Michael McGarrity - Everyone Dies

“That would be quite a behavior change for a convicted rapist,” Clayton said.

“No one I talked to said anything about him being gay, bisexual, or asexual,” Russell said, “and they all seemed like straight people to me.”

“You can’t always tell by appearances,” Ramona said.

“Maybe he’s just a gay-basher,” Thorpe said as he hunkered down in front of the 4?4.

“What did you learn at the bank?” Ramona asked Clayton.

Clayton looked vexed. “It’s another one of those anomalies. I reviewed the surveillance tapes. Olsen drove the van to a drive-up window to cash his check, and he had somebody with him when he did it.”

“You’ve lost me,” Thorpe said.

Clayton explained about the bank statement and the two-thousand-dollar withdrawal.

“So maybe he does have an accomplice,” Ramona said. “Did you get a picture of the passenger?”

Clayton shook his head. “There wasn’t one to get. Whoever was with him was in the back of the van, out of sight. But Olsen talked to that person twice, speaking over his shoulder.”

Clayton looked at the house. “Maybe it was the person Olsen had chained up in the utility room, if the techs haven’t blown away that little theory of mine.”

“The techs say the small stains on the water heater platform are blood,” Ramona said, “and the dried fluid on the utility room floor is probably urine. They also found multiple prints on the platform and identified five different sets of latents in the bedroom.”

“That’s interesting,” Thorpe said, as he stood up. “The guy doesn’t date women, hates queers, but he’s had five different people in his bedroom.”

“It’s more than interesting, especially if the prints in the utility room are from a possible unknown victim,” Clayton said.

“I agree,” Ramona said. “I asked the people I talked to if they hung out, partied, or had dinner with Olsen at his house. None of them had ever been here.”

“I heard the same thing,” Clayton said.

“Ditto that,” Thorpe said. “I also talked to a neighbor, about the only one Olsen has, who hasn’t set foot on the place since Olsen moved in. He said the BLM wants to buy all the inholdings and turn these hills into a wildlife sanctuary. Olsen told him he wasn’t going to sell.”

“With all the evidence we found, that’s not surprising,” Ramona said.

Clayton glanced to his left and right, looking for fences. He spotted one a good distance off on a rise. “I wonder how much land Olsen owns.”

“From what I could tell, looking at my map, I’d guess no more than eighty acres,” Russell replied. “It shows as a rectangle that runs straight back from the road.”

“You can hide a hell of a lot of stuff on eighty acres,” Clayton said. “Maybe we should take a look.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Ramona said.

Sal Molina and Cruz Tafoya met the agents who’d brought the evidence up from Socorro at state police headquarters. Because Sal didn’t want any screw-ups in the chain of custody, he’d decided to receive the seized items on the spot and immediately submit all of it to the state police lab for analysis.

With the three agents helping, they got the paperwork done and the evidence into the lab in less than an hour.

Henry Guillen, a senior tech who specialized in hair and fiber analysis, stopped Molina as he carried the last box into the lab.

“Come see me before you leave,” Guillen said.

Sal nodded, dropped off the box, and waited for the receiving tech to inventory the contents and sign the chain of custody receipt. He grabbed Tafoya, who was on his way out, and asked him to have the fingerprint tech take a fast look at the cell phone and the scrapbook. Then he went looking for Henry Guillen, who was peering into a microscope, scratching the back of his neck with one hand and adjusting the lens with the other.

“Did you get the official word that the vic in the van died from rat poison?” Guillen asked without looking up.

“I did,” Molina said.

“What an ugly way to die,” Guillen said, glancing away from the microscope. “All those convulsions and muscle spasms. No wonder she flipped her wig.”

“What are you talking about, Henry?”

Guillen tapped the microscope and stepped away from the table. “These hairs and fibers were found in the van. Take a look.”

Molina looked into the eyepiece and saw what appeared to be several blond strands of hair. “They look the same to me.”

“It’s really a combination of human hair and modacrylic fiber of exactly the same length,” Guillen said. “Modacrylic is a long-chain polymer used in clothing, bedding, paint, carpets, curtains, upholstery-all kinds of stuff. The only producers are in Japan. These strands came from a wig.”

“How can you tell?” Molina asked as he raised up from the eyepiece.

“The combination of hair and fiber, plus the ends are curled, which means they were doubled over and machine sewn into the wig cap.”

“Can you identify the manufacturer?”

Guillen laughed. “Sure, give me a round-trip plane ticket, a hefty expense account, and a year in Asia, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Why Asia?” Molina asked.

“Because that’s where most of the cheap wigs and hairpieces are made.”

“Victoria Drake was a brunette,” Molina said, “with a full head of hair.”

“Well, somebody who was in the van wore a blond wig,” Guillen said. “Maybe your suspect or some other victim.”

“I’ll check it out,” Molina said, as he patted Henry on the back.

He went down the corridor to the fingerprint section, where Cruz Tafoya was watching the tech at work. “Anything?” he asked.

“The cell phone has Olsen’s prints on it,” Tafoya said. “He’s checking a page in the scrapbook now.”

The tech had carefully peeled off one of the newspaper articles taped to a page and was scanning both documents with a laser light. He turned them over and repeated the process.

“No prints here,” the tech said, “and none on the inside or outside of the binder. But I’ve got a lot left to examine.”

“Let’s us know what you find,” Molina said.

Outside, there was a steady whine of traffic along Cerrillos Road. Molina watched it for a moment before turning to Tafoya. “Henry Guillen says somebody in the van wore a blond wig. Olsen has long blond hair, or at least he did. Call his mother and ask her if he’s balding and wears a wig to hide it.”

Tafoya checked his pocket notebook for a number and dialed his cell phone. It ran a long time before Meredith Olsen picked up and answered in a blurred voice. Cruz asked the question.

“Oh, no,” Meredith Olsen replied. “He has shiny, long, baby-fine hair. I used to curl it for him when he was a little boy. He looked so beautiful.”

Cruz thanked Meredith Olsen and clipped the cell phone to his belt. “No wig,” he said.

“It could be that Clayton Istee’s theory about another victim is on target,” Molina said.

“You’d think Olsen’s prints would be all over that scrapbook he put together on Chief Kerney,” Tafoya said.

“I know it,” Molina said.

Cruz Tafoya shook his head. “Things aren’t jibing.”

“I know,” Molina said.

The men separated and walked to their units. As Molina pulled out of the parking lot, he considered the inconsistencies in the case, tried to reconcile them, and came up short. There were still too many unanswered questions that cast doubt in his mind.

The large guest room at Andy and Gloria’s house had a separate entrance off the rear patio, a private bath, and two comfortable easy chairs positioned in front of a window that provided a view of the backyard. An antique pine chest under the window was filled with toys used to entertain visiting grandchildren, and a large walk-in closet contained two folding beds and all the necessary linens to accommodate four guests.