Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

The corral gate was closed and the stall door was open, but Soldier wasn’t inside the arena or under the covered shelter that ran the length of the barn. Inside the corral, Kerney inspected the water trough and freestanding hay rack he’d filled yesterday before leaving to pick up Sara at the airport. Both looked untouched. He glanced into the empty stall, which he’d purposely left open to give Soldier access to the corral. The interior gate to the center aisle was closed and latched.

Kerney stood in the corral and did a three-sixty looking for his horse. He was nowhere in sight. Kerney doubted Soldier could have gotten out without assistance. He’d carefully padlocked all the other exterior doors to keep rodents and other small animals from gaining access.

He walked around the barn. Except for Soldier’s stall it was secure. He unlocked the barn doors, pushed one back, and saw Soldier lying on the concrete pad that ran the length of the center aisle. He stepped in and inspected the animal. Soldier had been shot three times in the stomach and left to die. In his death throes, he’d kicked and dented the steel wall with his forelegs. Blood from the wounds had stained the concrete and soaked into the dirt floor in front of a stall door.

Because he was starting out with just one animal, Kerney had jokingly named the spread the One Horse Ranch. Now it wasn’t even that anymore. He bent down and stroked Soldier’s head. He’d been a fine horse, a smart horse. Who would do such a thing? And why?

Outside, he used his cell phone to call Andy Baca, his ex-boss and the chief of the state police. He told Andy what had happened to Soldier and asked him to dispatch a patrol officer.

“Do you want me to send an agent also?” Andy asked.

“No, I’ll handle the crime scene myself,” Kerney said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Kerney said.

“This doesn’t sit right with me,” Andy said.

“With me either,” Kerney replied. “Somebody went out of his way to kill my horse as painfully as possible.”

“You got any idea who did it?”

“Only a handful of people knew Soldier was on the property, and none of them carry any grudges against me, as far as I know.”

“Well, somebody’s sending you a message,” Andy said.

“It looks that way.”

“Maybe you’ve got a wacko on the crew building your house.”

“Maybe,” Kerney said. “But I’ve gotten to know the guys pretty well and none of them strikes me that way.”

“You never know.”

“True enough,” Kerney said.

“Any leads on the Jack Potter homicide?”

“Nothing worth talking about yet,” Kerney answered.

“Keep me informed, and if you need help, just ask.”

“I will, and thanks.” Kerney disconnected and called Tug Cheney, a veterinarian he knew from his days as a caretaker of a small ranch on the Galisteo Basin. Tug told him Soldier could be sent to Albuquerque for an autopsy or he could do a quick and dirty one himself.

“I know what killed my horse,” Kerney said. “What I want are the bullets out of Soldier’s stomach. When can you get out here?”

“Give me directions to your place and I’ll be there in an hour,” Tug said.

Kerney supplied directions, thanked Tug, stuck the cell phone back on his belt, and turned to see Sara walking slowly in his direction from the construction site.

Today he’d argued with a woman he adored, seen the murdered body of a man he liked, and found a horse he loved maliciously destroyed. It was a crummy way to start a vacation.

He started toward Sara to give her the news.

D etective Pino finished her courthouse interview with Stephanie Dwyer, Potter’s secretary, and escorted her across the now-empty parking lot past the crime scene. Potter’s body had been removed, but the blood trail on the sidewalk made Dwyer start sobbing all over again. Ramona guided her into the office, spent a few minutes calming her down, and then left her with another detective to conduct a complete inventory to determine if anything was missing from Potter’s office.

Outside, she found Lieutenant Molina waiting and gave him her report. Dwyer knew of no reasons for Potter’s murder. There had been no threats made against him, no hate mail or mysterious phone calls received, and nothing in Potter’s recent behavior had pointed to any kind of worry or undue emotional stress. Although Ramona had quizzed her closely about Potter’s past and current clients, friends, and associates, Dwyer was unable to think of anyone who held a grudge against her boss. Additionally, Dwyer, who kept the financial books for the practice as well as Potter’s personal and housekeeping accounts, reported that there had been no unusual or suspicious flow of money, which might point to extortion or payoffs.

“Did Dwyer have an alibi?” Molina asked.

“Yes, and I confirmed it by telephone,” Ramona replied. “She dropped her daughter off at day care and went to an early morning yoga class for working mothers.”

Molina held out a slip of paper. “Go talk to this person.”

Ramona read the note. “Who is she?”

“A transsexual who stalked Potter some years ago, after he ended a relationship with her,” Molina replied. “She lives with her current boyfriend, who runs a one-man gardening service. Both of them are head cases. The boyfriend isn’t home-he’s a gardener and leaves early for work. I’ve got Sergeant Tafoya looking for him. His name is Kurt Larsen.”

“What kind of head cases are they?” Ramona asked.

“Larsen’s a vet with post-traumatic stress, and Patterson gets hysterical and cuts herself with a knife to get attention. The shrinks call it a borderline personality.”

“You talked to their shrinks?” Ramona said.

“No, I spoke with the caseworker who supervises the apartments where Patterson and Larsen live. It’s an independent living program for mental patients run by a local agency. The caseworker’s name is Joyce Barbero. See her first before you meet with Patterson.”

“Will do,” Ramona said.

“It might be something,” Molina said halfheartedly. “As it is, we’re getting nothing from the neighborhood canvass.”

“Have we found the spent bullet?”

“The techs are still looking, but I wouldn’t count on them getting lucky. Be careful with Patterson.”

Ramona rolled her eyes in agreement and went off to meet with a loony-tune transsexual who liked to play with knives.

Patterson and Larsen lived in a single-story apartment building behind a large discount department store just off Cerrillos Road, the busiest, noisiest, ugliest street in Santa Fe. A high concrete block wall tagged with graffiti separated the two structures.

The building had eight units with entrances fronting the street. Patches of stucco had broken off the exterior, exposing the gray undercoat, and the painted wood trim around the doors and windows was chipped and peeling. Landscaping consisted of some low-maintenance native shrubs and a few large boulders in a gravel bed that ran the length of the building from the sidewalk to the front stoops. On the street, litter had accumulated under several broken-down vehicles that were up on blocks and in the process of being repaired.

A sign in front of an end unit announced the office of the La Puerta Mental Health Independent Living Center, and asked all visitors to check in. Ramona rang the bell and was greeted by Joyce Barbero.

A large, round, middle-aged woman dressed in a loose-fitting skirt and top, Barbero carefully inspected Ramona’s credentials.

“I’m sure Mary Beth had nothing to do with the murder,” Barbero said.

“We’re just gathering information about Mr. Potter from people who knew him,” Ramona replied. “Did you know him?”