Downfall

by J. A. Jance

  Wilson spun around to face her. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” she said, silencing her laughter. “When you’re right, you’re right. Thank you.”

  It was humiliating being passed from hand to hand, but Joanna realized partway down that she really was in no condition to make the descent on her own, especially not in the dark. The first two faces she saw once her feet were on terra firma were the ones she wanted to see the most—Butch and Jenny’s.

  “Oh, Mom,” Jenny whispered, pulling Joanna into an impassioned embrace. “I was so scared!”

  “So was I,” Joanna admitted. “Believe me, so was I."

  She turned away from Jenny into Butch’s welcoming arms and let him hold her for a long, long time. When she drew away at last, she saw that she had left several bloody imprints on his shirt. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing,” Joanna replied, trying to downplay his concern. “But how did you get here?”

  “Agent Watkins called me the moment Jeremy Stock bit the dust. I wanted to come here along with everyone else earlier, but she talked me out of it. Said it was too dangerous and that I should go home.”

  “It was too dangerous,” Joanna said.

  “Agent Watkins promised that she’d call me the moment you were safe, and she did. But, Joey, you look awful. Your face is a mess!”

  Just then someone walked up behind Butch and tapped him on the shoulder. “May I cut in?” Tom Hadlock asked. As Butch stepped away, Tom swept Joanna into a smothering bear hug.

  “Boy howdy!” he exclaimed, pushing her away finally and examining her face. “If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes!”

  “I’m a sight all right,” Joanna replied with a laugh. “Everyone keeps telling me so, but thanks, Tom. Thank you for everything you did tonight. You made some really great calls, and I wouldn’t be here talking about them if you hadn’t.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he murmured. “Appreciate it.”

  Lieutenant Wilson approached Tom Hadlock. “Okay, Chief Deputy,” he said. “We’re done here. Dr. Ross has taken charge of the dog, so we’ll be heading out.”

  “This is Lieutenant Adam Wilson,” Joanna told Butch. “With the Bisbee Fire Department, and this is my husband, Butch Dixon.”

  “He’s the guy who helped you down off the mountain?” Butch asked.

  “The very one,” she replied.

  Butch held out his hand to shake Wilson’s. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for rescuing my wife and our baby, too.”

  Wilson glanced back and forth between them. “Is it possible your wife is slightly stubborn?” he asked.

  “Not slightly,” Butch answered with a grin. “Very.”

  “You might want to have her visit the ER after she finishes up whatever she needs to do here,” Lieutenant Wilson suggested. “Those cuts and scratches need to be cleaned by professionals, and at least one of them—the cut on her right cheek—should probably be stitched up if she doesn’t want to be stuck with a scar. Oh, and a word of advice,” he added. “If I were you, I wouldn’t bother asking her opinion on the subject. I’d just put her in the car and take her there.”

  “Good idea,” Butch said. “I’ll do that very thing, the first chance I get.”

  CHAPTER 43

  THE EVENTS OF THE DAY—AND OF THE NIGHT AS WELL—HAD LEFT Joanna in an odd position. She was still the sheriff, yes, but she was also both victim and witness. By virtue of the latter two, it was necessary for her to leave her chief deputy in charge of investigating the incident, especially since, by all accounts, he was doing a great job. That left her strictly on the sidelines and at somewhat of a loss. She was glad to have Butch and Jenny there with her, but still . . .

  Joanna learned that the EMTs had loaded Spike and the basket as well into Dr. Ross’s van so he could be taken directly to the vet’s clinic, where the injured dog was currently undergoing surgery. Dr. Ross had given Terry a lift back to his parked SUV so he could follow her back into town. Joanna had no doubt that Terry, and probably Kristin as well, were both sitting vigil in the vet’s waiting room.

  With Joanna no longer on the mountain to direct the search, it took close to an hour for deputies to locate Jeremy Stock’s body. They found his shattered remains just as the ME’s van arrived on the scene. As Dave Hollicker told Joanna later, Jeremy had crashed to earth only feet from the spot where they had determined he had shoved both Susan Nelson and Desirée Wilburton to their deaths.

  Kendra Baldwin got out of her van, spotted Joanna, and came right over. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Where else would I be?” Joanna asked.

  “The hospital maybe? I heard what happened. You got Tased and cracked the back of your head. You need to go to the ER and be checked out for a possible concussion. In addition, your face is a mess.”

  “I’ve been trying to tell her—” Butch began.

  “Don’t bother,” Kendra advised. “Just take her.”

  “Come on, Mom,” Jenny urged. “That’s at least five to one, all of us telling you the same thing. When are you going to give in?”

  “About now, I suppose,” Joanna agreed grudgingly. “I’ll go tell Tom that we’re leaving.”

  She found Chief Deputy Hadlock overseeing the towing of Jeremy’s Tahoe to the impound lot. “Have you spoken to Frank about the homicides out in Sierra Vista?” she asked.

  Tom nodded. “The bodies are still where they were found, waiting for Dr. Baldwin to make the trip out there after she finishes here. According to Frank, it looks like both Allison and Travis died of a choke hold. That’s not certain, of course, until Dr. Baldwin gives us the final word.”

  “A police choke hold?” Joanna asked.

  Tom nodded grimly. “What the hell happened to the guy?” he demanded, glancing around to see if anyone else was in earshot. “I mean you and I worked with Jeremy for years—we all did—and I never saw any of this coming. Wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years. What did we miss?”

  “We missed what was going on behind closed doors,” Joanna said. “Once we go digging into the family situation, we may find that there was a certain level of domestic abuse going on in the Stock family for a long time without it ever being reported. Jeremy expected his wife and son to do whatever he said, no matter what.”

  “Make that sons, not son,” Tom corrected. “I’ve just been informed that there’s a second one, an older boy named Thad. He’s going to school somewhere in Texas. I’ve got law enforcement people there reaching out to let him know what’s happened.”

  “Jeremy mentioned Thad earlier,” Joanna said. “He indicated there was some bad blood between them.”

  “Not surprised,” Tom muttered. “This kind of crap probably explains why Thad is in school in Texas rather than somewhere closer to home.”

  Joanna nodded. “When Jeremy issued an order, he expected instant, unquestioning obedience. That’s what happened to Susan Nelson. When she refused to abort their child, he went off the deep end. This afternoon, when he found out that she had been screwing around with Travis, too, that was the last straw.”

  “Wait,” Tom interjected. “You already knew that Jeremy was the father of Susan Nelson’s baby? We didn’t find that out until late this afternoon, and you weren’t in the conference room for that briefing. How did you know that?”

  “I heard it straight from Jeremy himself. And this afternoon, when Travis insisted on giving me that voluntary DNA sample, he did so in defiance of his father’s direct orders, ones issued no doubt because Jeremy knew that his son’s DNA would be his downfall and lead straight back to him.”

  “Which is exactly what it did,” Tom said. “What’s unbelievable is that by giving you that sample, Travis signed his own death warrant, his mother’s, too, and very nearly yours.” Joanna nodded in agreement.

  “Are there other cases like this?” Tom wondered aloud. “Other people inside the department who are pulling the same kinds of s
tunts at home?”

  “Maybe,” Joanna said. “And maybe it’s high time we had some departmental meetings focused on that very topic—for both our officers and their respective spouses.”

  “Right,” Tom said. “I suppose we should, but right this minute, it seems like way too little way too late.”

  Those words hung in the air between them for a moment before Tom continued. “Bruce Ryder, the FBI’s Tucson special agent in charge, came through for us in a big way. He lit a fire under one of his buddies at Taser International. Casey just had a call back from them. The AFIDs we found out in the parking lot did come from Jeremy’s Taser.”

  “No surprises there,” Joanna said.

  “No, but it’ll be an important piece of evidence as we start putting the sequence of events together. Speaking of which, the Arizona Department of Public Safety is sending an investigation team to conduct impartial interviews with everyone involved. They’ll be at the Justice Center in about an hour or so. Will you feel up to talking to them tonight, or do you want me to ask them to come back some other time? Not tomorrow, because of the funeral, of course, but maybe over the weekend.”

  “I’d rather get the interview over with tonight and not have it hanging over my head all weekend long,” Joanna told him. “Butch and Dr. Baldwin are both insisting that I stop by the hospital to be checked out. Depending on how long that takes, maybe I could go home and change into different clothing before the interview.”

  Unfortunately, her first pair of specially modified, expanded-waist trousers had literally bitten the dust, and on their very first day of use. Climbing up and down Geronimo twice in the course of one day had left her uniform very much the worse for wear.

  “By all means, stop by the ER,” Tom urged. “Incidentally, have you ever heard of arnica?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A plant of some kind which they use to make a salve. I forget the name of it—Arnicare maybe—but it’s great on bruises of any kind. Helps with the pain and reduces the swelling. Have Butch pick you up some of that. You’ve got a fat lip at the moment, and that black eye is a doozy.”

  “Thanks,” Joanna said. “Will do.”

  Something to reduce the swelling was probably a good idea, she realized as she walked back to where Butch and Jenny waited beside the Enclave. There was an extra bump of cheek sticking out under her right eye and distorting her vision. Yes, there was definitely some swelling.

  The ER visit took less time than expected. The doctor determined that there was no concussion. That was the good news. The bad news was that Lieutenant Wilson was right. The scrapes and abrasions all needed to be properly cleaned, and the cut on her cheek did indeed require several stitches.

  When she and Butch finally arrived at the house at High Lonesome Ranch, just after midnight, lights were on all over the place and barbecue preparations were still in full swing. Joanna stepped out of the passenger seat into the arms of a stream of people who hurried into the garage to welcome her home—Carol Sunderson; Jim Bob and Eva Lou; Bob and Marcie.

  They greeted Joanna as if she were some kind of conquering hero, but she didn’t feel very damned heroic. She was bruised and battered, stitched and sore, but she was still alive. Maybe that was part of what it meant to be a hero—being the one who lived to tell the tale.

  At the hospital, suspecting that Joanna’s blood sugar was at an all-time low, Butch had sent Jenny off in search of a vending machine. Jenny had returned with a much-needed Snickers bar, but when Joanna stepped into a kitchen alive with the aroma of freshly baked yeast rolls, she realized she was beyond famished.

  “Go shower and change,” Butch admonished her. “I’ll drive you back for your interview, but not until after you’ve had something to eat.”

  “You don’t need to drive me,” she objected. “There’s no telling how long the interview will take. I can drive myself.”

  “I will drive you,” Butch insisted even more firmly. “Go shower. Driving yourself is not an option, Joey. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, giving him a mock salute. “On my way.” When Joanna returned to the kitchen, showered and dressed, a bowl of green chili casserole, a still-warm yeast roll, and a glass of milk were waiting for her in the breakfast nook. The food was there and so was Butch, but no one else was in evidence.

  “Where did everybody go?” she asked.

  “Jenny went to bed and everyone else went home,” Butch said, sinking down beside her on the bench. “They were all hanging around to make sure you were okay. I told them, but they wanted to see it with their own eyes, and I don’t blame them for that. I felt the same way. That’s why Jenny and I showed up at the crime scene—to see for ourselves.”

  He reached across the table and covered one of her bruised hands with his own. “I’m so glad you’re here, Joey,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “The idea of you and the baby being Tased? I can hardly imagine something so awful. You’re sure she’s all right?”

  For an answer, Joanna lifted both their hands from the tabletop and placed them side by side on her belly, where Sage was once again pummeling her lower ribs.

  “See there?” she said. “Sage is just fine.”

  “Thank God,” Butch breathed.

  “Thank God and dog,” Joanna told him with a smile. “Spike had a paw in saving me, too.”

  Half an hour later, they were in the Enclave and on their way to the Justice Center. Joanna, sitting with her head against the headrest and her eyes closed, tried to imagine how she could possibly manage to make it through the rigors the next day. When Butch’s voice drew her out of her reverie, she realized he must have been speaking to her without her having heard a word he’d said.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was half-asleep. What were you saying?”

  “About the name—the baby’s name.”

  “I know,” Joanna answered. “You don’t like the name Sage.”

  “I don’t mind it all that much,” Butch replied, “but wouldn’t it be better as a middle name? What if we called her Eleanor Sage Dixon—Ellie for short?”

  As soon as he spoke the name aloud, a chill ran up and down Joanna’s legs. Knowing how incredibly right it was, she momentarily lost her ability to speak.

  “That’s perfect,” she breathed at last. “Absolutely perfect. Eleanor Sage Dixon it is!”

  CHAPTER 44

  THE INTERVIEW ITSELF WENT PRETTY MUCH AS JOANNA EXPECTED. The DPS detectives wanted to ascertain where everyone was at the time Jeremy Stock had gone airborne. Since at least two gunshots had occurred in the course of the incident, they wondered if anyone had administered GSR tests the night before. Joanna smiled when they asked that question.

  “Yes,” she answered. “My chief deputy, Tom Hadlock, made sure that our CSI team did Gunshot Residue Tests on my K9 officer, Terry Gregovich, on me, and on the dog, too, before any of us left the scene.”

  Go, Tom, she thought to herself. That was something else—a big something else—that her chief deputy had gotten right under the most challenging of circumstances.

  In the course of the interview, Joanna laid the whole thing out, from the original homicides to the deaths of Jeremy Stock’s wife and son, and on to Jeremy’s suicide. She told the detectives as much as she knew about the ongoing investigation involving the Susan Nelson sexual-abuse scandal, something which, in the next hours and days, was bound to set all of southeastern Arizona on its ear.

  Halfway through the interview, her phone rang . . . well . . . crowed, really. The DPS guys exchanged disparaging glances, but Joanna wasn’t exactly a suspect, and they had no grounds to forbid her taking the call. With Kristin’s name showing in caller ID, they would have had to physically wrestle the phone out of her hands to keep her from doing so.

  “How’s Spike?” she asked at once.

  “Out of surgery," Kristin answered. “Dr. Ross thinks she’s managed to save the leg, but it’s still touch and go. Terry’s really broken up over it. He s
ays that without Spike he’s ready to quit the department and look for some other kind of work.”

  “Of course he’s broken up,” Joanna said. “Why wouldn’t he be? He and Spike have been partners for a long time. They’ll both have some grieving and adjusting to do. As I told Terry while we were still up on Geronimo, Spike has earned every minute of his retirement.”

  What came to her then was something she would later regard as a moment of divine inspiration. “While Spike is recovering and while we’re finding a new partner for Terry, maybe you could bring the dog along to work with you. That way Spike will feel like he’s still on the job, and maybe Terry will, too.”

  “What a wonderful idea,” Kristin said. “I love it, and so will Terry. I’ll go tell him.”

  When the called ended, Joanna turned back to the DPS detectives, “Okay, gentlemen. Where were we?”

  The interview ended at 2:45 A.M. Joanna and Butch made it back home just after three. Falling into bed, Joanna slept a deep, dreamless sleep. When she opened her eyes in the morning, Butch was long out of bed and the clock on the nightstand told her she had overslept. Thinking she was about to be late for work, she started to scramble out of bed and then stopped. Everything hurt. There was no part of her that wasn’t stiff, sore, and aching, and all of that reminded her of everything else—everything that had happened yesterday and everything that would happen today.

  Joanna Brady was alive this morning, but George and Eleanor Winfield were still dead. Yesterday she had fought a life-or-death battle with a stone-cold killer. Today she had to get through the aftermath of another double homicide.

  Squaring her aching shoulders, Joanna got up finally and limped into the bathroom, where a brand-new tube of Arnicare stood front and center on the bathroom countertop. Seeing her face in the mirror was a shock to the system. Her right cheek was purple from her eyebrow to the bottom of her nose. Where the bruise ended, the line of stitches began. Not a pretty picture. Taking Butch’s pointed hint, she opened the box, took out the tube, and spread some of the soothing ointment over everything that hurt—at least over everything that hurt that she could reach. There were scrapes in the middle of her back where applying salve simply wasn’t an option.