Free Los Alamos by Joseph Kanon Page B

goes off and there’d be a hell of a time explaining that away.”
    “At the moment all we’ve got is a body.”
    “Yeah. If he was security, are you telling me the army’s taking this over? Just put my feet up and have a cup of coffee and politely butt out. You want some, by the way?” he said, nodding toward the hot plate behind him. “It’s cowboy coffee, just boiled in the pot and tastes like shit, but since we’re such great friends—”
    “I’m okay, thanks. You still have a case. To tell you the truth, nobody thinks it’s connected to the Hill anyway, so you might have the only case.”
    “But without a name, rank, and serial number.”
    “Let’s go over what you do have. Who found the body?”
    “Mexican woman. Just about had a heart attack and been gibbering ever since. None of it means a thing, or maybe my Spanish isn’t what it used to be. Priest says she’s practically living in the church now to get over the shock. Nothing there. She found him in the morning, but he’d obviously been out all night.”
    “How obviously?”
    “Rigor. Plus he got rained on a lot. Coroner estimates time of death anywhere the evening before and won’t budge on getting more detailed. I tried. I’ve been assuming he was killed sometime after eleven—earlier than that and you figure someone would have seen something. After that, it gets pretty quiet here, even on the Alameda.”
    “State of the body consistent with that time?”
    “Coroner says so. You’ve seen his report, haven’t you?”
    “Not very specific, is it?”
    “Well, let’s just say Ritter’s a careful kind of guy. You can’t hold him to much.”
    “Let’s just say he’s incompetent. What’s your guess?”
    “Figure midnight, one o’clock at the outside.”
    “No witnesses, no signs of struggle, nothing that tells us anything?”
    “Right. Rain did a good job on the site. Some broken branches on the bushes, but that could be from falling down. From the looks of it, though, I’d say he was dragged in.”
    “Why?”
    “There wouldn’t have been room for two of them there where we found him. You know, if they’d been together. So I have to assume he was put there. We did find footprints, partial ones anyway.”
    “That’s interesting.”
    “No it isn’t. No special marks, just a standard workboot. All the Mexicans around here wear them.”
    “Just the Mexicans?”
    “No, I didn’t mean that. Anybody. Any working man.”
    Connolly frowned. “Hmm. Does that seem right to you?”
    “They’ve got dicks too.”
    Connolly looked up, surprised at the sharpness of it. “Okay, let’s get down to it. I read about the pants. Any evidence of anal penetration?”
    “No.”
    “Semen?”
    “No.”
    “What about the park? Is it one of the meeting places?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You must. You’re chief of police.”
    “Well, you know, this is a quiet town. I’m not saying we’re Dogpatch—we know what it is. You go up to Taos, where all the artists are, or down to Albuquerque, and I guess you’d find plenty of what you’re looking for. We’ve got a few antique dealers and sandalmakers—well, one look, you can see they’re covered in fairy dust, but they don’t bother anybody. We’ve never had this kind of trouble. Honest to God, I don’t even know where to look.”
    “You mean you haven’t checked the bars or anywhere someone’s likely to have heard something?”
    “Well, I’ll make you a deal. You find out where they are and I’ll check them out for you.”
    “I’ll make you a deal. You get your men to talk to their snitches and get them to tell you where people go at night. Then check it out and talk to people nice so they talk back to you and see what you can see. You do that and I’ll forget you haven’t even got around to basic police work. You’re putting it out this guy was homosexual and then you turn around and say you haven’t got any here. Who do you think killed him, then?”
    Holliday