“You’ll probably take more flak because of the dogs,” George predicted.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Joanna said. They were nearing the turnoff to the Justice Center. “Do you want to stop here first, or should I take you by the house so you can pick up your van?”
“I’d better have the van,” he said. “We’re going to need to get that body out of there.” He was quiet for a minute. “There’s something else,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Remember when we were working the Constance Haskell murder a few months back? Remember how Maggie MacFerson tried to make a big deal out of the fact that you and I were related?”
Maggie MacFerson, the murder victim’s sister, happened to be the Maggie MacFerson, a well-known investigative reporter for the major Phoenix daily, The Arizona Reporter.
She had been more than happy to imply that Sheriff Joanna Brady’s stepdaughter relationship with the Cochise County Medical Examiner had somehow caused irregularities in the handling of and investigation into Constance Haskell’s murder.
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“Of course I remember,” Joanna returned. “But there was nothing to it.”
“You know there wasn’t anything to it, and so do I,” George Winfield said. “But this is different. Here we have an inmate who died while being incarcerated in your jail facility, Joanna. And he died in a situation that, however well-intentioned, wasn’t business as usual.”
“While they were out in the yard at my direction,” Joanna muttered grimly.
“Considering all the possible ramifications, not the least of which is liability, we’re going to have to be very careful.”
“You mean there could be possible conflict-of-interest problems if you investigate Richard Osmond’s death?”
“Precisely. This is a situation where neither one of us can afford the smallest margin for error.”
“Are you saying you want to call in another ME?”
“I think it’s wise, don’t you?”
Joanna sighed and picked up her microphone. “Tica,” she said when the dispatcher answered. “I need you to contact the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office. Tell them what we’ve got down here, and see if we can borrow an ME. We’ll pay, of course.
Nobody expects them to work for free.”
She put down the mike and turned back to George. “You know they’re going to charge us an arm and a leg.”
“No matter what they charge,” George Winfield said, “it’ll be cheap at twice the price.”
Joanna dropped George next to his Dodge Caravan and then drove back to the Justice Center alone. Tom Hadlock intercepted her in the parking lot.
“The guys are pissed about the lockdown,” he said. “They all say they didn’t do a thing.”
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“Right,” Joanna said. “Everybody’s as innocent as the day they were born. That’s why they’re all in the slammer. Now, what’s the story on Osmond? Who is he? What did he do?”
“He was serving ninety days for drunk and disorderly. He should have been in longer.
He was up on a domestic-violence beef, but his lawyer plea-bargained it down to D
and D.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-six.”
“How long’s he been in?”
“Forty-five days.”
“Did he cause any trouble?” Joanna asked.
“Not that I know of,” Hadlock answered. “At least nothing that got written up. No difficulties with his cell mates, no calls to the infirmary, nothing.”
“Who are his cell mates?”
“Brad Calhoun, a DUI from Willcox, and John Braxton, another D and D from Sierra Vista.”
“Any reports on either of them?” Joanna asked.
Hadlock shook his head. “Braxton’s only been here a couple of days, and Calhoun hasn’t been any trouble either. That’s why I try to put the drunks together. When they’re not drunk, they mostly don’t cause much trouble.” Hadlock paused. “You want to go see him?”
“Not yet,” Joanna said. “Doc Winfield and Detective Carpenter are both on their way.
We should probably wait until they get here. Who found the body?”
“Lloyd did,” Hadlock replied, referring to Lloyd Roily, the assistant jail commander.
“When we turned up one prisoner short, I sent him back out looking.”
“Did he move anything?” Joanna asked.
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Hadlock shook his head. “Lloyd checked for a pulse and then called me. I called the EMT’s, but he was gone.”
George Winfield’s Dodge Caravan pulled into the parking lot, followed immediately by Dave Carpenter’s Econoline van.
“Good news,” George said, hurrying toward them. “I just heard from Pima County. They’re sending Fran Daly. She’s leaving Tucson right now and will be here as soon as she can. That way she can take charge of the body to begin with rather than our having to do transfers back and forth.”
Joanna had worked with Fran Daly on several other cases. Fran was a no-nonsense type who was an expert at dating long-dead corpses through the succession of bug and larvae found on the rotting flesh. Other than that, she was a fairly nice person.
“We could have done worse,” Joanna said.
“That’s what I thought,” George Winfield agreed.
With Tom Hadlock in the lead, they made their way through the remotely controlled locks of the jail complex and out into the razor-wire-lined rec yard, which was lit up as brightly as the Warren Ballpark playing fields. Richard Osmond’s body lay on the bench of a concrete picnic table. His hands were folded across his chest. Joanna was forced to agree that the dead man did indeed appear to be sleeping.
George cocked his head to one side and studied the body. “I’m guessing it’s either an OD or natural causes. Anybody want to place bets?”
“Leave me out of it,” Ernie Carpenter grumbled. “You always win.”
Joanna turned to the jail commander. “Does his rap sheet show any drug convictions?”
“Not that I noticed,” Hadlock replied.
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“Does he have a wife?” Joanna asked.
“Live-in girlfriend,” Dave Hadlock said. “Her name’s Maria Gomez. We’re trying to track down an address for her. Their apartment in Bisbee was in Osmond’s name. Once he ended up in jail, Maria and the kid moved out. They may be staying with her parents, who live in Douglas.”
“They have a child?” Joanna asked.
Tom Hadlock nodded. ‘A boy. He’s four or five.”
“You’ll let us know as soon as you have the address?”
“Right,” Tom said.
Dave Hollicker showed up then, camera in hand, and was directed to the picnic table bench. As the CSI began snapping crime scene photos, Ernie Carpenter shook his head.
“How many people were out here this afternoon?” he asked.
“Counting prisoners, detention officers, kitchen trustees, and deputies, right around a hundred.”
“We’re not likely to find much as far as physical evidence is concerned, mostly because we’re going to find too much,” Ernie said. “Our best bet will be to talk to the people who were there—guards and prisoners both. Maybe, while we’re waiting for Fran Daly to show up, we could start interviewing some of those folks, beginning with Osmond’s cell mates.”
Joanna nodded. “Sounds good,” she said as the hulking Ernie strode away.
“As for me,” George Winfield said when he and Joanna were left alone, “since I’m taking a pass on this case, I believe I’ll go on home. I’ll have a word with your mother-or, rather, I’ll let her have a word with me on the other major topic of the evening.” He gave Joanna an understanding smile. “But again,” he added, “congratulations.
Ellie’s comments notwithstanding, you and Butch and the baby will be just fine.”
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By the time Joanna had walked back across the parking lot and let herself into the Justice Center conference room, Frank Montoya had shown up as well.
“This isn’t good,” he said. “I’ve already had two calls—one from The Bee and another from The Tribune out in Sierra Vista. The reporters heard about it before I did.