Skip came over.
“Down there. Take a look.”
In between two stones, Skip could see the edge of what looked like a card, partially buried in the sand.
“Don’t touch,” said Watts. He photographed it with his cell phone, then removed a Ziploc bag. He pulled on a nitrile glove and picked up the card, slipping it into the bag and sealing it. He examined the find for a moment, then held it up for Skip to see.
“That’s Bitan’s employee ID card,” Skip said. “We’re all supposed to wear one. But what’s that stuff smeared on it?”
“Blood. Almost certainly Bitan’s.” Watts slipped the bag into a pocket of his day pack. “It’s becoming clear to me what happened here. Two vehicles—UTVs—cut Bitan off in this wash, one in front, the other behind. Bitan tried to run, but at least four men got out and chased him down. There was a struggle. Bitan must have been injured and bled. The bloody sand has been removed. At some point, it appears Bitan winged his ID card off into the darkness as a bread crumb of sorts. No other explanation: if his attackers saw him do it, they’d have searched until they found it.”
“You can read all that from just this dirt?”
Watts shrugged.
“So he was kidnapped.”
“Yes. And possibly killed, or badly injured, considering the bloody card and the fact he hasn’t shown up in any hospital.”
“These tracks they tried to cover. Where do they go?”
“North. Toward the Pershing Proving Range.”
“How far away is that?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s climb to the top of that hill. We’re off the edge of the lidar survey here.”
Watts headed up the back side of a rocky hill that rose above the wash, his wiry frame moving like a goat, Skip following. They were soon at the top, with a view looking north. Watts pulled out a pair of binoculars and glassed the landscape ahead, which consisted of gentle, rolling foothills and valleys leading up to a range of mountains.
He passed the binoculars to Skip. “Take a look at those far hills.”
Skip looked and, after a moment, spied a chain-link fence crossing the landscape like a ribbon. He ran the binoculars along it and came to a closed gate. Signs that were too far away to read flanked the gate. Beyond, he saw some buildings, several skeletonized trucks, and an old wooden water tower with a staved-in tank.
“The proving range,” said Watts.
“Looks abandoned.”
“Yes.” Watts paused. “Abandoned—except for the fresh tire tracks leading to it.”
46
AS CORRIE PULLED into the parking lot, what she saw was not encouraging. Consolidated Dental Partners occupied a brand-new building in fake adobe style off St. Michael’s Drive. It didn’t look like a place that would be storing ancient dental files.
She hung her FBI lanyard around her neck and walked in. She had tried to call ahead but got only an answering service and then, finally, a low-level employee who knew nothing about dental records and seemed disinclined to learn. Corrie had thought Lime might accompany her, but he’d made it politely clear he thought the trip was a waste of time and that no dental records going back seventy-five years would ever be found.
Corrie’s research had come up with one large dental practice in Santa Fe, owned by a for-profit hospital chain that had bought up several dozen smaller practices over the years. She was clinging to the faint hope they might have preserved old medical records from those practices. The problem was, there were dozens of defunct dental offices going back decades in Santa Fe that hadn’t been bought up. Lime was right: this really was a stab in the dark.
She entered a large, sterile reception area with three receptionists behind glass. She chose the most alert-looking one and walked over, raising her FBI badge. “Special Agent Corinne Swanson, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Albuquerque Field Office. How are you today, ma’am?”
The lady stared at her, clearly convinced Corrie was not a real FBI agent, and finally said: “Can I help you?”
Corrie maintained a pleasant disposition. “Yes. Could I speak to someone in authority, please?”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No, ma’am,” said Corrie evenly. “I really hope there isn’t going to be any difficulty here.”
“All right.” The woman got up and went into the back, and a moment later reappeared with a man in tow, wearing a shiny blue suit and knit tie. Not a dentist: he looked like some back-office drone. He introduced himself as Mr. Murphy.