Dressed in sweats, Agent Robert Duran left his motel room for an early morning run, thinking that if everything fell into place, the Shockley investigation would be wrapped up and he could go home to Santa Fe in a day or two.
He settled into a five-minute-per-mile pace, turned off the main drag, and started a long gradual climb that would take him into the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains. The predawn streets were empty of all but an occasional car.
A mile into his run he spotted a slow-moving jogger with an awkward gait ahead of him. It was Chief Kerney. He drew even and slowed down.
“Morning, Chief.”
“Morning, Robert,” Kerney said. “Don’t let me hold you up.”
“I’m in no hurry. How’s the case shaping up?”
“We’re still digging into the minutiae. Lieutenant Sedillo is sending the team out to canvass gas stations, motels, restaurants, and convenience stores from here to Carrizozo.”
“Have any credit card charges surfaced on the victims’ accounts?” Duran asked.
“Not a one, and none of the stolen items has been pawned or sold on the streets, as far as we know. How are you doing?”
“Getting close, Chief. Instead of using the rotating list of towing services like he was supposed to, Shockley favored a local company called Jake’s. El Paso PD has been running undercover surveillance on an auto chop shop. Jake made a delivery last week—a top-of-the-line Chevy four-by-four, late model, extended cab pickup truck. The theft occurred at an Alamogordo motel parking lot during Shockley’s shift.”
“Did our department take the call?” Kerney asked, trying to stay even with Duran, who had picked up his pace a bit.
“The city police handled it.”
“Can you tie Shockley to Jake?”
“Jake has an employee, a guy by the name of Martinez, who covers the late-night runs. About five or six times during the last year Jake unexpectedly gave Mar-tinez the night off.”
“Let me guess,” Kerney said, slowing down, forcing Duran to do the same. “The last time that happened was the night the Chevy was stolen.”
“After Jake took a call from Shockley.”
“Make the collar, and thanks,” Kerney said, dropping his pace to a walk.
“For what, Chief?”
“Giving me an idea. A couple of nights ago, I drove the route the killer used. There’s hardly any late-night traffic once you get out of Alamogordo. I checked all the patrol logs—city, county, and our district office. There were no traffic stops or accidents on the night of the murders. But I didn’t think to survey the tow truck operators.”
“I’ll let you know if Jake had a service call that night,” Duran said. “Are you heading back?”
“Yeah,” Kerney said, trying hard to keep his breathing slow and even.
“You run pretty good on that bad knee,” Duran said.
“I do a great ten-minute mile,” Kerney said.
“At least you’re still running. Look, Chief, if you want me to, I can ask around about the vandalism to your unit. I know some of the officers with the city, and Shockley had a couple of drinking buddies in our department.”
“If the problem persists, I might do that.”
“Just let me know.”
Kerney nodded and watched Duran take off in smooth, even strides before turning around and forcing his bum leg to move along in his customary choppy, sloppy gait.
In the motel parking lot Kerney saw Lee Sedillo with a flashlight in hand moving from unit to unit.
“Your vehicle got trashed,” Lee said, when Kerney joined up with him. “None of the others were touched.”
“What did they do this time?”
“The headlights, taillights, and side view mirrors are smashed. I heard the noise about five minutes ago.”
Kerney circled his unit, inspecting the damage. “Have Agent Duran look into it, Lee.”
“About time,” Lee grumbled. “This could turn into some spooky shit, Chief.”
“Can you get me a replacement vehicle for the day?”
“Take mine. I’ll put an agent on duty at the command trailer for a few hours until we can get your unit repaired.”
After showering and dressing, Kerney went to the command center. The agent Lee had pulled off the street because of the vehicle shuffle was busy at a computer. He nodded at the woman, went to the tiny office, called Andy Baca in Santa Fe, and updated him on the status of the investigation. Then he started calling every towing service in the area—except Jake’s. Halfway through the list, Kerney scored. A trucker had broken down on the highway in front of the Three Rivers turn-off.
“You know where the old bar is?” the towing operator asked. “It’s a curio shop now.”
“I do,” Kerney said.
“The trucker was stalled there with a busted water pump. We had to unhitch the trailer and tow the semi into Alamogordo.”
“What time?”
“I got the call about two, but it took me a while to get there. I had to go to the yard and get my big rig. I arrived at about three, three-fifteen.”
“Do you have information on the driver?”
“Yeah. He’s an owner-operator out of Little Rock. Hold on, I’ll get it for you.”
Kerney waited, listening to the man’s breathing and the shuffling of papers.
“His name is Clark Beck.” The towing operator read off Beck’s address and telephone number.
“Did you see anything unusual while you were on the call?”
“Like what?”
“Speeders, a vehicle turning into or coming out of Three Rivers Road.”
The man laughed. “Everybody speeds at that time of night. There was no traffic on the Three Rivers Road while I was there, leastways not that I can remember.”
“Thanks,” Kerney said.
Kerney dialed Clark Beck’s number in Little Rock, spoke to his wife, and explained the reason for his call. The woman told him Beck was on a run to New Orleans, then to Atlanta, and wouldn’t be back for four days.
“Does he call home from the road?”
“Sometimes,” Mrs. Beck said. “Not always on his shorter trips. Is this on the up-and-up?”
“Your husband isn’t in any trouble, Mrs. Beck. I just need to ask him a few questions.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“He follows all the regulations and weight restrictions.”
“I’m certain that he does. Could you have him call me?”
“I’ll give him the message.”
On the off chance there had been more than one disabled vehicle along the highway, Kerney continued working the list, but nothing more developed. He hung up to find Clayton Istee standing stiffly in the doorway.
“Officer,” Kerney said.
“I brought you something,” Clayton said, sliding a manila folder quickly across the desk. He stepped back to the door as if to avoid any closer contact.
“What is this?”
“A list of the employees who worked at the tribal casino and resort at the time Langsford’s wife was killed. My cousin is the personnel director. He got it for me.”
“This won’t get you in trouble, will it?” Kerney asked, as he opened the envelope.
“No.”
“Thanks for doing this.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Clayton said. He rubbed his palms together and stopped when Kerney looked at him. “My wife thinks I should at least let you meet your grandchildren.”
“How do you feel about it?” Kerney asked, eyeing Clayton’s closed expression.
“I don’t know.” Clayton shifted his weight. “Would you like to meet them?”
“Only if you want me to.”
“I’ll have to think about it some more.”
“This isn’t easy on either of us, is it?” Kerney said, trying to melt Clayton’s icy tone.
“Have you told your wife about me?” Clayton asked.
“Not yet,” Kerney said.
“Maybe it’s something you’d rather not tell her.”
“That’s not true.”
“So you say,” Clayton replied, as he swung around to leave.
“Thanks again,” Kerney said.
“I already told you, I’m not doing it for you,” Clayton answered over his shoulder.
“Still, I appreciate it.”
“Just don’t read anything personal into it, okay?”
“Whatever you say,” Kerney replied. He watched Clayton leave, wondering exactly what it was Clayton had tried to tell him. If it wasn’t personal, where was the help coming from?
The employee list came with social security numbers and birth dates. Eric Langsford’s name was on the books as a groundskeeper. Kerney made a copy and waited for Agent Mary Margaret Lovato to get off the phone. Mary Margaret had inherited her given names from an Irish grandmother. She was an exceptionally attractive young woman with long jet-black hair, a creamy complexion, and soft brown eyes that hid her toughness.
She hung up and started talking before Kerney had a chance to speak. “That was Drew Randolph, Chief. He just got off the phone with Linda Langsford. He told her about her father’s murder. She’s cutting short her vacation and coming home right away. He said she was totally stunned by the news.”
“Where is she now?”
“Randolph doesn’t know. She said she’d get back to Roswell as fast as she can. She should be there this evening.”
“Good deal,” Kerney said, handing Mary Margaret the employee list. “Get me wants and warrants, plus state arrest and conviction records for all the people on this list. Highlight everybody from Langsford’s judicial district.”
“This is going to take some time, Chief.”
“I know.”
Mary Margaret stood up, paused, and bit her lower lip.
“Do you have a question?”
“I just wanted to say that Randy Shockley was an asshole, sir. I attended a training course with him in Albuquerque last year. The man didn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘no.’ ”
“He came on to you?”
“Big time.”
“Did you report it?”
“No, but it was pretty intense.”
“The next time you get hit on or harassed by a fellow officer, report it, Agent Lovato.”
Mary Margaret laughed. “Would you like a daily or weekly report, Chief?”
“It’s that bad?”
Mary Margaret shook her head. “It’s mostly harmless stuff. I can handle it.”
Kerney studied the young woman. Quiet by nature, Mary Margaret had a self-assurance and no-nonsense style that Kerney liked. “I bet you can. But if it gets out of hand, write it up.”
“In a heartbeat.” She paused, looked down at her shoes and then back up. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is somebody stalking you, Chief? This thing with your unit is getting serious.”
“Either that or they’re making a statement. I’ve put Duran on it. Work that list hard for me.”
Mary Margaret smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Owned and operated by the Mescalero Tribe, the resort and its adjoining casino offered luxury amenities in a lush, tranquil setting. Guest accommodations radiated out from the sides of the main lodge, providing rooms with views of landscaped lawns that ran down to the lakeshore with forested mountains in the background. Vacationers could boat, fish, golf, play tennis, and, of course, drink, dine, and gamble.
At the main lodge, Kerney found the personnel office and met with Wheeler Balatche, Clayton’s cousin and the human resources director. Built low to the ground, Balatche was thick through the chest. A droopy eyelid made his face look asymmetrical.
“I remember Eric Langsford,” Balatche said, in answer to Kerney’s question. “He would be a hard one to forget.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He worked here right at the time his father ruled against our casino operation. Nobody knew he was even related to the judge until then. But when Langsford issued his order to close down the casino, Eric went ballistic.”
“What happened?”
“Well, first you gotta know Eric. He was one of those Anglos who shows up here and falls in love with Indians. He did everything he could to look like an Apache: grew his hair long, went cowboy, tried to hang out with the tribal members he worked with—that kind of stuff.”
“Was he successful?”
“As long as he bought the drinks.”
“How did Eric go ballistic?” Kerney asked.
“When the judge issued his ruling, I called a series of staff meetings to reassure everybody that the tribe had filed an immediate appeal that would allow us to stay open, and that nobody was going to lose their jobs. Eric got up at the meeting he attended and went into this long harangue about how his father was a racist, and that the workers should take action against him.”
“What kind of action?”
“Letters of protest, picketing, a sit-in at the courthouse.”
“Did he suggest anything stronger than that?”
“He ranted about how white people practice economic and legal genocide against native people, and how they should be held accountable for their crimes. He wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t like we weren’t aware of his brilliant political insight. We’ve lived with it all our lives.”
“What did you do?”
“I cut him off, and after the meeting, I fired him. We didn’t need a gringo agitator in our midst.”
“How did he take getting canned?”
“He got upset. Not with me, but with his father. Went on about how Langsford ruined people’s lives and shouldn’t be allowed to remain a judge.”
“Did he make any specific threats against his father?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“At the meetings, did any other employees show an interest in taking political action against the judge?”
“Nope.”
“You seem to remember these events with great clarity.”
“It was an intense time,” Balatche said, “and seeing Eric yesterday jogged my memory. He came in, stoned out of his mind, looking for a job.”
Kerney stifled his surprise. “Eric Langsford was here?”
“Yeah.”
“Stoned on what?”
“At least booze, and maybe pills.”
“I take it you didn’t hire him back.”
Balatche shook his head. “And not just for being a lush, either. Eric worked here at a time when we employed a lot of Anglos. Now, we don’t hire outside the tribe unless we have a shortage or a candidate possesses special skills we need. To be courteous, I let him fill out an application, but I’d never hire him again.”
“Did he leave an address?”
“I’m sure he did. My secretary has the paperwork.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go ahead.”
* * *
Eighty road miles south of Ruidoso was the tiny settlement of Pinon. It boasted a senior center, post office, general store, church, and a few dwellings scattered along a two-lane highway that looped out of the Sacramento Mountains through dry, tree-dotted foothills. To the southeast, a chain of hills sliced down to flats that wandered off in the direction of the Guadalupe Mountains. Windblown dust turned the morning sky a mixture of ivory and aquamarine, and the faraway peaks had a ghostly presence.
Never much of a settlement to begin with, Pinon stayed barely alive because of the dryland area ranchers who controlled the grazing rights on vast tracts of state and federal acreage.
On his job application Langsford had given a Pinon rural route address. Kerney stopped at the general store, asked for directions, and was sent down a paved county road that turned to dirt as it wandered through a draw. He spotted Langsford’s van just off the road, parked beside a small house.
Beyond the clapboard hideaway, the weather-beaten remains of a much larger house leaned precariously on its foundation. A skeletal windmill missing blades and a drive shaft stood nearby. An old post-and-wire fence enclosed about ten hard rock acres sprinkled with juniper trees and scrub oak.
The door opened as Kerney approached the house, and Langsford stepped out. A skinny five-nine, he had a receding hairline that formed a widow’s peak on his forehead, the doughy complexion of a drinker, sleepy bloodshot eyes, and a face old beyond his thirty-two years.
“What do you want?” Langsford asked, words tumbling out in a rush.
Kerney showed his credentials. “I need to speak to you about your father.”
Langsford’s head twitched up and down. “I knew you were a cop. Is the Judas Judge dead?”
“Do you mean your father?”
“Are we talking about somebody else?”
“No. Why do you call him that?”
“It’s just a nickname.”
“Not a very endearing one.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yes,” Kerney replied.
“Good. Let Linda bury him.” Langsford swayed and planted his feet to steady himself.
“Don’t you want to know what happened?”
Langsford shrugged and almost lost his balance. Kerney couldn’t tell if he was drunk, wired on uppers, or both.
“He’s dead. That’s all that matters. It’s a great fucking day.”
“I need you to answer some questions.”
“Sure. Come on in.”
The bare walls of the front room had old newspapers stuffed in the cracks of the uninsulated clapboard siding. The door to a potbelly stove hung open, showing a firebox filled to the brim with dead ash. In the center of the room was a daybed with a metal frame, covered by a soiled sleeping bag. An expensive acoustic guitar rested against the bed frame.
Dirty clothes, beer cans, and wadded-up paper bags littered the floor. An old phonograph turntable and two battered speakers with disconnected wires stood on a low plank shelf. Under the shelf was a clutter of cassette tapes and compact discs, but the machines to play them were missing.
“Is this your place?” Kerney asked.
“Yeah, I bought it four years ago with Daddy’s money,” Langsford said, as he sat on the daybed. “It gives me a place to chill when I’m not working. Got it for a song.” Langsford chuckled at his joke.
“I understand you’re a musician.”
“And a pretty good one, too, when I’m not drinking or getting high. I’m gonna be a rock and roll star. Not quite there yet. So, the Judas Judge is really dead. What happened?”
“He was murdered.”
“Cool.”
“You mean that?”
Langsford snorted disparagingly and opened a pack of cigarettes. “Vernon Langsford. The great man, the pillar of the community. He was nothing but a two-faced, mean, racist pig.”
“Tell me about him,” Kerney said.
“That says it all.”
“Give me an example.”
“Okay. Let me think.” Langsford raised his eyes to the ceiling. “You know what his favorite game was when I was a little kid?”
“What was that?”
“He’d chase me around the house pretending to be a vampire, or Dracula, or some weird Frankenstein, until I totally lost it and freaked.” Eric smiled dolefully. “He’d always do it when we were alone in the house. Doesn’t that suck?”
“Some game,” Kerney replied. “Did he play it with all his children?”
“Just me. Arthur was macho, could do no wrong. Sports and all that shit. Linda was his angel, the apple of his eye. I was the oddball who liked to draw pictures, play records, watch television, and get high.”
“Did he abuse you in other ways?”
“When he wasn’t terrorizing me, he ignored me. I was invisible to him. If it hadn’t been for music, smoking pot, and my mother, I never would have survived past the age of twelve. She saved my fucking life, man. She was the only one who cared about me in that whole fucking family. I guess she wanted to save one of us kids, at least.”
“Save you from what?” Kerney asked.
“Whatever.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the best one you’re going to get.”
“It must have been hard on you when she died.”
“She’s dead because of him.” Langsford reached for an empty beer can and flicked a cigarette ash into it with a shaky hand.
“You were about twenty-six when your mother died. Still living at home?”
“No, I had my own place. I was playing in a shitkicker band and snorting a lot of coke.”
“Were you spending much time with your mother before the letter-bomb incident?”
“Nah, I was too stoned to go anywhere, do anything, or see anyone. I stayed away from everybody except the guys in the band and my dealer.”
“You never got busted?”
Langsford shook his head. “Not in Roswell. The only good things my old man ever did for me was give me money to feed my habit and keep me out of jail. He did it for himself, to keep his reputation from being sullied by his fucked-up kid.”
“He also paid for your rehab treatment.”
Langsford laughed, dropped his cigarette butt in the direction of the beer can, missed, and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “Oh, yeah, more than once. Top-of-the-line detox centers, man, far away from home where nobody knew me or the family.”
“He gave you money after your mother was killed.”
“He didn’t want me hanging around.”
“He offered you the money?”
“No, I asked for it. I had to get away from there. I went to San Francisco and stayed loaded until the cash ran out. I haven’t been back to Roswell since.”
“But he kept sending you money.”
“Sure. It was the only thing he had to give.”
“I need to know where you were from the time you quit the band until the time you got back to New Mexico.”
“I sobered up in a whorehouse in Juárez on Sunday. That’s all I can remember. I black out when I binge drink.”
“Have you been drinking since then?”
“Just some beers to keep me steady.”
“Are you using anything else besides booze?”
“Downers when I need to mellow out. Uppers when I need a rush. I try to stay high one way or the other as much as I can.”
“What drugs have you taken today?” Kerney asked.
“A couple amphetamines.”
“How many?”
“Four. Six. Eight. I forget.”
“Come with me,” Kerney said.
“Why?”
“I’m placing you in protective custody.”
“Jail?”
“Yep. I’ll have a doctor check you out when we get there.”
“That’s raw, man. I don’t need that shit.”
“I want you safe.”
“You think I killed my old man?”
“Did you?”
Langsford looked puzzled, then shook his head. “For as long as I could remember, I’ve wanted that son of a bitch dead. But I usually wind up thinking of killing myself instead.” Langsford closed his eyes and rocked his head back and forth. “Just nod off on a nice overdose and never wake up.”
“Let’s go,” Kerney said, reaching for his handcuffs.
“Are those things necessary?”
“Stand up, turn around, and place your hands at the small of your back.”
A pat-down search yielded enough prescription tranquilizers for Langsford to use to overdose several times over. Kerney booked him into the Otero County Jail on a protective custody hold. If he needed to, he’d use the possession charge later as leverage.
He walked into the command trailer office where Lee Sedillo was parked behind the desk. Lee looked up and started to scramble to his feet.
“Stay put, Lieutenant. Are you making any progress?”
“We still have a shitload of motels to check, Chief,” Lee said, as he settled back in the chair. “Not to mention more gas stations and convenience stores. I’ve got people reviewing store surveillance tapes.”
“Good idea. How long before they finish up?”
“Late tomorrow, maybe.”
At the jail, Eric Langsford had given Kerney his written, voluntary permission to search his house and van. He laid it on the desk.
Lee read it quickly. “You found him.”
“He was too stoned to hide. I’ve booked him into the county lockup.”
“I’ll pull two agents off the canvass to do the search. What are we looking for, Chief?”
“The murder weapon with Langsford’s prints on it would be nice.”
“Is he our killer?”
“Possibly. He’s got a major booze and pill buzz going and isn’t thinking too clearly right now, and he doesn’t have one kind word for his father. He kept calling him the Judas Judge, whatever that means. I’ll question him after he comes down from his high and see where it goes.”
“Agent Duran busted that towing service operator. He said Jake implicated Shockley to the max in the auto thefts.”
“Is there anything that connects Jake to the damage to my unit?”
“For that, Jake has alibis. He was on confirmed service calls both mornings. Duran has already started talking to Shockley’s other buddies.”
“I’ll handle the Linda Langsford interview after she gets home.”
“Give her another four hours. She just called from Taos a little while ago.”
“You talked to her?”
“Yeah. She was upset, angry, crying, and demanding a lot of answers. I didn’t give her much.”
“There’s not much to give right now. Keep the troops humping.”
Lee nodded. “Jesus, I hope we catch a break soon.” He held out Kerney’s car keys. “Can I have my unit back? Yours is parked behind the trailer, all fixed and ready to go.”
With the high school principal at his side, Kerney watched the school marching band go through their paces on the practice field. As they wheeled and turned, light from the late afternoon sun flashed off the polished brass horns.
“I knew all the Langsford kids,” Colby Trumble said. “I was a guidance counselor back then.” He turned, looked at Kerney, and pulled at the lapel of his suit jacket as the sun glittered on his bald head. “Now I get to wear a suit and listen to everybody’s gripes and complaints. Sometimes I don’t know who is harder to deal with, the parents, the teachers, or the students.”
“Tell me about the Langsford kids,” Kerney said.
“Arthur and Linda were honor society members in the top five percent of their graduating classes. Linda was a cheerleader, and Arthur played two or three varsity sports. Exceptional kids. Well-rounded, smart, never in trouble-every parent’s dream.”
“And Eric?”
“Troubled, brilliant, bored, and volatile. He got in lots of fights and usually took a beating. He was an incredibly gifted musician. String instruments. Violin and guitar especially.”
“Any drug problems?”
“I think he was stoned in class most of the time.”
“How did his parents handle it?”
“Mostly, I dealt with his mother. She was always trying to get him straightened out.”
“Was Eric ever dangerous to others?”
“No, but he constantly made threats to his classmates if he perceived a slight. Most of the time it went no further than minor altercations. Shouting matches, usually.”
“Just threats?”
Trumble nodded. “It was pure bravado. He got his butt whipped when things escalated beyond the pushing and shoving point.”
“How did the judge react to Eric’s troubles?”
“By the time Eric reached us, we didn’t see much of Judge Langsford. That’s not unusual. The youngest child typically gets the least amount of parental attention, and the judge was a busy man.”
“Can you get me a list of their high school friends?”
“Why are you investigating the Langsford kids? I thought it was the judge’s murderer you were after.”
“We still don’t have a motive for the slaying.”
“Do spree killers need motives?” Trumble asked.
“There’s always the grudge factor to consider.”
“Judge Langsford was a well-respected man.”
“The defendants in his court may not have thought so.”
Trumble looked at Kerney sharply. “Good point. But I can’t think of any classmates of the Langsford children the judge sent to jail.”
“We have to look into every possible lead,” Kerney said.
“I suppose you do. Stop by my office during school hours. I’ll get out the yearbooks and give you names.”
“That would be very helpful.”
“A lot of those students have scattered, you know.”
“Their names will be helpful, nonetheless.”
* * *
Linda Langsford lived outside of Roswell near an old farming area known as East Grand Plains. Set apart from neighboring dwellings, her house was sheltered in a grove of trees and cushioned by an expanse of lawn that ran down to the private road.
The house, modern and expensive-looking, had a long screened porch under a gently sloping metal roof that gave an inviting feeling of openness. The core had a barnlike high-pitched roof flattened on the top. Where the rooflines joined, a massive chimney protruded, stepped down a bit from the higher elevation, creating a spare sculptured effect.
Three vehicles were parked outside. Kerney knocked on the screen door, called out, and a gangly older man with a blocky chin and a sharp nose came to greet him. He introduced himself as the Reverend Matthew Blakemore.
Kerney showed his shield and asked for Linda Langsford.
“She’s indisposed,” Blakemore said solemnly, barring Kerney’s entry. “Can’t you come back at a later time?”
Kerney adopted a formal tone. “There are certain matters Ms. Langsford needs to attend to, not the least of which is the release of her father’s body for burial.”
“I see. Come in.”
A breezeway connected the porch to the interior great room of the house, where three pairs of doors led off to more private living areas. The fireplace, designed to warm both the great room and the porch, dominated the room. Drew Randolph, Langsford’s law partner, stood in front of the fireplace mantel, hands behind his back.
He interrupted Blakemore’s attempt at an introduction. “I’ve met Mr. Kerney.”
Blakemore reacted with a step back. “I’ll see if Linda can speak to you.” He turned and left the room.
“How is she?” Kerney asked Randolph.
“Wavering between grief and shock. Exhausted. She drove like a maniac to get home.”
“Is she coherent?”
“Yes.”
“Has Eric tried to contact her?”
“No, but she did say there were three hang-up phone calls on her answering machine when she got home.”
Footsteps on the Saltillo tile floor stopped further conversation. Linda Langsford entered the room with Blakemore behind her. Dressed in jeans and a bulky sweatshirt, she wore round glasses that seemed deliberately intended to hide her attractiveness. Long blond hair covered her neck. Her eyes blinked and she raised a hand to shield them from the glare of the brightly lit room.
“Mr. Kerney,” she said.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“I understand I need to make arrangements to have my father’s body released,” she said wearily, dropping her hand.
“Yes.”
“Can I do it by telephone?”
“Of course, once you’ve decided on a funeral home.”
“Where is his body?”
“In Albuquerque, at the office of the medical examiner. I’ll leave a phone number with you.”
“Have you caught his killer?”
“Not yet.”
“You must.”
“We hope to. You and I need to talk.”
Linda nodded. “I want to know everything you’re doing. Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“After the funeral might be better, Linda,” Reverend Blakemore interjected.
“No, Chief Kerney will need to see me before then,” Linda said, placing a hand on Blakemore’s arm to quiet him. “Tomorrow, Mr. Kerney?”
“That will be fine. Late morning?”
“Yes.”
“I understand you had three hang-up messages on your answering machine. Did you save them?”
“No.”
“Do you have caller ID?”
“I didn’t recognize any of the numbers, so I deleted them. They were from unnamed callers. Why do you ask?”
“Did you receive any anonymous calls at work before you started your vacation?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you tell me you recently had two anonymous calls on your direct office line?” Randolph asked.
“Oh, I’m sure they were just wrong numbers.”
“The callers said nothing?” Kerney asked.
“No, I just heard them disconnect.”
“I think that’s enough for tonight, Officer,” Blakemore said.
“Of course.”
Kerney walked into the night and a series of pathway lights flicked on to guide his way. By the time he got back to the motel in Alamogordo it would be too late to call Sara. He mulled over Clayton Istee’s criticism of his failure to inform her of his newfound status as a father.
He didn’t think he was trying to hide anything from Sara. Or was he?
Kerney shook off Clayton’s implied accusation of racism. That wasn’t it at all. He was a good deal older than Sara, but that had never been an issue for him up until now. Discovering a fully grown son, and two grandchildren to boot, forced Kerney to consider a completely new mind-set. He’d never thought of himself as old before. Worn down and beat up a bit, for sure, but not old.
At his unit Kerney got in touch with Lee Sedillo and asked for a priority telephone check of recent calls made to Linda Langsford’s home and office numbers.
The command trailer was empty when Kerney arrived, and a stack of field reports awaited his attention. He ran through them quickly, pausing to concentrate on the follow-up report regarding Kay Murray’s alibi.
The room service waiter had positively identified Murray as the woman in Joel Cushman’s room early Friday morning. The front desk attendant verified that Murray had returned to the hotel at eleven o’clock the night before. Housekeeping noted Cushman’s bed had been used for more than just sleeping, and hotel security confirmed that Cushman’s and Murray’s cars had remained in the parking lot all night.
Cushman and Murray had used no taxicabs or shuttle vans to get to the airport, and had not booked any commercial or private flights that could have taken them within striking distance of the crime scenes.
Cushman’s alibi about his time apart from Murray in Albuquerque also held up. His attendance and participation at the Christian conference was confirmed by a number of sources. Following the dinner banquet and prayer fellowship, Cushman had met with a man in his room who’d sought him out for some informal Christian counseling, and didn’t finish the session until ten o’clock.
Penelope Gibben also looked to be in the clear. On the night of the murders, she’d attended a museum foundation function to honor the outgoing board of directors, traveling to and from the event with a companion. Dropped off at home after ten-thirty, she would not have been able to make the long drive to Carrizozo and start killing people in a timely fashion.
Kerney pushed the reports away. He had paperwork but no progress, motive but no clear suspects, an old crime and a new crime that might or might not be linked, and six dead people who deserved justice.
It was time to see Eric Langsford and have a long talk.