Michael McGarrity - Death Song

Clayton walked to the whiteboard, drew a line down the middle, and wrote Tim Riley’s name on one side and Denise Riley’s name on the other.

“Here are some things to think about,” he said. “At the cabin crime scene, the killer probably spent a minimum amount of time in the area and quickly killed his victim after he arrived home. Very little physical evidence was left behind. In fact, all we have so far is a partial footprint on the cabin porch that is probably from a man’s boot, size eight, which correlates with my theory that the killer may be small in stature—not more than five seven or eight. Murder weapon, a shotgun, fired at point-blank range of no more than four feet.” Clayton wrote the information under Tim’s name.

“In Santa Fe,” Clayton continued, “Denise Riley’s throat was cut with a knife after she’d been attacked in a tack room in a barn at the couple’s double-wide in Cañoncito. She was dragged to a nearby horse trailer, killed there, and then locked in the trailer. It’s possible that she was sexually assaulted either prior to or after her death. A detective at the scene thinks the killer made an attempt to partially cover the lower half of the victim’s body, which suggests the perp knew the decedent. Time of death was approximately sixteen to twenty hours before Tim Riley’s murder.”

Clayton wrote down the information under Denise’s name. “Don’t let the differences in the methods between the two homicides make you think we are dealing with two distinct perpetrators.”

He turned to the whiteboard once again and underlined Tim Riley’s name. “At first glance, our homicide looks professional. However, that doesn’t necessarily mean it was a contract killing carried out by a specialist.”

“But it could mean exactly that,” Paul Hewitt said from the back of the cramped room. “Basically, the killer waited in ambush, fired one shot from close range at a sure kill area of the body, the head, and left behind little physical evidence.”

“I’m not discounting those facts, Sheriff,” Clayton replied. “But from my analysis of the crime scene I think the shooter could have killed Deputy Riley when his back was turned, but chose instead to let his victim see it coming. Additionally, by literally taking Riley’s face off with a shotgun slug, the killer depersonalized his victim. It’s as if he tried to erase the most easily recognizable part of the man. To me, that makes the murder decidedly personal, just as the killing of Denise Riley appears to be.”

“Personal in what way?” Hewitt asked.

“If I knew that, I’d have motive,” Clayton replied. “The one thing I’m fairly sure of, as I mentioned before, is that the shooter is male, possibly slight in build, and shorter than Riley by two to three inches.”

Clayton wrote the physical information of the shooter on the chalkboard. “I’m guessing that we’re dealing with a single perpetrator, and I agree with Chief Bolt that chances are slim to none that our killer is local. With that in mind, we need to be surveying motels, gas stations, eateries, and be talking to people about any strangers who might have recently been asking about Riley or the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office.”

Clayton put the chalk on the tray. “Finally, we need to retrace everywhere Riley went while on patrol last night.”

“I’ll do that,” Paul Hewitt said.

“I’ve got you down to handle the news media, Sheriff.”

“The media can wait,” Hewitt growled. “Besides, we’ve got nothing to tell them.” He looked around the room. “So I expect all of you to keep your lips zipped about this case until further notice. It’s ‘No comment’ to any questions. Got that?”

Heads nodded.

“Okay,” Clayton said as he looked at the sixteen officers in the room. Excluding himself, Hewitt, and Bolt, only two of the field officers had any solid investigative experience. “Here are your assignments.”

He read off names and tasks, putting the heaviest burden on himself and the two experienced officers, knowing that it meant double shifts until they broke the case or it became too cold to work full-time any longer.

Clayton closed his notebook, looked at the sober faces of the officers sitting in front of him, and nodded at the door. “Let’s go out and catch this killer,” he said.

Sara’s favorite gelding, a baldfaced dark sorrel named Gipsy, and Patrick’s pony, Pablito, were missing from the corral when Kerney arrived home. He saddled Hondo and rode up the hill, past the ancient piñon tree where Soldier, the wild mustang he’d bought, gentled, and trained years ago during his bachelor days, was buried. He paused for a minute and then turned in a westerly direction toward the live spring at the edge of the ranch property that was always a favorite horseback riding destination for the family.

A fresh pile of horse apples near the water tank and windmill told Kerney he was on the right trail. He clamped his cowboy hat down hard, lowered his head against a stiff, cold southwesterly wind, rode Hondo at a slow trot, and tried to clear his mind of the events of the last ten or so hours. The Cañoncito crime scene had been grim enough, but the impact on the family of the devastating news of Denise Riley’s murder had been heart-wrenching to witness.

The wind eased. Kerney raised his eyes and blinked away some dust as he reached the top of the small hill that overlooked the pond and live stream. Several hundred years ago, during the days of the Spanish conquistadors, the pond had been a stop along a wagon road that ran from the village of Galisteo to El Rancho De Las Golondrinas, a way station on the El Camino Real south of Santa Fe. The ruts of the road were still visible under the overarching bare branches of several old cottonwood trees that once shaded a hacienda, which was now nothing more than a rock rubble foundation covered by cactus and shrubs.

Under the trees, Gipsy and Pablito stood quietly. Down by the stream, Kerney spotted Sara and Patrick watching a small flock of Canadian geese that had stopped during their northerly spring migration to feed on the tall grass that surrounded the pond.

Hondo’s whinny startled the geese, and the flock rose skyward, honking deeply in unison, the sound of their wings creating a back-beat rhythm as they circled and flew north in a loose formation.

Kerney rode down to his wife and son, and Patrick gave him a stern look when he arrived.

“You scared the birds away, Daddy,” he said.

“That was Hondo, not me.” Kerney patted Hondo’s withers, bent low in the saddle, and extended his hand. Patrick grabbed on and Kerney swung him up onto his lap. “You’re getting heavy.”

“I’ll be four this year,” Patrick announced proudly.

“That’s a fact,” Kerney said, smiling down at Sara. The cold March wind had put some color in her face, highlighting the line of freckles that ran across her cheeks and nose. “Are you ready to head home?” he asked.

Sara smiled. “Now that you’ve scared the geese away, we might as well.”

Kerney groaned.

“Did you find Helen’s sister?” Sara asked.

Kerney nodded. “We did,” he said flatly.

“Not good?”

“It doesn’t get any worse.”

Sara stepped to Hondo and put her hand on Kerney’s leg. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know if I can do anything more.” Kerney jiggled the reins and Hondo broke into a walk. “In three weeks I’m going to be just another retired cop, a civilian, and it may take a lot more time than that to put this case to rest.”

“But it happened to a family member of one of your people, on your watch,” Sara said, her head suddenly filled with the images of the firefight in Iraq, the wounded soldiers on the ground. The acid smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils.