Under the Color of Law (7 page)

Perry stood up.

"I'm unable to discuss that, but I'll keep you informed to the extent that I can. Let's get to it."

Outside, Kerney waited for Sal Molina to appear. Sunlight and an unseasonably warm day had melted the remaining snow on all but the foothills and mountains, and the intense blue sky seemed limitless. On the Interstate a steady stream of vehicles moved in both directions.

Molina came out the door in a hurry, cell phone in hand.

"That unattended death at the college was a homicide, Chief. A priest had his throat cut."

"Do you have any more specifics?"

"That's all I know. I can only spare one detective."

"I'll back him up," Kerney said.

"Great."

"Contact the Armed Forces Record Center in St. Louis. See if they'll release a copy of Ambassador Terrell's service jacket."

"You don't buy the killed-by-a-lover theory?"

"Right now I don't buy any theory. Since the feds have locked us out of the trade-mission slant, let's take a look at Terrell through the back door. Put someone on a computer, have him surf newspaper archives, and find out what Terrell did between the time he retired from active duty and his appointment as an ambassador. I want it as specific and complete as possible."

"You got it."

"And I want Proctor and Susan Straley interviewed by our people after the feds are finished with them."

"That will raise the feds' eyebrows." Molina watched as Kerney rubbed his chin and looked at him thoughtfully.

"Anything else?"

Kerney hesitated before responding. He had to start trusting his senior officers, otherwise he would never find out who he could count on.

"Find out who told Applewhite that we'd picked up Santiago Terjo for questioning. The information had to come from within the department."

"You want Internal Affairs to handle it?"

"No, you do it. Concentrate on the detectives, officers, and technicians who were at the crime scene."

Molina inclined his head toward the door.

"What in the hell was going on in there with you and Agent Perry?"

"It's old business," Kerney said.

"Make sure you put Applewhite and her partner under constant observation during the house search. I don't want anything else disappearing from the residence. Take photographs while you're there.

If Applewhite questions it, say it's department policy. Get me a few good shots of her."

Applewhite came out the door with another agent before Molina could ask what in the hell was going on.

"We're ready to roll, Chief," she said, with a nod and a smile in Molina's direction.

"Lieutenant Molina will guide you to the house," Kerney said as he stepped away to his unit.

After World War Two the College of Santa Fe, an independent institution founded by four Christian Brothers in 1859, had relocated from a site near the plaza to the surplus Fort Burns Army Hospital at the edge of town. Now besieged by urban sprawl and bordered by major roads, the campus was more or less tucked away from view except for the main entrance off St. Michael's Drive.

Over the past twenty years the college had built a reputation for its liberal arts, performance, and fine arts programs.

Kerney drove past the flashy new garnet-red Visual Arts Center, an ultramodern building of exceedingly sharp angles, rows of geometrically square and rectangular windows, stiff jutting cornices, and pyramid domes, to the old army barracks, where two squad cars, an unmarked unit, a crime-tech vehicle, and an ambulance were parked.

Officer Herrera once again stood guard, positioned at the gate to the courtyard entrance with clipboard in hand next to a sign that read,

"Christian Brothers Residence."

Kerney wondered if Herrera was good at anything other than checking people in and out of crime scenes. He had his doubts.

He sat in his car for a long minute looking at the barracks, which sported new roofs and siding, but clearly proclaimed a wartime heritage.

Although brown and dormant, the courtyard was a showcase of ardent gardening and careful landscaping, with curving walkways, carefully pruned shrubs, a grass lawn, mulched flower-beds, and ornamental trees.

Around the perimeter of the buildings mature pine and cedar trees over arched the roofs and provided screening.

Kerney wondered how long it would be before the college tore the barracks down, and hoped it never happened. Not every structure worth saving had to be an architectural marvel, and there was something to be said for preserving a few reminders of a time when the country had been defended by millions of citizen soldiers.

"Did you see the body?" Kerney asked as he signed in with Herrera.

"Just for a minute," Cloudy answered.

"Then Sergeant Catanach arrived and stationed me out here."

"Did you detain any witnesses?"

"Like I said, Chief, the sergeant took over."

Kerney looked into Herrera's dull gray eyes and decided to trust the hunch that popped up.

"Did anyone from outside the department come by the Terrell crime scene yesterday?"

"Yeah, an FBI agent stopped by just before I was relieved. Some woman.

I don't remember her name. Applegate, or something like that."

"What did she want?"

"Just to know what was happening with the case."

"And?" Kerney prodded, trying to keep a scolding tone out of his voice.

"I filled her in."

"What did you tell her?"

"That we had a suspect, the Mexican guy."

"Did she ask permission to inspect the crime scene?"

"No."

"Did you document the conversation?" Kerney asked.

"What for?" Herrera said with a shrug.

Kerney forced a smile.

"Contact Lieutenant Molina, tell him what you told me, and write up a supplemental report. Have it ready for me before I leave."

Herrera shrugged again.

"Okay."

Sergeant Tony Catanach was in the dining room where he had assembled the brothers, who sat clustered together silently at two tables. Kerney scanned the group: all the men were middle aged or older; but some were dressed in casual civilian attire, while others wore clerical garb.

Several had their heads bowed in prayer.

Catanach gave an approving glance at Kerney's uniform and stepped into the hallway. A young man in his early thirties and a five-year veteran of the force, he was a newly minted sergeant who took his job seriously.

"I was just about to start taking statements, Chief," he said.

"Bring me up to speed."

"The victim is Father Joseph Mitchell, a Maryknoll priest. His throat was slashed. Entry may have been gained either through an unlocked window or a door."

Along the corridor of the nicely remodeled barracks a series of doors gave access to the dining room, a library, a large lounge, an entertainment room, and a chapel.

"Where's the body?" Kerney asked.

Catanach inclined his head toward the row of hallway windows that looked out on the courtyard and an adjacent two-story barracks, connected to the common area by a passageway.

"The brothers' bedrooms are across the way. Father Mitchell had a first-floor room right inside a door that leads directly to the courtyard. The screen was off his unlatched window, but all the others are still in place. Nobody can remember if the entrance closest to Mitchell's room was locked or not. The brothers aren't real concerned about security. There isn't any sign of forced entry, and if you walk around you'll see four more doors that also could have been used by the killer to gain entry."

"Have you got everyone here?"

"No," Catanach said.

"There are twelve residents, if you count Father Mitchell.

Seven are in the dining room and four of the brothers are in their offices canceling their classes. They'll be back in twenty minutes.

I've asked them not to discuss Father Mitchell's death."

Catanach consulted a pocket notebook.

"Robbery may have been the motive, Chief.

A laptop and desktop computer were taken, along with a tape recorder, a camera, and a VCR. Detective Sloan is in the room waiting for the body to be removed."

"What do you know about the victim?"

"Not much, yet. He was a visiting scholar-in-residence working on a research project. Brother Jerome Brodsky, chair of the social science department, supposedly knows the most about Father Mitchell. He'll be back in twenty."

"What else?" Kerney asked.

"Check out the knife wound, Chief. One deep cut at the jugular. No hesitation marks, nothing sloppy, and no cuts on the victim's hands to indicate any struggle with his attacker. I'd say the priest was probably asleep at the time."

"I'll take a look and be back to help take statements," Kerney said.

Bobby Sloan, a thirty-year veteran of the department, pulled back the sheet covering Father Mitchell's body.

"A clean kill," he said to Kerney.

"This wasn't done by your typical addict looking to steal something so he could fence it and score. The incision is deepest right at the jugular. The killer knows his anatomy."

Kerney agreed, the angled wound was clean, sharp, and long, slicing through the jugular, an axillary vein, and the larynx. The cut had been made where a trained assassin would strike with a knife, and the edges of the wound were close together. Blood had flowed freely.

Kerney scrutinized the dead man's face. His gray hair was cropped short and receded at the temples. Age lines around the mouth and eyes and a fullness to the cheeks suggested the priest had seen the passage of five decades, maybe more.

"Seen enough?" Sloan asked.

Kerney nodded.

Sloan nipped the cover over Mitchell's face and gestured to the two paramedics who waited in the hall with a collapsible gurney. The men stepped inside and removed the body while Kerney and Sloan stood to one side.

The sleeping room was small, no more than a hundred square feet, with a tiny adjacent bathroom. The furniture consisted of a twin bed, a bedside table, a student-size writing desk, and an almost empty bookcase-all obviously postwar items bought at surplus. In one corner a built-in shelf and rod served as a clothes closet.

"We've searched the room, photographed, and vacuumed," Sloan said.

"The techs are dusting every door to the building for prints," Sloan said.

"There are no tool marks on the doors or windows suggesting forced entry. The ground froze last night, but we've found no footprints outside the window."

"What was on the bookcase?" Kerney asked.

"Before he left for his office, Brother Jerome said it was mostly empty.

But you know, Chief, with two computers you'd think there would be a box or two of floppy disks around. There weren't any in the room."

"Any personal items?" Kerney asked.

"Nothing in his clothes. But we did find some letters from his mother in Houston. He had a Louisiana driver's license with a New Orleans address that checked out to be a Catholic seminary. New Orleans PD is making contact."

Only a few investigators from Kerney's earlier tenure as chief of detectives still remained with the department, and Sloan was one of them. From past experience Kerney knew him to be reliable, hardworking, and a straight talker.

Somewhat older than Kerney, Sloan had a missing tooth near the front of his mouth and an unconscious habit of probing it with his tongue.

Through the window Kerney saw Officer Herrera lounging against the fender of his squad car, smoking a cigarette, watching the ambulance drive away.

"Tell me about Herrera, Bobby," Kerney said.

Sloan snorted.

"As a cop he's worthless, Chief, and as a person he's piss-poor company.

The last chief didn't have the balls to can him. His uncle is on the city council. Serves on the finance committee."

"I see."

"You need anything else from me?" Sloan asked.

"Continue with the crime-scene work-up," Kerney replied.

"I'll help Catanach take the witness statements."

"That's a big help," Sloan said.

"How do you like being back with the department, Chief?"

"I'm glad to be back, Bobby."

Sloan grinned.

"Just don't sweat the small stuff, Chief. Most of us know what we're doing."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Along with the clerics in residence two women employees worked as housekeepers and cooks. Sergeant Catanach had rounded them up with the brothers and was in the dining room conducting interviews. Kerney took over the lounge, a large room with a stone fireplace, comfortable easy chairs, and an overflowing wall of hook shelves, and began taking statements.

Kerney learned very little about Father Mitchell from the people he interviewed.

An historian working on a compendium of late twentieth-century military aid to South American countries, Father Mitchell had been in residence slightly less than a year. He rarely discussed his work and when engaged in conversation about it responded very vaguely. The brothers knew Mitchell had served as an army chaplain, had taught for a spell at a Midwest Catholic college, and held an advanced degree from an Ivy League university. He'd been murdered a week short of his fifty-ninth birthday.

Brother Jerome, chair of the social science department, was the last faculty member to return from his office. A tall, reserved, intelligent-looking man in his early sixties, dressed in a clerical robe, he sat across from Kerney with his hands folded in his lap. Only the rapid blinking of his eyes gave a hint of his dismay and shock about Father Mitchell's murder.

"You found Father Joseph," Kerney said.

"Yes. He'd missed morning prayers and didn't appear for breakfast. I thought he might be sick."