Michael McGarrity - Death Song

Mielke went over the protocols item by item, handed out assignments, and fielded some questions.

“Before we mount up, there’s one more thing,” he said. “In a few days, we’ll be burying Deputy Tim Riley and his wife, Denise. Most of us in this room knew Tim, worked with him, liked him, and liked his wife. They were family to us.”

He paused and scanned every face in the room. “I don’t expect a miracle between now and the funeral, but I want to see steady progress on this investigation every single day. We are going to grind it out until we catch this killer.”

After most of the officers had filed out of the conference room, Ramona approached Mielke and asked to take a look at the evidence inventory. He took her to his office, which was adjacent to the suite that housed the sheriff and his chief deputy, and had her sit while he thumbed through the stacks of paper on his desk.

Mielke was middle-aged but looked older than his years. Tall with slightly stooped shoulders, he had a slim build, a narrow chest, and a gaunt face that gave him an emaciated look. Although his eyes were clear and his hands steady, Mielke was known to be a binge drinker, who’d been on some legendary benders at the Fraternal Order of Police bar on Airport Road.

Ramona hoped the major would stay sober until the case was closed, but if he blew it, at least she knew she could count on Clayton Istee to hang tough.

He fished out a file and handed it across the desk to Ramona. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Zip drives, floppy disks, compact disks, and any software programs found at the Riley residence,” Ramona replied as she flipped through the inventory forms.

“We didn’t find any of that stuff,” Mielke said.

“I’d like to go out and take another look,” Ramona said.

“Suit yourself, but if you find anything bring it here and log it in with our evidence custodian. In fact, have Matt Chacon drop off those computers to us so we can keep the chain of evidence intact.”

“Ten-four,” Ramona replied.

Mielke looked at his watch. “I need to get down to Albuquerque for the autopsies. The chief medical investigator and his senior pathologist are personally doing both Riley and his wife.”

Outside Mielke’s office, Ramona found her two detectives waiting in the break room. At the meeting, Mielke had assigned Ramona and her people the task of learning what Tim and Denise Riley’s Cañoncito neighbors knew about the couple. It was just one piece of what cops did to develop a victimology, a cop shop word for an exhaustive, comprehensive, up-to-the-minute history of a crime victim’s life. When completed, everything that could be known about an individual would be, in the hopes that it would lead to the killer.

During the process of collecting information, officers would delve into every aspect of the victim’s life, review in minute detail the elements of the crime, analyze the crime scene, pore over the forensic findings, locate and interview witnesses, family members, past and present associates, and friends, serve search warrants, and scrutinize autopsy results.

Sometimes the technique worked and sometimes it didn’t. Ramona and the detectives divided up the list of neighbors and drove out to Cañoncito in their separate vehicles to start the interviews. From experience, Ramona knew that the process might not put a killer in their sights, but it rarely failed to reveal a victim’s secrets.

Chapter Four

At daybreak Clayton Istee entered the sheriff’s office in the Lincoln County Courthouse to find Paul Hewitt at his desk reviewing the previous day’s logs, field narratives, lead sheets, witness statements, and supplemental reports that had been turned in by the investigative team. Successful homicide investigations often hinged on not letting minor questions go unanswered. And in order to know what questions needed to be asked, it was necessary to stay on top of the volume of information that continued to accumulate.

Clayton was grateful to have the sheriff lend another pair of eyes and his superior cop instincts to the pile of paperwork. At home, over his first and only cup of coffee for the day, he had prepared an updated officer assignment sheet. He handed it to Hewitt.

The sheriff gestured at an empty chair as he looked over the assignment sheet. Clayton hadn’t designated a second in command to run the show while he attended the autopsy in Albuquerque and then went to Santa Fe to meet with the team investigating Denise Riley’s murder.

He drained his coffee, put the empty mug on the desk, swiveled in his desk chair, grabbed the coffeepot from the sideboard, and refilled his mug. Day and night, Hewitt kept a pot of coffee going in his office and he drank prodigious amounts of it. “Who’s covering for you while you’re gone?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d volunteer, Sheriff,” Clayton said from his seat across from the big oak desk that inmates incarcerated years ago at the old Santa Fe Prison had made as part of their rehabilitation program.

Hewitt nodded. “Good choice, Sergeant.”

Clayton smiled. Paul Hewitt wasn’t known for a sense of humor, but when it did surface it was usually as dry as a New Mexico spring wind.

“Everybody should have completed their assignments before I get back from Santa Fe,” he said. “If nothing new or promising develops, have them back up and start all over again.”

Hewitt leaned back. The springs of his old wooden desk chair squeaked in protest. “I can’t see keeping this investigation going full bore unless we get a break or a credible lead sometime soon. When do we get the forensics back?”

“The state crime lab said they would give it priority, but they didn’t make any promises.”

Mug in hand, Hewitt took another jolt of java. “Want some?” he asked.

Clayton shook his head. What Hewitt called coffee was nothing more than high-octane sludge.

Hewitt put the mug down, put his elbows on the desk, and intertwined his fingers. “You do appreciate that solving this case may rest largely with the Santa Fe County sheriff.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Luciano Salgado is a retired traffic cop who never made it past the rank of sergeant when he was with the Santa Fe P.D. He’s a good-hearted, likable guy but something of a dim bulb in the gray matter department.”

“That’s not encouraging. What about his ranking officers?”

Hewitt wrapped his hand around the coffee mug. “Leonard Jessup, his chief deputy, wants to be the next sheriff. I’ve heard that he pretty much runs the S.O. for Salgado, who doesn’t like to spend a lot of time at the office. Jessup worked for fifteen years as an agent with the Department of Public Safety SID before Salgado tapped him to be his chief deputy.”

Clayton grunted. SID—Special Investigations Division—enforced alcohol, tobacco, and gaming laws within the state, and although it was important work, Jessup’s years of experience busting clerks who sold liquor and cigarettes to underage minors was no substitute for investigating violent crimes and major felony cases.

“What’s the scoop on this Major Mielke I’m supposed to work with?” he asked.

“Like Salgado he’s a hometown Santa Fe boy,” Hewitt replied. “The difference is that Mielke’s been with the S.O. since the day he pinned on his shield. He worked his way up through the ranks and has survived in his exempt position through two administrations. He’s got the credentials: FBI Academy courses, plus he’s a graduate of their executive development program for local law enforcement administrators. He’s the guy with the hands-on, major case investigating experience in the department.”

“Let’s hope his hands don’t get tied by the powers that be,” Clayton said. “What’s he like?”