Field of Bones: A Brady Novel of Suspense (Joanna Brady Mysteries)

by J. A. Jance

  Lying there waiting to sleep, he noticed that he had a bit of a headache. That was unusual, and he wondered about that. Was it a residual effect from being hit by that stun gun or was it from the fall he’d taken? Except for those occasions when he cut loose and let himself indulge in more Jameson than was good for him, Jimmy Ardmore wasn’t prone to headaches, but for the time being he decided that the best thing to do with this non-Jameson headache was ignore it and try to get some sleep.

  Chapter 15

  BY EIGHT THIRTY JOANNA HAD BOTH KIDS IN BED. SITTING IN THE quiet of the living room with the dogs at her feet, she gave herself the gift of settling in to read another entry from her father’s journal:

  I did it—filled out my job application and dropped it by the courthouse this afternoon after I got off shift and before I came home. Once I got here, you could say the crapola hit the fan. Ellie isn’t speaking to me. The funny thing is, it’s sort of like old Br’er Rabbit and the Briar Patch. I love it when she gives me the silent treatment. Sometimes it’s only when she finally quiets down that I have a chance to think.

  After reading that, Joanna had to look away from the text. Almost every paragraph contained a passage or two that would evoke a chain of powerful memories. Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s use of the silent treatment was something her daughter remembered all too well. Unbidden, a flashback came to mind as vividly as if it had been recorded on a DVR.

  “Joanna, tell your father that I have a meeting after church today,” Eleanor said over her shoulder. “He’ll have to rustle up some lunch for both of you.”

  At the time Joanna couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. That particular conversation had occurred early on a Sunday morning when all three of them were in the kitchen together—her mother at the sink doing the breakfast dishes and Joanna and her father seated at the kitchen table. Her mother went to church every Sunday. D. H. Lathrop was more of a Christmas and Easter attendee.

  “Mom has a meeting after church,” Joanna parroted dutifully.

  “So I hear,” her father said, giving his daughter a wink and a sly grin, thus turning the interaction between them into a private joke and leaving Eleanor on the outside looking in.

  “How about if after church you and I hop in the car, run down to Douglas, and have ourselves a bowl of green chili at the Gadsden?” he suggested.

  And that’s exactly what they’d done. At the time, going to the Gadsden Hotel for lunch had been a big deal. There was an organ in the dining room where a man played music to entertain the diners. Sitting there eating and listening, Joanna had felt frightfully grown-up and sophisticated. When they returned home after lunch, Eleanor still wasn’t back. When she finally did show up, much later, the silent treatment continued. She went straight into the bedroom without uttering a single word and closed the door behind her.

  “Looks like we’re on our own for dinner, too,” D.H. had said, “but we’ll manage. I won’t let you starve to death.”

  There were plenty of other examples of the same thing, but that was the first one that came to mind. And although Joanna had no idea what had sparked this particular quarrel, she remembered that it had lasted longer than usual—for a number of days—and that it had ended as it had begun—for no discernible reason.

  On the one hand, Joanna had enjoyed those little family dramas in which she was always allied with her dad—they’d made her feel both close to him and special. Even so, she had understood that it wasn’t right for her parents to be using her as a weapon to score points off each other. And although it seemed clear that they were a devoted couple, that didn’t mean they always got along.

  At an early age, Joanna had determined that her mother’s use of the silent treatment would never be part of her own emotional tool chest. When she and Andy married and had their arguments—which they did have—they were conducted out in the open. They were shouting matches—noisy confrontations conducted in front of God and everybody. Andy had sometimes referred to her as “his little red-haired spitfire,” which usually only served to make Joanna that much madder.

  But this round of silent treatment, the one referenced in the journal, was different. It was a pivotal one that had occurred when D. H. Lathrop had gone against Eleanor’s express wishes and applied to work at the sheriff’s department. Joanna wasn’t even born at that point, making her wonder how long the periods of silence between her parents had lasted before she arrived on the scene and could be used as a pawn to intervene?

  That realization set Joanna to wondering something else. Why had Eleanor been so opposed to her husband’s change of job in the first place? Was she primarily worried about his safety, or was she more concerned that if D.H. left the mines, she’d lose some of her social standing in the community? How much did the potential wage cut have to do with it? Had she been concerned that the difference in pay scale would make it impossible for them to cover their bills or that maybe she herself might have to go looking for a job? And did the fact that Eleanor had been so opposed to her husband’s becoming a cop play a part in her long-held opposition to Joanna’s making the same decision those many years later? These were all good questions, and with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield gone there were no ready answers.

  Lights flashed outside the window announcing Tom Hadlock’s arrival. Both dogs went on high alert, barking like crazy before Joanna used the hand signal that Jenny had taught her to silence them. Hurrying to the door to greet her visitor, Joanna escorted Tom into the house. Stetson in hand, he was already apologizing.

  “Sorry to show up so late,” he said. “It’s been a long day. We’d all been out there in the boonies for hours on end with nothing to eat and not much to drink, either, so I had the whole crew stop off in Douglas on the way home so I could buy them some dinner.”

  “Good call,” Joanna said. “You’ve got to keep your troops fed if you want them to deliver. How about you? Can I get you anything?”

  “Some coffee would be good, if you don’t mind,” he said. “When I leave here, I have to stop by the department and work on the press release with Ernie.”

  Joanna did a double take. “With Ernie?” she asked.

  Tom nodded. “This thing is gonna turn into a media shitstorm, if you’ll pardon the expression. I can’t run the department and handle a barrage of incoming from an army of reporters at the same time. Speaking of which, Marliss was out at the crime scene raising hell almost as soon as the detectives showed up.”

  “No surprises there,” Joanna said.

  “Anyway,” Tom continued, “over dinner we had a chance to discuss the media-relations situation. I didn’t exactly put it up for a vote, but close, and we came to the general conclusion that Ernie Carpenter is the best one to handle Media Relations. He’s the only one who’ll be able to hold his own with all those people. They’ll eat everybody else alive.”

  “Can you afford to take him away from the investigation?” Joanna asked.

  “Not really, especially since we don’t have anyone else we can bring on board at homicide right now, either.”

  That was true. Joanna had once expected that Jeremy Stock would be the next deputy to get promoted into investigations. She knew now that would have been a disaster. In the face of this new crisis, having Ernie off the investigation team would make things difficult. Still, she had to agree that Ernie was probably the best choice to handle the press right then.

  “Given what you’re up against, sounds like you’re making the best of a bad bargain,” Joanna told Tom. “So have a seat. Coffee is coming right up.”

  Settled into the breakfast nook, Tom ran his fingers through his sparse hair in a despairing gesture that left his comb-over standing on end. It had been a long, tough day. The man seemed to have aged a year since Joanna saw him last.

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming to you for help,” he said, “but I feel like I’m in over my head, and I hardly know where to start.”

  “Exactly where you started,” Joanna assured him, �
�with the evidence. By the way, I had a courtesy call from Dr. Baldwin after the autopsy.”

  “So you know about the fetus and the freezer?”

  “I do,” she said. “It sounds like we’re dealing with someone who’s almost subhuman.”

  “That’s my take on it, too,” Tom agreed, “a serial killer with several victims.”

  “How many?”

  Tom shook his head. “We’re still not sure. In addition to the one body, we found two additional skulls and a whole mess of bones—whole bones and pieces of bones.”

  “So counting the one Jack Carver found, we’re talking at least four victims.”

  Tom nodded. “I have no doubt that with the help of those cadaver dogs we’ll probably find lots more bones, but telling which ones go together and which ones don’t is going to be like putting together a giant jigsaw puzzle.”

  “And whoever’s doing this has been doing it for some time.”

  Tom nodded again. “For months and maybe even years. Ernie says it’s got to be somebody local, someone who can come and go without arousing suspicion. The idea that we’ve got a monster like that right here in Cochise County makes me sick to my stomach. Most of the folks who live out in the Peloncillos are ranchers who’ve been in this neck of the woods for generations. Some of them I’ve known my whole life. They’re good people—honest as the day is long, salt of the earth.”

  “Most of them may be,” Joanna observed, “but clearly one of them isn’t. So tell me about the crime scene. You were out there all day. Did you do a grid search?”

  “As best we could with the personnel we had on hand.”

  “Since one of the victims was a gunshot victim, did you find any shell casings?”

  “Nope, none of those,” Tom said. “The grass is too thick. To find shell casings, we’d need to search the whole area with metal detectors. All we found were bones and more bones, but no other usable evidence—no footprints, tire tracks, cigarette butts, or soda cans—nothing that would give us the possibility of a DNA profile or point us in the direction of a possible suspect.”

  “Frustrating,” Joanna said.

  “Yes,” Tom agreed, “very. Since that new body is only a few days old, we can assume that the killer is still in the area and still active, but that may change. As soon as he gets wind that we’ve found his dump site, he’s liable to take off.”

  “And if he’s holding any other hostages . . .” Joanna began.

  “They’ll be dead, too,” Tom said, completing her sentence for her. “So how the hell do we stop him?”

  As the coffee finished brewing, Joanna rose, poured a cup, and brought it to him, thinking as she went. “Any ideas?” she asked.

  Sitting there at the table, nervously fiddling with his hat, Tom reminded her of a little kid standing at his teacher’s desk waiting to have his homework reviewed. At the end of this long, difficult day, he was in over his head. She needed a kind way to encourage him without undermining his confidence.

  “I was thinking of calling in the FBI,” he said.

  Joanna had been thinking the same thing, but there was a problem with that. Tucson wasn’t exactly a high-profile location when it came to FBI postings. During her tenure as sheriff, she had seen several special agents in charge come and go. The ones who were young and ambitious worked like crazy and quickly found ways to transfer out to places where career advancement was more of an option. Then there were the placeholders, the older guys on their way out, who were just counting down the days to retirement. Unfortunately, Tucson’s current SAIC was one of the latter.

  “Go ahead and call Ted Whipple,” she said, “but I’m not sure how much good it’ll do. I have it on good authority from my friend Robin that he’s not much of a go-getter.”

  “Robin,” Tom mused. “That lady FBI agent from up in Tucson who was here when Jeremy Stock went haywire?”

  “The very one.”

  “So you don’t think Whipple will go to bat for us and call in that team of people who ride around the country in a private jet in that Criminal Minds TV show?”

  “I doubt it,” Joanna said with a smile. “And even if he did, I’m not sure it would be helpful. Turning a bunch of visiting FBI agents loose in rural Cochise County might end up being counterproductive. What we really need is help from someone who can give us some context on a possible perpetrator.”

  “Like a profiler, you mean?” Tom asked.

  “Exactly,” Joanna agreed, “and our best bet for getting one of those would be appealing to the FBI, assuming you can get Whipple to go along with the program. In the meantime we need information from the people who actually live out near the crime scene.”

  “As in has anyone noticed anything out of line?”

  “Yes,” Joanna replied. “If our bad guy has been hiding right out in the open and coming and going from the dump site without arousing any suspicion, that most likely means he’s somebody who belongs there—somebody no one is particularly worried about. But just because they’re not worried about him doesn’t mean he hasn’t been seen.”

  “Too bad there aren’t surveillance cameras out there,” Tom muttered.

  “But there are people,” Joanna countered. “All we need to do is find the right one.”

  “How?”

  “By talking to the neighbors, not just the near neighbors but the ones in the general area—people who might have noticed someone or something that was odd or out of place, a vehicle—maybe even a familiar one—coming or going at strange or unusual times. And for conducting those kinds of interviews, having locals do the job will be more effective than bringing in a bunch of outsiders. If you send in a troop of visiting feds, the people who live out there in the boonies—the ones you call ‘salt of the earth’—are liable to clam right up.”

  “Are you saying I need to have our people hit the ground running and touch bases with everyone in the area?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, that’s it exactly,” Joanna told him, “and the sooner the better. Once all of this hits the news, those folks won’t be eager to talk to our people, either.”

  “How much territory are you thinking about?” Tom asked.

  “The entire San Bernardino Valley for starters, north to south,” Joanna said, “from the Mexican border north to I-10 and from Douglas east to New Mexico. If this guy is a local, but a local with wheels, he could be from almost anywhere.”

  “That’s a huge area to cover,” Tom objected.

  “Yes, it is,” Joanna said, “but you need to get the job done—ASAP. Starting tomorrow morning, pull everyone you can off patrol and get them out canvassing.”

  “But the overtime—”

  “Don’t worry about overtime right now,” Joanna advised him. “By the time that issue hits the fan, I’ll be back on the job, and it’ll be a lot easier to justify the extra expenditures if the serial killer is in custody rather than still on the loose.”

  “Okay,” Tom conceded. “When it comes to dealing with the budget, better you than me.”

  “What about the crime scene?” Joanna asked as he rose to go. “Do you have someone posted out there overnight to maintain the chain of evidence?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure do,” he said, “Deputy Raymond from Elfrida. He showed up just as we were getting ready to come back here.”

  Deputy Garth Raymond from out in the Sulphur Springs Valley was a recent graduate of the University of Arizona, where he majored in criminal justice. Now twenty-three years old and fresh out of the academy, he was one of Joanna’s most promising recruits.

  When Tom Hadlock rose to go, he seemed to be in better spirits—as though the coffee and the pep talk from Joanna had given him a sense of direction.

  “Deputy Raymond may be the new kid on the block,” Tom said, “but he’s thrilled to have a crack at some overtime.”

  “I hope he came equipped with food, water, and blankets.”

  “That’s right,” Tom said. “I told him there’s no such thing as a TacoTime in
the Peloncillos. The weather report says it’s supposed to get down to freezing out there tonight. I’ll send someone out to relieve him first thing in the morning.”

  “What about chain-of-evidence coverage for tomorrow when the dogs are working?”

  “I’ll deal with that either tonight or tomorrow. Any idea when those dogs are due to show up?”

  “The Paxtons expect to leave Phoenix first thing in the morning. They should be here right around noon, and they’ll need someone to guide them to the crime scene.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Tom said, reaching for his hat. “Now I’d best get off my butt and head back to the department so Ernie and I can pull together that press release.”

  “What are you planning on saying?” Joanna asked.

  “Just what you taught me,” he told her with a grin. “We’ll provide as much vague information as possible—enough to keep them happy without giving too much away.”

  “Sounds about right,” Joanna said.

  “You bet,” Tom agreed. “I learned from the best.”

  Chapter 16

  AS THE LONG HOURS TICKED BY, DEPUTY GARTH RAYMOND KNEW that guarding a crime scene in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere was grunt work, but he didn’t mind and was glad to do it. At least he had a job—a real paying job. Some of the guys and gals he’d graduated with last spring were still looking for work, hoping to get hired by one of the bigger departments, where the pay would be better than out in the boondocks. Not Garth. He had wanted to be back home, living and working in Cochise County, and he was happy with the pittance he was earning as a newly hired deputy in Sheriff Joanna Brady’s department.

  The money wasn’t good, but Garth didn’t need much. For one thing, as long as he lived at home in Elfrida with his grandmother, he didn’t have to pay rent. After his grandfather’s death, he had inherited Grandpa Jeb’s elderly Silverado pickup, which still ran like a top. That meant Garth didn’t have a car payment, either. When he was on duty and out on patrol, he traveled the county in the department’s oldest and junkiest Tahoe, which he was able to drive home when he went off shift. So even though his take-home pay was low, he was nonetheless making good inroads on paying down his college loans.