He looked for Sara on the way out, found her in Sal Molina’s office at the computer, and told her he’d be back shortly. He clamped his mouth shut to avoid asking if she was all right.
She waved him away with her hand, and he left the building trying to convince himself the day could only get better.
Chapter 6
M echanical problems with the plane delayed Norm Kaplan’s arrival in Albuquerque by over four hours. From the second-level observation deck, Santa Fe Police Officer Seth Neal, who’d been cooling his heels all that time, watched the plane land, turn, and taxi slowly to the terminal. He walked to the gate and asked the woman at the check-in counter to have a flight attendant advise Kaplan that a police officer would be waiting for him when he deplaned. He reassured her that everything was cool, and the woman’s somewhat startled, questioning look disappeared.
Neal, who normally rode a motorcycle during the summer months and drove a squad car the rest of the year, didn’t particularly like the assignment he’d been given. As a traffic officer, Neal’s notion of a good day at work consisted of writing tickets, running speed traps, investigating accidents, pulling dignitary escort details, and busting drunk drivers.
Conspicuous in his uniform with tight-fitting pants and motorcycle boots, Neal stood to one side of the open jetway door as the first-class passengers hurried past, casting curious glances in his direction. A tall man dressed in jeans and an expensive pumice-colored linen sport coat broke ranks and veered toward him.
“Mr. Kaplan?” Neal inquired.
Kaplan nodded. A pained, tired expression carved deep lines around his mouth. “Have you caught Jack’s killer?” he asked.
“No, sir. I’m here to escort you to Santa Fe.”
“Why?”
“The detectives need to speak with you as soon as possible,” Neal replied.
“I have my own car,” Kaplan replied.
“Yes, sir, I know. I’ll take you to it, and follow you to Santa Fe.”
“Why do you need to do that?” Kaplan asked, his eyes searching Neal’s face.
“It’s just a precaution,” Neal replied. “Did you check any luggage?”
“What kind of precaution?” Kaplan asked, his voice rising.
Neal touched Kaplan’s arm to get him moving. “The detectives will explain it. Do you have any luggage checked?”
Kaplan nodded and Neal prodded him down the long corridor toward the lower level. In the baggage claim area, Neal kept Kaplan away from the passengers who ringed the carousel waiting for their luggage to arrive as he searched the crowd looking for any suspicious characters.
As luggage began tumbling down the conveyer belt, Kaplan asked questions about the investigation. Neal told him what he knew, which wasn’t much, and Kaplan groused about the scantiness of the information.
Kaplan spied his bag, grabbed it, and Neal drove him to the off-site lot where his car was parked. He made Kaplan wait in the unit and did a visual inspection of the vehicle. He returned and ordered Kaplan to stay in the squad car.
“Why?”
“There’s a dead dog on the driver’s seat,” Neal said.
“Oh my God,” Kaplan said, his voice cracking. “What kind of dog?”
“I don’t know,” Neal said, as he reached for his cell phone to ask Santa Fe for instructions. “But we’re gonna be here for a while.”
He didn’t tell Kaplan that the dog had been beheaded.
Sid Larranaga paced in front of his big oak desk, built by prison inmates. On it was a plaque with Larranaga’s name carved in script, bordered on each side by the sun symbol of the state flag, which had been borrowed from a nineteenth-century Zia Pueblo pottery design.
Originally the symbol-a circle with lines radiating out in the four major directions of the compass-represented the stages of life, the cycle of the seasons, and the sacred obligations of the Zia people: clear minds, strong bodies, pure spirits, and devotion to the welfare of the tribe.
The design had been adopted in 1925, but to this day there were tribal members who didn’t appreciate the state ripping-off a hallowed religious symbol without the Pueblos’ permission.
Kerney waited for Sid to stop pacing. No longer the Young Turk politician who’d been swept into office and reelected district attorney a second time, Larranaga had put on some weight. His pudgy stomach jiggled a bit over a tightly cinched belt.
Sid sank into an overstuffed chair, took a cigar out of a humidor that sat on the corner of the desk, clamped it between his teeth, left it unlit, and stared at Kerney with a perplexed frown on his face.
He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at Kerney. “You can’t possibly believe that Larsen’s death was justifiable. Thirty-five rounds fired by your people and Larsen shot three times in the back. Give me a break.”
“That’s not the issue,” Kerney replied.
Larranaga snorted. “If that’s not a perfect example of overkill, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s impossible to precisely forecast the level of threat to an officer. Larsen ran to elude questioning, and Detective Pino’s assumption that he was armed proved to be correct. That made it a high-risk situation. Furthermore, Larsen initiated a deadly assault, which put the officers’ lives in jeopardy.”
“I’m not questioning that,” Sid replied, dropping the unlit cigar into an ashtray. “What I have a problem with is the fact that your people had an overwhelming advantage over Larsen. Why didn’t they retreat, take cover, and give him a verbal warning?”
“My people were fired upon by a concealed subject in dense cover without provocation,” Kerney replied. “They had no time to retreat, but a warning was given.”
“Yeah, while they were pumping automatic fire at him,” Larranaga replied. “Some warning.”
“You don’t know that,” Kerney said. “Are these the kind of tactics you plan to use with the grand jury?”
Sid’s expression turned angry and his hand gripped the arm of the chair. “Maybe,” he snapped, “and just maybe I’ll tantalize them further with the fact that Larsen wasn’t a fugitive from justice, didn’t kill Jack Potter, and had an extensive psychiatric history.”
“Will you carefully leave out the point that he had a prior arrest for assault involving a handgun and, as a mental patient, was in illegal possession of a 9mm semi-automatic? What are you trying to do, Sid, be the crusading DA who cleans out a nest of trigger-happy cops, so you can get a leg up on an appointment to the bench?”
Sid took a deep breath and shook his head. “Don’t bait me, Kerney. This isn’t political. Look, I told you yesterday, you needed to show me evidence that the officers were forced to stop an attack. You’ve managed to do that, just barely. But you know the disparity of force was overwhelmingly in favor of the team that went in to get Larsen.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to ask the grand jury to return a true bill of indictment charging involuntary manslaughter against the officers,” Kerney said. “Do you really want to take this to trial? What if a jury doesn’t agree?”
Larranaga threw a hand in the air. “What’s my alternative?”
“Have the grand jury investigate the department’s use of force policies, SWAT procedures, and guidelines for dealing with mentally ill subjects. I’ll cooperate fully.”
“A slap on the wrist isn’t going to cut it.”
“I’m talking about using the incident to make constructive changes.”
“Besides that wonderful plum, what else are you willing to give me?” Sid asked.
As with most police departments, the SWAT team consisted of personnel who served on it in addition to their normal duties, which gave Kerney some disciplinary options. “I’ll permanently remove the SWAT commander from his position and place the other three officers on suspended SWAT status pending completion of remedial training.”