Molina lined up another set of pictures. “These are shots of the individual mounds with the remains exposed. We don’t yet know the causes of death, and it will take dental records to identify the victims. But we do know that Olsen mined rock from a nearby quarry to build them. His fingerprints were all over the wheelbarrow and tools left at the pit.”
Molina took a seat and continued. “Based on the decomposition of the bodies, the ME thinks there’s about a five-year span between the earliest and most recent burial, which he believes is no more than six months old, but that’s a guess.”
Cruz Tafoya passed Kerney a list of names on a printout. “All the victims are male,” he said. “Using that information, the ME’s suggested time frame for the burials, and statements by Olsen’s friends that he didn’t like gays, we searched the missing-persons data banks. Hits came back on five gay, single men who’ve gone missing from Albuquerque over the last four and a half years; a hair stylist, bartender, nurse, bank clerk, and flight attendant.”
“It’s like Olsen built a burial shrine to commemorate each murder,” Molina said.
“And he probably isn’t finished killing,” Tafoya said. “Clayton Istee located another sandy shelf about a hundred feet away from the existing cairns where Olsen had dug a sixth circular round hole down to bedrock.”
“We’re guessing it’s for the prisoner Olsen had chained up in the utility room,” Molina said. “The techs say the bloodstains probably post-date the last burial.”
“Which may explain who Olsen had in the back of his van when he went to get money at his bank,” Tafoya said.
“That makes no sense,” Kerney said. “Why would Olsen take a prisoner he plans to murder with him to Santa Fe just before he embarks on a killing spree?”
“Maybe he likes to play with them before he kills them,” Tafoya said.
Kerney shook his head. “I don’t buy it. The Santa Fe killings are motivated by revenge, and the Socorro murders are clear-cut serial sex crimes. These are two distinctly different signatures.”
“Which gets us back to the notion that Olsen either has an accomplice or is acting on someone’s behalf,” Molina said. “Remember, we’ve got two sets of footprints and so far only one suspect.”
“What is the lab telling us about the new evidence that’s been collected?” Kerney asked.
“There are no fingerprints on the scrapbook found in Olsen’s house,” Molina said. “But Olsen’s prints are all over Manning’s cell phone, and the hair and fiber from the wig found in the van match some found in Olsen’s bathroom.”
“Olsen wears a wig?” Kerney asked.
“Not according to his mother,” Tafoya said. “He’s got a full head of shiny, blond, baby-fine hair.”
“Do we have anything new that absolutely puts Olsen in Santa Fe?” Kerney asked.
“Not really,” Molina said. “The enhancement of the video surveillance tape outside the municipal court building was inconclusive. What we do have are eyewitness descriptions of an unknown male subject who looks like Olsen, evidence seized in Socorro that ties him to the crimes, and the blue van he left behind with Drake’s body in it.”
“Which, according to the entry and exit visa stamps in Olsen’s passport,” Tafoya said, “was purchased from the El Paso junk dealer while he was out of the country.”
“He could have bought it from another party after he returned,” Kerney said.
“That’s what we thought,” Molina said, “until the Tucson PD got back to us on their meeting with the ex-con who installed the rebuilt engine. Allegedly, he never met with the customer in person. One morning when he came to work, the vehicle was outside his shop with the keys in it and a new engine in the back. The transaction was conducted entirely by phone. He got a money order in the mail for the labor, and when the work was done, he was told, again by phone, to leave the van outside with the keys under a floor mat. The next day it was gone.”
“The calls to the mechanic were made from public pay phones in Tucson,” Tafoya said, “on days when Olsen was working at his job in Socorro.”
Kerney glanced nervously at the cell phone on the table next to his hand and then looked away at the chalkboard, which was filled with notes on how to evaluate terminally ill patients for placement in hospice care. It seemed like a dismal way to end a life.
He pulled his thoughts back to the subject at hand. “We saw a trespasser on my property just before sunset,” he said. “The distance was too great to make an ID, but Sara was able to take a few telephoto pictures as he ran away. Chief Baca is having them developed.”
“Do you think it was Olsen?” Molina asked.
“Whoever it was, it’s highly suspicious,” Kerney said. “The property is posted and there’s no access for a casual hiker to get on the land easily, other than by fence-jumping.”
“Speaking of photos,” Tafoya said, “do you want to look at the ones we took at headquarters during the protest demonstration?”
Kerney nodded and Tafoya handed him a packet, telling him each unidentified subject was marked by a small X. He fanned through them, and froze at the closeup image of the bald-headed man he’d seen in the waiting area outside the urgent care center.
Kerney had screwed up big time by not looking at the pictures earlier in the day. His face flushed in silent anger at the blunder. Put a blond wig on his shaved head and the man could easily pass for Noel Olsen. Or maybe it was Olsen.
He pushed back from the table, got to his feet, and tossed the photograph on the table. “This man was in the hospital less than an hour ago. Get a search started, secure his admission and treatment records, talk to security and medical personnel, and look for somebody with a bandaged left hand.”
Kerney’s cell phone rang before Molina or Tafoya could react. He picked up, and Carol Jojoya told him the baby was on his way.
“Make it snappy, Chief,” Jojoya said, “we’re going into delivery right now.”
“Are there any bald-headed strangers near your location?” he demanded, thinking about the knitting needle in Victoria Drake’s abdomen and the killer’s two-for-one threat.
“No,” Jojoya said.
“Where’s the uniformed officer?” Kerney said, striding for the door.
“Right behind us,” Jojoya replied.
“I’m on my way.” He turned to the two detectives, the blood from his pounding heart thundering in his ears. “The baby’s coming. Find the son of a bitch now.”
He raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time with Molina and Tafoya on his heels, calling for backup on their cell phones.
Sara didn’t give a damn that her legs were spread wide open and people were staring at her crotch. She was sweating profusely and panting hard. Deep heaving sounds in a stranger’s voice came booming out of her chest.
What was taking so long? Why was Jojoya telling her to relax when she wanted it over and done with?
The last contraction hit like a great purging that emptied her from head to toe. All she could think of was meeting Patrick Brannon Kerney, seeing him, holding him, talking to him face-to-face for the very first time.
Without thinking, she let go of Kerney’s hand and reached out for her baby, who seemed to be singing instead of crying, making the sweetest little la-la sounds.
With her arms still outstretched, she watched Kerney cut the umbilical cord and Jojoya wash the waxy, blood-drenched coating off her son as the pain of the after-birth hit her.
“He has your hands and feet,” Sara said with a gasp as Jojoya wrapped Patrick in a blanket and handed him to her. “Quite the handsome lad.”
“That’s because his mother is a beauty,” Kerney said, as he sponged her face with a towel. “How are you?”
Sara gazed at Patrick Brannon, who stared at her peacefully with pretty blue eyes as if to say everything was going to be just fine. “I’m very happy to finally meet our son,” she said.
Kerney touched his son’s cheek with a gentle finger. “Me too.”
The baby gurgled and Kerney quickly pulled his hand away.