9

AS SHE DROVE the duty vehicle down the winding, dusty road, Morwood’s sheaf of papers—now carefully read, reread, and tucked into a folder—lying on the seat next to her, Agent Swanson found herself beset by unexpected emotions. This was a day she’d dreamed of for a long time: Special Agent Corinne Swanson, lead FBI investigator, on a homicide case. And yet, instead of focusing like a laser on the case, she felt awash in anxiety. Only the most banal thoughts seemed to come, unbidden, into her brain—trivial details of the weather, the color of the road, a broken piñon tree.

She took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, slowly. She flexed her fingers, adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. Remotely, she was relieved to see her hands weren’t trembling.

Get a grip, take it one step at a time, and play it by the book.

She exited at a sign marked GLORIETA PASS BATTLEFIELD NATIONAL PARK onto a rutted road that took her higher into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, then leveled off onto a mesa top. Ahead she could see the land dividing, ultimately leading to a twin set of ridges that slowly sank away to the north and the south. She wondered, a little idly, if that was the so-called pass, and who Glorieta was.

Now ahead she could see a grouping of RVs and Airstreams parked on the shoulder, their doors open and the occupants standing around in the sun, looking pissed. Another quarter mile, and she found out why: the entrance to PIGEON’S RANCH CEMETERY—GLORIETA PASS was blocked by a sheriff’s cruiser, light bar flashing. She stopped and a deputy got out of the cruiser. Swanson had her ID on a lanyard around her neck and held it up for his inspection. The young deputy looked at her, at the ID, and then back again before finally nodding and returning to his vehicle. He revved the engine and moved it so Swanson could pass. Ahead, beyond a gate, a cluster of signs, and a parking turnout, she could see several official vehicles, parked haphazardly.

She took another deep breath.

Pulling in beside the vehicles, she got out and began to walk, first across a paved surface, and then up a gravel path. Weathered graves, each with a number and some sporting small explanatory labels, began to appear on her left and right. She could make out perhaps a dozen people in the distance, in a corner of the cemetery—uniformed officers, national park rangers, a few figures in monkey suits, medical personnel, a woman with a camera, one or two others whose purpose was not immediately identifiable—all standing around as if waiting. As she approached, the heads all swiveled in her direction and she realized it was her they’d been waiting for.

The last of the random thoughts abandoned her and her heart began pumping a mile a minute.

Be cool, she told herself. You’ve got this. As she continued walking, she forced herself to mentally review the case file Morwood had given her, to go over the crime scene training that had been drilled into her at the Academy. With relief she realized that, despite her nerves, she felt a good grounding of confidence beneath her feet. Whatever else happened, she wasn’t going to panic.

The group broke up a bit as she drew closer, then one person stepped forward—a middle-aged man, muscular and deeply tanned, with a bottlebrush mustache. He wore the hat and uniform of the sheriff’s department.

“Gus Turpenseed,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Sheriff, San Miguel County.”

Swanson shook it, fingers stiffening as she felt the crushing, intimidating grip. “Agent Swanson, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Good to meet you, Agent Swanson,” the sheriff said, glancing back at another man wearing the star of a deputy sheriff, who grinned and nodded faintly.

Everyone seemed to be staring at the ID and shield on her lanyard.

“Agent Morwood mentioned you,” Turpenseed said, “but I didn’t expect—”

“A woman?”

“Someone so young.”

“I see.” Swanson was surprised to find herself not rising to the bait. It was the FBI shield, she realized; she had it, he didn’t, and though he might not like it, he couldn’t do shit about it. This realization gave her a tickling sensation of power. Growing up, power was the one thing she’d never had. And so she’d built up a carapace of sarcastic belligerence and resentment toward authority. Ironic how she was the authority now.

She looked around, taking in the other faces, the scene itself—an open grave, surrounded by crime tape, a confusion of dirt, plastic tarp, tools, and a partially covered body at the grave bottom—familiarizing herself with the situation as she let a silence build. Then she turned back to Turpenseed. “You’re right, I’m young—and I’m not getting younger standing here. So let’s get on with it. Who was first on the scene?”

A blond woman in a ranger’s uniform separated herself from the group. “I was.”

“Your name?”

“Grant.”

“Want to tell me what happened?”

The ranger nodded. “I got here at seven thirty to open the cemetery and prepare it for visitors. One of my duties is to walk the perimeter. As I was doing so, I noticed this mound of earth.” She nodded over her shoulder. “Coming closer, I saw the hole in the ground. At first I thought it might be grave robbers, come for Regis. But then I saw that man in the hole, partly covered by dirt. And blood. So I turned and called for Alec.”

“Alec?”

“Alec Quinn. He’s the other ranger on duty with me today. His car was just pulling in.”

“Go on.”

Another ranger, apparently Quinn, stepped forward and took over the story. “I thought there was a chance the man was still alive. So I jumped into the hole and began brushing the dirt from him. And then when I saw that—” He swallowed. “That he was dead, I got out and made some calls. There were no ISB agents in the area, so I notified the sheriff.”

Swanson nodded. She knew that the ISB, or Investigative Services Branch, comprised the special agents of the National Park Service. She also knew there were a total of about three dozen agents to cover the entire country.

She looked around. “Who’s heading the local CSU team?”

A short man of about sixty approached. “Larssen. Santa Fe Crime Scene Unit.”

“You’ve been waiting for the feds?”

“That we have,” the man said.

“Sorry to keep you. Please get started, and I’ll be with you shortly.” Now Swanson turned back to Quinn. “And when did you decide to call the FBI?” she asked.

Quinn reddened. “It’s not as cut-and-dried as you might think,” he said. “Glorieta Pass has only been ranked a Class A battlefield for the last twenty-five years. And most of it is on private land. Only about twenty percent, the Pigeon’s Ranch unit, is technically under National Park Service jurisdiction.”

“I called the FBI while we were verifying the authorization,” Grant said.

Swanson nodded. “Did you see anything or anybody else?” she asked.

The woman shook her head. “It was like this when we arrived. Once we understood the victim was dead, we backed off and left it alone.”

“Nothing out of place? Suspicious in any way?”

Another shake of the head.

“What are the park hours?”

“Eight to six.”

“And there’s nobody here at night?”

“No.”

“You aren’t worried about vandals? Souvenir hunters?”

“That’s never been a problem before,” Quinn told her. “Folks around here respect the dead. We’re pretty remote, too, and besides, funding is tight. The trust does what it can, but most of the money is put toward upkeep and restoration. Glorieta Pass is considered an endangered battlefield. It’s got a Priority I rating—one of only a dozen such battlefields to have one.”

Swanson had already learned there was a different mind-set in this part of the country. It wasn’t all that unlike rural Kansas, really, where she grew up—too much empty land to police effectively, and not enough bodies or money to police it.

The CSU team had now surrounded the hole and were lowering a ladder, preparing to start work. Swanson turned to the sheriff. “Have you secured the scene?” she asked.

“We did, ma’am, as soon as we ascertained the nature of the situation.”

The ma’am bit temporarily threw her, but she made no sign. It was the equivalent of sir and she’d better get used to it.

The sheriff took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of one arm. Swanson noticed his head was shaved, the brim of his hat soaked with sweat.

“Sheriff, could you please take your people and look to establish ingress and egress? Note any evidence such as tire tracks for the Crime Scene Unit.” She nodded. “That photographer one of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Put her to work.”

The sheriff hesitated just a moment. Then he turned toward his deputy and spoke in low tones. A minute or two later, about half of the crowd that was standing around began to disperse, a little reluctantly, around the cemetery.

Swanson decided not to call in the FBI’s ERTU to supplement the Santa Fe people. It probably would piss a bunch of people off, and Larssen seemed like a competent guy.

She turned back to watch the CSU work. Larssen and another technician had climbed down the ladder and were standing on the iron coffin, on either side of the body, carefully sweeping the dirt from it, marking up evidence. For now, Swanson was content to observe, let the team do its work. Off to one side, she heard somebody call for a coroner’s van, then change their mind and request two vans.

Photographs were taken; the tarp was removed from the hole, followed by the tools, followed by the dirt, in large yellow evidence bags. Almost coyly, the corpse revealed more and more of itself until it lay completely exposed atop the well-preserved iron coffin. Now Swanson descended the ladder to take a closer look of her own. The deceased was dressed in a plaid work shirt, jeans, and steel-toed Dr. Martens. He appeared to be about fifty, but with his clothes on it was hard to be sure: he was lying facedown, the front of his skull blown away. Two shots. The first had dropped him, and the second, point blank to the back of the head, had ricocheted off the iron coffin. No firearm had been discovered. She watched for a few minutes more, then knelt by Larssen.

“What do you figure?” she asked, careful to keep her tone neutral and respectful. “Double tap, execution style?”

“That’d be my guess,” Larssen said. “See that?” He nodded at the dent in the coffin.

“Looks like the first bullet entered just above the base of the skull,” Corrie said, “causing extreme fragmentation of the occipital bone. The second bullet would have entered a little higher, as he was lying facedown. That’s probably what took off his face.”

Larssen grunted. “Overkill. That first bullet clearly took care of business.”

He was undoubtedly right, but Swanson had been taught that professional killers didn’t improvise. The second bullet was a cheap enough form of insurance. “Based on the limited mushrooming and the size of that dent, I’d guess solid point, maybe nine-millimeter. I hope your team can recover the rounds.”

Larssen nodded.

“No ID,” called out the second CSU technician, who had been going through the corpse’s pockets.

“Print him, please,” Swanson said. Maybe they’d get a hit from IAFIS.

As the corpse’s left hand was lifted for fingerprinting, his sleeve slid back, revealing a tattoo of what looked like a half-built wall of red bricks. Swanson pointed to it. “Mean anything to you?”

“Nope,” Larssen said.

Swanson glanced at the other. “Prison or biker gang? Military?”

The second CSU man shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Hands are pretty chafed, though—he’s almost certainly the one who dug this hole.”

“Let’s see what the prints on the shovel have to say.” Swanson examined the body for another minute or two. Then she stood up. Most of the forensic analysis would be done in the lab.

“Once you’ve bagged him, let’s open the coffin,” she said.

Ten minutes later, the unidentified corpse had been carefully placed in a body bag, removed from the hole, and set on a morgue stretcher for transport to the coroner’s office. What evidence had been located around the body had been tagged and removed as well. Swanson remained in the hole, feet balanced along one edge, looking at the coffin. It had a double lid and was still in good condition. The top half of the lid, she noticed, looked a little scarified, freshly disturbed by metal tools. Someone had recently opened—or been about to open—the coffin.

She called for Grant, who quickly came over and looked down into the open grave.

“You said something earlier,” Swanson told her. “About grave robbers maybe having ‘come for Regis.’ The body buried in this coffin was named Regis?”

Grant nodded down at her. “Florence P. Regis.”

“A woman? Buried in a Civil War cemetery?”

Grant smiled for the first time since Swanson had met her. “She’s the closest thing we have to a celebrity around here. Florence was about as die-hard a Confederate as they come. Her father, Edward Parkin, was a big slaveholder in Georgia. He taught her to shoot at an early age. And her husband, Colonel Regis, led a Confederate battalion until he was killed by a Yankee sniper right after First Manassas. Following his death, Florence pulled up stakes and moved to El Paso. When she heard General Sibley was sending half a dozen companies up the Rio Grande in preparation for an attack on Fort Union, she was determined to avenge her husband’s death. She donned a Confederate uniform and joined the ranks, pretending to be a man. After the truth came out following her death in battle, the general ordered her buried with full military honors.”

No doubt this was the story the ranger disgorged to tourists on a daily basis. Swanson looked down at the coffin with fresh interest. Despite the grisly scene, she felt the investigation was going well, and she hadn’t made any major screw-ups. Every now and then she felt the nervousness spike, but each time she pushed it away—if she was going to have a meltdown, she’d do her best to stave it off until she was back in her apartment that evening, where a bottle of Cuervo Gold was handy.

She nodded at Larssen, who—having secured the dead body—had clambered back down into the hole. “Mr. Larssen? Time to open the coffin.”

“Very good.”

Larssen bent over and, with a grunt, opened the top half of the coffin lid.

Swanson looked down in surprise. Except for a few scattered chunks and slivers of dried bone and tatters of clothing, the upper coffin was empty, its rotting velvet lining drooping into dust.

“Hoo boy,” said Larssen.

This was bizarre. It seemed the victim had been shot after the body was stolen.

She tried to sort the sequence of events into some kind of rational order. Under what circumstances would somebody unearth a body, remove it, then get shot and left on the coffin? The man with the brick tattoo was, it seemed, hired help. Dispensable hired help. This killing was looking more and more professional.

Turning to Larssen, she said: “Let’s take a look at the bottom half of the coffin.”

They climbed out of the hole, and then Larssen had his men lower a hook and snag the lower lid. With some effort, they raised the hook. The lower half of the body came into view, badly decomposed—the desiccated bones and tattered remains of flesh were clearly visible through holes in the ancient dress Florence Regis had been buried in. The corpse had been crudely sawed in half.

Quinn, the young ranger, crossed himself.

“That’s no way to treat a lady,” came a familiar voice at her elbow. Swanson turned to see Morwood, hands behind his back, looking down into the hole and shaking his head. She’d been so engrossed that she hadn’t heard him approach.

“Hello, sir,” she said quickly. Behind him, she could see several others in various uniforms advancing—FBI support staff to complete the CSU work.

“Solved the case yet?” Morwood asked.

“Sir, I—”

“Never mind. It looks like you have things well in hand here—why don’t you brief me back at HQ.” He nodded at Larssen, who waved familiarly back.

Now the sheriff, Turpenseed, approached. He did not look happy. His cowboy boots were dusty from the search for evidence.

“Special Agent Morwood,” he said, removing his hat again and wiping his bald pate. “Glad to see a…more senior agent taking charge of the case.”

Swanson bit her lip.

“Looks to me like Agent Swanson has been doing quite a creditable job, sheriff,” Morwood said in an even tone.

“Oh, no doubt.” He grinned. “I just wasn’t aware the FBI was hiring out of high school these days.” He gave a guffaw and winked at her.

It came out before she could stop herself. “And I wasn’t aware mental deficiency was a requirement of being a New Mexico sheriff. These days.”

Morwood shot her a warning glance. Then he nodded to the sheriff and began making his way back down to the parking area. Swanson followed.

“The time-out stool for you tonight, Agent Swanson,” he said as they arrived at their vehicles.