by Betty Webb
Lanphear showed no emotion. “I’m a busy man, Ms. Jones, and I really do have to see another patient. If you’re unhappy with my actions or the lack thereof, take it up with the Medical Review Board, but don’t be surprised if they back me up. What do you think would have happened to this town if I’d said anything? Remember what happened to Polk. We’d have had ten, maybe twenty Floyd Polks.”
“You were just going to leave it like that?”
He shook his head. “The minute Precious Doe was identified I planned to call CPS and have her family investigated.” With that, he boarded the elevator and closed the doors in my face.
Sheriff Avery, who had followed my sprint down the hall, said, “He’s right, you know. There would have been mass lynchings in this town.”
I glared at him. “Were you part of the cover-up, too?”
“Give me more credit than that, Lena.” His face was so pained I believed him.
“So what are you going to do now, Sheriff? Surely you’re not going to return Aziza Wahab to her parents. The girl’s in terrible danger.”
“I have to follow the law.”
“Like Dr. Lanphear?”
He ignored that. “As soon as Nicole gets dressed, she’s headed to a group home. Then I’m bringing the Halls in for questioning. Speaking of questioning, how did you find those girls.”
Before I attempted more misdirection, the door to the examining room opened and Nicole emerged, the CPS caseworker at her side. The woman’s jaw clenched in rage, but her words were clear. “Sheriff, I’m taking Miss Hall to the group home now.” She slipped a protective arm around the girl.
Nicole’s eyes plead with mine. “I want to be with Aziza.”
I made certain that my voice was as gentle as the social worker’s. “Go with the social worker, Nicole. Thanks to you, Aziza is safe.” At least for now. The sheriff, firmly aboard his own guilt trip, had promised to keep me in the loop.
When the two disappeared into the elevator, I asked him, “What about those kidnapping charges against Nicole?”
“Pending.”
“How pending?”
He wiggled his fingers in a “we’ll see” gesture. Although the teen had broken the law, she had done it for unselfish reasons, endangering her own welfare to save a child. Whether that would cut any ice with the county attorney was anybody’s guess. We lived in strange times.
“What’s going to happen to the Wahabs?”
Avery’s frown deepened. “With their older daughter in Egypt and out of our jurisdiction, we have no proof of anything illegal. I’ll bring them in for questioning, but unless something new emerges, we’ll have to let them go.”
“And CPS will return Aziza to their custody. Right?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
The law was good at punishing crime, but not so good at preventing it. The thought of Aziza being cut up like Precious Doe—whose name we now knew was Sahra Hassan—chilled me.
“Sheriff, you said that the Phoenix police are searching for Sahra Hassan’s parents. If they find them and their other daughters have been cut, that’ll help, won’t it?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound optimistic.
I remembered a ruined cabin smoking in the early morning air, the odor of burned meat. “This means Floyd Polk never harmed Sahra.”
He nodded. “When people take the law into their own hands, they seldom get it right. When I find whoever lit that fire, they’ll be facing a murder charge.”
Duane had been victimized by the self-appointed posse, too, but at least he and his mother made it out of town alive. Blocking the image of their gutted trailer from my mind, I said, “We need to find the woman Nicole called ‘the Cutter’ and lock her up so she can’t maim any more little girls.”
“What do you want me to do, Ms. Jones? Arrest every North African immigrant in Los Perdidos? The ACLU would have plenty to say about that.”
He was right. Given the cultural makeup of the town, the list of suspects would run pretty high, which meant that we’d have to wait for one of the girls’ parents to name the woman. There wasn’t much chance of that.
But the memory of Olivia Hall’s weak face gave me hope. “Can I go with you when you arrest the Halls? I might be able to get Nicole’s mother to talk, one woman to another.”
He gave me an odd look. “Arrest? I’m afraid you’re getting ahead of yourself, Ms. Jones. I’ll talk to them first and see what they have to say. Reverend Hall will probably claim to know nothing about her injuries. It’s the word of a ‘man of God’ against that of an obviously distraught teenage runaway. And as for the one-woman-to-another thing, you think I don’t have female deputies?” His tone was dry.
“You mean you’re not going to arrest them?” I asked, disgusted. “After hearing what the doctor just told you?”
“Every move of this office is under intense scrutiny, both by the county attorney’s office and the media, not to mention the ACLU. While you’ve been of some help in this investigation, you’re going to have to butt out now.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed for the elevators.
So much for keeping me in the loop.
***
Since it was still a free country, more or less, the sheriff couldn’t keep me from sitting in my Jeep in Freedom Temple’s parking lot while he and his deputies picked up the Halls. Reverend Hall, unencumbered by handcuffs, slid into the patrol car looking as self-righteous as ever, but his wife’s hand trembled as she tucked back a stray wisp of hair. Women that frightened tend to follow their husband’s orders, and Hall would have certainly commanded her to keep silent.
As the line of cruisers crawled past me, I picked up my cell and called my partner for the third time that morning. My own voice on the office answering machine asked if I wanted to leave a message, so I tried Jimmy’s cell. On the second ring, he picked up. Background noises of children’s yells and slamming doors revealed that he was out in the field.
“You at the Hassan’s place already?” I asked. He’d told me earlier he was going to check on the Somali couple suspected of being Precious Doe’s parents.
“Parked right across the street from their house,” he answered. “Both parents were led out in handcuffs a couple of minutes ago, and as we speak, CPS is taking custody of the kids. You can probably hear the screams.”
“How many kids?”
“I counted six. Three boys, two girls, one baby. Couldn’t tell the sex of that one. Blanket was pink, though.”
“Ball park the girls’ ages for me,” I said.
“One’s in her teens. The other, it’s hard to say. Nine, ten?”
In other words, both girls were old enough to have already suffered the same genital amputations that killed their younger sister. Or rather, their supposed sister, since nothing had yet been proven. U.S. immigration records would reveal how many children the Somali family had entered the country with, and DNA findings on Precious Doe would prove whether or not the dead girl was a Hassan.
What would happen to the Hassans after that was a matter for the Arizona legal system. While we had no law forbidding genital amputation—few states had even heard of the practice, let alone legislated against it—Arizona did have numerous statutes against child abuse. The parents faced prison or deportation, probably both. At least the baby would be saved from similar butchery.
This wasn’t over. The Hassans’ attorney would counsel them to make no statements, not even if those statements might save another child’s life. Or her genitals. As long as the Cutter remained free, other young girls in Los Perdidos were in danger.
Jimmy interrupted my gruesome thoughts. “You headed back to Scottsdale now?”
“Not yet. But keep me posted, okay?”
“Roger that.” He rang off, leaving me staring at the rear of a sheriff’s cruiser as it eased onto the highway.
***
In Los Perdidos, all hell had broken loose. Bernice Broussard, publisher of the Cochise County Observer,
stood outside the sheriff’s office amid a herd of reporters and photographers. It was just a matter of time before the TV satellite trucks arrived. Speaking to one reporter was a representative of the Los Perdidos Good Neighbor Society. Could the ACLU be far behind? From the questions being asked, it was plain that someone had leaked the genital amputation story. My bet was on Herschel Berklee, Dr. Lanphear’s assistant.
I listened as the reporter, a pimply young man with unstylish horn rim glasses, interviewed the Good Neighbor lady, a kindly-looking matron.
“The Los Perdidos Good Neighbor Society stands behind its Egyptian and Somali friends. We are certain that these charges of child abuse are nothing but racial and religious stereotyping.” Her voice, as soft as her face, held a steely edge.
“But what about the Halls?” the reporter countered. “They’re white, native-born American citizens, and they’re facing the same charges. Care to comment on that?” Drawing closer, I noticed his press I.D. hanging from a lanyard around his neck. MAX BROUSSARD. Son of Bernice. His tough mama had taught him to ask tough questions.
The Good Neighbor lady frowned. “In this country, freedom of religion is sacrosanct. While I am no apologist for the Halls’ religious beliefs—whatever they are—they do have a right to practice them.”
“Even if those beliefs damage children?” Good for Max Broussard. He wasn’t letting her weasel out with the usual tired excuses.
She was ready for him. “Some American religious groups let their children bleed to death rather than undergo blood transfusions. Others allow their children to die from cancer without treatment. So who are we to judge the Wahabs or the Halls? If what you say is true, I’m sure they were only acting out of love for their daughters when they had them circumcised.”
Circumcised? Hardly an accurate word for total amputation, but somehow I managed to keep from screaming “Jackass!” at her. The woman meant well, but apparently didn’t mention that the government always stepped in when a parent’s religious beliefs threatened a child’s welfare. She also didn’t mention that the denominations she referred to never intentionally harmed their children, and certainly didn’t slice off their daughters’ genitals in order to keep them chaste or to fetch a higher price on the marriage market.
Unwilling to listen to any more misguided P.C. crap, I muscled through the throng and into the sheriff’s office, where I found my way blocked by a deputy.
“Turn around and go right back out that door, Ms. Jones,” he snarled.
“I need to talk to the sheriff.”
“So does everyone else. Give Sheriff Avery a break and leave him alone. He’ll talk to you when things calm down.” Then he stepped so close that our bellies bumped. While I didn’t feel particularly threatened—this particular deputy had always been polite enough—I decided not to stretch my luck.
When I reached the sidewalk, the Good Neighbor lady was still surrounded by reporters, still repeating the P.C. mantra she had inflicted upon Max Broussard. As I reached my Jeep, the first big satellite truck eased up to the curb, the logo on its side announcing, CNN in foot-high letters. When I pulled out, another satellite truck, this one from MSNBC, slipped into my parking spot.
Titillated by the sexual connotations of the case, the national media had finally decided to pay some attention to Los Perdidos’ lost daughters.
***
At the end of the day, the Wahabs were released with no charges filed. Same with the Halls. Lawyers began to arrive in numbers equal to the media, and as I exited the sheriff’s office I noticed that one enterprising businesswoman had set up a catering truck in the parking lot. It was swarmed by attorneys and reporters chowing down on tacos, falafel, and chicken fingers.
Appalled by the growing media circus, I headed for the Wahab’s, only to find them barricaded inside their house. My knocks at the door went unanswered, prompting a few told-you-so’s from the assembled reporters.
I didn’t expect any more success from the Halls, but I had forgotten how much the good reverend loved the sound of his own voice. Pulling up to Freedom Temple, I saw him preening on the church’s front steps as he brayed his poisonous gospel to a congregation of microphones. His flock had turned out in full force, a gaggle of unloved women clustered around the only man who took notice of them. They were either oblivious to the fact that he was a monster or they didn’t care, just as long as he was their monster.
Hall was enjoying his day in the spotlight, but as he spoke to the reporters, I noticed that he stopped short of saying anything that might cause him a problem in court. He might be crazy, but he was careful: the most dangerous type of lunatic.
When I slipped around to the parsonage, I saw Olivia Hall’s white face staring out the window. Seeing me, she jerked the curtain closed, but she forgot to lock the door.
“Why did you allow it?” I asked, slipping inside.
Her blurred face revealed she had been crying, but probably for herself, not her daughter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t. Why did you let that man cut up Nicole?”
“Daniel didn’t do anything to her.”
Was she stupid as well as spiritless? “Let me rephrase my question, then. Who did he hire? What’s the Cutter’s name?”
“Cutter? What’s a cutter?”
I wanted to slap her. “Olivia, give me her name. She needs to be stopped before she kills someone else.”
“That was an accident!” Then she gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
So she knew all about Sahra Hassan, a.k.a. Precious Doe, and probably knew about Tujin Rafik, as well. Yet she had done nothing. Cowardice was just another form of evil, wasn’t it?
Since she only understood fear, I grabbed her by the arm and squeezed hard enough to make her wince. “Tell me her name!”
Terrified, she shook her head.
Behind us, the door opened and Reverend Hall, having abandoned his adoring throng, walked through. Seeing me, he smiled without sincerity. “Ah, Miss Jones. I’d say it’s nice seeing your lovely self again, but then I’d be lying, wouldn’t I?”
Olivia cringed away from him. “I didn’t say anything, Daniel!”
What kind of hold did the man have on her? Then I remembered an earlier observation. He was her monster, and as such, she was loyal to him. Feeling a twinge of pity, I said, “Your wife kept her mouth shut, Reverend. She followed your orders, so I’ll direct the question at you. Who’s the Cutter?”
He gave me the same eyebrow-lifted expression I’d seen on O.J. Simpson, the usual ham actor’s portrayal of innocence. “‘Cutter?’ Well, if you’re looking for a good butcher, I might recommend Gravelli’s Meats, on Dragoon Street. Wonderful sirloin. Just turn left on Apache Avenue, then…”
“Stuff it.”
That insincere smile again. “No need to be rude. I was just trying to help.”
My gun hand itched. But he wasn’t worth doing time over, so instead of shooting him, I left.
Chapter Twenty-one
As I drove into town, my rumbling stomach complained that it hadn’t been fed since I’d bought some fry bread off the catering cart outside the sheriff’s office, so I stopped at the Nile Restaurant for an early dinner. The place was already crowded, but several stools were available at the counter, where I found myself waited upon by Asenath Nour, the restaurant’s manager. She looked as tired as I felt.
“The Special,” I said, giving back the menu. “Shish kabob and pilaf with pine nuts.”
“Beef, mutton, or goat?”
Sheep were too cuddly and goats were, well, too goaty. “Beef.”
Instead of carrying my order to the kitchen, she leaned closer and said, “You are a detective, I hear, but not with the police. Is that correct?”
This wasn’t simple curiosity. “What do you want to tell me?”
She gave me a searching look, then appeared to come to a decision. “Perhaps before you eat, you would like to see the back of my restaurant?�
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I stood up. “Sounds fascinating.”
She handed off her order pad to a much younger waitress who bore a strong family resemblance. “Table five has not yet been waited upon. They need water. This lady’s order, the Special, do not bring it until you see us return.”
With a resigned expression, the younger woman nodded. She was already balancing two plates on each arm.
“The back” turned out to be an unpaved alleyway behind the restaurant. It was heaped with empty crates that once held produce. A fat calico cat sat on one, eyeing us expectantly.
“Go away, Farouk,” Mrs. Nour told it.
The cat ignored her.
“I fed him one time and now he thinks he owns me.”
“Cats are like that.”
“Farouk is not my pet, you understand. I am too busy to care for pets.” Although Mrs. Nour tried to hide the affection in her voice, she didn’t fool me. She was crazy about that cat.
I once had a pet I’d loved like that, but it was long ago, in a time best forgotten. “Mrs. Nour, do you have some information for me?”
Farouk began washing himself. She watched as if fascinated. “I hear you are investigating the dead girls.”
Girls, plural. “You think the Iraqi girl who disappeared six years ago is dead, too?”
“She was a Kurd, but yes, almost certainly. But Tujin Rafik and the little Precious Doe remain pure, do they not?” The sarcastic stress on the word revealed her true feelings. And, possibly, knowledge.
I needed to be careful here. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Last spring, when Aziza’s mother and I were talking over the fence, she said that when it came to the marriage market, an impure girl was a worthless girl.”
“Mrs. Wahab actually used the term marriage market?”
With a sudden motion, the cat leaped off the crate and ran down the alleyway. Mrs. Nour watched as he ducked under a parked pickup truck. With Farouk gone, she turned her whole attention to me again. “Do not let the Wahabs fool you with their nice college degrees and nice house and nice cars. Inside, where no one can see, they are no different than ignorant Nile Valley tribesmen who cut their daughters with tin can lids. Do you understand what I am speaking of?”
