Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“I can’t recall,” Evans replied. “It wasn’t like I kept track of her. She was just another rich bitch who hung around during racing season.”

“Try to remember,” Price encouraged.

Evans gave a slight, cooperative nod of his head. “Probably it was just before she built a house somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Four, maybe five years ago.”

“What would you say if I told you we think Claudia Spalding arranged to have her husband murdered?”

“I heard he died in his sleep.”

“What type of woman would do something like that?”

“Man, who knows why women do anything?”

Price glanced at the gold band Evans wore on his left hand. “You’re married, I take it. Is it the same woman you were living with back when you knew Claudia Spalding?”

Evans stiffened. “Have you been checking up on me?”

Price smiled. “A little bit. Is she?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Perhaps I should speak with her. Is she here?”

Evans waved off the notion with a wagging finger. “You have no cause to do that.”

“Maybe she’d be interested in learning what your old buddy in Santa Fe, Mitch Griffin, has to say about your relationship with Claudia Spalding, and what you told him about the murder plot she had in mind for her husband.”

The cockiness in Evans washed away, replaced by hot-wired apprehension. “Shit. That crazy bitch. I cut it off with her then and there. I swear, I did nothing. My wife would kill me if she ever found out about Claudia.”

“I believe you,” Price said consolingly as he opened the passenger door to his unit. “Let’s take a ride to my office. We’ll start all over again, and this time you can tell me the truth.”

In a laboratory at the university, Kerney watched Grant assemble the bones into a recognizable partial skeleton, studying each one carefully before he laid it out. After he took measurements, he picked up the breastbone and shattered rib for a closer examination.

“Definitely shot,” he said.

“Not shrapnel wounds?” Kerney asked.

Grant shook his head and put the bones back in place. “No way. It’s a male. Based on my measurement I make him to be between five-foot-eleven and six feet tall. I’m thinking he was probably in his thirties when he died, but it will take some time to confirm it. Since we’re missing the skull, I was hoping I might find an old break that could be compared to medical records, but there are none that I can see. I’ll do X-rays.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“Not much until I do some tests. The important work will be the mitochondrial DNA comparison of the bones to the blood sample provided by Alice Spalding.”

“I only asked for a saliva swab,” Kerney said.

“Normally, that would be good enough,” Grant said. “But for what I have in mind, I’ll need a blood sample.”

“Assuming these aren’t the remains of George Spalding, is there still a chance a positive ID can be made?” Kerney asked.

Grant smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask that question. I did postdoctoral work at the U.S. Army Central Identification Laboratory in Hawaii, which has the largest staff of forensic anthropologists in the world. I’d like to query them and ask for a records search of their POW/MIA data bank based on what I can tell them before we get the DNA results back. It might help narrow a search for a likely victim. But don’t expect to get a list of names you can easily investigate.”

“Why is that?” Kerney asked.

Grant walked to a desk and started rummaging through a drawer for some forms. “Because if this is truly an MIA, the man is probably just a name in their system. Or it could well be that the victim isn’t even an American soldier. The laboratory cooperates with over seventeen countries to identify remains of both military personnel and civilians from foreign governments who are unaccounted for in Vietnam. Your task could be daunting.”

“How can I narrow the field?” Kerney asked.

Grant labeled a manila file folder with a marker and put the blank forms in it. “Based on what you told me, George Spalding was handled as a KIA, which means after recovery his remains went to one of two well-equipped mortuaries in-country, Da Nang in the north and Tan Son Nhut outside of Saigon. Mortuary affairs are handled by the Army Quartermaster Corps. Finding out which facility handled these remains could be helpful. They keep excellent records.”

“What better place to switch remains than a mortuary?” Kerney said.

“You got it,” Grant replied. “But we shouldn’t stop there. I can short-circuit the process considerably by sending our DNA results to the Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory at Walter Reed Hospital. They have thousands of blood samples from POW/MIA family members in their database, and a new high-speed automated robotic processing system in place. Of course, that’s assuming the lab has maternal DNA of the victim on hand.”

“How long would we have to wait for a report?” Kerney asked.

“Even with the new system, months, I would imagine. Unless, that is, you know some way to get it bumped up on the priority list.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Kerney replied. “The Army is as interested in this case as I am.”

B y choice, Kerney spent very little time in Albuquerque, driving down from Santa Fe only for necessary business or to catch a plane at the airport. But after leaving Jerry Grant he lingered at a diner over a cup of hot tea and called the half-dozen Calderwoods listed in the local phone book. He made contact with four people who professed no knowledge of, or kinship to, the long-lost Debbie, and left messages for the others.

To make sure he hadn’t missed anyone, he called the phone company and asked for any unlisted numbers under the Calderwood name. There were none. He closed the dog-eared, grease-stained directory he’d borrowed from a waitress, drank his tea, and looked around the diner. By the front cashier station a row of booths lined one wall. Perpendicular to the booths was a serving station in front of swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Behind a long counter with padded stools a waitress refilled a trucker ’s coffee cup.

Kerney liked diners, not for the food but because they made great people-watching places. An elderly couple at one of the nearby tables carefully examined their menus and discussed whether they should order the early-bird dinner special. The woman wore loose-fitting slacks and a summer blouse, the man jeans and a short-sleeved shirt topped off by a ball cap adorned with tourist pins from the places he’d visited.

In one of the booths along the wall, a young couple in shorts, T-shirts, and hiking boots sat next to each other studying a map. By the look of their tanned legs, arms, and faces, Kerney figured them to be college students doing some high country backpacking on summer break.

He picked up the phone directory again and turned to the business listings on the off-chance the name Calderwood would appear. There was a Calderwood Farm Equipment Company on North Second Street. He called and got a recording announcing the business was closed for the day. Since it wasn’t far, Kerney decided to swing by and take a look at the place.

He avoided rush hour on the interstate and found his way to Second Street, an area of seedy commercial buildings, warehouses, and low-end used car lots that paralleled the train tracks a block away. Calderwood Farm Equipment sat across the street from a city vehicle maintenance yard. Tractors, horse trailers, field cultivators, and large metal water tanks filled the lot behind a chain-link fence. The gate was open and a late model cream-colored Cadillac sat in front of a building that had once been a heavy equipment garage, the tall bay doors now replaced with showroom windows.