, they’ll have to wait, because I’m not about to lose my major felony case supervisor with three unsolved homicides and four attempted murder investigations under way. Are we clear on that?”

Molina nodded.

“Okay, let’s go back to work.”

Sal drove away and Kerney sat in his unit listening to the radio traffic. The size of the protest vigil had swelled to over a hundred, and people were walking along nearby Cerrillos Road carrying placards that accused the department of discrimination, police brutality, and violating civil rights. He scratched out some notes and called Helen Muiz, his office manager, on his cell phone.

“Will you be joining the party?” Helen asked. “It’s turning into quite an event. The gay pride people have just showed up to add their voices to the chorus of protest.”

“I’ll be there in a few,” Kerney said. “Let the media know that I’ll be giving a prepared statement but taking no questions.”

“Oh, I’m sure that will please them no end.”

By the time Kerney arrived at headquarters, Helen had arranged for a podium to be set up outside the visitors entrance. He stepped out the door with Larry Otero in tow to find a semicircle of TV cameras facing him, and the parking lot filled with people, with more arriving from lines of cars parked along both sides of the street that paralleled Cerrillos Road.

Plainclothes officers and some of Andy’s agents were spread throughout the gathering, and uniformed personnel were stationed at the back of the parking lot, eyeing people as they came in. Larry Otero had officers taking photographs from inside the building just in case the perp had decided to join the throng.

In the front row he spotted a solemn-looking Fletcher Hartley holding a handwritten sign that read JUSTICE FOR ALL. It was the least inflammatory placard among the many that were being thrust up and down in the air by the noisy crowd.

Kerney walked to the podium, pulled out his notes, paused a minute to let people quiet down, and then made his statement. He spoke about the unfortunate death of Kurt Larsen and Mary Beth Patterson’s suicide, and how the department would improve and strengthen policies and procedures to ensure that no similar tragedy happened again. He mentioned the development of mandatory training that would require all sworn personnel to gain the knowledge and sensitivity needed to deal with emotionally disturbed and mentally ill citizens, and called upon professionals, advocates, and family members to assist in that process.

Without giving specifics, he talked about the internal affairs investigation and the disciplinary action he’d already taken regarding the SWAT call-out that had resulted in the shooting of Kurt Larsen.

Finally, he said, “The loss of innocent lives is unacceptable and has deeply affected the men and women of this department. More officers may be held accountable as our probe continues. However, the ultimate responsibility for the conduct of the department is mine alone, and you have every right to expect me to meet my obligations, which I will do. But for now, I ask for your patience as we use all of our time and resources to apprehend the killer. Thank you.”

Kerney turned away as reporters called out questions at him about the murders and the status of the investigations. “How do you think it went?” he asked Otero, as he pushed open the door to the reception area.

“Good,” Larry replied. “They listened, didn’t hiss or boo, and best of all, nobody tried to shoot you.”

Ramona Pino rolled into Socorro, keyed her radio, and asked the state police dispatcher for directions to the district office, which was a few miles outside of town. From a long-ago high school New Mexico history class, Ramona knew some basic information about the city. She knew Socorro in Spanish meant “help” or “assistance,” and that the city had been given the name by conquistadors because of the nearby Pueblo Indians who’d provided them with food. During the middle to late nineteenth-century, the town had been the center of one of the richest mining districts in the southwest. Now it served as a hub for area farms and ranches and was home to New Mexico Tech, a state university. It was also the birthplace of Conrad Hilton, the man who’d started the famous hotel chain.