Day of the Dead

by J. A. Jance

  A doctor entered the waiting room through the swinging doors and made straight for where the three men were sitting. “Has the sheriff’s department had any luck locating next of kin?” he asked.

  The question was addressed to PeeWee Segura, and he was the one who answered. “We’re still working on it, but I haven’t heard if we’ve made any progress.”

  “Erik doesn’t have any next of kin,” Ryan Doyle interjected. “His mother died when he was a baby. His father walked out and left him to be raised by his grandmother. She’s been dead for years. Why?”

  The doctor peered down at Ryan Doyle over the top of a pair of reading glasses. “And you are?”

  “My name’s Doyle, Ryan Doyle. Erik and I have been friends since grade school. I came as soon as I heard.”

  The doctor held out his hand. His name was on the badge he wore, but he introduced himself nonetheless. “I’m Mr. LaGrange’s physician, Fred Ransom. You’re fairly certain he has no relatives—no brothers, no sisters, no aunts or uncles?”

  Ryan shook his head. “There’s no one, no one at all, but you still haven’t told us why you need to know.”

  The doctor took a step back and considered before he answered. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Doyle,” he said at last. “It doesn’t look good for your friend. His brain was denied oxygen for too long.”

  “You mean Erik is going to die?”

  “He’s on life support,” the doctor said. “That’s what’s keeping him alive. If he had relatives, I’d need to consult with them before…well, before doing what’s necessary.”

  Ryan Doyle closed his eyes for a moment, as if processing that information. Brian thought briefly that he might break down. Instead, he stiffened his massive shoulders and straightened his back. “What about his organs?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” the doctor said.

  “Erik signed up to be an organ donor,” Ryan said. “We both did it when we first started driving. It should be on his driver’s license.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. LaGrange’s driver’s license wasn’t made available to us when he was admitted…”

  Ryan Doyle wheeled back on Brian. “His license isn’t here because he was in jail, right?”

  Brian nodded. “Yes, but—”

  Ryan took a deep breath. “Look,” he said. “When we were in high school, Pueblo High School, one of our pals needed a kidney. Robby Martin was on dialysis and waiting for a kidney to become available when he caught an infection and died. Erik and I made a pact at Robby’s funeral that we would always be organ donors. We thought if we died, maybe some other kid might be saved. If you check in his wallet, you’ll find it there. I swear to you, Erik would want to donate his organs. At least let him have that shred of dignity. Please.”

  Dr. Ransom looked from Ryan to the two detectives. PeeWee was the one who broke formation. “I’m not sure if it’s possible,” he said, “but hold on. I’ll go outside and make a few calls.”

  Twenty-Six

  When it came to the Ten O’Clock News, Larry Stryker preferred watching KVOA to KOLD. Erik LaGrange’s suicide attempt was the lead story on Channel 4, just as it had been on Channel 7. Larry was intrigued. If Erik actually succumbed to his injuries, it was possible the authorities would lay the blame for Saturday’s homicide at Erik’s door and that would be the end of it. Case closed. Larry and Gayle would be off the hook.

  Wanting to discuss the situation with his wife, Larry went so far as to pick up the phone and dial through to the house in Tucson. The call went straight to voice mail, however. By the time Gayle’s voice-mail greeting ended, Larry had reconsidered. Yes, Gayle had said she was setting Erik LaGrange up for this latest death. Yes, she was pissed that Erik had given her her walking papers, but that didn’t mean she’d be pleased that he was dead.

  No, Larry decided, ending the call without leaving a message. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

  Larry Stryker turned off the television set before Jay Leno ever came on and he missed his wife’s solo end-of-news performance on the other channel. Feeling incredibly relieved, Larry toddled off to bed and slept better than he would have expected. Yes, Brandon Walker had come around asking questions about Roseanne Orozco, but Gayle was probably right about that, just as she was about everything else. There was no evidence left that would hold up in court as far as he could see. Difficult and challenging as his wife might be at times, Larry was lucky to have her.

  At three o’clock in the morning Brian Fellows finally headed home. It had required time and effort, but a decision that might have taken days to settle had been handled in a matter of hours. Erik LaGrange’s organ-donor card had indeed been located among his personal effects. When made aware of the situation, Sheriff Forsythe had taken an uncharacteristic pass, leaving the ME’s office to make a final determination.

  When Brian left the hospital, it was with the understanding that Ryan Doyle would remain at Erik’s side until blood- and tissue-typing had all been accomplished and it was time to turn off the respirator. Under similar circumstances, many people would have simply walked away. Brian couldn’t help being touched as well as a little surprised by Ryan’s level of commitment. Brian had been quick to write Erik off as a total loser. If he could inspire that kind of friendship, maybe Brian’s initial assessment was somewhat off the mark. Not only that, Ryan’s absolute contempt for Gayle Stryker set little alarm bells jangling in Brian’s head. Erik had proclaimed his innocence, saying he was being framed. Committing suicide made Erik’s claim of innocence less plausible. But what if it was true?

  What was absolutely clear was the presence of that one unidentified fingerprint—the one with the AFIS match to the homicide in Yuma. True, Erik LaGrange could no longer tell investigators who else might have been in his house, but there was one other person who might be able to—Gayle Stryker. Even though Sheriff Forsythe had ordered Brian to leave Gayle Stryker out of the equation, Brian made up his mind on the drive home that, come tomorrow morning, he was going to track the lady down and ask her a question or two.

  As late as it was, Brian drove home expecting to find his wife sound asleep. Instead, lights were on all over the house. Kath was just stepping out of the shower.

  “Why are you still up?” he asked, kissing her hello. “I was sure you’d be in bed by now.”

  “In bed? Are you kidding? I just got home. Lani dropped me off a few minutes ago.”

  “Why so late? Car trouble?”

  Kath laughed. “Hardly. Before we left Ban Thak, one of Fat Crack’s daughters-in-law went into labor. We tried to get Delia to the hospital in Sells, but she ended up having her baby in Diana’s car.”

  “What’d she have?”

  “A little boy. He’s fine; so is she. We took them to Sells and checked them into the hospital after the fact. Delia told us they’re going to name the baby Gabriel after Fat Crack. And the middle name…Oh, I don’t remember it right now. I must be too tired. The second name comes from Delia’s family—from her father, I believe, the boy’s other grandfather.”

  “Manny, by any chance?” Brian asked.

  “Right. Manuel, but how come you know that?”

  “You should, too,” Brian said. “Delia’s father, Manny Chavez, is the guy you found that time out on the reservation. The one Quentin whacked over the head with a shovel.”

  Kath’s jaw dropped. “That guy was Delia’s father?”

  Brian nodded.

  “I didn’t know that, or if I did, I’d forgotten,” Kath said. “But then I’m a latecomer to the game. You’ve known these people all your life.”

  “That may be true,” Brian said, giving his wife a hug. “Luckily for them, though, you’re the one who’s always around in a pinch.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Kath said. “All I did was drive. Lani did everything else.”

  “Lani?” Brian asked in surprise. “Are you saying she knows how to deliver a baby?”

  “She does now,” Kath said. “And so do I.
”

  By ten o’clock the next morning, Brandon Walker’s Suburban was parked outside the Medicos for Mexico office on East Broadway. He knew what he wanted, but he wasn’t quite sure how to go about getting it.

  Brandon was groggy from lack of sleep. He had evidently strained his arm the other day when they were working on Fat Crack’s grave. The pain had kept him awake overnight, and it was bothering him still.

  Out of practice as far as being in stake-out mode, Brandon relieved his boredom by walking across the street to the Circle K for a cup of coffee and to pick up a vending-machine newspaper. Much of the front page was occupied by an article about the homicide suspect who had attempted suicide in his Pima County Jail cell the night before. A small inset article toward the bottom showed a photo of two people Brandon recognized, Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker, beaming out of the paper—Larry in a tux and Gayle in a body-skimming little black dress.

  Settling back into the Suburban, Brandon scanned through the article, learning in the process that the prisoner was the man arrested on suspicion of murdering the teenager whose dismembered body had been found near Vail on Saturday. That meant this was Brian’s case, Brandon surmised, and the suspect had been a long-term employee of Medicos for Mexico, the locally based charity founded by Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker.

  The Strykers. Recognition surged through Brandon like an electric shock. The Strykers’ proximity to those two separate but similar cases—murdered and dismembered girls found thirty-two years apart—was too close to be considered a harmless coincidence.

  Brandon was reaching for his phone to call Brian when it rang. “Good morning,” Ralph Ames said. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m on the trail of Larry Stryker’s DNA,” Brandon said.

  “How do you propose to do that?” Ralph asked.

  “It’s not illegal, but it’s better that you don’t know,” Brandon said with a halfhearted chuckle.

  “Don’t ask /don’t tell?” Ralph asked.

  “Something like that. Now what’s the deal with getting me some backup?”

  “I was thinking about calling the Pima County Sheriff’s Department,” Ralph Ames said. “But then I was going through my copy of the paperwork Research sent you. I saw that the Strykers were some of your opponent’s big-time campaign donors. I decided against it.”

  “I could have told you that,” Brandon said.

  “But I did talk to Geet Farrell,” Ralph Ames added. “He’s tied up until midafternoon, but he’ll be there this evening. He’ll call as soon as he gets to town. Is that all right?”

  While Brandon watched, a pearlescent white Lexus, covered in a layer of dust, pulled into the back parking lot and stopped in a shaded parking place marked RESERVED next to a much cleaner but otherwise identical Lexus sedan.

  “It’ll have to be,” Brandon said. “I’ve gotta go.”

  As Larry Stryker stepped from his vehicle, Brandon battled to rein in his emotions. He had come here hoping to collect DNA evidence that would link Larry Stryker to Roseanne Orozco’s long-ago murder. Now he was faced with the very real possibility that the man might be a still-active serial killer.

  Hoping his face didn’t betray him, Brandon stepped out of the Suburban. “Hey, Larry,” he said as casually as possible. “How’s it going?”

  Stryker, once again impeccably dressed, stopped in his tracks and regarded Brandon warily. “You again,” he said. “What now?”

  “I have a couple more questions—about the same thing we discussed yesterday,” Brandon responded breezily. “No big deal, but I thought it might be better if we did it in private. How about having a cup of coffee somewhere? Just a few minutes of your time.”

  Dr. Stryker was clearly torn. He looked longingly at the door to his office, as if wishing himself inside. “Sure,” he said at last, “as long as it doesn’t take too long. My car or yours?”

  “Let’s go in mine,” Brandon said.

  Not wanting to risk going somewhere that would serve coffee in real cups, Brandon had already plotted a course to the nearest Burger King—at Speedway and Campbell. Chatting amiably about Diana and Gayle’s long-term friendship, he drove to the fast-food joint’s drive-up order station. “How do you take it?” he asked.

  “Cream, no sugar,” Larry said.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked the invisible attendant. “We’ll take two of those.”

  Once the cups of coffee were safely in the Suburban’s cup holders, Brandon drove into the parking lot and shut off the engine.

  “Okay,” Larry said. He picked up his cup and took a tentative sip. “What’s all this about?”

  “Roseanne Orozco,” Brandon returned.

  “Look, Brandon, we talked about this yesterday. As I told you then, I barely remember the girl. There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

  Brandon waited long enough for Larry to raise the cup to his lips for a second sip. “Were you the father of Roseanne’s baby?” Brandon asked.

  Larry Stryker’s response to that unexpected question was as classic as it was revealing. He choked. He coughed. Coffee splattered his tie. When he put his cup down, Brandon was gratified to notice that his hand was shaking.

  “What the hell gives you the right to ask such a crass question?” Larry Stryker demanded in outrage.

  Brandon shrugged. “Well,” he insisted mildly, “were you?”

  Larry reached for the door handle and shoved the door open. “I won’t even dignify that accusation with a response.” He stepped down onto the pavement and stood there, his face distorted with outrage.

  “Come on, Larry,” Brandon said. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride back to your office.”

  “The hell you will. I’d rather walk.” With that, he slammed the door shut and stamped away, leaving Brandon with exactly what he wanted—the coffee cup and what he hoped was a fully retrievable sample of Dr. Lawrence Stryker’s DNA.

  But Brandon also had a problem. He had definitely tipped his hand. Larry Stryker was onto him. Geet Farrell wouldn’t arrive a moment too soon.

  Brian had dragged himself into the office late that morning. Around eleven-thirty, as he headed for the break room for coffee, his cell phone rang. “Hey, Brandon,” he said cheerfully after checking caller ID. “How’s the local midwife? According to Kath, Lani did herself proud last night.”

  “She was still sleeping when I left the house,” Brandon replied. “She was pretty jazzed when she got home last night. I didn’t think we’d ever get her to shut up and go to bed.”

  Brian laughed. “I had the same problem with Kath. She was way too wound up to sleep.”

  The truth was, Kath had come home from helping deliver Delia Ortiz’s baby with a whole lot more on her mind than talking. Brian had awakened that morning with the distinct impression that Kath Fellows had made up her mind to go off the pill and think about starting a family.

  “What’s up?” Brian asked.

  “I need to talk to you,” Brandon said urgently. “ASAP. Given my history with the department, it’s probably better for you if I don’t show up there. Could we meet for lunch?”

  There was undeniable urgency in Brandon Walker’s voice. “Where?” Brian asked.

  “How about the Old Pueblo Grill?”

  Brian knew that particular central-area watering hole was far enough off the law enforcement beaten track that there was little danger of the two of them being seen together. “I’ll see you soon,” he said.

  On his way out, Brian stopped by the cubicle. Fortunately, PeeWee was away from his desk, so Brian didn’t have to lie about where he was going or what he was going to do. As a kid he had sometimes fantasized about growing up and working a case with Brandon Walker—the man who was the closest thing to a father Brian had ever known. But now that it was happening and his dream was finally coming true, Brian couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even PeeWee. Instead, he had to race off to meet Brandon in secret, as if they were a pair of undercover agents.

  Walking i
nto the Old Pueblo Grill, he spotted Brandon sitting under an umbrella at a tall outdoor table in the far corner of the patio. A copy of that morning’s Arizona Daily Sun was spread out in front of him.

  “What’s up?” Brian asked, hiking himself up onto one of the stools.

  Wordlessly, Brandon Walker pushed the newspaper in Brian’s direction. It was folded to reveal the front-page article about Erik LaGrange’s attempted suicide. Brian knew that, as of two hours earlier, LaGrange’s suicide was a fait accompli rather than a mere attempt. A heavy circle of blue ink surrounded a photo of Dr. Lawrence and Gayle Stryker.

  Brian nodded. “The suspect’s dead. He was declared brain-dead last night. His organs are being harvested this morning.”

  “He worked for Gayle and Larry Stryker.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Brian nodded again. “What about them?” he asked.

  “What if I told you there’s a good chance Larry Stryker was the father of Roseanne Orozco’s baby?”

  The question took Brian by surprise. Before he could respond, a waitress appeared at the table and dropped off Brandon’s iced tea. “Can I get you something?” she asked.

  “I’ll have the same,” Brian said, nodding toward the tea. “Can you prove it?” he asked as soon as the waitress walked away.

  “I think so,” Brandon said seriously. He picked up a paper bag and handed it over. “There’s a Burger King coffee cup in there—complete with some of Larry Stryker’s DNA. I’m hoping the ME will be able to collect enough DNA from Roseanne’s fetus for us to get a match.”

  Stunned, Brian set the bag down without looking inside. “Even if it’s true and he was the father of her child, it doesn’t prove that he killed her.”

  “No, but it gives him plenty of motive for wanting to get rid of her.”

  Brian nodded while he considered the implications. The deaths of Brandon’s cold-case victim, the Girl in the Box, and the dismembered girl from Vail might indeed be connected. The same could be true of the girl whose remains had been found near Yuma.