Death Song (30 page)

He handed Morales the wrench to bag and tag, went to Riley’s body, took the Smith & Wesson revolver out of the dead boy’s hand, and opened the cylinder. The handgun was fully loaded. Mielke held it up for Morales to see.

“I think this is just what it appears to be, Major,” Morales said. “Straightforward self-defense.”

“Apparently so.” Mielke reached down, picked up the backpack, opened it, dumped the contents—which looked to be only clothing—on the floor. He searched through the smaller side pockets, found a large envelope containing currency, put the envelope aside, and pawed through the wadded-up, dirty, smelly clothing looking for anything in the pockets. All he found was a pack of matches advertising a nightclub in downtown Albuquerque and a plastic bag with a small amount of grass. He dropped the empty backpack on top of the pile of dirty clothes.

“Nada?” Morales asked.

“Nada.” Mielke flipped open his cell phone. Although Talbott had told him it wouldn’t work, he tried to call out anyway, but there was no signal. He keyed his handheld, got dead air on the S.O. frequency, and switched through the remaining police and emergency channels with the same results.

“Are we cut off from radio contact?” Morales asked.

“That’s affirmative.” The room had cooled down quite a bit since their arrival. Mielke checked the woodstove, opened the vent to increase the airflow, and added some wood to the bed of hot embers. “You’re going to have to stay here while I go back and report in. If the medical investigator is there, I’ll send him to you right away. Meanwhile, dust for prints. Make sure you get the handgun, the rifle, and the wrench.”

“Ten-four, Major.”

Morales had used both a digital camera and a 35mm Pentax to photograph the crime scene. Mielke asked Morales for the digital camera so Kerney and Clayton could see what the crime scene looked like. With the camera safely zipped into an inside pocket of his parka, he stepped over to the kitchen cabinet that contained foodstuffs, reached to the back of the top shelf, pulled out a full pint bottle of whiskey he’d spotted earlier, unscrewed the top, and took a swallow. It felt good and warm going down. He held the bottle out to Morales. “Go ahead, we’ve earned it.”

Morales hesitated, took the bottle from Mielke’s hand, tilted it to his lips, and let the liquid run down his throat, wondering if the major would be taking the whiskey bottle with him. On more than one occasion he’d watched Mielke down eight shots in a row at the FOP and get totally stinking drunk.

Morales held the bottle out to Mielke.

Mielke shook his head as he went to the door. “Clean off the fingerprints and put it back in the cupboard. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

After returning to the double-wide with Ramona Pino, Clayton forced himself to stay awake. He wanted direct confirmation from Don Mielke that the dead man in Clifford Talbott’s ranch house was truly Brian Riley.

In the mobile command vehicle, he talked with Ramona for a while until she left to go home and get some sleep. Then he spent some time with Kerney filling him in on how close he’d come to finding Riley in Albuquerque, and how an Albuquerque cop had let Riley waltz right into the Minerva Stanley Robocker crime scene and drive away on the Harley.

Kerney, in turn, told Clayton about his analysis of the letters Denise Riley had written to her sister during the years she’d supposedly lived far away from Santa Fe, at times in foreign countries.

“When will you hear something?” Clayton asked.

“Tomorrow, hopefully.” Kerney looked at his wristwatch. “But maybe not. With all this snowfall, except for essential personnel, the governor will probably shut down all state offices. I imagine the mayor and the county commission will do the same.”

Clayton suddenly remembered he’d high-ended the Lincoln County S.O. unit on a boulder and had asked Mielke to send a tow truck to free it. “Do you know the status of the vehicle I was driving?” He wasn’t about to claim Riley’s assigned S.O. 4×4 as his own.

“It’s at the county yard in Santa Fe,” Kerney said, “and not going anywhere for a while. It has a broken front axle, a leaking radiator, two flat front tires, and a bent wheel. Paul Hewitt told me you ran into a deer recently and put your marked unit in the shop. Seems you’re rather hard on your assigned vehicles.”

“That deer ran into
me
. Can I borrow a P.D. vehicle?”

Kerney thought it over. “I’ve got a clunker in the headquarters parking lot that you can use.”

“Thanks a lot,” Clayton retorted, unable to keep a sarcastic tone out of his voice.

Kerney smiled pleasantly and was about to respond when a knock at the command vehicle door interrupted their exchange. The door opened to reveal the arrival of the medical investigator, an MD named Mark Trask who worked full-time for the state health department and did occasional on-call work for the Office of the Medical Investigator, headquartered in Albuquerque.

“Do you have a body for me to inspect?” Trask asked, stomping his boots on the carpet to shake off some clinging snow. Mark weighed in at a hefty two hundred and fifty pounds on a five-six frame, so the RV shook slightly underfoot.

“Not here,” Kerney said.

Trask flipped back the hood of his parka. His gray walrus mustache was wet with condensation and his eyes were tearing from the cold. “Then where might I find the deceased, Chief?”

“About five miles up on top of the mesa,” Kerney replied.

“Ah, and how am I to get there in this blizzard?”

“We’re in the process of securing appropriate transportation for you,” Kerney answered.

“Such as?”

“It could be a road grader, a snowplow, or as a passenger on a snowmobile.”

“Wonderful,” Trask said with a grimace, eyeing Clayton. “And who do we have here?”

Kerney said. “Sergeant Istee, this is Dr. Mark Trask.”

Trask reached out and firmly shook Clayton’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. Have either of you viewed the remains of the deceased?”

“No,” Kerney replied. “Don Mielke and one of his investigators are there now. We’re waiting for a report.”

Feeling as though he could fall asleep on his feet, Clayton was about to step outside and suck down some cold air when the door opened again and a man stepped inside. Tall with an angular face, he quickly took off his coat and nodded at Kerney and Trask before turning his attention to Clayton.

“We haven’t met. I’m Kirt Latimer, ADA.”

“Sergeant Clayton Istee, Lincoln County S.O.”

“Don Mielke told me on the phone this might be a case of justifiable homicide. Is that correct?”

“It’s likely.” Kerney turned to the built-in desk and picked up a palm-size tape recorder and several microcassette tapes, and handed them to Latimer. “Tape one is Clifford Talbott’s voluntary statement made immediately after he was taken into custody. Tape two is an in-depth interview with Talbott conducted soon after his arrest.”

Latimer juggled the cassette tapes in his hand. “But nothing of the suspect’s story has yet to be confirmed.”

“We’re waiting on Don Mielke,” Clayton said, “who is at the crime scene with one of his investigators.”

“What can you tell me about Talbott?”

“I’ll answer that,” Kerney said. “He’s a seventy-something white male, married, with one adult son, who lives in Moriarty. He has two grandchildren, a boy and a girl, I think, and was a state livestock inspector for thirty-five years before he retired. He owns a small ranch on the mesa that he inherited from his father and runs a herd of cattle on it during the spring and summer months.”

“How do you know all that?” Clayton asked.

“Because I’ve met Clifford Talbott several times before,” Kerney replied.

“Do you think he’s a cold-blooded killer?” Latimer inquired.

“Cold-blooded, no. But that’s only one of the fifty-seven varieties of killers I’ve met over the years.”

Conversation ended when Latimer started playing the tape recording of Talbott’s confession, and Clayton used the moment to put on his coat and step outside the command center. He took a deep breath and listened for the wind, but all was still and quiet. Heavy snow not only buried everything in a white blanket, it made the world miraculously fall silent for a time. It was a soundlessness like no other and always served to remind Clayton of how needlessly noisy life had become.

The momentary stillness passed with the faint but gradually growing sound of an engine, and soon Clayton could discern the full-throated, barely muffled growl of a snowmobile coming down the long driveway to the Riley double-wide. He watched as Mielke brought it to a stop next to the cluster of police vehicles parked in front of the deck to the double-wide.

Clayton walked through deep snow to greet Mielke. He waited to speak until Mielke removed his goggles, flipped back the hood of his parka, and took off his ski mask. “How did it look?” he asked.

“It appears to be just the way Talbott said it would be, and I don’t think anything was staged.”

“Can you confirm that Brian Riley is the deceased?”

“There’s no doubt about it. I saw his body. I searched his backpack and personal items and only found money and a small quantity of grass, nothing else.” Mielke unzipped his parka, reached inside, brought out a digital camera, and nodded toward the command center RV. “Who’s here?”

“Mark Trask, a medical investigator, and ADA Latimer are inside with Chief Kerney.”

“Good.” He waved the camera at Clayton. “I’ve got photographs of the crime scene we can download to a computer.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

Inside the mobile command center, Mielke downloaded directly to a computer software program that ran the photographs as a slide show. The four men clustered around Mielke in front of the monitor as he talked them through his preliminary investigation at the scene.

“Personally,” Mielke said, “I think that if Talbott hadn’t entered his house with his rifle, Riley would have shot him.”

“I believe I’ll declare the subject dead based on your graphic photographs and go home to a snifter of brandy,” Trask said.

“You have to personally inspect the body, Mark,” Latimer replied.

Trask sighed dramatically. “I know, but I’m just not a cold-weather person. Riding on the back of a snowmobile in a blizzard holds no appeal.”

“I’ve got a grader and a snowplow working on the country road from here to Talbott’s ranch,” Mielke said. “We should be able to travel by four-by-four to the crime scene within the hour. If we can’t get an ambulance up there, we’ll bring the body out the same way.”

Trask smiled. “That sounds much more agreeable.”

Mielke eyed Latimer. “Does this give you enough to make a decision on how to proceed?”

“I’ll meet with him, but I’m not willing to decline to prosecute until your investigation is complete. At best, I’ll think about filing an involuntary manslaughter charge, but I want him held overnight and brought before a magistrate judge for a preliminary hearing first thing in the morning. If everything continues to check out by then, I may agree to a reasonable bond.”

“With this storm, the courts may be closed tomorrow,” Mielke said.

“I’ll find a judge.”

Mielke turned to Kerney. “Do you have a question, Chief?”

“Is there any reason to believe that Talbott shot Riley, got his Smith and Wesson revolver from the bedroom, and put it in the dead boy’s hand?”

Mielke used the mouse to scroll through the sequence of photographs taken of Riley’s body. “As you can see, nothing looks staged. Tony Morales, my senior investigator, is dusting for prints. If we find Riley’s fingerprints on the bedroom dresser where Talbott kept his revolver, that will be fairly conclusive evidence that the weapon wasn’t planted on his body.”

Kerney nodded. “That makes sense.” He turned to Clayton. “Is there anything you’d like to add, Sergeant?”

“If anyone has any viable suspects in the murders of Deputy Tim Riley, his wife Denise, Minerva Stanley Robocker, and APD Officer Judy Connors, I’d love to know who they are.”

A tight-lipped silence greeted Clayton’s frustration.

“We’ll get the investigation back on track tomorrow,” Kerney promised.

Latimer, Trask, and Mielke nodded in agreement and left the command center.

“Let’s call it a night,” Kerney said.

“I’ll sleep here in the command center,” Clayton replied.

“That’s unacceptable. You’re coming home with me.”

“Can we even get to your place?”

“I’ll just bet we can.”

Driving home with three feet of fresh snow on the ground wasn’t the smartest decision Kerney ever made, but he managed to pull it off without getting stuck, although it took almost two hours to travel the fifteen or so miles from Cañoncito to his ranch.

Sara had all the outside lights on, and most of the inside lights were burning brightly as well, so during the slow ascent up the ranch road from the canyon, the house was an inviting beacon in the night.

Kerney parked, breathed a sigh of relief, and looked over at Clayton, who’d fallen asleep ten minutes into the drive, with his head resting against his wadded-up coat. He hadn’t moved a muscle since. Kerney shook Clayton hard to wake him.

Slowly Clayton opened his eyes. “That was speedy,” he said, talking through a yawn.

“Not really. You want something to eat? There’s some leftover green chili stew in the refrigerator.”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll take a shower, call Grace, and go to bed.”

“Okay.” Kerney killed the engine.

Clayton didn’t move.

“What is it?” Kerney asked.

“I’m flat out of ideas on how to catch this killer.”

“We haven’t exhausted all possible leads yet. Denise’s letters could give us something, and maybe the well house will yield some evidence. Sergeant Pino will be out there first thing in the morning.”

“Tell her to be very careful working in that snow,” Clayton said. “Moisture can easily destroy latent fingerprints and make it almost impossible to find any trace evidence.”

“Sergeant Pino is up to the task, Clayton.”

Clayton smiled and put his hand on the door handle. “Yeah, you’re right.”