Following Voland’s glance, Joanna saw that Bebe Noonan had untied the skittish gelding and was leading him to the far end of the parking lot, where she tethered him to the chain-link fence that marked the westernmost boundary of the animal clinic property. Even there, she remained with the animal, alternately petting him and clinging to his neck.
Joanna turned to the fire chief. “How soon do you think we’ll be able to get inside?” she asked.
“The fire’s out, except for a couple hot spots, but we’ll have to check for structural damage before we can let anyone else go inside. I’ll let you know.”
Lowrey walked away, leaving Joanna and Dick Voland alone. The chief deputy waited until the other man was out of earshot before he attacked. “You never should have ordered Pakin off the case,” he said. “Obviously the incident was far from over…”
Joanna knew full well that the only way to survive with Dick Voland was to push back. “No Monday-morning quarterbacking, Dick,” she snapped. “That particular incident was over. You know as well as I do that we don’t have the manpower to have one deputy spend his whole shift waiting to see if something might happen.”
“Well,” Voland said derisively, motioning toward the still smoldering hulk of a barn. “If you call this over, I’d hate to see wait you call an ongoing.,,
Joanna had to struggle to maintain her composure. “Look, Dick,” she said, “you’ve made your point. Now how about getting down to business and telling me precisely what went on.
“Bebe came to work at noon,” he said. “She evidently works afternoons and most weekends. That’s her little brown Honda parked over there by Doc Buckwalter’s van. She said he parked her car, went inside the clinic, and was getting things lined up for the afternoon appointments. Bucky wasn’t here, and neither was Terry, but she didn’t think anything bout it.
“About a quarter to one or so,” Voland continued, “she looked out the window and saw smoke pouring out the door the barn. She called nine-one-one right away to report the fire and then came running out here to make sure the doc’s horse was all right. She went in to let the horse out of his stall. That’s when she stumbled over Morgan. He was lying on the floor just inside the door. If she hadn’t dragged him outside, he’d probably be a goner now, too, instead of just on his way to the hospital.”
“Smoke inhalation?” Joanna asked.
Voland nodded. “That and an egg-sized knot on the back of his head.”
“Somebody hit him then?” Joanna asked, thinking that someone else, a third party, must have been in the barn with the other two men.
Voland scowled and shook his head. “Most likely he cracked the back of his head on the cement floor when he fell. Anyway, according to Ben, the fire was mostly confined to the tack room and to the hay and grain stored at the far end of the barn. It made for lots of smoke, although, as you can see, there’s not much damage to the front of the building.
Joanna swallowed hard before she asked the next question. “What about Terry? Is there a chance she’s in there as well?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Voland replied. “According to Bebe, she drives an old T-Bird. Since it’s not in the parking lot, we’re hoping she went somewhere. I’ve got people looking for her right now.”
Joanna found herself praying that Terry Buckwalter was safe, that her body wouldn’t be found among the ruins. It was bad enough that one person was dead. If there were two…
Unable to speak, Joanna studied the roofline of the building, especially the noticeably sagging far end. She had been inside this particular barn only once, several years earlier, shortly after it was completed.
Bild-a-Barns were the construction equivalent of fast food. They came from the modular school of design and were shipped in lots made up of prefabbed numbered pieces. Once at a site, they came together like a giant Erector set, clipped together over concrete slabs and preassembled metal frames.
Bild-a-Barns came in several different styles and configurations. They could be as small as one stall and one storage room or as large as ten stalls, depending on how many sections the owner was willing to fasten together. This one was a five-stall/tack room version, giving Bucky Buckwalter enough room for Kiddo along with space left over to board four additional animals.
Joanna remembered the barn dance the local Rotary Club had thrown in conjunction with the completion of the building. They had staged an old-fashioned square dance complete with a live band and a traveling barbecue outfit that had been trucked in front Tucson. The proceeds had been used to benefit the local Little League.
On that happy occasion, Bucky Buckwalter had been extraordinarily proud of the latest addition to his clinic. At the time, no one could possibly have predicted that three or four years down the road, that same barn would be the site of its owner’s death. And not just death, either, Joanna corrected her-self. The site of Bucky’s murder.
Joanna was so lost in contemplation of both the damaged building and her own thoughts that she almost didn’t hear Dick Voland’s question. “Are you all right?”
His sudden show of concern caught Joanna totally off balance. “I’m okay,” she answered quickly. “But you’re right, you know. All this is my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” Voland returned quickly, with almost no trace of his customary gruffness. “Forget what I said earlier. Sure, it’s easy as hell to have twenty-twenty hindsight in situations like this. Our manpower’s spread way too thin to have a deputy stand around all day holding some damn protester’s hand. What’s important, though, is that we’ve got the perpetrator. It’ll save Ernie the time and trouble of going looking for him.”
Trying not to betray how much Voland’s unexpected kindness had affected her, Joanna turned away and glanced around the parking lot. “Where is Detective Carpenter, by the way?” she asked.
Ernest W. Carpenter-Ernie for short-was Cochise County ’s sole homicide investigator. “He and Deputy Carbajal are on their way back from working that natural-causes stiff up in Sunizona,” Voland answered. “According to Dispatch, they should be here within a matter of minutes. The last I heard, they were still fifteen miles out.”
At the far end of the parking lot, Bebe Noonan continued to work at calming the panicky horse. The two of them, woman and horse, were just beyond Bucky’s Ford Econoline van.
Joanna started across the parking lot, heading for Bebe. “Come get me as soon as Lowrey clears it for us to go inside.”
“Us?” Voland asked after her.
“Us,” Joanna repeated wearily.
She knew full well the need of keeping the number of crime-scene visitors to a minimum. Unfortunately, she also understood the need for people in her department and in the community at large to see her as a “real” police officer-as an active player and investigator rather than as a mere figurehead.
“If you say so,” Voland replied. Joanna could tell by the change in the tenor of his voice that he didn’t approve, but he accepted her decision without argument. “Where are you going to be?” he asked.
“Right now I’m going to go talk to Bebe,” Joanna said.
Leaving Voland alone, Joanna picked her way across the parking lot. The high heels she had worn for the board of supervisors meeting proved hazardous in the loose gravel and ankle-twisting potholes. By the time she reached the chain-link fence, Bebe had finally succeeded in calming the skittish horse. He was standing still while Bebe rested her head against his chestnut-colored neck.
Bianca Noonan was a slight, painfully thin young woman in her early twenties. Mousy hair, a slight overbite, and close-set eyes all combined to make her less than beautiful. She was crying. Her narrow, tear-stained face was smudged by smoke, with rivulets of tears cutting through the grime.