Dorsey dropped his gaze. “Nada.”
“In that case,” Vanmeter said, “I suggest we get back on the job with the troops.” The Raton police chief nodded agreement and Vanmeter stood up. He grimaced in frustration at Kerney as he walked out the door.
As the others followed him out of the room, Kerney cornered Dorsey. “What was Kerry’s mood like?” he asked.
“Not good,” Dorsey said sourly. “He’s just clammed up tight.”
“You said you thought there was a chance he’d open up. What changed?”
Dorsey fidgeted with his car keys, but Kerney stayed planted in his way. Finally Dorsey swallowed and said, “Seems he got this notion in his head that I’ve been telling folks that he’s in cahoots with his brother.”
Kerney raised a questioning eyebrow. “Have you?” he asked, but from the look on Dorsey’s face, he figured he already had the answer.
“Don’t give me any crap, Kerney. Fact is, Kerry has gotten plain paranoid about all of this, to the point he thinks just about everybody in town has turned against him.”
“So you thought you’d play good cop and bad cop with Kerry?” Kerney asked, unable to suppress his dismay. The room was empty except for Joe Easley and Clayton, who were having a conversation by the door.
“Jesus, you can be a real prick. I’ll admit public sentiment isn’t on his side right now. But that’s because folks are feeling jittery about Larson running loose, and Kerry is a convenient target for their frustration.”
“Such understanding souls.”
Dorsey shrugged.
“How about your second go-round with Larson’s old cronies and former friends?” Kerney inquired.
“It’s a dry well,” Dorsey replied, “and priming it got me nowhere.”
Kerney nodded. “Okay. Thanks for the update.”
“Not a problem. Just don’t try to jack me around next time we talk.”
“I didn’t realize you were so sensitive, Everett,” Kerney said, finally stepping aside to let Dorsey pass.
“Screw you,” Dorsey said and headed for the door.
Outside, Kerney found Clayton, who was looking up at a large illuminated star, a big American flag bathed in light, and a glowing “RATON” sign on the peak of a hill that towered over the city.
“That’s Goat Hill,” Clayton said.
“It that something you learned while studying the white man’s ways?”
Clayton laughed. “Nope, Joe Easley told me.”
“So that’s what you two were talking about.”
“Oh yeah. You can learn a lot from the natives. The flag was added to commemorate 9/11. He also told me that the MI determined that Tami Phelan was raped. He’d forgotten to mention that in his briefing. What about you and Dorsey?” Clayton asked.
“Dorsey got nowhere with Larson’s twin brother. I’m thinking he blew it with Kerry. He got real defensive when I questioned him about it.”
“If that’s the case,” Clayton said, “maybe we should go and have a little chat with Kerry.”
“Exactly.”
“Let’s leave your car at the motel and ride together.”
Kerney stifled a yawn. “Suits me.”
“And you can nap along the way,” Clayton added as he stepped off toward his unit.
Kerney shook his head and groaned in dismay as he followed. “To quote Everett Dorsey, ‘Don’t jack me around.’”
“You’re right,” Clayton replied, over his shoulder. “Teasing one’s elders is disrespectful.”
On the ranch road, Clayton pulled his unit up next to the parked state police vehicle, and asked the officer if Kerry Larson was at home.
“Nope, left two hours ago,” the officer replied, “but he’s got a plainclothes tail on him.”
“What has he been doing since he left the ranch?” Clayton.
“He spent some time just sitting in his truck outside a church a few doors down from our substation. At first, we thought he was working up the courage to talk to us, but he just sat there and did nothing. Then he went and had a meal up at the diner on the north end of town. From there he bought a six-pack of beer at the convenience store, and for the last forty-five minutes he’s been at the Springer cemetery near the high school, drinking Bud Light at his mother’s grave.”
Clayton turned to Kerney. “Want to wait for him here?”
“Hold on.” Kerney leaned around Clayton. “How many beers has he had?” he asked the officer.
“Let me check.” The officer keyed his microphone and repeated Kerney’s question. The reply came back that the subject had just opened his fourth brewski.
“Am I sensing a DWI stop here?” Clayton asked.
“With a good cop, bad cop twist to it,” Kerney replied with the smile. “If I remember correctly, Kerry has one prior DWI, which means a conviction will cost him his license and some jail time. That gives us a bargaining chip.”
He got on the radio to Major Vanmeter and arranged to have Kerry Larson stopped by a uniformed officer in a marked vehicle after he left the cemetery.
“Tell the officer to be hard-nosed, but to do it by the book,” Kerney added. “Have him taken to the substation after he fails the field sobriety test. We’ll pick it up from there.”
“I have a patrol supervisor nearby,” Vanmeter replied. “I’ll have him stop the subject when he gets to the main drag. That way it shouldn’t arouse any suspicions.”
“Excellent,” Kerney replied.
Inside the Springer state police substation, a low counter separated the public waiting area from several desks used by officers to do shift paperwork and make phone calls. An unhappy-looking Kerry Larson sat in a chair next to one of the desks, his hands cuffed behind his back, watching the officer who’d arrested him fill out forms. On the desktop were the empties he’d thrown in the bed of his truck before leaving the cemetery, and the one unfinished beer he had been drinking when the cop pulled him over.
The cop, a tough-looking sergeant with a nasty, pushy personality, wasn’t one of the regular officers who worked out of Springer. Kerry didn’t know him, but the name tag on his uniform read “Shaya.” Sergeant Shaya had put Kerry facedown on the pavement before making him stand on one foot, put his finger on his nose, count backward, and do some other stupid stuff. Then he drove Kerry to the state police office and had him blow into a machine that could tell whether he was drunk or not. According to Sergeant Shaya, the machine proved that he was legally drunk. But Kerry didn’t feel that way, just jumpy and worried.
“Maybe I should have come here instead of buying that six-pack,” Kerry said.
Shaya looked at Kerry with interest. “Were you thinking about talking to somebody here?”
“Gary,” Kerry said. “He’s a state cop like you but I can’t remember his last name.”
“LeDoux.”
“Yeah, that’s right. LeDoux.”
“What did you want to talk to Officer LeDoux about?”
Kerry licked his lips and shrugged. “Nothing special.”
“You’re sure about that?” Shaya asked.
Kerry glanced away from Shaya’s stare. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Listen, whatever you wanted to tell Officer LeDoux, you can tell me.”
Kerry shook his head. “Nope. I don’t like you.”
“Suit yourself.” Shaya returned his attention to his paperwork.
“Are you going to put me in jail?”
Shaya grunted without looking up. “That’s what happens when you drink and drive.”
“Can’t I just pay a fine? I’ve got cash money in my wallet.”
“No, you can’t. It’s not that simple.”
