He opened the door and turned on the light. Lying faceup on the duvet covering the bed was a man, probably in his late sixties. One look told Kerney the man was dead.
He stepped over to the body, checked for a pulse at the carotid artery to make sure, and backed out of the room, touching nothing else.
The last thing Kerney had expected to see was a dead body. He went to find Devin Hilt, knowing full well his morning would be shot as soon as the local cops showed up.
According to the California driver ’s license found on the body, the dead man was Clifford Spalding, age seventy-one, from Santa Barbara, a two-hour drive down the coast.
Sergeant Elena Lowrey of the San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s Department thought it quite likely the deceased had died of natural causes. There were no visible wounds to the body, no defensive marks, no signs of a struggle. But until the coroner agreed with her observations and the autopsy findings confirmed it, she would handle the call as a death due to unknown causes.
If everything looked copacetic, there might be no need to call out the detectives and the crime scene techs.
She stood at the foot of the bed for a minute and watched the coroner begin his examination before stripping off her gloves and exiting the cottage. Outside on the front lawn three men waited: Kevin Kerney, who’d discovered the body; Devin Hilt, who’d called 911; and Jeffery Jardin, the ranch owner.
Behind them, near the barn and stables, two employees, who looked to be Mexican nationals, worked at cleaning out a cooldown corral while keeping a wary eye on the proceedings.
Lowrey, who had an Anglo father and Mexican American mother, bet that neither man held a green card. She had no desire to pursue it. Her grandfather, a migrant worker, had been deported years ago because of a disorderly conduct conviction stemming from a clash with police at a farmworkers rally. He could never legally return to the States, although he did sneak in for occasional visits, especially when Ellie’s kid sister, the baby-producing sibling of the family, added another grandchild to the clan.
She stepped off the porch and spoke to Jardin. “Can I use the ranch office to take statements?”
Jardin, a man in his sixties who sported a great tan, a full head of hair, and a worried expression, nodded.
“Thanks,” Lowrey said, switching her attention to Kerney, whom she guessed to be around fifty, and good-looking for a man his age. He stood six-one, had a nice build and deep-set, pretty blue eyes.
“I’ll start with you,” Lowrey said to Kerney. “It shouldn’t take too long.”
Kerney nodded and followed the sergeant to the office, noting that even with the body armor she wore under her uniform shirt she cut a trim, well-shaped figure. A shade over five-five, she wore her thick dark hair rather short.
Kerney had come to the ranch as a potential buyer, not a police chief, so he doubted anyone knew he was a cop. Nonetheless, he’d told Hilt it would be best to keep everyone away from the cottage, a suggestion Devin readily accepted. Like most civilians, Hilt had no desire to stare death in the face.
Kerney sat with Lowrey in the ranch office and answered her questions directly. He’d never met the man and didn’t know him or his name. He only knew that he would be sharing the cottage with another visitor who was looking to buy horses. He’d returned from dinner last night to find a car outside and one of the bedroom doors closed. He’d simply assumed that Spalding was sleeping or desired some privacy. He’d read for a time before retiring and had heard no sounds from the man’s room. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred during the night to arouse any suspicions about Spalding’s welfare. He’d discovered the body after attempting to wake Spalding with a knock on the bedroom door. He’d touched only the light switch in the bedroom and Spalding’s carotid artery to confirm he was dead.
Lowrey asked for the name of the restaurant where he’d dined, which Kerney provided, and asked how long he’d be staying at the ranch.
“I leave tomorrow,” Kerney said.
Lowrey nodded. “We might have to ask you to stay over, Mr. Kerney, until we clear things up.”
“If it’s possible, I’d rather not do that, Sergeant,” Kerney said as he took his police commission card from his wallet and gave it to Lowrey.
The sergeant glanced at it and gave Kerney a reproachful look. “You could have told me who you were up front.”
Kerney shrugged and took his ID back. “I knew we’d get around to it,” he said. “Besides, until you say differently, I’m a person of interest to your investigation. But I would like you to extend the courtesy of allowing me to go home tomorrow.”
He replaced the ID in his wallet and gave her a business card. “You can confirm who I am. Call the dispatch number and ask to speak to Deputy Chief Larry Otero. They’ll patch you through to him.”
Lowrey nodded. “I’ll do that. Until we know more, this looks like an unattended natural death.”
“So it seems,” Kerney said as he got to his feet. “But it’s always best to do it by the book.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me you were a police chief?” Lowrey asked.
“Because I came here as a civilian,” Kerney said, “which occasionally is a very nice thing to be.”
Lowrey smiled, and a dimple showed on her right cheek. “Point well made, Chief. Will you ask Mr. Hilt to join me, and stand by in case I have any more questions for you?”
Kerney nodded and left the office.
If Clifford Spalding had expired in his own bed, the coroner, Deputy Sheriff William Price, would probably have done a quick death assessment and let it go at that, trusting the autopsy to pinpoint the cause. Instead, he decided to be a bit more thorough. First he checked the eyes for any signs of changes in the vitreous humor, which usually turns cloudy within eight to ten hours after death. The fluid was clear and there was no evidence of the minute blood clots caused by strangulation that show up as tiny red dots.
He inspected the mouth for any sign of blockage or corrosive burns, the neck for bruising or ligature marks, hands and arms for defensive wounds or needle marks, and fingernails for any traces of skin. He ran a gloved hand over the skull and found it to be intact with no telltale indication of blunt trauma. He stripped off a glove and felt the armpits with the back of his hand. They were cool to the touch.
There were early signs of rigor mortis, which usually occurs within two to four hours after death. That, along with the absence of any changes to the vitreous humor and the coolness of the armpits, indicated that the man had been dead for six to eight hours.
The body was clad in an undershirt, slacks, and socks. Using scissors, Price cut the undershirt and pants away, then turned the body facedown on the double bed and used a rectal thermometer to take the body’s temperature. Then he checked the room temperature. The difference between the two readings brought his estimate of the time of death down to no more than six hours ago.
Blood pools and settles after death, appearing as a purple discoloration of the skin, and the lower back showed signs of it. Price pressed a finger against the spot and the color didn’t blanch white, which was another good indicator that Spalding had been dead for about six hours, and, more important, hadn’t been moved.
He looked over the body one more time. There were no surgical scars. The gluteus maximus and leg muscles were firm, indicating the man had been physically active.
Price guessed that either a heart attack or a stroke had killed the man. He took off his gloves and went to give Ellie Lowrey the news.
After admitting that he had almost no experience with cops or dead people, a nervous Devin Hilt confirmed what he could of Chief Kerney’s story. Ellie Lowrey probed with a few more questions to reassure herself that all seemed as it should before letting Hilt go and calling Kerney’s deputy chief to verify his identity.
Bill Price came in just as she was about to begin her interview with Jeffery Jardin, the ranch owner.
“The body shows no signs of death by unnatural causes,” he said.
“You couldn’t seriously think that Clifton Spalding was murdered here,” Jardin said in a bit of a huff.
Price smiled benignly. Civilians were always uneasy about the thought of homicide. He’d faced the same reaction from people time and again over the years. “We always try to rule that out first,” he said.
He turned his attention to Lowrey. “I’d say he died in his sleep, either from a heart attack or a stroke, about six hours ago. The autopsy will tell us more.”
Lowrey nodded. “Thanks. Ask the EMTs to keep everyone away from the cottage until I finish my interviews. I’d like to take another look around before we wrap it up.”
“You got it,” Price said, stepping out the door.
“Are you people always so suspicious?” Jardin asked.
“Careful would be a better way to put it,” Lowrey replied. “How well did you know Mr. Spalding?”
“Well enough, on a business and social basis. Over the past ten years, he’s bought about six horses from me, some that he ran in qualifying and small purse races. He didn’t seem to care if they won or lost. It was a hobby for him, or rather for his wife, who I think basically liked the social scene at the track. He stabled his horses here and used my trainers. My ranch manager arranged for jockeys and the horses’ transportation to and from the track. We basically did everything except race the horses under my colors. His wife keeps two of the horses he bought for pleasure riding, although they’re good enough to race. I usually dealt with her.”
“That’s a pretty expensive hobby his wife has.”
“Clifford could afford it. He owns, rather did own, a number of resort hotels up and down the coast.”
“You said you knew him well,” Lowrey remarked.
“For about the last ten years,” Jardin replied, “after he married his second wife. I met them when they were first looking to buy racing stock. After that, I’d see them at the track, and we’d get together occasionally for dinner and drinks. Claudia, his wife, is a good twenty years younger. She divides her time between Santa Barbara and Santa Fe. Clifford built a house for her out there where she could keep some horses. I think she’s in Santa Fe now.”
“If you usually dealt with Spalding’s wife, why did he come here this time?” Lowrey asked.
“Claudia had her eye on a horse she liked, and Clifford said he wanted to buy it for her as a surprise anniversary present.”
“Do you have Mrs. Spalding’s Santa Fe address?”
“My ranch manager should. He made the arrangements to have the horses she keeps in Santa Fe transported there.”
Jardin glanced at his wristwatch, an expensive, wafer-thin gold timepiece that probably cost more than Lowrey’s personal vehicle.
“Just a few more questions,” she said, “and then we’ll be done.”
Kerney waited on the porch outside the office with the ranch manager, Ken Wheeler, and watched the coroner come and go. No longer a jockey, Wheeler had still managed to keep weight off his wiry frame. He sported a wide mouth that seemed ready-made to break into easy smiles, and had tiny ears that lay flat against his head. At six-one, Kerney towered over the man.
Wheeler told Kerney that he had two twelve-year-old halterbroken mares, four three-year-old geldings that didn’t seem to have the heart to race, and a young stud named Comeuppance available for sale.
Wheeler thought the mares, once saddlebroken, would serve well for pleasure riding, the geldings were sure-footed and quick enough to be good cutting horses, and the stallion would do just fine at stud, if the new owner didn’t expect fast runners from his lineage.
Kerney knew, if he decided to buy it, the stud horse would be his most expensive purchase. “Is that his only flaw?” he asked.
“I believe so,” Wheeler replied, his deep baritone voice quite a contrast to his diminutive size. “But you’ll get to see for yourself. He’s got good bloodlines, but none of his yearlings or two-year-olds look promising for the track. The boss says we sure aren’t going to make any money keeping him, and I agree.”
Before Kerney could reply, Sergeant Lowrey stepped onto the porch.
“Mr. Wheeler,” she said, “could you get me Mrs. Spalding’s Santa Fe address?”
“Sure thing,” Wheeler said as he slipped past Lowrey into the office.
Kerney raised an eyebrow. “Santa Fe, New Mexico?”
“She has a house there,” Lowrey said, “and according to Mr. Jardin that’s where she is. Do you know her?”
Kerney shook his head. “Do you want my department to make contact with her?”
“That would be helpful, Chief.” Lowrey handed him a business card. “Ask your officer to call me first.”
“Will do.” Kerney reached for his cell phone. “What did the coroner have to say?”
“So far, Spalding’s death appears to be from natural causes.” Lowrey paused and gave him a once-over. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it, Spalding’s wife having a place in Santa Fe?”
“In this particular instance, I would say that it is,” Kerney replied.
“Are you sure you’ve never met her while you’ve been out riding the range?”
“That’s very funny, Sergeant,” Kerney said, slightly piqued at Lowrey’s sarcasm. “Actually there are times when we still ride the range. But now that the streets of Santa Fe are paved, my officers mostly drive squad cars.”
“Maybe you met her at a horse show or a rodeo,” Lowrey countered.
“Not that I recall,” Kerney said. He turned away from Lowrey and dialed Larry Otero’s home number.
After talking to Larry, he waited for Lowrey to reappear. Instead, Wheeler came out of the office and told him Lowrey had a few more questions to ask and would be with him shortly. He agreed to meet Wheeler at the track when he was finished, and cooled his heels waiting on the porch.
It didn’t surprise him that Lowrey wanted another go-round. The “coincidence” that both Kerney and the dead man’s wife lived in the same city would spark any competent officer ’s interest.