“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.”

“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?”