The neighborhood canvass was over and nobody interviewed had seen or heard anything until the sound of the shotgun blast had broken the silence of the night. A three-block radius around the crime scene had been searched for any sign left behind by the perpetrator, and nothing had been found. A fresh search would be done in daylight, but Clayton had little hope that any valuable evidence would materialize.
The state police crime scene techs had collected at least a dozen different fingerprints from the exterior and interior surfaces of Riley’s cabin, which quite probably belonged to Riley and everyone else who had rented the place as a vacation retreat over the last six months. Although there were no signs of a forced entry, Clayton had the techs bag and tag every piece of personal property belonging to Riley, along with the bedding, bathroom towels, and the dishes in the sink that were supplied to renters by the owner of the cabin. When that was accomplished, he had the techs vacuum the floors before turning them loose on Riley’s police vehicle. It was a scatter-gun approach to evidence collection, but Clayton knew that every homicide left a trace, and if one blot, smudge, stain, scratch, fiber, or speck was overlooked, the killer could get away with murder.
Dawn came with a stiff wind that blew dust, tumbleweeds, and brown, brittle cottonwood leaves across streets, sidewalks, and lawns. Clayton assembled a group of officers, including Sheriff Hewitt and Chief Bolt, and carried out another three-block search for evidence. Every piece of loose trash and litter that hadn’t been blown away by the wind was bagged and tagged, every tire track and skid mark was photographed, and every parked vehicle was inspected and run through Motor Vehicles.
When the officers returned to the cabin, EMTs were rolling Riley’s body on a gurney to an ambulance that would transport his remains to Albuquerque for an autopsy to determine the cause of death, which in this case would be a formality. All night long Clayton had wondered what had become of the rifled shotgun slug that had taken Tim Riley’s life.
He stood facing the cabin about six feet from where Tim Riley’s body had fallen. The slug had caught Riley in the head straight on, but from the position of the body on the ground it was impossible to tell if Tim’s head had been turned or if he’d faced his killer squarely.
If Riley had faced his killer straight on, the slug would have missed the front of the cabin by a good ten feet. If the killer had fired from a slight angle to the right, the spent slug should be lodged somewhere in the front of the cabin. It wasn’t. If the killer had fired from the left, the slug could be buried in a tree trunk or the back porch of a neighboring house. It wasn’t.
Clayton scanned the cabin, wondering where the spent slug might be. Because he didn’t have the murder weapon, didn’t know the gauge of the shotgun, and could only estimate how close the shooter had been to the victim, it was mostly guesswork.
“What are you studying, Sergeant?” Paul Hewitt asked as he walked up.
Clayton looked at the sheriff. “Angles.” He shuffled through the Polaroid photographs he’d taken of Tim’s body. The entry wound at the front of Riley’s head looked slightly lower than the exit wound at the back of his skull. Clayton noted the difference to Hewitt. “I think the killer may have been shorter than Riley. Either that, or he just raised his weapon at an angle and fired from the hip.”
“Wouldn’t that make it a lucky shot?” Hewitt asked.
“Not from such a close distance,” Clayton replied, returning the photographs to his shirt pocket. “A typical shotgun has a twenty-four-to twenty-eight-inch barrel. If you’re firing a long-barreled weapon from a distance of four to six feet, muzzle end to target, it would be pretty hard to miss what you’re shooting at. And there might not be any powder residue on the victim. Personally, I think the killer deliberately took the head shot. Riley was my height, five feet ten. I make his killer to be two, maybe tree inches shorter. I wonder how tall Riley’s wife is.”
“You think she’s the shooter?”
“I don’t know enough about this crime to exclude her as a suspect.”
Hewitt looked at the cottonwood tree, at the cabin, at the neighboring house, and then at Clayton. “So where’s the spent slug?” Hewitt asked.
“Maybe it’s lodged in the cabin roof.”
Hewitt scanned the roof. It was a pitched, shingled roof with a protruding metal woodstove flue. “I went over Riley’s radio traffic with dispatch,” he said. “Except for the brawl at the Carrizozo bar and a fifteen-minute coffee break with Craig Bolt, Riley made no contact with anyone else after he left the crash scene.”
“We can’t be completely sure of that,” Clayton said.
“I know,” Hewitt replied. “But if Riley did encounter someone unofficially without notifying dispatch, it happened toward the end of his shift.”
Clayton nodded and said nothing. It wasn’t unusual for the sheriff to cruise the county at odd hours without notifying dispatch that he was on duty. It was a good way to stay on top of what the troops were doing in the field. He wondered if Hewitt had shadowed Riley during the early part of his shift.
“I’ll ask Chief Bolt to find you a ladder,” Hewitt said.
“I’m also going to need something other than my truck to drive,” Clayton said.
Hewitt glanced at the Ford Explorer that had been assigned to Tim Riley less than sixteen hours ago. “It’s got a rebuilt engine, good tires, and a new clutch.”
Clayton nodded. It was either the Explorer or the only other available sheriff’s vehicle, a six-year-old Crown Victoria that needed new shocks, burned over a quart of oil a day, and was about to throw a rod.
“Ten-four,” he said, not completely happy with the idea of driving the murdered deputy’s unit.
“I’ll get you that ladder,” Hewitt said as he went to find Bolt. “Be careful when you climb up there.”
Clayton stared at Tim Riley’s unit. It was an Apache tradition to believe newly deceased people wanted to have some of the living journey with them to the other side. The most dangerous time for this to happen was the four days after death, when the dead person was still present, although invisible. During this period, they revisited the critical events in their lives and remained close to the important people they were about to leave behind.
Clayton figured getting murdered had to be an event of great consequence for Tim Riley, one he would definitely have to revisit. That meant Riley’s invisible presence would be hanging around over the next few days, and Clayton would have to stay alert and balanced to avoid any witchery that might come his way.
A village fire engine pulled to a stop on the street. A firefighter climbed out of the cab, waved at Clayton, and asked where to put the ladder. Clayton pointed to the spot and helped the man carry the ladder to the side of the cabin. He spent an hour on the roof inspecting every fiberglass shingle, examining the plumbing vent protrusions, and studying the woodstove flue. He checked the eaves, the gutters, and the downspouts. He went over every inch of the side of the cabin, high and low, where the slug could have impacted. He looked for any evidence that it could have ricocheted. Finally he gave up, climbed down, and helped the firefighter put the ladder back on the truck.
“There’s nothing up there,” Clayton said before Hewitt had a chance to ask.
Hewitt handed Clayton a piece of paper. “This is a list of the people we know Riley had contact with since he moved down here. There may be more.”
There were over thirty names on the list. Some worked at local businesses, several were real estate agents, and a few were people Clayton had introduced to Riley earlier in the week.
“Use whomever you want to help you work that list,” Hewitt added.
“Thanks,” Clayton said. “Any word on Riley’s missing wife?”
“Not yet. Maybe something will break on that end.”
“Yeah,” Clayton said without enthusiasm, wondering if his father, Kevin Kerney, was involved in the Santa Fe investigation.
“Where is Cañoncito?” he asked Hewitt.
“I have no idea,” Hewitt replied.
In Cañoncito, the news that Deputy Riley had been shot dead turned a missing person case into a full-scale homicide investigation. Chief Deputy Leonard Jessup of the Santa Fe S.O. called out his major felony investigators, his crime scene team, and asked Kerney to provide additional detectives to assist. Aside from Detective Matt Chacon, who was already on his way, Kerney had Sergeant Ramona Pino and two more detectives roll to the scene.
Helen Muiz rejected Kerney’s suggestion to go home and await further developments. Although the double-wide and surrounding area were now part of a homicide investigation and thus closed to civilians, Kerney didn’t force the issue. Helen’s long and distinguished record of service with the department, the strong support she’d given him during his tenure as chief, and their friendship that extended back to Kerney’s rookie year as a cop entitled her to all due consideration.
To make way for the investigators and the techs, Kerney took Helen and Ruben to his police vehicle, where they sat with the dome light on, the motor running, and the heater cranking out warm air.
Kerney asked Helen to tell him about her baby sister, and he learned that Denise had lived with five or six men during her wanderlust years, none of whom the family had ever met. According to both Helen and Ruben, Denise had volunteered very little information about her past relationships and would brush off any serious attempt to discuss her time away from Santa Fe. It was as if she had erased from scrutiny a dozen years of her life.
Kerney did learn that Denise had left Santa Fe two days after her high school graduation party, taking with her all of the money she’d saved for college, cash she’d received as presents from relatives, plus two hundred dollars she’d stolen from her mother’s purse. There had been gossip at the time that Denise had taken the money and left town to get an abortion, but those rumors soon died away.
Kerney asked for clarity about Denise’s rapid departure. Helen said Denise left because of conflict with her father that centered around his refusal to let her go away to college. Because of her rebellious nature, he wanted her to live at home and go to the community college for her first two years.
“Was going away to college a financial issue?” Kerney asked.
Helen, who sat on the front passenger seat next to Kerney, shook her head. “Not at all. Daddy just wanted to keep an eye on her. He’d just sold his plumbing and heating business and had settled my grandfather’s estate. Each of us children received money from the sale of Grandfather’s foothills property, although Denise had to wait until she was twenty-one to receive her share.”
“Why would Denise leave home because of a spat over where she could go to college?” Kerney asked.
“It went deeper than that,” Ruben said from the backseat of Kerney’s cruiser.
Kerney turned to Ruben. “Do you think she was pregnant when she left home?”
“She may have been, but it’s one of those topics that’s never discussed in the family,” Ruben replied.
Helen shook her head. “Because it wasn’t true.”
“Then why is the topic always such a sore spot with you and Denise?” Ruben countered.
“Go on,” Kerney said to Ruben before Helen could reply.
“Denise was super smart, totally bored with Santa Fe, and very unchallenged in high school. You could call the crowd she hung out with a fringe, arty group. They were into theater, film, acting, music, art, and smoking a little pot. Denise had aspirations; she wanted to strike out on her own, see the world, and she didn’t want to be held back. She had big dreams to make it as a singer or actress.”
“You seem to know a great deal about your sister-in-law’s teenage years,” Kerney said.
Ruben smiled. “I was the head of the guidance and counseling department at the high school during the time Denise was enrolled. As Helen’s husband, I couldn’t counsel her directly, but I did stay informed of her progress. She dropped out of the gifted program her sophomore year, although she continued to take advance placement classes in subjects that interested her.”
Kerney was about to direct the conversation to Denise’s relationship with her husband when Detective Matt Chacon stepped onto the deck of the double-wide and motioned to him. Kerney excused himself and went to see what Chacon had discovered.
“Did you find anything interesting on the computers?” he asked. Through the open door Kerney could see deputies and detectives carefully examining the furnishings, carpet, walls, and curtains, looking for trace evidence.
“It’s what I didn’t find that’s interesting, Chief,” Matt replied. “Both computers have had the hard drives completely erased and reformatted using what I think was a bootleg recovery system that can’t be traced back to a manufacturer. Everything on the computers was wiped clean. Whoever did this didn’t want whatever was on the computers to be retrieved.”
“Can’t you restore the hard drive data?”
“It’s not a question of retrieval,” Matt replied. “The drives have been scoured and sterilized of all information. It doesn’t take a computer geek to do it. An hour or two of Internet research can give anyone the information they need to permanently purge files, folders, and data. However, I can tell you that this was done twenty-four hours ago.”
“What about any removable storage devices?”
“Both computers have CD and flash drive capacity, but I haven’t found any compact disks or portable storage devices in the house. I’m assuming whoever erased the hard drives took them. I dusted both machines for fingerprints. They’d been wiped clean.”
“This is not good news,” Kerney said.
“I know it isn’t, Chief,” Matt replied. “But most people pay their monthly IP bills automatically through online checking or a charge to a credit card. Sergeant Pino is looking for banking and credit card statements. If we can determine the IP provider, we can get a court order and access e-mail account information.”
“Do the same with the cell phone and landline accounts.”
“It’s on the list,” Matt said. “I’m going to take both computers back to the office and go through everything again. Sometimes a recovery program will miss, skip, or write over an old file or folder. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”