secretary and then dialed the orthopedic surgeon in Albuquerque who had reconstructed his shattered right knee after it had been blown apart in a shootout with a drug dealer. He persuaded the office receptionist to slot him in for a ten-minute doctor’s visit late in the afternoon.
In spite of weight work to keep his legs muscles strong and his daily routine of slow jogging, the knee had been hurting like hell over the past month, and Kerney’s limp was getting more pronounced with each passing day. It was time to see what could be done, if anything, to fix it.
The recently constructed bypass around Santa Fe, built to avoid trucking nuclear waste from Los Alamos through the city, shortened his driving time to Albuquerque. The new Indian casino just outside of Albuquerque, a massive, glitzy pueblo-style complex, loomed up as the traffic slowed to a mere ten miles above the reduced speed limit. Across from the casino the tribe’s buffalo herd grazed behind a fence anchored by railroad-tie posts that covered acres of ground. It made for a startling contrast of old Indian traditions and new Native American enterprise.
The administrative offices for the chemical treatment research program were located in an area of the city known as Martineztown, a predominantly low-income, Hispanic neighborhood. The nondescript building, sandwiched between the train tracks and the interstate, reflected the university’s politically correct decision to place community services in the barrio to avoid criticism of an ivory-tower mentality.
A few minutes early, Kerney spent his time waiting for Perrett reading a brochure that detailed the scope and mission of the center. It received major funding from a variety of government agencies and private foundations and had half a dozen ongoing projects to develop and test new treatment approaches to hard-core addiction with an emphasis on minority populations. Kerney was halfway through a second brochure when the secretary buzzed him in to Dr. Perrett’s office.
Jeremiah Perrett was a man of late middle age who obviously put time and energy into remaining fit. His biceps filled the sleeves of his collarless shirt, and he had a well-developed upper torso. He kept what hair he had cut short, and his blue eyes, partially hidden behind a pair of fashionable glasses, signaled a no-nonsense outlook on life.
If he was gay, as Osterman said, it didn’t show in either his mannerisms or appearance. But living in Santa Fe, Kerney was used to meeting gay men of all ages who proved that homosexuals were by no means all swishy queens.
Perrett stood up, reached across the desk, gave Kerney a hearty handshake, and sat back down. “My secretary said this is about Anna Marie Montoya.”
The office furnishings were far too nice to have been bought with grant or public money. No bean counter would have allowed such indulgences. Kerney eased into a comfortable wicker lounge chair with leather cushions. The expensive walnut desk was twice normal size, and Perrett’s desk chair was a high-end model that likely sold for eight or nine hundred dollars. The wall art consisted of tasteful, nicely framed posters of old Broadway musicals. Clearly, Perrett had furnished the office with his own funds.
“Are you aware that Anna Marie disappeared some years ago and her remains have just recently been discovered?” Kerney asked.
Perrett nodded. “Yes, of course. Very tragic.”
“How well did you know her?”
“Fairly well. I became her advisor when she transferred from university studies to major in psychology. She was a good student with an intuitive talent for working with people. She held promise as a researcher, but she enjoyed direct client involvement more than pure science.”
“Yet she worked for you on a research project in northern New Mexico.”
Perrett nodded. “She took my senior research seminar and I recruited her to be a field worker the summer after she graduated. She was bilingual. Native Spanish
In spite of weight work to keep his legs muscles strong and his daily routine of slow jogging, the knee had been hurting like hell over the past month, and Kerney’s limp was getting more pronounced with each passing day. It was time to see what could be done, if anything, to fix it.
The recently constructed bypass around Santa Fe, built to avoid trucking nuclear waste from Los Alamos through the city, shortened his driving time to Albuquerque. The new Indian casino just outside of Albuquerque, a massive, glitzy pueblo-style complex, loomed up as the traffic slowed to a mere ten miles above the reduced speed limit. Across from the casino the tribe’s buffalo herd grazed behind a fence anchored by railroad-tie posts that covered acres of ground. It made for a startling contrast of old Indian traditions and new Native American enterprise.
The administrative offices for the chemical treatment research program were located in an area of the city known as Martineztown, a predominantly low-income, Hispanic neighborhood. The nondescript building, sandwiched between the train tracks and the interstate, reflected the university’s politically correct decision to place community services in the barrio to avoid criticism of an ivory-tower mentality.
A few minutes early, Kerney spent his time waiting for Perrett reading a brochure that detailed the scope and mission of the center. It received major funding from a variety of government agencies and private foundations and had half a dozen ongoing projects to develop and test new treatment approaches to hard-core addiction with an emphasis on minority populations. Kerney was halfway through a second brochure when the secretary buzzed him in to Dr. Perrett’s office.
Jeremiah Perrett was a man of late middle age who obviously put time and energy into remaining fit. His biceps filled the sleeves of his collarless shirt, and he had a well-developed upper torso. He kept what hair he had cut short, and his blue eyes, partially hidden behind a pair of fashionable glasses, signaled a no-nonsense outlook on life.
If he was gay, as Osterman said, it didn’t show in either his mannerisms or appearance. But living in Santa Fe, Kerney was used to meeting gay men of all ages who proved that homosexuals were by no means all swishy queens.
Perrett stood up, reached across the desk, gave Kerney a hearty handshake, and sat back down. “My secretary said this is about Anna Marie Montoya.”
The office furnishings were far too nice to have been bought with grant or public money. No bean counter would have allowed such indulgences. Kerney eased into a comfortable wicker lounge chair with leather cushions. The expensive walnut desk was twice normal size, and Perrett’s desk chair was a high-end model that likely sold for eight or nine hundred dollars. The wall art consisted of tasteful, nicely framed posters of old Broadway musicals. Clearly, Perrett had furnished the office with his own funds.
“Are you aware that Anna Marie disappeared some years ago and her remains have just recently been discovered?” Kerney asked.
Perrett nodded. “Yes, of course. Very tragic.”
“How well did you know her?”
“Fairly well. I became her advisor when she transferred from university studies to major in psychology. She was a good student with an intuitive talent for working with people. She held promise as a researcher, but she enjoyed direct client involvement more than pure science.”
“Yet she worked for you on a research project in northern New Mexico.”
Perrett nodded. “She took my senior research seminar and I recruited her to be a field worker the summer after she graduated. She was bilingual. Native Spanish
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