Michael McGarrity: Death Song

“He’s solid, levelheaded, and intelligent,” Clayton said. “Takes direction and supervision well. The only question I have is why he never made any rank at his old job.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Yeah. He said he likes patrol duty, likes being on the street, doesn’t care much about moving up the chain of command, especially after being a top sergeant in the military.”

“Do you buy it?” Hewitt asked.

Clayton shrugged. “Why not? Don’t you?”

“It’s possible,” Hewitt said as he paged through the training report Clayton had assembled on Riley and the personnel records that his previous employer, the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office, had sent down. “He got solid performance evaluations in his old job and was promoted to deputy three, which is equivalent to a corporal’s rank.”

“Did you talk to the Santa Fe County sheriff about Riley?” Clayton asked.

Hewitt closed the paperwork and got to his feet. “Yep, and he reassured me that I wasn’t getting a reject or a screwup from his department. Said he was sorry to lose him. So let’s hope Riley works out, likes it here, and stays with us.”

“That would be nice,” Clayton said.

“Don’t you need to get home so Grace can go to an important meeting or some such?”

“Affirmative,” Clayton said, rising to his feet.

Hewitt grinned. “Well, then, get the hell out of here, Sergeant, so I don’t have to pay you any more overtime this week. Enjoy your days off.”

Clayton threw Hewitt a quick salute on his way out the door, dumped his files into his desk drawer, locked it, went to his unit, and started home to the Rez.

After an unusually wet summer and fall, winter in New Mexico had failed to materialize. From December on, the days had been unseasonably warm and no measurable moisture had fallen. The mountains were bare of snow, and last summer’s lush grasslands were now straw-colored tinder fields ready to explode into raging wildfires caused by a lightning strike, a careless smoker, or campfire embers kicked up by the wind.

Clayton took his favorite route home, driving the road that crossed the river by the old stone stables of Fort Stanton, an authentic nineteenth-century U.S. Army fort where General Blackjack Pershing had once served as a young officer. He passed the maritime cemetery where some World War Two German POWs were buried, and navigated a series of curves to the top of the mesa, where two dark and heavily forested mountain ranges filled the horizon east and west, sharp against a clear, cloudless sky.

A regional airport on the mesa served mainly private planes. Most of the rest of the tabletop land was state and federal, which kept the real estate developers at bay. But in the grassland valleys, vacation homes and five-acre ranchettes dotted the landscape, and on the private land near the town of Ruidoso, high-end gated communities with homes on million-dollar-view lots peppered the mesa.

Touted by the local politicos as evidence of a growing local economy, more subdivisions to serve the upscale vacation home market were in the planning stage. But Clayton didn’t think that building second and third houses for very rich boomers benefited the area in any meaningful way.

The sun, bright in a cloudless sky, hovered at the tip of the Sierra Blanca Mountains. Clayton lowered the visor to cut the intense glare and reached for his sunglasses. When he glanced up, a deer attempting to hurdle the hood of his unit slammed into his windshield.

Clayton stomped hard on the brakes as the animal’s front legs shattered the glass. The impact bounced the deer onto the roof, and Clayton heard the emergency light bar rip free and clatter to the pavement. Through the rearview mirror Clayton saw the deer thud onto the highway.

He peered as best he could through the shattered windshield, veered back into his lane, and ground to a stop at the side of the road, thankful that there had been no oncoming traffic. Shaken, he got out and walked to the animal. It was a buck with large ears and a white tail tipped with black that identified it as a mule deer. Clayton guessed it weighed about 350 pounds. It was mortally wounded: Blood streamed from its ears and mouth, and bone splinters jutted through the torn muscle and ligaments of its legs. The buck tried to lift its head, and the effort made it convulse in spasms.

Clayton stepped back, unholstered his .45 semiautomatic, chambered a round, and steadied his weapon. The animal’s eyes blinked rapidly at Clayton just before he put it down with a bullet in the head.

Back at his unit, he assessed the damage to his vehicle. The hood and roof were caved in, the windshield and emergency light bar were destroyed, and a mangled right front fender had chewed up and shredded the tire right down to the rim.

He got some emergency road flares, put them on the highway to warn oncoming traffic, and called dispatch on his handheld radio to report the incident.

Paul Hewitt broke in on the transmission before dispatch could respond. “Clayton, are you all right?”

“Ten-four, Sheriff,” Clayton responded. “But I’ll need a tow truck at this location.”

“Affirmative,” Hewitt replied. “We’ve got personnel rolling to your twenty.”

“I’m standing by,” Clayton said as he disconnected. The sun had dropped behind the western mountains, and dusk had started to deepen. He went to his unit, got more flares, put them out, and then stood by the deer carcass with a flashlight to guide the occasional car around the scene.

Department policy required the state police to investigate any accidents involving on-duty sheriff’s personnel, and Clayton knew it would take a good amount of time for the officer to conduct the investigation once he was on the scene. It didn’t matter that it was clearly a no-fault incident; every detail would be done by the book because it involved another cop.

Clayton glanced at his watch. Even under the best of circumstances it would be several hours before he could get home. There was no way he’d be there in time to look after the children while Grace attended the tribal council meeting. He called her on his cell phone, explained what had happened, reassured her that he was unhurt, and gave her the bad news.

“Don’t worry,” Grace said. “I’ll find someone to look after the children.”

“Call my mother,” Clayton said.

“I’m sure she’ll be glad to help out. Are you certain you’re not hurt?”

With his flashlight Clayton waved a slow-moving car around the deer carcass. “Not a scratch, but my unit is a mess and I’m gonna have to hitch a ride home.”

“How did you manage to run into a deer?” Grace asked.

“You’ve got it reversed,” Clayton replied. “The deer ran into me.”

“Still, you killed Bambi’s father,” Grace whispered in mock seriousness.

Clayton laughed. “Please don’t tell the children.”

“Never,” Grace replied. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Good luck with the tribal council.”

“Thanks. Your dinner will be warming in the oven.”

Clayton disconnected. He could see flashing emergency lights approaching from both directions. From the west, a volunteer fire department EMT unit slowed and stopped on the shoulder of the road, and two men hurried toward him. From the east, two S.O. units ground to a halt. Paul Hewitt and Tim Riley dismounted their vehicles and moved quickly in his direction.

There were more flashing lights coming down the highway from Ruidoso, probably the state cop and the tow truck. Or a state game-and-fish officer. Or whoever, Clayton thought as he groaned inwardly. For the next several hours he would be on the receiving end of a police investigation, which was never a happy prospect, especially for a cop.