Michael McGarrity - Death Song

“And you can tell this by how the hard drives were erased.”

“Yep. Whoever did this used the techniques and standards set by the Department of Defense to cleanse computer hard drives.”

“What else have you got?”

Matt looked surprised. “Nothing right now. I was waiting on you to tell me what Internet service provider the victims used so I could get a subpoena to access their records.”

Ramona drained her coffee and gave Chacon an apologetic look. With the discovery of Denise Riley’s body in the horse trailer and the ensuing work that it entailed, she’d totally forgotten to follow up as promised.

“Never mind,” Matt said with a smile. “I’ll do it. Do you know if the evidence search at the residence turned up any floppy disks, zip drives, or compact disks? I didn’t see any when I was there.”

“I’ll take a look at the evidence sheets when I meet with the sheriff’s investigators and let you know.”

“Thanks.” Matt slid out of the booth. “Also, ask about any software. If they secured anything like that during the search, have them give me a call. I’ll pick it up for analysis.”

“Coffee’s on me,” Ramona said.

“Thanks,” Matt said, knowing full well that it served as a partial apology on Ramona’s part.

Outside the restaurant, Ramona took a call on her cell phone from Don Mielke of the sheriff’s department asking her to show up for an investigative team meeting at the sheriff’s office in fifteen minutes. She told him that she was on her way, passed the word of the meeting by radio to the two other detectives Chief Kerney had assigned to the case, and drove out of the parking lot, still feeling a bit miffed with herself for failing to get Matt Chacon the information he needed.

Several years ago, the county had built a new law enforcement complex on Highway 14, a state road that ran from Santa Fe through the old mining towns of Cerrillos, Madrid, and Golden, into the Ortiz Mountains, and down the back side of the Sandia Mountains that rose up east of the city of Albuquerque.

Designated a scenic route and named the Turquoise Trail, most of Highway 14 was indeed picturesque, with views of high, heavily forested peaks and several old mining towns along the way that were definitely worth a stop.

One such town was Cerrillos, named for the nearby hills, where according to fact or legend—Ramona wasn’t sure which—Thomas Edison, the inventor of the lightbulb, had experimented with a precious metal extraction method he’d devised. When the effort failed, Edison shut down his operation and returned to his laboratory in New Jersey to invent other wonderful gadgets.

However, miles before travelers reached Cerrillos or the other old mining towns, they had to pass a cluster of institutional buildings outside the city limits that paid homage to a decision that had been made by the city fathers years before statehood. When the legislature had given Santa Fe first choice of either being home to the territorial prison or the college, the city officials had picked the pokey. At the time it had supposedly been a no-brainer; the prison would bring many more jobs to the community than a college ever could. Which meant that Santa Fe missed out on being the home of the largest university in the state, which Ramona saw as a slow-growth blessing in disguise.

Travelers on the Turquoise Trail thus encountered the stark and foreboding old prison a short distance from Santa Fe. The scene of a bloody, ghastly riot in 1980, it was now closed and rented out to filmmakers as a movie set. Visible nearby were the modern, high-security penitentiary that had been built to replace it, enclosed by towering fences topped with concertina wire; the neat and tidy Corrections Department headquarters and training academy, where the bureaucrats looked after the welfare, safety, and rehabilitation of their incarcerated clients and trained their guards to manage and control the inmate population to keep them from rioting again; and finally, across the road, the Santa Fe County Adult Detention Center and the separate law enforcement complex that housed the S.O.

Inside the county law enforcement building, a group of deputies, sheriff’s investigators, and several state police agents were milling around in a large conference room waiting for the meeting to begin. At the front of the room behind a large table, the sheriff; his chief deputy, Leonard Jessup; and Don Mielke, who ran the major crimes unit for the S.O. and carried the rank of major, were engaged in quiet conversation. On the table was a stack of folders.

Ramona took a seat at the back of the room, where she was soon joined by her two detectives. After a few late stragglers wandered in, Sheriff Salgado convened the meeting while Mielke and Jessup distributed the folders, which contained copies of the briefing report.

Ramona flipped though the document as Sheriff Salgado highlighted preliminary findings from the crime scene and subsequent follow-up activities. All in all, the S.O. had done a creditable job, and Ramona didn’t see any missteps or gaps in the work that had been carried out on the case so far.

Salgado ended his presentation by announcing that the autopsy on Denise Riley would be conducted in Albuquerque later in the afternoon. He turned the meeting over to Major Mielke, who passed out copies of an initial criminal investigation report of the murder of Deputy Tim Riley, prepared by Sergeant Clayton Istee of the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office.

Ramona read through the report, wondering how many people in the room other than herself knew that Clayton was Chief Kerney’s son. While it wasn’t a secret, it wasn’t common knowledge either.

She stopped speculating about it and returned her attention to the case. Mielke was warning the group not to let the investigation stall because there was no motive and no suspect.

“Don’t pin your hopes on forensic evidence solving this case,” he said as he leaned against the table, “and in spite of the different modus operandi, we agree with the Lincoln County S.O. that there is a strong likelihood that the murders are linked.”

One of the state police agents raised a hand. “What about this theory by the Lincoln County S.O. investigator that the killer is probably a male, approximately five-seven to five-eight in height, who wears a size eight shoe and knew his victim?” he asked in a smug, mildly skeptical tone. “Can we put any stock in it?”

The state cop’s attitude rankled Ramona. “I’ve worked with Sergeant Istee in the past,” she said before Mielke could reply, “and I wouldn’t bet against him. His analysis that these homicides are personal is right on, and I’m convinced that Denise Riley’s killer either redressed her or rearranged her clothing after she was dead. That makes both murders personal.”

The state cop threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I was just asking,” he said, but his eyes weren’t smiling.

“Sergeant Istee has given us a start on a profile for our perp,” Mielke said. “We need to use it when we’re out there asking questions.”

“The perp may also have more than a passing knowledge of computer technology,” Ramona added. “According to Detective Matt Chacon, whoever scoured the hard drives on the two computers removed from the Riley residence is not your typical personal computer user. Also, both the desktop and laptop had been wiped clean of prints.”

“Let’s add that to what we know and move on to assignments,” Mielke said. “Sheriff Salgado and Sheriff Hewitt out of Lincoln County have decided to consolidate the two murder cases into one shared investigation. Myself and Sergeant Istee will serve as case supervisors, and we will both, I repeat both, have equal authority.”

Mielke looked directly at every officer in the room. “Are there any questions about that? Good. Our starting point is an in-depth look at our victims. The question I want answered is why these persons were murdered. We’ll use the FBI crime classification protocols for violent crimes.”