The Big Gamble (3 page)

Clayton nodded. “I may have to go up to Santa Fe.”

“I’d like to go with you,” Wendell said.

Hannah banged her little fist on the high chair’s hinged table. “I get down now,” she said.

Grace released her and put her on the floor. She made a beeline for Clayton. He picked her up, put her on his lap, and gave her a kiss.

“When will you know?” Grace asked.

“I’ll call you later today.”

 

In the l960s a beautiful two-story redbrick courthouse on the main street in Carrizozo had been demolished and replaced by a nondescript building constructed on the same site. Clayton had only seen pictures of the imposing old courthouse, but those photographs looked a hell of a lot more inviting than the sterile functionalism of the present building.

Tucked away in part of the courthouse, the sheriff’s department suffered from a serious lack of space. Clayton used a small desk pushed up against a wall in the hallway that led to the supply closet to do his paperwork and organize all his supporting documentation.

First he worked on the John Doe case. Based on the remnants of information found in the backpack, the victim was likely one Joseph John Humphrey, a homeless Vietnam veteran originally from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Among Humphrey’s few belongings was the business card of a Veterans Administration alcoholism counselor in Albuquerque. He spoke to the counselor, faxed a copy of Humphrey’s driver’s license photo to the man, and got a quick identity confirmation. He also learned that Humphrey had been diagnosed with inoperable liver cancer and had no more than three months to live.

After disconnecting, he phoned Shorty Dawson, the ME, for a preliminary cause-of-death report.

“I can’t tell you anything definite,” Dawson replied.

“The victim’s flesh and clothing were melted together.

The body is gonna have to be peeled like an onion.

Then they can open him up and take a look inside.”

“Where’s the body now?” Clayton asked.

“In Albuquerque,” Dawson replied. “We should get the final autopsy results by tomorrow. But, tentatively it sure looked to me like the guy sucked down carbon monoxide.”

“How could you tell that?” Clayton asked. “The flesh was too burned to show any discoloration. Even if the skin had looked cherry red, lividity isn’t conclusive for carbon monoxide poisoning.”

There was a short silence before Dawson replied. “Look, Deputy, I said my opinion was just tentative. My job is to find the victim legally dead and offer an informed opinion as to cause and time of death. We’ll both just have to wait for the autopsy to find out what really killed him.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dawson,” Clayton said.

He hung up wondering if Humphrey had committed suicide to avoid letting the cancer kill him. That didn’t make any sense. Humphrey could have chosen many easier, less horrific ways to die than by smoke and fire. Maybe it was an accidental death. He decided to stop speculating about it until the autopsy report came in.

He filled out his paperwork, including a notation that if no family members could be found—the Harrisburg police were still looking—Humphrey’s VA counselor would arrange to have the body cremated and interred in the National Cemetery at Fort Bayard, outside Silver City.

Humphrey’s status as a Nam vet made Clayton think about his natural father, Kevin Kerney. He knew very little about Kerney’s service experience other than that he’d served as an infantry lieutenant in Vietnam during the latter stage of the war. Until six months ago, Clayton hadn’t even known that much. Then he’d busted Kerney for trespassing on Apache land, which ultimately led to his mother’s disclosure of the long-kept secret of his father’s identity.

Clayton had learned that his mother had once been Kerney’s college sweetheart. She deliberately became pregnant without Kerney’s knowledge just before he’d graduated and gone off to serve in Vietnam. For almost twenty-eight years, neither father nor son knew of each other’s existence.

Clayton was still struggling with it all. He had no idea how Kerney was coping. What he did know was that Kerney had recently been installed as the Santa Fe police chief. He gave a passing thought to calling him to ask for information and assistance in the Anna Marie Montoya case.

He reached for the phone and pulled his hand back. Late last year, Kerney had stood on Clayton’s front porch and given him two ten-thousand-dollar certificates of deposit for Wendell’s and Hannah’s education, with no strings attached. At the time, Clayton had been both stunned by the gift and suspicious of it. Thinking back over the event, which he’d repeatedly played through his mind, Clayton knew he’d handled it badly. Instead of being gracious, he’d challenged Kerney’s gift-giving motives and failed to thank him for his generosity. Finally he’d never followed through on a promise to invite Kerney and his wife to dinner, in spite of Grace’s nagging him to do so.

Because of his bungling, Clayton felt the opportunity to develop some sort of relationship with Kerney had come and gone. He didn’t know what he could do, if anything, to set things right.

Although he lacked final confirmation that the earthly remains of Anna Marie Montoya had been discovered, Clayton had enough evidence to move ahead. The clutch purse with the ID, the jewelry and bits of clothing found at the scene that matched information contained in the NCIC missing person report, and the size and sex of the body made it almost positive. It was time to get rolling. He called the Santa Fe Police Department, identified himself, and got put through to a detective sergeant named Cruz Tafoya.

Tafoya heard Clayton out before asking questions.

“Were you able to confirm the victim was killed at the crime scene?”

“No,” Clayton replied, “and I don’t think we’ll be able to. Any trace evidence was washed away. Personally, I think she was killed elsewhere and then buried in the cellar. It’s only five feet deep by eight feet square.”

“So the killer had to know about the cellar,” Tafoya noted. “Is the fruit stand still in use?”

“It’s been abandoned for years,” Clayton replied. “We’re looking into who owns the property.”

“Good idea,” Tafoya said. “You’re gonna want a copy of our case file.”

“Roger that.”

“I’ll put one together. Should I mail it or will you come and get it?”

“I’ll let you know,” Clayton replied, thinking he needed to clear travel plans with the sheriff. “But I’m probably coming to Santa Fe sometime soon.”

“I’ll have a detective update the file,” Tafoya said. “At least the family will have some peace of mind about what happened to the victim.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” Clayton said. “Once I get a positive ID, will your department notify the family?”

“Ten-four.”

“I’ll need to talk to the detective who handled the case.”

“If he’s still around,” Tafoya said.

“Can you find out?” Clayton asked.

“Give me a minute.”

In the receiver Clayton heard movement, footsteps, silence and then paper shuffling followed by Tafoya’s breathing.

“Well, what do you know about that?” Tafoya said into the telephone.

“What?” Clayton asked.

“The original primary investigator on that case was our new police chief.”

Clayton grunted in surprise. “Could you have Chief Kerney call me?” He rattled off his phone number.

“You got it,” Tafoya replied.

Clayton hung up and walked to the sheriff’s office. Paul Hewitt looked up from some paperwork on his desk and wondered why Clayton, who’d been relieved of patrol duties to work the homicide, had decided to wear a black cowboy shirt on a day that was going to be much too warm for such a garment.

“Would you like an update on the cases, Sheriff?” Clayton asked.

Hewitt gestured at a chair. “Have a seat and fire away.”

Clayton left Sheriff Hewitt’s office with authorization to conduct his investigation in Santa Fe, as needed. He was given a travel, meals, and lodging allowance and told to stay within budget or make up the difference out of his own pocket. He found Sergeant Quinones and Von Dillingham in the small staff lounge, inventorying evidence and doing paperwork.

“The county clerk’s records show that the fruit stand is owned by Hiram Tully. He’s got a Glencoe address,” Quinones said, handing Clayton the information.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Clayton said.

“Are any autopsy reports in yet?” Dillingham asked.

“Not yet. Shorty Dawson thinks Humphrey died from carbon monoxide poisoning, but he’s not sure.”

“Shorty loves to play pathologist,” Quinones said, logging an evidence bag on an inventory sheet. “We’re almost done here. What’s next?”

“Field interviews,” Clayton said. “Find out if anyone who lives near the fruit stand saw or heard anything before the fire broke out. I’ll be back to assist as soon as I can.”

“Roger that,” Quinones said, turning his attention to the bagged and tagged evidence.

Clayton left the office and drove the state road that took him past the burned-out fruit stand, through the ranching town of Capitan, and on to the historic hamlet of Lincoln, where rows of lovely old territorial buildings along a narrow pastoral valley drew tourists in search of the Billy the Kid legend.

Where the road ended at the Highway 70 junction, Clayton swung west toward Glencoe and found his way to the Tully place. A small valley settlement on the Ruidoso River surrounded by national forest, Glencoe consisted of farms and orchards, a post office, and a few businesses along the highway that funneled traffic east and west over the Sacramento Mountains.

The Tully ranch house was a beautifully maintained, low-slung, whitewashed adobe hacienda with a deep veranda. Several hundred yards behind the house the river wandered against the base of the mountains. On either side of the ranch house, apple orchards in early bloom fanned out and rolled down to the riverbank, putting a sweet scent into the air.

Early-to-leaf mature poplar trees overhung the residence, branches shimmering in the midmorning sun under a gentle breeze. Large ornamental evergreens bracketed carefully tended flower beds that bordered a semicircular driveway.

Clayton parked his unit, walked the gravel path to the veranda, and knocked on the front door. The woman who answered appeared to be in her late twenties, close to his own age. Attractive in a wholesome way, she had short-cut blond hair, hazel eyes, and perfectly straight white teeth.

Grace had already warned Clayton that Hannah would need braces. How she knew that with Hannah still years away from losing her baby teeth was a mystery to him. He identified himself to the woman and asked to speak to Hiram Tully.

“My grandfather recently had a stroke,” the woman said. “He’s in the hospital in Roswell.”

“And you are?” Clayton asked.

“Page Seton,” she said. “Why do you need to speak to my grandfather?”

“He’s listed as the owner of an abandoned fruit stand on Highway three-eighty. It burned down last night.”

“Really?” Seton said. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Two bodies were found inside.”

Seton’s eyes darkened. “That’s terrible. Were they killed in the fire?”

“We’re still investigating the cause of death,” Clayton answered.

“That place has been boarded up for years. I drive by it all the time.”

“Do you or any members of your family ever stop to inspect the property?”

Seton’s expression tightened. “There’s been no reason to. Whoever those poor people were, they trespassed. That property is posted with a keep-out sign. Are you suggesting negligence?”

“That’s not the focus of the investigation.”

Seton’s look darkened. “I’d better contact our lawyer anyway.”

“Maybe you should,” Clayton said. “Who has access to the property?”

“Just the family, and the realtor who has it listed for sale. We’ve been trying to sell it, but nobody is interested in an acre of highway frontage outside of town without water or electricity.”

“Have you rented it out in the past twelve years?”

“Not to my knowledge. But my father would know for certain.” Seton pulled her chin back and gave Clayton a chilly look. “Why twelve years? The stand has been there longer than that.”

“I’m just gathering information, Ms. Seton. Who’s the listing agent?”

Seton gave Clayton the name of a Carrizozo realtor.

“How long has it been up for sale?” Clayton asked.

“Ten years or more,” Seton replied.

“Are you aware the fruit stand had a cellar?” Clayton asked.

Page Seton nodded. “The cellar served as cold storage for our apples and fresh cider.”

“When was the last time it was used to sell fruit?” Clayton asked.

Seton paused. “Twenty years. Grandfather shut it down the year I turned seven.”

“Has anyone—family, employees—been there since then?”