Day of the Dead (30 page)

***

Kath was gone
by the time Brian woke up, which wasn’t a good sign. She usually kissed him good-bye when she left for an early shift. When he went into the kitchen and found she hadn’t made coffee, either, he knew he was in trouble. They generally managed only one day off together each week. Kath didn’t take kindly to being cheated out of it—even if the reason was work-related. Especially if it was work-related.

At least we’ll be together at the funeral this afternoon and the feast tonight,
Brian told himself.
Maybe that’ll get me out of the doghouse.

Haunted by his mother’s scattershot approach to love and marriage, Brian had entered into his union with Kath determined to make it work. It was a challenge to combine law enforcement careers with two different agencies in the same household. As for having kids? That was too complicated even to consider.

He showered and dressed. An hour later, he was sitting in his cubicle poring over faxes of information from the other similar cases he had located on Sunday. For several of them, he had only cursory reports, but the details were surprisingly familiar. The bodies, so far all unidentified, had been strewn in the desert—just the way this Saturday’s victim had been. In two others—one near Sierra Blanca, Texas, and one near El Centro, California—the dismembered remains had been stuffed into Rubbermaid trash containers. He was reading through one from Yuma County—the one where AFIS had picked up that single fingerprint—when a clerk dropped off Roseanne Orozco’s dusty paper file. Her case, dredged out of the archives, seemed eerily similar to the others.

The Papago Tribal Police, as they were then called, had been the primary investigative agency. Having played a secondary role, Pima County didn’t have extensive involvement. The Orozco file was painfully thin, but the facts were clear. Roseanne’s dismembered body had been found by highway workers collecting trash along Highway 86 west of Sells. The body had been hacked to pieces and stuffed into a Coleman cooler. An autopsy had revealed that the fifteen-year-old homicide victim had been pregnant at the time of her death. For some reason, Henry Orozco, the girl’s father, was initially considered to be a prime suspect both in terms of Roseanne’s death and as the father of her unborn child. When a blood test excluded him as the baby’s father, he was dropped as an official suspect in the murder investigation as well. Within weeks of Roseanne’s death, new entries in the file ceased completely as the investigation was left to go dormant.

Even so,
Brian thought,
Brandon remembered her the moment I brought it up. Why? There was no mention of Brandon Walker’s name in the file. His signature didn’t appear on any of the reports. Still, it was a case that stuck with him decades later.

Brian reached for his phone and dialed the Walker place in Gates Pass. Lani answered. “Hi, Brian,” she said. “You missed a great dinner last night.”

“I know,” he said. “Had to work. Sorry. Is your dad around?”

“No. He left a little while ago. Do you have his cell-phone number?”

“I do,” Brian said. “Thanks.” But before he had a chance to dial, PeeWee arrived and settled at his own desk. “What are you up to?” he asked.

Wanting his conversation with Brandon Walker to be private, Brian put down the phone. He had been sorting the faxed case files into two separate stacks: scattered remains versus contained remains. He added Roseanne Orozco’s file to the second stack and passed the piles along to Detective Segura. “Anyone for a serial killer?” he asked.

While PeeWee scanned the material, Brian walked down the hall. Returning minutes later with coffee, he found PeeWee engrossed in the files.

“You may be right about these being related,” PeeWee said, tapping the stack of faxes that dealt with containerized remains. “These may be connected, too, but this one?” He tapped the Orozco file, which he had pushed to one side. “LaGrange is too young for this one, but I’ll check his credit card transactions to see if we can put him in the vicinity for any of the others.”

PeeWee took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “You picked all this stuff off the computer in a matter of hours. How come you’re the first investigator to make the connection?”

“Because I’m smarter than the average bear?” Brian asked with a laugh. “No, it’s the same old thing. Nobody else found it because nobody else was looking. I’m guessing these are all throwaway kids. They went missing and nobody even bothered to file a missing persons report.”

“And without some relative keeping the heat on…” PeeWee added.

They both knew why active cases went cold. Time passed and nothing happened. With no grieving relatives maintaining pressure, the respective investigative agencies finally stopped looking.

“Somebody’s applying pressure now,” Brian said. “You and me. So let’s get cracking. I’ll call Yuma and talk to the detectives over there. The Vail autopsy is scheduled for ten. Who’s going to do that?”

“I’ll flip you for it,” PeeWee said, tossing a coin in the air. “Heads you go. Tails I do.”

The coin came up heads. “Too bad, buddy.” PeeWee grinned. “This is one damned autopsy I’m happy to miss.”

***
Brandon drove
to the back side of Kino Community Hospital and pulled up in front of the Pima County medical examiner’s office. He had come here often enough in the distant past, back when what he still considered the “new” hospital first opened. It had been years now since he’d had any official business with the ME’s office. He wondered what kind of reception he should expect when he showed up with a nonroutine corpse and a nonroutine request for a DNA sample.

Brandon walked through one door into a locked entry. While waiting to be buzzed in through a security door, he studied a reader board that listed the names of staff doctors and field investigators. Of those, he recognized only one—associate medical examiner Dr. Frances Daly. Brandon remembered Fran Daly as a brash young woman fresh out of school and just starting her first job. At the time, female MEs had been rare. No one had thought Fran Daly would last, but she had—lasted and thrived. She had moved up through the ranks and was now second in command.

“Yes?” a voice asked over an intercom. “May I help you?”

Brandon knew to start at the top, or close to it. “I’m here to see Dr. Daly,” he said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I’m a friend. Name’s Brandon Walker.” The disembodied voice sounded too young to remember that someone named Brandon Walker had once been sheriff of Pima County.

The lock buzzed. Brandon let himself inside. In the old days he had come into the place via this back door—the official cop entrance—but the office had seemed larger then. Now it was cluttered with a collection of apparently new and old desktop computers that covered every available surface. Behind the counter stood a young woman about Lani’s age. Her face was marred by a series of piercings—lips, nose, and chin. The gold and silver studs stuck in her flesh made Brandon’s heart flood with gratitude that Lani had so far avoided body piercings—at least ones her father could see.

“I’ll see if Dr. Daly is available,” the young receptionist said. “What’s your name again?”

“Walker,” he repeated patiently. “Brandon Walker.”

He half expected to be left cooling his heels. Instead, bare moments later, Fran Daly burst into the outer office. If anything, her colorful cowboy shirt was more outrageous than ones she’d worn years before. Her snakeskin boots were far more expensive than those she had worn in the old days.

“Why, Sheriff Walker,” she said, flashing him a gap-toothed smile and giving his hand a powerful shake. “It’s been years. How good to see you again! What can we do for you?”

The young woman had returned to her place behind the counter and was watching the meeting with undisguised interest. Although gratified by Dr. Daly’s enthusiastic greeting, Brandon wasn’t eager to discuss the corpse in his car within the young clerk’s earshot.

“Good to see you, too,” he said. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss this in private.”

“Of course.” She ushered him out of the lobby and into a corridor that stretched deep into the interior of the building.

“It’s good you caught me when you did,” she said. “I have an autopsy scheduled in a few minutes. If I’d started that, I’d have missed you. We’re shorthanded at the moment. A number of our people are in the reserves and have been called up for active duty. I hope to God their skills won’t be needed as much as some people think.”

Although Brandon had dealt with Fran Daly in the past, this was the first time he had ever ventured into her private domain. The room had no outside windows, but it was a surprisingly cheerful place, painted with colors that weren’t on any officially approved palette for decorating drab governmental facilities. One wall was dominated by a glass-fronted case full of rodeo-related trophies that dated from the late seventies and recounted Fran’s riding and roping prowess. Looking from the trophies to Fran Daly, Brandon saw her manner of dress in a whole new light.

“I had no idea you were into rodeo,” he said.

“It’s one of those things I never got over. I still compete occasionally, but it gets harder all the time.” She sat at a battered wooden desk and motioned Brandon into a chair. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a problem,” he said. “There’s a coffin in my car, a coffin containing whatever’s left of a fetus from thirty-two years ago. It’s been buried out on the reservation between then and now.”

Fran Daly was suddenly all business and all interest. “What’s the deal?”

“We’re attempting to identify the father.”

“With decomposed DNA,” Fran said, nodding. “Was the body embalmed or not?”

“I don’t know,” Brandon said. “The mother was murdered. The fetus was examined in hopes of identifying the father and perhaps the perpetrator. The grandmother has no idea what was done to the body prior to its being returned to the reservation for burial.”

“What’s your connection to all this?” Fran asked.

“The case was never solved. The murdered girl’s mother—the baby’s grandmother—has asked an organization I’m affiliated with to see if we can find out what happened.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Fran said. “What’s it called—T. L. Something?”

“Right,” Brandon supplied. “TLC—The Last Chance. Emma Orozco, the grandmother, came to TLC for help. She also had the coffin exhumed and brought it to me.”

“In other words, this isn’t an official Pima County case,” Fran said.

“That’s right. It’s cold and not being actively investigated by anyone but me.”

“Given that, I doubt I could devote any time or people to this. Plus, if the tissue was embalmed, obtaining definitive results may not be possible. Besides, DNA testing is expensive.”

“A company in Washington State will do the actual testing,” Brandon interjected. “I’m asking you to attempt to collect a nonstandard tissue sample. If you’ll agree to try, I’ll have Genelex send you a collection kit.”

For a moment, Fran Daly sat with her fingers templed under her chin. Finally she made up her mind. “Where’s the coffin now?” she asked.

“Out front,” Brandon said. “In the back of my Suburban.”

Fran sighed. “Bring it around to the side door. I’ll have one of my assistants check it in.”

“Much appreciated. Should the collection kit be sent to your attention?”

Fran Daly nodded. “Yes, but we’ll only work on this as time permits. One thing for sure, though: If you’re looking to establish a chain of evidence…”

“How about we go for results first and worry about the chain of evidence later?” Brandon asked.

“You bet,” Fran replied with a smile. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still the boss.”

Twenty-Two

Brian’s initial call to Yuma didn’t go well. It took hardly any time at all for him to figure out Lieutenant Jimmy Detloff of the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department was a jerk.

“That hacked-up UDA?” he returned when Brian inquired about the girl whose body had been found in a trash bag not far from a rest area on Interstate 8. “Why are you asking about her?” Detloff continued. “That case happened years ago.”

“We have reason to believe it’s happened again,” Brian returned. “AFIS got a hit. A fingerprint on a new case matches one from the garbage bag your victim was found in.”

“Oh,” Detloff said. “I remember that now. Our new little fingerprint gal was really proud of herself for finding it. We’d just gotten our AFIS computer up and running. She was all hot to trot to put that one print into the system. Didn’t do any good. Nothing came of it at the time.”

It has now, you creep,
Brian thought. He said, “What did you come up with?”

“On that case?” Detloff said. “Not much.”

“You never identified any suspects?”

“Are you kidding? We never identified the victim, to say nothing of a suspect. Like I said, she was a UDA. They die like flies around here, especially in the summer, and who cares? If we tried to track down what happened to every damned wetback who ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time, we’d never get anything else done. End of story.”

A creep and a bigot!
Brian thought. “Not quite the end,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate having a faxed copy of the file—including the autopsy results—as soon as you can send it to me. I have the AFIS summary, but I need the rest.”

Detloff sighed. “That’ll take time. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get around to it. I have other cases to deal with—current cases.”

“I’m sure you do,” Brian said. There was no sense pissing him off. “Whenever you get around to it will be fine.”

He gave Detloff the fax number, but as soon as the line was clear, he punched redial. When he reached the Yuma County Sheriff’s Department, he asked to speak to the fingerprint lab.

“Deborah Howard,” a woman answered.

“My name is Detective Brian Fellows with the Pima County Sheriff’s Department…”

“You wouldn’t happen to be calling about that AFIS hit, are you?” she interrupted.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”