Michael McGarrity: Death Song

Clayton dropped down for a closer look. Riley’s footprint showed him leaving the cabin. Wind had obliterated part of the tread, and Clayton judged it to be the older of the two partials. The second, smaller footprint was fresher and pointed in the direction of the front door. There was nothing on the porch to suggest Riley had entered the cabin prior to the shooting. The presence of the second partial suggested the possibility that the killer had arrived before Riley and been lying in wait.

Clayton unzipped his equipment bag, pulled out his camera, and took photographs of the footprints, his thoughts focused on trying to figure out the sequence of events in the last few minutes of Tim Riley’s life.

He walked to Riley’s unit, studied the ground, and saw what appeared to be a small indentation of a boot tread on a crushed leaf near the rear of the vehicle. By the passenger-side rear door there was a partially broken twig that might have been caused by the weight of a step. In the flashlight beam he saw a crumpled-up piece of paper lodged against the rear tire. He picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a month-old Lincoln County credit card receipt for two new windshield wipers that had been purchased by another deputy.

Clayton wondered if Riley inspected his vehicle at the end of his shift. It was common practice among seasoned officers to do so. He imagined the scene. Riley would have been exposed and vulnerable while checking for contraband or cleaning out trash inside the unit. He would have been bent over with his back exposed. Why wait for a frontal shot when a slug to the back of the head would do the job just as well? Did the killer want Riley to see it coming?

Although there were no defensive wounds on Riley’s hands, Clayton looked around for any sign of a struggle. Nothing on the ground or near Riley’s unit pointed to an altercation.

The doors to Riley’s unit were locked. If he had been on his way to the cabin, chances were good he would have had his keys in his hand. Clayton went back to the body. He searched around the corpse and emptied Riley’s pockets. He rolled Riley carefully onto his side and looked for the keys on the ground under the body.

The exit wound was gruesome. He lowered Riley and glanced over at Deputy Anaya, who watched with interest. “Bennie, did you find Riley’s keys?” Clayton called out.

Bennie smiled and patted his pants pocket. “Yeah, I secured them so that they wouldn’t get lost.”

Clayton forced a smile at Anaya. “Where exactly did you find them?”

“They were in his hand.”

“Which hand?”

Bennie pulled the keys out of his pocket. “His right hand.”

“Give them to me,” Clayton said as he walked over to Anaya.

Bennie dropped the keys into Clayton’s palm. Rather than chew out Anaya in public for being stupid, Clayton turned on his heel and went back to the body. Riley was right-handed. Clayton looked at his holstered sidearm. It was strapped down, which meant Riley hadn’t anticipated any danger. Was that because the shooter was known to him, or simply because he’d been caught off guard?

“What have you got, Sergeant?” Paul Hewitt called out from behind the crime scene tape.

Clayton covered the body with the tarp and approached his boss. “I think the killer surveilled the cabin and waited for Riley to show up. There is a partial footprint on the porch which may belong to the perp. I’ve photographed it. I also believe that Riley either knew his attacker or was caught unawares. He had his keys in his hand and was walking toward the cabin just before he was killed. The head shot tells me that this was a deliberate murder carried out by someone who knew what he was doing. I believe he surmised Riley would be wearing body armor. Otherwise he would have aimed for the chest.”

“A professional?” Hewitt asked.

“Not necessarily. I think the shooter wanted Riley to see him. A professional would have simply taken his first clean shot.”

“You’re saying it’s revenge? A grudge? Something personal?”

“I’m doing a lot of guessing here, Sheriff,” Clayton replied, “but maybe.”

“You spent most of the week with Riley,” Hewitt said. “Did he mention any personal or family problems?”

Clayton shook his head. “Nothing like that. Did you or Chief Bolt go anywhere near the cabin?”

“Negative,” Hewitt answered as he walked Clayton away from Bennie Anaya. “Chief Bolt and I want you to take the lead on this case. We’ll give you whatever you need.”

“Ten-four.”

“I don’t even know Riley’s wife’s name,” Hewitt said, sounding peeved at himself.

“Delores or Diana,” Clayton replied. “Something like that.”

“I’ll look it up in his file.”

“It’s Denise,” Clayton said as he pulled the name to the fore-front of his mind. “Are you going to call her?”

Hewitt shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked over his shoulder at Bennie Anaya. “What was the exchange you had with Anaya all about?”

“Bennie thought it best to secure Riley’s keys from his lifeless hand so they wouldn’t go missing from the crime scene.”

Hewitt groaned and rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable. I’ll deal with it. Thankfully, in three more months he retires. I want this cop killer caught, Sergeant.”

Clayton nodded. “I may be wrong, but I don’t think Riley was in Lincoln County long enough to make any enemies.”

“Agreed. Unless we come up with a suspect fast, you’re going to need to make inquiries in Santa Fe about Riley’s professional, personal, and family life.”

Clayton turned toward the sound of an engine drawing near on the street. The mobile state police crime lab from Las Cruces had arrived. “Excuse me, Sheriff. I need to get the lab techs started taking prints.”

“It’s your show, Sergeant,” Hewitt said as he watched Clayton walk away.

Years ago, long before he’d returned home to Lincoln County to run for sheriff, Paul Hewitt had seen his best friend and partner get blown away in a narco bust gone bad. He would take that image to his grave along with the sight of Tim Riley’s mangled face.

Riley had been with the department for only a week, but he’d been killed on Hewitt’s watch. Paul had never lost an officer under his command before, and although he knew it wasn’t so, he felt responsible. Somehow he’d failed Riley. It left an angry feeling in his gut.

He wondered about a “what if?” What if he got the chance to face down Riley’s murderer? Would he violate every rule of law he was sworn to uphold and kill the son of a bitch himself? Hewitt didn’t have an answer.

Helen Muiz’s phone call persuaded Kerney there was sufficient reason to call out the troops and start a search for Denise Riley. Because Cañoncito was outside his jurisdiction, he asked dispatch to notify the sheriff’s office and state police and request officers be sent to Helen’s location.

He hung up and tiptoed into the den, where Sara was sleeping restlessly on the couch. She was twitching and mumbling through a clenched jaw. Kerney figured she was caught up in another Iraq bad dream. They had been plaguing her almost every night since her release last month from the army hospital.

Frequently over the past few weeks, Kerney had woken up late at night to find Sara in the den, sitting mute, wide-eyed, and shaking, staring into the darkness. He sat quietly with her until the episodes passed and she was ready to return to bed.

As an ex-infantry lieutenant with a Vietnam combat tour under his belt, Kerney knew about flashbacks that made you remember events you wanted to forget, nightmares that woke you up in a cold sweat, panic attacks triggered by nothing more than strange random sounds, and temper tantrums that came out of nowhere. He also knew there wasn’t much he could do ease to Sara’s journey back from the insanity of combat other than be there for her.