Exit Wounds

by J. A. Jance

  Even as she said it, Joanna knew she was putting Marianne in a difficult situation, since Marliss Shackleford was also a member of the Reverend Maculyea’s flock at Tombstone Canyon United Methodist Church.

  “Don’t be,” Marianne advised. “Marliss was just doing her job. Or what she sees as doing her job.”

  Daisy Maxwell, owner of Daisy’s Café, approached the booth with pad and pencil in hand, ready to take their order.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff Brady,” she said with a smile. “And congratulations. What’ll it be, now that you’re eating for two?”

  Word is definitely out, Joanna thought.

  “My friend here recommends the chicken noodle soup,” Joanna replied. “I guess I’m having that.”

  “And you?” she asked Marianne.

  Once again, Marianne favored Joanna with an impish grin. “Well,” she said, “since I’m not the one who’s expecting, I’ll have a hamburger. With fries!”

  Forty-five minutes later, Joanna was back in her office when Ernie Carpenter knocked on the doorjamb. “Back from Tucson already?” she asked.

  He nodded, came into the room, and eased his portly frame into one of the chairs. “If the jail’s still under lockdown,” he said, “I think you can tell Tom Hadlock to ease up.”

  “How come?” Joanna asked. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Fran Daly’s preliminary conclusion is that Richard Osmond died of undiagnosed pancreatic cancer.”

  Joanna closed her eyes and whispered a small prayer of thanksgiving that George Winfield had wisely suggested bringing in an unbiased third-party medical examiner. The same information coming from Joanna’s own stepfather would have been far easier to view with skepticism.

  “Undiagnosed?” she asked. “You mean Richard Osmond was that sick and no one had any idea?”

  Ernie nodded. “According to Doc Daly, that’s the way pancreatic cancer works sometimes. It’s like a time bomb that goes off with zero advance warning. Even if doctors find it, Fran says there’s not that much that can be done about it.”

  “What I want to know is whether or not we had any warning,” Joanna declared, emphasizing the first person plural pronoun. “Whether the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department had any warning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “According to Frank, Richard Osmond has a child with a girlfriend whose father is a litigious kind of guy. Before Frank even finished doing the next-of-kin notification, Gabriel Gomez was already threatening us with a wrongful-death lawsuit. I want to know for sure that we’re covered on this, Ernie. I want you to check the jail records and find out if Osmond ever asked to go to the infirmary on a sick call or asked to see a doctor. I also want you to check with the two guys in his cell; what are their names again?”

  Ernie hauled out a pad of paper and checked his notes. “Brad Calhoun and John Braxton,” he supplied.

  “I want you to see if Osmond ever complained to either one of them about not feeling well. I want those interviews conducted immediately, properly witnessed and recorded. Understand?”

  “Got it, boss,” Ernie replied. “What’s Jaime up to right now?”

  “As far as I know, he’s waiting for Edith Mossman to wake up from her nap so he can finish doing her second interview. Maybe you can squeeze in talks with Braxton and Calhoun before that happens.”

  Ernie nodded. “We’ll get right on it,” he said.

  As Ernie rose to do her bidding, it occurred to Joanna that she owed this man, some twenty-five years her senior, the courtesy of personally informing him about what was going on.

  “By the way, Ernie,” she said, “I’ll probably have Frank put out an official bulletin, but there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “About the baby, you mean?” he asked.

  Joanna nodded.

  “Not to worry. Rose read me the article from the paper this morning. I should have mentioned it earlier. I guess congratulations are in order.”

  Marliss strikes again, Joanna thought.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Ernie frowned. “You’re not planning on quitting, are you?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  A slow smile crossed Ernie Carpenter’s broad face. “Good,” he said. “Glad to hear it. I’m just getting used to working with you. It’d be a shame to lose you now.”

  As soon as Ernie left her office, Joanna picked up her phone. “Frank,” she said, “I think we should send out a special department-wide bulletin as soon as possible. We need to let people know what’s going on vis-à-vis my pregnancy.”

  “I’m on it,” Frank told her. “I’ve got a rough draft almost ready to go.”

  “You’re a mind reader,” Joanna said. “I’m free whenever you are.”

  She was working on her never-ending pile of paperwork several minutes later when David Hollicker came rushing through her door. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “What?”

  “NIBIN just got a hit on the Mossman casings.”

  It took a moment for Joanna’s brain to sort the acronym into actual words—the National Integrated Ballistics Information Network. Once the ballistics information was entered into the computer, it didn’t matter where the weapon was used next. A match was a match.

  “Where?” Joanna demanded.

  “In a double homicide near Road Forks,” Hollicker said. “In Hidalgo County, New Mexico.”

  “What do you know so far?” Joanna asked.

  “Just that there’s a match. When it comes to talking to other departments, I thought it might be better if someone other than a lowly CSI made the call.”

  In less than a minute, Joanna was on the phone with Sheriff Randy Trotter in Lordsburg, New Mexico.

  “I understand we have a joint ballistics hit,” Joanna said.

  “So I hear,” Sheriff Trotter returned. “I was about to call you.”

  “What’s the deal?” Joanna asked.

  “Two Jane Does,” he told her. “One a white female, early forties, maybe. The other could be Hispanic. Mid-to-late twenties. They were found late yesterday afternoon, stripped naked and shot to death off the road between Road Forks and Rodeo.”

  “Any possibility that the guy who reported it is the killer?” Joanna asked.

  “I doubt it. He’s a history professor from the University of New Mexico. He’s devoting his summer to riding a bike to historical sites all over the state. The Circle B Ranch is about ten miles north of Rodeo. There’s a well there along with a stock tank and a couple of trees. The professor had written permission from the rancher allowing him to camp there. He set up camp and then went off toward a stand of yucca, looking for a place to…well, relieve himself. He found the bodies about twenty yards from the stock tank and called 911 from his cell phone. From the looks of the victims, they’d been out there for a while—a day or so, anyway.”

  “What about autopsies?” Joanna asked.

  “With tomorrow being the Fourth,” Trotter said, “we probably won’t have those before Monday at the earliest.”

  “Monday,” Joanna echoed. “Can’t you do better than that?”

  “Hey, our ME’s out of town. Went to a class reunion in Ames, Iowa. What do you expect? Do you think I’m going to do them myself? I tried getting a pinch-hitter in from another county, but that costs money, and the budget doesn’t allow—”

  “You don’t have to tell me about budget problems,” Joanna interrupted. “We’re dealing with one of our own. Whenever your ME gets around to doing the autopsies will be fine, but you’re saying there’s no identification?”

  “That’s right. None. No purses. No ID. No clothing. No jewelry.”

  “What about sexual assault?”

  “No sign that we could see offhand, but again, we have to defer to the ME on that. What’s the situation with your case?” Trotter asked.

  Quickly Joanna related what she could about the Carol Mossman case.
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br />   “No suspects?” Trotter asked when she had finished.

  “Not so far.”

  For a moment there was silence on the other end of the phone. “I’m wondering if maybe we’re dealing with a serial killer,” Sheriff Trotter said at last. “Somebody who’s on the move and targeting women. The big question: Is this guy traveling east or west?”

  “We’ll know that better when we have an approximate time of death on your victims,” Joanna returned. “Depending on whether your victims died earlier or later than ours, we may be able to tell the general direction the killer’s heading. You haven’t heard about similar cases from any other jurisdictions that might be related, have you?”

  “Not yet, but my detectives are checking.”

  “I’ll have mine do the same,” Joanna said. “Have your guys work to the east; I’ll have mine work west.”

  “Fair enough. No sense in duplication of effort,” Trotter said. Then, after a momentary pause, he added, “Do you think the guy would be be stupid enough to use the same kind of ammo three times in a row?”

  “Beats me,” Joanna said. “Antique bullets made in 1917 are pretty distinctive.”

  “I’ll say,” Trotter agreed. “Where the hell did they come from?”

  “Good question. Maybe they were stolen from a firearms museum somewhere or from a collector. Who knows? Maybe the gun and the bullets are all the same age.”

  “That would be something, wouldn’t it?” Trotter asked.

  Hollicker raised his hand. “I’ve already tried checking with Colt,” he said. “They had a warehouse fire years ago. Unfortunately, their records don’t go back this far.”

  Joanna relayed that information to Sheriff Trotter. “What do you think about going public with some kind of warning?”

  “I think we should,” Randy said.

  “But what kind of warning can we give?” Joanna asked. “We’ve got no suspect. No vehicle. Our victim was shot while standing inside the back door of her own home. Where yours were gunned down is anybody’s guess.”

  “Well, then,” Sheriff Trotter replied, “the best we can do is to tell women living or traveling alone to be on the lookout. Since the killer’s presumably already crossed at least one state line, we should be able to ask for help from the feds. If nothing else, they can help us with profiling.”

  “But only if we have more to give them,” Joanna cautioned.

  “When we have more to give them,” Trotter said. “Tell you what, Sheriff Brady. We have the crime scene photos, and we did pick up a few tire casts and a few footprints. The casts are from big tires, probably from an SUV or a pickup truck. The footprints look to be about a size eight or so and our CSI says that whoever made them was carrying a pretty heavy load. How about if I package up copies of what we have here and courier all of it over to you with one of my deputies. Your guys can package up whatever you have on your end, and send it back to me. Trading copies back and forth won’t screw up any chains of evidence.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Joanna said. “When will your deputy be here?”

  “Give me a couple of hours, but it won’t be late. Everybody who can is planning on taking tomorrow off.”

  Lucky them, Joanna thought. If a serial killer was on the loose and stalking unsuspecting women in New Mexico and southern Arizona, many of Joanna’s people wouldn’t be enjoying a leisurely Fourth of July holiday.

  “This is critical,” Joanna told Dave once she was off the phone. “Whoever this guy is, we’ve got to get him off the streets. I’m putting you in charge of making up the evidence packet we send over to Hidalgo County.”

  “All right, Sheriff,” Dave said dubiously, “but I don’t know how much good it’s going to do. The killer never gained access to Carol Mossman’s residence. We have some tire casts and a couple of footprints, too, and Casey picked up one set of prints from the doorknob on Carol Mossman’s front door, but that’s about it. Other than the things I just mentioned, the brass, and the bullets I dug out of the wall paneling, our crime scene stuff is pretty thin.”

  “Ours may not be worth much,” Joanna pointed out, “but it’s possible Trotter’s people picked up something important. We’ll be better off sending everything we have, usable or not, in hopes of getting something good back from them.”

  “Okay, Sheriff Brady. I’ll get right on it.”

  As Dave walked out the door, Joanna’s private line rang. “Did you eat lunch?” Butch said.

  “Yes.” Joanna was glad to hear his voice. Glad to have something bringing her back from a world in which serial killers traveled the countryside murdering whatever unfortunate women happened to cross their paths. “I had chicken noodle soup. Marianne had a burger and fries.”

  “Did the soup stay put?” Butch asked.

  “So far, so good. What’s up?”

  “I’m calling to let you know you’re on your own for dinner.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because Jenny and I are on our way to Tucson,” Butch said.

  “We’re hoping to make it to Western Warehouse before it closes.”

  “How come? I don’t remember anybody saying anything about going to Tucson today.”

  “That’s because it isn’t exactly a pre-planned trip,” Butch replied. “In fact, it came up just a couple of minutes ago, when I found Lucky under Jenny’s bed chewing up one of her cowboy boots.”

  “It’s wrecked?” Joanna asked. “Totaled. She’s got to have boots for the barrel race tomorrow, and her old pair is so small she can’t squeeze into them anymore. So we’re leaving right now. I’m going to put Lucky in the garage—in your garage—where there’s nothing else for him to chew up.” Butch paused. “How about that Marliss,” he said finally.

  “You saw the article?”

  “No, but I heard about it. One of Jenny’s friends called her.”

  “Great,” Joanna said. “Couldn’t be better. Mother and I already had words about it.”

  “How come?”

  “I suggested maybe the leak came from her.”

  “I doubt it,” Butch said. “Even if Eleanor had called Marliss the moment she left our house, I don’t see how she could have beaten the Bee’s press deadline.”

  “You could be right,” Joanna agreed. “So someone else besides my mother might be the culprit.”

  “You should probably apologize then,” Butch suggested.

  “I will,” Joanna said. “When I get around to it. Now drive carefully,” she added.

  “I will,” Butch returned, “but I have one more very important thing to say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whatever you do, don’t bring home any more animals.”

  “Right,” Joanna agreed with a laugh. “I promise.”

  “And you be safe, too,” he told her.

  Joanna let Butch hang up without mentioning that there were now two possibly related murder victims across the border in New Mexico. It was a glaring omission, and she wasn’t sure exactly whom it was she was trying to protect—Butch Dixon or Joanna Brady.

  After the call ended, Joanna forced herself to turn her attention to her desk. Wanting to leave it in some kind of reasonable order, Joanna tackled her daily grind of paperwork. Dealing with the constant barrage was much like the thankless task of doing housework—it could be completed on a temporary basis but it was never actually finished.

  In the course of the late afternoon, she tried several times to check with the Double Cs. Unfortunately, her detectives remained in the conference room conducting back-to-back interviews. She was still sorting papers when Kristin called to say Deputy Roy Valentine of the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department was waiting outside.

  “Send him in,” Joanna said. “Tell Dave Hollicker that Deputy Valentine is here and ask him to come to my office with the Mossman packet. And please see if Frank and the Double Cs can join us as well.”

  Deputy Valentine was young and seemed ill at ease as Kristin ushered him into Joanna’s office
. She directed him to a chair by the small conference table at the back of the room. “If you don’t mind, Deputy Valentine, I’ve asked some of the others to join us as well.”

  “Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

  Once Valentine was seated, Joanna assembled enough chairs to go around. The others arrived one by one, and Joanna introduced them to Valentine. Only when they were all gathered did he undo the string fastener on the packet he carried and slide the collection of grisly crime scene photos onto the smooth surface of the cherry-wood table.

  Four years earlier, the sight of pictures of bloodied corpses would have sent Joanna Brady scurrying for the nearest rest room. Today, even with her rebelliously queasy stomach giving her trouble, Joanna was able to gaze at the photos with the dispassionate eyes of a professional. Just as Sheriff Trotter had said, the two female victims, lying on their backs, were both completely naked. The bloodstains on the bodies and apparent lack of same on the ground told their own complicated stories.

  “This isn’t where they were shot, is it?” Joanna asked Deputy Valentine as she passed the first photo along to Ernie Carpenter.

  The visiting deputy gave her a somewhat quizzical look before answering. “That’s right,” he said. “We think they were shot over by the stock tank. That’s where the brass was found, but we didn’t find much blood there. Sammy—that’s Sammy Soto, our CSI—says he thinks they were shot there and then dragged away from the stock tank to where they were found. If the guy on the bike hadn’t needed to take a dump—”

  Embarrassed, Valentine broke off without finishing.

  “But you don’t know that for sure?” Ernie asked.

  “No. We didn’t find enough blood at the scene to place the shooting there for sure. It’s a stock tank, you see,” Valentine explained. “A herd of cattle came through the scene to drink several times between the time the victims were shot and when the bodies were found. They stirred up the dirt around the stock tank pretty good. We were damned lucky to find the brass and even a few footprints.”

  “Is it possible they were inside a vehicle when they were shot?” Ernie asked. “That would explain the lack of blood at the stock tank, but the shooter would be left with a hell of a mess in whatever he was driving. Or maybe they were all in the stock tank skinny-dipping.”