Day of the Dead

by J. A. Jance

  This Indian mother carefully arranged the ropes for her baby’s nuhkuth, which, in the old days, was the soft cradle all Tohono O’odham mothers used to make to protect their precious babies. Over the ropes she put her softest blankets. She used extra ropes and extra blankets. When she took the baby to the field with her, she was so carefully wrapped that the nuhkuth looked like a big cocoon. And the mother always made sure that wherever she left her baby girl, it was nice and shady.

  The grave was dug before it got hot. The five men drove into Sells, where they gratefully tucked into a breakfast of fresh tamales and paper-thin, hot-off-the-griddle tortillas. Brian and Davy stayed only long enough to eat, then they both headed back to Tucson. While mostly female visitors trooped in and out of the house to pay their respects to Wanda, Leo and Baby held court outside. They gathered visiting menfolk around Baby’s baby—his blue 1983 Ford F-100 with its chromed-out valve covers and air cleaner and its oddball, low-powered 232 V6 engine. To a man they all marveled that anyone in his right mind would ever buy such an underpowered vehicle. Baby told them that the original owner, up in Phoenix, never drove it faster than thirty-five.

  Tired of talking trucks and thinking Diana might be ready to head home, Brandon ventured inside to check. To his surprise, he found her busily wrapping corn husks around hunks of uncooked masa filled with meat.

  “How soon before you’ll be done?” he asked.

  “Not for a while,” she said. “Are you in a hurry?”

  Brandon was, actually. Yesterday he had learned something concerning the Roseanne Orozco investigation that he was eager to follow up on today. He wanted to get started, but Diana, who spent most of her time in the solitary occupation of writing, seemed to be at home in the company of this group of industrious women.

  “No,” he said. “I’m fine. I’ll wait outside with Leo and Baby and the others.”

  For a time Brandon watched a collection of children play makeshift soccer on the cleared dirt field between the compound’s collection of houses and the mini-mart and auto-repair buildings along the highway. No doubt the kids had all been coached about the solemnity of the occasion, but childish natural exuberance could only be suppressed for so long. As they chased the ball back and forth, Brandon remembered when Lani was that age.

  He had loved standing on the sidelines of her soccer matches, watching her jet-black ponytail plume out behind her as she raced up and down the field. Neither Tommy nor Quentin had been into sports. Besides, Brandon had been working too many hours when they were little. He had missed out completely on that part of their growing-up years, which probably accounted for his determination not to miss that time with Lani. He made it his business to be there for her—every game, every school program or play, every parent-teacher conference.

  Brandon glanced at his watch and shook his head. If he’d known he’d be done in Ban Thak this early, he would have volunteered to collect Lani from the airport rather than sending Candace. Lani gave every evidence of adoring her nephew, but Brandon knew that the two-year-old—spoiled by both his doting mother and grandmother—could be annoying on his best days. With Fat Crack’s death weighing heavily on her heart, Brandon suspected Lani wouldn’t be up to dealing with Tyler’s antics. Besides, Brandon regretted missing out on a few private hours with his daughter. Now that she was grown, father-daughter times when it was just the two of them were rare. As soon as Lani arrived home, she’d be drawn into the funeral preparations and events. It might be days before Brandon had some time alone with her.

  One of the mothers broke up the soccer game by summoning the children to come eat. Left at loose ends, Brandon considered his options for a moment and then made up his mind. He went back into the kitchen, where Diana was still wrapping tamales.

  “I’ll be back in a while,” he told her. “I need to run an errand.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To talk with Emma Orozco,” he said.

  Brandon Walker remembered Fat Crack telling him once that, as part of a grant from Arizona State University in the early nineties, all existing health records from the Indian Health Services hospital in Sells had been fed into computers. The study had been intended to learn how Tohono O’odham longevity compared with that of other ethnic populations. It was also a way of assessing and keeping track of which diseases on the reservation accounted for which deaths. That study—with records from as far back as the fifties—along with money from tribal casino operations, was one of the reasons the hospital at Sells now had its own kidney dialysis center.

  The study also meant that records of Roseanne Orozco’s appendectomy in July of 1970 should be only a few keystrokes away. But having the records available and being able to access them were two different things. Brandon knew that if he went to the hospital and asked, his request would be met with polite but implacable resistance. Whoever was in charge would take one look at his Mil-gahn face, smile respectfully, and tell him nothing like that existed. He hoped Emma Orozco wouldn’t encounter the same difficulty.

  Brandon drove to Andrea Tashquinth’s place in Big Fields. It was a long, low adobe house that looked as though rooms had been added haphazardly over the years. When he drove up he heard two swamp coolers, one at either end of the house, humming away. A long-legged black mutt watched Brandon curiously but without objection as he stepped out of the car and knocked on what he hoped was the front door. Andrea herself answered. “What do you want?” she asked. Some of her initial hostility from the day before had returned.

  “I’d like to speak to your mother,” Brandon said. “Is she here?”

  “Yes, but she’s very tired.”

  “I need her help…” Brandon began.

  “Is it about Roseanne?” Emma Orozco called from somewhere beyond the half-opened door and out of Brandon’s view.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Andrea sighed and shook her head resignedly. “All right,” she said. “Wait here.”

  Brandon was neither surprised nor offended by not being invited inside. Several minutes later Emma, leaning on her walker, hobbled out of the house. “What is it?” she asked. “Have you found something?”

  “Not yet,” Brandon told her, “but I’m working on it. When I talked to Andrea yesterday, she mentioned that shortly before her death, Roseanne had been hospitalized with appendicitis.”

  Emma nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Do you remember the name of the physician who took care of her?”

  “No. It was a long time ago. Why do you want to know?”

  “Andrea said Roseanne was still sick after she got out of the hospital.”

  Emma nodded again. “The doctor did some tests and said she had an infection from the surgery. He gave her something for it. Henry was supposed to bring her home from the hospital, but she left before he got there. We never saw her again.”

  “Mrs. Orozco, you told me on Friday that as far as you knew, Roseanne didn’t have a boyfriend. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, because of Roseanne’s condition—her inability to speak—she didn’t exactly socialize.”

  “Yes.”

  “But she was pregnant when she was murdered. I’d like to track down her medical records. Then, if the autopsy results show how far along the pregnancy was when Roseanne was murdered—”

  “You think she got pregnant while she was in the hospital?” Emma interrupted.

  “It’s possible,” Brandon said. “Did anyone besides Andrea raise that issue at the time? Did she convince anyone at all to look into it?”

  Emma pursed her lips and shook her head. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Ride with me to the hospital,” Brandon said. “Tell whoever’s there that you’ve asked me to look into Roseanne’s murder and that I need to see her medical records. They’re usually confidential, but as her mother…”

  Nodding, Emma turned and hobbled back to the door. Opening it, she called inside. “I’m going for a ride,” she sa
id. “I’ll be back after.”

  Brian Fellows arrived at the Pima County Sheriff’s Department well before the appointed time for the interview with Erik LaGrange. Brian had been told that as of that afternoon, Erik would be represented by a public defender named Earl Coulter, which meant nobody was doing LaGrange any favors. Coulter’s nickname, the Snoozer, derived from his propensity for turning up at court still reeking of last night’s booze and then dozing throughout the proceedings.

  All the way into town, Brian had been thinking about what Brandon Walker had said about the dead girl in the ice chest, the girl named Roseanne Orozco. The idea that there could be a connection between the two victims who had been murdered and dismembered more than thirty years apart seemed remote, but still…Brian was a cop who prided himself on keeping an open mind.

  Once in his cubicle, he keyed Roseanne’s name into his computer. Her case popped up along with all the other unsolved cold cases in Pima County. Only the basic facts had been summarized in the computer. To learn more, he’d need to examine the paper file. After requesting it from Records, Brian turned to what was available on yesterday’s Jane Doe. Although, Brian corrected, Juanita Doe would be more like it.

  PeeWee showed up dressed as though he’d come straight from church. “Anything new?” he asked, settling at his own desk.

  “Not much,” Brian returned. “LaGrange drew Earl Coulter as his public defender.”

  “All the better for us,” PeeWee said with a grin. “What about the autopsy?”

  “We won’t have that until tomorrow.”

  “How come the ME can take weekends off and we can’t?” PeeWee complained. Detective Segura wasn’t known for maintaining a positive mental attitude.

  “They’ve got refrigerators now,” Brian answered. “Speaking of weekends off, the prosecutor’s office is taking a pass on this meeting after all.”

  “They’re the ones who set it up for today,” PeeWee objected.

  “Right,” Brian said, “but right now it’s just LaGrange, Coulter, and us.”

  “What a bunch of jerks,” PeeWee grumbled.

  When they entered the interview room, Earl Coulter was already there. The airless, drab room reeked of beery breath and stale cigar smoke. “How’s it going, Earl?” Brian asked.

  “Can’t complain,” Earl said. Sporting an atrocious, food-spotted tie across his protruding gut, he made as if to stand before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort. After rising an inch or two off his chair and holding out a pudgy hand, he settled back into his chair with a relieved wheeze.

  A door opened and a guard escorted the prisoner into the room. The orange jail jumpsuit and fluorescent overhead lights combined to give Erik a sallow, sickly look. Brian could tell from looking at him that he’d slept very little. The lawyer made another abortive effort at rising. “Earl Coulter,” he said to Erik. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  Barely acknowledging the greeting, Erik turned to Brian. “Look, Detective Fellows,” he said. “Refusing to talk to you yesterday without having an attorney present was poor judgment on my part. I was so shocked by what was happening that asking for a lawyer was all I could think of, but this mess is some kind of awful mistake. I know there’s been a murder. You told me yesterday that the victim is a girl, but I have no idea who she was or what happened to her. What I do know is that I had nothing to do with it. I want to help you find whoever’s responsible.”

  “Really, Mr. LaGrange,” Coulter began, but Erik brushed aside his attorney’s objection.

  “I said I want to help, and I do,” Erik declared, looking directly at Brian. “Let’s get on with it.”

  The fact that the suspect was ready to cooperate came as no surprise to Detective Fellows. A night in jail often produced remarkable changes of heart when it came to a suspect’s willingness to talk. While PeeWee interrupted the proceedings long enough to announce on tape who was present, Brian removed his notebook from his pocket and consulted it.

  “You stopped talking right about the time I asked you what you did after work Friday night. How about if we start there? Tell us about Friday.”

  “I came home,” Brian said. “I picked up carry-out Mexican food from Lerua’s after work and brought it home.”

  “By yourself?”

  “I was with someone else. She wasn’t with me when I got the food, but she came by the house later. That’s the thing. I don’t want to cause her any trouble.” He paused, then added, “She’s married. You won’t drag her into any of this, will you?”

  “That depends,” Brian said carefully.

  “On what?”

  “On your telling us everything you can. We may need to check with her to verify that you’ve told us the truth and can corroborate your alibi.”

  “Mr. LaGrange…” Earl Coulter began again, but Erik wasn’t listening.

  “Her husband won’t have to know?”

  “We can be discreet,” Brian said.

  PeeWee Segura, standing behind the suspect, rolled his eyes at this blatant lie, but Erik was desperate and he bought it completely.

  “Her name’s Gayle Stryker,” he said. “She and her husband, Larry Stryker, Dr. Lawrence Stryker, run Medicos for Mexico. Gayle’s my boss. She and I have been…well, involved for some time.”

  “I take it her husband has no idea that the two of you are an item?”

  “Right,” Erik said. “At least I don’t think he does.”

  “All right. The lady came to visit, the two of you had dinner together, and then what? Did she stay over?”

  “No,” Erik said. He paused, as if considering what to say next. “We had a fight. Gayle got mad and left early.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Maybe ten. Maybe later.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went to bed. The next morning I got up and went for a hike. I was coming back from that yesterday afternoon when you found me.”

  “You have no idea how all that human blood ended up in the back of your pickup truck?” Brian asked.

  “None at all. It wasn’t there when I came home from work Friday afternoon.”

  “When you returned home from your hike, was your truck parked in the same place?”

  “As far as I know. I couldn’t swear, but it seemed like the same place.”

  “Who else has access to your vehicle?”

  “No one.”

  “Is there an extra set of keys?” Brian asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you keep those?”

  “In my briefcase.”

  “And that is?”

  “At home. In the kitchen on the counter. I was carrying the food and the briefcase at the same time. I put them down on the counter.”

  “You still haven’t told me how the blood might have gotten there. Are you suggesting someone gained access to your house, took your vehicle, used it during the course of a homicide, and then returned it to your driveway?” Brian asked. “Doesn’t that seem a little far-fetched?”

  Erik’s face reddened. “It sounds ridiculous, but that has to be what happened.”

  “Who else has access to your house?” Brian repeated with apparent unconcern. “Do you have a cleaning lady, by any chance? Or does Mrs. Stryker have her own key?”

  “No cleaning lady,” Erik answered. “Gayle has a garage-door opener. She usually comes and goes through the garage.”

  Something about that rang a bell. Brian paged through his notebook until he found his interview with Erik’s neighbor.

  “Any other family members living here in town?” Brian asked. “Parents? Brother or sisters?”

  “My mother died shortly after I was born. I have no idea if my father is dead or alive.”

  Which means, Brian thought, the lady the neighbor saw Erik spending so much time with definitely wasn’t his mother after all.

  “Are you a Diamondback fan?” Brian asked.

  For a moment Erik seemed stunned, as though he
thought the conversation had gone from discussing the murder to a casual “How-about-them-Cubs” bullshit session. “I guess so,” he said.

  “Do you have some of their gear?”

  “Oh,” Erik said. “Yes. A baseball cap, a sweatshirt, and a jacket. Medicos did a fund-raising event with them last year. Why?”

  “What kind of tennis shoes do you wear?”

  “Nikes.”

  “All right,” Brian said. “That’s it for now. How do we go about getting in touch with Mrs. Stryker?”

  “But I thought you said you wouldn’t drag her into this,” Erik objected.

  “I said we’d be discreet,” Brian countered. “We need to talk to her to verify what you’ve told us so far. If you’re telling the truth, I’m sure she won’t mind vouching for you.”

  Erik looked uncomfortable.

  Brian shrugged. “You can give us her phone number now, or we can track her down on our own tomorrow. Suit yourself.”

  Erik glanced uneasily at Earl Coulter, as if he was finally ready to take the attorney’s advice. Unfortunately, Coulter wasn’t listening. The Snoozer was sound asleep, his double chin resting on the awful tie.

  As Erik was being led back to his cell, he tried to quell another attack of panic. Overnight he’d told himself things couldn’t be all that bad, but in the interview room he had finally glimpsed the totality of what he was up against. A girl was dead—murdered. Her blood was in his truck and most likely on his clothing as well. His machete was the presumed murder weapon. It meant that someone somewhere was trying to frame him for a murder he hadn’t committed. To make matters worse, Erik was stuck with a drunken attorney who was utterly useless.

  Erik’s only hope was that once Gayle knew the kind of trouble he was in, she’d forgive him and come to his rescue. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

  The guard took Erik as far as his cell and let him inside. As the bars clanged shut behind him, it sounded as though they were closing forever. He fell onto his cot. For the first time since his grandmother died, Erik LaGrange tried to pray.