“No. Chief Deputy Voland was on his way to Tombstone, but now he’s going to Sierra Vista instead. He said if you called in, you’d better go check on the two teams working in Tombstone. Detective Carbajal is there, but other than that, the crime scene investigators are on their own.”
Joanna shook her head. Even with almost two hundred people working for her, the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department was chronically short-staffed. On those occasions where several major things happened at once, that chronic shortage instantly turned critical.
“All right,” she said. “Radio Chief Deputy Voland and le him know I’ll take care of Tombstone. And Saint David,” she added under her breath.
After all, someone has to do it.
When Anglos first showed up in southern Arizona, the area along the San Pedro River, a few miles south of what is now Benson, was a mosquito-infested, swampy wasteland. Despite the hardships, a few hardy souls had settled there. When a severe earthquake rocked the Sonora Desert on May 3, 1887, no one in the Saint David area was injured, nor was there much structural damage, primarily due to the fact that so few people lived there. The non-killer quake left lasting evidence of its handiwork by instantly draining the swamp and forcing much of the San Pedro watershed underground. The former swamp turned into a fertile farmland oasis studded by ancient cottonwoods.
It was late afternoon when Joanna Brady slowed her Crown Victoria at the three wooden crosses that marked the entrance to Holy Trinity Monastery, a Benedictine retreat center beyond the eastern boundary of Saint David. The center had been there for as long as Joanna remembered. It was only as an adult that she had considered it odd for the Catholic Diocese in Tucson to have established a retreat center in the middle of Mormon farming country in southeastern Arizona.
Nestled under the San Pedro’s towering cottonwoods, the monastery contained a small, jewel-like church-Our Lady of Guadalupe-a bird sanctuary, a pecan orchard, an RV park, and a library/museum, as well as a used-clothing thrift store. Living quarters for monks, sisters, and resident lay workers consisted of a collection of mobile homes clustered about the property in a haphazard manner. Throughout the year Holy Trinity held Christian Renewal retreats for various groups from the Catholic Church. Twice a year-spring and autumn-the monastery hosted a fund-raising arts festival and fair.
Shimmering golden leaves captured the setting sun and reflected off the surface of a shallow pond as Joanna parked in front of the church. As soon as she switched off the ignition, a tall, angular man in a long white robe and sandals came flapping out of the church to meet her.
“I’m so glad you came right away, Sheriff Brady,” Father Thomas Mulligan said. “I’ve been quite concerned.”
“The sister who was left with him wasn’t hurt, was she?”
“No,” Father Mulligan said. “She bruised her elbow when he knocked her down, but other than that she’s fine.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the church. There are lots of lighted candles in the sanctuary, and he seems to like them.”
“Is it safe to leave him there alone?” Joanna asked.
“He isn’t alone. Brother Joseph is with him. Back when Brother Joseph was a high school gym teacher, he taught judo. According to him, judo is like riding a bike. You never forget the moves.”
Half-trotting to keep up with Father Mulligan’s long-legged stride, Joanna followed the priest into the adobe-walled church. The setting sun, shining in through stained-glass windows, filled the small, carefully crafted sanctuary with a muted glow. Two men sat in the front pew. One was an elderly white-robed priest. The other was a wizened, hunched little man whose huge ears and doleful face reminded Joanna of an elf.
“Junior?” she said, holding out her hand.
Slowly he raised his eyes until he was staring up into her face. Politely, he held out his hand as well, but his grip barely clasped Joanna’s.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Sheriff Brady.”
Without a word, Junior scooted sideways in the pew until he was huddled next to Brother Joseph. Then, burying his head in the priest’s robe, he began to moan. “Didn’t do it. Didn’t do it. Didn’t do it.”
“Didn’t do what?” Joanna asked.
“Not bad,” Junior wailed, pressing even closer to the priest, who by then had wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders. “Junior not bad. No jail, please. No jail. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt Junior.”
Seeing that he was utterly terrified of her, Joanna stood for a moment trying to decide what to do. Then, from some far recess of memory, she recalled one sunny spring afternoon years earlier. She had been in her Brownie uniform, stationed in front of the post office in Warren, hawking Girl Scout cookies. A man had ridden up to her on a bike, a girl’s bike. He had stopped and stood beside her, staring down into her wagonload of cookies.
He had stood there for a long time, and his silent staring presence had worried her. After all, he was wearing a badge and a holstered gun. Joanna had been petrified that she was doing something wrong, that he was going to arrest her for it.
Then a gray-haired woman had emerged from the beauty shop next door to the post office. The man had smiled at the woman, called her Mama, and pointed at the cookies, saying he wanted some. That was when Joanna realized there was something wrong with him. That he was a grown-up who was also somehow still a child. His mother had bought a box of cookies-Thin Mints-and she had explained that her son “wasn’t quite right,” that he liked to “pretend” to be a policeman. Both the gun and the holster were toys. The sheriff’s badge was a prize from a box of Cracker Jacks.
From that long-ago memory came the seed of inspiration. “I’m not here to take you to jail,” Joanna said. “Did you ever want to play policeman?”
Junior quieted and peeked up at her from behind Brother Joseph’s robe. “Play?” Junior asked.
“Yes,” Joanna said. “Would you like to play policeman?” Reaching into her pocket, Joanna extracted her leather ID folder and handed it over to him. Inside were both her identification and her badge-the badge with the words “Serve and Protect” engraved in square gold letters. Looking at it, Junior’s eyes bulged with excitement. He fingered the metal.
“Would you like to put it on?” Joanna asked kindly. “You could wear it while we go for a ride in my car and look for your mother.,’
“Junior wear it?” he repeated wonderingly. “Me wear it?”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “But you’ll have to come with me. Okay?”
Junior nodded his head emphatically, eagerly. “Me wear. Me wear. Put on. Put on now.”
Carefully Joanna pinned the badge to the pocket of Junior’s shirt. “All right now, can you raise your right hand?”
Both hands shot high in the air. “Do you swear to be a good deputy, Junior?” Joanna asked.
Junior’s face split into a wide smile and he jumped to his feet. “Me good,” he said. “Junior very good de-de-deputy.” It took several times before he could finally make his lips form the unfamiliar word. “Go now,” he added. “Go right now. Get in car.”
“Right,” Joanna said. “We’ll go get in the car.”
Junior raced down the aisle, with Joanna and Father Mulligan following behind. “That was very impressive,” the priest said under his breath. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Desperation,” she told him. “Desperation plain and simple.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Between Saint David and Tombstone, Joanna said little and Junior said even less. He sat huddled in the far corner of the passenger seat with his arms clutching his chest. When Joanna asked him a direct question, he ducked his head and stared out the windshield without any acknowledgment that she had spoken to him.