“Yes.” Joanna was glad to hear his voice. Glad to have something bringing her back from a world in which serial killers traveled the countryside murdering whatever unfortunate women happened to cross their paths. “I had chicken noodle soup. Marianne had a burger and fries.”
“Did the soup stay put?” Butch asked.
“So far, so good. What’s up?”
“I’m calling to let you know you’re on your own for dinner.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Jenny and I are on our way to Tucson,” Butch said. “We’re hoping to make it to Western Warehouse before it closes.”
“How come? I don’t remember anybody saying anything about going to Tucson today.”
“That’s because it isn’t exactly a pre-planned trip,” Butch replied. “In fact, it came up just a couple of minutes ago, when I found Lucky under Jenny’s bed chewing up one of her cowboy boots.”
“It’s wrecked?” Joanna asked.
“Totaled. She’s got to have boots for the barrel race tomor 134
row, and her old pair is so small she can’t squeeze into them anymore. So we’re leaving right now. I’m going to put Lucky in the garage-in your garage-where there’s nothing else for him to chew up.” Butch paused. “How about that Marliss,” he said finally.
“You saw the article?”
“No, but I heard about it. One of Jenny’s friends called her.”
“Great,” Joanna said. “Couldn’t be better. Mother and I already had words about it.”
“How come?”
“I suggested maybe the leak came from her.”
“I doubt it,” Butch said. “Even if Eleanor had called Marliss the moment she left our house, I don’t see how she could have beaten the Bee’s press deadline.”
“You could be right,” Joanna agreed. “So someone else besides my mother might be the culprit.”
“You should probably apologize then,” Butch suggested.
“I will,” Joanna said. “When I get around to it. Now drive carefully,” she added.
“I will,” Butch returned, “but I have one more very important thing to say.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever you do, don’t bring home any more animals.”
“Right,” Joanna agreed with a laugh. “I promise.”
“And you be safe, too,” he told her.
Joanna let Butch hang up without mentioning that there were now two possibly related murder victims across the border in New Mexico. It was a glaring omission, and she wasn’t sure exactly whom it was she was trying to protect-Butch Dixon or Joanna Brady.
After the call ended, Joanna forced herself to turn her 135
attention to her desk. Wanting to leave it in some kind of reasonable order, Joanna tackled her daily grind of paperwork. Dealing with the constant barrage was much like the thankless task of doing housework-it could be completed on a temporary basis but it was never actually finished.
In the course of the late afternoon, she tried several times to check with the Double Cs. Unfortunately, her detectives remained in the conference room conducting back-to-back interviews. She was still sorting papers when Kristin called to say Deputy Roy Valentine of the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department was waiting outside.
“Send him in,” Joanna said. “Tell Dave Hollicker that Deputy Valentine is here and ask him to come to my office with the Mossman packet. And please see if Frank and the Double Cs can join us as well.”
Deputy Valentine was young and seemed ill at ease as Kristin ushered him into Joanna’s office. She directed him to a chair by the small conference table at the back of the room. “If you don’t mind, Deputy Valentine, I’ve asked some of the others to join us as well.”
“Sure,” he said. “No problem.”
Once Valentine was seated, Joanna assembled enough chairs to go around. The others arrived one by one, and Joanna introduced them to Valentine. Only when they were all gathered did he undo the string fastener on the packet he carried and slide the collection of grisly crime scene photos onto the smooth surface of the cherry-wood table.
Four years earlier, the sight of pictures of bloodied corpses would have sent Joanna Brady scurrying for the nearest rest room. Today, even with her rebelliously queasy stomach giving her trouble, Joanna was able to gaze at the photos with the distant 136
passionate eyes of a professional. Just as Sheriff Trotter had said, the two female victims, lying on their backs, were both completely naked. The bloodstains on the bodies and apparent lack of same on the ground told their own complicated stories.
“This isn’t where they were shot, is it?” Joanna asked Deputy Valentine as she passed the first photo along to Ernie Carpenter.
The visiting deputy gave her a somewhat quizzical look before answering. “That’s right,” he said. “We think they were shot over by the stock tank. That’s where the brass was found, but we didn’t find much blood there. Sammy-that’s Sammy Soto, our CSI-says he thinks they were shot there and then dragged away from the stock tank to where they were found. If the guy on the bike hadn’t needed to take a dump-“
Embarrassed, Valentine broke off without finishing.
“But you don’t know that for sure?” Ernie asked.
“No. We didn’t find enough blood at the scene to place the shooting there for sure.
It’s a stock tank, you see,” Valentine explained. “A herd of cattle came through the scene to drink several times between the time the victims were shot and when the bodies were found. They stirred up the dirt around the stock tank pretty good.
We were damned lucky to find the brass and even a few footprints.”
“Is it possible they were inside a vehicle when they were shot?” Ernie asked. “That would explain the lack of blood at the stock tank, but the shooter would be left with a hell of a mess in whatever he was driving. Or maybe they were all in the stock tank skinny-dipping.”
Joanna knew Ernie Carpenter had just pulled Deputy Valentine’s leg. Valentine, on the other hand, had no idea. “I doubt that’s possible,” he objected with a frown.
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Shaking his head, Ernie continued to ask questions. ‘Any tire tracks?”
Valentine shrugged. “Some. And we made casts of what there were, but we don’t know for sure the vehicle belonged to the killer. And, like I said, it’s a stock tank.
There were probably lots more tire tracks at some point, but by the time we got there, the cattle had obliterated all but that one set.”
“So we don’t know if the victims were inside or outside a vehicle when they were shot, but they are both naked. Any sign of sexual assault?”
“None that we could see. We won’t know for sure until after the autopsies.”
“Did your CSI say whether or not he thought the women were naked when they were shot?”
Valentine looked surprised. “He didn’t say. Why?”
Ernie shrugged. “This kind of deliberate posing and sexual assault usually go together.
Now when are those autopsies due again?”
“Sheriff Trotter already gave me the bad news on that,” Joanna interjected, answering before Deputy Valentine had a chance. “Because it’s a holiday weekend, Monday is the soonest their ME will be available.”
“Too bad,” Ernie said, shaking his head. “We’ll be losing a lot of precious time.”
He passed the first photo along and reached for another. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Those are the casings,” Deputy Valentine said. “Four of them. Two shots each. There seem to be prints on the casings but we haven’t had time to process them yet. Sheriff Trotter said we’ll get those to you as soon as possible.”
“Good,” Joanna said.
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Together they sorted through one photo after another, twenty or so in all-photos taken before and after the bodies were removed from the scene, along with enlarged photos of shell casings with their telltale antique markings. Joanna was disappointed in the material. She had hoped for something definitive. Other than some footprints and the possibility of fingerprints, the New Mexico authorities didn’t have any more to go on in this case than Joanna’s people had in the Carol Mossman case. Even so, when they had finished with Deputy Valentine’s packet of photos, Dave Hollicker passed along the flimsy collection of Mossman material.