Residue

I’m drained of emotion, wondering how to make sense of Kevin’s behavior. It’s been four days since Kim arrived unannounced and then vanished that very night, running away in the dark of night, K chasing after, trying to call her back. Her frightened screams, hurried footsteps on the floor, the slamming open of the front door, woke me from a troubled sleep. I heard her shout, “Leave me alone, get away, get away!”

From the open door, I watched them, Kim flying down the driveway as fast as humanly possible, clutching what appeared to be a shawl around her shoulders, K in pursuit, both disappearing into the darkness, voices fading, then silence.

An anxious sentinel, I waited in the living room until dawn for their return, the front door still flung wide open, the only sound a harsh wind whistling up from Mexico. In the kitchen, my silver chain necklace I’d left on the counter the night before was gone, and all the money in my purse was missing, the contents scattered about.

K’s bedroom in chaos. Blood on a pillow case, damp bed sheets kicked aside, a table lamp overturned, my small landscape of Hermit’s Peak askew on the wall, a tiny gash in the canvas, pistol cartridges strewn on the floor—from whose gun? The hunter-green wool bedspread missing. (The shawl Kim clutched as she fled? Why did she run?)

My thoughts so jumbled. K so changed since Vietnam. That warm, open young man now quiet, closed, wary. Tight smiles, stingy conversation, long silences, easily distracted. The week before Kim’s arrival was tense. Not once did he speak of the war or the tragic, heartbreaking death of his parents. Me, quiet, on tiptoes, trying not to console or intrude.

Hours passed before his return. When he came back, shoes caked with mud, clothes dirty, cactus needles clinging to his pants cuffs, scratches on his arms, his face was flushed and etched with anger. She’d taken some drugs—uppers—and gone crazy, he said. She was an addict, had stolen his grandfather’s ancient pistol to kill her husband, he said. Why, he didn’t know or wouldn’t say. He’d looked everywhere through the surrounding hills to find her, but she’d vanished.

I said to call the police. He argued against it and wouldn’t relent, until I promised to say nothing other than his pistol had been taken and Kim had spent the night. What was he hiding? Why did he need me to lie? Why, after hours searching for Kim, did he show no more concern for her safety?

I don’t know if he did violence to Kim that night, but when he returned his fury was palpable. I’d never seen him that way before. I trembled when I asked why Kim had run away from him. His answer, a tortured silence and dark look, left me shaken, fearing the worst.

Over these last few days, the silence has continued. He’s leaving in the morning. I hope to God I’ve done nothing wrong.

With a low western sun painting the spires of the Organ Mountains shimmering gold through his window, Chief Deputy District Attorney Henry Larkin read Erma Fergurson’s journal entries for a third time while Clayton waited patiently, seated at the other side of Larkin’s desk.

In the foothills, he could see flashes of reflected light bouncing off the jib of a construction crane at the Fergurson Center, used to place massive boulders around the edges of the concrete pad at the bottom of the sunken amphitheater. As he waited, Clayton wondered how Davenport was feeling after her brief stint in the county jail. Although he’d made a call on her behalf to the best bail bondsman in town, which got her back on the street in a matter of hours, he doubted she held him in high regard. So be it. Lawbreaking had a price.

Larkin finally looked up. “This last entry by Fergurson, plus all the rest of the evidence you’ve gathered, doesn’t get us to proof beyond a reasonable doubt of Kerney’s guilt, which makes going to trial a real crapshoot. As it stands right now, even probable cause would be a stretch.”

Clayton shook his head in protest. “We’ve got Kerney’s revolver as the probable murder weapon, a partial of his fingerprint on the cartridge in the cylinder, a possible match of the fabric fragments found with the body and the type of bedspread Fergurson mentions in her journal, a falsified police report made about the revolver, and a handwritten account by Erma Fergurson of what was apparently a struggle or fight between Kerney and Ward.”

Larkin clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back in his chair. “But not an eyewitness account of the events in the bedroom, or what happened after Kerney and Ward went running off into the night.”

Clayton sighed in agreement. “Okay, what Fergurson saw that night could be strongly questioned. There was a waning crescent moon on the night of April twenty-ninth, 1973, that set at five fifty-nine p.m. It was pitch-dark when Ward ran away.”

Larkin sat up straight. “So Fergurson probably couldn’t tell who was running down the driveway.”

Clayton grimaced. “Kerney’s comment that Ward was an addict was probably correct. Agent Olivas spoke by phone to an old rodeo teammate who reported that Todd Marks was dealing uppers and downers to contestants on the pro rodeo circuit and both Marks and Ward were using.”

“Ward could have freaked out in the bedroom coming down off drugs, just as Kerney described it to Fergurson.”

“It’s worse than that. This is my father we’re talking about. I don’t know if I want Kerney cleared so I can get on with the investigation, or charged so I can step aside and wash my hands of the whole damn mess.”

“Why, I’d never,” Larkin replied, acting misunderstood. “Keep Kerney as your primary person of interest and continue digging. If you can’t establish probable cause, maybe we can bring him in as a material witness. But I’d want to take that request to the grand jury, not a judge.”

“For the simple reason that I’m not going to put my job on the line because you’re conflicted.”

“Not yet. Voice messages have been left. He’s out of the state in Missouri, attending his wife’s retirement ceremony as the commandant of the army’s military police school.”

Larkin let Clayton’s admission slide with a slight disapproving headshake. “His wife’s an army commandant, is she? That must be a pretty high rank.”

Larkin whistled. “Gotta have some huevos to be married to a woman warrior.”

“What do you want me to do with the Davenport charges?” Larkin asked as he rose from his chair. “Her lawyer’s arguing that she had no knowledge of the contents of the safe.”

Larkin nodded. “I’ll give it a week to let her sweat it out and then decline to prosecute. That should serve as punishment enough.”

“Agreed.” Dusk had shrouded the Organ Mountains, and the lights of Las Cruces stretched like long ribbons into the foothills.

“You, too,” Clayton answered, suddenly remembering he’d promised to take Grace and the kids to Mescalero tomorrow for dinner with his mother.

In tears, Cynthia Davenport left Hadley Hall, the university’s administration building, and drove away fuming at Clayton Istee. Because of her arrest, she’d been questioned, placed on administrative leave, and ordered to stay away from the Fergurson Center until the Office of General Counsel concluded an investigation into the charges against her.

Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. In her entire life, she’d gotten one traffic ticket for speeding and maybe three parking tickets, which she’d promptly paid. Now, facing the possibility of losing her job, right when everything seemed to be going so well, she was both frightened and angry. She was terrified of being a single, middle-aged woman out of work, with a big black mark on her résumé, and was furious at Lieutenant Istee for heartlessly deceiving her into believing he wouldn’t arrest her.

In hindsight, it had been a mistake to tell the lieutenant about Fergurson’s journals, and equally stupid to tell him she had no real knowledge of the contents. But who knew a cold-case investigation would become so all-encompassing, and drag her into it? All she’d been thinking was how great it would be to have a sensational, decades-old murder mystery solved to include in her book. In writers’ workshops she’d learned that true-to-life, sensational events made books more marketable, turned them into bestsellers.

But her memoir hinged on a bigger lie, that of being Erma’s closest confidant for almost twenty years, privy to the most intimate details about the important people in her life. She’d planned to dish all the scandalous stuff Erma had removed from her journals with no single main course, in which her surrogate nephew, Kevin Kerney, was by no means front and center.

All the important particulars that were missing from the journals would be included in her book. The outline and proposal she’d submitted to a small university press had attracted the interest of an editor, and she’d hoped to have the book published to coincide with the grand reopening of the Fergurson Center.

But when Kim Ward’s remains were found, her focus had shifted. Now she had a homicide that would be the centerpiece of her book. She’d tantalize readers with her uncanny ability to put together all the pieces of a missing-person cold case that had stymied the police for decades. And when the missing journal pages were discovered, although she’d yet to work out how exactly that would happen, it would confirm her role as Erma’s most trusted confidant.

She’d told her lawyer that she had no knowledge of the contents of the safe, a story she stuck to at her meeting with her supervisor. Would it stand up under scrutiny? Lieutenant Istee had watched her open the safe’s tumbler combination from memory. But she could argue that someone else with the combination could have placed the pages inside without her knowledge. She shook her head. It was a lame excuse. Her fingerprints were on every one of those papers she’d deliberately left in the safe to be “discovered” later and used to substantiate the damaging revelations in her memoir.

Her hands froze on the steering wheel. She was screwed. Lieutenant Istee had screwed her, ruined her life.

Home at the dining room table, a glass of Merlot in her shaky hand, she powered up her laptop and started an Internet search for Clayton Istee. He’d forced her to open the safe. Bullied and arrested her. What could she find to use against him? He deserved to be punished. There had to be something.

As expected, recent news stories about him leading the investigation into the cold-case murder popped up first, followed by older cases he’d successfully closed in the recent past. On the state police website only his name, rank, and position were listed, without an accompanying photograph or bio.

His two college-age children were on the usual social media sites, and his wife’s work experience as a professional preschool educator and college instructor was also easy to access. Although there was little about the lieutenant, there was something familiar about his name. She recalled coming across it somewhere, long before he arrived at the center with his officers to provide additional security for the Spanish ambassador.

On a hunch, she retrieved a USB flash drive from the living room bookcase that contained the detailed outline of her memoir and all the names and dates she’d compiled from Erma’s journals before delivering them to Eleanor Robbins at the university. A word search of the unusual surname Istee took her to Isabel Istee, mentioned in the 1969 and 1970 journals. The Internet yielded a news story of a ceremony honoring her for her service as a Mescalero tribal council member. It noted that her son, Clayton Istee, a tribal police officer at the time, and his wife and young children had been in attendance. Years later, there was another brief mention in the Ruidoso newspaper, reporting her retirement as head nurse from the Mescalero Public Health Service Hospital.

Okay, now she had something. Erma had known Lieutenant Istee’s mother. What else did they have in common? Davenport sipped a second glass of Merlot, her spirits lifting, and went back to the flash drive. Kim Ward, the girl the police had identified as the murder victim, popped up. Now she remembered: Isabel Istee and Kim Ward had both been college girlfriends of the boy Erma suspected might have had something to do with Ward’s disappearance. And his name, according to her outline, was Kevin Kerney, the son of Erma’s oldest, dearest friend.

Davenport surfed dozens of archived Internet news items that chronicled his storied law enforcement career. So, he’d been a cop like Istee. Was that just a coincidence?

Nothing surfaced until she came upon an old news report about a manhunt and the killing of a wanted criminal in the rugged mountains of northern New Mexico. The headline stopped her cold.

The story recounted how Kevin Kerney and Clayton Istee had tracked and shot to death an escaped convict who’d been on a murderous spree across the state.

Davenport was elated. Now it all made sense. Lieutenant Clayton Istee was protecting his father, Kim Ward’s suspected killer. She smirked at the duplicity involved. If anyone else had been the suspect, an arrest would have certainly been made. Cops get away with murder. It happens all the time, shown almost nightly on the evening news.

She drained her glass, and poured another. God, if only she’d known. Her heart pounded in her chest at the thought of her life ruined by those two men. They’d stripped her of her job, destroyed her reputation, killed her dream of becoming a writer, and left her with nothing except an empty future. She had no family to fall back on, no children or husband, no close friends, no savings, a modest pension plan that, when cashed in, would run dry in a few years. The prospect of going to prison terrified her beyond belief. That, she couldn’t face. She shuddered at the idea of being locked up surrounded by lesbians and brutal guards.

More than tipsy, she went to the kitchen, returned with another bottle of Merlot, and filled the glass. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast but wasn’t a bit hungry. At the laptop, with her fingers poised above the keys, she considered what to do. Over the years, she’d publicized numerous events at the center and had a sizable number of broadcast and print media contacts in her email address book, including reporters at the major television stations in Albuquerque and El Paso, and investigative journalists at the big newspapers in both cities, as well as an editor up in Santa Fe. Why not tell them what had happened? Ask them to find out why she was arrested after evidence found at the Fergurson Center implicated a former, highly respected police chief in a cold-case murder investigation that was being conducted by his son?

She’d propose that the police were trying to keep her silent. That Lieutenant Istee was engaged in a cover-up to protect his father. At the very least, why hadn’t Kerney been questioned? And if he had, why hadn’t the public been told?

She’d speculate that the conspiracy went to the top of the state police chain of command. And finally, she’d demand an apology from the police for being branded a lawbreaker for trying to do the right thing. She’d put everything she sent out on her Facebook page as well.

It could go viral. All it would take was just one reporter to show some interest. Davenport bared her teeth in a smile and began typing.

By lunchtime Saturday Clayton had almost forgotten about Kerney and the investigation. The drive home to Mescalero with the family in the morning to visit his mother had turned into a spur-of-the-moment gathering of uncles, aunts, and cousins he hadn’t seen for some time. In the tall pines of the high mountains with the sacred Sierra Blanca in view, Clayton sat on Isabel’s front porch watching Hannah and Wendell with his uncle James at the corral saddling up three ponies in anticipation of a short trail ride they’d take after everyone finished eating. Perched on the porch railing, his cousin Selena, who helped run the resort and casino for the tribe, was telling him about a Texas oilman who’d lost six hundred thousand at craps just before he had a fatal heart attack in the bar while his wife was busy playing the slots. Nobody, including the wife, shed a tear. Security moved the body out as quickly as possible to keep any lurking ghost at bay.

In the kitchen, Grace, Isabel, and the aunties had three different kinds of stews going, a meat and piñon nut that was Clayton’s favorite, a vegetable with red chili, and a green chili with chunks of potato. There were two huge bowls of salad in the making: macaroni and a mustard-potato concoction—Grace’s specialty. The delicious smell of fry bread filled the air, mixed with the spicy aroma of simmering chili sauce.

The staggering amount of food being prepared suggested more friends and relatives would be arriving throughout the day, although Isabel hadn’t told him as much. It would be a feast, and Clayton looked forward to it. A day away from work, back in his ancestral homeland, surrounded by his people, felt cleansing, a release from all his doubts about Kerney. Starting out from Las Cruces, he’d gone so far as to turn off his cell phone to leave the case behind. But, if needed, Luis Mondragon knew where he was and how to reach him. He hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.

In the front room, two more cousins and his uncle Bernard were gathered at Mom’s new flat-screen television watching a satellite broadcast of a Chicago Cubs baseball game. Out back, several youngsters had a game of horseshoes going, and Clayton could hear the clink of metal against the stakes. In the driveway, Fred Peso, about the oldest Apache alive, leaned against the fender of his pickup truck talking politics with two retired tribal administrators.

It was about as perfect a day as it could get, and Clayton pondered coming home for good, not just occasionally on a stolen Saturday. The idea appealed, but any continuing thoughts about the future were waylaid by more arriving guests. It wasn’t until later in the afternoon, after all had eaten their fill and Wendell and Hannah were back from their trail ride, that his mother had a moment to spare with him.

She joined him on the porch, where he occupied the same chair he’d claimed since morning, and kissed him on the cheek, announcing Grace was in the kitchen catching up with her mom and that Wendell and Hannah had taken off with some friends for a short drive to nearby Ruidoso.

The crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and the wrinkles on her cheeks showed her age, but her eyes remained as shiny and clear as a young girl’s.

“This was some great fiesta you threw,” Clayton said. “Care to tell me what the occasion is?”

“Of?” Clayton waved her off before she spoke. “Wait, let me guess, where I’m from, who I am, where I belong.”

Isabel nodded. “You know me well. It was also to celebrate the joy and pride I have for you and your family.”

Kerney popped into Clayton’s head. Right now he didn’t have much pride and joy about him. Would it totally evaporate? He hoped not.

“I hope I’m wrong, but my part of the family may not bring much happiness. Kerney is the prime suspect in the cold case I’m working on.”

“Impossible,” Isabel snapped. “Never in a million years. Have you talked to him?”

Clayton shook his head. “Not yet. For now, he’s just a person of interest. There’s not enough evidence to charge him with the crime.”

Isabel’s expression turned stormy. “He knows nothing about this? What are you doing even investigating him anyway? Why isn’t another officer handling this?”

“Call him in Santa Fe and ask him,” Isabel ordered. “Tell him what you’re doing. Let him defend himself, and then step aside. I am astonished that you would even consider him capable of such a thing.”

Clayton thought back to a day years ago, when he’d broken his leg in a fall. It had happened when he was working alongside Kerney as they closed in on Craig Larson, a spree killer, in the rugged northern New Mexico mountains. Kerney had called for medical assistance and left him behind. When he returned, the target was dead.

Clayton had always wondered if Kerney had executed Larson. Among Larson’s many victims was a young man who’d been Kerney’s neighbor and friend. Larson had shot him down in cold blood at Kerney’s front door.

“I didn’t think you gave a hoot about him,” he finally said. “Besides, he’s not home.”

Isabel stood. “When I was young, unsure, and half afraid of the White Eyes’ world, that man—your father—gave me much more than just you. Call him right now, wherever he is.”

A black-and-white state police cruiser turned onto the long driveway to the house, emergency lights flashing.

Clayton pushed himself upright and started toward the oncoming unit. “This may not be the best time for that.”

With a grim look on his face, Luis Mondragon opened the passenger door window and said, “Get in.”

“It’s all over social media that you’ve been shielding your father from murder charges. That Davenport woman went on Facebook about it, and she’s got several TV reporters interested enough to ask for interviews about the allegation. Santa Fe is screaming for your head, and the DA told Henry Larkin to get a warrant for Kerney’s arrest signed pronto.”

“Larkin wants an exact location of Kerney’s whereabouts, so he can have local authorities arrest and hold him for extradition.”

“I don’t have an exact location. I’ve already told Larkin he’s in Missouri with his wife and son. Tell Larkin to call the army.”

Mondragon nodded. “Okay, but you’re coming with me. I bought you some time, and told Deputy Chief Serrano you were participating in an Apache religious ceremony at some secluded place on the rez but I’d try to track you down. Otherwise, a chopper would be here right now taking you to Santa Fe, so you could fall on your sword.”

“If you can prove that to Internal Affairs, you might survive. But even with proof you didn’t contact Kerney, they’ll argue that you crossed the line.”

“I should have punted this case to someone else as soon as I knew Kerney was involved.”

Through the windshield, Clayton could see Grace hurrying toward the unit, with Isabel close behind. All the aunties had gathered on the porch, arms crossed, looking ready to go to war.

He didn’t like what he had to say to Grace and his mother. Didn’t like it at all.