What went for office attire, however, didn’t work when it came to crime scenes. For those he always carried a little brown suitcase, one he had inherited from his wife, Rose, after her second trip to the Copper Queen Hospital to have a baby. The now battered case went with him everywhere. Called to a crime scene, a dapper Detective Carpenter would arrive, suitcase in hand. Soon he would disappear into a rest room or behind his vehicle. Minutes later, he would emerge looking more like a second-rate plumber than a fashion plate
He reappeared now in a pair of denim coveralls, serviceable high-topped boots, and surgical gloves.
“According to Ben Lowrey, we’re about ready to go in Sheriff Brady,” he said as he walked past. “Dick says you want to come along, but with all the ashes, soot, and water I hope to hell you have something else to wear.”
Having wrecked two separate expensive outfits during her first week in office, Joanna had solved the problem by ordering a full-length coat from an ad at the back of one of Eleanor Lathrop’s many back issues of Sunset magazine. The fully washable J. Peterman coat-what the ad called a cowboy duster-had arrived with sleeves that hung four inches beyond Joanna’s fingertips and a tail that dragged on the ground. Joanna’s mother-in-law, Eva Lou Brady, had cut the coat down to size and then fired up her Singer sewing machine to hem it properly. Following Ernie’s example, Joanne kept the remodeled duster, a pair of worn tennis shoes, and several pairs of thick athletic socks in the back of her Blazer at all times.
Hurrying back out to her own vehicle, Joanna pulled the coat on over her two-piece business suit. She exchanged he heels for socks and sneakers. In less than a minute she we ready to enter the barn with Ernie Carpenter and the other:
When she rejoined them, Ernie gave her an appreciative grin. “Whenever I see you in that outfit,” he said, “it make me think of those old Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns.”
“Thanks,” Joanna told him crisply. “I believe I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Her reply brought the ghost of a smile to the corners Chief Deputy Voland’s mouth, but he made no comment about Joanna’s change of attire one way or the other.
“If you’ll wait just a minute,” he said. “I’ll pass along some marching orders.” Then, raising his voice, he shouted to the parking lot at large. “Okay, folks,” he announced, “listen up.”
That was one of the reasons Joanna had kept Dick Voland on as chief of operations. His rumbled commands automatically inspired respect and attention. At the sound of his voice, all the people there-assembled deputies and firemen alike-stood still, awaiting direction.
“Until we know otherwise,” he told them, “this entire area constitutes the crime scene. That means inside the fence and along the highway outside it as well. I want the whole area searched. As soon as the fire-fighting equipment is out of here, I want the parking lot sealed off. Nobody unauthorized is to come in or out.”
Voland paused for a moment before continuing. “Deputy Hollicker.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You see that Buick parked just outside the fence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That vehicle evidently belongs to the guy the ambulance hauled off to the hospital. I want you to make sure no one goes anywhere near it until we can have it towed away.”
Voland paused long enough to let his eyes scan across the several remaining deputies. “Deputy Pakin?” he called.
Lance Pakin separated himself from the others. “Yo,” he responded.
“I want you to get on down to the hospital. Whenever this Morgan character comes out of the emergency room, you’re to keep an eye on him. Just in case he has some kind of miraculous recovery and they release him, I want you to stick to him like glue. If they admit him and put him in a room, station yourself outside his door and don’t leave until you hear from me.”
“Got it,” Pakin said.
“Deputy Carbajal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m putting you in charge of getting a search warrant for the Buick. Talk to Pakin and get the details from him about what went on here this morning. That should be enough to show probable cause. When you finish up with that, I want you to take charge of the evidence search, but the warrant comes first, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
With those details handled, Voland turned to Ben Lowrey. “Ready,” he said. “Lead the way.”
The four of them-Ben Lowrey, Ernie Carpenter, Dick Voland, and Joanna Brady-walked into the barn in single file. No one said a word about ladies before gentlemen. Joanna was content to bring up the rear.
“The body’s all the way in the back,” Ben Lowrey explained as they went. “That’s where there was combustible fuel in the form of hay, oats, ropes, leather, and so forth. That’s also where the fire burned hottest, so be careful. We’ve still got a few hot spots back there.”
Moments later, Joanna understood what he meant. Over what had been the hottest part of the fire, the overheated metal roof had sagged and stretched under the weight of water. Here and there soot-laden water dribbled down from on high. When Dick Voland’s crisp khaki uniform took a direct hit on the shoulder, Joanna couldn’t help being grateful for the duster. A few steps later, however, a gritty drip from what was most likely the same leak hit Joanna right in the eye.
Slogging along in murky, ash-tilled water and breathing smoky air, Joanna was halfway down the barn before she smelled anything other than smoke. When she realized that the vaguely sweetish odor had to be nothing other than baked human flesh, she put one hand to her mouth to suppress a gag. By the time the others stopped walking, she pretty much had herself under control.
When Lowrey and Voland stood aside to let her move closer, she saw Ernie Carpenter crouched on his haunches some four feet from the corpse. The dead man lay face down in another pool of murky water. His clothing had been mostly burned away, but there was enough left for Joanna to see that the body was wearing boots-leather cowboy boots. As many times as Joanna remembered seeing Bucky Buckwalter, either in the clinic or out of it, he had always worn boots. Even without being able to see the dead man’s face, Joanna was pretty sure she recognized Bucky’s Tony Lamas.
“His arms may have protected his face from the flames,” Ernie Carpenter observed, “but we’ll have to see about that once we turn him over.” The detective glanced at Ben Lowrey. “Nobody moved anything, right?”
“Come on, Ernie, how stupid do you think we are?” Lowrey replied.
“Don’t get sore, Ben,” Carpenter told him. “Just checking. Everybody stays back while I take a few pictures.”
Joanna Brady was more than happy to put some distance between herself and the body while the detective began snapping photos. Standing there quietly with the flash going off periodically, all she could think of was how, mere hours earlier, this lump of charred flesh had been a living, breathing human being, taking care of day to-day business. Now the man lying lace down in the puddle was giving a whole new meaning to the term “ashes to ashes.”
“When you finish that, you may want a picture of this, too,” Ben Lowrey said.
“What is it?” Carpenter asked, clicking the camera without looking away from the body.
“I’d say it’s melted wax. Paraffin,” Lowrey answered. “It could be that a candle, or candles, were left burning in loose hay. That could have been what was used to start the fire. The bales would have been slow to start because they’re packed so tight, but once they get going, they burn like mad.”