“Was he ever problematic?”
“He had his moments like most of the fellas here,” Kruse said. “I know he was in solitary more than once, but he didn’t make it a habit like some of the others. As he got older, you know how it is. The testosterone goes down and so does the aggression. Lately, Martin has reinvented himself as a hotshot animal trainer.”
“Yeah, I read something about that in the papers.”
“He has a way with the beasts. He should know ’em by this time. He’s been living with them for the last forty years.”
“How did he get into the dog program?”
“Good behavior and seniority.”
“How old is Martin?”
“Seventies. I can get you the exact date if you need it.”
“Sure. So you’ve been here in Santa Fe Correctional for twenty-two years?”
“I said it, so it must be true.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to show you some photographs. Just want to know if you’ve seen any of these guys before.”
“Sure, I’ll have a look.”
Decker took out two sets of six-packs with only one array containing a black-and-white close-up of Raymond Holmes. Forensics had tried to make it look as official as possible, but it clearly wasn’t a mug shot. To counterbalance the odd photo, forensics had also interspersed six other photographs of similar-looking people, all the snapshots taken with the same camera.
Kruse peered at all the images carefully. He knew implicitly that he was being asked to make an official identification and he didn’t want to make a mistake. A minute later he pointed to Raymond Holmes. “This is the guy you’re looking for, right?”
“You’ve seen him before?”
“He’s been coming around twice a year for the last, hmm…maybe fifteen years to visit Martin Hernandez. What’d he do?”
“You’re sure about him?”
“My eyesight is still twenty/twenty. Besides, Martin doesn’t get any other visitors. His wife used to come, but she died, I think, years ago. If it would help you out, you can ask some of the other guys. They’ll pick him out without a problem.”
“It would help tremendously.”
“What’d he do?”
“We’re not sure yet and that’s the God’s honest truth. Right now we’re trying to identify him. He’s going under the name Raymond Holmes, but we think he might be Martin Hernandez’s son.”
“That would make sense. He comes on Martin’s birthday and usually sometime between Christmas and New Year’s. And like I said, he’s easy to remember because the old guys don’t get many visitors and not one who comes so regular.”
“He would have to show ID to get in here, right?”
“You want to know what name he uses when he comes to visit Hernandez.”
“Exactly.” Decker nodded.
“That shouldn’t be too hard to find out, Lieutenant. Like I said, he comes every year on Hernandez’s birthday and during Christmas and New Year’s. Hold on and I’ll check the logbooks.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your help.” Decker laughed. “You have no idea how much I appreciate it. We’ve been hitting a lot of walls.”
“I know the feeling. While you’re waiting for me to come back, I’ll send in Curly and Doug.” Kruse smiled, showing teeth the color of egg yolks. “I betcha a Franklin they’ll pick him out first try.”
“I’ll pass on the bet.”
Kruse’s laughter was between a snort and a cackle. Decker could hear it even after the man left. Curly came in ten minutes later and picked out Holmes straightaway. He matched Kruse’s words about Holmes’s visits to Hernandez almost verbatim. When Doug came in, he played the same tape loop as Curly and Kruse. For good measure, a third man named Jimbo rounded out the quartet of identifiers. None of the four remembered Holmes by name, but they all remembered his face and the man he visited. The three guards were swapping Martin Hernandez stories when Kruse returned. He had made a copy of the logbook page dated December 27. The signature was bold, loopy, and very clear.
Raymond Holmes
It would be appealing to confront Holmes right now, but it would be more profitable to get a partial DNA match. Then they could challenge Holmes with the indisputable forensic information and see how he’d react.
Of course the DNA identification was predicated on Martin Hernandez being Manny Hernandez’s biological father.
Decker’s thoughts pounced upon another idea. He wondered if Holmes had ever been fingerprinted as Ramon Hernandez. If Holmes had been in the prison system in the last fifteen years under any name, his fingerprints would be in AFIS. But since he’d been a model citizen in San Jose for twenty-two years, it was unlikely.
Decker pondered other alternatives. If Holmes had ever been in the military, even under a different name, his prints would be on file with the army. His mind was sprinting past a panoply of ideas when Kruse’s voice interrupted him. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to talk to Martin Hernandez?”
“That would be terrific.”
“You stay right here, sir. I’ll bring in the Dog Whisperer.”
36
L ED BY CURLY on one side and Kruse on the other, Martin Hernandez, in his jail jumpsuit, looked like a walking orange. His girth appeared to measure half his height and his face was grizzled and gray. His gait was a slow shuffle due to age and leg chains. They placed him down on one of the bolted chairs and cuffed an ankle to a table leg. He sat back, crossing his arms in front, his buttocks spread over the seat.
Kruse said, “You gonna behave, Martin, or do I have to put on the handcuffs?”
“I’m gonna be a free man, sir.” His voice was high and raspy. When he smiled, there wasn’t much tooth matter left-a couple of pegs in front and a couple of molars in back. “I’m not gonna do nothing to stop that from happening.”
“Now, that’s thinking smart.”
“Can I trouble you for a smoke, sir?”
Kruse looked at Decker. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks,” Hernandez said to Kruse.
“Thank him,” Kruse said of Decker. “Now, I’m gonna take you at your word, Martin. I’m gonna figure you to behave properly. Am I wrong for thinking that?”
“Not wrong at all, Officer Kruse.”
“This man wants to ask you a few questions. You answer them honestly and to the best of your ability, okay?”
“Okay, I can do that.” When Hernandez spoke, he forced out sound from his throat. “A smoke will help. Maybe a cup of coffee, too. My throat.” He cleared phlegm. “It gets dry when I talk.”
“So why are you smoking, Martin?”
“Man’s gotta have something to do here, sir.”
Kruse laughed again. “That’s true. Okay, I’ll be back with your smoke and coffee.”
Decker regarded the con. A multilane highway of scars ran across the man’s neck, all of them keloid bumpy and shiny white. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had gone wrong with the man’s vocal cords.
Curly told Kruse, “I’m going to get back to my beat. Call me when you need me to take him back.”
The two men walked out together, leaving Decker alone with Hernandez. The man’s face, though speckled with liver spots, had few wrinkles. Several small open sores had rooted at his left temple, looking nasty enough to be the big C. His hands were worn and callused, his nails were yellow and thick and cut way below the tips of his fingers. He was missing part of his right thumb.
“When are you getting out?” Decker asked him.
“Two years, three months, eighteen days, and about sixteen hours. I served my time. I deserve to be a free man. That’s what the law says.”
“Are you going to continue with your work with the dogs?”