Judgment Call

by J. A. Jance

  It was fully dark before they finally went inside. Once Dennis was bathed and in bed, Joanna settled down with a book in the family room where the model trains on Butch’s train track were, for once, mercifully still. She was reading quietly when, well after nine, Butch finally emerged from his office.

  “Done?” she inquired.

  Nodding, he picked up the remote control and switched on the TV. “Mind if I turn on the news?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks for chasing after Denny tonight,” he said. “The manuscript needs to go out by FedEx tomorrow so it can be in New York on Monday. I needed to finish it tonight, especially since both kids will be home from school tomorrow. When they’re here, it’s almost impossible to work. Besides, Jenny and I have to schedule some stick-shift driving lessons over the weekend.”

  “You’re fearless,” Joanna said. “By the way, Jenny gave you a promotion this afternoon. She actually called you Dad.”

  “That is a promotion,” Butch agreed, “but why was she so grumpy at dinner? She barely said a word and seemed really out of sorts.”

  “We had a disagreement coming home in the car,” Joanna said. “She overheard part of a conversation about a current investigation, and she was put out that I wouldn’t spill the beans about what was going on.”

  “What investigation?” Butch asked.

  The ten o’clock news was just coming on with a teaser about a missing high school principal. “If you watch the news,” Joanna said, “you’ll know exactly which investigation. You’ll also understand why I couldn’t discuss it with her.”

  As expected, the story about the missing school principal was right there at the top of the news broadcast.

  “Tonight, authorities in Bisbee are searching for Bisbee High School’s principal, Debra Highsmith, who went missing sometime last night,” the news anchor said. “When Ms. Highsmith failed to show up at work today, police officers were dispatched to her home to do a welfare check, but failed to find her. Our reporter Toni Avila is on the scene. What can you tell us, Toni?”

  “According to a spokesman for the Bisbee Police Department, when officers were dispatched to Ms. Highsmith’s residence in Bisbee’s San Jose neighborhood, they found no evidence of a struggle or of foul play. Her vehicle, a white 2006 VW Passat with Arizona plate number AZU-657, is also missing. At this point, officers assisted by K-9 teams are doing a thorough search of the nearby area. They’re also checking with area hospitals to see if Ms. Highsmith may have suffered some kind of medical emergency. Anyone with knowledge of her whereabouts is urged to contact the Bisbee Police Department.”

  “Let’s hope they’re able to find her,” the anchor said, “but it turns out Ms. Highsmith’s disappearance isn’t the only news from Bisbee today. What else is going on?”

  “As many of our viewers realize, we’ve been doing daily coverage of the trial of Alma DeLong, a Tucson-area businesswoman who owned Caring Friends, a now-defunct organization that operated inpatient care for Alzheimer’s patients all over southern Arizona. Second-degree homicide charges were lodged against Ms. DeLong in the deaths of three people who died while being housed at the Caring Friends Palominas facility. After a weeklong trial in Cochise County Superior Court and after almost two days of deliberation, the jury returned their verdict late this afternoon. Ms. DeLong was found guilty on all three homicide charges and on the charge of resisting arrest. She was found innocent on a related charge of assaulting a police officer.

  “Here’s what the son of one of the victims had to say after the verdict was rendered.”

  The screen switched over to a view of Bobby Fletcher standing outside the courtroom door, flanked on one side by Arlee Jones and on the other by Joanna.

  “Hey, why didn’t you tell us you were going to be on TV tonight?” Butch wanted to know.

  “Because I didn’t know for sure that I was. Besides, it was a walk-on appearance only. No spoken lines.”

  “And the case Jenny’s annoyed about is the one involving the missing principal?”

  Joanna nodded. “That would be it, since Debra Highsmith happens to be Jenny’s principal.”

  “Was that a live feed just now?” Butch asked.

  “I think so. Why?”

  “That means they still haven’t found her.”

  “Evidently.”

  “If it’s not your case, what’s the problem with talking to Jenny about it?”

  “What if she ended up carrying tales to school about it? That could cause trouble down the road, especially if what happened to Debra Highsmith turns out to be something more serious than her just going out for a solitary evening drive.”

  “The reporter made it sound like she might have landed in a hospital somewhere.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all it is,” Joanna said. “Debra Highsmith has never been one of my favorite people, but I’d hate to see something bad happen to her.”

  A few minutes later, when the weather came on, Butch switched off the television set. “This is Arizona. The weather tomorrow is going to be just like the weather today. What say we go to bed?”

  They did. Their bedroom door had a lock on it, and they made good use of same. Afterward, Joanna slept like a baby. When the rooster-crowing ring of her cell phone jarred her awake the next morning, it was full daylight and the clock on the nightstand said 6:47. When she saw Jenny’s number on the caller ID readout, Joanna assumed Butch had forgotten to unlock the bedroom door before they went to sleep.

  “Mom, Mom,” Jenny sobbed into the phone. “You have to come quick. I just found Ms. Highsmith.”

  Joanna sat up in bed, trying to get her head around what was going on. “You found her here?” she demanded. “At the house?”

  “I’m not at the house!” Jenny replied indignantly. “I woke up early and decided to take Kiddo out for a ride before breakfast. I found Ms. Highsmith here, beside the road.”

  “That’s a relief,” Joanna said. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s not all right!” Jenny declared. “She’s dead. I think someone shot her.”

  By the time Jenny finished that last sentence, Joanna was out of bed and scrambling into her clothes.

  “You’re sure it’s her?” Joanna demanded.

  “She’s still wearing her name badge. I can read, you know.”

  “Where are you?” Joanna asked urgently, switching her phone to speaker. “Tell me exactly.”

  “When Kiddo and I go out for an early-morning gallop, we always head up High Lonesome. We’re just this side of the third wash north of our house.”

  High Lonesome Road runs north and south along the base of the Mule Mountains. On those rare occasions when it rains, rushing water comes flooding down out of the mountains to drain into the Sulphur Springs Valley. Wash beds that are only a few feet apart up on the mountainsides spread out like the spokes of a wheel at lower elevations. During those periodic deluges the gullies run wall to wall with roiling water, sometimes ten to fifteen feet deep. Once the floods are over and the water drains away, the sandy beds are often left littered with man-size boulders.

  Faced with budget cuts, the county had finally quit blading the rocks out of the way, which left High Lonesome Road north of the High Lonesome Ranch impassable for through traffic. The washouts may have been hazardous to most vehicular traffic, but Joanna realized they presented no barrier for someone traveling on a speeding quarter horse.

  “I’m getting dressed,” Joanna said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. You’re sure she’s dead?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Jenny said. “I’m sure.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Joanna cautioned. “Especially don’t touch the body.”

  Jenny’s earlier panic morphed into indignation. “Mom,” she said, “do you think I’m stupid or something? Besides, why would I touch it? It’s gross. There are flies and bugs. It smells awful.”

  “All right,” Joanna said. “How’s the road?”

  “Pretty bad. Her ca
r is stuck in the first wash. At least I’m pretty sure it’s Ms. Highsmith’s car, and it’s blocking the road.”

  “Don’t worry,” Joanna said. “I have four-wheel drive. That shouldn’t be a problem, but if it is and I can’t make it to where you are in the Yukon, I may have to walk. That could take a while.”

  By then Joanna was on her way through the kitchen where Butch was overseeing Dennis’s breakfast.

  “What’s up?” Butch asked as Joanna hurried past him.

  “Jenny and Kiddo went out for a ride and found a body,” Joanna said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “A body? Whose? Where?”

  “She says it looks like Debra Highsmith. They’re up the road,” Joanna said. “Up High Lonesome.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “You stay with Dennis. I’ll get some deputies out here. We’ll be fine.”

  In the garage, Joanna put the Yukon in gear, backed out, and sped away up the driveway. At first she intended to get on the radio and call out the troops. Ultimately she changed her mind. She wanted to be on the scene in person and see the lay of the land before she ran up the flag for help. With Jenny involved, she wanted to have a clear idea of the challenges her people and the medical examiner’s crew would encounter in trying to reach the body.

  As she approached the first wash, the road narrowed from two lanes to one. As she crested the hill, the Passat was completely hidden from view until she started down into the dip. The moment she saw the stranded vehicle, Joanna understood that Jenny was right. The vehicle had plowed into the sand and then had turned sideways where it had high-centered on an invisible boulder hidden under a thin layer of sand. The driver’s fruitless attempt to free it had torn up the surrounding sand, making a bad situation worse. Stopping short of the wash, Joanna climbed out of her SUV to survey the scene. She realized that if she attempted to drive around the Passat at low speed, even with four-wheel drive, there was a good chance the Yukon would end up stuck as well.

  “I told you,” Jenny said.

  Joanna looked up in time to see Jenny pull Kiddo out of a trot on the far side of the wash. “Come on,” she said. “We can ride double. It’ll be faster than walking.”

  Avoiding the churned-up sand, Joanna crossed the wash. With Jenny’s help, Joanna managed to get a foot in the stirrup and clamber up onto Kiddo’s back, where she clung to Jenny’s waist. As soon as Joanna was onboard, Jenny urged Kiddo into a fast canter. Jenny was a capable rider; Joanna was not. As Kiddo raced along in the rocky roadway, Joanna clung to her daughter for dear life.

  Joanna estimated that they covered the better part of a mile between the first wash and the next. After that, when the road became even rougher, Jenny slowed Kiddo to a walk. A mile later, Jenny pulled Kiddo to a halt and nodded toward something beside the road. It resembled a fully clothed rag doll lying in an awkward heap. Only on closer inspection did the heap resolve itself into a woman’s body.

  Joanna slid off the horse. While Jenny remained on a restive Kiddo, Joanna moved toward the body. She stopped short several feet away and stood still, giving herself a chance to examine both the victim and the nearby surroundings.

  The body of a woman, with her head twisted to one side, lay prone in a flat expanse of rocky dirt. The victim had been there long enough for carrion eaters to have made inroads on her facial features, leaving her unrecognizable. She was dressed in the kind of clothing someone might have worn to work—a dirt- and blood-stained white blouse and tailored navy blue jacket and skirt. A name badge, still pinned to the lapel of her jacket, identified her as DEBRA HIGHSMITH. Her bare feet showed the laddered remnants of a pair of panty hose. It looked as though she had been shot in the back. Joanna counted four different entrance wounds, one in her right leg and the others in her torso. She hadn’t died instantly, but Joanna knew she couldn’t have survived for long because there wasn’t much blood. What there was had turned brown in the sun.

  After ascertaining there were no visible footprints that would be disturbed by her presence, Joanna stepped closer. That sudden movement sent a black cloud of flies milling skyward. The distinctive stench of decomposition was thick in the air. Fighting down her gag reflex, Joanna didn’t need a medical examiner to tell her Debra Highsmith had been dead for some time, probably more than a day.

  “There’s not a lot of blood,” Jenny observed from the sidelines. “She must have died right away.”

  Joanna gave her fifteen-year-old daughter an appraising look. Joanna had tried her best to protect Jenny from some of the grim realities of growing up in a law enforcement family, but clearly she’d been paying attention. Her astute observation warranted an acknowledgment.

  “You’re right,” Joanna said. “Let’s hope she didn’t suffer too much.”

  “Maybe not after she got shot,” Jenny said, “but what about before?”

  That one rocked Joanna, too, because once again Jenny’s conclusion was on the money. There was enough visible bruising around the victim’s wrists and ankles to show that she had been restrained for some period of time before being shot. Given that, there was no way to tell what kind of damage might have been inflicted prior to shooting.

  “Yes,” Joanna agreed. “After.”

  She plucked her phone out of the pocket of her uniform and punched the speed-dial combination that would take her to Dispatch. Larry Kendrick, her lead dispatcher, took the call.

  “Good morning, Sheriff Brady,” he said, greeting her by name before she said a word. In the world of nearly universal caller ID that was hardly surprising. “What’s up?”

  “I believe Jenny and I have found the body of that missing high school principal. I’ll need a full-court homicide call-out ASAP.”

  Joanna’s homicide unit consisted of three detectives—Ernie Carpenter, Jaime Carbajal, and Deb Howell—as well as her two-person CSI unit, which included Casey Ledford, a fingerprint tech, and Dave Hollicker, her crime scene investigator. Ernie, the senior detective, was off on vacation, taking a Rhine River cruise with his wife, Rose. That left detectives Jaime Carbajal and Deb Howell to pick up the slack.

  “Dave Hollicker and Jaime are already here at the department,” Larry said. “I’ll send them right out. As for Howell and Ledford? It’s Friday. You know what that means.”

  Joanna did know what that meant. Both Deb Howell and Casey Ledford were single mothers of school-age children whose work lives were impacted by the school system’s four-day week. The two women were generally not scheduled to work on Fridays, and they wouldn’t be able to show up unless and until they were able to arrange for child care.

  “Tell them to come as soon as they can,” Joanna said. “We’re about three miles north of my place on High Lonesome Road. The road’s a mess. Most of the way the road is wide enough for two cars, but it narrows down to one lane in the dips. Ms. Highsmith’s Passat is blocking the road at the first wash. We’ll need a tow truck to get it out of there. Pass the word that everyone will need four-wheel drive to get here.” Joanna paused and then added, “Oh, and I’ll want the K-9 unit, too.”

  “You got it,” Larry said. “What about the M.E.? Are you going to call him or am I?”

  In the old days, when Dr. George Winfield had been the Cochise County Medical Examiner, the call-out could have come from any number of people inside Joanna’s department. Unfortunately, George had fallen in love with Joanna’s mother, Eleanor, and she had packed him off into a retirement that now included an annual snow-bird migration back and forth between Arizona and Minnesota.

  Both in public and in private, Joanna’s relationship with George Winfield had been businesslike and virtually trouble free even after he’d married Eleanor Lathrop. As sheriff and M.E., they had continued to work together with little difficulty. So it had come as something of a shock to Joanna and to other members of her department to discover that Doc Winfield’s replacement, Dr. Guy Machett, was anything but trouble free.

  For one thing, Dr. Ma
chett—never Doc Machett—insisted that everyone follow a strict chain-of-command hierarchy. If his services were required, he expected the call to come from Joanna herself and not from someone who reported to her.

  “That’s my next call,” Joanna said.

  “Good,” Larry said.

  The relief in his voice spoke volumes. Larry had endured more than his share of Guy Machett temper tantrums. He didn’t need another one.

  The clock in Joanna’s cell phone said 8:01 A.M. as she scrolled through her contact list to find Guy Machett’s number. He was nothing if not punctual, so she dialed his office number.

  “Medical examiner’s office,” Madge Livingston drawled.

  Forty years of smoking unfiltered Camels had left Madge with a throaty voice that might have been sexy if it hadn’t been punctuated by periodic fits of coughing. A sixty-something peroxide blonde, Madge had worked for county government all her adult life, moving from one department to another because no one had balls enough to put her out to pasture. Madge’s last remotion, one that had moved her out of the county office complex, had landed her in the M.E.’s office. Like Joanna, Madge had gotten along just fine with Doc Winfield. Her relationship with Dr. Machett was something less than smooth sailing.

  Dr. Machett was a man with a very high opinion of himself, someone who felt he was doing the world a favor by sharing his vast knowledge and abilities with the lowly folks in Cochise County. Unfortunately, there weren’t many other people who agreed with that assessment.

  “Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said. “Is he in?”

  “I believe he’s on the other line,” Madge said. “Can you hold?”

  In the old days, Joanna would have passed the information along to Madge with no further muss or fuss because Madge would have informed George of the situation. These days it didn’t work that way, and both Joanna and Madge knew it.