Like a lot of other things, the AFIS equipment had fallen into Cochise County hands through a law enforcement, War Against Drugs grant that paid for hardware and software, hut no “liveware”-the people necessary to make the other two work. Prior to receiving the equipment, Joanna had mistakenly supposed that automated fingerprint identification meant just exactly that -automated. With the arrival of the equipment and the technical documentation that accompanied it, Joanna learned that fingerprints usually had to be augmented by hand before they could be fed into the computer. That meant that the department was going to need to hire someone who was not only artistically inclined but also more than moderately computer-literate. When the position was advertised in the paper, only one applicant had responded-Casey Ledford.
“What’s so urgent?” Joanna asked, poking her head in Casey’s lab, where dozens of images of Felicity Ledford-most of them framed pastels-covered the walls.
“It’s the Rogers case,” Casey said.
“You got a hit?”
Casey Ledford nodded, but she didn’t look any too happy about it. Joanna perched on a lab stool. “So tell me,” she urged. “What did you find?”
“The hit resulted from prints we found at the mobile at Outlaw Mountain.”
“Farley Adams’ place,” Joanna murmured. “The ones left on the dirty dishes?”
Casey nodded again. “Right,” she said. “None of the guys thought to look there. They had dusted the outside controls, but they hadn’t bothered to check inside.”
“Good work,” Joanna said with a grin “That’s what it takes around here sometimes-a woman’s touch. Go on.”
“I actually brought the dishes back here to process them,” Casey continued. “It was easier that way. And the prints I lifted were good ones. They didn’t need all that much augmentation or anything. And once I fed them into the computer, the hit came back almost right away.”
“So what’s the problem then?”
“The computer spits out the person’s name and the name of the jurisdiction that’s looking for him. We usually have to call that department by phone in order to get the original fingerprint card as well as details on the criminal activity in question. I’m the one who does that. It’s just a bureaucratic formality. I get the information and pass it along to whoever’s working our end of it.”
“You did that, then?”
“Yes. The hit was from North Las Vegas, up in Nevada.”
“Let me guess,” Joanna said. “Farley Adams’ name isn’t Farley Adams.”
“Right,” Casey agreed. “It’s Jonathan Becker.”
“What’s he wanted for?”
“He was wanted for conspiracy to commit murder.”
“You said was,” Joanna said. “You mean he isn’t anymore?”
“Jonathan Becker is dead,” Casey said. “At least that’s what the first person I talked to up in Nevada told me. He said Becker’s prints should have been pulled from the system because he’s deceased. According to the guy I talked to, Becker died in a one-car roll-over accident on the road between Vegas and Kingman. And that’s where he’s supposedly buried-Kingman, Arizona. The problem is, Becker obviously isn’t dead. If he were, he couldn’t have left fingerprints for us to find.”
“There has to be some kind of mixup,” Joanna suggested.
Casey shook her head determinedly. “There’s no mixup,” she said. “Not ten minutes after I get off the phone with the first detective, somebody else was on the line, calling me from North Las Vegas and pumping me for any and all information we might have on this case. It just didn’t sound right, Sheriff Brady. There’s something weird about this, and I don’t know what it is.”
“I don’t know either,” Joanna said, taking the fistful of computer printouts Casey handed her. “But I’m going to make it my business to find out.”
She went straight back to her office and shut herself inside. There she studied the papers and tried to make sense of the conflicting bits of information. The more she examined the materials, the more she agreed with Casey’s assessment. Something was wrong there. Obviously Becker and Farley Adams were one and the same. If Jonathan Becker really were dead, then the detective in North Las Vegas would have no possible interest in what was going on in Cochise County.
Joanna Lathrop Brady had learned the art of the full frontal attack at her mother’s knee. Eleanor Lathrop’s approach to life had often served her daughter well, and Joanna applied it now. Searching through Casey Ledford’s thorough paperwork, Joanna located the notes she had made concerning the incoming call from North Las Vegas. The inquiring detective’s name was listed as Garfield-Detective Sam Garfield, but he hadn’t left a phone number. There was one, however, listed with Jonathan Becker’s AFIS printed record.
Joanna dialed it and reached the non-emergency number for the North Las Vegas Police Department. “Detective Sam Garfield, please,” she told the operator who answered.
“Who?”
“Detective Garfield,” Joanna repeated, enunciating clearly. “Detective Sam Garfield.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here by that name. This is North Las Vegas. Have you checked with Las Vegas Metropolitan PD? Detective Garfield probably works there. People are always getting the two cities mixed up. Would you like me to give you that number?”
Joanna took the number, jotting it down mechanically, even though she knew in advance that she wasn’t going to call. Casey Ledford’s “weird” feeling had just become a whole lot weirder. Something was more than wrong, and Joanna knew the answers she needed wouldn’t be coming through regular channels in Vegas, or North Las Vegas, either.
After only a momentary delay, she dialed Frank Montoya’s number at the marshal’s office in Tombstone. “How are things?” she asked.
“Pretty quiet. I guess you heard about the fingerprints they found at Outlaw Mountain,” Frank said.
“I heard,” Joanna told him. “And that’s why I’m calling.”
Over the next few minutes she explained about Casey’s call from the mysteriously nonexistent Detective Garfield. “So here’s the deal, Frank,” she finished. “I’m hoping you can tune up that hotshot computer of yours, go on the Internet, and find out anything and everything you can about someone named Jonathan Becker. Look for articles about the accident, obituaries, whatever.”
Frank Montoya, a self-taught technophile, had created a totally mobile and wonderfully high-tech office for himself that was usually based in his departmental Crown Victoria. The fact that he was always more than willing to go on-line it search of esoteric pieces of information made it unnecessary for Joanna to do so.
“I’ll get on it right away,” he said. “By the way, did you hear about Alice Rogers’ funeral?”
“What about it?”
“Clete stopped by just a few minutes ago. He said it’s going to be Friday afternoon. The funeral itself will be at the Episcopal Church, with burial afterward in Tombstone Cemetery.”
“Did he say what time?” Joanna asked, pulling out her calendar.
“Early afternoon. Two, I think.”
“I’d better plan on going.” Joanna made a note of it. In the process she saw the notation for Wednesday, November 11. “Kiwanis,” it said. “Seven A.M., Tony’s in Tintown, guest speaker.” She had almost forgotten about the speaking engagement. That would have been embarrassing.
“What’s happening out in Sierra Vista?” Frank asked, changing the subject. “Any word on the Oak Vista situation?”