the investigation. Mielke introduced him to several uniformed deputies who were filling out paperwork at a worktable, and it earned Clayton measured looks and freeze-dried smiles. News of the nature of his mission had obviously preceded him.
After Mielke excused himself to go find the sheriff, Clayton used his time waiting to study the investigation task and duty assignments that had been posted on a large chalkboard mounted on the rear wall of the room.
Mielke came back before Clayton could digest all the information, to tell him that Sheriff Salgado was in the workout room and would meet with him there. He followed Mielke down another hallway, marveling at the space, the relative newness of the building, the number of individual offices that lined the corridors, the existence of an actual walk-in evidence storeroom, and a secure armory for weapons and ammunition. By comparison, it made the cramped space of the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office in the county courthouse in Carrizozo seem like a shabby suite of low-rent offices.
The workout room for the deputies was nothing less than a fully equipped gym, with lockers, showers, and bathrooms and every piece of exercise equipment needed for weight training and cardiovascular fitness. It was as nice as the private gym in Ruidoso that Clayton paid money to every month and never got to use half as much as he should have.
Dressed in sweats and putting in some time on a motorized treadmill, Sheriff Salgado was the only person in the gym. He jogged at a pace no faster than a slow walk, sweating heavily, red in the face and panting hard.
Salgado’s thick waist and inner tube–size love handles bulged against his sweatshirt, and his double chin jiggled up and down as he moved. Clayton half expected the man to stroke out or collapse from a heart attack at any moment.
As Clayton and Mielke approached, Salgado turned off the machine, wiped the sweat from his face with a gym towel, stepped off the treadmill, and gave Clayton a hearty handshake.
“Glad you could come up and give us a hand,” Salgado said, flashing a politician’s sunny smile.
“It’s good to be here,” Clayton said. “I think this case is going to take our combined efforts to get it solved.”
“That’s right, that’s right,” Salgado said. “I want you to use the training and planning lieutenant’s office in the administrative wing so you can have quick access to me if you need it.”
Clayton didn’t like the idea at all. It would immediately create ill will for him. “I’d rather not inconvenience the lieutenant. Isn’t there someplace else you can put me?””
“It’s a done deal,” Salgado said. “The lieutenant will double up with one of the patrol commanders while you’re here. Don’t worry about it. Everybody’s on board to catch this killer. That’s the important thing. You need something, you tell me and I’ll get it for you. Where do you want to start?”
“With you,” Clayton replied. “I’d like to interview you as soon as possible.”
Salgado looked at his watch. “First things first. Major Mielke will get you settled in, and Sergeant Pino and her P.D. detectives are coming in from the field to meet with you. I’ll see you in my office in the morning. Just let my secretary know what time you want to meet.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Clayton said, not sure if Salgado was a dim bulb as Paul Hewitt had said, a wily old street cop, or a bit of both.
Salgado slapped him on the back and headed for the showers. Outside the gym, Clayton and Mielke fell in behind two officers who were sauntering down the corridor engrossed in conversation.
“Maldonado was in the briefing room when that sheriff’s sergeant from Lincoln County showed up,” the first officer said.
“So what did he think?” his buddy replied.
“He said he almost cracked up when he first saw the guy. Said he was dressed like some Apache Johnny Cash wannabe all in black.”
“He’s Apache?”
The first deputy nodded. “I bet his first name is probably Geronimo or something like that. Maldonado says wait until you see him. He’s got long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.”
His buddy laughed. “Maybe he’s a New Age Indian who chews peyote buttons and has spirit visions. And this guy is the hotshot investigator who’s going to find a killer among us? I almost wish the sheriff had asked the state police to do the internal investigation.”
“You got that right, bro.”
From the corner of his eye, Clayton could see Mielke watching him, waiting for a reaction. Clayton cleared his throat loudly, and the deputies turned their heads at the sound and didn’t recover their composure quickly enough to mask their surprise.
“Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” Clayton said as he passed them by.
Mielke didn’t say a word, but he wasn’t smiling either. He led Clayton to the L-shaped administrative wing and showed him his assigned office. It was next door to where the major hung his hat and in clear view of Sheriff Salgado’s corner suite, the chief deputy’s adjoining office, and a reception area where the sheriff’s executive secretary resided. It offered zero privacy for people coming and going, and with a large glass window, with no venetian blind, that looked out on the reception area, it put Clayton and whoever was with him under constant observation.
Mielke introduced Clayton to the sheriff’s secretary so he could make an appointment to interview Salgado in the morning. The secretary, a middle-aged Hispanic woman named Joanne Castillo, consulted her daily planner and gave Clayton an early morning appointment with the sheriff. She handed Clayton a key to his new office and made him sign for it.
Accompanied by Mielke, Clayton unlocked the door and looked around. One wall of bookshelves held bound reports, training manuals, and some law enforcement textbooks. On the wall behind the desk was an assortment of framed certificates that its usual occupant had received for completing training and recertification courses.
The lieutenant had cleared out his desk and provided an empty metal filing cabinet for Clayton to use. On top of the desk was a three-ring binder casebook which Mielke told him was up-to-date except for the field reports that were still being prepared.
“Have you arranged for lodging?” Mielke asked. “There are several decent motels that offer reasonable rates for law enforcement officers.”
“It’s all taken care of,” Clayton replied, unwilling to be more specific about where he was staying and why.
“We’ll need to know how to reach you.”
Clayton found a ruled writing tablet in the top drawer of the desk, wrote down a number, and handed it to Mielke. “Call my cell phone.”
“That’ll work.” Mielke pocketed the note and glanced at his wristwatch. “Sergeant Pino and her detectives should be here in a few. If you need me, call dispatch. Until these murders are solved I’m available twenty- four/seven.”
Mielke left and Clayton settled behind the desk. He opened the casebook and started reading, but he couldn’t shake the thought that Salgado and Mielke’s cooperation was a pretense.
“It’s good to see you, Clayton,” she said as she stepped to the desk and shook his hand.
“You too. Where are your detectives?”
“We just got in.” Ramona took a seat in the chair next to the desk. “They’re doing their reports.”
“You heard that Denise was three months pregnant?”
Ramona nodded. “And that the daddy couldn’t be Tim Riley.”
“Did you know him?” Clayton asked.
“In passing. He seemed competent. A quiet guy, not the macho type.”
“Any scuttlebutt about why he left the Santa Fe S.O.?”
“None that I heard.”
“What has Mielke had you doing?”
“Interviewing and re-interviewing the Rileys’ neighbors. We’ve talked to most of them twice, but several are out of town and unavailable. One guy is a long-haul trucker who isn’t answering his cell phone, and there’s a retired couple who are vacationing somewhere in Mexico in their motor home.”
