Michael McGarrity: Death Song

“There is nothing unusual enough about the coin to help connect it to a specific robbery,” Matt replied, “so I queried Interpol again and asked for a list of all unsolved heists of large quantities of coins that included Krugerrands. I made a similar request of law enforcement agencies in the Asian rim countries and the Australian Federal Police.”

Kerney nodded in approval.

“One more thing, Chief. I examined the plastic sleeve used to protect the Saint-Gaudens. There’s an indistinct but recognizable partial thumbprint on the inside of the flap. I powdered it, and it could be a match to a thumbprint Sergeant Pino lifted from inside the well house, but that’s just a guess. However, it doesn’t appear to belong to Brian Riley, Tim Riley, or Denise Riley. It’s going to take a special lab technique to get results that will allow us to make a definitive comparison.”

“Okay,” Kerney said.

“Let’s hope the thumbprint can identify a male subject who wears a size eight narrow shoe,” Ramona said.

“Is that who we’re looking for?” Matt asked. “Those are some really tiny feet.” Matt had met or seen somebody recently with feet like that, but couldn’t remember who or where. “Would he be small in height as well?”

“Not necessarily,” Clayton answered.

Kerney’s phone rang. It was Claire Paley, the questioned documents expert with the state crime lab.

“I didn’t expect you to be at work today,” Kerney said.

“You wanted quick results,” Claire said in her lilting, girlish voice. “Besides, I was born and raised in northern Minnesota. Three feet of snow is hardly enough to keep me from getting to work.”

“What kind of results do you have for me?”

“Come to my office and I’ll show you,” Claire answered. She disconnected before Kerney could question her in detail.

Kerney and Clayton left Matt Chacon and Ramona Pino behind to finish up at the well house and made the slow drive to the state crime lab on barely passable roads and streets. The cold, harsh light from a yellow sun blurred the rolling hills beneath the mountains. On the mountaintops, strong breezes whipped snow into the clear blue sky, creating the illusion of undulating clouds. In the city, long shadows cascaded across deep, untrammeled snow cover that created an oddly different landscape, empty of people and movement. Trees bowed under the weight of snow, branches almost touching the ground. So much snow had fallen that streets and sidewalks were invisible. Traffic lights at deserted intersections blinked and changed colors in sequence along empty thoroughfares.

Large drifts had softened the shape of buildings, hiding much of the boxy ugliness of the businesses along Cerrillos Road, the main route through town. Where major roads had been plowed, only one lane in each direction was passable, and the mounds of snow pushed to the curbs climbed halfway up the lampposts and street signs. In the parking lots only the telltale humps scattered here and there gave evidence of those few cars that had been abandoned by their owners during the storm.

For the moment, it was a world almost without motorized vehicles or the constant background noise of engines. Kerney liked the look of it a lot, but he was glad to be driving his truck to the crime lab and not hoofing it down Cerrillos Road.

At the Department of Public Safety, the parking lot was empty except for a Subaru with a Minnesota Vikings bumper sticker that sat near the public entrance. They found the front entrance unlocked, but no one was on duty at the reception area to sign them in and pass them through the electronically controlled interior door.

Kerney called Claire on his cell phone, and she came and got them. As they walked down the hall, he introduced her to Clayton and asked what she’d discovered.

“That depends on whether or not what I’ve found makes any sense to you,” Claire said as they entered the lab. She led Kerney and Clayton to a large worktable where some of Denise’s letters were arranged, protected in clear plastic sleeves.

“First, my analysis of the handwriting conclusively shows that all the letters were written by Denise.” Claire peered at Kerney over the bifocals perched on her nose. “Secondly, you wanted to know if the foreign stamps and cancellation marks on the envelopes are real. They are. Then, as you asked, I looked carefully at the paper and watermarks, and found they are of both domestic and foreign manufacture, the highest quality paper being Canadian in origin. The inks used were easily identified by the chemical footprint added by the manufacturers.”

Claire glanced from Kerney to Clayton. “You do know that the manufacturers change the chemical composition each year, which makes dating the substance a relatively easy task.”

“Of course,” Kerney replied.

“So, by comparing the dates in the letters with the paper watermarks and the ink used in composition, I can say without a doubt that they were all written in the year in which they were mailed. However, it is not possible to narrow down the actual composition of the letters to anything less than a twelve-month time frame.”

Claire paused for questions.

Kerney knew from experience that Claire was very precise in her presentation of facts, and it was best not to rush her. Besides, she’d braved the elements to get this work done, and he owed her big-time. “We’re with you so far,” he said.

“Good. I examined the cross-overs and obliterations, and they all fell within the category of misspellings or poor word usage.” Claire pointed at the letters on the table. “You wanted me to identify and decipher, if possible, any impressions of handwriting on the paper. The letters before you are the only documents I found with that kind of indentation. Four of them show signatures in Denise Riley’s handwriting. The names used are Diane Plumley, Debra Stokes, Dorothy Travis, and Mrs. John Coleman.”

“All in Denise’s handwriting,” Clayton said.

“That’s correct.” Claire pointed a finger at the letter closest to her on the table. “This document, however, contains more decipherable information than just a signature. Again, it was written in Denise Riley’s hand. The return address on the envelope and salutation shows that it was mailed to Helen Muiz by Denise Riley from Brisbane, Australia. The indented writing in the letter is a short thank-you note to a Jann and Jeffery McCafferty for a lovely dinner party. Not every word is readable, but it’s dated September 17 and signed ‘Dot,’ which of course could be short for Dorothy.”

“Excellent work, Claire,” Kerney said.

“Thank you.” Claire patted an errant strand of hair back into place. “But is it helpful information? Do any of these aliases Denise used years ago have a bearing on your case? And who are Jann and Jeffery McCafferty?”

“We don’t know yet,” Clayton said. “But every factual detail helps.”

Claire looked decidedly piqued by Clayton’s response. “How unforthcoming you are, Sergeant.”

“We do know that the State Department has no record of having issued a passport in Denise Riley’s maiden name,” Kerney said quickly. “The aliases you’ve found may very well help us clear that up.”

Claire smiled warmly. “Good. I’ve made photocopies for you of the indented handwriting I was able to discern under oblique light.” Claire handed Kerney a manila envelope. “I was going to forward the letters to our fingerprint specialist today, but he’s not at work because of the snow.”

“What if I send Detective Matt Chacon here to work with you on that?” Kerney asked. Matt Chacon had started his law enforcement career as a civilian fingerprint and tool-mark specialist in the state crime lab, before becoming a police officer with the Santa Fe P.D., and in addition to being a questioned documents expert, Claire was also certified as a forensic fingerprint specialist.