by J. A. Jance
Chapter 11
OUTSIDE, IT WAS STILL DAYLIGHT, OR MAYBE IT WAS DAYLIGHT again. As the endless hours ticked by, it was hard to judge, and with no one to talk to, there was nothing for Latisha to do but think. And wait.
She had always longed for a sister. She didn’t know why. Friends who did have sisters didn’t seem to like them much, and they argued, bickered, and fought about everything. But Latisha would’ve liked to have some other presence in Granny Lou’s shotgun house—someone to talk to and share secrets with while Granny Lou was watching her soaps and her mom was studying.
When Latisha had asked about having a sister, her mother brushed the request aside. “For you to have a sister, I’d need to have a husband,” Lou Ann had said, “and who has time for one of those?”
Of course, the girls Latisha knew who did have sisters didn’t necessarily have fathers anywhere around, either, so that wasn’t the whole answer. The real answer was that Lou Ann didn’t want a second child. And when Lyle showed up, neither did he.
But now, as Latisha grieved for her lost companions—Sandra, Sadie, and Amelia—she realized that she did have sisters. The other girls had become her sisters through incredible trials and appalling hardships. The only thing she could do for those lost sisters was grieve for them, pray for them, and remember.
Growing up, Latisha had known that her family was poor and that a lack of money had always been a problem. Still, even in Granny Lou’s house they’d had a television set, air-conditioning, and indoor plumbing. It wasn’t until Amelia showed up that Latisha had glimpsed what her version of poverty had entailed.
Amelia and her grandmother had lived in a one-room shack with no running water. Once a week a man with a water tank on his truck would stop by and fill the water barrel outside their house. Amelia didn’t know exactly where the water came from. What she did know was that it had to be boiled—on her grandmother’s makeshift wood-burning outdoor grill—before you could drink it.
“Even in the winter, my grandmother cooked over a wood fire outside,” Amelia said. “But she made the best tamales. I got to help her sometimes. She taught me how to roll them into the corn husks.”
“What’s a tamale?” Latisha had asked.
Sandra was incredulous. “You’ve never tasted a tamale? Didn’t you ever go to TacoTime or a taco truck?”
“East St. Louis isn’t big on taco trucks,” Latisha said.
That’s what she said, but the real problem would have had more to do with the gang-fueled animosity that existed between the black and Hispanic cultures. They might have lived in the same geographical areas, but in terms of interaction and shared experience they might as well have occupied separate universes.
“So what’s a tamale?”
Amelia had explained about making the masa dough, placing the dough on corn husks, and adding a filling made from a spicy pork-and-chili mixture before rolling up the corn husks and steaming the tamales in a vat of water—also on the fire outside.
Latisha tried to imagine why you would put some kind of corn bread and stew into a corn husk to cook it. Despite the fact that Amelia loved tamales and Latisha doubted she’d care for them, she had decided that if she ever did get away—if she managed to live—she would try at least one tamale, in memory of Amelia.
Chapter 12
TOM HADLOCK HAD SPENT MOST OF HIS LAW-ENFORCEMENT CAREER running the Cochise County Jail, functioning as an administrator rather than as a patrol officer out on the streets. It was a career path that helped him enormously in handling the paperwork aspects of serving as acting sheriff, but it had left him painfully lacking in terms of actual crime-scene expertise. When it came to examining the Peloncillos dump site, he was more than happy to take his cues from people who, although theoretically his underlings, were far more experienced in the tasks at hand than he was, and he was glad they were on the job.
After determining there were no usable footprints, Dave Hollicker settled in to study and photograph the crime scene. At the point where the body was found, broken grass stems running along the top edge of the wash and continuing down the bank seemed to indicate that something heavy—the corpse, presumably—had been shoved off the edge and left to roll down the bank. There was no other trace evidence to be found—no cast-off blood, no signs of a struggle. Nearby lay two large black plastic garbage bags that also appeared to have rolled down the bank. Once Dave had completed his crime-scene photos of the body, he approached the bags. They were securely tied shut, but the side of one had torn open, with an army of ants marching purposefully in and out.
The air was so thick with the odor of dead flesh that Dave approached the bags fully expecting to find another body. Instead he used the tip of his Swiss Army knife to pry open the layer of plastic. After peering inside, he stepped away.
“What is it?” Tom called down. “Another victim?”
“Nope,” Dave replied. “Looks like somebody dumped a bunch of dead groceries. And considering where we found them, we’re going to bag ’em, tag ’em, and drag ’em back to the crime lab.”
He took a few more photos and then returned to the surface. “Okay, Doc,” Tom said to Kendra Baldwin. “You’re up.”
While the M.E. conducted her preliminary examination, there was nothing to do but watch and wait. Dr. Baldwin and Ralph Whetson had just finished zipping the corpse into a body bag when Deb Howell returned with Detectives Carpenter and Carbajal in tow.
The group gathered near the loaded body bag as the M.E. stripped off her latex gloves.
“What can you tell us?” Tom asked.
“Female,” Dr. Baldwin answered. “Most likely Hispanic, probably between fifteen and twenty years of age. It would appear that she was killed elsewhere and dumped here. No obvious cause of death at this time, but I can say she’s severely undernourished.”
“Do you think she’s a UDA?” Tom asked.
“Maybe,” the M.E. replied. “We’ll know more when I do the autopsy and get a look at her teeth. If she’s had dental work done, I may be able to tell if it’s from here in the States or from somewhere else.”
“Any items of clothing or personal effects?” Ernie Carpenter asked.
“Nothing,” the M.E. replied. “Apparently she was stripped naked before being dumped. If she had any identifying markings—tattoos, moles, that kind of thing—the scavengers took care of those. There’s a slim possibility that I’ll be able to rehydrate the tissue enough to raise a fingerprint or two, but don’t hold your breath, and even if we get a usable one, chances are her prints won’t be on file.”
“Do your best,” Tom told her, and then he turned to the Double C’s. “Here’s the deal. In addition to Jane Doe, we’ve found partial remains of at least two additional victims, and there may be even more. I want us to scour this whole area on foot and put down evidence markers wherever we find anything resembling human remains. Sheriff Brady has contacted an organization that can have a pair of cadaver dogs on the scene sometime tomorrow. They’ll be better at finding small stuff than we are, but let’s take a crack at it ourselves before we bring in the dogs. Let’s go back to the road and walk along it at three-foot intervals. Under the circumstances that’s about as close to an organized grid search as we can manage.”
Kendra and Ralph were loading the body bag into the van when a car showed up on the road. It slowed down and then stopped on the shoulder. A moment later a woman stepped out of the car and began waving frantically in their direction. “Whoohoo!” she called. “Chief Deputy Hadlock, do you have a moment?”
Even from a distance and despite the fact that she was wearing a golf visor, Marliss Shackleford’s wild mane of bleached-blond hair was unmistakable to everyone present, including Tom Hadlock. He had failed to caution Tica about putting anything out over the radios. Obviously Marliss had been listening in on her police scanner, and now she was heading for his crime scene.
“Crap,” he muttered under his breath. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“You’re acting sheriff,” Jaime Carbajal told him with a grin. “Did you maybe forget to appoint someone to take over at Media Relations while you’re pinch-hitting as sheriff?”
“Shut up, Detective Carbajal,” Tom groused at him. “Leave me alone and go look for bones. Otherwise you may end up stuck in Media Relations your own damned self.”
Pulling himself together, Hadlock sauntered over to head the reporter off. “This is a crime scene, Marliss. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Is that a body bag they’re loading?” she asked breathlessly.
“You know for a fact that I’m not able to comment on an active investigation. Once we’re ready to do so, we’ll hold an official press briefing, and you’ll be notified.”
“It looks like you’ve got the whole homicide squad out here working, and on a Saturday, too. That must be chewing up overtime like crazy, so whatever’s going on must be serious.”
“You’re welcome to draw your own conclusions, Marliss,” Tom told her. “Homicide is always a serious matter because people die. But it’s an active investigation, and I’m not talking to you about any of this right now. I suggest you climb back into that little RAV4 and head straight back to town.”
“Is the victim male or female?”
“Go!” Tom ordered.
“Is there any indication as to how that person died?”
“Get.”
“Can you tell me who alerted you to the fact that a crime had been committed?”
Fortunately, none of Tom’s interactions with the Carver family had been broadcast over the police-band radio.
“Ms. Shackleford,” he said sternly, “my officers are conducting an investigation, and you are interfering with that process. We have work to do. I strongly suggest that you get the hell out of here.”
“There’s no reason to be rude,” she told him. “And what about freedom of the press?”
“I don’t have a problem with freedom of the press as long it doesn’t interfere with our work. Now, are you going to leave on your own or do you want to spend the next half hour or so sitting in the back of one of our vehicles?”
“I’m going, Chief Deputy Hadlock,” she said, backing away, “but you’re not exactly winning friends and influencing people.”
He turned back to the crime scene, muttering under his breath as he went.
“You know what? Ask me if I care.”
Chapter 13
BY MIDAFTERNOON JOANNA HAD THINGS FAIRLY WELL UNDER CONTROL. She had two batches of laundry going—one in the washer and one in the dryer. Miracle of miracles, she’d been able to get both kids down for naps at the same time. In between tasks she’d checked in with Tom Hadlock several times.
Based on what he’d told her, Joanna had struck a deal with Patricia Paxton and her bloodhounds to show up at High Lonesome Ranch sometime on Sunday morning. That wasn’t exactly a huge contribution on her part, but it was something she could do while everyone else focused on the crime scene.
When Denny woke up, Joanna left the nanny cam to keep watch on Sage, sleeping in her crib in a room that was now half nursery and half mostly absent college student. Joanna whipped through the chores faster than she would have had Denny not been there to help. They started by feeding and watering the two horses—Jenny’s retired barrel-racing gelding, Kiddo, and the blind Appaloosa rescue, Spot. Next up they fed and watered two unnamed yearling calves and Dodo, the lone and now fully grown and spayed female rabbit—an Easter Bunny adoption failure who three tries later had come back to High Lonesome Ranch on a permanent basis. The dogs, Lady and Lucky, who had accompanied them on their rounds were the last to be fed, and Denny handled that completely on his own. They were back inside before Sage let out a peep.
“Thank you,” Joanna told him. “You’ve been a big help.”
“Can I watch cartoons now?” he asked.
Fortunately, Butch had a complete catalog of recorded Scooby-Doos that filled that bill admirably. Joanna was folding clothes with Sage stowed on the living-room floor in her bouncy seat when Butch called.
“I finally have half an hour to myself before they pick me up for the evening event here in Dallas. Stacking two events and travel into the same day is too much. And if one more little old lady says men shouldn’t write cozies or asks if my wife writes my books for me, or wants to know where I get my ideas, I think I’ll go nuts.”
“It’s close to the end of the tour, so you probably are nuts,” Joanna said. “And remember, publicity crammed a three-week tour into two. Doubling up on travel and events was the only way to get it done.”
“In other words, I should quit my bitchin’?”
“You said it, not me,” she replied. “Are those little old ladies buying books?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then?”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll get a grip. How are things on your end? How are the kids?”
“We’re all okay. I got Denny in to see Eddie for his haircut. We’ve got leftovers from lunch for dinner, the animals are all fed, and I’m folding clothes. How the hell do you stay ahead of the laundry?”
“By doing laundry every day,” he replied. “Either Carol does it or I do it.”
“Point taken.”
“Any news on the case?”
“The one body is at the morgue along with skeletal remains of at least three more. No idea when Kendra will get around to doing the autopsy. As far as I know, Tom Hadlock and the others are still out there working, but when the sun goes down, they’ll have to quit for the day. Four homicides at once is a huge deal for someone as inexperienced as Tom Hadlock.”
“How’s he holding up?”
“All right so far.”
“Your department’s probably looking at another media firestorm,” Butch added. “Who’ll be talking to the press?”
“Beats me,” Joanna said. “The last I heard, Tom was still in charge of that. We ended up at the hospital in such a hurry that I didn’t think far enough in advance to appoint someone else to step into that role, and I doubt he did either.”
“I half expected you to tell me that you’d packed the kids in the car and taken off for the crime scene.”
“I’m being a good girl,” she said with a laugh, “but I was able to give Tom some behind-the-scenes logistical help.” She went on to explain about the Paxtons and their traveling cadaver dogs.
A landline phone rang somewhere in the background. “Oops,” Butch said, “that’s the room phone. My ride must be downstairs. I have to go.”
“Break a leg,” Joanna told him, and he was gone.
Dinner was over, Denny was in the tub, and Joanna was loading the dishwasher when the phone rang, this time with Kendra Baldwin’s name showing on caller ID.
“Hey, Joanna,” the M.E. said. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Joanna said. “What’s up?”
“I know you’re on leave, but I thought you should know.”
“Know what?”
“Detective Howell followed me back to the morgue so we could get a head start by tackling that first autopsy immediately.”
“It’s done already?” Joanna asked. “That was quick.”
“With several additional victims still at the scene, I needed to get that one out of the way. And that’s what I need to talk to you about—the autopsy. The victim was female, and she’d had quite a bit of dental work done. I’d say some of it was done here in the States, some from elsewhere—most likely Mexico.”
“So you think she was Hispanic, then?” Joanna asked.
“Yes, late teens, five-seven, ninety-five pounds, fifteen to eighteen years of age. Based on fly larvae found on the body, I’m estimating she was dumped two days ago at least, and maybe slightly longer.”
“Have you checked with Records about any missing persons matching that description?” Joanna asked.
“Yes, I did,” Kendra replied, “and came up empty. As I said, the older dental work would indicate sh
e came from Mexico originally, but there are several newer fillings that were probably done stateside. She was also twelve to thirteen weeks pregnant at the time of her death. The unborn fetus was female.”
“So Jane Doe and Baby Jane Doe?”
“Yes.”
“Were you able to raise any fingerprints?”
“Nope,” Kendra replied. “We tried, but it didn’t work.”
“If the victim is undocumented and there are no prints, chances are we’ll never ID her,” Joanna said.
“Don’t be so sure,” Kendra said. “Have you ever heard of something called the Banshee Group?”
“The what?”
“Banshee Group is a nonprofit operating out of the UK—an NGO run by a Brit named Kate Benchley. They specialize in using DNA analysis to identify skeletal remains. They started out working with victims found in mass graves in Bosnia. Now, with all the cartel violence playing out in Mexico and the discovery of mass graves there as well, Banshee Group is teaming up with the Mexican officials to do the same thing—ID remains.
“These days when someone comes in to report a missing person, they are encouraged to leave behind a DNA sample, a process that’s creating a massive database of familial DNA. Oftentimes being able to zero in on even a distant family member can help lead to the identification of a specific victim. I’ll be submitting a sample of Jane Doe’s tissue to them for testing. I’m also going to submit her details, including DNA and dental charts to NamUs.”
“What’s that?”
“National Missing and Unidentified Persons System is a database containing the records of missing persons. The database includes medical and dental information, all of which is designed to be readily searchable by medical examiners and law enforcement.”
“The information may be readily searchable, but getting results is still going to take time,” Joanna concluded.
“A luxury we probably don’t have,” Kendra added.
“That sounds ominous. What do you mean?”
“As soon as I saw the body, I knew Jane Doe was severely malnourished. Now I know why. The only undigested food I found in her system was dog food—dry kibble.”