Everyone Dies (8 page)

“Is that the way you intend to present it?” Kerney asked.

“I don’t know,” Larranaga replied. “But I will tell you this: I’ve got growing reservations about this big love affair cop shops have with special weapons and tactics units. This whole thing with the combat boots, military-style fatigues, automatic weapons, and all that high-tech stuff is getting to be a bit much. You’re supposed to police the community, not act like some sort of quasi-militia.”

“SWAT has a role to play in policing,” Kerney replied.

“Sometimes,” Larranaga said. “But not when a poor, unbalanced sucker who’s scared shitless is hiding in the woods because his deranged girlfriend has blown things all out of proportion.”

“Are you going to sacrifice my people to make your point?”

“Do you disagree with my analysis of the situation?” Larranaga shot back.

“No.”

Larranaga stood up. “Then make damn sure all the facts are available to present to the grand jury. The only defense you’ve got is to provide conclusive proof above and beyond the officers’ statements that they were forced to stop the action when they came under fire. You’d better hope and pray the evidence is there. I want the reports on my desk by morning.”

“What are you going to tell the media?” Kerney asked.

“For now, nothing,” Larranaga said. “I’ll announce my decision tomorrow after I’ve read your reports.”

Larranaga flipped up the collar of his suit jacket and left, running through the rain to his car. Through the open trailer door Kerney saw Otero and Molina sitting in a nearby unit. He gestured for them to join him and spent a few minutes discussing Pino’s report, Larranaga’s reaction, and laying out exactly what he wanted to see on his desk no later than six o’clock in the morning.

Molina opened his mouth to speak, and Larry Otero cut him off.

“I’ll take responsibility for authorizing SWAT,” he said grimly.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Kerney answered sharply, as he moved toward the door. “This is my kitchen, and I’ll take the heat.”

I t took Kerney a minute to realize that the new vehicle parked next to his truck outside the guesthouse belonged to Sara. Stirred by the uneasy realization that he’d spaced out their appointment to take delivery of the car, he hurried inside to apologize. He shucked off his wet windbreaker, hung it on the hall closet doorknob, and called her name as he walked into the living room.

Sara answered from the kitchen. She sat at the table eating her dinner, a bowl of pasta with asparagus in a cream sauce. Kerney’s. 38 sat next to the place mat by her right hand.

He lowered himself into a chair, eying the handgun. “Sorry I couldn’t get back in time to take you to pick up your car.”

“I managed.” Sara stood, moved to the stove, and spooned out a bowl of pasta. She seemed calm, not at all upset with him.

“You didn’t have to make my dinner.”

“Yes, I did. I need to practice cooking for two, at least for a little while. Besides, I was hungry.”

He took the bowl from Sara’s hand and reached for a fork. “What’s up with the pistola?”

“We had a dead rat delivered to our front door this afternoon,” Sara replied, returning to her chair, “by person or persons unknown.”

Kerney set aside the fork. “And?”

Sara laid the story out, including the call from Tug Cheney confirming that the rat, according to Byron Stoll’s toxicology test, had been poisoned with strychnine.

“It’s commonly used in rodenticides sold over the counter,” Sara added calmly.

“Rodenticides?”

“That what Tug Cheney calls them,” Sara answered, stabbing the last asparagus spear. She chewed it slowly. “Anyway, the pistola is a precaution until we find out who is playing this unpleasant little game.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Kerney said.

Sara shook her head, and pushed aside her empty bowl. “Don’t go getting all macho on me, Kerney. I’ve already started the ball rolling. I spoke to both the city and the county animal control supervisors this afternoon and asked about any recent calls regarding dead rats.”

She got up and fetched a notepad next to the kitchen telephone. “Two days ago, a rat was removed from in front of a house off Hyde Park Road, just outside the city limits. The woman who requested the service was afraid of contracting Hantavirus. She didn’t realize that the disease was spread to humans only by deer mice droppings, not from rats. An animal control officer removed the rat and disposed of it. In his report he noted the animal appeared to have been poisoned. The woman found it in the driveway next to her car.”

“Was it a kangaroo rat?” Kerney asked between forkfuls of pasta.

“The officer thought so, but wasn’t sure,” Sara replied, returning to the table. “Requests to remove dead rats aren’t all that common.”

“Who was the woman?”

“Dora Manning.”

“That name sounds familiar,” Kerney said.

“I tried phoning her several times and got no answer.”

His mouth full, Kerney nodded in approval before speaking. “Was the rat tested before it was destroyed?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Sara went to the sink and rinsed out her bowl. “I think we should pay a visit to Ms. Manning’s house after you finish your dinner.”

“Why should we do that?”

“I got the phone company to give me the names and numbers of Manning’s immediate neighbors, and one of them hasn’t seen her for a day.”

“How did you do that?”

“I asked questions.”

“No, I mean find the neighbors.”

“You’re not the only member of this family with law enforcement experience. I commanded a military police unit, remember? The phone company was very cooperative. Anyway, I spoke to a neighbor. Manning is an older woman who lives alone. Her car is at the house but the neighbor hasn’t seen her outside since yesterday evening, and she always lets him or his wife know when she’s going out of town.”

Sara held out her key ring. “Come on, I’ll let you drive my new SUV.” She eased the. 38 into her purse.

Kerney dropped the fork in the bowl. “Okay, let’s go. Good chow, by the way.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” Kerney asked, as he followed suit and rinsed out his bowl in the sink.

“Perhaps a tiny bit,” Sara said with a smile. “You can tell me about your afternoon in the car.”

“It’s a big mess, that’s for sure,” Kerney said.

Throughout the day, the bald-headed man had listened carefully to radio traffic on his police scanner, waiting for the call that would send animal control to Kerney’s house to remove the dead rat.

He’d left it there fully expecting Kerney’s wife to ask animal control to collect it and then think no more about it. But it hadn’t played out that way. Perhaps she’d called Kerney by phone instead, or simply thrown the rat into the trash. Either way, the man was not disconcerted. He’d prepared his plan with those contingencies in mind.

When Kerney reported by radio that he was leaving Tesuque and going home, the man drove to the church at the bottom of Upper Canyon Road and parked. Within ten minutes of his arrival, Kerney passed by.

He drummed his fingers on the shoe box that contained another dead rat. Soon it would be dark enough to leave it, without being detected, for Kerney to find, accompanied by a note that would fully clarify the chief’s predicament.

After nightfall, he drove to the end of Upper Canyon Road and walked down the hill to Kerney’s house. The new car was missing from the driveway and there were no lights on inside. He stayed in the shadows, moved quietly to the portal, placed the rat on the floor, tacked the note to the door, and hurried away.

Soldier’s slaughter and the discovery of the poisoned rat made Kerney apprehensive. But he stayed focused on the Larsen shooting during the drive to Manning’s house. Likewise, Sara avoided the subject, limiting her comments to some questions about the SWAT screw-up. It was as if they’d silently agreed to postpone any speculation about the day’s events until they had a better understanding of them.

He could sense that Sara’s worry matched his own, but she didn’t appear rattled by it. He expected as much from her. Before their marriage, she’d won a meritorious promotion to her current rank for leading a covert mission in Korea that had successfully thwarted an assassination plot against the secretary of state.

Beyond that, Kerney had witnessed firsthand Sara’s coolness under fire, when a military intelligence agent had tried to bushwhack them in order to cover up an illicit government spy operation.

The Manning house was in a foothills subdivision off Hyde Park Road, which climbed into the high mountains of the national forest and ended at the ski basin. Kerney followed a long, looping street with several culde-sacs that ran around a hillside. The storm had cleared out, and thick stands of pine blocked the weak glow of the moon. With no street lamps and only a few house lights showing, the neighborhood was masked in shades of darkness.

Sara consulted her notes and guided Kerney to the right address. He drove by slowly without stopping. A car sat in the driveway in front of the unlit house.

“Based on what I learned today,” Sara said, turning off the map light, “this is definitely not the natural habitat of D. merriami.”

“Of the what?”

“The Merriam Kangaroo Rat, or either of the other two native species, for that matter. Stop next door.”

Kerney swung into the driveway. Lights were on inside the house. Sara rang the doorbell and an older man answered.

“Mr. Saul?” Sara asked. “I spoke to you earlier today about Dora Manning.”

“Oh, yes,” Saul answered, nodding his head. “I went to Dora’s house after you called, but she wasn’t home. You have us quite worried about her. She never leaves town without telling me and my wife she’ll be gone. We always pick up her mail for her.”

“Does she often travel without her car?” Sara asked.

Saul nodded. “She doesn’t like to drive in Albuquerque, so she takes a taxi downtown and rides the shuttle bus to the airport. Perhaps she had an emergency. Her older sister in California isn’t in good health.”

“How old is Ms. Manning?” Sara asked.

“About my age,” Saul said. “In her late sixties, I’d say.”

“Does Dora have health problems?” Sara asked.

“Not that I know of. She’s very active.”

“Does she work?” Kerney asked.

“She’s an artist,” Saul replied, “and works at home. We have several of her watercolors.”

“And before that?”

“For many years, she was a clinical psychologist here in Santa Fe,” Saul said, looking closely at Kerney. What had brought the police chief and a very pregnant woman to his front door to question him about Dora?

“You’re the police chief,” Saul said.

“I am,” Kerney said quickly. “Have you had any problems with rats?”

Saul shook his head. “The only rat I’ve ever seen around here is the one Dora found in her driveway several days ago. She came and told me about it before animal control took it away.”

“Do you have a key to her house?” Kerney asked.

“Yes, and a mailbox key as well. My wife picked up her mail this afternoon.”

“Did you or your wife go inside her house?” Sara asked.

“No, we only check inside when she’s on extended trips, just to make sure everything is okay.” Saul’s worried gaze shifted from Sara to Kerney and back again. “What’s going on?”

Sara smiled reassuringly. “Probably nothing. Could we have the key?”

Saul nodded and left them waiting in the doorway. They could hear him talking in a hushed voice. After a few minutes, he returned with his wife in tow, who handed Kerney a key.

“Is there an alarm system?” Kerney asked.

“No,” the woman said. “This is very disconcerting. Why are you concerned about Dora?”

“We’re just checking on her welfare,” Kerney replied.

He thanked the couple and asked them to remain in their house. They nodded in unison, eyes wide with misgiving.

At the SUV, Kerney got a flashlight and led the way along the dark street to Manning’s house. He thought about asking Sara to remain behind while he looked around, but knew she’d have none of it.

“So, do you know Manning?” Sara asked, as they approached the house.

“Professionally, I did,” he said. “She did a good bit of forensic psychology work for the courts before she gave up her practice to become an artist. I’d forgotten all about her. It was a long time ago.”

He knocked hard and rang the doorbell several times before handing Sara the key. “Stay here. I’ll scout the perimeter and look for any signs of forced entry,” he said, reaching for his sidearm. Sara already had the. 38 out of her purse and in her hand.

He checked every door and window and returned to find Sara with her back against the wall, her weapon in the ready position, and the key in the lock.

He shook his head. “Looks okay on the outside,” he whispered. “We’ll do a room search. Back me up.”

Sara nodded and turned the key.

Together, they swept the house. In the master bedroom they found Dora Manning stretched out on an ornate Victorian bed with her throat cut. Her pajama top and the bed sheet were soaked in blood. On the wall behind the bed, the killer had left a message in red. In block letters, it read:

EVERYONE DIES

They retreated from the house. Kerney turned on the ceiling lights with the butt of his flashlight as they went from room to room, illuminating walls covered with Manning’s framed egg tempera and watercolor paintings. There was no sign that the house had been burglarized or a struggle had occurred.

Under the portal porch light, Kerney holstered his weapon, called in homicide on his cell phone, and told dispatch to roll units running a silent code three.

“Get Chief Otero and Lieutenant Molina up here ASAP,” he added before disconnecting.