Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

Russell’s first assignment as a rookie had been at the Las Vegas District, which covered a lot of big empty territory. He knew by experience that country people were usually very observant.

Maybe one of them had seen the blue van, or knew something interesting about Olsen. Thorpe figured it might be worthwhile to talk to the neighbors.

Noel Olsen did his banking at a state-chartered institution situated on the main drag close to the old plaza. A block away down a side street was one of the best western-wear stores in the state. Locally owned, it catered to real ranchers and cowboys, which meant that Clayton could always find jeans that fit, hats and boots that didn’t cost an arm and a leg, and reasonably priced western-style shirts that weren’t ridiculously gaudy. There were equally good deals on clothes for Grace and the kids.

Many of the store’s customers were Navajos from the remote Alamo Band Reservation in the northwest corner of the county, and the place had a homey feel to it, with polite, friendly clerks who made shopping there enjoyable.

On family trips to Albuquerque, they’d often stop to do a little shopping at the store and have lunch at the restaurant in the old hotel a few steps away.

Inside the bank, Clayton met with a vice president, showed her the canceled check, explained the nature of his inquiry, and asked if he could view the video surveillance tapes for the day in question.

The woman, a round-faced Anglo with an easy smile, took Clayton to a back room, found the tapes, and sat with him while he watched the monitor, using the remote to fast-forward through the frames of customers at the teller stations inside the bank. Olsen wasn’t on the tape.

“What, exactly, are you looking for?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Clayton replied. “Can I view the tape from the drive-up window camera?”

The woman got up and replaced the tape. Clayton pressed the fast-forward button, and froze it when a van came into view. He did a slow-motion picture search, watching Olsen lower the van window and reach for the transaction tube. He stopped the tape. The passenger seat was empty.

Clayton advanced the tape frame by frame and watched Olsen conduct his transaction. He didn’t look very happy, and twice he turned his head and said something over his right shoulder. A curtain on the side window blocked the view into the rear of the van. But it didn’t matter. Clayton was certain another person was in the vehicle with Olsen. He ran through the frames again just to be sure.

“I may need a copy of this,” he told the woman.

“You saw something?”

“Yeah,” Clayton said, thinking that he might have been wrong about Olsen working solo. “But don’t ask me what it means.”

Two of the private parcels were tracts of vacant land, and a third looked to be an abandoned mining claim. Thorpe took the turn-off from the county road and traveled over rock-strewn ruts deep into the hills to a small ranch house situated in a shallow finger of a valley.

It wasn’t much of a place to look at. The front porch of the weather-beaten house was filled with wooden crates, barrels, and piles of rusted junk. To one side stood an empty corral made out of slat boards, a windmill that fed water to a stock tank, and a broken loading chute. Except for an old pickup truck with current license plate tags parked on the side of the house, the place seemed unoccupied.

The sound of Thorpe’s cruiser brought a man out of the house. He stood with his hands in his pockets and watched as Russell approached.

“Don’t get many visitors out here,” the man said. Tall and deeply tanned, the man’s face showed years of wear and a day’s growth of white whiskers. “Especially law officers.”

“I expect not,” Russell replied, extending his hand. “I’m Officer Thorpe.”

The man shook Thorpe’s hand. “Frank Lyons. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me what you know about Noel Olsen.”

“Can’t say I know much,” Lyons said. “I met him when he bought the place and moved in some years back, and I wave to him when I see him on the road. Occasionally, I’ll run into him in town. That’s where I hang my hat. I only come out here once in a while to keep an eye on things. Damn land isn’t good for squat.”

“Have you ever seen him driving a blue van?” Thorpe gave Lyons a full description.

Lyons shook his head. “Nope, just that little car he scoots around in.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“About two months ago, when we were both fueling our vehicles at a gas station.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I asked him if he’d gotten a letter from the BLM, offering to buy up his property. They want to purchase all the inholdings and turn these hills into a wildlife preserve, which is just dandy with me. They quoted a fair price. Of course, knowing the government, I’ll probably be long gone by the time the deal closes. Still, it’ll put some cash money in my grandchildren’s pockets.”

“What did Olsen have to say about the offer?”

“He didn’t like it. Said he was gonna turn them down, which I think would be plain stupid, because if the feds want your land, they’ll find a way to get it. Just ask some of the old-timers who got booted off the north end of the missile range back in the fifties.”

“Did he say why he didn’t like the offer?” Thorpe asked.

“Said he liked his privacy,” Lyons said with a laugh. “Well, he’s sure got that. About the only thing worth a plug nickel in these hills is the view across the river to the mountains.”

“Have you ever visited Olsen?”

Lyons shook his head. “He put a gate across his access road soon after he moved in. I took that to mean he wasn’t interested in having unexpected company come calling.”

“Are there any other neighbors?” Thorpe asked.

“Not nearby and living on the land,” Lyons replied. “Jett Kirby owns a couple of sections, so do Cisco Tripp and Roman Mendez. But, like me, they live in town.”

“Thanks for your time,” Thorpe said.

“Has Olsen got trouble?” Lyons asked.

“He’s gone missing.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Lyons said. “Good luck finding him.”

Thorpe drove away in full agreement with Lyons’s take on the land. It was parched, rocky, and desolate, chalk-colored and brown, and only cactus and scrub brush seemed to thrive on it. But when he topped out of the small valley the view was stupendous. Below was the fertile green expanse of the Rio Grande River valley, and beyond that were the mountain crests west of Socorro, blue-black against a bright afternoon sky.

Russell wasn’t sure he’d learned anything worthwhile doing his one-man canvass. But he’d run it by Clayton Istee and Ramona Pino anyway.

Clayton and Thorpe arrived at Olsen’s house within minutes of each other, and Ramona convened a conference at the front of Clayton’s unit. Inside the house, techs were vacuuming floors, looking for latent prints, and gathering hair and fiber samples.

“What have we got?” Ramona asked as she leaned against the hood of the Lincoln County 4?4 patrol vehicle.

“Where do you want to start?” Clayton asked.

“Let’s stay in sequence,” Ramona said. “The interviews first.”

Thorpe nodded. “I didn’t learn much on my end, except that Olsen doesn’t like gays, doesn’t have a girlfriend, keeps his personal life private, and plays well with others on the volleyball team.”

“Roger that,” Ramona said. “I heard the same thing.”

Clayton nodded. “Apparently, he hasn’t had an intimate relationship with a woman since he moved to Socorro. At least not one that anyone knows about.”

“Maybe he’s asexual,” Ramona said.