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  Wayne had a law degree and eighteen years wrapped up in his career, and he was feeling his forties, though not showing them quite yet. His body was agile and looked lean in his conservative dark suits. Some people sensed a potential for rapid and exact violence under the surface, and while it had been present when needed in the past, it was generally expelled on a racquetball court. His dark hair was neatly trimmed to be slightly longer than policy — he reacted adversely and usually subtly to bureaucratic regulations — with a stubborn curly forelock which often hung over his forehead. His green eyes were set wide under dark straight eyebrows that echoed the normal set of his lips. His nose was thin, and his tan disguised the few wrinkles at his eyes and the comers of his mouth. Except for the missing upper tip of his left ear, he was bureau average, exactly the kind of American the ghost of J. Edgar approved.

  Kind of depressing to look so middle-of-the-road, Wayne had often thought.

  Wayne would never have considered himself a complex man, nor one who was particularly emotional. At unexpected moments, however, his throat would clutch and his eyes would squint against unwanted wetness. Tammy Wynette singing “Amazing Grace.” Candid photos of John F. Kennedy. Though Wayne was a lifelong Republican, born of staunch Kansas Republicans, it was Jack Kennedy who had inspired him and interested him in government service. He took pride in his work, and it was sometimes exhibited in an arrogant swagger in his walk, shoulders high and back. It was a subconscious trait.

  Already in mid April, the heat waves could be seen shimmering in the rearview mirror as Wayne slowed from the steady sixty-five — it was a government car with federal license tags — he had been driving and left the Interstate for the four-lane Cerrillos Road leading into Santa Fe. Traffic in and out of the city was steady and heavy. Exhaust fumes hung low in the heat and stung his nostrils. He drove slowly through town, cutting around the Plaza and downtown area by taking Sandoval Street and Palace Avenue. He found the county building, and parked in a rare opening on Lincoln. The Federal Courthouse dominated the end of the street ahead of him.

  Locking the car, he pulled on his coat, jaywalked the street, crossed the sidewalk, grass strips, and parking lot, and entered the county building. A receptionist pointed out the meeting room for him, and he walked down the echoing corridor to its door. Wayne was so accustomed to institutional linoleum and paint that the drab colors did not even register with him. Uniformed deputies and women in civilian dress passed back and forth through the corridor. In a room at the far end, a loud drunk enumerated his rights.

  He knocked once and opened the door.

  There was a big wooden table, surfaced in scratches and scars, papers, and a couple of briefcases, surrounded by upholstered chairs, three of which were occupied. The three men looked up at him.

  “Steve Wayne. I’m the Special-Agent-in-Charge at Albuquerque.”

  The swarthy man in the short-sleeved summer khakis stood up and came around the table, extending a hand. “Carl Rivera, Agent Wayne.”

  Wayne shook the hand and found it firm and dry, warm. The sheriff spoke with only a trace of a Spanish accent.

  “Please come in,” the sheriff told him, waving in the direction of the others. “Dr. Jerry Hayman, the medical examiner. District Attorney Keith Boyles.”

  Wayne shook hands with the other two men, then found a seat. Hayman was an unkempt, skinny man, except for the bowling ball stomach. His suit coat was tossed over the back of the chair next to him. It was difficult to feel confidence in him, though Wayne’s telephone source had suggested the man was more than competent. Boyles was a fat man, sweating in the refrigerated air, but his well-tailored three-piece suit helped discourage the impression of sloppiness. He had neatly trimmed thinning hair, a round face, a slightly puckered mouth, and eyebrows that arched like prone question marks.

  Rivera regained his chair and said, “I’m glad you could join us, Mr. Wayne.”

  “Steve’ll do. Did you ask Tom Edgerton to sit in?”

  “Yes, but he was scheduled for a trip to Washington. Besides, he pointed out that what we’ve got is not a federal crime. Not yet, anyway. That’s why I really appreciate your sitting in.”

  “Well, I’m not sure what I can do, either, but I’ll be glad to listen.”

  “Fine. Thank you. We’ve been reviewing our progress since yesterday, and we’d like to share with you what we have. You have read the papers, of course?”

  “Yes. This Janet Willow who broke the story is calling it the Razor Murders. Plus, I’d suspect she’s also the one who brought on the attention shown by last night’s national network news. She made extensive use of the terms ‘torture,’ ‘maimed,’ and ‘mutilated,’ though there was no detail.”

  Hayman cleared his throat and leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. “I’m afraid she got that much out of one of my rather gullible assistants. Before I managed to put a lid on it. The wounds could have been caused by a razor, but I doubt it.”

  “She had pictures of a barn and a telephoto shot of the two body bags.”

  “Photographers like body bags,” the DA said.

  “That’s true,” Wayne agreed.

  “Show him the pictures, Jerry,” Rivera said.

  Wayne accepted the stack of eight by tens from the medical examiner and went through them slowly. The police photographer had covered every possible angle. It took some willpower not to gag.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “My reaction, also,” the sheriff told him softly.

  Wayne had seen some gruesome murder scenes, but this one turned the stomach, threatened the Big Mac he had eaten on the drive up. He had to force himself to finish the series, finally tapping the photos against the table to square the corners and handing them back to Hayman.

  “The newspaper article didn’t say anything about them being hung up,” he said.

  “I’m trying to keep that quiet. A key detail if we ever get to any kind of interrogation. And so far, we’ve kept the reporters away from the kids who found the bodies, and I’d like that to continue. Also, I’d like to keep to ourselves the exact mutilations. The way it was, Steve, there were two pulleys up on that central beam in the barn, used for hauling bales of hay into the loft, I imagine. They were used to pull the bodies up.”

  “After the torture?”

  “Before,” Hayman said. He got up and paced around the table, hitching up his pants by hooking his fingers under an engraved western belt that read JERRY across the back. The belt buckle suggested the brand responsible for his paunch.

  “The body fluids and excretions were directly under the hanging positions. Blood, urine, feces. The leather harnesses were saturated with blood. Their hands were tied behind them with leather thongs during the torture. We found the thongs. Death, by the way, came as a result of loss of blood in both cases. No vital organs were intentionally damaged. I don’t know how long it took, but undoubtedly over an hour, and I suspect the victims were aware most of the time. Large amounts of amphetamines of a couple varieties were in the remaining blood and the tissue around needle punctures.”

  “They were intentionally kept awake?” Wayne asked, unbelieving.

  “Like a wide-eyed teamster, pedal to the metal, popping bennies at three A.M. I imagine there was a lot of screaming, but no one was around to hear it.”

  “I hear it in my dreams,” Boyles said.

  “Have you pinpointed any time lines?” Wayne asked.

  “I’m hanging it on the night of the eighth, Monday, around midnight, but giving it six hours leeway, before or after. That’s as close as I can come with the state of decomposition, the lividity, and the temperatures involved.”

  “Any identification?”

  Hayman kept pacing while he explained the teeth, fingers, and thumbs. “Every clue we have, along with tissue and chemical samples, has been forwarded to state and FBI laboratories for further analysis. I sent out the samples by special courier last night. We’ve asked for help from your identification divisio
n, also.”

  Boyles said, “Today’s New Mexican will run photos of sketches we’ve had drawn, to see if anyone in the area might know them. There are no missing persons reports out with similar descriptions.”

  “Nothing else?” Wayne asked.

  “She had worn a ring on the left ring finger, probably a wedding band, but it was missing,” Rivera said.

  “No clothing?”

  “None. Out back of the barn, we found the ashes of a small fire. The clothing may have been burned. We’re analyzing the ashes,” the sheriff explained.

  Wayne shifted his position. The arm of the chair pressed the short-barreled Smith and Wesson .38, holstered high on his belt, into his left side. He was getting close to the reasons for his invitation, and he was a trifle uncomfortable. “How about motive? Anybody discussed that?”

  The district attorney stretched his neck, mopping around the tight collar of his shirt with a handkerchief. “I, for one, have talked about little else, Steve. And I, for one, have come up with very little.”

  “Drugs?” he suggested.

  Rivera sighed. “Unlikely. I’m not saying we don’t have our share of drug problems. I’m saying this would be a pretty farfetched reaction to a double cross on a drug deal.”

  “Object lesson?” Wayne asked.

  “Crossed my mind,” Rivera admitted. “And I’m sure that is one aspect. Otherwise, the bodies would have been buried somewhere. No, you’re right. Somebody, somewhere, is supposed to learn a valuable lesson.”

  Hayman returned to his chair. “The way it was done, it was intended to extract information. Of that, I am pretty damned positive. And no drug dealer, I don’t give a damn how macho he thinks he is, is going to hold out for that long, and endure that much pain, over some suitcase full of coke.”

  Steve Wayne did not think so either, but he did not confirm the ME’s opinion.

  The DA came to the point. “Where we’re at, the day after the discovery, is point zero. Carl may come up with more in the days ahead, but everything points to this thing being much larger than Santa Fe County. The implications, to me, suggest some kind of national activity.” He stressed the word “national.”

  From the stoic set of Rivera’s face, Wayne was certain the sheriff did not necessarily agree. But he would have succumbed to the public outrage generated by Willow’s articles and the pressures building among city, county, and very probably, since this was the state capital, state officials. Plus, on May 2, the voters would decide whether or not Boyles and Rivera should stay on the job. Boyles, with two previous terms, had an advantage in that regard, but Rivera was on the ballot for the first time. An unsolved vicious crime did not induce confidence in an appointed incumbent.

  “You’d like the Bureau to intervene?”

  “We can use all the help we can get,” Boyles said generously. He smiled.

  When an election was not so imminent, the locals liked to keep investigations, trials, convictions, and positive public relations in their own hip pockets.

  Wayne said, “But there’s no evidence that the victims were brought across state lines? No federal property involved, like Los Alamos? No suggestion of a federal crime? It’s very seldom that we get involved in murder.”

  “No federal angle yet,” Boyles said. “But you’ve got to admit that something like this stinks to hell and gone of espionage and spies and all that. Maybe they were trying to get something out of the labs at Alamos? We think you ought to at least take a look.”

  Wayne asked, “You mind if I say I think you’re reaching a bit?”

  The DA grinned. “I don’t mind. Hell, Steve, we’ve got one of those homicides that may never be solved. I’d just as soon have the FBI not solve it.”

  Before Wayne could respond, Boyles checked his watch and jumped up. Lively for an obese man. “I’ve got to run to another meeting. Steve, I’m glad you could join us.”

  The medical examiner rose also. “I’ll walk with you, Keith. Nice to meet you,” he told Wayne.

  Steve stood and shook hands again and said, “I’ll talk it over with my superiors and get back to you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Boyles said. “Carl will give you a copy of our file. Hope you’ll keep it to yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  The two men left, Hay man hitching his pants up, and Wayne wondered if he was free to go. Rivera remained seated, and when Wayne turned back to him, said, “You like a cup of coffee, Steve?”

  He wanted to talk some more, and Wayne was always willing to listen — one of his best traits was patience. “Why not?”

  Rivera went into the hallway and returned a few minutes later with two steaming and aromatic Styrofoam cups. He passed one across the battered table. “What do you think?”

  “Being honest, and all that?”

  “I’m a big boy.”

  “At this point, I don’t think you have a chance in hell of shifting out from under the jurisdiction. And, like Boyles said, it’s the kind of case that takes months or years to solve, if it’s ever solved. I think your reelection may be in jeopardy.”

  Rivera grinned at him, his expressive eyes joining in. “Election. First time. But I guess I wouldn’t be all that unhappy about going back to captain if I had to. The pressures are a damned sight easier to handle.”

  The sheriff fingered a cigarette from a crumpled pack and drew a lighter from his pocket.

  Wayne decided he could like this man. “So you’re mainly going along with the people in power?”

  The lawman spun the wheel and lit his cigarette. “You know another way to do it? Tell me it’s different in the Bureau. If I had the time, I think I could work this one out all by myself.”

  It was the same kind of confidence Wayne had felt himself in several dozen tough cases over the years. “You’ve got something the others don’t have?”

  Rivera snapped the lighter shut, laid it flat, and flicked it with a snap of his finger. It slid across the rough table. Wayne picked it up, studied its dented and scratched sides. “101st Airborne?”

  “The minute I looked in that barn, I was struck by the rigging on those people. It was made especially for the job. But damned if I didn’t have some kind of flashback. I remember a night jump out of Benning, and one of our people got hung up in a tree. Looked the same way, hanging there, all scratched up from the tree limbs he’d hit, and blood dripping.”

  “He hurt?” Steve asked.

  “Not badly, not then. But he took a Claymore head-on in ’Nam.”

  “This ... this similarity gives you a clue?”

  “Gut instinct only, mi amigo. Not a goddamned shred of evidence yet. But I think we have us a paratrooper involved in this thing somewhere.”

  *

  By the time Wayne had driven back to Albuquerque, composed a telex, and sent it off to Washington, it was 3:30, and he was fully intrigued by the case. It was 5:30 in Washington, and he did not expect an answer until tomorrow or the next day.

  There were three other agents assigned to him. One had the day off and the other two were testifying in federal court. His secretary was taking a break with the four women in the clerical pool. He adjusted the Venetian blinds against the western sun, settled into his chair, and began to reread the stack of reports in the Santa Fe file.

  At 4:10, his secretary appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, Carmen?”

  “Telex for you, Steve. Marked urgent.”

  “Thanks.”

  He grabbed the flimsy sheet of paper, noting the deputy director source in the lead. It was simple:

  NO BUR JURISDICTION APPARENT IN SF COUNTY HOMICIDES STOP AUTH TO ASSIST INVEST DENIED AT THIS TIME STOP

  THREE

  Airborne, Airborne, where you been?

  ’Round the world, and I’m goin’ again.

  Well, what you gonna do when you get back?

  Goin’ around again with a full field pack.

  ’Nam was the start of the helicopter era, and the ground pounders we
re inserted into the hostile fire zones and extracted from them by chopper. Worse, there weren’t any front lines. There were no demarcations on some map to jump behind, and some were afraid that it signaled the end of the proud commando traditions inherent in the 101st and 82nd Airborne Divisions.

  Though qualified jumpers continued to receive jump pay on their monthly vouchers for the twelve-month periods of their Vietnam tours, many of them missed the regular qualifying jumps required with Stateside duty.

  There was another form of compensation. Straight-legs gave them sideways glances, checking out the jump badges above the breast pockets, the stylized eagles on the left shoulders. “Envy, man. Jealousy of the highest fuckin’ order. Ain’t no one around as good as me.”

  Dress is right and cover down,

  Forty inches all around.

  First squad is lookin’ good,

  Oughta be in Hollywood.

  The special notice and the extra bucks on payday were okay, but the leap into near oblivion was better. It was hard to achieve the same high on pride or greenbacks or military scrip or RVN piaster that could be achieved by floating in space.

  So some of them took steps to rectify the US Army’s typical oversight.

  Lew and six avid troopers in the first squad of his platoon made six jumps on their own, onto foreign soil, which was kind of special in itself. They utilized government avgas for the aircraft and recovery vehicles and gear carefully appropriated from the reserve supply stores. They jumped twice from C-130s, once from a C-123 Provider piloted by a half-drunk — or half-sober — Aussie lieutenant, once from a Caribou, and twice from Huey slicks.

  Sweet thought it was a real kick in the ass.

  *

  Carlos Rivera thought of two angles of attack while he was struggling with his thirty-first push-up. Since it was better to think about his investigation, he skipped the next four push-ups and all of the sit-ups, groaned his way to his feet, and padded naked into the bathroom. Myra was already in the shower, and he stepped over the edge of the tub and slipped in behind her. The steam swirled around her. He wrapped his big arms around her and fondled her breasts.