Random Acts

by J. A. Jance

  Back in the mortuary’s warehouse section, Joanna found precious little to choose from—­at three distinct price points. Knowing her mother would have been pissed if any expense had been spared, and since Bob had agreed to split the funeral expenses fifty-­fifty, Joanna opted for the high-­priced version—­for both Eleanor and George, putting the whole bill on her Visa. Finished at last, she staggered out of the mortuary an hour and a half after entering. It was dark now—­well past closing time. Norm unlocked the front door to let her out and then locked it from the inside and closed the security shutters behind her.

  Relieved that the funeral-­planning ordeal was finally over, Joanna stood on the sidewalk and took a deep breath. The air was cool and fresh. The rainstorm had come and gone, leaving the streets wet and shiny under the glow of recently illuminated streetlights. Runoff from the rain was still draining away, flowing down Brewery Gulch, across Main Street, and into the storm gutter—­known locally as the Subway—­where Joanna had once done hand-­to-­hand battle with a killer.

  Her phone buzzed with a text from Butch:

  Come home. Making dinner. You need to eat to keep up your strength.

  After sending a text back saying she was on her way, she scrolled through her recent calls. The last one had come from her chief deputy, Tom Hadlock.

  She listened to his voice mail. “Sorry to bother you at a time like this, but we’ve got either a double homicide or a murder/suicide. Can’t tell which. Can you give me a call?”

  Joanna ground her teeth in frustration. Tom had served admirably as her jail commander, but she worried that promoting him to chief deputy had been a mistake on her part. He was still out of his depth in certain situations, and this was clearly one of them. She dialed him back immediately.

  “What’s up?”

  “A ­couple of kids out climbing Geronimo east of Warren late this afternoon found two bodies at the base of one of a cliff—­two females. No visible gunshot or stab wounds. Looks like they either jumped or were pushed. One of them seems to have had a campsite set up at near a water hole at the base of the peak, and we found ID in a purse at the campsite. The name on the ID is for one Desirée Wilburton. Apparently she’s a grad student from the University of Arizona. The other victim had no identification of any kind. I know you’re on bereavement leave, but—­”

  “Never mind that,” Joanna said. “I’m coming. Who all is at the scene?”

  “Right now, just the original responding deputy. The two boys who found the bodies are still there as well. Dr. Baldwin is on her way, coming from the far side of Benson. Dispatch is in the process of notifying the on-­call detectives, the Double C’s.”

  Kendra Baldwin was Cochise County’s relatively new medical examiner. The term “Double C’s” was departmental shorthand for Detectives Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal, Joanna’s longtime homicide investigators.

  “All right,” Joanna said, looking down at her clothing. “At the moment I’m not dressed for hiking either to or around a remote crime scene. I’ll need to go home to change and maybe grab a bite to eat. You should probably call in a ­couple of extra deputies as well. Who all is on duty?”

  “Jeremy Stock is close by. He’s in the process of finishing up a traffic stop on Highway 92 near the San Pedro. Armando Ruiz is somewhere between Elfrida and Willcox. I’ll call both of them and let everybody know that you’re coming. The ME is still more than an hour out, so there’s no big hurry. You know the way?”

  “The front side of Geronimo or the backside?” she asked.

  “Front side,” Tom answered.

  For generations of Bisbee kids, climbing that distinctive double-­humped limestone peak east of town had been a rite of passage. Locals referred to it either as Geronimo or else by the name Anglo pioneers had given it—­Black Knob. In official topo-­map parlance, however, it was referred to as Gold Hill. Too short to be officially labeled a mountain, the limestone peak with a top that resembled the top of a valentine, clocked in at 5,900 feet, 400 higher than the desert surrounding its base. Viewed from the streets of Old Bisbee, Gold Hill stood in the distance like a lonely gray sentinel, towering in the background over the flat expanse of a rust-­colored mine-­waste tailings dump.

  Joanna was personally acquainted with Geronimo, having climbed it twice—­once with a long-­ago Girl Scout troop and once with her first husband, Andy Brady shortly before the two of them married. Both times she had scrambled up the rocky front of the mountain on her hands and knees and slid back down, most of the way on her butt. Both times she’d been in trouble with her mother afterward for wrecking her clothes.

  The front side of Gold Hill was accessed through an old cattle ranch whose entrance was, unsurprisingly, at the end of a street called Black Knob. The backside was approached via a primitive dirt track that ran past a now mostly deserted rifle range. Both routes required four-­wheel drive most of the way and a hike for the last half mile or so.

  “Okay,” she said. “Where are you right now?”

  “Still at the Justice Center.”

  “Give me half an hour to go home and change, then come out to the ranch with my Yukon and we’ll drive to the crime scene in that. No way am I going to take my Enclave there. It doesn’t have a scratch on it at the moment, and I fully intend keep it that way.”

  Chapter One

  “DO YOU HAVE to go?” Denny whined, pushing his macaroni and cheese around on his plate. “Why do you always have to work?”

  “Your mommy has an important job,” Butch explained. ­“People are counting on her to do it.”

  Changed into a regulation khaki uniform augmented by a pair of sturdy hiking boots, Joanna shot her husband a grateful glance. She’d called him on her way home, and he’d had her dinner on the table when she arrived.

  Butch, more than anyone, understood Joanna’s unstinting commitment to her job. She hadn’t run for office with the intention of being sheriff in name only. From the moment she was elected, she had made it a point to be at the scene of every homicide that had occurred inside the boundaries of her far-­flung jurisdiction. Just because she had spent most of the day grieving the deaths of her mother and stepfather and planning the funeral ser­vice didn’t mean she was going to abandon her official duties, especially when a possible double homicide had turned up less than ten miles away from her home on High Lonesome Road.

  On the other hand . . . the disappointment registered on Denny’s face represented every working mother’s all-­too-­familiar tug-­of-­war.

  “Finish your dinner, Denny, and get your jammies on,” Joanna suggested. “Maybe I’ll have time enough to read some Dr. Seuss to you before Chief Deputy Hadlock comes by to pick me up.”

  With a gleeful shout, Dennis hopped down from his chair, cleared his dishes, and then scampered off toward the bedroom with their two dogs—­a rescued Australian shepherd named Lady and a stone-­deaf black Lab named Lucky—­hot on his heels.

  “He’s tired,” Butch remarked, “and so am I. It was a long haul back and forth to Flagstaff, but I think we did the right thing. It’s a lot more important to have Jenny settled in her dorm and Maggie in her new stable in a timely fashion rather than expecting Jenny to hang around here for the funeral and end up being late for her first college-­level classes. Starting her freshman year that way might leave her feeling like she’s behind everyone else from the very beginning.”

  Joanna nodded. The truth was, it hadn’t required all that much effort to talk Jenny into taking a pass on her grandparents’ funeral. Not that she didn’t care about them—­she did. In fact, she had doted on George, and in many ways, she had enjoyed a better relationship with Eleanor than Joanna ever had. By the end of August, most of Jenny’s friends had gone off at school, and she was ready to follow suit.

  “But will she feel guilty later about missing the funeral?” Butch asked. “That’s what worries me.”


  Joanna smiled at him. “She’s a freshman in college. She’ll be far too busy to feel guilty for very long.”

  Dennis returned with his book, his “blankie,” and two very devoted dogs. “You go read,” Butch said. “I’ll clear up.”

  Joanna and Dennis snuggled into an easy chair in the living room. Green Eggs and Ham was Dennis’s all-­time favorite book, and it wasn’t so much a case of Joanna reading the book aloud as it was a responsive reading, with Joanna beginning each sentence and Dennis finishing it. At this point he wasn’t actually reading the printed words. He simply knew the whole book by heart.

  Two pages from the end, Chief Deputy Hadlock turned up. He stayed in the kitchen with Butch long enough for Joanna and Dennis to finish the story. Then, even though it was still a little before seven, Dennis was ready to brush his teeth and go to bed.

  “You do that,” Joanna told him, kissing him good night. “Daddy will come tuck you in.” Out in the kitchen, Tom Hadlock, hat in hand, stood just inside the back door as if uncertain of his welcome.

  “Any news?” Joanna asked.

  “The storm we had this afternoon played havoc with the roads. Right now Gold Gulch is running bank to bank, so going by way of the rifle range is out of the question, and from what I hear, the other route isn’t much better.”

  “We should get going, then,” Joanna said, giving Butch a quick hug. “See you later.”

  “Stay safe,” he said.

  She nodded. It was what he always said when she headed out for duty, and she knew he meant it every single time.

  Dusk fell as they drove back toward the highway on High Lonesome Road. There had been enough rain this summer that usually dry washes had been running trickles of water most of the time. Forty-­five minutes earlier, after the drenching but fast-­moving storm, swiftly flowing muddy water had been hurtling through several recently installed culverts. Now the high water had mostly subsided—­at least right here. That was one of the things that made flash floods so dangerous. They were unpredictable. They could arrive with no warning and with no rain in sight, flowing downhill from a storm miles away. The good thing about them was that they disappeared almost as quickly as they came.

  “Sorry about calling you out on this,” Tom apologized.

  “Don’t give it another thought,” Joanna assured him. “After all, a potential double homicide counts as serious business, and we’ll need all hands on deck on this, mine included.”

  As they drove toward the crime scene, Tom brought her up to speed. Earlier in the afternoon, two boys, thirteen-­year-­old Marcus Padilla and his younger brother, Raul, had left their home in Bisbee’s Warren neighborhood and set out on a hike, planning on doing a little skinny-­dipping in the water hole that summer rains had left behind in a natural basin near the base of Geronimo.

  According to Tom, Marcus and Raul had evidently pulled the same stunt several times over the course of the summer, and they were accustomed to having the area all to themselves. This time, however, they discovered a red Jeep Cherokee parked at the end of the roadway. Closer to Geronimo itself and near the water hole, they had come upon a seemingly deserted campsite that included a tent, bedroll, and camp stove along with a selection of cooking and eating utensils. Worried about running into the camper, the boys had given up on the idea of skinny-­dipping. They decided to climb the mountain instead, hoping to get up and down before the threatening rainstorm arrived. As they started their ascent, they discovered the two bodies, lying one on top of the other at the base of a rocky ledge. With no ser­vice available on his phone, Marcus climbed high enough on the mountain to locate a cell signal. Once he had one, he called 911.

  “That was when?” Joanna asked.

  “About four,” Tom said.

  “But if the ME just now got there . . .”

  “My fault,” Tom said. “When Larry Kendrick called me from Dispatch and told me he had a ­couple of kids on the line, I thought at first it was a prank. It’s the end of summer when bored kids can get up to all kinds of mischief. So I asked for someone from Patrol to drop by and check it out. By then it was raining pitchforks and hammer handles. Took some time for Deputy Marks to get there. The Jeep was unlocked and the kids had taken shelter inside it to get out of the rain.”

  “With a thunderstorm like that brewing, those kids shouldn’t have been up on the mountain in the first place,” Joanna said.

  Tom nodded. “There is that,” he agreed, turning off Highway 80 and onto the Warren Cutoff. Once in town, they turned a wide left, drove up and over Yuma Trail, and then turned left again onto the dirt-­track ranch road. As soon as they did so, they could see the bright glow of generator-­powered work lights used to illuminate crime scenes.

  Tom’s cell phone rang. With effort, he wrestled the device out of his hip pocket and glanced at caller ID. “Oh no,” he groaned. “Not her again.”

  “Marliss Shackleford?” Joanna guessed.

  Marliss was a reporter for the local newspaper, the Bisbee Bee, which, against all odds, was still going strong both in print and online. At the paper, Marliss functioned as both as star reporter and columnist. In her column, Bisbee Buzzings, Marliss often took issue with local public officials, and Joanna’s department was a common target for her derogatory coverage, even though she and Joanna’s mother had been close friends for years.

  “Yup,” Tom replied. “The very one.”

  “Don’t answer, then,” Joanna advised. “Until we have a better idea of what we’re up against, we’re better off ignoring her.”

  “What if she shows up at the crime scene?”

  “Considering current road conditions, that doesn’t seem likely,” Joanna said. “If she does show up, we’ll deal with her then.”

  A mile and a half later, the dirt track ended abruptly in a clutch of parked official vehicles. The last one in line was the ME’s Dodge Caravan. “The Jeep on the far side of the wash evidently belongs to one of the victims,” Tom explained, putting Joanna’s Yukon in park. “She must have hiked in from there, and we’ll have to do the same.”

  “How come?”

  “The wash,” Tom answered. “A little while ago I was told it was running four feet deep.”

  Taking Tom’s Maglite with her, Joanna hopped out and walked forward to see for herself. Shining the beam into the wash, she saw that the water had subsided. If it had been running four feet deep earlier, now it was down to only a foot or so. It could most likely be forded on foot, but that entailed climbing up and down perpendicular embankments on either side of the running water. Once a vehicle splashed down one of those steep edges, driving up the other side would be impossible. No wonder all the vehicles were parked on this side rather than closer to the crime scene itself.

  Joanna returned to the Yukon and to the luggage compartment, where she retrieved her own Maglite as well as a pocketful of latex gloves. When she stepped off into the swiftly flowing water, she gratefully accepted Tom’s offered hand, which kept her from being swept off her feet. Once on the far side, both she and Tom had to sit down and empty sand and water out of their boots before continuing on to the crime scene.

  By now, the clouds had rolled away. Pinpricks of stars gleaming in the dark sky did little to illuminate the rock-­strewn pathway. Neither did the tiny sliver of waning moon. As they approached the grove of trees surrounding the water hole, Joanna caught a glimpse of crime-­scene tape.

  “We need to go around,” Tom explained. “That’s where the campsite is.”

  Beyond the water hole, the ascent began in earnest. It was gradual at first, but as the path became steeper, Joanna found herself panting. Not only was she eating for two these days, she was evidently breathing for two as well.

  Partway up the mountain, they had to halt and step off the path in order to make way for several ­people who, armed with their own flashlights, were making their way down from the cri
me scene. The momentary pause gave Joanna a much-­needed chance to catch her breath. Once the newcomers drew near, she recognized Deputy Jeremy Stock accompanied by two dark-­haired boys.

  “Meet Marcus and Raul Padilla,” Deputy Stock said. “They’re the witnesses who found the bodies.”

  “I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said, moving the Maglite from one hand to the other in order to greet the boys properly. “Which of you is Marcus?”

  “I am,” the taller one said.

  “And I’m Ruly,” the second one chirped. “I’m the one who saw them first. It was gross.”

  “I’m told their mother is beside herself with worry,” Deputy Stock explained. “The detectives are still busy at the crime scene. The ME just got here, and Ernie is too busy to talk to the boys right now. He asked me to take them home. Ernie and Detective Carbajal will stop by their house later to do an official interview when their parents can be present.”

  “It’s just our mother,” Ruly volunteered. “Our parents are divorced. Dad doesn’t live with us anymore.”

  The older boy jabbed the younger one with his elbow as if to silence him. “They don’t have to know that,” he said.

  “You go on home with Deputy Stock,” Joanna urged. “I’m sure your mom is worried sick, but thank you for calling 911, Marcus. Some ­people would have just walked away from something like this without reporting it for fear of getting involved.”

  “It’s okay,” Marcus mumbled.

  “All right,” Deputy Stock said. “Let’s get moving.”

  While the three of them continued down, Joanna glanced up toward a place where the artificial glow cast by work lights illuminated the crime scene, leaving the enormous shadow of Geronimo looming in the background. Another quarter mile of hard climbing brought Joanna and her chief deputy to the base of a massive limestone cliff that soared skyward. Just outside the circle of light, they ran into Deputy Armando Ruiz, who was dutifully stringing crime-­scene tape from boulder to boulder.