Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

Over the weekend, Kerney forced down every instinct he had to confront her uncharacteristic reserve. Sunday night, he could no longer contain himself.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong,” Sara said in response to his question. She shifted her position on the couch to look at him and put her after-dinner liqueur on the coffee table.

“That covers a lot of ground,” Kerney said from the other end of the couch.

“Meaning?”

Kerney sipped his cordial. “You’re not one to leave things unsaid.”

Rain began pattering on the side of the house and coming in through the old wooden window screens. Sara got up and closed the windows. “Don’t get bullheaded on me, Kerney. Just give it a rest. Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re irritable, not sleeping well, and evasive every time I ask you what’s wrong.”

She returned to the couch. “If so, it’s for good reason.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

She gave him a feisty look. “Okay, I’ll make it short and sweet. I don’t want to tell you what’s going on because you’ll harangue me about resigning my commission.”

“I harangue you?”

“You have a tendency to lecture.”

Kerney shook his head in rebuttal. “I don’t mean it to sound that way.”

“I believe that’s true,” Sara said. “But you knew what you were getting into when you married me. I’m career Army, and that fact alone makes family life hard. We live apart by your choice, and that makes it even more difficult. But never once have I asked you to quit your job, leave Santa Fe, and follow me from post to post until I retire. You could give me the same consideration.”

Kerney was silent for a time. Finally he said, “I can see how you might think I’ve been pestering you to quit the Army. I won’t do it anymore.”

“Thank you.”

“But I don’t think you’re telling me the whole story. Does it have something to do with that assignment on the rape of servicewomen?”

“Mostly,” Sara replied.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not yet.” She slid closer to Kerney and ran her hand up his leg. “I know I’ve been a bit preoccupied with work, but I haven’t been unapproachable, have I?”

“Are you trying to distract me with sex?” Kerney asked, breaking into a smile.

“Is it working?” Her hand moved to his crotch. “Oh my, what’s this?”

Late in Kerney’s second week at Quantico, Claudia Spalding was still on the loose despite intensive efforts to locate her, and Ramona Pino, who was back in Santa Fe, had been unable to find a money trail between Clifford Spalding and any past or present members of the Santa Barbara Police Department. However, fresh information about the George Spalding investigation had begun to come in. First, Jerry Grant, the forensic anthropologist, called.

“The narrowly angled pelvis, the rounded head of the femur, and the length of the femur, confirm it to be the skeleton of a male, slightly less than six feet in height,” Grant said.

“You already told me this in Albuquerque,” Kerney said.

“But I needed to verify my observations,” Grant replied. “Now it’s fact. The joints were completely fused with the bones and showed only slight wear, which is consistent with an age range of thirty to thirty-five years.”

“Did you find anything that would help ID the remains?” Kerney inquired.

“Nothing,” Grant said, “and lacking a skull, I couldn’t even determine race. But there were no tool marks that would indicate the body had been dismembered.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I thought so. What I did find was microscopic evidence that the body had decomposed badly before interment.”

“I thought you said the bones had been cleaned.”

“Yes, but not well enough. The evidence suggests the remains were exposed to the elements for a period of time. In Vietnam, a body could decompose down to cartilage, bone, and sinewy ligaments in a matter of a few weeks. That could explain why the skull, hands, and feet were missing. Predators could have easily scattered those bones.”

“But you’re sure the man was shot?”

“Absolutely. My best guess is by an automatic weapon, but I couldn’t swear to it in court. I asked the Central Identification Laboratory in Hawaii to run all the information through their database. It yielded a list of seventy-six military and civilian Americans and thirty-nine foreign nationals who fall within the parameters. I’ll fax it to you.”

“Great.”

“By the way, the Armed Forces DNA lab at Walter Reed has the results from the bone sample I took. They said they were expecting it when I called to tell them it was on the way. You must know people in high places.”

“I do,” Kerney said. “Has the lab in Albuquerque finished the mitrochondrial DNA comparison tests?”

“You should hear from them today,” Grant replied. “I’ll fax my report to you along with the list from Hawaii.”

Sara called shortly afterward. “Vincent DeCosta, the sergeant George Spalding served with in Vietnam, has a cousin. He says DeCosta’s younger brother, Thomas, emigrated to Canada during the Vietnam War to avoid the draft, and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”

“Where in Canada?”

“I don’t know,” Sara replied. “We’ve asked the Canadian authorities to locate him if possible.”

“Debbie Calderwood said she lives in Calgary, Canada.”

“That’s why I thought you’d like to know. I’ve got to run. I’m a busy girl.”

Kerney called Ramona Pino. “Was there a Canadian connection in any of Clifford Spalding’s personal or corporate financial records?”

“He owns several hotels in Canada, and a third of the proceeds from his estate will go to a foundation he established in Canada, the High Prairie Charitable Trust.”

“What do you know about the foundation?” Kerney asked.

“Nothing, Chief.”

“Look into it,” Kerney said. “I want as much information as you can get. When it was incorporated, who directs it, what its purpose is, who the board members or trustees are, and any financial statements and annual reports.”

“Didn’t Debbie Calderwood tell her old college roommate that her husband ran a philanthropic organization in Calgary?” Ramona asked.

“She did,” Kerney replied. “Query the Calgary police for information about her, her husband, a man named Vincent DeCosta, and his brother Thomas. They may have changed their names. Fax them the police sketch of Debbie.”

“Who’s this DeCosta?” Ramona asked.

“He’s an Army deserter who served with George Spalding in Nam.”

“I’ll get on it, Chief.”

Kerney put the phone down and went back over his notes on Ed Ramsey. During the past few days he’d used his free time at the academy checking into Ramsey’s background.

Ramsey had started his law enforcement career in Missouri and worked briefly for a small department in Illinois, before moving to California and joining the Santa Barbara Police Department as a patrol officer and then moving up through the ranks. The police standards and certification boards in all three states had no disciplinary reports or formal complaints about him on file.

Ramsey’s credit history proved to be more interesting. He had a sizable mortgage on his Stafford home, as well as personal loans for a boat, motorcycle, and two automobiles. Additionally, the report showed another real estate loan in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars for property in Maine. The bank that held the note reported it was for a summer home on the coast near the town of Camden and that Ramsey had purchased it two years ago. Ramsey’s total loan payments added up to a six-figure annual nut.

He used his credit cards frequently, occasionally for big ticket items, but always paid the balances in full each month.