Field of Bones

by J. A. Jance

  Latisha started to get out of the vehicle. As she did so, she spotted that very last bite of sandwich, still in the plastic bag. She paused long enough to eat it, because she knew she needed to.

  After months of enforced inactivity and days of endless silence, the intense activity and emotional upheaval of the preceding hours had left her feeling drained and exhausted. Stepping out of the car, she could barely stand on her own. She wobbled and would have fallen if the lady cop hadn’t caught her and steadied her. Detective Howell led Latisha to the waiting SUV, helped her inside, and reached across to fasten the seat belt around her.

  Spent and exhausted, Latisha leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. The detective probably had all kinds of questions to ask, but Latisha didn’t want to answer any more questions. It was one thing to tell Garth what had happened. He was a friend. From now on, though, she’d be talking to people who weren’t her friends—first to a bunch of strangers and finally to her family—and what she had to say to all of them were things nobody would want to hear.

  Just then she remembered that first day in the basement and what Sandy and Sadie had done when the Boss had come downstairs to get her. They’d covered themselves with their blankets, lying there side by side as still as death, hoping he wouldn’t choose them.

  Latisha no longer had her blanket, so she did the next-best thing. She sat with her eyes closed and her hands folded in front of her, pretending to be asleep. Once the vehicle started moving, though, and before they had traveled a full mile, she was no longer pretending.

  Chapter 38

  THERE WAS NO SIGN OF AN ARRIVING AMBULANCE WHEN JOANNA got to the hospital and parked outside. Carol had said she was bringing a book, but that wasn’t entirely true. She had a book, all right, but it was on her iPad, and she was listening to it with a set of earbuds—a piece of electronic privacy that made it possible for Joanna to make some phone calls while she waited. The first one was to her department’s chaplain, the Reverend Marianne Maculyea.

  “Oh, no,” Marianne said when Joanna told her the news. “Not Garth. He’s such a sweet young kid. Is he going to be all right?”

  “With any kind of luck, he will be, but he’s on his way to the hospital in Bisbee right now. So’s his grandmother. A deputy is bringing Mrs. Raymond in, but he won’t be able to stay with her. I was hoping you would.”

  “Absolutely,” Marianne said. “I’m caught up doing some wedding planning right now, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Joanna’s next call was to Kendra Baldwin. “I believe I know who’s spilling the beans,” she told the M.E. “Ralph Whetson and Marliss Shackleford have a thing going, and I’m pretty sure he’s the one who’s been leaking information about our cases—the Peloncillos cases in particular.”

  “You’re kidding. Ralph and Marliss a couple?” Kendra asked. “I had no idea. How did you find that out?”

  “I went to Marliss’s house last night after the briefing. Ralph’s car was pulling out as I was coming in.”

  “You went to see her? Why?”

  “To have it out with her about doing interviews with victims’ relatives prior to our completing the next-of-kin notifications. In the course of our conversation, I could tell she knew that you had asked me to do the notification. Who all was in the room when you called me?”

  “Let’s see,” Kendra said. “Madge Livingston and Ralph Whetson would have been the only ones.”

  Madge was the tough-talking, chain-smoking, peroxide-blond receptionist who served as the M.E.’s gatekeeper. She’d been around county government in any number of departments over the years. Joanna knew from conversations with both her mother and with George Winfield that Madge and Marliss were oil and water.

  “It wouldn’t be Madge, then,” Joanna said. “She and Marliss have been feuding for years.”

  “That leaves Ralph,” Kendra agreed.

  “So what do we do about this?” Joanna asked.

  “I know what I’d like to do,” Kendra said. “I’d like to fire his ass. I’m a doctor. The murder victims whose bodies come through this office are my patients. What goes on here is supposedly confidential, and if he’s revealing medical records to an outside party, at the very least he’s in violation of HIPAA regulations.”

  “You’d fire him?” Joanna asked.

  “You bet, but not until I have some proof.”

  “How do you get proof?”

  “I don’t know,” Kendra said. “Let me think about it. When I figure it out, I’ll get back to you.”

  Joanna was about to call Rochelle Powers to find out if she’d listened to the recording, but a call from Butch arrived before she had a chance to dial the number.

  “Guess what,” he said when she answered. “I just got off the phone with my publicist. The weather report for Silver City tonight is crap. They’re expecting a big snowstorm. The system was supposed to stay farther north, but now the radar’s predicting a swing to the south. With a blizzard expected to start at about the same time as the meet and greet, the library board decided to cancel my reading as a precaution.”

  “So you’re coming home today, then?”

  “I’ve got a rental car. I can drive myself home from here in Santa Fe in a little over seven hours. That’ll give me a whole extra day to shop and get ready for Thanksgiving.”

  “What about the weather?” Joanna asked.

  “Not to worry. The storm’s not due until later today. By the time it hits, I’ll be home.”

  “I’m sorry about the cancellation.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m more than ready to be home.”

  “I’ll be glad to have you,” Joanna told him, “and Denny will be ecstatic.”

  “I’ll check out in a little while. In the meantime how are things on your end?”

  Joanna was in the process of telling him when the ambulance from Douglas pulled up in front of the ER. She’d gotten far enough into the story that Butch knew that she, along with Carol and Sage, were all parked outside the hospital awaiting the arrival of her injured deputy.

  “I’ve gotta go,” she told him. “They’re here.”

  Joanna hopped out of the Enclave and was standing next to the ambulance when the EMT opened the rear doors. As they rolled the gurney out of the vehicle, Joanna fought back tears. “Thank God you didn’t come home in a body bag,” she said.

  Garth, pale as a ghost, still managed to give her a lopsided grin and a feeble thumbs-up as he rolled past. “And thank God for that clotting powder,” he told her.

  “That kid’s tough as nails,” the remaining EMT observed as the gurney moved away. “As much pain as he’s in, I’m surprised at how well he’s holding up.”

  “I’m not,” Juanita Raymond said.

  The old woman, arriving on the scene, pushed past Joanna and the EMT and followed the gurney toward the entrance. Pausing just outside the automatic doors, she turned back and added, “You should have seen him a couple of years ago when that fool kid tried to chop his leg off with a hatchet. He barely shed a tear then, either.” With that, Juanita Raymond turned and marched inside.

  “Who the hell was that?” the EMT asked, gazing after her.

  “That would be Deputy Raymond’s grandmother,” Joanna told him.

  “No wonder the kid’s so tough.”

  “No wonder,” Joanna agreed.

  Joanna followed Juanita into and through the ER, stopping finally at a curtained cubicle where the head of the ER, Dr. Mallory Morris, aided by Eileen Hopkins—the ER’s head nurse—and a pair of nursing assistants were easing Garth Raymond off the gurney and onto a bed.

  When Joanna stepped through the curtain, Dr. Morris gave her an inquiring look. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be on maternity leave?”

  It was annoying that everyone in town felt free to comment on Joanna’s maternity-leave situation. In reply she took an evidence bag out of her pocket.

  “I came to check on Deputy Raymond and to
collect his weapon,” she said.

  Dr. Morris looked startled. “He’s carrying a weapon?”

  Joanna focused on the patient. “Hand it over, Deputy Raymond,” she ordered.

  Garth reached under the sheet and patted the holster where his .38 should have been and seemed surprised to discover that the weapon wasn’t there.

  “Sorry, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I don’t remember dropping it, but I must have lost it when I fell.”

  Joanna shoved the unused evidence bag back into her pocket. “Not to worry,” she said. “The CSIs should be there any minute. I’m sure they’ll find it. What’s important now is to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Which I can’t do with everyone crowded around,” Dr. Morris admonished them. “How about if we clear the room so I can find out what we’ve got here?”

  Joanna started to comply but then stopped. “Be sure to swab his hands and bag and seal his clothing for us—at least his shirt and pants.”

  “Looking for GSR?” Dr. Morris asked. Clearly he knew the drill when it came to collecting gunshot residue.

  Joanna nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “All right,” Dr. Morris said, glancing around the crowded cubicle. “Nurse Hopkins stays. Everybody else out!”

  Joanna did as she was told and retreated. Juanita Raymond held her ground and stayed where she was. “Garth is my boy,” she said, crossing her arms and leveling a defiant look in the doctor’s direction. “The only way you’re getting me out of here is if you drag me out by the hair on my head.”

  Dr. Mallory nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he conceded. “In that case it looks like you’re welcome to stay.”

  Joanna made her way through the ER, arriving outside just as Detective Howell’s Tahoe sped to a stop next to the parked ambulance. As Deb climbed out, she greeted Joanna with a grin.

  “Today’s the day I chose,” she said. “If you could have held off for one more day, I would have won the pool. Now, come around here and meet Latisha. After I make the introductions, the two of you can visit while I go get a wheelchair.”

  “A wheelchair?” Joanna echoed. “I thought she wasn’t injured.”

  “She’s not, but she’s very weak. She’s also mentally and physically exhausted. I’m not about to risk her trying to get inside on her own. I think she’s probably had way more excitement today than’s good for her.”

  Deb opened the passenger door. At five foot ten, she needed to lean over in order to see inside while Joanna did not. In the passenger seat, a young black woman, little more than a girl, stirred groggily as if awakening from a sound sleep. She was shockingly thin—a living, breathing stick figure—with an unruly array of uncombed hair stacked on her head like Medusa’s crown of snakes.

  “Latisha,” Detective Howell said, “I’d like you to meet Sheriff Joanna Brady. Sheriff Brady, this is Latisha Marcum.”

  “I’m glad to meet you,” Joanna said, proffering a handshake. “I understand you’ve had a rough time.”

  The fingers on the hand Latisha held out in return were skeletally thin. The skin of her palm was rough as sandpaper, her knuckles chapped and cracked.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s been pretty bad. If it hadn’t been for Deputy Raymond, I’d probably be dead.”

  “From what I hear, the same might have been true for him if not for you,” Joanna said. “So thank you for that, Ms. Marcum. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, “but you can call me Latisha. Are you sure I have to go to the hospital? My parents are coming. Can’t I just go somewhere and wait for them?”

  “No,” Joanna said firmly. “After everything you’ve been through, your health may be impaired. The doctors need to make sure you’re okay.”

  “But I don’t have any money,” Latisha objected. “How will I pay the bill?”

  Joanna knew that the same regulations that mandated hospitals to provide expensive medical care to seriously injured illegal border crossers would also apply here.

  “Don’t worry about the bill,” she said. “That will be handled.”

  Deb arrived with the wheelchair in tow. Together they helped Latisha out of the Tahoe and wheeled her inside. At the admitting desk, Joanna stood by listening to the answers Latisha gave the clerk, including the contact information for her mother and stepfather. Joanna listened; Detective Howell took notes.

  Once in yet another curtained-off cubicle, Eileen Hopkins helped Latisha up onto the bed. She knelt down and removed the boots. As she did so, an aghast Joanna caught her first glimpse of those grotesquely misshapen toenails. Next Eileen helped Latisha ditch the oversize deputy uniform and slip into a gown. At that point the newly revealed angry scab encircling Latisha’s lower right leg just above the ankle told its own part of the story. When it came time to take the patient’s vitals, the nurse said nothing aloud while looking at the blood-pressure reading, but her pursed lips spoke volumes. Clearly the numbers she was seeing were alarming.

  “I’ll be right back,” Eileen said. When she returned a few minutes later, she brought along a rolling scale. “How tall are you?” she asked.

  “Five-six,” Latisha replied.

  “And how much do you weigh?”

  Latisha shrugged. “I used to weigh one-fifty to one-fifty-four. I don’t know what I weigh now.”

  When Latisha stepped onto the scale, Joanna caught a glimpse of the numbers on the screen—108. Latisha Marcum really was nothing but skin and bones.

  “When we found the other girl’s body . . .” Joanna began.

  “Amelia’s body,” Latisha murmured, interrupting. “Her name was Amelia Diaz Salazar.”

  “It appeared that the only content in her stomach was partially digested dry dog food,” Joanna resumed. “Is that what you ate, too?”

  Latisha nodded. “It’s all he ever gave us.”

  Eileen shook her head. “All right,” she said. “Dr. Morris will be in to see you soon.”

  Chapter 39

  AS THE ERT CONVOY BARRELED EASTWARD ON GERONIMO TRAIL, leaving a vast plume of dust in its wake, Tom Hadlock was in the lead. It occurred to him that a troop of hard-riding U.S. Cavalry might have kicked up a similar cloud almost a century and a half earlier when they charged back and forth across the San Bernardino Valley on horseback chasing after Geronimo, the leader of the Chiricahua Apaches. Ultimately they caught the renegade chief. After being taken into custody somewhere near Skeleton Canyon, Geronimo and his band of warriors were loaded onto a train and shipped into exile in Florida.

  Tom could only wish that today he had the cavalry riding backup. With every mile he drove, the chief deputy felt more and more as though he was leading his people on a fool’s errand. Arthur Ardmore was a serial killer who had lost control of one of his captives and then shot a cop. Why would he stick around waiting for someone to come after him armed with warrants and weapons? By now Arthur Ardmore was probably in the wind.

  Although it had seemed to take forever, the reality was that Tom had managed to assemble his response team with lightning speed. Still, he doubted he’d been fast enough. Too much time had elapsed between Garth’s shooting and now. Once they were ready to spring the trap on the killer, it might be too late.

  As Tom drove, however, there was a second reason he was beating himself up, and that was the damn satphone. With a serial killer operating in the neighborhood, he should never have left Garth out there alone with no way to call for assistance. He could have stationed two deputies there rather than one. Barring that, he could have left somebody else’s satphone there for Garth to use.

  Deputy Creighton from San Simon had been out doing the canvass that day along with everyone else. His phone had been working just fine. Why hadn’t Tom arranged for Garth to use that one overnight? If Deputy Raymond died or wound up being permanently injured, that would be on Tom—on his failed leadership.

  Tom had driven this route so many times in the last few days that he almost knew the trip by heart. They were able to ra
ce along on the straightaway far faster than usual, but when they started up into the mountains, they slowed down. Once on the Forest Service road, they slowed even more.

  They were picking their way along that and were well past the dump site when Tom spotted a traffic cone standing in the middle of the road. As he drew to a stop in front of it, Dave Hollicker came charging out of the undergrowth.

  “What’s up?” Tom asked, rolling down his window.

  “Take a look at this,” Dave said, handing over his phone.

  “What is it?”

  “A photo of the license plate from that wrecked pickup truck.”

  Tom pulled out his reading glasses and stared at the screen. “It’s registered in New Mexico?” he asked in surprise.

  “And here’s the registration,” Dave said, handing over the document.

  “James Edward Ardmore, Road Forks, New Mexico,” Tom read aloud from the document. “Who the hell is James Edward Ardmore?”

  “Good question,” Dave said. “More than likely he’s a relative of Arthur’s of some kind, but I thought you’d want to know about this before you and the response team turn up at Arthur’s place in Calhoun.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Tom told him. “I sure as hell do. Are you about done here?”

  “Close,” Dave said. “I’ve finished with the truck. We found out where the shooting went down. We found what we’re pretty sure is Deputy Raymond’s weapon, and Casey’s combing the area for spent slugs. When she’s done with that, we’ll need to call for a tow truck.”

  “Yes, you will,” Tom agreed, “and when you do, you can use this.” He reached across to the passenger seat and picked up a satphone. “This was issued to Deputy Creighton. Since he’s with the team today, he won’t be needing it. Just be sure to get it back to him when you’re done.”

  “Will do,” Dave said.

  Moving out, Tom reached for a second satphone. Since most of his key people were with him on the mission, there was really only one person left to call—Deb Howell.