Dale dropped Kerney off at the command trailer, where Kerney’s unit, sporting four brand-new tires, was parked outside. On the office desk Lee Sedillo had left a sealed envelope containing his car keys and a note. Nothing had come from the patrol officer’s attempt to identify the person responsible for the vandalism. Since the investigation team was staying at Kerney’s motel, Lee had queried each agent about the incident. No one had noticed the damage. Because all personnel had left the motel before Kerney, Lee speculated that the crime occurred after the agents were gone and while Kerney was still in his room. Therefore, it was not a random act.
Lee and the agents were in the field conducting interviews. Kerney spent the remainder of the day poring over the information that had been gathered in the letter-bombing homicide of Marsha Langsford. He finished up by phoning the senior ATF and FBI agents who had supervised the investigation, in the hope that some important shred of evidence had been left out of the case files.
Both agents had concentrated attention on members of the American Indian Movement, a radical Indian rights organization, most famous for the shootout with U.S. Marshals and the FBI at Oglala, South Dakota, in the summer of 1976.
The feds had identified an AIM “cell” that had remained active in the Four Corners region of the state on the Navajo Nation. It had two Mescalero members. On the telephone, the FBI agent kept circling back to the AIM group. But all the evidence showed that the group’s concerns at the time were treaty rights, not reservation casino gaming.
When Kerney pointed out that no group had claimed responsibility for the letter-bomb attack, the agent dismissed his observation, arguing that the Apaches were secretive, warlike by nature, and therefore still suspect.
The ATF agent Kerney talked to grudgingly admitted that AIM had never been a suspect in any type of terrorist bombing. But that didn’t hold him back from rattling on about the lack of cooperation he’d received from tribal officials during the investigation.
Kerney hung up feeling that both men wanted a quick and easy cowboy and Indian solution to the case and had conveniently blamed the tribe when their investigation stalled.
Before Kerney left to return to his motel room, Lee Sedillo arrived and informed him that the subjects known to have visited all the campgrounds on the days prior to the shootings were in the clear.
“Nothing suspicious at all, Chief,” Lee said. “No connections with the victims, and no weak alibis.”
“Well, that’s one rabbit trail we don’t have to keep following,” Kerney said, as he walked to the door.
“You read my note about the tires?” Lee asked.
“We’ll let the incident slide for now,” Kerney said.
“Unless they know the officer, most civilians don’t pay any attention to who drives cop cars. Especially unmarked units like yours.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Kerney said.
“And you’re driving an undercover unit with standard issue motor vehicle license plates, not department plates.”
“That, too.”
“So?” Lee asked, frustration creeping into his voice.
“So, I agree,” Kerney said with a smile. “Whoever doesn’t like me may be one of Shockley’s buddies.”
“Maybe one of our own,” Lee said.
“I hope not,” Kerney said.
“You still want me to drop it?”
“For now. We haven’t got the time.”
Back in his room Kerney watched the late news, which headlined the breaking story that Vernon Langsford had been one of the spree victims. “Team coverage” spun off to review the unsolved letter-bomb murder of Langsford’s wife and the search for Langsford’s children.
Kerney killed the TV and the bedside light, hoping the media coverage would at least get Linda and Eric Langsford’s attention. He needed to talk to them, and soon.
St. Joseph’s Mission, the most imposing building in the village of Mescalero, stood on a hillside overlooking the settlement. It was built from hand-hewn stone and logs. Kerney had toured it as a child with his parents, and inside on the wall behind the altar an Apache Jesus looked down on the chapel.
Although the village served as the center of government for the tribe, there were no tidy rows of houses lined up along linear streets. Aside from the few businesses situated close together along the highway, the schools, government buildings, and tribal enterprises were sprinkled throughout the narrow mountain valley. Most of the homes were located off dirt roads that extended into the forest.
To Kerney’s eye, Mescalero seemed deliberately turned away from the non-Indian world that passed through on the highway. As he pulled into the parking lot of the tribal headquarters building, he decided it would be a good idea to remember that observation. Inside, he found his way to Silas Kozine, a senior tribal administrator.
Kozine, a man well past middle age, had gray hair and wide, slightly downturned lips that gave his face a somber cast. He tapped his fingers together while Kerney explained the reason for his visit.
Silas Kozine’s expression hardened as Kerney finished, and he said nothing for a long moment.
“I am sorry Judge Langsford has been killed, but I can’t see how a murder spree that occurred off tribal land has anything to do with us. We went through this exercise six years ago, when Judge Langsford’s wife was murdered in Roswell. No evidence was ever found that connected any tribal member to the crime, in spite of the FBI’s attempts to prove otherwise.”
“I understand the tribal police conducted an independent investigation of Mrs. Langsford’s murder that concentrated on possible tribal suspects,” Kerney said. “I’d like to review the file.”
“Our chief of police made it clear to the FBI that there were no tribal suspects.”
“It might be beneficial to take another look.”
“It would have no benefit for us, Mr. Kerney. In fact, it would only give those people who think of us as uppity Indians the opportunity to point fingers and start rumors.”
“I’m not looking to politicize anything, Mr. Kozine. The killer could be someone from the tribe he sent to prison, someone who felt unfairly treated in Langsford’s court, someone with a personal grudge, or a casino employee who felt Langsford’s ruling against gambling would destroy his livelihood. The possibilities are endless.”
Silas Kozine consulted a paper on his desk. “I think your request for our cooperation comes a little too late.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yesterday morning, you and a man named Dale Jennings were found trespassing on tribal land.”
“That was unintentional, and had nothing to do with the investigation.”
“Personally, I see it as a lack of respect. You can pay your fine at the tribal court offices, Mr. Kerney.”
Kerney hesitated, decided there was no use arguing further, and stood up.
“Is there something else?” Kozine asked.
“I went to college many years ago with a girl from Mescalero, Isabel Istee. Is Officer Istee her son?”
“Yes, he is.”
“How can I locate his mother?”
“Isabel is director of nursing at the Indian Health Service Hospital. You’ll find her there.”
Before driving to the hospital, Kerney went to the tribal court and paid both his and Dale’s trespassing fines. The small, two-story hospital had a rock exterior offset by stark white window frames and an orange metal roof. Kerney announced himself at the reception desk, asked to see Isabel Istee, and nervously waited, not sure if he wanted to voice the question that had to be asked.
He recognized Isabel as soon as she stepped through the door to the administrative wing. Her small body had filled out a bit, giving her an attractive subtle roundness, and her jet-black hair showed hints of gray. Her face still held an aristocratic, almost haughty appeal, and her eyes, dark as obsidian, were still intriguing.
She walked to him with measured steps and stopped a few feet away. “I have often wondered if I would see you again, Kevin,” she said.
“It’s been a long time, Isabel.”
She nodded and gestured toward the door. “Why don’t we talk in my office.”
Once inside, Kerney sat in a chair and watched Isabel arrange herself at the desk. On the bookcase behind her was a framed photograph of Clayton Istee in uniform. Two framed university degrees were displayed on the same shelf.
“What brings you to see me?” Isabel asked.
“I met your son yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“You and his father must be very proud of him.”
“Every member of the family is.”
“How long have you been married?”
“You have something to ask me, Kevin?”
“Only if you have something to tell me.”
“I’m not married, and never have been.”
Kerney let out a sigh. “You’re not making this easy, Isabel.”
“Did you come here to intrude into my life?”
“Intrude in what way?”
“We knew each other when we were very young. I have no idea what kind of man you are.”
“I’m a policeman, like your son.” He placed his open badge case on the desk in front of Isabel.
Isabel picked it up and studied it. “I’ve read about you occasionally in the newspapers. Weren’t you going on to graduate school after the army?”
“I did. I dropped out.”
“To become a policeman?”
“Yes.”
Isabel handed back the badge case. “What you do for a living doesn’t tell me who you are as a person now.”
“Can words answer that question?”
“Probably not,” Isabel answered, looking at the wedding band on Kerney’s finger. “You’re married?”
“Yes.”
“Any children?”
“None that I know of. Is Clayton my son?”
Isabel studied Kerney for a long, hard minute before answering. “Why would that be important to you?”
“If I have a child I want to know it.”
“I suppose you have a right to know. Yes, Clayton is your son.”
“Does he know who I am?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve never told him. He only knows that his father was an Anglo boy I met at school. I wanted two things when I went to college, a nursing degree and a baby. I came back to Mescalero with both.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”
“You had no desire to be a father, and I wasn’t interested in marriage. You gave me what I wanted, Kevin, and I gave you what you wanted.”
“That’s cold, Isabel. I liked you a lot.”
“I don’t mean it that way. We both enjoyed each other, and I have always remembered you fondly. Every time I look at Clayton he reminds me of you.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“Now that you know, what will you do?”
“That question is yours to answer.”
Isabel nodded solemnly. “I appreciate that. I will tell Clayton about you. The rest is up to him. He doesn’t need a father, Kevin. He’s a grown man.”
“I understand.”
“My son is Apache, Kevin.”
“I understand that, also.”
“I always knew this day would come.”
“I will cause you and your son no trouble.”
“I’d like to believe you.” Isabel stood, extended her hand, and Kerney shook it. “Thank you, Kevin.”
“No thanks are necessary.”
Isabel smiled. “I mean, for giving me Clayton. I made a good choice when I picked you.”
“Were you that deliberate?” Kerney asked, somewhat taken aback.
Isabel laughed. “Oh, yes.”
* * *
Kay Murray’s town house was the last unit at the end of a long dead-end lane in the community of Alto, just outside of Ruidoso. The development, nestled in a grove of pine trees, looked to be a combination of second homes and long-term vacation rentals. Two-story mountain chalets, all with steep pitched shingled roofs, second-story decks, attached garages, and wood exteriors, were grouped in a semicircle around a common park area that contained several permanently installed barbecue grills and picnic tables, two tennis courts, and a small playground. Each house was marked with a rustic wooden street-number sign planted in the lawn next to the pathway that curved to the front door.
Kerney parked and tried to pull himself together. The thirty-minute drive from Mescalero hadn’t done much to settle his mind. He’d always hoped someday to be a father. But to become one suddenly, retroactively, over the course of nearly thirty years, left him flabbergasted.
Would he have married Isabel if he’d known she was pregnant? Probably, assuming she would’ve agreed, which, based on their conversation, seemed completely unlikely.
He didn’t know if he felt misused by Isabel or simply superfluous in her scheme of things. He decided both feelings were valid, and left it there until he could sort it out.
Kay Murray answered the doorbell wearing an angora camisole, shorts, and not much else. Kerney caught an unpleasant glint in her eyes.
“Your agents made a mess of Judge Langsford’s house,” she said. “I was up most of the night putting things back together.”
“May I come in?” Kerney asked.
“I’m just about to do my yoga,” Murray answered.
“I won’t take much of your time.”
“I suppose it’s all right,” Murray said, stepping aside.
A half-round soapstone woodstove in the center of the L-shaped room served as the focal point. Except for the couch in front of a wall of books, the furniture was sleek and very European looking. A multicolored weaving in the shape of a long, unfurled streamer dominated one wall. On the wood floor was a padded exercise mat.
Murray folded her arms and didn’t offer Kerney a seat.
“Are you aware that Judge Langsford named you in his will?”
“Of course,” Murray said. “He also bought me my car, gave me a sizable down payment for my house, and paid me an ample salary. What’s your point?”
“It would seem that the judge was quite generous with you.”
“Yes, he was.”
“I’d like to know why.”
“Judge Langsford appreciated my services,” Murray said with a cold smile. “Haven’t we already talked about this?”
“Sometimes elderly people can be taken advantage of.”
“I resent that remark. Judge Langsford was sound in mind and body. I doubt anyone could have taken advantage of him.”
“Do you have a boyfriend, Ms. Murray?”
“I see someone.”
“Here in town?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me who he is.”
Murray shook her head. “That’s none of your business. I refuse to let you treat me as a suspect. You already know that I had nothing to do with Judge Langsford’s murder.”
“I still need to speak with your boyfriend.”
“So, I am a suspect after all.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I don’t like having my privacy invaded.”
Kerney shrugged. “If you don’t cooperate now, I’ll just keep coming back until you tell me, or find a more public way to identify him. Would you like that?”
“That’s harassment.”
“Why are you hiding his identity?”
Hostility seeped from Murray’s eyes. “Because he’s married.”
“I’m sure you’d like to have me go away and never come back, Ms. Murray. Talking to your boyfriend just may make that happen.”
“The man I’m seeing isn’t a murderer.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But, one way or the other, I need to confirm that.”
“His name is Joel Cushman. He’s a psychologist in private practice.”
“Thank you for cooperating.”
“This is utterly insane.”
Joel Cushman had his practice in a small office complex on Mechem Road. When Kerney arrived, Cushman had just finished a session with a client. Kerney showed his credentials to the receptionist, who quickly buzzed Cushman and directed Kerney through the appropriate door.
Cushman was standing when Kerney entered. Of average height, he had a bit of a potbelly, a soft handshake, and an inquisitive look on his face. On his desk was a photograph of a kneeling woman with her arms wrapped around the waist of a young boy.
Cushman’s look turned worried when Kerney started talking about Kay Murray.
“Why on earth would you be investigating Kay?” Cushman asked.
“I understand you’re her lover,” Kerney said.
“Who told you that?”
“Ms. Murray.”
Cushman slumped into his chair. “Yes, we’re lovers.”
“For how long?”
“Three, almost four years.”
“How did you meet?”
“Socially, at a party,” Cushman said, looking away.
“And she was never one of your patients?”
“For a time she was. But our personal relationship started after she left therapy.”
“Does your wife know about Ms. Murray?”
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble.”
“What brought Kay to see you?”
“You know I can’t be compelled to reveal that information.”
“What can you tell me?”
“She’s a remarkable, talented, intelligent woman. I care for her very much.”
“Is your practice successful, Dr. Cushman?”
The question startled Cushman. “Yes, it’s well established, and my wife is an OB/GYN.”
“No money problems?”
“We live comfortably and within our means.”
“Has Ms. Murray ever asked you for money or a loan?”
“Never.”
“Has she ever mentioned having money problems?”
“Kay also lives within her means.”
“Are you her only lover?”
“Only Kay can answer that question.”
“Does that mean you don’t know?”
Cushman pulled himself erect in his chair. “That’s the best answer I can give you.”
Kerney gazed at the framed certificates and diplomas on the office wall. “Aren’t there ethical rules against sleeping with clients?”
Cushman squirmed in his chair. “I’ve already explained that I was not involved with Kay while she was my patient.”
“If you answer my question I might be willing to forget we had this conversation,” Kerney said.
“Yes, she has had another lover.”
“Who?”
“Vernon Langsford.”
“You’ve been sharing Ms. Murray with Langsford?”
Color rose on Cushman’s cheeks and he said nothing.
“It must have made you jealous.”
“No, it did not.”
“It doesn’t bother you that Langsford was elderly, rich, and sleeping with your lover?” Kerney asked.
“I have no control over Kay’s decisions.”
“Where were you last Friday night?” Kerney asked.
Cushman’s face lost color. “Attending a Christian men’s fellowship convention in Albuquerque.”
“Did you travel alone?”
“Yes.”
“You saw Kay there, didn’t you?”
“For a while,” Cushman said.
“Where did you stay?”
“We stayed at the same hotel, in separate rooms.”
“How long were you with Kay?”
“From about eleven-thirty Friday night until the next morning. I had to wait for her to arrive. She’d gone out with friends for a late dinner and drinks.”
“Did anyone see you together?”
“We ordered breakfast in the room.”
“At what time was it delivered?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“I’ll need the names of the people you were with at the convention.”
Cushman started scribbling down names, the pen shaking in his hand. “This is unbelievable.”
“I also need addresses and phone numbers, if you have them,” Kerney added.
Cushman reached for his address book.
After leaving Cushman’s office, Kerney got on the horn to Lee Sedillo. “Where are you?”
“Heading your way, Chief. ETA ten minutes.”
“Let’s meet for coffee.”
“Roger.”
The café on Sudderth Avenue had horse-racing posters tacked on the walls and cheap cafeteria-style tables and chairs scattered throughout the room. Aside from Kerney and Lee Sedillo, the only other customers were two city cops on a break and a table of four men, all dressed in jeans and work boots, who were busy discussing a set of construction plans. A slow-moving waitress worked her way across the room, wiping down and setting up tables.
“San Francisco PD reports Eric Langsford was busted twice on two misdemeanor cocaine possession charges while he was living in the Bay Area,” Lee said. “No other arrests in California. He’s had one drunk and disorderly charge and a DWI since moving back.”
“Nothing more serious?” Kerney asked.
“Nope. Langsford plays the guitar. When he’s not high, he’s supposedly a real good musician. He was a member of a country and western band that had a steady weekend gig at a Cloudcroft bar. When the summer tourist season ended the band got booked to do a west Texas tour. That’s when Langsford left his day job. Or was fired, I should say.”
“Where’s the band now?” Kerney asked.
“In Van Horn, Texas, playing a small club and working their way back to El Paso. But Langsford dumped the group in a town named Marfa. He got drunk and started a fight with the band’s drummer two days before his father was murdered.”
“Do you have a line on him?”
Lee shook his head. “He could be crawling through every border town booze joint. I’ve got an all points bulletin out on his camper van.”
“And his sister?” Kerney asked.
“No sightings, no contact, no nothing. A neighbor said he ran into Linda Langsford at a Roswell supermarket the day before she started her vacation. Langsford told the neighbor she was planning to camp out and do some high-country backpacking in the Rockies. I’ve asked Colorado and Federal park rangers to canvass campsites and check all their backcountry hiking permits.”
“Have you finished the background investigation on Kay Murray?”
“Murray was born in Carlsbad, the daughter of Jean and Richard Murray. The father abandoned the family, and she was raised by the mother, who died of cancer when Murray was twenty-one years old. She moved to Roswell, took art courses at the junior college, and then went to the university in Albuquerque, where she finished a degree in fine arts.
“Starting out, she couldn’t make a living as a weaver, so she got into the housekeeping business, working for yuppies and well-to-do retired couples. She’s been doing it now for about ten years.”
“How did she hook up with Langsford?”
“I don’t know.”
“Murray was Langsford’s lover. She’s also having an affair with her former therapist, Joel Cushman. Cushman’s married. He said he was with Murray in an Albuquerque hotel the night Langsford was shot.”
“Do you think Cushman and Murray may have come up with the spree killing scheme so that Murray could inherit the million dollars?”
“Maybe. But it appears that Cushman is well-off, and we know Murray hasn’t been hurting for money. Cushman swears Murray was with him in his room from eleven-thirty at night until the next morning. He says they ordered room service and had breakfast together. Have the agent who backtracked on Murray talk to housekeeping, room service, and the hotel auditor. And let’s take a close look at Cushman.”
“Roger that.”
“Have you got any documentation on Murray?”
“The usual,” Sedillo said, as he pulled a file from his briefcase and passed it over. “Copies of her birth certificate, public school and college transcripts, motor vehicle records, the criminal records check, and the agent’s field notes.”
Kerney opened the file. “Did you hit any pay dirt with the Langsford search warrant?”
“Nothing more than what I already told you about, Chief.”
Kerney scanned Murray’s junior college transcript, closed the file, and stood up. “I’m going to Roswell.”
“What’s up?”
“Murray’s home address on her junior college transcript is the same as Penelope Gibben’s.”
Penelope Gibben’s office in the Ranchers’ Exploration and Development suite on the eighth floor of the tallest building in town afforded her a view of a slice of Main Street and the old warehouse district next to the railroad tracks.
She sat behind a polished walnut desk and looked at Kerney with a wrinkled brow.
“I saw no reason to tell you Kay was my niece,” Gibben said. “She came to live with me after her mother—my sister—died. It was my idea to take her in.”
“Did you pay her tuition and expenses while she was in school?”
“Of course. She wanted to be more than a coffee shop waitress or a barmaid. She would have gone to college right after high school if her mother hadn’t been so sick with cancer.”
“So Vernon Langsford must have known Kay while she was living with you.”
“Yes. He grew very fond of her.”
“How fond?” Kerney asked.
“In a fatherly way.”
“How did Langsford come to seek Kay out and offer her a job?”
“They kept in touch after she moved to Albuquerque. He knew she was working as a housekeeper and trying to get her career in fiber art under way. Soon after he moved to Ruidoso, he made her an offer that gave her the opportunity to earn a decent living and still have time for her art.”
“Did you know Langsford left the same amount to both of you in his will? A million dollars each. He must have held you both in high regard.”
“What an interesting thing to say.”
“Did you know that Kay was his lover?” Kerney asked.
“I had my suspicions.”
“That didn’t trouble you?”
“I’ve already told you my sexual relationship with Vernon ended with the death of his wife.”
“When did Langsford start sleeping with your niece?”
“I assume it was after she went to work for him.”
“Not before? Not when Kay was living with you?”
Gibben looked at Kerney frostily.
“You and your niece are very much alike, in personality and looks. She was young, pretty, creative, and intelligent. Surely, Langsford had to be drawn to her, just as he’d been drawn to you.”
“I think we’ve talked enough.”
“Did you send her to college in Albuquerque to get rid of her?”
Penelope stood up and pointed to her office door. “Good day, Mr. Kerney.”
“To have your niece—a young woman you so graciously took in—compete for your lover’s attention and affection must have made you jealous and angry.”
Frozen in place, Penelope Gibben didn’t answer, but Kerney could see fury building in her eyes. He smiled and let himself out of her office.
* * *
Kerney caught up with Kay Murray outside her town house.
“Go away,” she said, striding past him.
“Would you be more comfortable talking to me at the city police headquarters?” he asked.
She stopped and wheeled. “You’re such a bully. Are you the morals police, Mr. Kerney? Is that what this is all about? Do you have some lowbrow, pernicious interest in other people’s personal lives?”
“You’ve talked to Joel Cushman.”
“You bet I have.”
“I have only one question: When you were living with your Aunt Penelope did Langsford seduce you or did you seduce him?”
“Jesus, you just don’t quit.”
“Well?”
“It was mutual, okay?”
“That must have been hard on your aunt.”
“She threw me out because of it. Vernon forced her to take me back.”
“How did he do that?”
“Penelope was so entwined in Vernon’s life on every basic level, that she had no choice. She needed him.”
“For what?”
“All the creature comforts.”
“Or did she use him?” Kerney countered.
“No, Mr. Kerney, she needed him. That’s why Vernon turned to me. I used him. He never had to question the nature of our relationship. It was always clearly understood.”
“Neat and tidy.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think Penelope is capable of murder?”
“Murdering Vernon?”
“And his wife,” Kerney added.
“No more so than I am. Neither of us are violent people, capable of murder.”
“Is that a fact?” Kerney said, turning away.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Why should I?”
Kay tapped her forefinger against her temple. “I get rid of people in my mind, Mr. Kerney. It’s a lot cleaner and neater. Just like locking a door and walking away.”
“What are you going to do with the million-dollar inheritance?”
“Use it to stay far away from people like you.”
Kerney left Kay Murray standing on the walkway and started the drive back to Alamogordo. Just about every possible motive for murder—sex, jealousy, money, revenge, politics, adultery, and deceit—was bouncing around the Langsford killing, and Kerney didn’t have one hard target in sight.
He ran over some suppositions in his mind. Did Murray kill Langsford for her inheritance? And if so, was Joel Cushman her accomplice? Money problems would have to surface for that notion to stand up. Or was the killer Penelope Gibben, who might be holding a grudge about being dumped for a younger woman by her ex-lover? That idea had some possibilities.
But in spite of an initial unwillingness to cooperate, all of them had folded easily under questioning, and none of them appeared to have the stealth or cunning needed to pull off a copycat spree killing to get to Langsford.
One question rang true: Why did every one of them still seem to be hiding something?
He made radio contact with Lee Sedillo and asked about Linda and Eric Langsford.
“Still nada, Chief.”
“I’ll be at my motel room.”
“Ten-four.”
Clayton Istee took a deep breath, made a fist, and knocked on the motel room door. He heard some movement inside and then the door opened to reveal a shirtless Kevin Kerney. Low on his bare stomach was an ugly surgical scar.
“We might as well get this over with,” Clayton said, raising his eyes to Kerney’s face.
“Come in,” Kerney said.
Clayton stepped inside and watched Kerney pull on a sweatshirt. “So you’re my father,” he said.
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
Clayton scanned Kerney’s face. “I’ve always wondered what you looked like.”
“I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment.” Kerney sat on the edge of the bed and gestured at the chair. “Have a seat.”
Clayton swung the chair around from the desk and sat. His body felt tight and his stomach churned. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
“I don’t know if I am, either,” Kerney replied.
“You’re willing to take my mother’s word that you’re my father?”
Kerney nodded. “Why should she lie to me?”
“Maybe you think she’s just some Indian slut who’s telling you a story.”
“I don’t think either of those things about your mother.”
“Maybe you want a DNA comparison, to make sure I’m really your biological son.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I asked you.”
“I have no reason not to trust Isabel.”
“She says you were in the army before you became a cop.”
“That’s right. Two years active duty,” Kerney said.
“When?”
“Vietnam.”
“Did you see any action?”
“Enough.”
“Is that where you got that scar on your belly?”
“No, that came later. It goes with my limp.”
“What happened?”
“A gunfight with a drug dealer.”
“Did you put him down?”
“Yeah. How long have you been with the tribal police?”
“Five years. I joined right after I got my degree from Western New Mexico State.”
“You like the work?” Kerney asked.
“I like it fine. It’s funny, both of us being cops.”
“It is an interesting coincidence.”
“You’re married, my mom says. Who’s your wife?”
“Her name is Sara Brannon. She’s a career army officer.”
“But no kids, right?”
“No kids, at least until recently.”
“You ever been married before?”
“Once, when I was about your age. It didn’t work out.”
“I don’t want you trying to act like my father or anything like that.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Kerney said.
“I just want to learn something about you.”
“That’s fair enough.”
“Mom says you were raised on a ranch.”
“In the San Andres, fifty miles from here, as the crow flies.”
“Do your parents still live there?”
“No, the ranch was swallowed up by the missile range. My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was coming home from Vietnam.”
“Where did your family come from, originally?”
“My grandfather came here from west Texas over a hundred years ago.”
“Do I have any uncles, aunts, or cousins?”
“Not on my side of the family.”
“Do my questions bother you?”
“You have a right to ask them. How do you feel about having me as a father?”
“It doesn’t make me any less Apache.”
“I wasn’t thinking along those lines,” Kerney said.
“I just want to make sure you know where I’m coming from. Do you like being a cop?”
“Most of the time I do, but not right now.”
“Shooting a fellow officer for stealing evidence is pretty harsh,” Clayton said.
The comment caught Kerney unprepared. “Is that what you think I did?”
“Based on what your department released to the media, Shockley was unfit to wear the badge. But the state police officers I know are saying that you overreacted and blew the arrest.”
“Shockley gave me no choice. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Okay, I understand. It’s an open internal affairs investigation, and you can’t talk about it.” Clayton smiled. “So, the first time I ever meet my old man I bust him for trespassing. That’s pretty weird, don’t you think?”
“It has a certain irony. You could have let us off with a warning.”
“I spend most of my time working as a tribal ranger and I’ve learned the hard way if you just slap wrists, people think it’s an invitation to come back and trespass again. What were you doing out there?”
“Looking at some land for sale. I’m retiring soon and thinking about starting up a ranch.”
“You gonna buy it?”
“No, it’s pretty much worn-out, unproductive land.”
Clayton nodded in agreement. “You’re working that spree murder case. Langsford and all those other people.”
“That’s right.”
“And you think an Apache did it.”
“I don’t know who did it.”
Clayton blew right through Kerney’s words. “Some sneaky Apache who’s going around ambushing people.”
“Are you trying to push my buttons?”
“I’ve known a lot of Anglos who talk liberal and think racist.”
“Do you want to talk about racism or the killings?”
“Tell me about the murders.”
“I think they were premeditated, designed to look like a killing spree, with Langsford the real target. Somebody who doesn’t want to get caught put a lot of thought into it.”
“Have you got physical evidence or witnesses to back that up?”
“Some evidence points in that direction.”
“Like what?”
Kerney laid out the facts of how Langsford’s killing differed from the others.
Clayton relaxed a bit and listened. Hearing about cop stuff eased some of his tension.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said, when Kerney finished. “Are you working a suspect list?”
“That, and we’re trying to nail down the motive.”
“Silas Kozine blew you off, didn’t he?”
“Without blinking an eye.”
“That’s his job. What were you hoping he’d let you do?”
“Review your department’s files. Cross-check people who were employed at the tribal casino and resort at the time of Marsha Langsford’s murder, to see if anyone can be associated with the judge.”
“Are you asking me for help?”
“No.”
“That’s good,” Clayton said. “You seem to be pretty calm about finding out that you’re my father.”
“I’m still digesting the information.”
“What my mother did wasn’t wrong.”
“Judging from what I’ve seen of you and her, I’d say she’s done just about everything right.”
Clayton stood up and walked to the door. “Okay, now we’ve talked. What happens next?”
“That’s up to you.”
“You haven’t asked me much about myself.”
“Your mother gave me the impression that it would be best not to pry.”
“I’m married. My wife’s name is Grace. We’ve got two kids, a boy and a girl, ages three and eighteen months. That makes you a grandfather. I’ll see you around.”
Clayton left, and Kerney stared at the closed door in stunned silence. He’d discovered he was a father and now a grandfather in the space of one day. It was much too surreal.
He went to the mirror and studied his face. Was he really that old? He didn’t feel it inside. He could only wonder what Sara would say when he told her about the instantaneous family ties that had materialized in his life.