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13

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Sloane and Jim split up Wednesday morning—Jim headed to the Office of the Medical Investigator to review his findings and work through jurisdictional issues, and Sloane to Chris Crossman’s house to supervise the Evidence Response Team from Albuquerque as they processed the property.

The team knew what they were doing and she didn’t want to get in the way, so she stood outside and wrote up notes for her report. She was almost done when she heard a horse clomping up the driveway. A woman in her early sixties wearing jeans and a red flannel shirt with a black down vest sat atop a beautiful white-and-brown Appaloosa.

Sloane stepped off the porch and put her hand up, signaling for the rider to stop. She didn’t want to contaminate Crossman’s property any more than it already had been.

“Hello, ma’am,” Sloane said. “Beautiful mare you have there.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, but her eyes showed concern as they darted toward the house.

“This is a police investigation,” Sloane said. “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around.”

“Is something wrong? Is Chris okay?”

“Do you know the owner?”

“Of course. I’ve known Chris Crossman since he moved here.”

“Where do you live?”

“Up the mountain about a mile, then turn left and it’s the end of the road.”

“Your name?”

“Abigail Schafer.”

“Ms. Schafer, I regret to inform you that Mr. Crossman was killed last weekend. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

She stared at Sloane in disbelief. “Chris is dead?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I just came home yesterday,” she said. “I was showing my horses in Texas. I saw the cars on the main road and came up, surprised because Chris doesn’t usually have so many guests.”

“You knew him well?”

“I suppose. I mean, we’re not close friends—I’m very social, Chris is quite reserved. But sometimes he would come riding with me. He loved horses, was really good with them. He’d been raised with horses.”

This woman could be a good source of information.

“Do you have a few minutes?” Sloane asked. “We’re investigating his death and you may be able to fill in some blanks.” She didn’t want to be too specific, but she also didn’t want to lose this potential witness.

“Anything I can do to help. Let me get down.”

Abigail expertly dismounted, patted her horse, and held the reins loosely in her hands. She pulled a bottle of water out of the saddlebag and drank. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“He was murdered on the Atalaya Trail,” Sloane said.

“Oh, my God, he was murdered? That’s—awful. This is a safe community. Chris hikes all the time. I ride most of these trails, often alone. I can’t believe it.”

Sloane asked for her identification, wrote down her name, address, and license number. Best to double-check the identity of a neighbor, especially one who showed up at the victim’s house. Her ID verified her address, and she happily gave Sloane her phone number.

“You said you’ve known Chris since he moved here? How long ago?”

“Ten years next month. He saw me riding down on the road, came out and asked me about the horse—not Bella, here, I was training a stallion that day for a friend. I invited him to come riding—he took me up on it.”

“How often did you go riding together?”

“Oh, maybe four, five times a year? He was busy, and like I said, very private. If I was in a group or teaching—I give horseback riding lessons—he didn’t join. But we make plans fairly regularly. Last year I had a death in the family, and my usual caretaker couldn’t come out to care for my horses. Chris stayed at my place for a week, did an amazing job looking after them. Like I said, he grew up with horses.”

“Do you know where he grew up?”

“In—well, gosh, I don’t think he ever told me. He said a ranch, maybe? But there must have been mountain trails, because he was a natural.”

That was a start. “Do you know if he had any family? We can’t find his next of kin.”

“He didn’t talk about his family. I can chatter on and on about mine—I raised four boys, all out of the nest now. My husband passed three years ago—Chris was so kind then. He’d come and help with the horses, but didn’t fill the time with idle chatter. Let me ramble, sure, and didn’t seem to mind. I liked him. I would have had him over all the time, but he wouldn’t have liked that.”

“Because he was private,” Sloane repeated.

“Exactly.”

“Did he have regular visitors? Friends that you’ve met?”

“Not often, but he had a girlfriend—not serious, at least I don’t think so, because she didn’t visit often. Maybe they were just friends. I tend to romanticize everything.”

“Do you have a name?”

Abigail shook her head. “I never talked to her. Saw her a couple of times, but Chris never introduced us. I asked him once about it, and he avoided answering. I was a little irritated—I mean I wasn’t being overly nosy, just asking about a woman I’ve seen at least a half dozen times. But I let it go.”

“Can you describe her?”

“Reddish-brown hair. Very skinny. Too skinny, if you ask me. She would have been pretty if she didn’t have this hardened look about her. Probably in her early thirties.”

“White? Black? Asian? Hispanic?”

“White—her skin was tan from being outdoors. Being an outdoors woman myself, I can tell.”

“And distinguishing characteristics? A tattoo? Her voice?”

“I never met her face-to-face. The closest I ever was...well, I came up once last year to bring Chris a gift basket as a thank-you after he watched the horses. She was here. I saw her through the doorway, but that was as close as I got. Chris didn’t invite me in.”

“Did you see a vehicle here that wasn’t Chris’s?”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that. Yes, actually. A white Ford truck. I don’t know anything else about it, just a Ford. My husband always drove Fords.”

“Was it new? Old?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Not really old. There was a shell on the back, I remember that.”

“You wouldn’t by chance remember what state the plates were from?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t notice.”

“That’s okay,” Sloane said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“You don’t think she killed him, do you?”

“We don’t think anything right now. We’re still retracing his steps. One more question. Other than this woman, did you ever see anyone else here?”

“No. He wasn’t social, like I said. But he was a very kind person.”

Kind. That word again. Robert Benson was kind. Jane Merrifield was nice. Chris Crossman was kind. All quiet. All loners. Benson was the most social with his church, but even he preferred being home alone with his wife.

“Thank you for your time. If I have additional questions, I’ll call.”

“This is such a tragedy,” she said, shaking her head as she mounted her horse with the ease of someone half her age.

It certainly was, Sloane thought as she watched Abigail Schafer ride back down the driveway on her Appaloosa.