Everyone Dies (2 page)

“Not a problem, Chief,” Molina said. “Potter was shot once in the chest at close range. I’m assuming you saw the blood trail on your way in.”

“I did,” Kerney replied.

“He crawled down the sidewalk and died in front of his office. The ME estimates Potter was shot about fifteen minutes before his body was discovered. We’re canvassing the area, but so far we haven’t turned up anyone who either witnessed the event or heard the shot.”

Kerney glanced around the front office, once the living room of a modest residence. It was nicely appointed with matching Southwestern-style furniture consisting of a large desk, several chairs, a couch, and a coffee table. Two large museum-quality Navajo rugs hung on the walls, and a built-in bookcase held neatly organized state and federal statute books. The door to Potter’s inner office was closed.

“Have you ruled out robbery?” Kerney asked.

“Pretty much,” Molina replied, “as well as burglary. We’ve only done a plain-view search so far, but the office and his car appear undisturbed. There are no signs of breaking and entering and the vehicle hasn’t been tampered with. Both were locked, and Potter had his keys in his possession when he was shot.”

“Also, his wallet containing three hundred dollars and his credit cards is in the bathroom, along with an expensive Swiss wristwatch,” Otero said.

“Where’s his secretary?” Kerney asked.

“She showed up a few minutes ago,” Molina said. “Detective Pino has her over at the courthouse, conducting an interview.”

“Is Pino the primary?” Kerney asked.

“No, I am,” Molina replied.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Kerney said. “Get the secretary over here soon. Have her double-check to see if anything is missing.”

“That’s the plan,” Molina said.

“What have you learned from her so far?” Kerney asked.

“She says that unless Potter had a court appearance or trial scheduled, he worked abbreviated hours during the summer months,” Molina replied. “He’d come in early, go running for a half hour or so, and then shower and change here before starting his day. He usually finished up by mid-afternoon.”

“Several neighbors have seen Potter running in the morning, and he keeps a change of clothes in his office closet,” Otero said.

“So Potter kept to a daily schedule,” Kerney said, “which means this might not be a random shooting.”

“That’s the way we read it,” Molina said.

“Have you contacted Jack’s life partner?” Kerney asked. Norman Kaplan, Potter’s significant other, owned an upscale antique shop on Canyon Road.

“According to Potter’s secretary, he’s in London on a buying trip and not due back for three days,” Otero said. “I called his hotel, but he’s not there. I’ll try him again later on.”

“Are there any other next of kin?” Kerney asked.

“Not that we know about yet,” Otero answered. “But the story is already on the airwaves, thanks to the photographer who showed up before our people arrived on the scene.”

“What happened?” Kerney asked.

“He walked through the blood trail, took pictures, and called the newspaper on his cell phone to tell them Potter had been gunned down,” Molina explained. “Detective Pino had to order him away from the crime scene.”

“Do we have this bozo in hand?” Kerney asked.

“Yeah, he’s outside in the panel truck cooling his heels, waiting to give a statement,” Otero said. “He’s not too happy about it.”

“Have a detective take his statement and then arrest him for tampering with evidence and interfering with a criminal investigation,” Kerney said.

“Those charges probably won’t stick, Chief,” Otero said.

“I don’t give a damn if they stick or not,” Kerney said. “Let the DA sort it out.”

Otero eyed Kerney, who was usually levelheaded when it came to dealing with the media. He wondered what was biting the chief. It had to be more than a stupid photographer’s mistakes. “Are you sure that’s what you want us to do?” he asked.

Kerney bit his lip and shook his head. “You’re right. It’s a dumb idea. Put a scare into him, instead.”

“We can do that,” Molina said.

“Get a handle on this fast, Sal,” Kerney said. “Let’s find someone with a motive-friends, clients, enemies, you know the drill.”

Molina nodded.

“I’ll talk to the reporters,” Otero said.

“Give them the usual spiel, Larry,” Kerney said, heading for the door, “and keep me informed. Call me on my cell phone.”

The bald-headed man waited inside the courthouse until the cops finished canvassing the onlookers and moved away. Then he joined a cluster of people who were watching TV reporters talk excitedly into microphones with their backs to the crime scene as camera operators got good visuals of Potter’s tarp-covered body lying on the sidewalk.

He smiled when a stern-looking Kevin Kerney came out of Potter’s office and walked quickly down the street. Several newspaper reporters jogged behind crime scene tape that held them at bay, yelling questions that Kerney waved off.

Soon Kerney would suffer from far more than the unpleasantness of Jack Potter’s death. With all that had been put into play, plus what was yet to come, Kerney would quickly realize his world was about to disintegrate. If Kerney proved slow on the uptake, the bald-headed man had devised ways to give him a little nudge or two in the right direction.

He turned on his heel and walked way. It was time to return to his war room and gear up for the next phase of the plan.

The spat with Sara had put Kerney in a bad mood, and Jack Potter’s murder only added to it. He decided to cool down before going home, and drove to the South Capitol neighborhood where Fletcher Hartley lived. In his seventies, Fletcher was a highly regarded Santa Fe artist, a retired museum director, and an old friend who’d assisted Kerney in a major art heist investigation several years ago, during his tenure with the state police.

A colorful eccentric, Fletcher was a prominent fixture in the gay community and a potential source of good information about Jack Potter’s personal life.

Fletcher’s sprawling adobe was nestled at the bottom of a large sloping lot behind a beautifully landscaped, expansive front yard filled with hedges and trees that screened the house from the street. Situated in a neighborhood of older homes lined up in tidy rows, Fletcher’s hidden rural oasis was the crown jewel of a charming, residential area that still retained a small-town feel.

Kerney rang the doorbell and listened to a Beethoven piano sonata that flowed through the open windows of the front room. Fletcher opened the door clutching a book. He wore his favorite kimono and a pair of screaming-pink silk pajama bottoms. Reading glasses were perched on his nose, which had recently been made perfect by plastic surgery. Fletcher fought the aging process by every possible means. In the past, his cheeks had been lifted and his wrinkles tucked to give him the face of a fifty-year-old.

Kerney had heard about the nose job, but hadn’t seen it until now.

“I know,” Fletcher said with a smile, noticing Kerney’s quick appraisal, “I’m a vain old coot.” He turned to give Kerney a view of his improved profile. “Do you like it?”

“You look great,” Kerney said. “Sorry to bother you so early.”

“Pooh,” Fletcher said, smiling broadly at the compliment. “You know full well that I am always home to visitors. I thrive on distraction. Come in, dear boy. Join me in the kitchen for a cup of coffee.”

Kerney sat at the large antique Spanish Colonial table, where he’d spent many pleasant hours chatting with Fletcher, and told him about Jack Potter’s murder. On an open shelf above a kitchen counter, a small menagerie of hand-carved wooden folk art animal figures-two chickens, a rabbit, and a pig-overlooked the scene.

Fletcher’s cheery expression vanished. “You can’t be serious,” he said, his voice filled with dismay. He filled Kerney’s coffee cup with a shaky hand and replaced the carafe in the coffeemaker. “This is tragic.”

Kerney nodded solemnly. “What can you tell me about Jack that I don’t already know?”

“You can’t be thinking that Norman had anything to do with it,” Fletcher said as he sat across from Kerney.

“Norman is in London. He doesn’t know what happened, unless of course Kaplan hired a contract killer.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Fletcher replied. “This will break the poor man’s heart. They were such a loving couple, perfect for each other. How familiar are you with Jack’s private life?”

“Until he came out, I just figured him to be the confirmed bachelor type,” Kerney said. “I’ve met Norman socially, but Jack never talked to me about any of his personal relationships or his family.”

“Until Jack met Norman he’d kept his sexual orientation out of public view,” Fletcher said. “His love for Norman helped him realize that being gay was something to openly celebrate. As far as family goes, he was an only child and both his parents are dead. He is close to an aunt who is retired and lives in Tucson. Jack and Norman visit her several times a year.”

“Do you have a name?” Kerney asked.

“Maude is her first name, I believe,” Fletcher said. “But I’m sure Norman will know how to get in touch with her, or Jack’s secretary should.”

“Did he have any lovers before Norman who caused him trouble?” Kerney asked.

“He had a long-standing affair with a rather troubled young man whom he supported on the Q.T. for several years. Jack paid the rent, gave the boy expense money when he wasn’t working, and bought his clothes. It was a May-September affair. The lad was a good twenty-five years younger than Jack. It was also common knowledge that the boy was not mentally sound.”

“How so?” Kerney asked.

“He was in and out of the psychiatric ward for fits of depression and suicidal tendencies. When he was stable, he worked as a waiter. But as time went on, he became more unbalanced, less able to hold a job, and totally promiscuous. Jack had no choice but to end it.”

“Did it end badly?”

“In chaotic uproar,” Fletcher replied. “But Jack kept it under wraps from the straight community.”

“Do you have a name to give me?” Kerney asked.

“That’s a story in itself. The young man’s name was Matthew B. Patterson. It’s now Mary Beth Patterson. He had a sex-change operation up in Colorado six years ago. It made a world of difference for him.”

Kerney finished his coffee and put the cup aside. “In what way?” he asked.

“Matthew was small-boned, almost petite, and very feminine, with soft doe eyes and pretty features. But he wasn’t at all the swishy queen type. There was a woman hiding inside his body, and once Mary Beth emerged his depression and self-destructive tendencies seemed to vanish, at least for a time.”

“Aren’t sex-change operations expensive?” Kerney asked.

“Indeed. Jack paid for it as a settlement to the affair.”

“And to keep it quiet?”

“That also,” Fletcher replied. “All this happened before Jack and Norman became an item.”

“So did the problem with Matthew go away?”

Fletcher nodded. “Only to be replaced by the arrival of Mary Beth on the scene. She came back fully expecting Jack to marry her, which of course he did not do.”

“Then what happened?” Kerney asked.

“Mary Beth took on the characteristics of a hysterical, wronged woman. She tried every ploy to get Jack back, including stalking him for a time.”

“Did she make any threats?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How was the situation resolved?”

“When Jack rejected her advances, she mutilated herself with a knife by cutting her arms and then called for an ambulance to take her to the hospital. The doctors diagnosed her as a borderline personality. Jack paid for her medical care, sorted out her disability benefits, and got her into a group home for mentally ill adults. She met another patient there and fell in love with him. They’ve been living together ever since they moved out of the group home.”

“How do you know all this?” Kerney asked.

“Partially from Jack, but Mary Beth’s lover is my new gardener. I’ve only employed him for a couple of months. His name is Kurt Larsen. He’s much older than Mary Beth and suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Where can I find Mary Beth?”

“They live in an apartment complex run by a mental health clinic.”

“I know the place,” Kerney said.

“I’m sure you do.”

“Tell me about Larsen.”

“Kurt is quiet but pleasant, except when something triggers his war experiences. Then he becomes agitated, out of sorts, and drinks heavily. When he comes to work sullen and hungover I always know that he’s had one of his episodes. He’s a Vietnam veteran, an ex-Marine.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Fletcher,” Kerney said as he went to the sink and rinsed out his coffee cup.

“I’d like to say it’s always a pleasure to assist the police,” Fletcher replied with a rueful smile. “But this is so very sad. I must do something to help Norman get through this.”

Kerney nodded in agreement. “I may need to talk to you about this again.”

“Of course, as you wish. But you can’t just jump up and leave until you agree to bring your lovely wife here for dinner. I think it would be best to do it before the baby arrives and you both become totally preoccupied with the exhausting tasks of parenthood. Are you free Friday night?”

“That should work,” Kerney said.

“You must promise not to be called away on some pressing police matter.”

“I’m on vacation.”

Fletcher raised an eyebrow. “Really? One would hardly know it.”

Kerney laughed. “No police business, I promise.”

“Perfect. I’ll pull out my cookbooks and start menu planning. We’ll have a grand feast.”

“As always,” Kerney said.

“Neither Mary Beth nor Kurt strikes me as a killer,” Fletcher said.

“Killers come in all flavors,” Kerney said, as he patted Fletcher on the shoulder and left to the soft sounds of Beethoven.