by J. M. Hayes
The meat thermometer didn’t budge when she held it against the hand. Room temperature, she guessed. She briefly considered inserting the thermometer into the wound where once an arm had been attached, then decided against it. Puncturing the hand wouldn’t do it any further damage, but who knew what forensic evidence she might disturb. She went back into the kitchen and thoroughly washed her hands, then returned and touched the back of the hand midway between knuckles and wrist with her own hand inside one of those storage bags. Its skin was noticeably cooler than her own. She knelt and sniffed it. No hint of meat gone bad yet. She dabbed the wound with her bagged fingers and found the blood drying, but still faintly tacky.
Without ever coming into direct contact with the evidence, she turned a plastic bag inside out and used it to pick up the hand, then reversed the plastic until she could seal the bag and take a really close look. There was nothing remarkable about the palm except a little section of unnaturally colored skin just above the wound. Part of a tattoo, she thought. If so, this end had been green. That was the extent of what she could tell about the image portrayed there. The hand was large, calloused enough to indicate the owner had used it for more than typing, though hardly shovel work. Nothing unusual about the back of the hand, either. The fingernails were short and clean and unremarkable, except the edge of the thumbnail was broken and jagged. Someone else’s DNA might be under what remained of it. Or might not.
That left the ring. Using another, smaller, plastic bag, she tested it to see if the ring would come off without damaging the surrounding flesh. To her surprise, it did, easily. As she hoped, there was an inscription inside. Nothing personal, just COLORS – TUCSON. She had heard of the place—biker accessories located on Speedway. Not much, but maybe a place to start.
***
“Sorry to interrupt your Christmas dinner,” the sheriff said. Just over Roy Conrad’s shoulder he could see a dozen people crowded around a dining room table piled with food. The Conrad boys, Crabtree’s prime suspects, were among them.
“No problem, Sheriff. Always room for one more.” Conrad’s big smile, red cheeks, and plentiful belly gave him a slight resemblance to a cleanly shaven Santa.
“Thanks, no. I wouldn’t bother you but…”
Conrad’s face spread into an even broader grin. “It’s about Crabtree’s front yard, isn’t it? Oh, Lord! That’s hilarious. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
The sheriff had a hard time controlling his own grin. “Problem is, he thinks one of your boys did it.”
Conrad’s grin faded. “Why that son of a…chicken herder.”
“So I hate to, but I have to ask….”
Conrad turned to the dining room. “Any of you go across the street and piss that message on Crabtree’s yard?” he yelled.
He got a chorus of feminine giggles and masculine “no’s” in reply.
“If I’d thought of it, I might have done it myself,” Conrad said. “You got any idea what a pain it is living across the street from the perpetual Christmas fairy? ’Bout a zillion kilowatts of light pour through our front windows. Even heavy curtains can’t darken a room. And the traffic it brings to the neighborhood. Folks pull off and block our driveway while they take it all in.”
“Yes, sir. I wish I had the staff to send someone to help control that traffic.”
“Not blaming you, Sheriff. I know how strapped the county is.” Conrad sighed. “But I’m strapped, too. It hurts, when I struggle to pay our utilities with the thermostat set on sixty, to see all that conspicuous waste across the street. Look, I don’t know how any of us can prove ourselves innocent. But the boys were both home all night and in their beds when I looked about four. Something roused me. Maybe some left over childish excitement for Christmas morning. Couldn’t go back to sleep. Came down to the living room and opened my curtains. Got blinded for my trouble. But Crabtree’s snow wasn’t pristine then. Nobody came or went from this house last night before Crabtree started howling bloody murder about dawn. I give you my word on that, Sheriff.”
“That’s good enough for me,” English said.
Conrad finished the thought for him. “But probably not for the ignorant elf across the street.”
***
Anjelica Grijalva lived on the southeast side of downtown near the railroad tracks. Her townhouse was on the third level of a converted warehouse. There was an elevator but Mad Dog preferred the stairs and Grijalva’s well-turned calves and stylish heels had no trouble with them.
Each unit’s front door opened off a balcony and used a coded keypad. A wide entry led into a wider still living area featuring a glass and leather décor with Southwestern touches, especially in the art hanging from rustic red-brick walls. Kitchen, living, dining, and office space were combined, with only folding screens to separate one area from another. The wall that faced the tracks was solid glass ribbed with steel supports. A glass door opened onto a terrace where gentle wisps of steam rose from the edges of a hot tub’s cover. A profusion of potted plants surrounded it and gave it a jungle-like feel.
“The plants give me privacy,” she said. “But there’s a nice view of the mountains from the loft.” She gestured toward a stairway that circled up to what must be her bedroom. “Want to check out the scenery?” She raised an eyebrow and Mad Dog indicated he’d take her word for it.
She pointed out a bathroom, offered him her computer or phone or a drink. When he declined them all, she told him to make himself comfortable. She’d give him some privacy to begin making his necessary contacts. And, with that, she disappeared up the curving stair, leaving him a departing smile, a wave, and an offer. “If you need anything, let me know.”
Mad Dog needed advice. He activated his cell and tried Captain Matus. No answer. He called the Sewa Tribal Police and asked if the Captain was in. The Captain wasn’t. He considered Heather and decided he was way too far out of her jurisdiction, especially since she was on duty. He considered Pam, but the whole situation had turned into something he didn’t want to explain on the phone. Especially the part about being in the Tucson home of the extraordinarily attractive Anjelica Grijalva. That left him short on options. There were some Indian shamans he’d gotten to know. That Tucson cop. A couple of friends. He hated to bother any of them on Christmas, especially when he didn’t know what he might be getting them involved in.
Pacing didn’t help. Nor did staring out the wall of glass. He stepped away from it to pace some more and found Ms. Grijalva just behind him. She wore one of those terrycloth robes Mad Dog imagined the finest hotels provided their guests. It covered her pretty thoroughly, but clung in a way that hinted the only thing underneath was her. Mad Dog had to force himself to look her in the eyes.
“I should leave,” he said.
“You’re safe here. I was assigned to pick you up today because neither Cowboy nor Mouse knows anything about me. So you should stay. I thought I’d go relax in the hot tub. Wouldn’t you like to join me?”
At least one part of Mad Dog’s anatomy wanted to join her very much, but he didn’t think Pam would approve.
“Nah,” he stuttered, “thanks. I really should go.”
“But I haven’t offered you anything to eat.” She reached down and opened her robe. Mad Dog couldn’t help but notice that Anjelica Grijalva shaved her legs all the way up. And then some.
“See anything you like?” Her hands touched the front of his jeans. “Or maybe you’d rather be the first course.”
***
Even as Heather drove into the lot behind Kino Hospital, she was still trying to convince herself she’d made the right choice.
Heather had a problem. Several problems, actually. She desperately wanted to get back to the first crime scene and take part in the investigation into the new governor’s death. That could be a career-maker. But she was stuck in the middle of the bizarre situation she’d
found at Uncle Mad Dog’s—that was no partridge in his tree. And Uncle Mad Dog, who had apparently called for help with the problem, had gone missing. That left her in possession of a severed human hand in need of an intact chain of custody, putting it, ultimately, in the hands, no pun intended, of the Pima County Medical Examiner’s Office.
Turning it over to PCME would normally have been a matter of course. Criminal investigators from the Pima County Sheriff’s Office, who had jurisdiction in unincorporated Three Points, would have contacted someone from the office. A medico-legal death investigator would have been dispatched, or at least a contract employee authorized to transport human remains. But Heather couldn’t get a deputy back to Mad Dog’s house. And, while she was a law enforcement officer in Pima County, Mad Dog’s place certainly wasn’t in her jurisdiction. If she called PCME for a pickup, she wasn’t sure they’d send someone. On Christmas Day, they’d be short of personnel. And, if the PCME’s office contacted the sheriff’s department, they might not bother at all. Not after they learned the sheriff’s office was treating this as a false report. So Heather had finally convinced herself she had to deliver the hand personally.
One option had been to take the hand to Sewa Tribal Police Headquarters. That was south, more or less back toward the governor’s death investigation—a case she should be deeply involved in by sheer right of discovery. Or she could take it to the Pima County Sheriff’s Department, where she was likely to get held up for hours, maybe even turned into a suspect. Her last option was the medical examiner’s office to just hand it over. Argh! She couldn’t even think about this without tossing off morbid puns.
Well, she’d made her decision. Since Sewa Tribal Police still couldn’t put her in touch with Captain Matus for advice, she’d headed for PCME. She pulled into the medical examiner’s parking lot behind Kino Hospital. There would be someone here to take delivery, even though they might not be happy about the circumstances. Still, they’d take it, even on Christmas. Death, violent or natural, never took a holiday. The ME’s office was always staffed. And then she’d go to Colors. That was where the ring the hand had been wearing came from. The business would normally be closed for Christmas, but she’d seen a story on the news last night. Tucson’s biker community—the ones who drove chopped Harleys and wore club leathers—was throwing a Christmas party for homeless children and their families in Colors’ parking lot today. Mesquite grilled turkey was being served and stuffed toys handed out to kids. Someone from the business was bound to be there. Someone, she hoped, who could tell her about the ring.
Hell, Uncle Mad Dog might even be there. Why not? He had to be somewhere. That somewhere probably had something to do with what she was about to hand off….
Argh!
***
What most bothered Sheriff English, as he made his way across the street to Crabtree’s glowing Jesus-in-Toyland exhibit, was the shotgun he’d noticed propped near Conrad’s door. The man was a pretty stable fellow, but apparently he felt threatened. He might not have said so to the sheriff, but that gun was a pretty clear indication he felt his sons’ lives were at risk. This little cold war could turn hot and deadly all too easily, and the sheriff wasn’t sure what to do about it. If he had a competent deputy to park in the street and keep things quiet until the case was solved or tempers cooled…. He didn’t, though, and despite the season, wishing would not make it so.
Crabtree opened his front door before the sheriff could knock. “You make an arrest?”
“No. I didn’t. Roy Conrad gave me his word his boys had nothing to do with it and I believe him.”
Crabtree made a disparaging noise but the sheriff stayed on message.
“If you want me to find out who urinated in your yard, you’ve got to promise me you’ll stay in this house and not so much as stare out the window toward the Conrads’ place. Can you do that for me?”
“This is my property,” Crabtree said. “I will not be told how to behave on it or whether or not I can look out my own windows. If I feel the inclination, I’ll arm myself and go out there and march a perimeter to prevent further assaults on my land and my God.”
“Now, Don, calm yourself.” Mrs. Crabtree came up behind her husband and put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged it off. “Edna, get me a gun out of the study.” He pulled a heavy jacket off the hall tree beside the front door. “I’m going to set up surveillance by the crèche right now. Let them Conrad boys know their lives will be on the line if they come back over here.”
“Well, Don,” the sheriff said, “since you’ve threatened to kill one, I’m going to have to arrest you if you step outside with a gun.”
Edna and Don did double takes worthy of a sitcom. And Don began yelling threats while Edna began shouting, too. In her case, pleas for the sheriff not to arrest Don, and for her husband to quiet down and not get himself in real trouble. At least neither of them went to get the aforementioned gun and the sheriff didn’t have to draw his.
The sheriff spent several minutes trying to get a word in edgewise. Crabtree’s threats and attitude made it impossible for him to leave the man armed and marching around his yard while Conrads with guns considered how to protect themselves. The county’s Christmas task force, Sheriff English, would have to stay there and keep them apart instead of going in search of someone with an especially large bladder capacity.
Sheriff English didn’t think Crabtree was the type to start shooting, either at the sheriff or the Conrads, but if the man began an armed patrol of his decorations, Conrad was likely to march out the front door with his own weapon. An exchange of pleasantries might well lead to an exchange of lead. Trouble was, the sheriff also couldn’t imagine Don Crabtree, now apoplectic with rage, coming peaceably. Given the sheriff’s limited recovery from a bullet to the spine a few years ago, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to get his cuffs on Crabtree. By this time, the man had convinced himself he was the misunderstood and mistreated victim, about to be humiliated in his own home.
The sheriff could call for back up, but his only deputy was the sort who brought gasoline to throw on fires. The sheriff decided he’d have to settle for sitting guard duty in his vehicle to keep the men apart. Until spring maybe, or until he froze solid inside the old Taurus. But before he could beat a strategic retreat, the Crabtree’s daughter elbowed her way between her parents, pushed open the door, and offered the sheriff a long cardboard box.
“Here are all Daddy’s guns,” she said. Her parents went suddenly silent with shock. “This being Christmas, maybe you can leave him here and take his guns instead. That way he’s no threat to the Conrads or anyone else. Mom and I’ll see to it he doesn’t run over there with a carving knife. Won’t that work?”
“All of them?” Crabtree said. He seemed a little concerned about that.
“Even the little derringer that fits in that fancy belt buckle,” she said. “How about it, Sheriff?”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’ll work.” He accepted the box and was surprised at how much it weighed.
“You can’t take my guns,” Crabtree whined. “It’s unconstitutional.”
“I’m not seizing them,” the sheriff said. “I’m just taking them into safe custody for the moment. Soon as this is cleared up, you can have them back.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Edna said. “I’m just as glad to have them out of the house.”
“What about my Second Amendment rights?”
“It’s Christmas, Daddy. There aren’t any militia gatherings today.”
The sheriff looked the girl in the eyes, answered her smile with a small one of his own and a nod of thanks. He started for the street.
“Uh, Sheriff,” Crabtree called after him. “That Uzi. The man who sold it to me guaranteed it’s legal. Assured me you can’t set it to fully automatic anymore.”
The sheriff loaded the box int
o the back of his station wagon and turned around to face the house. “I’ll check that out for you. Best find your paperwork on that purchase, though. Just in case.”
The sheriff climbed behind the wheel, started the Taurus, and pulled into the street. He could see the butt end of Don Crabtree’s pickup in the driveway behind him. There was a bumper sticker on it suggesting Don’s hands were now cold and dead. If the Uzi was automatic, the sheriff thought, Don had cause for them to be at least cold and clammy.
***
This situation, or variations on it, had been the stuff of Mad Dog’s teenage fantasies from the moment he learned oral sex was not just the product of his perverted imagination. And then, during his commune summer, he’d learned to give and receive it as nothing more than a casual kindness. But that was then and this was now. He and Pam had a commitment. STDs were lots more common and more deadly than when he was young. He no longer believed he was immortal. And besides, Ms. Grijalva scared him.
She popped the first button of his jeans expertly, he noted, before he took a step back and began defending his right to say no.
“Uh, thanks,” he said. “I give at home.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Would you like some Viagra first?”
“No, really. Got someplace I need to be.” He looked at his Casio, failed to register the time, but managed to say, “Wow. That late already.”
Mad Dog buttoned his pants, stepped around her, being careful to remain just beyond her reach, and sprinted for the door. He grabbed his jacket and took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time, then hit warp speed on his way toward the street. He looked over his shoulder, fearful she might be about to run him down and have her way with him out here in traffic. He needn’t have worried. No traffic, and she stood on the balcony, wind opening her robe exposing the delights he’d declined to sample.
“Come back,” she called. “You’re safe here. Even from me, if that’s what you want.”