“Thank you doctor.”
“Not at all. I've got to get back. There was a shooting in south Phoenix and we've got our hands full of Crips and Bloods, God help us.”
TWENTY
Maria Peña was four months pregnant and starting to show. She had considered for a week now if she should continue to stuff herself into the loose clothes she already owned or if she should finally go with her mother and buy those darling tops and expanding bottoms she had been eyeing. Her mind was on this as she waited for a test to run when she spotted the tall, dark figure at the doorway.
“Ranger!” she cried, then ran across the room and leaped into Goodnight's arms.
“Well, my word,” Goodnight said, holding the young woman up off the ground. “Let me get a good look at you, Maria Victoria Roberta Hernandez y Peña. My have you grown. And I'm ashamed to admit that I don't even know your married name.”
“Ramirez. And I'm pregnant.”
“So I heard, chica. I couldn't be happier for you. I better put you down before people get the wrong idea.”
“Let them,” she said with a mischievous light in her eyes. “I'll tell them you're my lover.”
“Maria, you're a married woman.”
“Just kidding. Come in, Ranger. It is so good to see you again.”
“How's your father. We haven't had a drink in... I'm sorry to say it's been over a year. I've got to call him.”
“He's very good and lobbying very hard for us to name the baby for his father. And I know he wants me to tell you hello for him.”
Shortly after Goodnight was appointed captain of Rangers a vacancy had fallen open in the force. He had worked off and on along the border in different matters, some of them quite sensitive, with a local deputy sheriff named Miguel Peña. No one, not even Miguel himself, was certain on which side of the border the lawman had been born. He served a hitch in Viet Nam, came home a celebrity to a dusty border town that cared about its men in service and was put on as a deputy sheriff as a sop to the Hispanic community. He had worked long, hard, thankless hours with no thought of advancement in the Anglo dominated department. He had kept his mouth shut and born the indignities that came his way because he was Mexican.
He had been the center of controversy just once. A Mexican thief named Rojas was preying on the houses of Americans living near the border, breaking in then slipping back across the border. He raped two elderly women. Miguel had been part of a detail of deputies set up to intercept him. When Rojas spotted the officers he bolted through the fence with Miguel in hot pursuit, not giving the border any thought. Rojas pulled a gun and Miguel killed him. Realizing he was on the wrong side of the fence he decided to leave the thief where he was and crossed back over.
Though the police on both sides thought Miguel had done the right thing the case was a scandal as the governor of Sonora threatened to close the border and the governor of Arizona was forced to issue a formal apology. It died down in time though it seemed Miguel was permanently marked by the incident.
When Goodnight informed the director that he intended to hire Miguel as the Rangers' first Hispanic the man had blanched. “Now Ranger, don't you think that's asking for trouble?” He was referring to the border shooting.
“With who?”
“With the other rangers, with the legislature, with the governor. That's just for openers.”
“The legislature is one fifth Mexican as it is and the governor talks about how grateful he is for all that Hispanic support he got in the last election. As for the Rangers, they'll do what I tell them or they can take a walk. This place has been a good ol' boys club for too many years. And you better get used to the idea. Because I've got my eye on some other Mexicans I plan to bring on board, even a black or two.”
The director was so shocked at the idea of a “Negro” ranger that he told Goodnight to hire who he thought best. “You're kidding about the ni... Negro, right?”
Goodnight smiled and Miguel started two weeks later. It was ten years before Goodnight was finally able to hire his first black ranger. By then there were eight Hispanics on the force of 26.
“You said you wanted to talk to me about the Swensen case?” Peña said as she took her place on her stool. She glanced at her wrist watch. The test she was running still had 20 minutes to go. The police forensic laboratory resembled a high school chemistry lab with the same smells and look.
Goodnight had returned home from the hospital early that morning unable to sleep. He had fed Morris, showered, then changed into fresh clothes. He had no appetite and had sat stone faced smoking two Lonsdales on his porch until 8:30 when he called Maria.
Robert Platt of Consolidated American National Insurance Company had left a message saying he thought a report was imperative if Goodnight still didn't want the claim paid. Legal was giving him hell. There were three messages from reporters, one with the newspaper, two with television stations. Before dropping by to see Peña, Goodnight went to the homicide squad room and wrote out a statement of how he came to shoot Emilio. The assigned detective was new to him but he assured Goodnight there would be no problem.
“I put everything in my report,” Peña answered. “You've read it?”
“Yes. Nice, thorough work. I'm real proud of you, chica.” Peña blushed. “Was there anything odd, or unusual about the evidence?”
Maria shook her head. “Nothing that comes to mind. I worked gathering the evidence throughout one night. A team worked the house over the next day. They found the blood and hair in the trunk of the car and blood in the washing machine sump. Earlier I found some in the shower drain. I ran all the tests. The hair is a match for Leah Swensen's as close as I can get and the DNA tests say it is her blood.”
“Anything you noticed about the blood pattern in the bedroom that seemed unusual?”
“No. I've seen it before many times. There was pooling in three places including a large one by the closet. A piece of the carpeting was missing. There was blood on the bed as well. The furniture had been knocked around, all consistent with a violent struggle.”
“Do you have any doubts?”
Peña scrunched her face up. “Doubts? Ranger, the tests say what they say. That's what I report. It's up the detectives and eventually a jury to decide if there's been a crime. I feel a little sorry for the husband but mostly I'm real sorry for his dead wife.”
“You put everything you learn into the report?”
“Everything.”
“What if you suspect something, but the tests you ran just don't quite make it.”
“It doesn't go in. I only report the facts.”
“What did you suspect in the Swensen case?”
“Nothing. It all checked out.”
“Let me try it another way. Did you learn something that isn't in the report because it had no bearing on your findings.”
Maria suddenly grew cagey. “What do you mean?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe you saw something that had nothing to do with what you were reporting and since it wasn't relevant or couldn't be explained, you didn't put it into the report. Something like that.”
“Maria? Could I talk to you?” The voice came from a portly balding man standing in the doorway. He was wearing the same white smock as Peña. His manner was not friendly.
Peña excused herself and the pair huddled by the door as the man, clearly agitated, lectured the small woman. She nodded her head several times and Goodnight heard her say, “I understand, but...” Finally she came back to her place.
“That's my supervisor. He says I can't talk to you. I'm sorry, Ranger.” She looked crushed.
“No problem. I don't want to cause you any trouble. You say hello to your parents for me and take care of that baby.”
Peña grinned and placed her hand on her stomach. “Thank you.”
“Don't forget to tell your father not to chase any bandits across the border. Adios, chica.”
~
As soon as he was home Goodnight called the hospita
l and was informed there was no change in Conchita's condition. Visiting hours began at seven that night and the doctor gave permission for a single, short visit by Goodnight.
A photogenic television reporter came to the door with a cameraman to request an interview on the shooting the night before but Goodnight refused. The pair stood on his sidewalk and the reporter gestured towards the house as they taped a piece.
As Goodnight was heating soup, telling himself he needed to eat, the telephone rang. It was Maria Peña.
“I'm out of the laboratory at lunch, Ranger, so we can talk now. Do you know Fred Olsen, my boss?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Well, he doesn't seem to like you and he didn't want me talking to you so we have to keep this between us, O.K.?”
“Absolutely.”
“Those last questions you asked got me to thinking. There was something about the Swensen case that I never saw before. I asked around, but no one at the lab ever heard of it and none of us knew what to make of it. There was nothing in any of the texts about it. Since it didn't affect the findings it's not in my report.”
“What are you getting at?”
“It's in the blood tests. Blood is part of the human organism. The instant it is out of the body it starts to decay. There's really nothing we can do with the decay rate because it is so fast. Nobody's ever found a forensic use for it. Are you following me?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe someone more expert than me could make something of it but no one I work with could.”
“What are you getting at?”
“All of the blood in the Swensen house was fresh, there was no question of that, but some was fresher than others. It was like old fresh blood and new fresh blood in different places.”
“I don't understand.”
“Neither do I. It should all be the same, but it isn't. Some of the corpuscles died immediately, but others had already decayed slowly before they died. I've never seen anything like it.”
“It was Leah Swensen's blood?”
“No doubt about that. This doesn't affect the DNA findings. It was all her blood all right.”
“Can you speculate?”
“I shouldn't. That's what they taught us at school. Never speculate.”
“Break the rule this time.”
Peña laughed. “O.K. Speculate. My speculation is that the blood is Leah Swensen's, but that it came from two different batches.”
“What does that mean?”
“It's like this. If all the blood came from her when she was murdered that would be the same batch. But if some of the blood had been drawn off earlier and stored, say in a blood bank or a refrigerator so it didn't break down completely, then that was added to the blood in the bedroom, you would have the same blood but from two batches. That would explain the old and new fresh blood.”
“Can you prove this?”
“Of course not! I'm speculating, remember? But if I had to explain what I found in my tests, that's how I'd do it. I can't think of any other explanation.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. I've got more. You read my report, right?”
“Of course. Several times.”
“There's something else right there and nobody ever asked me about it. I was really surprised the defense didn't pick up on it and today you didn't even ask me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It's the tuft of hair pulled from Leah Swensen's scalp. I'm satisfied it’s her hair all right. But didn't you see the word 'particles' in my report?”
“Particles?”
“Right. When I magnified the hair to examine it I found particles on it. It's in the report.”
“I don't understand.”
“When hair is on your scalp you brush it, wash it, rub it. There are no particles in it, not like this. But once the hair is removed from the scalp you no longer bother it so it gathers particles. Dust.”
“There was dust on Leah Swensen's tuft of hair?”
“Yes! I can't say how long it took to get on the hair, but there was dust.”
“So speculate.”
“Isn't it obvious? The tuft was gone from her scalp long enough to gather dust. That is almost certainly more than a single day. She kept a pretty clean house.”
Goodnight thanked her and promised again that he would keep her out of this. Then he pulled her report from his file. There it was. “Particles.” Once again he was impressed with how often you could read a report and still miss something.
Two batches of Leah Swensen's blood. A tuft of hair from her scalp with dust on it.
Conchita smiled wanly as her eyes fluttered open and she saw Goodnight standing beside her bed. The cut along her cheek was bandaged, but otherwise it was difficult to tell she was seriously injured.
“Hello, John.” Her voice was very soft.
Goodnight leaned down and kissed her. “How are you? You gave me a scare.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Your mustache tickles. I feel good, considering. Whatever they are giving me makes everything seem dreamy. You don't look so good. Are you eating?”
“A bit.”
“Eat more. I'll be home soon.” She suddenly started to cry. She reached up and touched the bandage on her cheek as if it were a matter of great shame. “I'll have a scar.”
“You'll look like a pirate.”
She tried to smile momentarily then turned serious. “I saw on the television a little bit ago that you killed Emilio. Are you in trouble or anything?”
“No.”
“I don't want to cause you any trouble. I think... I think I am bringing you bad luck.”
“You aren't. Just get well and come home.” A very thin nurse wearing her hair in a bun and old enough to retire told him he had to leave. “I'll be by tomorrow then.”
“O.K., Ranger.” Conchita tried to smile again but the bandage on her face stopped her. She rubbed the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers.
In the hallway the nurse said, “Miss Herrera has no medical insurance, Mr. Goodnight. Is she covered under a policy you might have?”
“No, she isn't. Just send the bill to me.”
“It's a great deal of money.”
“Send it anyway. And don't say anything to her except that it's been taken care of.”
TWENTY-ONE
Goodnight had given his situation considerable thought ever since he had first come to suspect that Leah Swensen was not dead. Collecting on the insurance policies, he reasoned, had not been part of the original plan. It was an add on intended to set her up for life. That would depend on when she had first listed Lana Dahl as second beneficiary and he hadn't thought to ask anyone.
It was possible to prove that Lana Dahl didn't exist, though proving a negative was never an easy task. There would be people in the Midwest who had known the Dahl family and there would be records. But that could take weeks if not months.
Leah Swensen was a clever woman and would have known from the beginning that the existence of Lana Dahl would never have withstood real scrutiny. She had been banking on the insurance companies paying off rather than run the risk of facing a lawsuit.
But her primary purpose had always been to punish her errant husband. In the end, with the heat on, Lana Dahl/Leah Swensen would simply withdraw from the picture with the two million six hundred thousand dollars she had already collected. And she was going to have covered her tracks very well.
Now that Goodnight was no longer a ranger it was his job to stop further payment on what was a fraudulent claim and it was also his responsibility to recover the mispaid money, if at all possible. It was not his job to clear Jack Swensen of murder – but that was what he intended to do.
With Gerald Westby blocking access to his client it was going to be very difficult to locate the woman claiming to be Lana Dahl. Westby sounded like a reasonable man and it was possible that if Goodnight could persuade him that his client was involving him in fraud he woul
d become more cooperative. He was under no legal obligation to protect a client who was using him to perpetuate a crime.
Leah Swensen had set her husband up for murder very cleverly and was certain to have covered her tracks well. Running her to ground could well prove time consuming, prohibitively expensive and ultimately futile. It had been occurring to him that there was another way.
Goodnight found the section in the telephone book and counted 83 veterinarians in the city. Leah Swensen might have gone elsewhere with her precious cat, but he was betting she had stuck fairly close to home. He tore the pages from the directory, locked up the house for the day, then climbed into his Taurus.
The attempt on his life was confirmation to Goodnight that he was on to something. It was possible that the person who had shot at him was someone from the past with a grievance. It was possible that it had been a random drive-by shooting. But Goodnight didn't think so. He was closing in on something. He could feel it. Leah Swensen was here, doing her own dirty work, or she hadn't acted alone.
Though Goodnight knew it would be pointless he began at Desert View, Leah Swensen's usual veterinarian. The staff, all solemn faces, knew both the cat and its mistress. Based on their memories and records the last time they had seen either was two months before the murder.
Now Goodnight began systematically calling on each veterinarian office in the city in turn. To the average person a cat was a cat. But to cat lovers and to veterinarians each cat was as distinctive as any human. Fortunately, Leah Swensen had selected a rare and exotic breed which should make recognition more certain. This was slow and tedious work that might end in nothing, but most of law enforcement was hours and days spent just like this. He'd done it before, would do it again.
No one at the first veterinarian's recognized either Scottie the cat or Leah Swensen from the photograph he had. Nor did anyone at the next eight. He often had to wait for a procedure to be completed before all the staff could view his picture.
Goodnight's situation was complicated further because the newspaper had run a front page story that morning featuring his photograph beside the slain Emilio looking like something out of a crime magazine. The article had recapped his “colorful” career and bore the banner, “Ex-Ranger Hasn't Hung Up Guns.”
Wrath in the Blood Page 21
