The mobile command center was an oversize recreational vehicle crammed with communication equipment, computers, workstations, and now several more cops to add to the assembled crowd. Kruger pushed his way to the front of the vehicle, introduced Kerney and Clayton, and asked his homicide captain, Jerry Apodaca, to start the briefing.
Apodaca reported that the sliding glass door to the balcony of Robocker’s apartment showed tool marks and had been jimmied open. He noted that shoe scuff marks had been found on the exterior stucco wall below the balcony and there were telltale abrasions on the balcony’s painted wrought iron railing, suggesting that the perp had used a rope and climbed to reach Robocker’s bedroom. A motion-detection pathway light behind Robocker’s building had been disabled by the perp to provide concealment, and none of the residents with a view of the victim’s apartment balcony reported hearing or seeing anything unusual around the time of the murders.
Although Apodaca wasn’t certain about the sequence of events that occurred after the perp gained entry, the medical investigator had concluded that Officer Connors had suffered a blunt-force trauma to the head prior to being shot, which suggested the perp first disabled and disarmed the officer before proceeding with the executions. There was, Apodaca, said, no other way to describe the killings.
Apodaca reported that given the body temperature of both dead women, the MI estimated the killings took place no more than a hour before Detective Armijo and Sergeant Istee arrived at the apartment. He ended his presentation by noting the perp had to be well trained and in good physical shape to have successfully climbed into Robocker’s apartment.
Next up was Armijo’s lieutenant, Doug Bromilow, who ran down the sequence of events that led to the discovery of the marijuana factory in Four Hills. He deferred to Lee Armijo to provide the alleged tie-in between Morton Birch, Minerva Stanley Robocker, and Brian Riley, and then retook center stage to note that his ongoing investigation had yet to learn anything from the suspects, their known associates, witnesses, or neighbors that connected Brian Riley to any person who was part of the marijuana manufacturing and distribution scheme.
Kerney and Clayton finished up the session with a background synopsis that included the current status of the Santa Fe and Lincoln County murder investigations. Then Kruger asked for questions from the troops. The most persistent issue that surfaced, and rightfully so, was the total absence of a motive that would clearly connect the murders.
A few of the APD brass questioned the theory of a single shooter, but there was consensus that the killings were neither crimes of passion nor the work of amateurs. Kerney almost thanked the group for their stunning insight, but held back on the sarcasm and instead made a pitch to concentrate all efforts on finding the one person who might be most helpful to the investigations, Brian Riley.
The briefing ended with Kruger ordering his troops to go find Brian Riley pronto. After the exodus of officers from the stuffy, sweaty, mobile command center, Kerney watched Chief Kruger hurry down toward a small gathering of news reporters waiting behind a police barrier.
“I can’t be your tour guide anymore, gentlemen,” Armijo said. “My LT wants me to head back to the office and do my shift reports.”
“Thanks for your help,” Clayton said, shaking Armijo’s hand.
“Anytime,” Armijo said as he tossed off a causal hand salute in Kerney’s direction.
Kerney returned the salute. “Thanks, Detective.”
“Sure thing, Chief.” Armijo ambled away in the direction of his unmarked unit.
Clayton turned to Kerney. “Can you drop me off at my motel so I can pick up my stuff and check out?”
“Sure,” Kerney said, “but don’t check out. Get some rack time. You look like you could use the sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re running on fumes,” Kerney countered, “and I don’t need you searching for Brian Riley in that condition. Not when just about everyone who wears a shield in this state is looking for the kid.”
“This is my investigation and I can pull my own weight,” Clayton said hotly, giving Kerney an antagonistic look.
Kerney inched closer. “I’m not asking you, Sergeant. You’re off duty for at least the next eight hours. Do I make myself clear?”
For a moment Clayton remained silent, staring Kerney in the eye. Then for some unknown reason he smiled and started to laugh.
“Okay, you win, what’s so funny?” Kerney asked.
Still laughing, Clayton waved off Kerney’s question. “Nothing. Just a thought I had.”
“What thought?”
“You really want to know?”
“I do.”
Clayton stopped laughing, looked at Kerney, and shook his head. “Well, it may not be funny to you, but for the first time in my entire life, my father just ordered me to go to my room and to go to bed.”
Clayton walked away and started laughing again.
“That is pretty funny,” Kerney said as he caught up.
“And ridiculous too,” Clayton added.
The motel was a short drive from the crime scene, and by the time they arrived, Clayton was asleep and snoring heavily, his head resting against the glass of the passenger-side window. Kerney sat and watched him for a few minutes before gently shaking him awake.
Clayton rubbed his face with his hands, covered a yawn, and gave Kerney a sideways glance. “If it’s all right with you, Chief, I think I’ll catch a couple hours of shut-eye.”
“That’s a good idea,” Kerney replied. “I’ll see you in Santa Fe later in the day.”
Clayton got out of the unit and looked in at Kerney. “See you then.”
On the drive back to Santa Fe, Kerney thought about the letters Denise Riley had written home to her sister Helen Muiz during the years she’d lived away from her family. He’d only given them a quick look and hadn’t formed a clear impression, but there was something hackneyed about them, especially in the later letters Denise had written. It was as though, with the passage of time, she’d depleted her storehouse of fresh things to write home about. He wanted to analyze the letters to see if he could isolate any repetitive words or phrases Denise used, identify any stock comments or observations she made, and find any threads in the letters that might point to thinly disguised, reworked fabrications.
The fact that the federal government had no record of Denise ever applying for a passport, being issued one, or traveling outside of the United States had piqued Kerney’s interest. Once he finished analyzing the letters, he would deliver them to the Department of Public Safety crime lab and ask the Questioned Documents specialist to do a thorough analysis. He wanted to know what type of pens and inks were used, the manufacture of the paper and envelopes, if the stamps and cancellation marks were authentic, whether the handwriting was Denise’s, and if so, was consistent throughout the letters—everything the specialist could tell him.
And of course, he wanted to have the answers right away.
Chapter Nine
Loud pounding at the motel room door brought Clayton out of a deep, dreamless sleep. He rolled over, opened an eye, and tried to focus on the tabletop clock radio. It was exactly three hours since his head had hit the pillow. Light-headed and groggy, he got out of bed, padded barefoot to the door, and looked through the security peephole. Detective Lee Armijo was about to pound away again on the door.
“Okay, okay,” Clayton yelled, hitting the light switch and opening up. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he asked as Armijo stepped inside.
“I’m a narc,” Lee replied. “We all take drugs to stay awake.” There were dark rings under his eyes. “Get dressed while I make the coffee. I figure that’s probably your drug of choice.”