“What about Holmes’s birth certificate?”
“Holmes’s date of birth doesn’t match Hernandez’s DOB.”
“I didn’t ask that,” Decker said testily. “I asked if you could get a copy of Raymond Holmes’s birth certificate.”
“How? I don’t even know where Raymond Holmes was born.”
“But you have his DOB and his SSN.”
“I’m not computer savvy, Pete.” Marge was holding in her own frustration. “How do I use a date of birth and a Social Security number to locate his birth certificate?”
“What about the Social Security Administration? They have to have had a birth certificate to generate a number.”
“Loo, you know as well as I do that they’re not going to give me the information unless I have the subpoenas or an executed warrant. If you can think of a judge that’ll give me the paperwork with what we have, then I’m willing to go to bat.”
She was right. Something would have to break or they were at a complete standstill. “At least find out what paperwork you need to get the information. Also, you can talk to someone in computers upstairs and find out if a birth certificate is accessible from somewhere other than SSA.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“I think I speak for Marge when I say I hope we’re not spinning our wheels,” Oliver said. “We don’t have anything on this guy, Loo. I mean, we might have been able to bring him in for Roseanne Dresden, but since he’s already passed a polygraph, we’ve even lost that excuse.”
“Too bad we don’t have Manny’s old toothbrush,” Marge said. “It would be easier to get DNA off of Raymond Holmes from an old discarded coffee cup than it would be to crack some of these bureaucracies.”
Oliver said, “You know, that’s not a half-bad idea. If you want, I could call up the Devargases and find out if they’ve saved anything from Manny.”
“They threw away his pictures, Oliver, I doubt if they saved his toothbrush.” Decker thought a moment. “But sure, go ahead. If that doesn’t work, how about rounding up a witness who can positively identify Raymond Holmes as Manny Hernandez.”
“Like who?”
“My first thought is the Devargases, but even if they did pick out Holmes as Manny, their opinions wouldn’t likely hold up in court unless we have corroborating witnesses. How about Alyssa Bright Mapplethorpe or Christian Woodhouse?”
Marge said, “She hasn’t seen Manny in thirty years.”
“Ditto for Woodhouse,” Oliver said.
“Well, they’re all we’ve got right now that wouldn’t be considered prejudicial. Make up a six-pack of pictures, and show it to Alyssa. If you can’t get any satisfaction with her, we’ll work on getting an interview with Christian Woodhouse. Being as he’s out of town, let’s go with Alyssa first.”
“You’re the boss,” Marge said. “If you’re looking for witnesses, you could also go to Santa Fe Correctional Center and show Martin Hernandez a photo array. Maybe he’d be able to identify Raymond Holmes as his son. I know he’s an old man and has been in prison for the last fifty years, but it’s worth a shot, no?”
Decker hit his head. “Maybe Martin Hernandez wouldn’t be able to identify Holmes as his son, but his DNA wouldn’t lie. I’m sure his DNA is on file with Santa Fe Correctional. Next, we’d need Holmes’s DNA.” He looked at Oliver. “Scotty, go back to Raymond Holmes and tell him you’re very interested in the house. Go buy him a cup of coffee and bag the discarded container. Get any bit of trash that might contain DNA. If we get a fifty percent indicating that Martin Hernandez is Holmes’s father, it might be compelling enough evidence for a judge to issue a warrant for his ID. I should’ve thought about it yesterday. Now I have to justify the expense of another visit.”
Decker put the reports on his desk and handed the camera back to Oliver.
“Go download and print the pictures of Raymond Holmes today. Make copies for your records, give copies to Norton Salvo for forensic comparisons, and give me copies as well. Tomorrow, when I’m in Santa Fe, I want to show the photographs of Raymond Holmes to the prison guards and see if he looks familiar to anyone who works there. Lastly, I also want to check the prison logs and see who Martin Hernandez’s visitors have been for the last forty years.”
Oliver said, “You think if Raymond Holmes is Manny Hernandez and he was visiting his dad, he’d be stupid enough to sign in under his own name?”
Decker said, “If Holmes is Hernandez, the guy’s arrogance is over-the-top. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he must know that we’re eventually going to identify the bones as his late wife, Beth. Yet he’s going about his business, selling houses.”
“So maybe it’s not him,” Marge said. “Because if he is Manny, he’s got to know that once we identify Beth, he’s not only going to be our number one suspect in his wife’s death, but now he moved up with a bullet to the one spot in Roseanne Dresden’s disappearance.”
“Maybe he thinks he’s clear because he passed the polygraph,” Oliver said.
“We’re assuming that this guy knows he might be indicted for murders and yet he sticks around and goes about his business selling houses.” Marge shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Crazy,” Decker said, “but never underestimate the power of complacency.”
A SEVEN A.M. flight was early even for a stalwart like Decker, but he needed a full day’s worth of time. Even losing an hour because of the time change, if all went well, he’d make it to Santa Fe by eleven. As he tooled down Interstate 25 North, the traffic was light and the sky was the biggest and bluest expanse that Decker had ever seen. It was sunny and gorgeous: a shame to waste such lovely weather on a visit to a penitentiary.
Santa Fe Correctional was fifteen minutes out of the city, a maximum-security institution that housed a minimum-restrict facility as well. It was a one-story complex on flat ground, the terrain composed in the main of purple sage, stunted piñon pines, juniper, wild sumac, and lots of tumbleweed. The guard tower looked like a mile-high skyscraper against the empty ethers. The air was a pleasant temperature, but as dry as a bone. Decker could feel his lips and sinuses crack by the second.
After presenting his ID at the window and signing in, he passed through a sally port and was met on the other side by a guard named Curtis Kruse-a man in his sixties with a beer gut that strained the shirt of his khaki uniform. His arms were short but stretched with muscle, his legs were as solid as oak trunks. He had a round face, a double chin, thick white hair, and steel-gray eyes as reflective as mirrors. His handshake was firm but not obnoxiously strong.
“Welcome to the Land of Enchantment.” Kruse led Decker into a tiny room that held a steel table and two chairs, all the furniture bolted to the floor. Nothing on the walls except a one-way mirror and two video cameras nestled in the ceiling corners. The guard shut the door. “Hope you get a chance to see more than a penitentiary.”
“I don’t think it’s in the cards today, but I told my wife I’d bring her back for a vacation.”
“Can’t get better weather than this unless you got allergies. The wind’s a killer.”
“It’s as still as stone today,” Decker told him.
“Just wait until the afternoon, sir, and you’ll find out why Albuquerque’s the capital of hot-air ballooning. Anyway, I’ve been told that you’re here for Martin Hernandez. Marty’s been a good boy lately…lately, as in the last ten years.”
“I heard his time is almost up.”
“Two years, three months, and some-odd days. He can probably tell you the time down to the minute.”
“I’m sure he could. You weren’t here when he was originally sentenced, were you?”
“Now, that’s a polite way of asking how long I’ve been working at SFC.” Kruse smiled. “I’ve been here for twenty-two years. Before that I was in Casper, Wyoming, in the police department. The missus and I moved out to Santa Fe because the winters are a lot milder. She don’t like the cold except if she’s skiing. When I came in, Martin was already a veteran.”