by Betty Webb
In case the Women For Freedom had daughters.
***
If anything, the media frenzy had built since my last visit, but this time I didn’t let Deputy Mountain turn me away.
“Want to find more children’s bodies?” I asked, as he approached. “I have an idea who’s been cutting them up.” A stretch of the truth, but Avery needed to be alerted to the continuing danger posed by Freedom Temple and any other group that believed that a dead girl was preferable to an impure girl.
Deputy Mountain thought about that for a moment, then said, “The sheriff’s at the hospital, where they’re doing the autopsy on Hall. Don’t tell him I told you.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Ten minutes later I stood waiting by the hospital service elevator, from which the duty nurse had told me the sheriff would emerge. Thirty minutes passed. An hour. Just before noon, the elevator doors opened and Avery walked out. His face held a greenish cast, not completely attributed to the hospital hallway’s flourescent lighting. Having attended a few autopsies myself, I knew how he felt.
“What now, Ms. Jones?” he said, upon seeing me.
I filled him in on my conversation with the ladies of Freedom Temple.
He shook his head. “It just gets crazier and crazier.” Then, to my great relief, he barked orders into his radio. The ladies of Freedom Temple would soon greet uniformed visitors.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Same thing I told you before. Find the Cutter before another little girl winds up mutilated or dead.”
“And I have the same problem I had before, something called the U.S. Constitution. My deputies can’t go around grabbing every African female off the streets of Los Perdidos.”
My answer came in the form of another question. “What are the chances that every woman in Freedom Temple will be able to keep her mouth shut? Especially if she’s been cut. There’s a chance at least one of them might regret her decision.” I remembered the redhead’s distress, her rush from the room.
He frowned. “And when my deputies bring ‘em all in, which they will, what do you expect me to do? Have them lift their pretty white robes for a show-and-tell?”
An angry flush chased the green tint from his face. “Even if their attorneys let it happen, which they won’t, so what? Do you expect them to all of a sudden burst into tears and blurt out the Cutter’s name? Come on, Ms. Jones, you’ve been a cop! You know better than that. If what you’re telling me is true, and it probably is, since Hall was as charismatic as he was crazy, those women will play the martyr and keep their mouths shut. At least for now. In a few months, when the bastard’s been dead awhile and his influence fades, maybe then they’ll see the error of their ways and start talking. But for now, they’re not gonna say shit!”
He took a deep breath and recovered himself. “As I see it, the immediate problem is the safety of their kids, so excuse me while I get on the phone to CPS. Oh, God, by the time this is all over, those folks are gonna be so sick of me.”
After he made the call, I asked one more question. “When did Hall die?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because you’re about to hold a press conference and tell everybody else. Since I’ve shared all my information with you, don’t you think you owe me something? Even if it’s only a thirty-minute jump on the media?”
He grunted assent. “Hall died early this morning, somewhere between one and four. While running for the door, he took two bullets in the back. Neither hit any major organs, they just knocked him down. The killer finished him off with a shot in the face.”
“Handgun?”
“A .38. Probably a revolver, since there are damned few .38 automatics around and no casings on the floor. By the way, you carry a .38 revolver, don’t you?”
I didn’t like where this conversation seemed to be headed. “Need to see it?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Knowing better than to haul my revolver out of my carry-all, I handed over the whole thing; billfold, cell phone, comb, sun screen, medicated lip gloss, fliers of Precious Doe.
The carry-all was so heavy he almost dropped it. Throwing me a dirty look, he rummaged inside for a moment, then extricated my gun. He sniffed at the barrel. “It’s been fired recently.”
“If you remember, someone shot at me yesterday evening and I returned fire. I filed the report this morning, dotted all my I’s, crossed all my T’s.”
“Sure makes a handy explanation as to why your gun smells like an ammunition factory, doesn’t it? You realize I need to take this into evidence and see if the bullets in Hall match up.”
Somehow I managed not to grind my teeth. “They won’t. Just make sure you return it. Carrying a handgun is part of my job description.”
He snorted. “My, my. Ain’t we tough? By the way, do you have a concealed-carry permit?”
“It’s in my billfold. Which you have.” Since he already knew I carried a .38, I had no doubt he’d already run a computer search and found the record of my permit. This was pure harassment.
He took his time rummaging through my carry-all again, finally found my billfold, and after flipping through several credit cards and pictures of Warren, drew out the permit. He studied it for a while, acting like he’d never seen one before. Then, after dropping the wallet into the carry-all, he slid my .38 into its holster and looped it around his arm.
“Can’t say how long ballistics will take,” he said, handing the carry-all back to me.
As long as he wanted, probably, which could be a long, long time. “Sheriff, you know damned well I didn’t shoot Reverend Hall.”
“Denial noted.”
We parted in the hospital parking lot, and I watched him drive off in the direction of Freedom Temple. Maybe he would have better luck with Olivia Hall. He was, after all, male, and she was more likely to obey a man than a woman.
An odd thought occurred to me then. Maybe I was wrong about the redhead. Once I’d settled into the Jeep, I pulled out my cell and called Herschel Berklee, the M.E.’s assistant. From the background noises when he picked up, I could tell he was at the hospital and not at all happy to hear from me.
“I can’t get caught talking to you,” he whispered.
I ignored his fears. “Have you seen Hall’s body?”
“Yeah. I’m hanging up now.”
“Hold on. I need to know one thing, Herschel. Did the good reverend still have all his equipment, if you get my drift?” Given Hall’s strong beliefs about the necessity for sexual purity, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he was as neutered as those Heaven’s Gate fools. Or his own just-as-foolish followers.
“I get your drift all right. But his corpse is still in possession of the family jewels.” With that, Herschel hung up.
So much for my new theory. Hall had been crazy, but not that crazy.
Another conversation with Raymundo Mendoza seemed necessary. Yes, it was Sunday, but since the Mexican pottery business was chiefly a tourist business, the store might be open.
I was right. When I pulled into the parking lot, Raymundo was just turning the CLOSED sign around so that it read OPEN.
He didn’t appear nervous when I approached, just sad. “What do you want, Ms. Jones? Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
Gee, everyone was so happy to see me today. “Been watching the news, Raymundo?”
His face hardened. “You expect me to say I’m sorry or something? Fat chance. Too bad it didn’t happen a long time ago. Then Nicole and I would have our baby and she’d still be…” The smile vanished and he lowered his head. “And things would be different.” He sounded ready to cry.
I followed him inside the store. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Such as what?” He started rolling some of the larger pots onto the front patio.
I kept pace with him. “Where were you between one and two last night?”
“Sleeping.”
“Not hanging out by the
river?”
“Don’t I wish. But I had to attend Mass with my family this morning, then come to work. The only time I can make it to the river is on Friday nights. If at all. And there’s no reason to now, is there? Nicole’s gone.” It’s hard to read someone’s body language when they’re rolling a heavy terra cotta pot, but something about the rigid set of his head hinted not only at sorrow but at barely-contained rage.
“So there’s no one who can vouch for you?”
“Give me an alibi, you mean?”
I nodded.
“No one in the world.” With that, he went inside the store, letting the door slam in my face.
Our conversation hadn’t eased my concerns, merely heightened them. Raymundo could easily have killed Reverend Hall. He had motive, opportunity, and probable access to a gun. The same might be said of Nicole. For the first time it occurred to me that she was lucky to be in CPS custody, far from Los Perdidos and a murder she had every reason to commit. If she remained in CPS custody. That girl was expert at vanishing acts.
With that less-than-comforting reminder, I drove over to Geronimo Espresso, ordered a Latte Grande, and put together a time line of the major events in the case.
FIRST FRIDAY: Warren and I find Precious Doe. Autopsy results reveal she’s been dead only hours.
MONDAY: I return to Los Perdidos.
WEDNESDAY: Nicole rescues Aziza Wahab. Vigilantes torch Floyd Polk’s shack, he dies in the flames.
SECOND FRIDAY: While I’m in L.A., Nicole and Aziza arrive at the Friedmans’ safe house. The girls are turned over to CPS.
SATURDAY EVENING: Someone shoots at me.
SATURDAY NIGHT/SUNDAY MORNING: Reverend Hall shot and killed.
As I studied the time line, something nudged at the edge of my consciousness, but I couldn’t identify it. I tried again, this time counting only the deaths. First Friday, Precious Doe. Wednesday, Floyd Polk. Saturday night, Reverend Hall.
No. That wasn’t it.
I slurped my way through the Latte Grande and ordered another. Then I tried another version of the list, noting the exact times and days I had interviewed certain people. This version took longer, but nothing clicked. What connection was I missing?
Halfway through my second latté, the caffeine caught up with me. As I began writing yet another version of the list, my trembling hand knocked over my cup, spilling milky foam across my notebook, soaking it several pages deep. I grabbed a napkin and began mopping up the mess.
When I blotted my way back to the first version, I noticed that the coffee had pooled across SATURDAY EVENING: someone shoots at me and SATURDAY NIGHT/SUNDAY MORNING: Reverend Hall shot and killed.
My unease returned as I stared at the lines.
Saturday. Who had I talked to and exactly when? I cross-referenced my second list. Saturday I had talked to Nicole before CPS took her away; to Dr. Lanphear; to Sheriff Avery; to Jimmy; last of all, I’d talked to Mrs. Nour, the manager of the Nile Restaurant. Then I’d returned to the ranch, returned phone calls, and taken my ill-fated walk.
Several hours later, Reverend Hall was dead.
I was about to move to the other list when the source of my unease emerged. Why was I so certain there was only one shooter? Why couldn’t there be two?
While rereading the other list, I noted that while three deaths—Precious Doe’s, Floyd Polk’s, and Reverend Hall’s—had occurred in the vicinity of Los Perdidos, the cause of death was different in each case. In Precious Doe’s case, blood loss. In Polk’s, fire. In Hall’s, gunshot.
Three killers? Three motives?
Such a theory seemed outlandish—how could such a town the size of Los Perdidos harbor three different murderers—but not beyond the realm of possibility. Some towns were rougher than others, and Los Perdidos, with its frontier past and unusual ethnic mix, was a likely enough place.
Under scrutiny, though, the theory was improbable. Precious Doe’s autopsy proved she had died of blood loss due to the botched amputation: ergo, the Cutter killed her. Polk, a convicted child molester, died the victim of vigilante justice. The vigilantes might not even have meant to kill him, just run him out of town as they had the more fortunate Duane. Something else occurred to me then. What if vigilantes hadn’t killed Polk after all? What if Polk had been killed by a single killer who torched his place to cover up his crime? Again, improbable but possible.
Hall had taken three bullets, not necessarily from the same person who’d tried to kill me.
Where was the connection?
There was only one way to find out if my shooter was the same person who shot Hall; go back to the shooting scene near the river. Revolvers didn’t eject casings, but automatics did. If I found any, I would know two shooters were operating, not one. Once I presented the casings to the sheriff, he could run a ballistics test on them at the same time he tested my own handgun. And maybe, just maybe, we would find out the name of the shooter.
The thought of a return visit to the river didn’t thrill me, because thanks to Avery, I was now weaponless, so I had to ask myself—did I really care who killed Reverend Hall enough to risk my own safety?
The answer came quickly.
Yes, I cared.
As long as the murderer wasn’t Nicole. Or Raymundo.
***
Soon I was hip-deep in brush by the San Pedro River, searching for bullet casings. If the shooter returned, I wouldn’t be able to defend myself, but since my earlier visits to the river had taken place in the early evening, not during this time of day, I felt safe enough. For now, at least.
With my foot, I started to roll aside a Diet Coke can to look under it, then froze.
There was only one person who knew I liked to walk by the river in the evening. Selma Mann, the well-armed owner of the Lazy M Guest Ranch.
With that unsettling realization, I rolled the can over and resumed my search.
Chapter Twenty-four
An hour later, I had found no bullet casings, which probably meant the shooter used a revolver. Given the speed of his retreat, he certainly hadn’t lingered to pick anything up. He might have returned earlier this morning to retrieve them, but I doubted it. Abandoning my fruitless search, I walked back along the river toward the Lazy M. It was time for a heart-to-heart with Selma Mann.
She was crossing from the house to the barn when I arrived, several bridles slung over her arm. The smell of saddle-soaped leather wafted toward me on the breeze.
I caught up to her as she was returning the bridles to their hooks.
“Ready to go for a ride?” she asked, gesturing toward a big bay gelding. “I’ve been trying to lure you onto a horse ever since you arrived. Tecumseh there rides like a Cadillac.”
He sounded wonderful, but I wasn’t here for recreation. “Sorry, I just want to talk. Can we go in the house?”
After giving the bridles a final tug to even out their reins, she nodded. “I need to take a break, anyway. How about some coffee? About this time of day, I switch to decaf.”
It was not yet noon. Back in Scottsdale, I would still be hitting the high octane stuff, or even a Tab, which contained enough caffeine to give an elephant the jitters. But considering the conversation we were about to have, decaf sounded good. I didn’t want any more adrenaline pumping around that kitchen than necessary, especially not with all those guns in the house.
I followed Selma into the kitchen, where she fetched two mugs from the kitchen cupboard. Mine said, WELCOME TO LOS PERDIDOS; HERS SAID, GERONIMO—FIGHTING DOMESTIC TERRORISM SINCE 1851. When she’d poured big mugs of black brew for the both of us, I decided to just come out with it. “Someone took a shot at me yesterday evening.”
Selma sat her mug down so quickly that coffee splashed onto the table. “Where?”
“Down by the river, near the old settlers’ graveyard.”
She looked stricken, but maybe she was just a good actress. “Why didn’t you tell me before? I heard some shots but took it for granted a hunter was jack-lighting
deer.”
“I wanted time to think about it. Besides, the shooter was no poacher. After I yelled, whoever it was kept firing. I was going to bring it up this morning, but then we heard the news about Hall.”
She walked over to the counter, pulled a dish rag out of a drawer and wiped up the spilled coffee, then sat down. “I don’t know what to say, other than I’m sorry. It’s usually perfectly safe around here.”
Not for little girls, it isn’t. “I just came back from searching for casings, but there weren’t any, which leads me to believe that the shooter used a revolver. You own a couple, don’t you?”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “A Colt and a Smith and Wesson. Along with various rifles and shotguns. Over the years, any rancher collects a small arsenal, and my grandfather and father were no exceptions. What’s this all about, anyway? Do you suspect me? Because if you do, be advised that I wouldn’t have missed.”
At that, I smiled.
She wasn’t finished. “I doubt if the shooter was one of my ranch hands, either. I have strict rules for the bunk house: no drugs, no booze, no guns.”
“And you are She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed?”
Relaxed now, she laughed. “Touché. Granted, I can’t control their every movement, but they’re all decent, hard-working men. Hell, I even went to grade school with some of them. Los Perdidos is a small community, Lena. If any of those guys had a tendency toward violence, I’d know it.”
We sipped our coffee as companionably as possible when you’ve just accused your sipping partner of trying to kill you. But afterward, as I walked to the cottage, I realized something. Selma had adroitly deflected my suspicions of her onto her ranch hands, the same way she had once offered up the CEO of Apache Chemical.
The question remained. Why would Selma Mann try to kill me? I changed directions, and found Selma washing the mugs we had just used. This time I didn’t go in, just stood inside the door. “Lee Casey says you two used to date.”
