Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“Not that I heard. Evans had a live-in girlfriend who kept a pretty close eye on him, and of course Claudia was married, so if anything was going on they kept it hushed up.”

“What can you tell me about him?” she asked.

“He’s in his late thirties, I’d guess. Good with horses, but not the best trainer around. He’s one of those people who comes and goes. Turns on the charm and personality with the ladies, his bosses, anyone he can curry favor with.”

“Anything else?”

Wheeler sipped his Scotch. “My wife can’t stand him, thinks he’s a real jerk. I can’t say she’s wrong. He’s got a foul mouth when it comes to talking about women. Likes to brag about his conquests.”

“Are you sure he’s still working in Atascadero?”

Wheeler nodded. “I saw him in Paso Robles a couple of days ago. That’s what got me thinking about him.”

The killdeers were back, flying in a swirl above the trees, now pale, soaring shapes wrapped in a light fog that had rolled in from the coast with dusk. One of the few birds that flew at night, they trilled and chattered as though welcoming the impending darkness.

Ellie got the name of the TV personality Coe Evans worked for, thanked Wheeler for his time, and drove home. In her living room she sat, picked up the telephone, and hesitated, trying to sort out exactly what she would say to Ramona Pino.

She wanted to share the news about Coe Evans, but she wondered what Pino would think about her ignoring Lieutenant Macy’s order to bow out of the investigation. Granted, their few phone conversations had been cordial, but Ellie didn’t really know Pino. Was she a by-the-book cop who would feel compelled to rat her out to Macy, or more freewheeling when it came to bending the rules?

It didn’t matter. Pino needed to know Coe Evans had been found. She dialed the phone, gave Pino the news, and then explained why she’d no longer be working the case.

“It will make my life easier if you don’t let on to Lieutenant Macy or Detective Price that I’m your source of information about Evans.”

Ramona laughed. “You’ve just eased my load, so the least I can do is cover for you. Besides, who’s to say a CI can’t be another cop? I’ll keep your name out of it when I call Detective Price and ask him to get cracking on Evans.”

“Thanks,” Ellie said.

“Are you really going to stay on the sidelines?”

“I guess I’ll have to.”

“How about I keep you informed from my end?” Ramona asked.

“That would be great.”

The two women talked awhile longer, and Ellie hung up with the feeling that if distance didn’t prevent it, Ramona Pino would make a very good friend.

Sara called Kerney at home just as he was preparing for bed.

“I want to apologize,” he said, wondering why Sara called so late. It was midnight, East Coast time. “I shouldn’t be impatient when I’m asking for a favor.”

“There’s no need for that,” Sara said. “But keep that thought in mind and it will stand you in good stead. You’ve got a green light from DOD to do the exhumation.”

“So fast?” Kerney asked.

“We at the Pentagon never sleep.”

“Are you still at work?”

“Back at work, actually. Patrick’s tucked into bed, fast asleep, under the watchful eye of a sitter, so you needn’t fret about him.”

“What did it take for you to pull it off?” Kerney asked.

“Once I connected with the right person and showed him the material you faxed me, it went smoothly. We’ve opened our own investigation into the matter, and I’m your liaison officer. Aren’t you lucky? If the remains prove to be those of someone other than George Spalding, the Army will assume control of the case.”

“You’re a marvel.”

“It’s about time you noticed. The U.S. Attorney and the VA have been notified. Have fun at the cemetery.”

“You sound tired.”

“I’m bushed and want to go home,” Sara said.

“I won’t keep you. Thanks, my love.”

“Give yourself a hug from me. Good night.”

The phone went dead. Kerney punched in the home number of Jerry Grant, the forensic anthropologist, got him on the line, and told him they were on for tomorrow.

He stood at the window and stared into the night, trying to figure out what feelings were eluding him. He felt distant, empty, and totally preoccupied with George Spalding. But why?

Jerry Grant was a transplanted Easterner who taught at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque and did contract forensic work for the state police crime lab. Kerney rounded him up at his office early in the morning, and took the fastest possible route south to Fort Bayard.

A big, beefy man, Grant had thick, droopy eyebrows, a full head of hair badly in need of a trim, and a slightly unruly beard. On the drive, Grant, who’d lived in Albuquerque for ten years, talked eagerly about getting to see a part of the state he’d never visited before.

Kerney wasn’t surprised by Grant’s lack of familiarity with New Mexico. There were many people now residing in the state, especially urban dwellers, who had no inclination to explore their adopted home ground. But they could talk endlessly about exotic, international tourist destinations.

Kerney played historian along the way and filled Grant in on the background of the fort: how it was established on the frontier during the Indian Wars to contain the Apaches; how it had been home to the buffalo soldiers, companies of black enlisted cavalrymen commanded by white officers; how it had been transformed into a military hospital at the end of the nineteenth century and was now a state-run long-term care facility.

When they arrived at Fort Bayard, Grant had to see it, so Kerney took a quick swing through the grounds. He drove by the three-story, ugly block hospital that had been built years after the fort had been decommissioned, and then on to the charming quadrangle where a bronze life-size statue of a buffalo soldier firing a rifle over his shoulder stood on a pedestal.

A row of officers’ quarters, stately Victorian houses with two-tiered porches, lined the street, and the restored post headquarters building, low-slung and sturdy with a wide veranda, sat at the far end of the quadrangle. Behind the building, the Pinos Altos Mountains rose up, masking from view the high wilderness of stream-cut canyons, vast upland meadows, and rugged summits that ranged for hundreds of thousands of acres along the Gila River watershed and continental divide.

“This really is an architectural treasure,” Grant said.

“I’ve always thought so,” Kerney said, remembering the times he’d visited in the past, first as a child with his parents and later on when he and his best friend, Dale Jennings, had competed in the state high school rodeo championships in nearby Silver City.

At the national cemetery, a Veterans Affairs official up from Fort Bliss met them. Looking none too pleased, he guided the way to the Spalding grave site, with a backhoe and a private ambulance following behind.

Evergreen trees scattered across the grounds interrupted the stark lines of gray headstones. The brown earth, almost barren except for sparse native grasses, seemed in somber harmony with the scattered trees.

Kerney signed forms and the backhoe operator went to work, carefully trenching and piling excavated dirt into one large mound. The engine’s sputtering carburetor and the whining of the hydraulics put Kerney on edge.

He wondered why the noise bothered him so much. Was it because he wanted the dead, many who’d seen so much violence and had been killed in battle, to rest quietly? Or was it also because of his own lingering sense of guilt about the men in his platoon who never made it home from Nam?