Michael Mcgarrity: Slow Kill

Kerney had come to the ranch as a potential buyer, not a police chief, so he doubted anyone knew he was a cop. Nonetheless, he’d told Hilt it would be best to keep everyone away from the cottage, a suggestion Devin readily accepted. Like most civilians, Hilt had no desire to stare death in the face.

Kerney sat with Lowrey in the ranch office and answered her questions directly. He’d never met the man and didn’t know him or his name. He only knew that he would be sharing the cottage with another visitor who was looking to buy horses. He’d returned from dinner last night to find a car outside and one of the bedroom doors closed. He’d simply assumed that Spalding was sleeping or desired some privacy. He’d read for a time before retiring and had heard no sounds from the man’s room. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred during the night to arouse any suspicions about Spalding’s welfare. He’d discovered the body after attempting to wake Spalding with a knock on the bedroom door. He’d touched only the light switch in the bedroom and Spalding’s carotid artery to confirm he was dead.

Lowrey asked for the name of the restaurant where he’d dined, which Kerney provided, and asked how long he’d be staying at the ranch.

“I leave tomorrow,” Kerney said.

Lowrey nodded. “We might have to ask you to stay over, Mr. Kerney, until we clear things up.”

“If it’s possible, I’d rather not do that, Sergeant,” Kerney said as he took his police commission card from his wallet and gave it to Lowrey.

The sergeant glanced at it and gave Kerney a reproachful look. “You could have told me who you were up front.”

Kerney shrugged and took his ID back. “I knew we’d get around to it,” he said. “Besides, until you say differently, I’m a person of interest to your investigation. But I would like you to extend the courtesy of allowing me to go home tomorrow.”

He replaced the ID in his wallet and gave her a business card. “You can confirm who I am. Call the dispatch number and ask to speak to Deputy Chief Larry Otero. They’ll patch you through to him.”

Lowrey nodded. “I’ll do that. Until we know more, this looks like an unattended natural death.”

“So it seems,” Kerney said as he got to his feet. “But it’s always best to do it by the book.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were a police chief?” Lowrey asked.

“Because I came here as a civilian,” Kerney said, “which occasionally is a very nice thing to be.”

Lowrey smiled, and a dimple showed on her right cheek. “Point well made, Chief. Will you ask Mr. Hilt to join me, and stand by in case I have any more questions for you?”

Kerney nodded and left the office.

If Clifford Spalding had expired in his own bed, the coroner, Deputy Sheriff William Price, would probably have done a quick death assessment and let it go at that, trusting the autopsy to pinpoint the cause. Instead, he decided to be a bit more thorough. First he checked the eyes for any signs of changes in the vitreous humor, which usually turns cloudy within eight to ten hours after death. The fluid was clear and there was no evidence of the minute blood clots caused by strangulation that show up as tiny red dots.

He inspected the mouth for any sign of blockage or corrosive burns, the neck for bruising or ligature marks, hands and arms for defensive wounds or needle marks, and fingernails for any traces of skin. He ran a gloved hand over the skull and found it to be intact with no telltale indication of blunt trauma. He stripped off a glove and felt the armpits with the back of his hand. They were cool to the touch.

There were early signs of rigor mortis, which usually occurs within two to four hours after death. That, along with the absence of any changes to the vitreous humor and the coolness of the armpits, indicated that the man had been dead for six to eight hours.

The body was clad in an undershirt, slacks, and socks. Using scissors, Price cut the undershirt and pants away, then turned the body facedown on the double bed and used a rectal thermometer to take the body’s temperature. Then he checked the room temperature. The difference between the two readings brought his estimate of the time of death down to no more than six hours ago.

Blood pools and settles after death, appearing as a purple discoloration of the skin, and the lower back showed signs of it. Price pressed a finger against the spot and the color didn’t blanch white, which was another good indicator that Spalding had been dead for about six hours, and, more important, hadn’t been moved.

He looked over the body one more time. There were no surgical scars. The gluteus maximus and leg muscles were firm, indicating the man had been physically active.

Price guessed that either a heart attack or a stroke had killed the man. He took off his gloves and went to give Ellie Lowrey the news.

After admitting that he had almost no experience with cops or dead people, a nervous Devin Hilt confirmed what he could of Chief Kerney’s story. Ellie Lowrey probed with a few more questions to reassure herself that all seemed as it should before letting Hilt go and calling Kerney’s deputy chief to verify his identity.

Bill Price came in just as she was about to begin her interview with Jeffery Jardin, the ranch owner.

“The body shows no signs of death by unnatural causes,” he said.

“You couldn’t seriously think that Clifton Spalding was murdered here,” Jardin said in a bit of a huff.

Price smiled benignly. Civilians were always uneasy about the thought of homicide. He’d faced the same reaction from people time and again over the years. “We always try to rule that out first,” he said.

He turned his attention to Lowrey. “I’d say he died in his sleep, either from a heart attack or a stroke, about six hours ago. The autopsy will tell us more.”

Lowrey nodded. “Thanks. Ask the EMTs to keep everyone away from the cottage until I finish my interviews. I’d like to take another look around before we wrap it up.”

“You got it,” Price said, stepping out the door.

“Are you people always so suspicious?” Jardin asked.

“Careful would be a better way to put it,” Lowrey replied. “How well did you know Mr. Spalding?”

“Well enough, on a business and social basis. Over the past ten years, he’s bought about six horses from me, some that he ran in qualifying and small purse races. He didn’t seem to care if they won or lost. It was a hobby for him, or rather for his wife, who I think basically liked the social scene at the track. He stabled his horses here and used my trainers. My ranch manager arranged for jockeys and the horses’ transportation to and from the track. We basically did everything except race the horses under my colors. His wife keeps two of the horses he bought for pleasure riding, although they’re good enough to race. I usually dealt with her.”

“That’s a pretty expensive hobby his wife has.”

“Clifford could afford it. He owns, rather did own, a number of resort hotels up and down the coast.”

“You said you knew him well,” Lowrey remarked.

“For about the last ten years,” Jardin replied, “after he married his second wife. I met them when they were first looking to buy racing stock. After that, I’d see them at the track, and we’d get together occasionally for dinner and drinks. Claudia, his wife, is a good twenty years younger. She divides her time between Santa Barbara and Santa Fe. Clifford built a house for her out there where she could keep some horses. I think she’s in Santa Fe now.”

“If you usually dealt with Spalding’s wife, why did he come here this time?” Lowrey asked.

“Claudia had her eye on a horse she liked, and Clifford said he wanted to buy it for her as a surprise anniversary present.”