You are here:  Michael McGarrity > Books > Under the Color of Law -  Chapter 1
	Under the Color of Law Format: Hardcover, 288pp., ISBN: 0525946074, Publisher: Dutton/Penguin USA Pub. Date: 9 July 2001 Facts and Links about the area
Alonso Herrera, nicknamed Cloudy by his fellow Santa Fe police officers because of his piss-poor attitude and constant complaining, cursed as he rolled his unit to a stop in front of the metal security gate at the front end of a dirt driveway. He didn’t like working day shifts, didn’t like driving through snow and slush, and didn’t like checking on some rich-bitch citizen an out-of-state relative was worried about. He opened the window and punched the call button on the speaker box. An early-morning storm had left two inches of snow on the ground, and the cold wind felt raw against his face. Fuck February, Herrera thought. The absence of tire tracks in the driveway probably meant that Mrs. Phyllis Terrell wasn’t at home. He would have to hoof it up the driveway and get his feet wet and his shoes dirty, just to report he’d been unable to make contact with the occupant. He reviewed the notes he’d scribbled when dispatch had assigned him the call. He was looking for Mrs. Phyllis Terrell, age fifty-two, five four, blond and blue, weight 120, health excellent. When Terrell had failed to show up on an early-morning flight from Albuquerque to Washington, D.C., her sister, who had been waiting at the airport for her, immediately called the house only to get an answering machine. The sister, Susan Straley, had then called the shift commander, made a big deal about how Terrell was an ambassador’s wife, and asked to have an officer sent to check on the woman. Ambassador to what, Herrera wondered. Santa Fe had more than its share of media celebrities, movie stars, trust funders, and rich arty-farty types, but the politicians who lived in the city were the local garden variety, not prominent national figures. After buzzing again with no response, Herrera got out of his unit. The ex–chief of police had purchased white patrol cars for the department, which always looked like shit in bad weather. He hated driving a dirty unit, and today his vehicle was splattered with mud and road slush. Herrera couldn’t even begin to count the wasted hours he’d spent in this neighborhood. The high-tech security systems in these houses went off whenever some damn rodent ran across a floor or a lightning storm came too close. He keyed his handheld radio, reported he would be on foot at the Terrell residence, and climbed over the four-foot gate. A snarling dog came out of nowhere. Before Herrera could retreat, it nipped hard at his leg. He shook it free, his trousers tearing as the dog let go. The mutt backed up, snarled again, and started another run at him. Herrera squirted it with pepper spray and scrambled back over the gate. The dog yelped, went prone, whined, and started working both paws at its eyes, trying to clear out the spray. Herrera looked down at his leg and lifted the torn flap of fabric. His skin had been broken by the animal’s teeth. He decided he hated fucking dogs and thought about shooting this one, but instead called for animal control. The dog had wandered off by the time Matt Garcia, the animal-control officer, arrived. After getting his snare from the truck, he looked at Herrera’s leg. The puncture wound wasn’t deep and the blood had stopped running. Garcia raised his eyes to Cloudy’s pinched, sour-looking face. "What breed of dog was it?" he asked. "How the hell should I know?" Herrera said. "Big, about sixty pounds. At least knee high. Short hair. Black with a white chest. It just looked like an ugly mutt." "You better hope I find it, and it has a current rabies vaccination," Garcia said. "Otherwise, you’re not gonna like what happens next." "I don’t want to hear that shit," Herrera said with a worried glance at his leg. "Go find the damn dog." "Don’t you want to help round him up?" Garcia asked with a grin. "Just do your job," Herrera snapped. He watched the young man swing easily over the gate and trot up the steep driveway that had been cut into the granite rock of the hillside. He sucked in his thick gut and decided to add animal control officers to the list of people he didn’t like, which up to now had only included his ex-wife, any and all civilians, and his asshole shift commanders. While Garcia scrambled around trees and over rock outcroppings calling for the dog, Herrera turned his attention to the Terrell house. At least six times larger than his small subdivision tract home, it sat a hundred feet above him, sited to take advantage of the valley view and Atalaya Mountain across the way. It had a deep portal bordered by a high patio wall that was under construction. He heard a dog bark and switched his gaze to the driveway in time to see Garcia turn a corner, yanking the muzzled mutt along by the handle of the snare. "You gotta go up there," Garcia called in a shaky voice as he approached. "What’s wrong?" Garcia stopped at the driveway gate. He was flustered. "There’s a dead woman inside the house lying next to the front door with a pair of scissors stuck in her chest. Some guy came out of the back of an RV parked by the garage and ran off when he saw me." "Shit," Cloudy said, reaching across his chest for the microphone to the handheld that was clipped to his shirt. "You went in the house?" "I just followed the dog," Garcia said. "The patio door was open." "Describe the woman for me." "Dead, for Chrissake," Garcia said. "I didn’t stop to take a close look." Herrera stared at the dog. "Does that piece-of-shit mutt have a current rabies tag?" "Yeah, you’re in luck," Garcia said. "Walk him around to the road, put him in your truck, and stand by." "I’ve got three pending calls," Garcia said. "Not anymore you don’t," Herrera said. He keyed the microphone and called in the homicide. Lieutenant Salvador Molina, special-investigations commander, peered inside the open patio door of the Terrell residence. The victim lay on her back approximately three feet inside the house, with her feet pointing south toward the door. A blood pool darkened a thick Oriental rug. Dog tracks and human footprints wandered erratically across the floor of the expansive living room. The expression on Phyllis Terrell’s face seemed peaceful. It was a strong, attractive face with even features. She wore expensive diamond studs in her ears, and a larger single diamond on a gold chain around her neck. The scissors protruding from Terrell’s chest looked like the type Molina’s wife used whenever she tried to sew something. Molina heard footsteps on the flagstone patio behind him. He’d been waiting for the crime-scene unit and the medical examiner to arrive, so he didn’t look back. "This area is off limits," he said. "Go in through the garage door." "What have you got so far, Lieutenant?" Kevin Kerney asked. Molina stiffened and turned. Kerney, the new Santa Fe police chief, looked past him at the body on the floor. Kerney had been appointed at the first of the year over the muttered dismay of many officers who didn’t like having a cop-killer for a boss no matter what the reason. The incident had happened last fall while Kerney was serving as a deputy chief of the New Mexico State Police. The official story was that a dirty cop had started a gunfight he couldn’t finish, but some on the force didn’t buy it. Kerney had been cleared by an independent internal-affairs investigation. But his resignation soon after the event fueled the flames of speculation. Now people were saying that the chief had managed to get hired through some political string-pulling. If true, another good old boy had been made police chief by the mayor and city manager, which was enough to cause Molina to think about starting a short-timer’s calendar. He had eight months and sixteen days left before he could retire with a maximum pension. "We’ve got a mess, Chief," Molina said. "The crime scene was contaminated by an animal-control officer who chased the dog that bit Officer Herrera." "So I’ve heard," Kerney said. "What’s the status of the investigation?" "The crime-scene unit and the ME are rolling. I’ve got four detectives doing a room-to-room plain-view search. A Mexican national has been living in an RV parked next to the garage. The RV was leased from a local company by Mrs. Terrell on a two-year contract. My guess is the man was hired to build the patio wall, and maybe some other stuff that needed doing, and Terrell provided him with a place to stay during construction. We found his personal belongings and clothes, plus some letters from Mexico addressed to a Santiago Terjo. I’ve got U.S. Customs running a records check on the name to see if he’s a legal or not." "Have you confirmed that this is Phyllis Terrell?" Kerney asked. Molina nodded. "From the photo on a driver’s license we found in her purse." The dead woman on the floor wore charcoal wool slacks, a turtleneck sweater, and a pair of expensive leather walking boots. Kerney noted the diamond jewelry. "Have you ruled out robbery as a motive?" "Pretty much. Her purse is on the kitchen counter with her airplane ticket in it, along with two thousand dollars, credit cards, and a wallet. Her travel bags were packed and ready to go." "What time was her flight from Albuquerque?" "Seven-twenty," Molina said. "So, she was up, dressed, and ready to leave by six, at the latest," Kerney said. "That would be my guess," Molina said. To take advantage of the views the double doors to the patio were glass. Kerney looked out at the mountains that bracketed the small valley. Tucked away a few miles from the plaza, it was an area few tourists visiting the city ever saw. Once farmed by Hispanic families, the neighborhood was now an upscale address with multimillion-dollar retirement and vacation houses perched on the hillsides. "Would you open your door to a stranger at that time of day?" Kerney asked, turning back to Molina. "No way, Chief." "Is this the door the dog came in?" Molina nodded. "Yeah. Matt Garcia said it was wide open." "Does anything bother you about the scene?" Molina shrugged. "It’s too early to say." "You’re probably right. Mind if I take a look inside?" Kerney asked. "You’re the chief," Molina said. "Thanks. I’ll go in through the garage." Lieutenant Molina watched Kerney walk away with his distinctive limp. He remembered when Kerney had been the department’s chief of detectives. A gun battle with a drug dealer had supposedly ended his career with the Santa Fe PD. But after a long period of recuperation Kerney had returned to law enforcement, serving briefly as a sheriff’s lieutenant and a Forest Service ranger before joining the state police as an investigator. Within weeks Kerney had been bumped up to a deputy-chief slot, which raised a lot of eyebrows in cop shops throughout the state. Sal wondered what Kerney had in mind for the department. Over the last five years three previous chiefs had been brought in to kick butt, take names, and reorganize the department. Not one of them had given a rat’s ass about what sworn personnel thought, needed, or would be willing to do to clean things up and improve the department. If Kerney followed suit, he might well have a rebellion on his hands. He watched Kerney turn the corner. Since starting the job, the chief had come to work every day dressed in civvies. Today Kerney wore a well-tailored sport coat, shirt and tie, dress slacks, and a very choice pair of cowboy boots. A lot of officers were grumbling about Kerney’s clothes; they said that not wearing the uniform showed a lack of respect for the department. To them it wasn’t a good sign of things to come. Personally, Sal didn’t care what Kerney wore, as long as he did the job professionally and treated people fairly. Whether he would or not remained to be seen. Kerney had been known as a good boss when he was chief of detectives. But Sal knew that there was only one constant about cops who moved high up the food chain: They changed. Sometimes radically and usually not for the better. He would wait and see which direction Kerney was headed. Kerney turned the corner of the house, reviewing what he’d seen so far. Molina had established the entry point to the crime scene at the security gate, using Herrera as the log-in officer. He’d strung several rolls of bright yellow police-line tape up the driveway to mark the route to be used to get to the house, which would make any tracks found outside the path easier to identify. Paw prints and two different sets of footprints in the snow had been flagged for the crime-scene unit to photograph. The victim’s body and the area around it was off limits and under Molina’s watchful eye to keep it preserved, protected, and free from any further contamination. Good enough for starters, Kerney thought as he entered the house through the garage. But Molina’s reticence to speculate about the crime scene bothered Kerney. Maybe Molina felt ill at ease making guesses with his new boss. Still, Kerney wondered why the lieutenant hadn’t raised a question about the murder weapon. Scissors weren’t normally used in premeditated murders. In fact, they were much more typically associated with crimes of passion or acts of domestic violence. Which, along with the absence of robbery as a motive, could mean the killer was known to the victim, perhaps well known. The detectives inside the house didn’t stop working as Kerney looked around. Behind the great room were two master suites, each with an attached study, separated by a long gallery hallway. The open kitchen adjacent to the great room was within a few short steps to a formal dining room. Another hallway led to an attached, stepped-down guest suite with a private patio containing a marble water fountain. In Mrs. Terrell’s bedroom a detective was visually examining the linens on the unmade bed. In her study, which had built-in shelves filled with framed photographs of family and friends, an officer was reading through the scattered papers on top of a mission-style desk. Kerney said nothing to the detectives, greeting each one as he passed by only with a friendly nod. He had no intention of disturbing the chain of command by making suggestions, issuing instructions, or asking questions. The Terrell murder was the first major felony case fielded by the department since Kerney had assumed command, and he’d come solely to observe. The layout of the second study and master bedroom mirrored Mrs. Terrell’s suite, minus any personal touches. No one was working the area, so Kerney took his time. There were books on the shelves, tasteful art on the walls, and a very choice modern sculpture on a tall stand in the corner of the study. But nothing in sight signaled daily use or ongoing occupancy by a family member. Kerney slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and opened desk and dresser drawers. All were empty. The walk-in closet contained some dry cleaning on hangers draped in clear plastic, consisting of two men’s suits and some starched white dress shirts. On the floor were a half a dozen sealed packing boxes, each labeled with the contents, purportedly consisting of books, photographs, and odds and ends. Curious about what might have been removed from the suite and packed away, Kerney decided to break his self-imposed rule not to interfere with the investigation. He took out a pocket knife, knelt down, and slit open the box labeled "Photographs." Packed in bubble wrap was an assortment of framed pictures of Ambassador Hamilton Lowell Terrell with foreign leaders, ex-presidents, and other dignitaries, all of them personally inscribed. But it was the photograph of Terrell wearing the uniform of an army major general that brought Kerney to a full stop. Kerney had been an infantry officer in Nam during the latter stages of the war. His first brigade commander had been a colonel given to tongue-lashing junior officers, bullying his staff, and bullshitting the brass. Known as the Snake by his troops, Colonel Terrell had moved on to an ARVN airborne advisory assignment a month after Kerney arrived in-country, much to everybody’s relief. Kerney had all but forgotten about the Snake. He studied the photograph of his old commander, wondering how such a backstabbing, heartless, self-serving officer could possibly become an ambassador, let alone a two-star general. The thought was so naive it made Kerney smile. The world was filled with ruthless people who achieved high rank and prestigious positions, and over the years it had been Kerney’s misfortune to serve under his fair share of them. He repackaged the photos, stripped off the gloves, told one of the detectives he’d looked through a box of photographs, and left the house. Outside, he glanced inside the RV and then walked around the residence, staying on a meandering flagstone path. When completed, the patio wall would encircle the structure except for a generous parking area near the front entrance. In all it would enclose a half acre. Some sections had already been finished and landscaped, other sections were barely under way, with nothing more than trenches dug for footings that curved and dipped in harmony with the terrain. It was a major undertaking and not inexpensive by any means. Kerney returned to the patio and watched the arriving crime-scene techs and the ME walk up the driveway. The view across the valley was spectacular. Early-afternoon sunlight made the snow glisten on Atalaya Mountain, and the Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range was frosty white. Kerney checked his watch. Things were moving much too slowly. Why hadn’t Molina pulled in more manpower? Nearby neighbors needed to be canvassed. Why wasn’t a field search of the property under way? Why hadn’t Santiago Terjo’s tracks in the snow been identified and followed to see if he might be hiding nearby? Had the whereabouts of the ambassador been determined? His jaw tightened. As much as he wanted to stand back and let Molina run the investigation without interference, the victim’s prominence argued against such an approach. This was a case where every wrong move or screw-up would be placed under a media microscope. He would wait for Molina to finish briefing the techs and ME before talking to him. Across a deep arroyo that cut into the hillside an SUV climbed a paved road and turned into the driveway of the closest house. While the distance was too far for Kerney to see clearly, the person who got out of the vehicle looked to be a woman wearing a parka, cap, and blue jeans. She opened the back of the SUV and a large dog hopped out. For a moment the woman stood by the vehicle staring in the direction of the Terrell residence. Then she started down a footpath into the arroyo and walked quickly in Kerney’s direction, the dog following eagerly along. Using a path that intersected the Terrells’ driveway, Kerney hurried to cut the woman off. He intercepted her as she scrambled up the side of the arroyo through wet snow. "What’s wrong?" the woman asked breathlessly as she came to a stop. The dog, a Labrador, gave Kerney’s pant cuffs a quick sniff and kept going. "I saw the police cars at the end of the driveway. Has there been a burglary?" "Can you control your dog?" Kerney asked. The woman whistled once. "Cassidy, stay." The dog sat, tail wagging, and smiled at the woman. Wisps of dark brown hair showed from under the wool cap pulled down over the woman’s ears. Her worried brown eyes wandered from Kerney’s face to the Terrell residence, partially hidden by pine trees along the path. "What happened?" she asked "Tell me who you are," Kerney said. "You go first," the woman said. "I’m a police officer," Kerney said, displaying his shield and ID. "Let me walk you back to your residence." The woman didn’t move. "If there has been a burglary, Phyllis will want to know about it." "Are you friendly with Ambassador and Mrs. Terrell?" Kerney asked. "You’re not answering my question," the woman replied, as she tried to step around Kerney. "I’m going up there to find out what happened." Kerney blocked her way. "You can’t enter a crime scene. Let me escort you home." The woman bit her lip. "Can you really force me to stay away?" "Yes, I can." She gave Kerney an unhappy look, whistled once for Cassidy, then turned, and backtracked into the arroyo. Kerney followed as the woman climbed quickly and easily up the far side of the arroyo. Inside the house the woman turned off the burglar alarm by the front door. Cassidy scooted past Kerney and made a beeline for a dog bed. He retrieved a rubber ball, brought it to Kerney, and dropped it on the floor, ready to play. "Sweet dog," Kerney said. The woman, who had shed her parka and cap, stood with her hands on her hips and said nothing. Slender and of average size, she had attractive features accentuated by lips which suggested that, under normal circumstances, a ready smile came easily. Kerney guessed her to be in her early forties. "Tell me your name," Kerney asked. "Alexandra Lawton. Look, I know Phyllis is out of town. She will want to know what has happened." "I take it the Terrells are friends as well as neighbors," Kerney said. "Phyllis has been a friend since she built her house two years ago." "What about Mr. Terrell?" "He doesn’t live here. He moved out shortly after the house was built. They’ve been separated ever since." "Do you know Santiago Terjo?" "Of course I know him. He’s worked for Phyllis for over a year." "Doing what, exactly?" "Landscaping and construction. Phyllis is creating an extraordinary garden bit by bit inside the patio wall. It keeps growing in scale as she designs it. It’s turned into quite a project." "Would you know where I might find Terjo?" Kerney asked. "If he’s not working or in the RV, mostly likely he’ll be at the stables, caring for the horses. He’s not a thief. He’s worked for me upon occasion, and he’s entirely trustworthy." "Where are the stables?" "I’ll show you." Lawton led Kerney through the living room, which was filled with northern New Mexico antiques, inviting, comfortable easy chairs, and a grand piano, into a sunroom that had a panoramic southwest view of the valley. "Phyllis bought two acres in the valley, right across from her driveway, to keep her horses nearby," Lawton said, reaching for a pair of binoculars on an occasional table between two rattan chairs. She handed Kerney the binoculars. "Look over the house on the far side of the road just a little bit to the left, and you’ll see the stables and corral. If Santiago’s pickup is there, he’s most likely tending to Priscilla and Gigolo, Phyllis’s mare and gelding." Kerney looked; the truck was parked in front of an open stable door. "He doesn’t leave his vehicle at the house?" "Never. In fact, the RV is kept at the stables unless Phyllis is out of town. Then it’s moved up so Santiago can keep an eye on the place while she’s gone." "Does Mrs. Terrell have a dog?" Kerney asked. "No, but Santiago does. It’s a Rottweiler–German shepherd mix, named Zippy. What was stolen?" "We’re not sure, Ms. Lawton." "Well, I’m going to call Phyllis in Virginia. She’s visiting her sister. She needs to know what happened." "Please don’t bother. When did you last see Mrs. Terrell?" "She came for coffee here yesterday afternoon." "How was her mood?" "Excellent. She was looking forward to her trip. She always flies back to celebrate her sister’s birthday. They’re very close." "Does she have any current houseguests?" "Not since the holidays." "I’d like to use your phone so I can have a detective come over and take a statement." "Aren’t you a detective?" "I’m the police chief." Lawton paled. "You wouldn’t be here to investigate a simple burglary." "No, I wouldn’t. Mrs. Terrell has been murdered." "Oh, my God," Lawton said, sinking into a rattan chair. Kerney called Lieutenant Molina on his cell phone, filled him in, and asked for one detective to come to Lawton’s house. He ordered an immediate search for Terjo at the stables, and told Molina to stand by at the Terrell residence for his return. Lawton cried quietly while Kerney kept the binoculars trained on the stables. Soon two detectives and a uniformed officer moved in on foot. They crossed the road, used trees and shrubs for concealment, and split up at the small open meadow in front of the stables. Keeping low, the detectives sprinted to their positions, one at the front and one at the back of the stables, while the uniformed officer found cover behind Terjo’s truck, his sidearm drawn and ready. Kerney focused the binoculars on the detective standing to one side of the stable’s front doors, but the distance was too great for him to see any mouthed orders. A few minutes passed before a figure emerged from the darkness of the stable, hands held high. The detective quickly put the man facedown in the snow and cuffed him as the uniform moved in, his weapon aimed at the back of the man’s head. The doorbell rang and Kerney turned to find that Lawton hadn’t moved. Although her tears had stopped, the expression of disbelief remained. Cassidy was at Lawton’s feet, his chin resting on her knee. She absentmindedly stroked the dog’s head. "I’ll get it," Kerney said, and Lawton nodded dully in agreement. Kerney let the detective in. Molina had sent over Amos Cisneros. He gave Cisneros the gist of his conversation with Lawton, and took the overweight, still wheezing man to the sunroom, thinking he’d have to tighten up the physical-fitness requirements for commissioned personnel. "Do you know how I can find Ambassador Terrell?" Kerney asked after introducing Cisneros to Lawton. "No," Lawton replied. "He’s a delegate on a trade mission to South America. He’s out of the country a great deal of the time." "Does he still have ambassador rank?" Kerney asked. "I don’t know what his official status is." "It may take some time for Detective Cisneros to interview you." "That’s fine," Lawton said, smiling weakly. "Please excuse my tears. I really cared for Phyllis. She’s been a good friend." "I understand." On his way back to the Terrell residence Kerney framed the most diplomatic way he could ask Lieutenant Molina about the lack of resources at the crime scene. He caught Molina’s eye. The lieutenant stepped away from the medical examiner and joined him at the edge of the patio. "Who did your people arrest?" Kerney asked. "Terjo," Molina replied. "We’ll take his preliminary statement here and then interrogate him at headquarters. Thanks for the heads-up, Chief." "You seem a little short on manpower, Lieutenant," Kerney said. "Can I call in more people?" "You don’t need my permission, Lieutenant." Molina paused. "Yes, I do. There’s a standing order in effect: Only the chief can authorize additional personnel for major felony investigations." "That makes no sense." "It’s what your predecessor wanted." "Why?" Kerney asked. Molina shrugged and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Cost containment. My unit goes over budget every year. Nothing I said would change his mind. It didn’t seem to matter that I don’t have a crystal ball that lets me predict violent crimes on an annual basis." "The order is rescinded," Kerney said. "Get the help you need up here pronto. And in the future, get in my face if there’s something that keeps you from doing your job. Are you clear on that?" Molina smiled broadly. "You bet I am, Chief." "Let me know when you plan to interrogate Terjo," Kerney said. "I’d like to watch." "Ten-four." "Has Terrell’s sister or husband been informed of her death?" Kerney asked. "Not yet. We haven’t gotten an answer from the State Department on the ambassador’s exact whereabouts." "Inform the sister, but keep the local media in the dark for as long as possible. If any newspaper reporters show up, refer them to me. I’ll be at headquarters." Looking relieved, Molina hurried away to make his calls. Kerney walked down the driveway, kicking himself mentally. Since coming on board weeks ago, he’d met with each commander and supervisor personally, had spent a good deal of time observing operations, and was still digging through reams of department documents. To avoid the possibility of reacting to personal agendas carried over from the last administration, Kerney had wanted to be completely up to speed before asking senior staff to recommend any organizational reforms. Now that would have to change. He couldn’t let past stupidities stand in the way of good police work. At the driveway gate Officer Herrera thrust the crime-scene log into Kerney’s hands. Kerney studied the officer as he scrawled his name. Herrera was short and skinny through the chest. Not even the Kevlar vest worn under his uniform shirt bulked him up enough to hide his lack of muscle. He had a potbelly and gray humorless eyes. "How’s the leg?" Kerney asked, glancing down at Herrera’s torn uniform trousers. "It’s nothing, Chief." "Glad to hear it. Tell me something, Officer Herrera: Why didn’t you accompany the animal-control officer when he went looking for the dog?" Herrera ran his tongue under his upper lip and clamped his jaw shut. "Say what’s on your mind, Officer." "I’m not a dogcatcher, Chief." "No, you’re not," Kerney said, thinking Herrera might not be much of a police officer either. As Kerney walked past the animal-control truck, the young man inside the cab rolled down the window. "How long do I have to wait here, Chief?" Matt Garcia asked. "Cloudy said I have to give a statement." "Who’s Cloudy?" Kerney asked. "Officer Herrera." "Give your statement to Officer Herrera." Matt shook his head. "He says it’s up to the detectives to take it. I’m backed up on five calls and my supervisor wants to know when I’ll be released." Kerney motioned to Herrera. He approached slowly with his chin up and a sour look. "Take this man’s statement," Kerney ordered, "so he can go back to work." "Right away, Chief." Kerney turned on his heel to hide his frustration, went to his unit, and drove through the valley, glancing at the expensive homes—some new, some old adobes that had been restored and enlarged—that peppered the hillsides and the river bottomland. Interspersed among the symbols of new wealth were a few remaining modest houses. They were sure to be gobbled up or demolished pretty soon by newcomers seeking a prestigious Santa Fe address. With the money he’d realized from the sale of the land Erma Fergurson had left him, he could easily build a trophy home and move into the neighborhood. The thought was totally unappealing. Instead, Kerney had a realtor looking for a section of land in the Galisteo Basin twenty minutes outside of Santa Fe, where he could build a ranch house and keep some animals. A ranch house with a nursery, he reminded himself, thinking of his wife, Lieutenant Colonel Sara Brannon, pregnant and on active duty while attending the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. In January they’d spent a weekend together at Fort Leavenworth. Sara had toured him around the post on a cold, clear Kansas morning, walking him across the parade grounds, pointing out the Victorian houses where George Armstrong Custer and Douglas MacArthur had lived. She showed him the building where F. Scott Fitzgerald had written his first novel. He got to see the old French cannons that looked out over the Missouri River and the monumental Buffalo Soldier statue that honored African-Americans who’d served in segregated units during the Indian campaigns. After the tour they’d snuggled up in a lovely bed-and-breakfast and tuned out the world. It had been a wonderful weekend, and Kerney had returned to Santa Fe knowing that Sara’s commitment to her career as an army officer was as strong as her commitment to their marriage. He wondered if that would ever change. Sara was due in Santa Fe on the weekend. Kerney hoped that the Terrell murder investigation wouldn’t get in the way of her visit. As it was, they had little enough time together. Radio traffic told Kerney that detectives were responding quickly to Molina’s call for more manpower. The street narrowed and curved on the approach to the plaza, past rows of tightly packed houses, creating the feeling of a village lane in a Spanish town. Kerney pulled to the curb and waited. Five unmarked units running a silent code three passed by in a matter of minutes. That should give Molina the resources he needed. Hopefully, the lieutenant would put the personnel to good use. Kerney made a mental note to learn more about Officer Herrera and drove on.
— Reprinted from Under the Color of Law by Michael McGarrity by permission of Dutton, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 2001. All rights reserved.  This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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