“If Charlie and a woman were unconscious on the bed, Brenda could have carried the woman out to the barn. There was an old red Radio Flyer wagon that could have also been used to transport bodies. It’s being tested for blood. Once she got the victim into the barn, she could have slit her throat, dragged the body on a plastic tarp for a short distance down the ramp and left her stashed in the tunnel. I don’t think she ever intended to move the bodies. That’s why she shot McCabe, because he was getting too close. He was bound to find the shaft and the bodies, particularly if sophisticated geological probing tests were conducted beforehand.”
Rick admired Jemimah’s tenacity. Medrano was quiet, a sure sign that he was listening to every word. He said, “So she knew that, in the natural course of events, the bodies would be found; that’s why she wanted to get rid of McCabe.”
“Exactly,” Jemimah said.
“All right, Lieutenant.” Medrano stood up “Seems like the ball’s in our court now. Let’s figure out where we want to go from here.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Romero said. “Jemimah’s looking into Brenda Mason’s background. She needs to make a trip to Denver to interview a psychiatrist there. Once she’s back with her findings, we can set up the arrest warrants. When we get our sights on Mason, we’ll bring her in for questioning.”
“Here’s the approval form for that Colorado trip, Doctor Hodge. Get it over to accounting and they’ll run it through. Good work. Now get out of here, both of you.”
Jemimah shook his hand firmly. She knew their next meeting wouldn’t be as unnerving as this one.
Chapter 41
The squad room at the substation was half the size of the two offices. There was a white melamine table in the center, the kind used at flea markets and garage sales, six metal folding chairs around it. Romero, Martinez and Chacon were comparing notes on the case. They had foam coffee cups in front of them. A box of donuts sat next to the yellow pads, pens and clipboards.
“Okay,” Romero said. “Here’s where we stand.
According to ballistics, the bullet that killed Charlie Cooper and the one that injured McCabe were the same, a Glock automatic. Rifling characteristics were identical. So either Cooper fired it or someone else had access to it.”
They browsed through photos of the crime scene. Four women each with their throats cut. Chacon felt uncomfortable reviewing the photos. It was enough to have been in attendance at the autopsies. “The killer took the time to pose each one,” Romero said, “and put a tag around her neck with the words BITCH, WHORE, WHITE TRASH and LOSER. Don’t remember ever seeing that in past cases. That’s a fact we haven’t released to the media.”
Martinez was the rookie detective, still feeling his way around crime scenes. “Look at this victim. Still has her earrings and necklace on. Spooky.”
Romero pushed a couple more photos toward the two detectives. “Other than at the throat, not much evidence of assault. Same weapon—a medium-sized butcher knife with a narrow blade—found at the scene. Kept sharp, maybe for butchering beef or deer. Probably from the ranch house. We found a set of old knives that the owner said were in a kitchen drawer when he moved into the property. They all have similar handles.”
“How about the guy who owns the ruins?” asked Chacon, reaching for a donut. The powdered sugar spilled on his tie. He ceremoniously wiped it off with a napkin.
“McCabe told me he didn’t know the underground shaft existed,” Romero said. “They weren’t at that advanced stage of exploration. He and his archaeological crew hadn’t done much more than surface digging—arrowheads, beads and such.”
“You think he’s telling the truth?” asked Chacon, as he unrolled yet another Tootsie Roll. “I noticed he didn’t hang around the site too long after the bodies were taken out. Seemed like he was anxious to get out of there.”
“‘Crisssake, he’s an ex-sheriff,” Romero said. “And a long-time friend of Medrano’s to boot.”
“Ex-cop, you say? Like they never killed anyone except in the line of duty? Maybe that’s why he’s not a working cop anymore. Did you ever look into his record?” Chacon continued to dig at Romero.
“I think it was as much of a shock to him as it was to us. And remember, there’s been no active exploration at those ruins since the 1950s. And even then it was superficial; they didn’t have the technology that exists now. McCabe planned on conducting serious archaeological studies later this summer. For your information,” Romero added, “McCabe has an impeccable record. Heroic, for that matter. Let’s move on, here.”
“So spell it out for us,” said Martinez. “We got a suspect?”
“Cooper’s girlfriend is our main suspect,” Romero said. “We figure she not only killed the women, but also did in Cooper.”
“I don’t see anything in the file that points directly to her,” Chacon said. “There’s no indication that she was anywhere near him when he was killed.”
“Jemimah Hodge, the department’s Forensic Psychologist, is in Denver following up on a lead on the girlfriend,” Romero said. “As soon as she gets back, I’ll fill you in. Until then, I think we need to pursue any pending tips, just in case there are loose threads.”
“Sounds like we’re moving full speed ahead,” said Chacon. “But it’s going to take a little more than our blond coworker’s theories to convince me. She a detective, or what?”
Romero let Chacon’s remark slide by him. Chacon continued on. “Hey, we know you’re sweet on her, Amigo, but from where I sit, we need a lot more than just sheer conjecture to solve this crime.”
Romero stood up and removed his jacket. It was too warm a day to be in full uniform. “Don’t be such an asshole, Arty Boy. You’re just pissed because she’s the only one around here with answers. I don’t see you offering any earth-shattering solutions.” He sat back down and shuffled papers from the folder.
Chacon prodded on. “The jury’s still out on that. We need some hard evidence. Don’t see much of it in the file.” Martinez chimed in. “All right you guys. Settle down. I see where Rick’s going with this. We have to proceed with caution and not put all our eggs in one basket. Much of the circumstantial evidence is pointing to the girlfriend. Who else could it be? She had daily access to him.”
“You both know how easily coincidence can be explained away,” said Romero. “So we need to continue following up on any tips that come in, no matter how far-fetched. When Dr. Hodge returns, I’m sure she’ll have it all lined up for us.”
“Well, Lieutenant. Let’s hope your pretty little girlfriend can come up with the goods. Don’t want to ruin your chances of getting her in the sack,” Chacon chortled and snuffed his cigarette out in his coffee cup.
Chacon didn’t see the right jab coming at his face.
Chapter 42
Jemimah parked her car in the short-term lot at the airport in Albuquerque. She picked up her ticket and boarding pass at the counter and boarded the Southwest Airlines flight, which lasted seventy-five minutes. Arriving in Denver, she rented a car and drove north on Interstate 70 toward Grape Street. She turned into the visitors’ lot and walked up the brick pathway toward the air-conditioned lobby. The hospital grounds were pristine, the lawn trimmed short. Rows and rows of perennials ran along the edge of the sidewalk. Not a one was wilted.
As she entered the building, a security guard directed her to the receptionist, a pleasant woman who said Dr. Garland would be with her shortly. Five minutes later a man in a white coat walked toward her.
“I’m Dr. Garland.” He gave Jem a firm handshake and directed her to his office. She sat in the brown leather chair facing him. Framed diplomas and certificates lined the walls. A faux Ficus tree in a large green pot occupied one corner. Even in this room, a strong antiseptic smell permeated the air.
“My name is Jemimah Hodge.” She handed him her card. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Dr. Garland was light-haired, tanned, and muscular—a poster boy for fitness. His
voice was soothing, like a psychiatrist should be, she thought.
He took a chair behind his desk and propped his feet on top. “Dr. Hodge, you said you wanted to talk about Brenda Mason?”
“Yes,” she said. I’m a forensic psychologist working on a case with the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s Department in New Mexico.”
“And how does that concern Brenda?” He thumbed through a manila folder on his desk as if he knew he was not going to get a specific answer.
“We’re investigating the disappearance of a number of women around Santa Fe. Brenda is a person of interest. I’m looking into her background to determine if we might need to consider her a suspect at this time. I’m primarily interested in the reasons you saw her as an inpatient.”
“I’ve gone over her file to refresh my memory. Brenda attempted to assault a woman sitting in a restaurant with her former boyfriend. I believe she was arrested for disorderly conduct and spent a few days in jail before being arraigned. The judge sentenced her to either ninety days at our facility or six months in jail.” His glasses kept sliding down his nose as he talked. “As you know, she opted to spend the three months with us.”
“What can you tell me about her without breaching your doctor-patient relationship?” Jemimah asked.
He peered at her through his horn-rimmed glasses. The furrows on his forehead deepened. He well knew the type of person Brenda was. She was a Class A sociopath. His dilemma was how to respond to Jemimah’s questions without putting the hospital in jeopardy.
“Not a lot I can say, you understand. But I can point you toward the boyfriend. He’s a local fellow, and perhaps he’d be willing to speak with you.” He removed his glasses, adjusted the nosepiece, and put them back on. “Brenda was a textbook case with a number of issues. As you’re aware, those cases follow an established pattern.” He spoke generically, but Jemimah realized he was giving her the straight info on Brenda.
“She refuses to take any blame for a particular incident or for many other events in her life. If a suitor breaks up with her, she may stalk him, turning up at his place of employment, sporting events, restaurants. If he appears in public with a girl, whether she is a girlfriend or merely an associate from work, she accosts them and creates a scene. She will declare she loves him and can’t understand why they broke up, conduct which under ordinary circumstances might be considered shameful.”
“I see.” Jemimah sensed that Dr. Garland was going to talk—despite his protests about not being able to offer much—as he suddenly lapsed into calling his theoretical patient by name.
The doctor swung his chair around and put his feet down. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a spritzer bottle and a tissue and proceeded to clean his glasses. Carefully and meticulously, he weighed each word as he spoke.
“Brenda was completely oblivious to the breakup. We often discussed her tendency to deny the obvious. Quite frankly, it’s my opinion she suffered from a form of paranoid attachment syndrome. I’m sure you’re familiar with that—an individual’s incapacity to distinguish between someone who could actually care for them and someone who they think will care for them.”
“Was she on any medication while she was a patient?” Jemimah asked.
He walked toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “We tried various medications, Novoclopamine for one. I’ve had great success with patients suffering from psychotic episodes, which Brenda had exhibited. But she was a difficult case. Quite honestly I couldn’t tell if she was really making progress or just play-acting. By the time she left here, she had turned into a model patient. She showed up for her scheduled appointments, participated in group therapy. My staff decided she was ready to move on. They had far more exposure to her than I did, and made the ultimate recommendations that she was capable of returning to society.”
“Do you have any record of her family?”
Jemimah said.
“She spoke very little about her parents.” He sat down again and thumbed through the file. “It says here they were divorced. The mother remarried a couple of times and had another daughter. For years, Brenda had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals in California and more recently here in Colorado. As a child, she craved attention, good or bad. After her mother divorced her father, she remarried a man with a son about Brenda’s age. Brenda became infatuated with him, believed he loved her, and after her mother divorced again, Brenda was devastated, more at the loss of her step-brother than anything else. She began to exhibit symptoms of severe depression and periodically landed in the hospital for treatment.
“That’s about all we know. Brenda was narcissistic to a great degree, but could easily come off as thoughtful and caring. Nonetheless, I detected a heart of pure stone.”
“Did she say where she was going once she was released?” Jemimah was scribbling notes as fast as she could. This guy was a gold mine of information. She no longer feared the whole trip might turn out to be a wild goose chase.
“Well, as I recall, she mentioned New Mexico,” he said. “Brenda was very intelligent. She scored high on all the standard tests. In addition, she exhibited all the classic traits of an addict—drank, smoked, did crystal meth, anything and everything. But she had the uncanny ability to function as though she was clean. It was the kind of behavior researchers love to write about.”
He looked up as the grandfather clock in the corner chimed eleven. Jemimah was surprised that the morning had progressed so rapidly.
“Just a few more questions, Doctor. What about violence, did she have any additional episodes after she came here?”
“Not that I witnessed. The meds probably helped with that. But there’s no doubt in my mind she was capable of it. She either kept it in check or never encountered an occasion where she felt it was necessary. She was also acutely aware that misbehavior would extend her sentence.”
“Have you heard from her at all?” she said.
“No, I haven’t. If you wait here a few minutes, I’ll get the boyfriend’s number for you.” He returned to his desk, scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to her.
Jemimah thanked him and walked out to her car. She dialed Jimmy Fernando’s number and made an appointment to see him later in the day. She had a few hours to kill, so she called Robin Pierce, an old college roommate, who was now a curator at the Denver Art Museum. They met for lunch in the Museum’s restaurant.
Chapter 43
Jimmy Fernando was Brenda’s ex-boyfriend. He agreed to talk to Jemimah about Brenda and gave her directions to his place.
Jemimah drove up I-25 and turned onto Cherry Creek, where side-by-side Victorian brick houses were lined up in a neat row. She turned at Third Avenue, found the black mailbox with the numbers 1028, and turned into the driveway. The building was next to the Botanical Gardens in the Cherry Creek neighborhood, in the center of the ebb and flow of the mile-high city at the foot of the Rocky Mountains.
Jimmy Fernando buzzed Jemimah in on the first ring of the doorbell. She walked up the steps to door number three where he stood and invited her into the living room. Jimmy was a sheet metal fabricator for a company on the outskirts of Denver, a robust, cheerful guy with hazel green eyes that had a mischievous glint. He was of medium height, maybe five-eight or so, with mostly brown hair. He must have been over thirty, but the heavily jelled blond streaks in his hair made him appear much younger. His arms were covered with tribal tattoos. His smile revealed a chipped front tooth.
The place was neat as a pin, much like he was. He wore a crisp white shirt, tan Dockers, and black cordovan loafers—hardly his work clothes. He motioned her over to the couch and offered coffee. From his living room you could see spectacular views of the mountains and the downtown Denver skyline.
“Mr. Fernando,” Jemimah said. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”
“Jimmy,” he said. “There’s probably not much I can tell you. I haven’t seen Brenda for over two years now.”
“Tell me a little about your relations
hip,” she said.
“Well, when I first met Brenda, I thought she was ‘the one.’ Smart, sweet, thoughtful, caring and a lot of fun to be around. We did everything together. About six months into the relationship, I noticed she was drinking a lot more, always wanting to go out and party, you know. Hey, I like to party as much as the next guy,” he laughed, “but I also have to get up in the morning and go to work.”
“Were you living together at the time?” she said.
“Yeah, we pretty much moved in together right away. I can see now that it wasn’t such a good idea. Our lifestyles were just too different. I wanted to settle down, she didn’t.”
“How long were you together?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe less than a year.
By that time she had become insanely jealous, giving me the third degree about everything I did, anyone I talked to. I had to constantly assure her that I loved her. She called me up at work just to ask if I loved her that particular day. At first I was flattered, but then it started to get a little over the top. I told her it wasn’t going to work out between us and she left. I think she rented an apartment somewhere in the Heights.”
“Did she have family in Denver?”
“No, she rarely mentioned family,” he said. “I think her parents might have been divorced, but she never went into detail.” He stirred cream and two sugars into his coffee. Jemimah smiled. He seemed like a pretty nice guy to be hooked up with someone as unpredictable as Brenda.
“So what happened after you broke up?”
“I didn’t see her for about two months and then she started showing up wherever I happened to be. Starbucks, lunch, the gym. She would just smile and wave. One night I was in a restaurant with Paula, a really nice woman I was thinking about starting up a relationship with. Brenda came out of nowhere, pulled up a chair and sat down. It was awkward. She introduced herself as my girlfriend and motioned to the waiter for a drink. Embarrassed, Paula excused herself and went to the powder room. I told Brenda she had to leave. She kept saying, ‘Why, Jimmy, why? We can work this out. Give me another chance.’ I promised I would call her, but I never did.”
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