Death Song: A Kevin Kerney Novel

Chapter One

The week had been a long grind for Sergeant Clayton Istee. On paper he’d been scheduled to pull four ten-hour shifts, but the demands of the job had turned his workweek into five twelve-hour days.

In small, underfunded, undermanned law enforcement agencies, officers routinely carried out multiple assignments that required constant juggling of their time and priorities. The Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office was no different, and while Clayton’s primary duties consisted of supervising patrol deputies and serving as lead investigator for all major felony cases, he’d recently taken on the additional responsibility of training supervisor for the department. As a result, he’d been forced to work overtime and put in an extra day on the job to get a newly hired deputy up to speed.

In general, Clayton enjoyed the variety that came with his job and had no complaints, other than he didn’t get to see his family enough. From a professional standpoint, the time he’d spent with the Lincoln County S.O. had been much more satisfying and rewarding than the years he’d worked as an officer with the Mescalero Apache Tribal Police. But five twelve-hour days in a row was pushing it even for Clayton, and he was eager to end the week and get home at a reasonable hour.

The new deputy, Tim Riley, a certified police officer with six years’ experience, had spent most of the week in Clayton’s company learning the ropes. Clayton had toured Riley through the back roads and out-of-the-way places in the county, introduced him to criminal justice and law enforcement personnel, walked him through the county jail, and showed him some of the best places to run radar.

He coached Riley on department protocols and procedures, watched him conduct traffic stops, had him handle a report of a gas skip at a convenience store, and showed him where some of the badass felons and sexual predators on parole from the state pen lived. Now the only thing that stood in the way of turning Riley loose on his own was getting him certified with his department-issued firearms.

On Friday afternoon Clayton drove Riley to the range the S.O. used for weapons recertification, where a state police firearms instructor from Roswell was standing by to test Riley’s proficiency with a .45 semiautomatic and a pump-action shotgun.

A quiet man in his mid-forties, Riley was more than ten years older than Clayton, but the differences in their rank and age didn’t appear to be a problem. Riley had a low-key, pleasant personality, wasn’t bothered by long periods of silence, and rarely made small talk. By the end of the week, Clayton knew very little about the man other than he was married, had a grown son from a prior marriage, and was a retired air force master sergeant.

Riley’s five foot, ten inch frame matched Clayton’s height, and although he carried a few extra pounds around his gut, he looked to be in good physical shape. He had brown eyes and a long narrow face that gave him a somewhat serious look that was offset by an easy smile.

At the firing range, Clayton turned Riley over to the instructor, and watched from his unit to avoid the swirling, chilly March wind. First the instructor went over the range protocols and walked Riley through the outdoor combat pistol range, showing Riley what to expect on the course. Just as Riley was about to start a dry-fire practice run with the pop-up targets hidden from view, the wind kicked up a dust devil that obscured him from Clayton’s sight. When the wind subsided and the dust settled, Riley ran the course with ease, holstering his weapon while moving from one concealment point to the next, assuming a proper shooting stance at each firing station.

Riley returned to the starting line, where he donned protective eyewear, loaded his weapon with live ammo, put extra magazine clips in the pouches on his belt, and waited for the instructor’s signal to go. When it came, Clayton tracked Riley’s progress with binoculars. After Riley finished, the instructor inspected the targets, tallied the score, and gave Clayton a thumbs-up sign. Then he moved Riley over to the adjacent stationary target range and tested him with the shotgun. Once live firing ceased, Clayton joined the instructor behind the firing line while Riley went downrange on the handgun course to pick up his spent brass.

Good shooting, the state cop said, handing Clayton the paperwork. Riley had qualified as an expert marksman with both his department-issued 45-caliber semiautomatic and the twelve-gauge pump shotgun.

Excellent, Clayton said as he slipped the signed paperwork into Riley’s training file, went downrange, and gave his new deputy the good news.

Riley smiled slightly as he dumped his spent brass into a rusty coffee can. I thought I did okay.

Clayton nodded. More than okay. Let’s head back to the office. Sheriff Hewitt will want to talk to you.

Riley feigned a worried look. Am I in trouble already?

Clayton laughed and shook his head. No, he just wants to give you his traditional pep talk before he cuts you loose on patrol.

The new guy speech? Riley asked as he slipped a fresh magazine into his .45.

Exactly.

Riley holstered his weapon. Thanks for your help this week.

Not a problem. Welcome to the Lincoln County S.O. I think you’ll do just fine.

Riley laughed. Believe me, I’m glad to be here.

On the drive to the sheriff’s office in Carrizozo, the county seat, Clayton glanced at the dashboard clock. It looked like he would actually keep his promise to Grace to get home on time, so he could look after Wendell and Hannah while she attended an evening meeting of the Mescalero Apache Tribal Council.

Grace ran the child development center on the reservation and was scheduled to give her annual report and submit a budget request for additional funding. She’d been working hard on the project all week long.

In Carrizozo, Clayton took Riley into Sheriff Paul Hewitt’s den of an office and sat quietly while Hewitt gave the new deputy his spiel about teamwork, the importance of the chain of command, his vision of community policing, and other weighty matters. The meeting ended with Riley amiably agreeing to work a double that evening to cover for an officer who’d called in sick.

Hewitt held Clayton back after Riley left. In his fifties, Hewitt was serving his last term as sheriff and would retire when it expired. He sat behind his big desk, kicked back in his chair with his cowboy boots up on the desk, rubbed his chin, and shot Clayton one of his patented give it to me straight looks.

You’ve had Riley under your wing for a week. What do you think of him?

He’s solid, levelheaded, and intelligent, Clayton said. Takes direction and supervision well. The only question I have is why he never made any rank at his old job.

Did you ask him about it?

Yeah. He said he likes patrol duty, likes being on the street, doesn’t care much about moving up the chain of command, especially after being a top sergeant in the military.

Do you buy it? Hewitt asked.

Clayton shrugged. Why not? Don’t you?

It’s possible, Hewitt said as he paged through the training report Clayton had assembled on Riley and the personnel records that his previous employer, the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Office, had sent down. He got solid performance evaluations in his old job and was promoted to deputy three, which is equivalent to a corporal’s rank.

Did you talk to the Santa Fe County sheriff about Riley? Clayton asked.

Hewitt closed the paperwork and got to his feet. Yep, and he reassured me that I wasn’t getting a reject or a screwup from his department. Said he was sorry to lose him. So let’s hope Riley works out, likes it here, and stays with us.

That would be nice, Clayton said.

Don’t you need to get home so Grace can go to an important meeting or some such?

Affirmative, Clayton said, rising to his feet.

Hewitt grinned. Well, then, get the hell out of here, Sergeant, so I don’t have to pay you any more overtime this week. Enjoy your days off.

Clayton threw Hewitt a quick salute on his way out the door, dumped his files into his desk drawer, locked it, went to his unit, and started home to the Rez.

After an unusually wet summer and fall, winter in New Mexico had failed to materialize. From December on, the days had been unseasonably warm and no measurable moisture had fallen. The mountains were bare of snow, and last summer’s lush grasslands were now straw-colored tinder fields ready to explode into raging wildfires caused by a lightning strike, a careless smoker, or campfire embers kicked up by the wind.

Clayton took his favorite route home, driving the road that crossed the river by the old stone stables of Fort Stanton, an authentic nineteenth-century U.S. Army fort where General Blackjack Pershing had once served as a young officer. He passed the maritime cemetery where some World War Two German POWs were buried, and navigated a series of curves to the top of the mesa, where two dark and heavily forested mountain ranges filled the horizon east and west, sharp against a clear, cloudless sky.

A regional airport on the mesa served mainly private planes. Most of the rest of the tabletop land was state and federal, which kept the real estate developers at bay. But in the grassland valleys, vacation homes and five-acre ranchettes dotted the landscape, and on the private land near the town of Ruidoso, high-end gated communities with homes on million-dollar-view lots peppered the mesa.

Touted by the local politicos as evidence of a growing local economy, more subdivisions to serve the upscale vacation home market were in the planning stage. But Clayton didn’t think that building second and third houses for very rich boomers benefited the area in any meaningful way.

The sun, bright in a cloudless sky, hovered at the tip of the Sierra Blanca Mountains. Clayton lowered the visor to cut the intense glare and reached for his sunglasses. When he glanced up, a deer attempting to hurdle the hood of his unit slammed into his windshield.

Clayton stomped hard on the brakes as the animal’s front legs shattered the glass. The impact bounced the deer onto the roof, and Clayton heard the emergency light bar rip free and clatter to the pavement. Through the rearview mirror Clayton saw the deer thud onto the highway.

He peered as best he could through the shattered windshield, veered back into his lane, and ground to a stop at the side of the road, thankful that there had been no oncoming traffic. Shaken, he got out and walked to the animal. It was a buck with large ears and a white tail tipped with black that identified it as a mule deer. Clayton guessed it weighed about 350 pounds. It was mortally wounded: Blood streamed from its ears and mouth, and bone splinters jutted through the torn muscle and ligaments of its legs. The buck tried to lift its head, and the effort made it convulse in spasms.

Clayton stepped back, unholstered his .45 semiautomatic, chambered a round, and steadied his weapon. The animal’s eyes blinked rapidly at Clayton just before he put it down with a bullet in the head.

Back at his unit, he assessed the damage to his vehicle. The hood and roof were caved in, the windshield and emergency light bar were destroyed, and a mangled right front fender had chewed up and shredded the tire right down to the rim.

He got some emergency road flares, put them on the highway to warn oncoming traffic, and called dispatch on his handheld radio to report the incident.

Paul Hewitt broke in on the transmission before dispatch could respond. Clayton, are you all right?

Ten-four, Sheriff, Clayton responded. But I’ll need a tow truck at this location.

Affirmative, Hewitt replied. We’ve got personnel rolling to your twenty.

I’m standing by, Clayton said as he disconnected. The sun had dropped behind the western mountains, and dusk had started to deepen. He went to his unit, got more flares, put them out, and then stood by the deer carcass with a flashlight to guide the occasional car around the scene.

Department policy required the state police to investigate any accidents involving on-duty sheriff’s personnel, and Clayton knew it would take a good amount of time for the officer to conduct the investigation once he was on the scene. It didn’t matter that it was clearly a no-fault incident; every detail would be done by the book because it involved another cop.

Clayton glanced at his watch. Even under the best of circumstances it would be several hours before he could get home. There was no way he’d be there in time to look after the children while Grace attended the tribal council meeting. He called her on his cell phone, explained what had happened, reassured her that he was unhurt, and gave her the bad news.

Don’t worry, Grace said. I’ll find someone to look after the children.

Call my mother, Clayton said.

I’m sure she’ll be glad to help out. Are you certain you’re not hurt?

With his flashlight Clayton waved a slow-moving car around the deer carcass. Not a scratch, but my unit is a mess and I’m gonna have to hitch a ride home.

How did you manage to run into a deer? Grace asked.

You’ve got it reversed, Clayton replied. The deer ran into me.

Still, you killed Bambi’s father, Grace whispered in mock seriousness.

Clayton laughed. Please don’t tell the children.

Never, Grace replied. I’ll see you when you get home.

Good luck with the tribal council.

Thanks. Your dinner will be warming in the oven.

Clayton disconnected. He could see flashing emergency lights approaching from both directions. From the west, a volunteer fire department EMT unit slowed and stopped on the shoulder of the road, and two men hurried toward him. From the east, two S.O. units ground to a halt. Paul Hewitt and Tim Riley dismounted their vehicles and moved quickly in his direction.

There were more flashing lights coming down the highway from Ruidoso, probably the state cop and the tow truck. Or a state game-and-fish officer. Or whoever, Clayton thought as he groaned inwardly. For the next several hours he would be on the receiving end of a police investigation, which was never a happy prospect, especially for a cop.

Clayton apologized to the dead buck before Sheriff Hewitt and Tim Riley drew near. He was truly sorry the animal had died for no good reason.

It was a hell of a way to start the weekend.

After making sure with his own eyes that Clayton was unhurt, Paul Hewitt stayed at the scene with his sergeant until the state police officer’s investigation had been wrapped up, the dead buck had been removed from the roadway, all other emergency personnel had departed, and the tow truck operator had winched the disabled unit onto the flatbed and driven away.

In the back of Hewitt’s vehicle, a 4×4 Explorer, Clayton had stowed all of his personal gear and the department-issued equipment he’d cleaned out of his unit. The two men sat in the Explorer and watched the blue flashing emergency lights of the tow truck fade down the highway into the night.

Have you had enough excitement for one day? Paul Hewitt asked as he cranked the engine to his unit. If that buck had come through your windshield, chances are good that I would be on my way to tell your wife that she had just become a widow.

That scared the bejesus out of me, Clayton replied.

Hewitt laughed and put his unit in gear. Me too, and I wasn’t even here. Let’s get you home.

Yeah, Clayton said. Good idea.

On the drive, the two men fell silent. Weary from all the explaining he’d done at the crash scene, Clayton appreciated the quiet. Hewitt came to a stop in front of Clayton’s house—a house that the sheriff had helped to rebuild some years back after a killer with a vendetta had blown it up in an attempt to murder Clayton and his family. It sat on a wooded lot a good ways in from the highway that ran through the reservation, but not too far from the village of Mescalero.

The place is looking good, Hewitt said, eyeing the single-story house with a pitched roof that now sported a covered porch he hadn’t seen before.

It’s coming along, Clayton said as the porch lights came on.

I like the new porch, Hewitt said.

It took a bunch of my days off to finish it, Clayton replied.

Do you need a hand with your gear? Hewitt asked.

Clayton opened the passenger door. No, I’ve got it.

Hewitt nodded.

Thanks for the ride, Sheriff, Clayton said.

Hewitt nodded again. Not a problem.

Clayton gathered up his gear and carried it to the house. The front door opened and Grace stepped outside with Clayton’s mother, Isabel. Clayton put his gear down and embraced the two women. The children, Wendell and Hannah, both in their pajamas, scooted out the front door and joined the family hug.

Paul Hewitt honked the horn once and drove away, happy—considering the alternative—to have been able to deliver Sergeant Clayton Istee home safe to his family.

Covering 4,859 square miles, Lincoln County was almost three thousand square miles larger than Santa Fe County, where Tim Riley had served as a deputy sheriff for six years. He was glad the population difference between the two counties was even more staggering. Home to about fifteen thousand permanent residents, Lincoln County had roughly one tenth the population of Santa Fe County and a much lower crime rate. Riley liked the idea of living and working in a place where folks were mostly law-abiding and the pace of life was a good deal slower.

When Tim had broached the subject of applying for the Lincoln County S.O. job to his wife, Denise, he’d expected her to dig in her heels and say no. Born and bred in Santa Fe, she loved living close to her siblings and her nieces and nephews. But surprisingly, Denise had backed Tim’s decision all the way, asking only that they return to live in Santa Fe sometime in the not-too-distant future.

Encouraged by Denise’s support, Tim immediately turned in his application and paperwork to the Lincoln County S.O. and interviewed with Sheriff Paul Hewitt and his chief deputy, Anthony Baca, as soon as he could. When the position was offered to him, Tim accepted on the spot and gave his two weeks’ notice. Now he was working the new job, pulling his first solo patrol, and staying in a one-room cabin in Capitan, while Denise remained at home in their double-wide trailer until Tim found a place for them to live that would accept the two horses they owned.

The Santa Fe double-wide sat on twenty acres in Cañoncito, about ten miles outside of the city limits. Tim had paid cash for the land after a messy divorce from his first wife, who had walked away with half his air force retirement pension and almost everything else.

What was left over from the settlement, Tim had used as a sizable down payment on the double-wide, which was now paid off. But he wasn’t about to sell the property. Land values had skyrocketed in Santa Fe County and would probably continue to rise, and Tim’s dream was to someday build an honest-to-goodness real house on the acreage, throw up a good barn, and start a wilderness outfitting business.

Since coming to Lincoln County, Tim had used his free time trying to find a decent place to rent where he and Denise could keep their horses. Several of the locals warned him that finding such a place wouldn’t be easy. After looking at a couple of run-down trailers on barren, fenced acreage and a ramshackle cottage that came with a collapsed two-stall horse barn, Tim had begun to agree with them.

He’d called Denise every night after work to give her an update on the job, which he liked, and his house hunting, which wasn’t going well, although he tried to stay positive about it. Prospects had remained dim until Sheriff Hewitt hooked him up with a rancher who was willing to exchange free rent for a part-time caretaker.

Last night on the telephone with Denise, Tim had avoided saying anything about the offer until he met with the rancher and looked the place over. Early in the morning, he’d visited the ranch before starting work, met with the owner, and toured a really nice adobe cottage that was within shouting distance of a rambling, hacienda-style ranch house surrounded by a thicket of trees.

The rancher, George Staley, a friend of Sheriff Hewitt’s, liked the prospect of having a sworn law enforcement officer living on the spread. Tim’s sole duties would consist of keeping an eye on the ranch headquarters when Staley was away at his Texas ranch or looking after his other properties. All the cowboying and wrangling chores were the responsibility of a ranch manager and some hired hands.

It was a perfect arrangement, and Tim couldn’t wait to tell Denise, but it wasn’t until long after Clayton Istee’s collision with the mule deer that he had a chance to call her. The first few times he tried, he got a busy signal and didn’t think anything of it. But as more time passed, he continued to get a busy signal and it began to bother him. Denise didn’t know he’d agreed to work a double and was expecting him to drive home to Santa Fe tonight. In fact, his arrival was overdue.

Even if she was having one of her marathon chats with one of her sisters, she could at least interrupt the phone conversation and answer the call waiting. He wondered if there was some family emergency happening with one of her siblings.

Although Tim’s first night on solo patrol as a Lincoln County deputy had been quiet so far, he stayed focused on the job. It wasn’t unheard of for supervisors to shadow and observe new officers on patrol. The sheriff, his chief deputy, or even Clayton Istee, for that matter, could be out there under the cover of darkness watching him, and Tim didn’t want to get caught making any dumb mistakes.

While cruising through some of the small settlements along the Hondo Valley, patrolling two rural neighborhoods where recent burglaries had occurred, Tim continued to try calling home, each time getting a busy signal. Back on the main highway north of Carrizozo, he stopped on the shoulder of the road and clocked vehicles on his radar just to get a feel for the traffic flow. None of the big-rig truckers on the two-lane highway that ran from El Paso up to the Interstate paid any attention to the speed limit. But as soon as they spotted Tim’s unit, brake lights flashed and the trucks slowed. A voice crackled over the police radio.

What’s your twenty? Chief Craig Bolt of the Capitan Police Department asked.

Highway 54 just north of Carrizozo, Tim answered.

Are you ready for a cup of coffee? Bolt asked.

Affirmative, Tim replied. He’d met the chief earlier in the week and liked the man’s straightforward style.

The pot’s on. Come on over to my office.

Ten-four. ETA twenty minutes.

He put the unit in gear, headed toward Capitan, and cruised into the village where a prominent billboard on the west end of town proclaimed, JESUS IS LORD OVER CAPITAN.

Earlier in the week, as they’d driven through the village, Clayton Istee had asked Tim what he thought about the message on the billboard.

It’s a bit too much for my taste, Tim said, caught off guard by the question.

You’ve got that right, Clayton replied with a laugh. The way I see it, gods come and go depending on what tribe rules the land, not who lives in the heavens.

That’s very philosophical, Tim said.

You think so? Clayton asked, shooting Tim a sharp look.

Why not? Tim said with a shrug. Organized religion isn’t a big deal to me.

Clayton nodded in agreement and grinned. Hallelujah, brother.

Tim pulled to a stop at the Capitan Police Department, which shared space with other village agencies in a prefabricated metal building fronting Smokey Bear Boulevard, the main drag through town. Chief Craig Bolt’s white Ford 4×4 with Smokey Bear’s image on the door was parked next to the blue entrance, which also bore the bear’s likeness.

Over fifty years ago, after a devastating forest fire in the nearby mountains, a young bear cub had been found alive clinging to the trunk of a burned tree. As Smokey Bear, the cub had gone on to become the most famous icon for forest fire prevention in the world. Because Capitan was the place where the legend had been born, Smokey Bear’s name and image was now an indelible part of the town’s identity. Capitan sported a Smokey Bear Historical Park, a Smokey Bear Museum, various businesses that bore Smokey’s name, and the town hosted an annual Smokey Bear Festival and Smokey Bear rodeo.

Smokey’s presence permeated the village, right down to the two life-size carved wooden bears, one black, one brown, that