It took two days of careful excavation to uncover all the residue of the skeletal remains from the burial site. Nobody, other than the news media, was happy about it, and Clayton caught the brunt of crabbiness coming from Santa Fe.
During the little time he spent at home to sleep and change his clothes, Grace had fallen silent. Her disappointment about their ruined anniversary trip cut deep. At the center, Cynthia Davenport constantly hovered outside the crime scene barrier, repeatedly asking members of the forensic team when they would be finished. Finally fed up, Clayton escorted her away and banned her from further loitering.
The general contractor, David Michael Jones, owner of DMJ Construction, nervously came and went, mumbling about lost job time. And by way of Luis Mondragon, Clayton learned the governor wasn’t pleased that his opportunity to look like potential ambassadorial timber had gotten so screwed up.
All of it got synthesized into one very unambiguous message from state police headquarters in Santa Fe: clear the case ASAP.
The fact that the body had been in the ground for decades, that an old, rusted nineteenth century pistol had been found with the skeleton, and that there were entry and exit wounds from a bullet to the head, made that scenario unlikely. Additionally, the backhoe had severed the skeleton in half and shattered bones into shards, making evidence-gathering more time-consuming. Technicians were painstakingly reconstructing the skull, which was seriously damaged when the contents of the bucket had been dumped.
Nevertheless, the evidence gathered so far raised Clayton’s hopes slightly. Analysis showed that the victim was a young Caucasian female, probably in her twenties. She had been wrapped in a blanket before being buried in a shallow grave less than twenty-five yards from the house, which meant the body had been moved from the original crime scene.
The cloth fragments found at the site were a combination of natural and synthetic fibers, which suggested, regardless of the presence of the old pistol, that the murder had been relatively recent, perhaps no more than fifty or sixty years ago. But that didn’t rule out the possibility that the skeleton was very old, and along with the antique handgun had been wrapped in the more recent blanket and reburied. Fortunately, the need to bring in a forensic anthropologist proved unnecessary when the skull revealed dental work that conclusively put the victim in the modern era.
All that didn’t ease Clayton’s mind. In many homicides, especially cold cases, the crimes remained unsolved. Notwithstanding advances in technology and science, little had happened to change that unpleasant fact. Despite daunting odds against a successful arrest and prosecution, Clayton wasn’t about to give up.
As he gazed at the tract of land that had been cleared and graded by the contractor prior to the groundbreaking ceremony, he wondered what it looked like before being scrubbed down to bare ground. He glanced at the house. Why would a killer bury a victim close to a residence, heightening the risk of discovery? Or at the time of the murder had the house even existed?
Clayton went looking for Davenport, found her in her office, and learned that Erma Fergurson had built and moved into the house in 1966.
“What did the land look like before the contractor cleared it for the groundbreaking ceremony?” he asked.
“It was very rocky, with several sotol plants here and there,” she said. “Also, there were some boulder-size rocks, lots of mesquite, and some old dead juniper trees, one of them huge.”
“That’s all? No structures or stand of trees?”
“No.”
“Was the area used for anything?”
Davenport shook her head. “Not that I know of. None of the walking trails on the property go in that direction.”
Clayton asked her to make a sketch of it.
“I doubt it would be very accurate,” Davenport replied.
“Whatever you can remember will be very helpful.”
Davenport quickly drew a rough map and handed it to Clayton. In addition to the placement of several large boulders at the far corner of the site, it showed a large dead juniper tree close to the spot where the backhoe had revealed the human skull.
Clayton pointed to the juniper. “Are you sure before the site was cleared the juniper tree was here?”
“Yes, I am. I remember it clearly because it died three or four years ago and lost all its needles. I’d look out from the portal and think it needed to be cut down. I just never got around to having it done.”
“Thank you.” Clayton folded the sketch and put it in his shirt pocket.
“When can we start construction?” Davenport asked.
“I’m going to talk to the contractor now,” Clayton said, sidestepping the question. Outside, he told Garcia and Avery to have the crime scene techs go over every inch of the cleared ground once more, looking for anything that caught their eye, and drove to the office of DMJ Construction.
The construction yard sat south of town on a state road that featured feedlots, clusters of run-down houses, and the shuttered remains of failed roadside businesses, closed years ago because of the completion of the nearby interstate highway. Enclosed by a chain-link fence, the two-acre yard contained a modular office on concrete supports, several large toolsheds, and an old semi truck-trailer presumably used for storage.
Heavy equipment, dump trucks, and pickups littered the lot, haphazardly parked among the piles of rock and gravel, stacks of rebar and lumber, and an old conveyor that fed raw material to a separator. A junk pile of old tires, discarded wire spools, miscellaneous broken engine parts, and empty oil drums sat in the far corner of the lot in sharp contrast to the stark uplift of the distant Organ Mountains.
Clayton found Jones in a small office of the modular building. Five-eight, he had big round eyes and upwardly slanted eyebrows that made him look always surprised at something. He immediately wanted to know if he could put his people to work.
“Not quite yet,” Clayton replied. Sitting across from Jones at a tiny, very dusty desk, he showed him Davenport’s sketch and asked if she’d gotten the tree location correct.
“I’d say so.”
“Did you walk the land before you cleared it?”
“Yeah, the whole site, twice.”
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Trash? Old tires? Beer cans? Anything a person might have left behind?”
Jones scratched his chin. “Nothing like that, but there was an old rock campfire pit. It hadn’t been used in years, but I knew what it was right away.”
“I do a lot of deer hunting in season. It was man-made, for sure.”
“Where was it?”
“Near the dead juniper.”
“What did you do with the material you removed from the site?” Clayton asked.
“Hauled it here and separated what I could.”
“And the trees?”
Jones nodded in the direction of the window behind Clayton. “In the yard, behind the gravel. I’ve got a guy coming to grind the smaller branches into mulch and cut up the rest for firewood I’ll sell in the fall.”
Clayton got to his feet. “Let’s go look.”
Jones led the way past the mounds of gravel, rock, and dirt, each at least twenty feet tall. Unless Clayton used an earthmover and had a squad of techs sifting through all of it by hand for weeks, whatever might be hiding there of value to the investigation was simply beyond his reach.
The dead junipers had been knocked down, loaded in pieces on a truck, and dumped along the fence. With Jones’s help, Clayton pushed aside the branches partially covering the largest of the dead junipers to get a better look at it. Where it had snapped off at the stump, he did a rough tree ring count, and gauged it to be at least a hundred and fifty years old.
Under the bark of a four-inch-thick branch, a neatly coiled pattern protruded, as though something had been deliberately wrapped around it and become encased under the bark. Perhaps it was nothing more than a piece of baling wire twisted around the limb for some reason. Years ago on the rez, Clayton had come upon a tree that had virtually engulfed a small No Trespassing sign, so he knew such oddities were possible. He ran his hand over the pattern, backed off, and took a closer look. It looked and felt less substantial than baling wire.
“I don’t know,” Clayton replied. “But I’d like to take this branch with me.”
Jones sawed the branch off at the trunk, trimmed it into a four-foot length, and handed it to Clayton. “When can I get my people started on the job?”
He tucked the branch under his arm and started for his unit. “Tomorrow morning.”
Jones smiled. “Great. Think you’ll actually solve the case?”
“Officially, I can’t comment, but I’m damn sure gonna try.”
“Good luck with it.”
“Yeah, thanks. Call me if you dig up any more bodies.”
“I’ve got your number on speed dial,” Jones replied.
In Clayton’s absence from the center, a dust devil had swept through the job site, coating the crime scene vehicles and unmarked units with a sheen of dirt. He found Avery and Garcia, both sporting crusty faces, on the rear portal of the center with a rusted motor oil can peppered with bullet holes and a crumpled, empty cigarette package—the total haul from the latest sweep. He handed Avery the branch from the juniper tree and asked Garcia to tell the crime scene team to wrap it up and head out.
“Now the hard work starts,” he added.
“What’s the stick for?” Avery asked as Garcia hurried off to release the CSI personnel.
“It came from a dead juniper near where the victim was unearthed.” Clayton pointed out the coiled pattern. “I want it X-rayed pronto.” He handed it to Avery. “If it shows a foreign object embedded in the wood, find somebody, maybe an arborist or a botanist at the university, who can very carefully expose it without causing any damage, if that’s possible.”
“You got it.” Avery swung the branch like a baseball bat.
“Enter it into evidence. I’ll do the paperwork later to start the chain of custody.”
Avery slapped the limb against his open palm. “This is a first, a dead juniper branch as evidence.”
“Any progress with the pistol?” Clayton asked.
“It’s a Colt Single Action Army .45, probably very early production model from the 1870s,” Avery answered. “The cylinder and ejector housing are rusted to the frame, and we don’t have serial numbers yet due to its poor condition. Pristine, it would be worth some big bucks. There’s nothing like it in the National Crime Information Center database.”
“The murder might predate the NCIC system,” Clayton mused.
Avery nodded. “A depressing but likely thought. And because the body was moved, we may never know where the actual killing took place.”
Clayton grimaced. There was another obstacle. With an approximate date of death somewhere between the 1960s and the 1970s, they faced a mountain of cold cases to sort through. “Tomorrow, we start with old New Mexico missing persons reports, and then go national if we have to.”
Avery waved the juniper branch in the air. “Maybe this is the magic wand that will answer all our prayers.”
Clayton grunted noncommittally.
“I’ll call if I learn anything,” Avery said.
“I’ll be waiting.” He walked with Avery through the house and veered outside to talk to Davenport, who wasn’t in her office. Back at the center, he spotted her in Erma Fergurson’s studio, which was now empty of the stage dressing, putting the unfinished watercolor that had been on the easel into the unlocked closet.
“You need a security alarm system,” he advised. “And it wouldn’t hurt to install closed-circuit TV monitors for the public spaces and the immediate grounds around the house.”
“That’s coming as part of the construction contract.”
“Good. I thought you’d like to know the contractor can start tomorrow.”
Davenport smiled happily. “Wonderful.”
“Did you personally know Professor Fergurson?” Clayton asked.
Davenport smiled at the memory. “Oh, yes. Years ago, when she fell ill and couldn’t work, she hired me as her assistant. Just prior to her death, she recommended to the university that I should be retained as the center’s administrator. She was the most intelligent, talented, kind woman I’ve ever met.”
“An impressive woman,” Clayton said.
“I greatly admired her.”
“I can see that. In all the time you’ve been here, has anyone come around who seemed odd or caused worry or trouble?”
“You mean like a trespasser or homeless person?”
“Yes, anyone like that,” Clayton replied.
“Most people who show up uninvited are simply intrigued by the center and want to know more about it. But there have been a few who tried to camp on the property, which isn’t allowed.”
Clayton asked her to describe the events and made note of them. She’d called the campus police on one occasion about ten years ago to chase a vagrant away. She couldn’t remember the exact year of a similar incident, but it had happened when Erma Fergurson was still alive, and had been handled by a deputy sheriff.
Clayton questioned Davenport more closely about the intruders, but she recalled nothing of value.
He handed Davenport his business card. “If you think of anything at all you haven’t told me about those two events, please call.”
“I will, Lieutenant.”
He thanked Davenport for her time and headed for the office. Now came the fun part of the day, paperwork.
Clayton was about halfway through his reports when Avery came into his office and dropped an X-ray envelope on the desk. On his heels, Garcia arrived with the forensic firearm report in hand.
“You go first,” Clayton said to Avery as he pulled the film out of the sleeve.
“As I should, being senior in service to Agent Garcia,” Avery replied, grinning at Garcia.
Garcia shot him the finger as he sat down.
“Boys, boys,” Clayton rebuked, feigning disapproval, as he studied the film.
Avery pointed at the X-ray. “Just as you thought, there’s a foreign object embedded beneath the bark. It’s definitely metal, type yet unknown, and approximately the thickness of common household string.”
He held up his forefingers to show length. “The graduate research assistant at the university who examined the X-ray estimated that uncoiled the object would be about twenty inches long.”
“Can he extract it from the wood?” Clayton asked.
“It’s beneath what’s called the cambia, which are cells between the wood and the bark. Cambia form into something called callus tissue that grows over an injured surface to help it heal.” Avery frowned and consulted his notes. “I think I’ve got that right. Close enough.”
“Can he get to it?” Clayton asked.
Avery settled into a chair across from Clayton. “Wood can’t be melted, and it’s tricky to try to dissolve it, so he’s going to whittle out the object.”
Garcia raised an eyebrow. “Intact?”
“He made no promises, but he’s positive he can recover enough to do a metallurgical analysis.”
“Did he have any idea how long ago it was left on the tree?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.” Clayton swung his attention to Garcia and held out his hand. “What about the pistola?”
Garcia passed the report to Clayton. Forensics had managed to open the cylinder on the Colt .45 single action, find the serial number, and run it through NCIC. There was no record on file that the gun had been stolen, and no fingerprints had been lifted from the weapon. However, the one spent cartridge in the rusted cylinder had yet to be dislodged.
Clayton passed the report to Avery, who quickly scanned it.
“Once they get the cartridge out, they’ll dust it for prints,” Garcia added.
“Here’s hoping,” Avery said as he closed the folder and passed it back to Clayton.
Clayton slid the folder in a desk drawer along with the X-ray and turned to Garcia. “Is there any chance Forensics can determine if the entry wound to the head came from a .45-caliber bullet?”
“The techs are still piecing it together. They say we shouldn’t count on a definite match and the best we can hope for is a strong possibility. They’re working on it.”
“That would be better than nothing,” Clayton said. “It could be our perp has visited the burial site in the past, perhaps on the anniversary of the crime.”
Avery’s eyes widened in fake wonder. “A guilt-tripping perp? Wouldn’t that be unusual?”
“Which might mean a boyfriend, husband, or lover,” Garcia mused hopefully.
“That’s possible,” Clayton replied. He recounted what Davenport and the contractor had told him, and added that he’d asked the campus police and sheriff’s office to conduct record searches for any reports about trespassing at the center. “The dates Davenport gave me are iffy at best, but maybe we’ll get lucky,” he added.
“If no damage was done, the responding officers could have simply escorted the subjects off the grounds and never filed a report,” Avery ventured. “Who wants to bother with a court date for a petty misdemeanor?”
“Some skate who wanted the overtime would,” Garcia commented. “But regardless of any circumstantial evidence we get from the records search, a murder victim without an identity means an unsolved case.”
“Try to stay optimistic,” Clayton counseled dryly. “We know a few things already and we’re making progress. Tomorrow we dig in and start the search for our victim’s identity. Once we know that, we’ll look close to home for our killer.”
“Let’s hope we get a hit,” Avery said.
“That would be nice, but if we strike out we’ll expand our parameters,” Clayton replied as he swiveled his chair to face the desktop computer and started back in on his paperwork.
With a clear message that it was time for them to do the same, Avery and Garcia retreated from Clayton’s office. An hour later, he finished and called home to say he was on his way, only to get voice mail. He left a short message, trying to sound upbeat, hoping Grace would at least talk to him when he got there.
From long experience, he’d learned few things were more unbearable than being on the receiving end of the silent treatment from an Apache woman.
That evening, the children kept the family dinner congenial. Hannah’s eyes flashed with pride as she shared the exciting news that on a lark she’d made the NMSU women’s cross-country track team as a walk-on. She’d been an outstanding track-and-field athlete in high school, so the news came as no surprise. With the slightest hint of pleasure in her voice, she announced that her time in the 5K trial run had bested several other freshman girls who were on athletic scholarships. From across the dining table, Wendell gave his sister a big smile and a high-five.
Clayton followed suit, happy to have Grace distracted enough to stop radiating coolness in his direction.
“I’m very proud of you,” Grace said with an approving smile, avoiding Clayton’s eyes. “But will you have time to participate and keep your grades up?”
Hannah, who had her mother’s slender figure and delicate frame, nodded as she pushed her food around her plate with a fork and selected a green bean. “I’m sure to make the dean’s list again.”
“My egghead jock kid sister,” Wendell joked. At six feet, he had two inches on Clayton, and his pale complexion confused people into thinking he was of Anglo extraction. A starting running back in high school, he’d forgone college athletics to concentrate on his academic studies.
Hannah grinned devilishly at her brother and stuck out her tongue. “Have you gotten accepted into medical school yet?” she needled.
Wendell wrinkled his nose. “You know I can’t apply until late next year.”
“You’ll get in,” Hannah predicted as she rose to help clear the table. “After all, you’re almost as smart as me.”
“Smarter and wiser,” Wendell challenged, as he pushed away from the table.
“No quibbling, you two,” Clayton cautioned lightheartedly, glancing to see if Grace had warmed toward him at all. Maybe, but he wasn’t sure.
He got a kiss on the cheek from Hannah and a fist bump from Wendell before they departed. Grace got kisses, but no fist bump.
Like most young people, Hannah and Wendell were not given to frequent displays of affection, but they knew their mother’s occasional chilling silences well. Clayton figured they’d guessed the canceled twentieth wedding anniversary trip had put him in serious disfavor.
Grace didn’t say a word as he finished clearing the table, silently watching as he filled the dishwasher. When he turned to apologize once again for ruining their anniversary plans, she waved her hand to stop him.
“When the case is over, let’s plan to celebrate someplace where we can’t possibly be bothered by work.”
“Are you sure you can get time off?” Clayton teased, relieved to have her talking to him once again. As the program director of a bilingual preschool, she could set her own vacation schedule without difficulty.
“I’m serious, Clayton.”
He studied her face. It was oval, with tawny, flawless skin, a thin nose, and thick eyebrows above dark eyes. She never failed to stun him with her beauty. “Where would you like to go?”
“Spain.”
“I can see you’ve given this some thought.”
Grace nodded. “Just the two of us. Wendell and Hannah can cope on their own for a week or two. In fact, they’ll enjoy being rid of us for a while.”
“Two weeks in Spain?” Clayton hadn’t considered foreign travel. But Spain would be a good choice, as they both spoke the language.
“Why not?” Grace countered. “I don’t want to wait until I’m your mother’s age to see something of the world outside of New Mexico.”
“Will this get me out of the doghouse?”
“You were never in it. My disappointment turned to anger, which you did not deserve. I fell silent because I wasn’t able to talk to you about it in a good way.”
“I was disappointed too,” Clayton said, gathering Grace in his arms. “Let’s go to Spain next April.”
“Promise?”
“With all my heart.”
“We could still celebrate a little in our bedroom, if you like,” Grace whispered in his ear.
Clayton heard the front door slam as Wendell and Hannah left for the weekly evening meeting at the American Indian Student Center.
“I like,” Clayton said, pulling her along by the hand.