The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [7]
Although he lacked final confirmation that the earthly remains of Anna Marie Montoya had been discovered, Clayton had enough evidence to move ahead. The clutch purse with the ID, the jewelry and bits of clothing found at the scene that matched information contained in the NCIC missing person report, and the size and sex of the body made it almost positive. It was time to get rolling. He called the Santa Fe Police Department, identified himself, and got put through to a detective sergeant named Cruz Tafoya.
Tafoya heard Clayton out before asking questions.
“Were you able to confirm the victim was killed at the crime scene?”
“No,” Clayton replied, “and I don’t think we’ll be able to. Any trace evidence was washed away. Personally, I think she was killed elsewhere and then buried in the cellar. It’s only five feet deep by eight feet square.”
“So the killer had to know about the cellar,” Tafoya noted. “Is the fruit stand still in use?”
“It’s been abandoned for years,” Clayton replied. “We’re looking into who owns the property.”
“Good idea,” Tafoya said. “You’re gonna want a copy of our case file.”
“Roger that.”
“I’ll put one together. Should I mail it or will you come and get it?”
“I’ll let you know,” Clayton replied, thinking he needed to clear travel plans with the sheriff. “But I’m probably coming to Santa Fe sometime soon.”
“I’ll have a detective update the file,” Tafoya said. “At least the family will have some peace of mind about what happened to the victim.”
“Yeah, there’s that,” Clayton said. “Once I get a positive ID, will your department notify the family?”
“Ten-four.”
“I’ll need to talk to the detective who handled the case.”
“If he’s still around,” Tafoya said.
“Can you find out?” Clayton asked.
“Give me a minute.”
In the receiver Clayton heard movement, footsteps, silence and then paper shuffling followed by Tafoya’s breathing.
“Well, what do you know about that?” Tafoya said into the telephone.
“What?” Clayton asked.
“The original primary investigator on that case was our new police chief.”
Clayton grunted in surprise. “Could you have Chief Kerney call me?” He rattled off his phone number.
“You got it,” Tafoya replied.
Clayton hung up and walked to the sheriff’s office. Paul Hewitt looked up from some paperwork on his desk and wondered why Clayton, who’d been relieved of patrol duties to work the homicide, had decided to wear a black cowboy shirt on a day that was going to be much too warm for such a garment.
“Would you like an update on the cases, Sheriff?” Clayton asked.
Hewitt gestured at a chair. “Have a seat and fire away.”
Clayton left Sheriff Hewitt’s office with authorization to conduct his investigation in Santa Fe, as needed. He was given a travel, meals, and lodging allowance and told to stay within budget or make up the difference out of his own pocket. He found Sergeant Quinones and Von Dillingham in the small staff lounge, inventorying evidence and doing paperwork.
“The county clerk’s records show that the fruit stand is owned by Hiram Tully. He’s got a Glencoe address,” Quinones said, handing Clayton the information.
“I’ll go talk to him,” Clayton said.
“Are any autopsy reports in yet?” Dillingham asked.
“Not yet. Shorty Dawson thinks Humphrey died from carbon monoxide poisoning, but he’s not sure.”
“Shorty loves to play pathologist,” Quinones said, logging an evidence bag on an inventory sheet. “We’re almost done here. What’s next?”
“Field interviews,” Clayton said. “Find out if anyone who lives near the fruit stand saw or heard anything before the fire broke out. I’ll be back to assist as soon as I can.”
“Roger that,” Quinones said, turning his attention to the bagged and tagged evidence.
Clayton left the office and drove the state road that took him past the burned-out fruit stand, through the ranching town of Capitan, and on to the historic hamlet of Lincoln, where rows of lovely old territorial buildings