Day of the Dead bw-3

by J. A. Jance

  The young woman had returned to her place behind the counter and was watching the meeting with undisguised interest. Although gratified by Dr. Daly’s enthusiastic greeting, Brandon wasn’t eager to discuss the corpse in his car within the young clerk’s earshot.

  “Good to see you, too,” he said. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss this in private.”

  “Of course.” She ushered him out of the lobby and into a corridor that stretched deep into the interior of the building.

  “It’s good you caught me when you did,” she said. “I have an autopsy scheduled in a few minutes. If I’d started that, I’d have missed you. We’re shorthanded at the moment. A number of our people are in the reserves and have been called up for active duty. I hope to God their skills won’t be needed as much as some people think.”

  Although Brandon had dealt with Fran Daly in the past, this was the first time he had ever ventured into her private domain. The room had no outside windows, but it was a surprisingly cheerful place, painted with colors that weren’t on any officially approved palette for decorating drab governmental facilities. One wall was dominated by a glass-fronted case full of rodeo-related trophies that dated from the late seventies and recounted Fran’s riding and roping prowess. Looking from the trophies to Fran Daly, Brandon saw her manner of dress in a whole new light.

  “I had no idea you were into rodeo,” he said.

  “It’s one of those things I never got over. I still compete occasionally, but it gets harder all the time.” She sat at a battered wooden desk and motioned Brandon into a chair. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got a problem,” he said. “There’s a coffin in my car, a coffin containing whatever’s left of a fetus from thirty-two years ago. It’s been buried out on the reservation between then and now.”

  Fran Daly was suddenly all business and all interest. “What’s the deal?”

  “We’re attempting to identify the father.”

  “With decomposed DNA,” Fran said, nodding. “Was the body embalmed or not?”

  “I don’t know,” Brandon said. “The mother was murdered. The fetus was examined in hopes of identifying the father and perhaps the perpetrator. The grandmother has no idea what was done to the body prior to its being returned to the reservation for burial.”

  “What’s your connection to all this?” Fran asked.

  “The case was never solved. The murdered girl’s mother-the baby’s grandmother-has asked an organization I’m affiliated with to see if we can find out what happened.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” Fran said. “What’s it called-T. L. Something?”

  “Right,” Brandon supplied. “TLC-The Last Chance. Emma Orozco, the grandmother, came to TLC for help. She also had the coffin exhumed and brought it to me.”

  “In other words, this isn’t an official Pima County case,” Fran said.

  “That’s right. It’s cold and not being actively investigated by anyone but me.”

  “Given that, I doubt I could devote any time or people to this. Plus, if the tissue was embalmed, obtaining definitive results may not be possible. Besides, DNA testing is expensive.”

  “A company in Washington State will do the actual testing,” Brandon interjected. “I’m asking you to attempt to collect a nonstandard tissue sample. If you’ll agree to try, I’ll have Genelex send you a collection kit.”

  For a moment, Fran Daly sat with her fingers templed under her chin. Finally she made up her mind. “Where’s the coffin now?” she asked.

  “Out front,” Brandon said. “In the back of my Suburban.”

  Fran sighed. “Bring it around to the side door. I’ll have one of my assistants check it in.”

  “Much appreciated. Should the collection kit be sent to your attention?”

  Fran Daly nodded. “Yes, but we’ll only work on this as time permits. One thing for sure, though: If you’re looking to establish a chain of evidence…”

  “How about we go for results first and worry about the chain of evidence later?” Brandon asked.

  “You bet,” Fran replied with a smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still the boss.”

  J. A. Jance

  Day of the Dead

  Twenty-Two

  Brian’s initial call to Yuma didn’t go well. It took hardly any time at all for him to figure out Lieutenant Jimmy Detloff of the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department was a jerk.

  “That hacked-up UDA?” he returned when Brian inquired about the girl whose body had been found in a trash bag not far from a rest area on Interstate 8. “Why are you asking about her?” Detloff continued. “That case happened years ago.”

  “We have reason to believe it’s happened again,” Brian returned. “AFIS got a hit. A fingerprint on a new case matches one from the garbage bag your victim was found in.”

  “Oh,” Detloff said. “I remember that now. Our new little fingerprint gal was really proud of herself for finding it. We’d just gotten our AFIS computer up and running. She was all hot to trot to put that one print into the system. Didn’t do any good. Nothing came of it at the time.”

  It has now, you creep, Brian thought. He said, “What did you come up with?”

  “On that case?” Detloff said. “Not much.”

  “You never identified any suspects?”

  “Are you kidding? We never identified the victim, to say nothing of a suspect. Like I said, she was a UDA. They die like flies around here, especially in the summer, and who cares? If we tried to track down what happened to every damned wetback who ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time, we’d never get anything else done. End of story.”

  A creep and a bigot! Brian thought. “Not quite the end,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate having a faxed copy of the file-including the autopsy results-as soon as you can send it to me. I have the AFIS summary, but I need the rest.”

  Detloff sighed. “That’ll take time. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get around to it. I have other cases to deal with-current cases.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Brian said. There was no sense pissing him off. “Whenever you get around to it will be fine.”

  He gave Detloff the fax number, but as soon as the line was clear, he punched redial. When he reached the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department, he asked to speak to the fingerprint lab.

  “Deborah Howard,” a woman answered.

  “My name is Detective Brian Fellows with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department…”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be calling about that AFIS hit, are you?” she interrupted.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “That’s so cool. It was one of my first cases when I came to work here three years ago, and I was the one who found the print inside the bag. It was the first one I personally enhanced and entered in the system.”

  “I was just talking to Lieutenant Detloff-”

  “Oh, him,” Deborah said. She didn’t say anything derisive, but she didn’t have to. Her tone of voice said it all. “What’s up with him?”

  “I asked him to fax me a copy of that homicide file,” Brian said carefully. “My guess is it’ll be a long time coming.”

  “Right,” Deborah agreed. “Don’t hold your breath. Is there any way I can help?”

  “Maybe so,” Brian said. “Other than the trash bag, was any other physical evidence found with the victim?”

  “Hang on,” Deborah said. “Let me check.” A few minutes later when she came back on the line, she sounded excited. “I just checked with the evidence clerk. A bag of clothing was found near the body. Detloff is a complete ditz. None of the clothing was ever checked for prints.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “You’d better believe it,” Deborah Howard said. “If I find any, I’ll put them into AFIS right away. And if you’ll give me your numbers, Detective Fellows, I’ll call you with any updates. And if Lieutenant Detloff doesn’t deliver that report in a timely fashion, let me k
now. I may be nothing but Detloff’s ‘little fingerprint gal,’ but I have plenty of friends in other units in this department. Not going across desks and through channels doesn’t scare me. If Detloff doesn’t send you that report, I will.”

  Brian Fellows was smiling when he hung up the phone for the second time. Yes, Detloff was a jackass who had managed to annoy a key member of his own department, leaving her terminally pissed. From where Brian was sitting, that was perfectly fine.

  When Brandon Walker left the ME’s office, it was only mid-morning. He knew he and Diana would have to leave the house by one o’clock in order to be in Sells before the funeral, but there was enough time to squeeze in one more stop on his way home.

  The Medicos for Mexico office was located on the north side of East Broadway in what had once been an auto dealership. An upscale resale furniture store had taken over the showroom space. Medicos’s suite of offices had been carved out by remodeling the service bays. Brandon parked near the front door and walked into the building.

  The receptionist in the spacious lobby turned out to be a young blond woman with a spectacular figure, pouty lips, and no visible signs of body piercing.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Her cool appraising glance was one step short of hostile.

  “My name’s Brandon Walker,” he told her. “Is Dr. Stryker in?”

  Evidently the former sheriff’s name carried no ink here, either. In response she folded both arms across her chest-not a good sign. “Do you have an appointment?” she demanded.

  “No,” Brandon admitted. “No, I don’t.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s a private matter,” Brandon reassured her carefully. “Larry and I are longtime acquaintances. We’ve met occasionally, on a social basis. I was in the neighborhood this morning and thought I’d drop by. You might tell him I’m Diana Ladd’s husband.”

  “One moment,” the receptionist replied skeptically. “I’ll see if he can meet with you.”

  The Medicos lobby was accented with huge hunks of original modern art. The artists had probably found their inspiration somewhere in the interior of Mexico. The signatures scrawled in the lower corners hinted that the artists themselves probably hailed from south of the border as well.

  Brandon settled into a good-looking but relatively uncomfortable chair and wondered if Diana had been right to question his motives. Did he really think Larry Stryker could provide pertinent information about Roseanne Orozco, or was he here to tweak the son of a bitch because he felt like it-because he could and because hassling Stryker would give Brandon a little of his own back?

  The receptionist’s voice roused Brandon from his reverie. “Dr. Stryker will see you now,” she said.

  Larry Stryker sat at a large rosewood desk. Behind him was a matching wall of built-in bookshelves laden with books. A carefully folded copy of the Wall Street Journal lay in solitary splendor on an expanse of otherwise pristine polished wood. If a computer lurked somewhere in his office, it wasn’t readily visible.

  Larry may have been dressed to the nines, but Brandon was startled to see how much he had aged since their last encounter at the Man and Woman of the Year event two years earlier. Stryker no longer sported a full shock of white hair. It was much thinner now. His once strong facial features seemed blurred and blunted in a way that made Brandon suspect an overreliance on drugs or booze. When he stood up to greet his visitor, he seemed thinner as well.

  Them’s the breaks, Brandon thought. He’s not that much older than I am, but he’s probably thinking I look older, too.

  “Good to see you again, Brandon,” Stryker said heartily. “To what do I owe this honor? How’s the family? We hear about Diana’s success often.”

  But not about mine, Brandon thought. Larry Stryker may not have spoken the barb aloud, but Brandon Walker heard it loud and clear.

  “Yes,” he replied, maintaining Larry’s phony hail-fellow-well-met tone. “She’s doing great, isn’t she? And everybody else is fine as well.”

  “Good, good. Have a seat,” Stryker continued. “And your daughter? Beautiful girl. What’s her name again?”

  “Lani.”

  “Wasn’t she going to work with us one of these summers?”

  “That’s what her mother had in mind,” Brandon said. “Turns out Lani made other plans.”

  “Kids do that, don’t they,” Stryker agreed amiably. “Now to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  Taking his time, Brandon opened his wallet and extracted one of his TLC business cards. “Actually,” he said, handing the card across the desk, “I’m working a case.”

  “A case?” Stryker repeated. “Really? I was under the impression you’d retired. What are you, some kind of private investigator?”

  “You might call it that,” Brandon agreed. “I’ve followed your footsteps into the world of nonprofits.”

  “A nonprofit private eye?” Stryker asked. He pulled on a pair of reading glasses and examined the card closely. His hands were liberally sprinkled with liver spots. Brandon stole a look at the backs of his own hands. He had a few of those spots, too, but not nearly as many.

  “So TLC stands for The Last Chance,” Stryker observed. “What does that mean?”

  Brandon nodded. “We’re a voluntary consortium that investigates cold cases-ones law enforcement agencies no longer have the time or resources to handle. Usually we’re called in by grieving relatives who are looking for closure. The case I’m dealing with now is an unsolved homicide that happened out on the reservation more than thirty years ago. The victim was a teenager named Roseanne Orozco. I believe she was a patient at the hospital at Sells shortly before her death. I wondered if you might remember anything about her.”

  There was only the smallest of pauses before Lawrence Stryker answered-a pause that wasn’t long enough to encompass more than thirty years of remembering and one punctuated by the involuntary bobbing of Stryker’s prominent Adam’s apple.

  “No,” he said, with a frown meant to pass as concentration. “I don’t recall anyone by that name.”

  In that one electric moment, all of Brandon’s old hunting instincts came into play. Larry Stryker was lying. The man knew exactly who Roseanne Orozco was, but, for whatever reason, he didn’t want to admit it. Once a lie surfaces in an interrogation, it’s time to push for more information. Even so, a yellow caution light began blinking at the back of Brandon’s head. He was little more than a private citizen, but he was investigating a very real murder-one in which Larry Stryker might well turn out to be a suspect. That being the case, what the hell was Brandon Walker doing questioning him on his own? Good sense dictated that he walk away from the interview. Force of habit kept him where he was.

  “Unusual case,” Brandon said casually. “Roseanne was fine as a toddler and she seems to have developed normally right up until she went to kindergarten. She came home from her first day at school and never spoke again-not even to members of her family.”

  “Oh, yes,” Stryker said quickly. “I guess I do remember now. The mute girl. She was evaluated countless times. No one could find anything physically wrong with her. There must have been some kind of trauma involved, but I don’t think anyone ever figured out exactly what it was. And now that you mention it, I do remember that, shortly before her death, she was hospitalized for surgery-appendicitis, I believe. Later on she was back in the hospital for tests of some kind. It seems to me that there was a mixup about who was picking her up once she was released. She left the hospital on her own and never made it home. Instead, she turned up dead out along the highway.”

  Stryker shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Tragic case all around. I believe her father was suspected of having had something to do with her…her condition.”

  “Her pregnancy?” Brandon asked.

  Stryker nodded. Brandon was struck by the fact that, although Larry Stryker had first claimed to have no knowledge of Roseanne Orozco, he was now exhibiting almost total recall
-one lie compounded by another.

  “Yes,” Brandon agreed. “Henry Orozco was a suspect initially, but a blood test eventually proved he wasn’t the baby’s father. Roseanne’s killer was never caught.”

  “You’re trying to solve the case after all these years?”

  Brandon nodded. “That’s the idea.”

  “Why now?”

  “Because Roseanne Orozco’s mother still wants to know who killed her daughter.”

  “What does any of that have to do with me?” Stryker asked.

  It was Brandon’s turn to ask a question. “How long were you out on the reservation?”

  “Seven years and a little bit,” Stryker answered. “Why?”

  “That’s several years longer than most doctors stay on at Sells, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Stryker answered. “Usually people don’t stay any longer than what it takes to pay off their student loans. Once they’re debt-free, they head for the hills-for the cities, rather.”

  “But not you?”

  “No. I really liked the people out there, but eventually it just wasn’t practical to stay any longer. Even so, my wife and I came away from the reservation with an abiding interest in taking modern medical services to the impoverished peoples of the world. Under the aegis of Medicos for Mexico, we’ve been doing just that ever since.”

  “I know you have,” Brandon agreed. “And it’s very commendable. But getting back to Roseanne Orozco. Now that you remember who she was, do you happen to recall the name of her attending physician?”

  “My dear man,” Stryker said. “As you yourself pointed out a little while ago, this all happened many years ago. Of course I don’t remember something as inconsequential as that. There were always three or four doctors on staff at Sells at any given time, all of us living in the hospital housing compound. We traded cases back and forth all the time. It could have been any one of us, or a combination of more than one. I really don’t see what the point is…”

  Brandon couldn’t fail to notice that Stryker, who had gone from knowing nothing to knowing virtually everything about Roseanne Orozco, was now unable to recall this final, crucial detail. If he was lying, did that mean he was the killer? The possibility sent a clutch of fear deep in the pit of Brandon’s stomach. Whatever else Larry might be, he was also a “friend of the family.” He knew where Diana and Brandon lived. He knew Lani’s name, and he knew where she lived, too.