Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

The thought hit Kerney in the gut, and feelings he thought he’d resolved long ago resurfaced, pushed away the emptiness, and brought back vivid flashes of combat. He could feel his mouth grimace, his jaw tighten.

Digging stopped when the casket was uncovered. Chains were secured to the casket fore and aft, and slowly it was lifted out of the grave onto a waiting gurney.

The backhoe operator shut the engine down and the silence only somewhat eased Kerney’s mood. He watched Grant stop the ambulance driver before he could push the gurney toward his vehicle.

“Might as well take a look before we cart this back to Albuquerque,” Grant said matter-of-factly, brushing dirt off the casket lid. “No sense wasting our time.”

Frozen in place, Kerney watched Grant unfasten the casket lid and push it open.

“There’s no skull,” Grant said.

Kerney approached slowly and looked inside at an assortment of bones, wondering if they represented a soldier unaccounted for and still carried as an MIA, one of the 1,800 Americans killed in Vietnam that had yet to be identified, perhaps a man from his regiment or company. Suddenly, putting a name to the remains became as important as confirming that George Spalding was still alive.

“We got a sternum, two sets of tibias and fibulas, one femur, one humerus, assorted ribs, a scapula, two ulnas, iliums-both with an attached pubis, a collarbone, a radius, and a hip joint-that’s it.”

Grant looked up from the casket. “No skull, finger, or foot bones. Maybe somebody didn’t want these remains to be positively identified.”

“That could be.”

Grant gave Kerney a questioning glance. “Are you okay with this?”

“I’m fine,” Kerney replied, his voice cold and distant.

Grant put on gloves and picked up the radius bone. “According to what you told me, Spalding was killed in a chopper crash that exploded on impact, right?”

“That’s what I understand,” Kerney replied.

“High-octane fuel burns hot and eats flesh away right down to the bone, especially those that lie close to the skin. I don’t see any evidence of burns here, but of course I’ll run tests for hydrocarbons.”

“What else?” Kerney asked. His throat felt scratchy and dry.

Grant pointed into the casket. “Look at the splintered rib and the shattered breastbone. I’d bet this person was fatally shot. Also, the bones look like they’ve been thoroughly cleaned.”

“Is that unusual?” Kerney asked.

“The only people I know who clean bones are anthropologists, not morticians. Whoever did it effectively erased any trace evidence.” Grant stripped off his gloves and closed the lid. “Okay, that’s it for now. I can’t tell you much more until the remains are in the lab in Albuquerque.”

Kerney nodded. The ambulance driver loaded the casket and drove away. He could feel Grant’s stare and turned away from it. Behind him the backhoe roared to life with a coarse vibration that seemed to penetrate his skin. He watched until the operator finished filling the empty hole.

“You’ll keep me informed?” the VA official asked.

“Yes,” Kerney said. Without another word, he joined Grant, who was waiting in the car, and headed back to Albuquerque. Preoccupied by his thoughts, he was grateful for Grant’s silence.

Tied up with paperwork and phone calls, Detective Bill Price didn’t get to leave his office until late morning. The warrant to seize and examine the original document giving Claudia Spalding spousal permission to take lovers was making its way through the system. Additionally, at Ramona Pino’s request, Price had asked for a judge’s order requiring the release of Clifford Spalding’s last will and testament. If all went without a hitch, Price planned to personally serve both before the end of the day.

Sergeant Pino had also passed on some very interesting information about a man named Coe Evans, including his present whereabouts. Based on the details he’d been given, Price had no doubt Ellie had played a hand in tracking Evans down. He’d said nothing about his suspicions when Lieutenant Macy stopped by his office to tell him the surveillance of Claudia Spalding had been dropped.

Tomorrow, Claudia would bury her husband, and Price had already decided to watch from a distance to see what she did after Clifford got planted.

He found the ranch where Evans worked on a lightly traveled two-lane highway that ran from Atascadero to Santa Margarita, a sleepy little farming town. He turned onto the paved driveway, his progress halted by a custom-made gate adorned with the silhouette of a horse, bracketed by two ten-foot squared columns that displayed its famous owner ’s initials. He announced himself over the intercom, held his shield up to the security camera, and stated his business, and the gate swung slowly open.

The paved drive cut between two low hills where sunlight spilled on pastures and lethargic brood mares stood beneath oak trees, tails whisking, foals nearby. The drive followed the curve of a small streambed, and descended to a hidden valley revealing a compound of buildings stretched out along both sides of the creek.

On the north side of the creek, a sprawling, modern timber-frame house with a wall of vaulted windows was placed to take in the view of the rolling hills coursing southward. On one side of it was a guesthouse, and on the other side a detached four-car garage, all tied together by broad cobblestone walkways that wandered through Japanese-style gardens.

On the other side of the creek two barns faced each other across two large fenced pastures. A tree-lined lane ran between the pastures to a cluster of small cottages, outbuildings, storage sheds, and corrals, then continued on to a dirt landing field at the foot of a hill where a twin-engine plane sat next to a hangar. Sunlight flashed off the metal roof of the hangar like a beacon.

Price pulled to a stop in front of the house, got out of his unit, and watched a pickup truck coming in his direction rattle over the wooden bridge spanning the creek. The man who jumped out of the truck had an agitated expression on his face.

“What do you need to talk to me about?” he demanded abruptly.

“Coe Evans?” Price asked, looking the man over. He was a pretty-boy, with cropped curly hair, symmetrical features, and a solid six-foot frame.

“Yeah, that’s right. What do you want?”

“You sound worried,” Price replied pleasantly. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Evans said, glancing up at the big house. “You tell me.”

“As far as I know, you’re not in any trouble,” Price said. “What can you tell me about Claudia Spalding?”

Evans looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Not much. I barely know the woman.”

“How did you come to meet her?”

“At the tracks where I used to work. She likes the ponies-owns a few and races them. I’d see her around and sometimes we would chat. Small talk stuff.”

“Just casual conversation about horses and racing,” Price rephrased.

“Horses and racing,” Evans said. “Exactly.”

“That’s it?” Price asked. “You had no social interaction with her outside of work?”

Evans smirked and laughed. “Are you kidding, outside of work? She didn’t hang out with my crowd.”

“So you only saw her at the track.”

“I just said that.”

Evans was repeating Price’s words, averting his eyes, omitting information-all signs of a liar.

Price decided to stop acting so amicable and ask a slightly tougher question. “You never slept with her?”

Evans tilted his head and closed his eyes. “That’s bullshit. Who have you been talking to? Who would say something like that?”

Pleased with the response and convinced he was reading Evans correctly, Price backed off. “When was the last time you talked with Mrs. Spalding?”