“Let me see them,” Clayton asked without changing expression.
Russell Thorpe climbed into the trailer and returned with an evidence box containing the boots. Clayton opened the box and examined them, paying particular attention to the heel of the right shoe, looking for wear along the outer edge. There wasn’t any.
“I’d like to see all of the footwear,” he said.
“I checked them already,” Thorpe said, “to see if I could get a match with the shoe impressions I found on Chief Kerney’s property.”
“And?” Clayton asked.
Thorpe shrugged. “Nothing. Olsen must have gotten rid of them. But what’s strange is that all the shoes in Olsen’s closet are a size and a half larger than the prints left outside Chief Kerney’s horse barn.”
“Let’s take a look,” Clayton said.
Inside the house, Clayton sat on the bedroom floor and examined every right-foot shoe in Olsen’s closet while Ramona and Thorpe watched.
“What are you looking for?” Thorpe asked.
“For something I learned in the FBI footwear and tire tread evidence course I took,” Clayton said. “People walk heel to toe. The deepest impression is usually from the heel, which, along with the arch, bears most of the body’s weight. The impressions I saw on the trail had a slightly deeper heel strike along the outer edge of the right shoe, which should show up as a wear characteristic on the bottom of these shoes.”
Thorpe studied the heel of a right-foot athletic sneaker. “I don’t see it.”
“Because it’s not there,” Clayton said. “His stride indicated he was moving at a fast walk and not carrying anything heavy which might have shifted his balance.”
“How can you be so sure?” Ramona asked.
“The depth of the print is the key, along with the distance between the tracks he left behind.”
“So what does that tell us?” Thorpe asked.
“I’m not certain,” Clayton replied. “You said the casting impressions you made in Santa Fe were a size and a half smaller.”
“Yeah, but I left those with forensics,” Thorpe said. “I compared my photographs with Olsen’s boots and came up with the difference in size.”
“I’d like to see those pictures,” Clayton said.
Thorpe nodded, left, and returned with the photos. “Why would Olsen cram his feet into a smaller shoe?” he asked as he handed them to Istee.
“I don’t know,” Clayton answered, as he studied the photos. Thorpe had done it the right way by laying a ruler alongside each print before taking the picture. He memorized the tread design. “Maybe he’s got an accomplice.” He looked up at Pino. “Who’s been on the property today?”
“Aside from the officers who are here, a six-man SWAT team.”
“Wearing combat boots, right?” Clayton asked as he got to his feet and handed Thorpe the photos.
Ramona nodded.
“I’m going to take a look around,” Clayton said.
“Aren’t you here only to observe?” Ramona asked.
“Looking around is observing,” Clayton replied.
“There have been people trampling all over the place,” Thorpe said.
“It’s never too late to look,” Clayton replied as he left the room.
It took Clayton thirty minutes to find two prints that matched those Thorpe had found on Kerney’s land, one partial impression in the toolshed on an oil stain under the fifty-five-gallon drum where the stolen paintings had been stashed, and an almost perfect print in a shallow arroyo near the old windmill.
He showed them to Pino and Thorpe. “Where are the shoes that made these?” he asked.
“He’s kept them to use again,” Thorpe suggested.
Ramona shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would Olsen leave all the evidence that we can tie to the crime scenes in plain view for us to find, except for one pair of too-small shoes?”
“Exactly,” Clayton said, looking at Pino and Thorpe. “Now, what about the blue van?”
“I didn’t find any tread marks from it,” Thorpe replied with a boyish grin. “But I suppose it’s not too late to look again.”
“Smart thinking,” Clayton said, giving Thorpe a small smile in return.
“I’ll get the photos,” Thorpe said.
With the photos in hand, Clayton, Pino, and Thorpe began a grid search of the driveway, an area around the front of the house, and a section of the country road. A short time later, Clayton stood on the part of the gravel driveway Olsen used as a turnaround and studied some overlapping tire tracks. He knelt down, spotted two impressions identical to the treads from the rear tires of the blue van, looked around a bit more, and called Thorpe and Pino over.
“The car was towed behind the van,” he said when they arrived. He showed them how the passenger car’s tire impressions cut across the front treads of the van at a sharp angle. “I think that pretty much wipes out the accomplice theory. Why bother to tow a vehicle if you’ve got a second driver?”
“It also explains what he used for transportation after he left the van in front of the municipal court,” Ramona said.
“But what about the shoe prints?” Thorpe asked.
“It’s gotta mean something,” Clayton said as he watched the two agents who’d been loading evidence lock the doors to the trailer. He turned to Pino. “You said most of what you seized inside the house was in plain view.”
“Pretty much,” Pino said.
“And you didn’t have one solid lead about Olsen’s identity until he killed his former parole officer.”
“Basically, yes,” Thorpe replied.
“Well, for a guy who’s supposedly real smart, that was a pretty stupid thing to do,” Clayton said, “because it brought you right to his front door.”
“So he screwed up and made a mistake,” Thorpe said.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Clayton said with a dismissive shake of his head. “Everything I read in the case files Detective Pino gave me last night argues against that kind of a screw-up. Until Drake’s murder, all you had were little bits and pieces of miscellaneous evidence and no hard-target suspect. Then, bingo, everything falls into place, neat as a pin.”
“You’re saying it’s far too convenient,” Ramona said.
“Staged might be a better word,” Clayton replied.
“Except for the shoe prints,” Thorpe said.
“Maybe he isn’t coming back here,” Ramona said.
“That’s possible,” Clayton said. “What showed up when you tossed the house?”
Ramona shook her head. “Not much. We pretty much found what we were looking for on the first pass.”
“Let’s take a closer look inside for more anomalies. He’d need money if he plans to disappear after he’s done with the killing.”
“More observing, Sergeant?” Ramona asked.
“Exactly,” Clayton answered.
“We didn’t find any money,” Thorpe said.
“It won’t hurt to look again,” Clayton replied.
“I guess not,” Thorpe said, with a grin.
Sergeant Cruz Tafoya went hunting for Noel Olsen’s parents, Stanley and Meredith, who were listed in the phone book but either away from home or not taking calls. Stanley, according to the information contained in the old case file, was a dentist, so Tafoya went to Olsen’s last known office address only to learn that he’d sold his practice some years ago and taken a job with the Indian Health Service.
Tafoya checked with the Indian Hospital on Cerrillos Road and learned that Olsen was still employed by the IHS, but out of town doing his monthly rounds of regularly scheduled appointments at clinics on the Navajo Reservation. He asked about Mrs. Olsen’s whereabouts and was told she didn’t work and was something of a recluse.
The home address for the couple didn’t register with Tafoya, so he looked it up in the county street map guide. The Olsens lived in Eldorado, a rural, middle-class subdivision ten miles southeast of Santa Fe along U.S. Highway 285.
Thirty years ago, when the subdivision was new and still relatively undeveloped, Tafoya’s uncle, Benny, had managed the privately owned water utility that served the small cluster of new houses near the old ranch headquarters that had been turned into a real estate office.