Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“It’s that bad?”

“Worse,” Sara snapped angrily. “Many of them didn’t receive rape kit examinations or treatment for their wounds, evidence wasn’t gathered and collected, and their requests for base transfers to get away from their attackers have been routinely turned down by post commanders. Besides that, instead of receiving appropriate sexual trauma counseling, they’ve been ordered to take polygraph tests, and routinely sent back to work while still suffering from psychological and physical problems.”

Kerney sat in the leather easy chair Sara had picked out for him at a local furniture store and put his feet on the ottoman. “How many victims are you talking about?”

“Over ninety that we know about, but probably a hell of a lot more, worldwide. The post commanders are laying the blame on inadequately trained investigators and medical personnel. Pardon my French, but that’s bullshit. Some of these attacks were brutal, Kerney, and the victims frequently weren’t believed. You should read the case files; they’re gut-wrenching.”

Kerney pulled off his boots and dropped them on the floor. “What is it you have to do?”

“Let me quote. I’m to ‘Prepare a report on readiness to adequately and fully respond to sexual assault complaints, including an analysis of training needs, recommendations for changes to current investigative protocols and procedures, improvement in the coordination of services with Medical Corps personnel, and an estimate of staffing requirements needed to ensure the sufficiency of trained personnel, system-wide.’ ”

“That’s a military mouthful,” Kerney said.

“Don’t make me use my French again,” Sara said. “Instead of writing a report, we should be mounting a full-scale, widespread Internal Affairs operation into each and every one of these cases.”

“You don’t sound too happy with the brass.”

“I’m not. They tried to promote it as a plum assignment, sure to earn me another commendation. But all they really want to do is assuage the politicians and hope the furor dies down.”

“You know that for a fact?” Kerney asked.

“Come on, Kerney, you were an army officer. There are two kinds of orders: the ones that are written down and those that aren’t. In a private conversation, the scope of my assignment has been clearly limited.” Sara’s voice was clipped, filled with frustration.

“Does this mean you’ve hit the glass ceiling?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m not resigning my commission, Cowboy, if that’s what you’re asking. I want to pin eagles on my collar at the very least before I retire to civilian life.”

“And after that, you’ll want your first star.”

“Probably. But let’s not wind our way down that road again. How are you?”

“Ready to see my family,” Kerney said. “Will you have time for me?”

“I’ve got a handpicked team assigned to assist me. I’ll make the time. Don’t worry about that. Have our horses arrived from California?”

“Not yet. They’ll be here next week while I’m with you and Patrick. Riley Burke will look after them until I’m back.”

“I’m ready for a long horseback ride with you under a big sky or a full moon.”

“A night ride sounds romantic,” Kerney said.

“I get to ride Comeuppance.”

“Why do fast women always seem to like fast horses?”

Sara laughed. “You ponder that, Kerney. I’ll see you Friday night.”

“See you then.”

Kerney hung up, went to the kitchen, and fixed a light meal. Although he’d wanted to, he hadn’t asked about the George Spalding investigation. It could wait. Worried about Sara’s predicament, knowing he could do nothing about it, he sat and ate his dinner without enthusiasm.

R amona Pino often chuckled at television cop shows that were riddled with cliches and misconceptions about police work, dreamed up by writers who, for the most part, obviously didn’t know jack shit about the job. She especially got a kick out of a show that featured a shrink who hung around a police station giving instant psychological insights into suspects and a bombshell babe prosecutor who ran around tidying up flawed police investigations.

She didn’t know any shrinks or prosecutors who did things like that. In the real world, cops did most of the theorizing about suspects and virtually all of the hard grunt work necessary to bring a case to trial.

But this Friday morning, Ramona’s job was bringing her an unexpected bonus that had a bit of California glamor to it. She was being sent to work with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department to wrap up the Spalding homicide case. Her airplane ticket and a per diem check were in her purse. She sat in Chief Kerney’s office with all of her case materials crammed into a soft canvas flight bag at her feet.

“When do you leave?” Kerney asked.

“This afternoon,” Ramona said. “Sergeant Lowrey has offered to put me up.”

“I think the two of you will hit it off.”

“We already have, Chief. She’s meeting me at the Santa Barbara airport.”

Kerney scribbled phone numbers of where he could be reached in Virginia on the back of a business card and gave it to Ramona. “I’ll be at Quantico for the next two weeks, and I want you to do something for me while you’re in California.”

Ramona put the card in her purse. “I’ll be glad to keep you informed, Chief.”

“It’s not just that,” Kerney said with a smile. “Although I’d appreciate updates. I want you to take a very close look at Spalding’s will and his corporate and personal financial records.”

“According to the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department, they found nothing in Spalding’s will that strengthens our case,” Ramona said.

“This is for a completely different matter,” Kerney said. “Clifford Spalding had a son by his first wife, a boy named George, who ostensibly died while serving in Vietnam. I believe he faked his death, is still alive, and that his father knew the truth and covered it up for over thirty years.”

“Why?” Ramona asked.

“I don’t know,” Kerney said as he slid a manila folder across the desk to Ramona. “But it could have something to do with money.”

Ramona opened the folder, which contained a copy of Kerney’s case notes. “I’m not an accountant, Chief. Wouldn’t it be better to use auditors for this kind of assignment?”

Kerney nodded. “It would, if I wanted a full-scale financial investigation. All I’d like you to do is find out if Spalding or his company had any financial dealings with four people: Debbie Calderwood, who was George Spalding’s teenage girlfriend; Dick Chase, a Santa Barbara police captain; Ed Ramsey, the former police chief; and Jude Forester, a young detective in the department.”

“Cops on the pad?” Ramona asked.

“Possibly. I think you’ll understand my reasoning after you’ve read the file.”

“So much for sneaking in a day at the beach in sunny California,” Ramona said with a smile.

Kerney laughed. “Is your bathing suit packed?”

Ramona grinned, nodded, and got to her feet. “That was wishful thinking on my part, I guess.”

“Go swimming, Sergeant,” Kerney said. “That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Ramona turned on her heel and left the office.

Kerney lowered his gaze to the desktop, where there were letters to be signed, memos to be read, agendas of meetings to attend, and messages to be returned before he could leave for Virginia.

Kerney put his book aside as the plane taxied for takeoff at the Albuquerque airport. The afternoon summer sky was an unusually low gray blanket of formless clouds that dissolved at the base of the foothills, allowing sunlight to pour down on the mountains east of the city.