Clayton arrived at work early and found a message from Davenport asking him to call. She told him Erma Fergurson had periodically kept a journal, which, along with other documents, letters, and ephemera, she’d donated during her lifetime to the university library. Davenport didn’t know what the old journals contained, but thought they might be helpful to his investigation.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the journals when we talked after the remains were uncovered?” he asked.
“With the distraction of getting construction under way, I simply didn’t think about it,” she replied.
He thanked her for the information and called the library. Although it opened early during the academic year to accommodate students, the archives department supervisor, Eleanor Robbins, didn’t start work until nine. He left a short message on her voice mail, identifying himself and saying he needed her assistance regarding urgent police business.
An hour later, Avery and Garcia rolled in just as he was about to leave to find Ms. Robbins. He directed Avery to goose the sheriff’s department and the campus PD about the records check, and asked Garcia to get him an update from the lab on the cartridge lodged in the pistola.
“Where are you off to, jefe?” Garcia asked.
“The university library,” Clayton replied. He told them why, added it might take a while, and instructed them to start pulling missing persons reports on subjects who matched the victim’s age and physical characteristics.
“For now, stay within the time frame we discussed,” he reminded them on his way out the door. “Work New Mexico cases first.”
On the short drive to campus, Clayton contemplated what the journals might contain, his mind wandering to thoughts of his father. Quite possibly he’d find nothing of value to the investigation, but discover things about Kerney he’d never known. The idea of learning more about his history intrigued him.
At the library, he found Eleanor Robbins in her office. A tall, dignified woman in her late sixties with dark hair and clear light green eyes, she listened to Clayton’s reason for his request, accessed her computer files, and regretfully told him the journals couldn’t leave the library.
Clayton asked if the journals had been photocopied or digitized.
Robbins smiled apologetically. “Yes, but unfortunately we had a computer malfunction recently and lost some files, including the Fergurson papers. All we have are the original documents.”
“Are they extensive?” Clayton asked, quietly miffed that nothing about the frigging case seemed to come easy. He wanted the journals now.
Robbins nodded as she pulled up the archive index file and did a fast scan. “Thirty volumes dating back to the late 1940s. There are thousands of pages that include handwritten entries, rough pencil sketches, quotations from other sources, ideas for student class projects, lists of daily things to do, notations on gallery representation and various museum acquisitions, thoughts on departmental faculty meetings, some notes on students, and comments about many of the important people and events in her life. It’s quite a treasure trove of information.”
“We’re conducting a murder investigation and need to look at those journals as soon as possible,” Clayton reminded her.
“I understand. As I said, the documents cannot leave the premises, but I can make them available to you here. I’ll arrange a private room for you to use.”
“That won’t do,” Clayton replied. “The journals may contain information pertinent to a murder and as such may become evidence. If you won’t release them willingly, I’ll have to serve you with a court order and seize them.”
Ms. Robbins squared her shoulders in defiance. “I should speak to Dr. Janice Manchester, the library director, about this.”
Clayton nodded at the telephone on the desk. “Please do it now, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
It took Robbins several attempts to reach Dr. Manchester. She explained the situation and within a few minutes Manchester, round and significantly shorter than Robbins, hurried in, a concerned look on her face, demanding a further explanation.
Patiently, Clayton explained how evidence-gathering was different than academic research, and how a chain of custody had to be established and preserved to have facts pertinent to a case admitted in court. To do that, he needed to take physical possession of the documents.
“How long would that be?” Manchester asked.
“I honestly won’t know until we do an inspection. But I’ll return them to you as soon as possible, especially those documents we find immaterial to our investigation.”
“I see,” Manchester said, turning to Robbins with a meaningful look. “I think we need to consult with the Office of General Counsel about this.”
“Of course,” Robbins replied, returning the look.
Clayton stood. “Tell your general counsel that I’ll have a court order served on both of you before the end of the day. Please have the documents ready for me at that time.”
He handed Manchester his business card. “Have your lawyers call if they have any questions.”
Outside the library, students filled the walkways, some hurrying along to class, others sauntering, chatting in small groups. Clayton threaded his way to his unit through hundreds of young people, feeling decidedly middle-aged.
It was a quick drive from the university to U.S. 70, a highway that cut across the Tularosa Basin and through White Sands Missile Range. The recently built District 4 state police headquarters sat on a paved road off the highway, surrounded by raw land recently annexed by the city because of the area’s continuing growth. Several big box warehouse stores next to a string of as yet untouched lots on a frontage road foretold more impending development.
Back in his office, Clayton prepared the search-and-seizure affidavit, called ahead to the local district attorney’s office to say he was on his way, and arrived to find Henry Larkin, chief deputy DA, waiting for him.
“This better be good,” Larkin said as he read the affidavit on his way to his office.
“You’ve heard from the Office of General Counsel?” Clayton asked.
“You betcha,” Larkin replied as he settled into his desk chair. In his forties with a full head of curly gray hair and a John Kennedy smile, he was a shoe-in for district attorney once his boss decided to retire. Behind him, a picture window gave a great view of the city and the Organ Mountains beyond.
“What’s the problem?”
“Seems an assistant art history prof at the university is researching a biography on Erma Fergurson, and is putting up a stink about releasing all the material to your custody. Their general counsel, Larry Babcock, who regularly loses to me on the golf course, wants our office to vouch that you need everything.”
Clayton smiled. Robbins and Manchester had made their play. “I can’t answer that until we see it.”
“Granted. How long will you need the documents?”
Clayton shrugged. “I’ll put people on it right away. Give me a week.”
Larkin nodded and signed off. “That will placate Larry. I’ll call when the warrant has been approved.”
“Good deal,” Clayton said.
“You should come out and play golf with me sometime,” Larkin said as he walked Clayton down the corridor.
Clayton laughed. He hated golf and wouldn’t watch or play it. “Find another pigeon to fleece, Henry. This town is teeming with ambitious young lawyers looking to get ahead politically.”
“Yeah, but you’d be more fun to watch.”
At the district office parking lot, Paul Avery pulled in right behind Clayton. As he exited his unit, Avery approached.
“We got zilch from the sheriff’s office and campus police records search,” he announced. “However, they did pass along lists of drunks, vagrants, psychos, panhandlers, trespassers, and homeless subjects who were either arrested or given a summons between ten and twenty years ago.”
“How thoughtfully useless.”
Avery waved a sheaf of papers at Clayton. “Three hundred and six individuals, several of whom I personally know to be dead and buried.”
“Put it in the master case file.”
“I predict the rest of the day will be just as fruitless.”
“You sure know how to bolster my spirits.”
Clayton told him about the Fergurson journals and search warrant, and jokingly ordered him back to work with a growl.
At the end of the day, the victim remained unidentified, the partial thumbprint lifted from the cartridge was so degraded no definitive match could be made, and the piece of the metal whittled from the juniper branch proved to be a sterling silver chain of unknown origin. When the search warrant for Fergurson’s journals came through, it contained a note from Larkin saying the NMSU library had until morning to assemble all the documents.
With Garcia and Avery sitting in his office, Clayton restrained his impatience, and reminded them that whatever they learned tomorrow would move the case along one way or another.
“When we find the perp, that partial print could help seal the case. We also need to think about why someone would wrap a sterling silver chain around the branch of a tree above a burial site.”
“I got my wife a sterling silver necklace for Christmas last year, and it had to be exactly twenty inches long, to go with a pendant she had,” Garcia offered. “When I went shopping, I found out real quick that’s a standard size for a necklace.”
“Twenty inches? That’s the same length the grad student estimated the chain would have been,” Avery said.
“So maybe it held a piece of jewelry that had a special meaning to the victim,” Garcia speculated.
“Or the perp,” Avery suggested.
“Left there and meant to be found,” Clayton added. “But why?”
“To make sure the body would be discovered,” Avery ventured. “The killer wanted to get caught. When the cops screwed it up, he just walked away.”
“That’s not unheard-of,” Clayton said, staring at the thick piles of computer printouts on his desk, listing missing persons cases of young Anglo females from the 1960s and ’70s. “I’m bringing in help,” he announced. “Epperson and Olivas will join us tomorrow from the Alamogordo office.”
“Good deal,” Avery said. “Maybe everything we need will be in Fergurson’s journals.”
“Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Garcia replied.
Clayton sent them home, checked his email for the last time, and thought about the Fergurson journals. He’d promised Larkin to release any unneeded documents back to the library as quickly as possible. But maybe not. As important as researching a biography about Fergurson might be to an assistant art history professor, it didn’t trump murder.
He rose to leave, but another glance at the computer printouts gave him pause. Why simply scour old files when there was another possible way to ID the victim? He settled back in his chair and typed a draft public announcement asking any New Mexico citizen with knowledge about a young adult woman who’d gone missing in the 1960s or 1970s to contact the state police immediately. He sent it to Deputy Chief Robert Serrano, who oversaw the department’s Investigation Division, as an attachment to an email, with a copy to Luis Mondragon, asking for approval to release it in the morning.
He powered off the computer and left the building, wondering how much time he had before a boot landed on his backside. If progress continued to inch along with no apparent breakthroughs, it wouldn’t be good for his chance at a promotion.
His tenth year with the department loomed on the horizon, and he had another ten to go for a full pension. He was on the list to make captain, and the commander of District 8, headquartered an hour’s drive away on the east side of the Tularosa Basin in Alamogordo, had announced his pending retirement at the end of the year.
If Clayton got the job, it meant leaving the Investigation Division, returning to uniform, and taking on greater responsibilities. It would be a perfect fit for the family, allowing them to stay in Las Cruces. Grace could continue her career in a job she thrived at, while Wendell and Hannah finished college without any disruption. It was only a possibility, but it would sure be nice if it all worked out.
He tossed wishful thinking aside, locked his unit in the driveway, and walked inside the house. Tomorrow he’d have Fergurson’s journals in hand. He was eager to see where they might lead him.